by Burton, Mary
“Did you speak?”
“No. But I know he saw us. When we pulled away, he spotted my car.”
“What was he doing there?” Joan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe he was scoping out the school layout so he would be ready for his class.”
“I suppose,” Ann said.
“Don’t worry about him. Let me do that, okay?”
“Okay.”
Joan opened her phone and scrolled to the picture they’d found of Ann and her in Lana’s suitcase. “Gideon took the picture using Clarke’s camera, right?”
“Yeah, and he also took one of Clarke and me. Clarke keeps it in our bedroom. That’s the picture Lana had, right?”
“Yes.”
“What are you saying?”
“Clarke had the pictures and the negatives. And then Lana ends up with a copy.”
“Maybe someone else had a copy,” Ann said.
Before Joan could answer, the boys called out to Ann. “Mom, you said we could build a fire!” Nate shouted.
Ann’s brow furrowed. “Be right there.”
“I’ll give you the rundown in the morning. Go keep an eye on the boys.”
“Right.”
Joan got into her car, and in the quiet, she was able to think. Who had given Lana the picture of Joan and Ann? And how had Lana ended up with an engagement ring that looked like Jessica’s? Clarke had taken the original picture, and he had also done a fire inspection on the salon recently. Several had suggested that Lana had a boyfriend who made a point not to be seen in public with her. Clarke was separated from Ann, and if he had been seeing Lana, it would likely have ended whatever chances he’d had with Ann. Clarke was also an expert on fires.
None of these suppositions proved anything, but they also all pointed to Clarke. But something about Clarke troubled her. Sure, the two had never gotten along great, but the guy had pulled her from the College Fire and saved her life. He could have sold a rifle for the birthday-present cash. And if that were a crime, most of the country would be in jail.
Until she had solid proof, she could not make a move against Clarke. If Philadelphia and the Newport case had taught Joan anything, it was to have an ironclad case before making any kind of arrest. Maybe it was time to quietly poke around in Clarke’s history.
She kept driving, and by the time she approached the intersection that cut one way to the hospital and the other to Clarke’s house, she paused for just a moment before taking the road toward the small residential neighborhood where Ann and Clarke had lived.
She slowed as she pulled into the subdivision. Though the homes were much smaller than the ranch, they were close to the schools, grocery stores, and all the other civilized things not found farther out of town.
Joan located the one-level rancher that Clarke, Ann, and Nate had recently shared. The house was dark and silent. She parked across the street and studied its features. Fall leaves coated the yard, and the flowerpots that surely had been filled with vibrant blossoms while Ann was here now sat empty.
Clarke’s car was not in the driveway. He had said to Ann he was working tonight. He was not home. And she would need more evidence before she could even utter any suspicions about him.
Breaking into Clarke’s house would be crossing a line. If she was caught, she could not only kiss her job goodbye, but she could also end up in serious legal trouble. Not to mention losing Gideon and Ann.
She drove around the block and parked at a convenience store a half mile away.
Whoever had set the fires knew what they were doing. The same low-tech milk jug filled with gasoline was simple, hard to trace, and brutally effective. The buildings that had burned in Missoula and Helena had been heavily insured. Both owners had been out of town, with solid alibis.
Joan went inside the store and bought a few items she did not really want in order to provide a good reason why she was in the area.
Out of the convenience store’s door, Joan went around to her car and tossed her groceries in the back. Instead of getting behind the wheel, she ducked into the woods, got her bearings, and set off for Clarke’s house.
In the darkness, she weaved in and out of heavy thickets and fallen trees. When she emerged, she was staring into a lit-up house. She stopped, her heart pounding as she backed into the woods. At the kitchen table was a couple and a few kids. She had overshot her approach. “Terrific. Wrong house. Smooth, Joan. Really smooth.”
She moved to her right and made her way along the edge of the yard until she emerged from the woods to face the back of Clarke’s still house.
Her gaze was drawn to dark shadows for a long moment, hoping a solid reason would present itself and she could stand down from this crazy idea that she was about to undertake.
Finally, when reason stood her up, she glanced from left to right, hurried toward the back door, and peered through one of its glass panes that gave her a view of the kitchen. The sink was filled with unwashed dishes. Par for the course for a separated man. Hell, her own sink looked like this.
She tried the doorknob but found it locked. As she looked along the back of the house, she spotted what appeared to be a slightly open window. She slinked down to the window and peered inside. With no search warrant, anything in this house would be inadmissible in court. She could get herself arrested, and whatever chance she had of catching Avery Newport would go up in smoke.
Reason screamed for her not to go inside.
“Jesus, Joan, you’ve lost your mind,” she whispered.
She pushed open the window and listened for the beep of an alarm system. The house remained silent as she glanced left and right and then hoisted herself through the window and onto the floor.
She had landed in Clarke and Ann’s bedroom. The large king-size mattress was directly on the floor and covered in a tangle of blankets and sheets. Clothes were scattered about, and a couple of pairs of boots lay in the corner.
Joan picked up one of the shirts and raised it to her nose. The scent of smoke clung to the rough cotton, but she could already hear the defense attorney arguing it was common for firefighters to have clothes that smelled of smoke.
She walked over to a bureau and saw the collection of framed pictures. There were several of Ann and Nate. And there was also the picture taken of Ann and Clarke in college all those years ago.
She moved through the darkened house, listening for any signs that she was not alone. A clock ticked in the house, and a refrigerator hummed.
In the living room was a wide-screen television, recliner, and TV tray. She could tell the furnishings had been selected by Ann, but Clarke had made no effort to keep it clean.
In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and noted there were two large milk jugs. Clarke did not strike her as the type to gulp down milk, but it was plausible, given he had a son. She could also argue that the jugs could be easily drained and filled with gasoline. Nice theory that was not even remotely strong enough to support a search warrant.
She opened the kitchen pantry and found a box of heavy-duty rags, five empty gallon-size milk jugs, and a ten-day supply of boxed macaroni and cheese. She snapped pictures of the rags and then the milk jugs.
Why had he stockpiled the jugs? Was he really into recycling, or was he saving the jugs for another fire?
Outside, a flash of headlights swiped across the front of the house. Closing the pantry, she dashed to the bedroom window, exited, and lowered it to where she had found it. Behind her, she could hear the front door open.
She raced across the yard and into the woods, crouching as she watched the house. The kitchen light clicked on, and she saw Clarke standing at the sink. He stared into the woods, almost as if he knew someone had been in his house. She ducked down, lowering her gaze, fearing he would somehow sense her presence.
He opened the back door and stepped out onto the patio, peering into the darkness. He was holding a paper bag.
Finally, he turned and opened a side shed. Stacke
d inside were three gas cans. He chose one, opened the grill, and dumped the paper contents of the bag onto it. He poured a liberal portion of gasoline on the debris and then pulled a packet of matches from his pocket. He struck one, stared at it a beat, and then tossed it onto the grill.
The flames shot up in an angry, explosive whoosh. Any sane person would have stepped back, but Clarke held his position. She could not tell if he was daring the flames or if he was simply drawn to the heat.
The night chill seeped into her bones, and as tempted as she was to leave, she did not dare make a sound.
As she watched, the flames slowly died down. Clarke stoked the flames with a stick several times.
He had all the elements of the incendiary devices that had set fire to the beauty shop, Ann’s shed, and the Halpern cabin. Lots of pieces that any good defense attorney would argue were strictly benign, just as Avery Newport’s lawyer had done. Who did not have milk, rags, and gasoline? It was not a crime to burn papers on a grill. Or to have a picture of your wife from college.
Clarke remained by the fire, the glow of the embers shadowing his firm jaw and hooded brows. After about fifteen minutes, he closed the lid and glanced back at the woods one last time before entering the house. The lights shut off in the kitchen, and soon his car drove away.
She waited until the headlights had completely vanished before she ran back to the patio to inspect the grill. She lifted the lid and stared at the hot, smoldering embers. Whatever he had burned had been reduced to blackened ashes. What was so important to bring him home just to burn one stack of papers? She grabbed a stick from the yard and burrowed through the ashes. She found a fragment of a picture featuring what looked like a blue blouse very similar to the one she had been wearing in the pictures found all those years ago in Elijah’s dorm room after the College Fire. She knew those pictures had been taken in the bar, but even now, she did not remember seeing Elijah there. But Clarke had been present that night with Ann, Gideon, and her.
She replaced the lid and tucked the picture fragment in her pocket. If Clarke had set the recent fires, then it was plausible that he had also set the College Fire. Framing Elijah would have been the perfect way to eliminate a rival.
The same gut feeling that had convinced her that Avery had set her fire was even stronger now. But in a court of law, feelings meant nothing.
Dan was not sure what had woken him up from his drunken stupor. He reached for a beer but found only empty cans on the side table. He glanced at the sweatpants covering the thick bandage and was pleased to see that the bleeding had finally stopped. He had been lucky. Elijah had been so quick with the blade that he never saw it.
That would be the last time he brought a baseball bat to an ambush. The next time it would be a gun and a lot more caution.
The back of his neck tingled, and he had the faintest sensation that something was off. But before he could process the feeling, a plastic bag was slipped over his head and quickly tightened around his neck.
He sucked in air, using up what little remained inside the bag. He reached up for the hands holding the bag, but the booze combined with a lack of oxygen made his movements sloppy and ineffective.
The air gone, his senses screamed as panic cut through him, his head dropped back, and his world went black.
Joan called the hospital and discovered that Elijah had been released, so she drove to the boardinghouse, where she found him sitting on the front porch.
When she walked up, he moved to rise and winced, so she beckoned him to sit. “I thought they were going to keep you another day.”
“As you already know, I’m not fond of confinement.” He shifted in his rocker and leaned back until he seemed to settle on a comfortable spot.
“Do your doctors know you left?” she asked.
“I’m sure they do by now.” He sniffed. “How was the half-birthday party?” he asked.
“You know about that?”
He shrugged. “I keep up.”
She sat in the rocker beside him and steered the conversation away from the boys. “I would like to run a hypothetical scenario past you.”
His eyes brightened with interest. “All ears.”
“If someone had several empty milk jugs, rags, and gasoline in their house, what conclusion would you draw about them?”
“You have not given me enough variables,” he said. “What else can you tell me about the individual?”
“All those elements could be put together to make an incendiary device.”
“Sure. But it’s certainly not a given.”
“This person burned papers on a backyard grill.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary there, either, Joan.”
“Could a small, controlled fire on a grill be a way of a guy letting off steam?”
“Maybe. It’s also an efficient way to dispose of important papers. Identity theft is a real problem these days. My cellmate was doing time for that very crime.”
She should have been having this conversation with Gideon, but he would never have approved of her methods. And he had been Clarke’s friend since childhood. Their boys were best friends. As much as she wanted to do it all by the book, she wanted—no, needed—to catch the arsonist more.
“We can keep playing this game of guess who,” Elijah said. “Or you can tell me what you’ve really been up to.”
It was so tempting to trust him and tell him about her suspicions of Clarke. He had a calm voice that lulled her into believing that they had somehow become friends. But they were not friends. She sensed in her gut that though he might not have set the fires, he had an agenda that might one day put them at odds. She recalled the scorpion and the frog fable and was damn sure she was not going to end up the poor, trusting frog.
“Maybe later. I need more before I name names.”
“Be very careful, Joan. If you know about this individual, chances are you’re on his radar.”
“Where have you been?”
Gideon’s rough voice reached out from the darkness, halting Joan midstep as she approached the side entrance to the garage apartment. She paused and turned slowly, doing her best to look casual.
“You startled me.”
He stepped out of the shadows. “Where have you been? Ann said you left a couple of hours ago.”
“Checking up on me?”
“I thought you might have gotten lost on the road.”
“You could have called me.”
“I did. Twice.”
She reached for her phone and glanced at the Two missed calls. She turned her ringer back on. “Sorry about that. I must have turned it off during the party.”
“Were you with Elijah?”
“I did go visit him. I wanted to see how he was doing.”
Moonlight slashed across his face, sharpening the hard angles. He had always been attractive, but the last decade had brought a few gray hairs and deepened the lines around his eyes. All looked good on him.
“If I told you the truth, you would not be happy,” she said.
“That’s almost a given,” he said. “I still want to hear it.”
A cold wind blew across the open land and coiled around her. “How about we talk in hypotheticals for a bit.”
“I’d rather you just spill it.”
“It would be better if we spoke about potential situations. Otherwise, we don’t talk at all, Gideon.”
His feet braced, as if he were ready for a hard tackle. “Okay. Let me have it.”
She considered her words, knowing honesty was likely going to get her booted out of town. “What if a town had an arsonist?”
“Okay.”
“And this arsonist was good at what he did. He didn’t leave traces of himself behind. In fact, he was so careful about what he did, he killed two women who could have told the world the truth about him.”
Gideon stared at her, silent, his gaze unwavering.
“What if this arsonist not only burned structures for money but also because he lo
ved to see things consumed by fire. Fire energizes him. Fire makes him feel in control when his life is out of control.”
“You’re describing Elijah.”
And here was where the rubber met the road. “I’m also talking about Clarke.”
That provoked a mirthless smile and a shake of the head. “You’re joking. Clarke is a firefighter.”
“Some of the most prolific arsonists have been attached to fire prevention. They set the fires and then get the glory when they put them out.”
Gideon shook his head. “You’re wrong, Joan. Clarke is a straight shooter. I’ve known him for almost twenty years.”
“How well do you know him beyond sports, work, and the boys?”
“He’s a good father. He loves Ann.”
“I have no doubt he loves them very much, and he would do anything for them.”
“That’s not a bad thing. I’m the same with Kyle.”
She was sorry that she was about to torch the fragile bridges they had cobbled together these last few days. “Consider the College Fire. Ann had just broken up with Clarke. She was on the verge of moving east to study.”
Gideon’s frown deepened, as if his mind had tripped back to that time. Joan wondered if Clarke had said or done something that now struck Gideon as odd.
“And then her house burns down. Clarke rescues me from the flames, and then he rides in the ambulance with Ann to the hospital, where she soon learns she is pregnant. Mr. Superhero.”
“Elijah’s DNA was found at the scene.”
“He also reported to campus police a week earlier that his backpack had been stolen.”
“We’ve been through this. The backpack was found twenty-four hours later, which was nearly a week before the College Fire.”
“Elijah insists a sweatshirt was missing from the backpack after it was recovered. A portion of it was used as the wick for one of the incendiary devices.”
“What are you saying? Clarke framed Elijah? Why would he do that?”
She fished the fragment of the photo from her pocket and then scrolled on her phone to the picture she had found on Clarke’s grill. “Look at this remnant of a photo. It looks like one of the pictures found of me in Elijah’s dorm room.”