I assume that he has cracked or broken the plexiglass when he lifts the mask to see. Not a good idea as the noxious fumes choke and blind him.
The child wails, closer this time.
Dolan races down the second-story hall, pounding frantically on doors.
“Hey. Hey,” he yells. “Where the hell are you?”
He reaches the end of the hallway when he hears the child cry out again behind him.
He zeroes in on a door.
“I’m here. I’m here,” he yells, twisting at the knob.
But the door is locked.
And his Halligan tool is back within the stairwell.
Without warning he attacks the door with his fists and shoulders and feet until it literally splinters.
I watch him as he frantically searches inside the room. Under the bed, in the closet, in the bathroom, everywhere. No sign of the child.
He scans the room again and I know what he’s thinking: Where would a terrified child hide? Where?
He rushes back to the closet again. Sees a chair. Sees suitcases piled on top of the chair. Then he looks up at the overhead shelf stuffed with blankets.
He pulls the blankets down and discovers the child-size mannequin.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he soothes, exactly as if he was comforting a living child.
I look at another monitor as Dolan bursts out of the room, hugging the mannequin close.
Flames and smoke surround him.
“Shit,” he yells.
Then he bends low and rushes back into the stairwell. Below him he sees an ocean of flame.
He turns and sprints up to the next landing. He pushes the door open and is immediately driven back by a solid wall of fire.
Below him more flames roar up the stairwell.
I watch him frantically wipe the soot off his face shield. He whips his head one way and then another, looking for escape.
Then he looks below him at the glass case containing the fire hose. Flames encircle it.
Still he rushes down, shatters the glass, grabs the hose and spins the valve.
The line instantly charges and spews out a powerful bolt of water, suddenly jerking, ripping out from Dolan’s grip. The bronze hose nozzle gyrates around wildly, slamming into the wall, the floor, threatening to cripple him.
He drops the child to wrestle the flailing hose. The mannequin flip-flops down the stairs.
The metal hose head smashes into Dolan’s neck, driving him to his knees. He cries out in pain.
O’Reilly reaches for the switch to end the exercise. I touch his hand, stopping him.
Dolan grapples the wild hose into submission. He stares one level down at the mannequin, red tongues of flame lap at the doll’s clothing.
Now he looks up at the door leading into the hallway. I know what he’s thinking, measuring his own safety against the false heroics of rescuing some practice mannequin.
A sudden cloud of thick smoke blocks the lens. I can see nothing.
Then the stairwell door bursts open and Dolan emerges into the passageway. He has stuffed the mannequin protectively within his bunker coat.
The hall in front of him resembles a hellish tunnel surging with dancing flames and swirling fumes. But he levers the nozzle to fog position and inches forward, spinning about to douse the flames rolling after him, then turning back to attack the flames in front.
The smoke churns so thickly visibility is reduced to mere feet.
Dolan drops to his belly, cradling the child, pushing the hose out in front of him. He rounds a corner and I switch monitors. Then he stops and yanks at the hose. But it has run its full length.
He struggles awkwardly to his feet.
He is running out of oxygen now.
O’Reilly looks over at me. I shake my head.
Then Dolan leans over, screams like a banshee and charges ahead.
He has spotted the dull glow of the Exit sign.
*****
I drive Dolan back into town. My opinion of him is improving.
He twirls a tissue around the inside of his nose. “Black as shoe polish,” he says in a voice gone hoarse from smoke.
“Besides this recent string of arsons,” I say. “Any other suspicious fires you can remember?”
“I need to change,” he mutters.
“I’ll search the newspaper archives,” I say. “Do you know where the university library is?”
“That’s where my wife spends all her time. Researching her dissertation.”
I recall the long hours I spent in pursuit of my doctorate in fire science. The quiet solace of the library was like a soothing balm to my troubled, crazy thoughts. When I was released on my eighteenth birthday, Grandmama picked me up and drove directly to the university admissions office. It was only after she died that I found out that she had mortgaged her lovely beach cottage so that I could spend the next eight years pursuing an education. Never once did she comment on the paradoxical nature of the major I chose.
I pull around to the back parking lot at the precinct house and Dolan points out his car, a small compact hatchback. The hatch is halfway open and I see a boy’s bicycle wedged within.
“Do you have a son, too?” I ask.
“Just a kid I know. His birthday.”
He blows his nose again, appalled at the result.
“It’s only carbon,” I say. “Won’t kill you for another twenty years.” As he exits I tell him when he’s done to meet me at the library.
*****
I sit at a computer console, deep within the university library. I’m surrounded by students, slogging through their own research.
On the monitor a newspaper headline reads, Church Fire Kills Youth. The story is from five years earlier. I depress a button to print it out.
This is all I have found for the last ten years. I glance at my watch. I am impatient to meet up with Dolan and resume the investigation.
Then I have an idea, clear the screen, and key in the search words, Sergeant Gil Dolan. I get three hits.
The first headline reads, Off-duty Officer Involved in High Speed Accident. The subhead states, Two Dead – Child Listed as Critical. A photo shows a horribly mangled van. Inset next to it is a photo of a smiling man, woman, and young boy.
I key in the second occurrence. Officer Placed on Administrative Leave Pending Investigation. The accompanying photo is of Dolan.
The last headline reads, Several Questions Left Unanswered. I start reading.
Suddenly Dolan plops down next to me, grinning widely. I wipe the screen clear. He places a manila envelope in front of me.
“What did you find?” I ask.
“You first.”
I wouldn’t normally put up with this, but his performance at the Academy impressed me. Maybe there’s something more to him.
“Only serious church fire occurred five years ago,” I say. “A ten-year-old boy perished.”
“Five year break between fires,” Dolan says. “Like somebody was doing a little time in between torchings.”
A couple walks by, deep in conversation. The man has his arm around her waist. She leans into him, murmuring softly. With a jolt I recognize the woman from the photograph on Dolan’s desk, his wife.
Dolan’s eyes flick their way, then back. He makes no comment.
Instead, he slides out several photos from the envelope. “Fire scene photos from the last arson. Here he is.” He points to a circled face. There is a prominent tattoo on the man’s neck.
“Guy just finished doing a nickel for arson,” Dolan says.
I hold up my printout of the church fire. “Authorities ruled this indeterminate cause.”
“Yeah, mister indeterminate right here.”
“How did this guy operate?” I ask.
“He was a square badge, a security guard. He’d set a fire, miraculously discover it, then become an instant hero.”
I shake my head. “He’s not the one, then.”
“How the hell you know? A
rson is arson.”
“It’s the motivation behind the fires. Ask yourself, why churches?”
“Hate crime. Simple.”
“No,” I reply. “This is different. Somebody’s sending a message here.”
“Message to who?”
“You set a church on fire,” I say, “you’re sending a message to God.”
*****
Dolan calls me early the next morning. Requests I meet him at the precinct house. I shrug into jeans and a blue turtleneck, lace up my black sneakers and wolf down a power bar.
He meets me at the front door and gets right to the point. “I don’t buy this bit about God. Guy that burned down the last church isn’t sending a message, he’s getting his rocks off.”
“What do you base your theory on?”
“The facts.”
“Well, the facts don’t bear you out,” I say. “Statistically speaking, arson is a woman’s crime.”
“If I’da said that, you’d call me a chauvinist. So what turns a woman into a firebug?”
“Most commonly, it’s an unfaithful partner.”
“Yeah, well, the guy I showed you has a track record.”
“Storage building fires. Not the same thing as churches.”
“Five years since his last gig. Guy’s making up for lost time.”
“I’ll prove you wrong. You got his file?”
“Better. I got him.”
*****
The suspect sits in a small interrogation room. Since he’s not handcuffed, I assume he is not under arrest. But if he hadn’t agreed to this meeting, they could’ve violated his parole.
He wears jeans, white t-shirt, and engineer boots. His hair is buzz cut to the skin.
I study the tattoo on the side of his neck, some sort of tribal symbol. He wears more cryptic emblems on his muscular arms, some professionally inked, others etched in the ragged color of jailhouse work.
Dolan sits across from him, on the other side of the desk. He taps one of several fire scene photos where the suspect’s face is circled. “It’s you, there’s no denying it.”
“Name, rank and serial number,” the man replies.
“Let me guess,” Dolan continues. “You saw the fire, figured it was a Hitler Youth rally and came over to help burn books.”
“Exactly.”
I point to a large and distinctive tattoo on the man’s bicep. “What’s that symbolize?”
“The Aryan Oath. A commitment to genetic purity.”
“Shoot a minority for Christ,” Dolan says.
“Not at all,” the man replies. “I believe God created all minorities. But I don’t believe She intended dysgenic zoophylia.”
Dolan scowls and I interpret, “Sleeping with another species.”
“What about Catholics? Protestants? Unitarians?” Dolan asks. “They another species?”
“It’s not a crime I’m in that photo,” the man says.
“So where were you an hour before the fire? Maybe stopped for gas? Bought a beer? Visited with a friend?” Dolan asks.
“I was just driving around. I do that when I want to think.”
“What were you thinking?” Dolan asks.
“How much I miss the good Samaritan, Dr. Mengele.”
“I look at these pictures,” Dolan says. “I don’t notice it’s raining, yet you’re wearing a poncho.”
“Weather channel predicted thirty percent.”
“Out of everybody in the crowd,” Dolan continues, “nobody else is wearing a raincoat. Not even carrying an umbrella.”
“Is this going somewhere?” the man asks with a bored tone.
“I’m looking at this closely, you and your poncho, and I don’t see your hands. Where are your hands?”
Dolan slides the photo right under the suspect’s nose.
“What I want to know is why didn’t you help put out the fire? You know, maybe stood a little closer while you were jacking off?”
The suspect smiles faintly. “You must have me confused with your father.” Then he stands and leaves.
“Smooth,” I say, after the door slams shut.
“Rattle his cage a little. Worth a shot.”
“He’s not the guy. The church was deliberately planned. Vanity fire-setters are opportunists.”
I draw one particular photo back to my side of the table and study it.
“What a pathetic cross section of humanity,” Dolan says. “Freaks, losers, degenerates, you name it.”
“How would you characterize this particular cross-section?” I ask, sliding the photo over to him. “Upper left quadrant. She look familiar?”
Dolan studies the photo. Then his eyes close. “My daughter,” he says softly.
*****
Both of our phones vibrate almost simultaneously.
I read my text message and smile.
“Let’s roll,” Dolan says.
It takes us fifteen minutes to reach the Chapel of St. Sebastian.
The frame building is small and unassuming. Strobing emergency lights flicker rudely over a delicate stringcourse of angels hovering over the modest door. The calm demeanor of the stained glass figures staring out counterpoints the raw urgency of police vehicles and ambulances.
“Don’t, if you don’t want to,” I say to Dolan as I exit the Cherokee.
“Let the bomb squad handle it,” he says again.
“Why don’t you round up some coffee and donuts, then,” I say, heading for the back of my Cherokee. “I won’t be long.”
As I slip into my soiled coveralls he appears at my side, scowling as he forces his arms and legs into the pair I previously loaned him. It is still ill fitting, and he reaches down to the torn crotch area and angrily rips it larger.
We approach the yellow police tape cordoning off the area and a uniformed patrolman holds up his hand to halt us.
Dolan flashes his shield as we duck under the ribbon. “Bomb squad’s five minutes out,” the cop says. “Who are you?”
“Suicide squad,” Dolan mutters, keeping up with me as I jog to the chapel’s crawl space door.
I point up at a tall window, to a jagged hole smashed through the top portion.
Then we hunker down on our bellies and wriggle underneath.
It is cool and smells pleasantly of earth instead of charred cinders. I swing my flashlight beam around, spot a whiskey box near the center of the church and worm forward.
“What was the rector doing under here?” Dolan wants to know.
“Rescuing a litter of kittens,” I say.
We halt in front of the corrugated whiskey box. The scenario is familiar, but without the mantle of ash and water – an alarm clock affixed to a small board, brown string attached to the trigger of a mousetrap, and match heads secured to the striker bar secreted within a nest of shredded newspaper. The techs may very well find some workable prints. The newspaper mounds up around the sides of the whiskey box and I ponder what fire load might be within.
“Hear that?” I say.
“I don’t hear anything,” Dolan says.
“Cheap clock. Stopped ticking.”
“No tickee, no burnee.”
“I wonder if it’s booby trapped,” I say, slowly tilting over the whiskey box to look inside.
Then without warning the clock’s alarm sounds, winding in the string, triggering the mousetrap with a sharp snap and igniting the kitchen matches deep within the pile of shredded newspaper.
I turn to look at Dolan. His eyes are round as saucers and sweat beads his forehead.
“Help me pat out the fire,” I say. Then add, “You’re looking a little peaked. Want to catch a buzz?”
*****
As part of my teaching arrangement with the university, they lease me a one bedroom efficiency on campus. I chose this particular cottage because it has a fireplace. I enjoy the irony.
Other than the fireplace, I don’t need much more. I don’t want much more, either, even though I can certainly afford it.
I pass my days as a nun would, working, studying, sleeping, filling my time as fully as possible to crowd out unpleasant thoughts.
But I am not a nun, I am a woman in the prime of life. I stay fit. I watch my weight.
Dolan sits on my secondhand sofa as I bring the bottle and two glasses to a second hand coffee table, darkly scarred from cigarette burns.
“Tequila,” I say, splashing three fingers worth in each glass.
Dolan stares down at the golden liquid, but doesn’t move. I hurl back my glass. I love that first burn as the liquor hits my gut. A previous therapist judged me an alcoholic. My present one does not.
I study Dolan. He seems in shape. He’s not bad looking. Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe I could grow to trust him.
“Want to know what I saw inside the whiskey box?” I ask.
Dolan tears his eyes off his glass and nods.
“Copper sulfate. Paraffin. Cellulose.”
“What’s that in English?”
“A fire log.”
“You telling me that’s gonna burn down a whole damn church?”
“After a few modifications, definitely.”
I walk over to my fireplace and unwrap one of my own fire logs. I place it on the kitchen counter and take out a serrated steak knife.
“First you cut off thin sections,” I say, sawing off two. “Then you chunk it up and heat it in the microwave.”
I place the crumbled material inside a bowl, stick it all into my small oven and push the timer.
I return to the coffee table and pour myself another three fingers. Toss it off quickly. Dolan still hasn’t touched his.
When the microwave beeps, I remove the bowl. “Nice and mushy. See?”
I open the pantry and pull out a box of moth crystals. “Next we add naphthalene. Now drizzle gently with lighter fluid.” I give the mixture a good squirt. “Mix together well.”
I pinch off a portion the size of my thumbnail and center it on one of my Goodwill plates. I grab a match from the box near my fireplace and sit down next to Dolan.
He watches me intently as I scrape the kitchen match against the table.
Then I bring the flame to the pinch of stuff on the plate.
With a tiny whoosh the mixture flares up with unbelievable fury, pulsing angrily, spewing out a miniature streamer of hateful-looking smoke.
Then the flame subsides, but what’s left on the plate continues glowing like a small chunk of coal, still red hot, still capable of igniting anything flammable close by.
Whether Dolan is impressed or not I cannot tell. He rises from the couch and wanders over to my well-packed bookcase.
“You got a hell of a library here,” he says, taking down a thick book entitled The Anarchist’s Bible.
Fire Sign Page 3