by Cara McKenna
Miah was shouting for his father, and the sound cut straight to Casey’s bones.
“He might be fine,” Casey said, struggling to keep his thrashing friend pinned. “He might not be in there.”
Sirens sounded in the distance. It’d be too little, too late—Fortuity was the county seat, but even they had only one fire truck, and it was manned by volunteers. It’d be a long wait before the next nearest departments could rush over from other towns. Too late to save the barn. And unless Denny had been mistaken, or Don had been able to get out, too late to save Miah’s father. Casey’s muscles went watery at the thought, dread and fear and disbelief jumbled together, suffocating.
Miah went slack after a minute’s violent struggle, his swears giving way to hoarse, primal sounds, then dry sobs.
Casey’s heart broke for him. He didn’t know what it felt like to have a father you were proud of. One you loved and idolized and modeled your own manhood after. It had to feel like a piece of Miah himself was burning up.
“He might not be in there,” he repeated, clinging to the possibility himself. “Denny could be wrong. He could’ve gotten out.”
Miah wasn’t hearing any of it. He’d curled in on himself, forehead on the dirt, and Casey could faintly hear him saying, “Dad, Dad, Dad,” the sound swallowed by the rush of the flames, the choking of his sobs.
“We don’t know he’s in there,” the male hand echoed.
“Let’s get you up,” Casey told Miah. “Let’s get farther away. There’s too much smoke. There’s machinery in there, right? It might not be safe.”
That was what Don had been in there for—to dick around with some piece of equipment. Maybe that had started the fire. Gasoline or diesel, hay, all that brittle old wood, or whatever else might be inside. Could’ve been an accident waiting to happen.
Could’ve, but probably wasn’t. The Churches weren’t foolish or careless people. And that fact combined with whoever had been stalking around the place this past week added up to a gnawing pit, deep in Casey’s gut.
And something else hit him as he stood, holding Miah’s arm tight to keep him from bolting, watching the orange flames licking up at the now-lightening sky. Hit him as hard as a hunk of flaming shrapnel, cut him to the core.
The fire. On the starless night.
Only he hadn’t seen a starless night, after all—no overcast evening at the height of the rainy season. He’d seen the dark of the eclipse, an artificial night. And he hadn’t seen Miah, but his father. Silhouetted by the raging fire in his vision, they were impossible to tell apart, just two slender, tall men in jeans and Stetsons. Matching postures, matching mannerisms.
“Fuck me,” Casey murmured.
Miah was jerking, trying to get loose, and Casey held on tighter, steering him away, back down the hill with the other man’s help.
Fuck me. The visions didn’t lie, did they? They only misled. It was lucidity and logic that got it all wrong, time and time again.
And if a good man was dead now, from a tragedy Casey had stood some chance at preventing . . .
He couldn’t imagine how he’d ever forgive himself.
Chapter 24
The fire departments arrived—at first just the skeleton crew of the Fortuity volunteer brigade, followed long minutes later by forces from the surrounding towns and counties.
The volunteers managed to keep the blaze contained, and probably helped stop it from spreading to the bunks and stables and the brush, but the barn itself was an utter loss. Razed to the ground, practically, with one wall left standing, precariously. The collapsed shingle roof drooped in against it, the thickest of the now-blackened beams jutting here and there like charred ribs.
There had been no sign of Don. And no sign was a bad sign indeed, Casey couldn’t help but think.
By the time the water trucks had come and the firefighters had things under control, the sky was once again as bright and blue and cheerful as one could hope for in mid-February . . . save for the fading black ribbon of smoke drifting east, bound for Utah.
Miah’s dog stood twenty yards or so from the action, gaze locked on the smoldering rubble, body taut, tail still. It was one of the saddest sights Casey had ever seen.
The ranch workers were organizing themselves, moving frightened horses from the stables out to the range, away from the lingering smoke and chaos. Helicopters passed overhead—wildfire crews, no doubt, scanning for signs of stray blazes out in the brush.
Casey still had Miah by the arm, though the fight had gone out of his friend.
“Let go of me,” Miah said quietly, eyes still glued to the smoking, steaming remains of the barn.
“You need to stay back.”
“I need to help my employees,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “I need to help get the animals away from here.” There were tears streaking his cheeks, drawing pale tracks down the dark soot dusting his face.
Casey reluctantly, cautiously, let him free. Miah snatched his arm away, rolled his shoulders, called for his dog, and trudged off toward the stables. What on earth was going through his head, Casey didn’t care to guess. But let him hide in the work. Let him hide from the looming uncertainty of what might’ve become of his father.
Through the blackened mess of collapsed boards and flaps of fallen roof, Casey could see the shapes of a half dozen pieces of heavy equipment. Any one could’ve been the machine Don had been planning to tune up. And under any pile of charred wood and slate roofing tiles could be the body of one of the finest men this town had ever seen.
I saw this coming, was all Casey could think.
He was rooted to the spot, unable to move. He’d seen all of this, months ago. He’d gotten the clues wrong and ignored the ones that counted. If he’d had his head on straight, he might’ve stopped all this. Maybe saved a life.
God-fucking-damn it, why the fuck had he been given this so-called gift, of all people? Why some flighty, self-interested criminal, of all the decent—
“Case!”
He turned, finding Vince running toward him.
“Where’s Miah?” his brother demanded.
“Helping move the horses.”
Vince’s shoulders dropped in obvious relief, though his face said it all—the circumstances of the fire hadn’t been lost on him. He’d probably remembered those words the second he heard there was a fire at Three C, in the middle of the eclipse.
“All I could think was, fucking starless night,” his brother panted, recovering from his sprint from the parking lot or the house.
“It wasn’t Miah,” Casey said quietly. “But it might’ve been Don.”
Vince’s heaving chest went still in an instant. “Don?”
“He was supposed to be in there this afternoon. He told us himself. I think I saw it wrong, Vince—I thought it was Miah, but—”
“Where’s Christine?”
“I don’t know. She was calling nine-one-one, last I saw her. She was with the hands. I’m sure she’s fine.”
Vince’s head jerked to the side, and Casey looked in the same direction, to where Miah was being led toward the farmhouse by a couple officials. Vince made to follow his best friend, but Casey caught him by the elbow.
He spoke quickly, quietly. “I don’t think this was an accident, Vince.”
His brother eyed him. Casey took it for skepticism at first, until Vince said, “Tell me exactly why not.” Those five words spoke volumes, their message loud and clear. It sure as fuck doesn’t feel like one, but tell me precisely how you know.
Vince’s body had softened and Casey let his arm go. “The place didn’t just burst into a massive fireball,” he said. “It was a steady burn, no sudden explosions, and if Don started it by accident, he’d have noticed. Seen it happen, smelled it. He knew that barn better than anyone, and he would’ve tried to get to an exit. He wouldn’t have just fallen down right there. Even as smoky as it was, he’d have hit the ground and crawled for a door.”
Vince nodded, jaw set. H
e knew Casey wasn’t suggesting that Don had escaped.
“If he is in there . . .” Casey already knew, in his gut, he was. He’d seen it months ago, after all, and his intuition had no doubts. “An autopsy’s gonna show that he died from something other than smoke inhalation. A blow, or a shot.” He hoped so, anyhow. If the man had subsequently been hit by a falling beam or a piece of the roof, it’d take a world-class arson investigator to spot any injuries he’d sustained before the fire began. Unless there was a bullet, that was.
“An autopsy might say this was foul play, but it’s not gonna tell us who did it.” Vince paused, studying him. “Could you?”
“I dunno. Maybe. Depends on how sloppy the guy was.”
“They’re gonna send a forensics team, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Casey agreed. “For the insurance, if nothing else. But the lab work’ll take days, maybe weeks. And we don’t need proof this was no accident. We need to know who did it, and soon. Forensics will only give them a week’s head start.”
“Exactly. So what do you need?”
He gave Vince the side eye, wary. “What d’you mean?”
“I’m not stupid, Case. After that shit that went down in the mines, back in August, I knew what flavor of shady you turned into.” Casey had played no small part in uncovering some grisly corpse-disposal practices perpetrated by corrupt actors from the casino’s original contracting outfit. “What’s your scam, exactly? Arson?”
He looked away, but nodded. “Commercial shit. For a cut of the property owners’ claim money.”
“You ever get caught?”
“Not even close.”
“You know more than a forensics expert?”
Casey shrugged. “As much as. Enough to know how to trick one.”
“Well, let’s hope you know enough to finger whoever pulled this.”
“I can tell you how it started, where it was set, what accelerant they used, what temps it reached, and how it moved—but I’m not a detective. I don’t have a lab, and even if I did, there’s not going to be much left in the way of fingerprints and fibers in there.”
“Maybe not, but you’re what we’ve got.”
“There’s Miah and Christine, too—they might have some guess who could’ve done this . . . though it doesn’t feel right to start grilling them anytime soon. Not if he’s . . .”
Vince nodded. “But the second you get a chance, I want you in there. I want to know what cocksucker did this. And I want to be there when we find him.”
Casey swallowed, nodded.
“I’m leaving it to you,” Vince said, and he headed toward the farmhouse, no doubt to find his best friend. That left Casey on his own, staring at the rising steam and dwindling smoke, the plumes of water still dousing the razed husk of the barn. Every gallon washed away a little more evidence, a little more of any trail that might’ve been left. And under all that mess must lie the body of one of the best men Casey had ever known.
When it all became too much to look at, he turned away, and went in search of Abilene.
• • •
Abilene was in a daze.
She’d followed the hands, walking a half mile or more to the edge of a quiet service road, a dozen of them huddled in a confused group, watching the black smoke snaking up and sliding away over the range on the wind. Sirens had come in wave after wave, the only noise more piercing than Mercy’s wails.
An errant thought visited her as she stood there, lost in a storm of murmuring, nervous voices.
Casey showed up just before that fire started. He’d come trotting over to them not twenty minutes before the smoke had begun to billow, a self-described pyromaniac arriving from the direction of a blaze, to the party that had conveniently cleared all the witnesses away from the scene.
Don’t be ridiculous. And that was how the notion felt to her—ridiculous. Though the coincidence was impossible not to notice, not after everything he’d told her last night.
When the smoke began to thin, it was collectively decided that everyone should head closer and see if there was any way to help.
Saddled with an infant, Abilene veered toward the farmhouse while the hands continued on to their colleagues, who were leading horses away from the stables. Things looked safe enough at the house, and there were two sheriff’s deputies on the porch, talking with a firefighter and Christine. Abilene couldn’t have guessed her tanned face could ever look so pale, and dread dropped like an anchor into her gut. Something was wrong, something that went way beyond property damage. She didn’t dare butt in and ask, but instead slowed as she climbed the steps, listening.
“When was that?” asked a young black woman dressed in bulky tan and neon yellow firefighter’s coveralls, speaking gently to Christine. Too gently.
“Early,” she replied, sounding shell-shocked. “Seven o’clock, maybe?”
“And did he expect the repairs to take several hours?”
“I couldn’t say. It depends on how much work the thing needed. But I haven’t seen him . . .” Her normally capable, athletic frame looked frail and breakable, arms hugged tight around her middle.
She’s talking about Don. He’d been going to look at some John Deere thing or other. Could that have caused the fire? A mechanical issue?
Then she remembered the mystery creep, and all at once it felt much too convenient for comfort. She’d stopped on the porch, staring now, and Christine reached out to touch her arm, steer her gently in the direction of the front door. So she wouldn’t overhear anything more? Or simple permission to get inside, away from all the chaos?
Either way, she obeyed.
The phone was ringing from its stand on the hutch as she entered the house, and she had no doubt it would continue to do so for the rest of the afternoon as the news spread far and wide. The second it quieted, she heard the electronic trill of the office phone beckoning from past the den.
She’d been holding Mercy to her hip for ages now, the sling just a canvas tangle around her arm, too much to bother with in the height of the panic. All at once, in the eerie calm and silence of the house, she felt the strain in her back and neck and elbows, and set the baby in the car seat Casey had left by the door. She lugged it into the kitchen, downed a glass of water, then another. She considered camping out in here, torn between curiosity about what could be going on and fear of the same.
What if Don . . . She shivered, unwilling to think it. He would have gotten out, surely. And that person who’d been creeping around, they’d just been some potential burglar, or a pervert after a glimpse at the ranch hands undressing or something gross like that, not . . .
The kitchen felt too cold. Too cavernous. She heated a bottle of formula for Mercy and carried her upstairs, though she left the bedroom door open, wanting updates even as she dreaded them.
Mercy managed half the bottle before conking out, no doubt exhausted from the crying and the rattled energy of all the grown-ups.
Abilene stood over the crib for long minutes, watching her daughter’s face, feeling out-of-body. Sounds from downstairs snapped her from the trance—men’s voices.
She hurried to the door, thinking at first she’d heard Don speaking, but no, only Miah. She recognized the other voice as well. Vince. She couldn’t catch more than the odd snatch of what they were saying, but Miah sounded frantic and shaky, Vince cool and somber. The voices faded, the men seeming to have gone into the kitchen. Sure enough, she could make out the faint sound of water running.
Poor Miah. Part of her wanted to go downstairs, to see if she could do anything, but it was in that moment that she realized that she really didn’t know the man. Not well enough to try to comfort him at such an uncertain time, anyhow.
She turned away, and her gaze caught on a flash of red on the dresser—the wadded tissue that Casey had given her. A present she’d not dared to open last night. Just now, her heartache paled to nothing beside Miah and Christine’s, and she could stand the distraction. She picked it up and took a seat o
n the bed.
It was so light she’d probably have tossed it in the trash if she’d come upon it, assuming it was empty. It was secured with a piece of tape, and she peeled that free, beginning to unwind the tissue. After four or five turns, the paper parted, and pooled in its center was silver—a box chain, shiny as only sterling silver could be, brand-new. Something else poked from the tiny pile of links—a slim and delicate shape. She knew what it was in an instant, and a smile caught somewhere between affection and heartbreak twisted her lips.
The little cross was almost identical to the one she’d worn for more than ten years. A half-inch tall, plain, no body of Christ. The chain was different, shorter than the one she’d lost, and nicer as well. She eased a loose knot from it and centered the cross opposite the clasp, letting it swing from her fingers.
She didn’t know quite what to make of it.
Had their soul-bearing conversation gone well, it would have been a more than welcome gift. A gift that told her she’d found herself a man who paid attention, who listened, and who thought of her in moments when they weren’t together. She couldn’t guess where in Fortuity he’d found this, either, so he’d gone on a mission for it. For her.
She closed it in her hand, felt the metal warming there.
Can I keep this? It wasn’t a locket or some other pointed token of romance. It was a symbol of her misplaced beliefs, of her lost faith once again returning to her in the wake of all those desperate, squandered years. It was a gift chosen by a lover . . . but bestowed by a friend.
I’ll wear it, she decided. Not yet, but eventually. To put it on now would be too mixed a signal to send Casey, and too much to ask of her own heart, besides. But in time, once their brief but blazing romance had mellowed to a fond memory, their friendship hopefully planted on solid ground once again, she’d put it on. And she’d wear it gratefully, with humility and hope.