by Burton, Mary
Cursing, he drove the few blocks to the boardinghouse. It was going to take more than a few spray-painted words to chase away Elijah. But he could arrange whatever trouble it would take to deal with that bastard.
He picked up his phone and dialed a familiar number.
“Yeah,” the gruff voice on the other end said.
“It’s Tucker. I’m outside his house.”
“Why?”
“I can’t stop thinking about the fire and him. He set it. He killed whoever it is the cops aren’t talking about. I fucking know it.”
“What do you have in mind, Dan?”
As tempting as it was to shoot Elijah between the eyes and dump his body in the wilderness, he wasn’t ready to cross that line yet. A good beating was more fitting, and though he could do it alone, there was safety in numbers. “I want to give him a message that will make him rethink living here.”
“More paint?” In the background, the television blared.
“Not this time. Thinking maybe he should get a dose of his own medicine.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the lighter. He struck the flint and lit the flame until it got too hot to hold.
“What do you want from me?”
“It might take two of us. He’s bigger and stronger than I remember from high school.” Elijah had been quiet, in a know-it-all kind of way. It had been easy to push him around then.
“You almost sound afraid of him.”
The challenge stoked Dan’s frustration and anger. “I’m not.”
“You’re still pissed about what he did to you in high school.”
Dan remembered walking outside his home to discover fire licking up all four wheels of his new truck. The flames had scorched the white paint, popped his tires, and melted his side-view mirror. As he’d tried to beat the flames out with his shirt, the smoke had scorched his mouth, nose, and lungs. Coughing, he had run to the side of his parents’ house and grabbed the hose. His hands trembling, he’d squeezed the nozzle. To this day, he could remember the sound of the flames hissing like a viper as he shot them with cold water. Later, the truck was towed to a body shop that had soon slapped him with a $4,000 repair bill, half of which he’d had to eat because insurance did not cover it.
The cops later decided it was arson. No shit. And said the fire had started in a plastic milk jug filled with gas. A rag had been used as a wick. At the time, they’d had no idea who’d set the fire.
After the College Fire, the cops had come to talk to him, but there was no proof linking Elijah to his truck fire. Dan knew it was that weirdo Elijah. Who the fuck else would have been crazy enough to mess with him?
“I just want to make a smart play,” Dan said. “In this PC world, too many people don’t fully grasp the old brand of justice.”
A heavy silence lingered on the line, and then he heard the swig of beer. “I’m in.”
Confessions of an Arsonist
I miss the days I saw fire burn in my lover’s eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Monday, September 7, 2020
8:00 p.m.
Enough evidence was pulled from the Beau-T-Shop fire to suggest that Gideon was dealing with an experienced arsonist. Whether it was Lana Long working with Elijah or someone else, this perpetrator had been skilled enough to fashion low-tech incendiary devices and then place them for maximum effect.
However, before he talked to Elijah or the warden at Montana State Prison, he wanted a complete record of recent arson reports across the state. He glanced up the darkened stairwell of his home, listening for signs of Kyle. The quiet suggested he was asleep, but Gideon still closed the door to his home office before placing a call to Bryce McCabe, an agent with the Montana Highway Patrol. He had known Bryce for years, and if his theory was full of holes, Bryce would say so immediately. As the phone rang, he reached for a yellow legal pad and pen.
Bryce picked up on the third ring. “Gideon.”
“Bryce, how are you?” Gideon asked as he leaned forward at his desk.
“Can’t complain. What’s up? Not like you to call on a holiday weekend without a good reason.”
Gideon uncapped his pen and drew a #1 at the top of the yellow pad. He circled it once. “Did you hear about the fire we had on Saturday?”
“I did,” he said. “I also understand your newest resident is a convicted arsonist.”
“That’s correct.” He circled the number a couple more times. “I have a few questions that may seem off base, but bear with me.”
“Have at it.”
“Have you had any significant fires in your area in the last few years?” Gideon asked.
“You mean while Elijah Weston was incarcerated?”
Gideon sat back and wondered what the hell path he had set out on. “That’s correct.”
Bryce was silent a moment. “You don’t think Elijah Weston is responsible for your fire?”
“He’s on my radar, that’s for damn sure.”
“Fair enough. Let me get to my computer. Hang on.”
“Got all the time.”
In the background, a door opened and closed, and a light switch clicked. “Here we go,” Bryce said. “We had a warehouse fire eighteen months ago in Helena. The structure burned to the ground.”
“Cause of the fire?” He jotted down the incident by the number one.
“Electrical. No fatalities, but the damage and losses totaled more than a million dollars. That’s all the structural fires we’ve had recently. In 2018, there were four dumpster fires in Bozeman. No real property damage sustained in those events, beyond the dumpsters.”
Gideon made a notation. “Any rural fires?”
“Funny you should mention that. Statistics show a thirty percent increase in brush fires. The causes range from unmonitored campfires to electrical line failure.”
“How many were undetermined?”
“Of the seventy-four fires reported, sixty-two weren’t resolved.”
“Where were they?”
“I would have to get back to you on that one. I just have overall statistical data.”
“I’d appreciate the locations.”
“Sure. What are you going after, Gideon?”
He ran his hand over the top of his head. “Just a hunch.”
More computer keys clicked at a slow, steady pace. “Okay, I missed two Butte house fires in 2018. One was caused by a Christmas tree, and the other one was ruled arson.”
“Do you know how the arson fire started?”
“Plastic jug filled with gasoline and a rag. No arrests.”
In 2018, Gideon had just signed divorce papers, and Helen and Kyle had moved out of their home. If there was a year that he would have happily erased, it was 2018.
“What was the cause of your beauty shop fire?” Bryce asked.
“Plastic jug filled with gasoline.”
The silence grew heavy. “All the materials are easy to get, and it’s impossible to trace the source.”
“Very true,” Gideon said.
“Want me to poke around?” Bryce offered.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time on a holiday weekend.”
“It’s a holiday, and if I knew how to have fun, I would not be sitting around,” Bryce joked.
“I appreciate this.”
“No worries. I’ll call if I find something.”
Gideon kept digging in the surrounding states of Wyoming and Idaho. He located several fires on the Wyoming and Montana border, and within a half hour, Bryce had texted him the locations of all the urban and rural fires.
Most of these incidents had been small and involved dumpsters, trash cans, and rubbish piles. In the rural areas, the brush fires had each destroyed less than an acre of woodland. Several had mysteriously extinguished themselves, which many had reported as minor miracles.
As he thumbed through the yellow notepad, he realized he needed to map out the fires. The only large map he had was the one Kyle had used for a M
ontana history project two years ago. He found it rolled up in a closet, and he flattened it out and pinned it to his wall.
He did not have pushpins to indicate locations, so he cut Post-it notes into small strips and began to mark each fire’s location. Green indicated rural fires, and purple denoted urban fires. It took more than an hour to geo mark all the events, but by the time he was finished, he could see distinct patterns.
Near Helena in 2018–19 was the large warehouse fire, and also dozens of rural fires in the surrounding counties in the months leading up to the fire. In 2016–17, several rural fires near Bozeman had ended up burning a few residences. And in 2019–20, a similar cluster had appeared in the Missoula area.
As Gideon stood back, staring at his makeshift geo-profiling system, he reached for his coffee, discovered it was cold, and went into his kitchen to make a fresh pot.
“He’s practicing. Building up his nerve in the country before coming into town,” he said to himself.
And if these fires had been started by the same man, then that definitely ruled out Elijah. No way he could have done any of them.
He took a picture of the map and prepared to text it to Joan. He paused. He knew his desire to share his findings with Joan was due to fatigue. Normally, he would not have considered it. If he could get a couple of hours of sleep, he would think more clearly. He deleted the text.
He sat on the couch, and the softness immediately coaxed him back. As he put his feet up, he glanced at his watch, noted the time. He just wanted to close his eyes and steal a few minutes of rest. The instant he did, his mind tripped back in time to a moment he had shared with Joan.
She was pulling the Christmas Day shift at Tucker’s Diner, and Gideon had skipped the family festivities so he could spend time with her. She always took the Christmas and New Year’s shifts because airfare home was expensive, and the double-time holiday pay was too rich to resist.
He sat at the breakfast bar decorated with silver garland. He made no secret that he liked watching Joan move about the diner in her pink uniform. The red Santa hat and earrings were a cute touch.
A dozen folks dotted the seats at the breakfast bar, and she moved down the row of customers with practiced efficiency. She chatted with everyone while staying on the go, setting down platters of food and refilling coffee cups.
When she came to fill his coffee, he grinned at her, liking the way the pink skirt hugged her hips and the apron nipped at her narrow waist. “Like the earrings.”
“They’re Ann’s.” She filled the cup. “Said they would help with the tips.”
The beaded earrings dangled and brushed the side of her jaw. “Have they?”
“Can’t complain. What are you doing here? Doesn’t your mother have a big dinner planned?”
“I wanted to see you.”
A ghost of a smile tipped the edges of her lips. “Your mom can’t be happy about that. She had a feast planned.”
His mother had started decorating for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving, transforming the house into a holiday extravaganza. “Do you get any time off? Mom invited you to dinner.”
“That’s nice. Tell her thank you. But I promised Mr. Tucker I would close up at ten p.m.”
“Where are Tucker and his dad?”
“Hunting. It’s their Christmas tradition.”
He kept his hands on his lap so he would not be tempted to touch her. He loved the feel of her skin. A bell behind her dinged, and she turned toward the cook as he put out two hot plates of pancakes. She gathered both and set them in front of two cowboys sitting at the end of the bar.
Joan made the rounds, dispensing butter packets, extra napkins, and coffee before she returned to him. “I’ll be back at the house by eleven.”
“Why don’t you come out to the ranch? Ann’s there this week.”
“Thanks, but I’m also scheduled to open the diner early. But you can swing by my house after my shift,” she offered with a sly grin.
“I’d like that.”
Just watching her in her pink uniform with the tiny white apron made him so hard that he was pretty sure there was no blood left in his brain.
The cook’s bell rang again, and Joan was off for more platters of food. Another lost soul with no place to be on Christmas arrived and took a seat at the end of the bar. Joan chatted easily with him, lingering an extra moment to make his holiday a little better. Gideon recognized Elijah Weston.
Later, while he was alone with Joan in her house, he asked, “What’s the deal with Weston?”
“I know him from school.” As she released her dark hair from its ponytail, the slight scent of pancakes and maple syrup made him even more attracted to her.
“You’re comfortable with him.”
She unbuttoned the uniform’s pearl buttons that trailed down between her breasts, and then she shrugged off her dress. When she stepped out of it, her smooth skin glistened in the soft light. He caressed her shoulder, hooking his thumb in her bra strap. “You like him?”
“I want you.” The clasp between her breasts unhooked, and just like that, coherent thought abandoned him completely.
Weston had been woven tighter into Gideon’s past than he had ever realized. Like a spider, he was always there, lurking.
Ten years of perspective now exposed Joan and Elijah’s strong connection in college. They were two lost souls with no real family. Loneliness was a potent connection that could bind tighter than the best sex. Gideon sat up and walked over to his map. He was not sure if Joan was under Elijah’s spell or if she simply saw something others did not. Either way, he wanted to keep her close until he could untangle this case.
He texted Joan the image of his map. I’m headed to Helena to investigate a fire tomorrow. You in?
Bubbles appeared immediately. Yes.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Tuesday, September 8, 2020
8:00 a.m.
Joan parked in front of the police station and glanced at the fire map Gideon had texted her. His makeshift collection of Post-it notes on a child’s map was a very powerful graphic detailing the regional fires over the last ten-plus years. The clusters were unmistakable, though whether the fires were the work of one or multiple arsonists was impossible to tell. But it was a pattern that could not be ignored.
Out of the car, she hoisted her purse on her shoulder and pushed through the front door. At the front window, she introduced herself to a deputy she had not met before. “I’m here for Detective Bailey.”
The deputy picked up the phone and announced her arrival. “He’ll be right out.”
“Thanks.” She turned toward a bulletin board filled with wanted posters, resisting the urge to pace.
The door opened to Gideon, who regarded her with a mixture of distrust and keen awareness. Cowboy lean, he wore jeans, a light-blue dress shirt with no tie, a black leather jacket, and scuffed boots. His weapon and cuffs were attached to a handmade belt buckled with a silver medallion sporting the BB brand of the family ranch. Shit, why did he have to look so good?
“We have a stop to make before we go.”
“Where?”
“The search warrant for Lana Long’s apartment just came through.”
“I can come, too?”
“Try to hang back.”
She grinned. “Always.”
They drove across town and pulled up in front of the older apartment complex. She followed Gideon up to the second floor, and when they rounded the corner, they spotted the yellow crime scene tape and the two techs. The first tech, Hank, was in his late fifties, with thinning red hair. The other tech, Doug, looked to be in his thirties, and he wore his thick, dark hair slicked back off his face.
Gideon shook hands with both. “Did the manager give you any trouble?”
“Not after we showed him the warrant,” Hank said.
Doug doled out gloves and booties, and when they were all geared up, he let them into the apartment.
Joan
worked her fingers into her gloves as she stepped inside. She stood for a moment, allowing her gaze to survey the small space. She moved toward the bookshelf and pointed to the book on arson. “I’ve actually read this one,” she said as she bent down and snapped a picture with her phone. “Covers the motivations and case studies.”
“Don’t think she was studying to be an arson investigator one day,” Gideon said.
Joan rose and moved past the sparse kitchen toward the bedroom. An air mattress worked well on a tight budget. She had slept on her share.
They watched as Doug lifted a pair of neatly folded jeans from the suitcase. They smelled of laundry soap, as if they had just been washed. Lana did not appear to have owned many clothes, but what she had was well cared for. Doug checked the suitcase’s inside pocket. “It’s an itinerary for a flight dated for today. It was bound for Denver.”
“Why call her boyfriend if she was planning to fly out?” Gideon asked.
“Maybe she got spooked,” Joan said.
Doug carefully documented and photographed as he went through the contents. Once the suitcase was empty, Doug reached in a side pocket and removed a picture. It was of Joan and Ann, taken in front of their college house.
“Wow,” Joan said, too stunned to add much more.
Gideon muttered under his breath, “What the hell?”
“The picture was taken at the beginning of our senior year.”
“I should know,” Gideon said. “I took it.”
“Where did she get it?” Joan asked. “The last time I saw that photo was on the refrigerator of our house. Did you have copies?”
“No,” Gideon said. “But I had other versions of the same photo at my house. I haven’t seen it for years.”
Doug dropped the photo into a clear plastic bag. “We’ll dust it for prints back at the lab.”