Fire Sign

by M. A. Petterson

  He opens the book and riffles through. “Look at this stuff. Pipe bombs. Molotov cocktails. Bathtub napalm. Everything you need to know.”

  “Just staying current.” I reach for the bottle and pour another few inches of elixir.

  “Got anything on how to make an A-bomb?” Dolan asks.

  “Not handy,” I say, sipping slowly now, just surfing the burn. “But you can look it up in the library or find it on some website.”

  Dolan shoves the book back into its place.

  “Tell me about the car wreck you were in,” I say.

  He turns. “It’s none of your damn business.”

  “What’s the department hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Was there a cover up?” I ask, standing. “Is that why they keep you off the important cases?”

  I walk over to him. My blood surges hotly, lifting me up, empowering me. Too much time has passed since last a man touched me. I yearn to feel flesh against flesh again. Hot breath. A wet tongue. Strong hands pulling me in tight.

  He’s about to say something, but I interrupt.

  “Enough foreplay,” I say.

  I grab his necktie and lead him into my bedroom. Then I push him down so he’s sitting on the bed. All around are candles. On the bureau, in sconces, on the window sill. I burn through three matches lighting them all.

  My room flickers in a warm dangerous way.

  I lean down and press my lips against his.

  “How do you want it?” I whisper. “Rough and hard? Or slow and soft?”

  I abruptly shove him backwards. “I don’t do slow and soft.”

  I kneel next to him and undo his tie. Suddenly I rip his shirt open, digging my fingers into his flesh.

  “Nice chest,” I say.

  I strip off my turtleneck and straddle him. He doesn’t seem aroused. Do my scars repulse him?

  “Touch me,” I order.

  He raises his hands and cups my bra. I reach behind my back and unhook the clasp. The material falls away and Dolan stares at my breasts. Or is he staring at my disfigured skin?

  He has no idea how much he could hurt me right now.

  I pull his left hand to my lips. His gold wedding band reflects the candlelight like a tiny crescent moon. I suck that finger slowly into my mouth, fellating it. I bite down gently on either side of his ring and slowly tug. When I pull his finger from my mouth the ring is gone.

  I make my lips into an O encircling the wedding band. I try and push the tip of my tongue through the hole.

  But instead of exciting him, his arms fall limply to his sides. He stares at me for a moment, then shuts his eyes.

  Rejection is a razor that never dulls. I have made a terrible mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I spit the ring down onto the sheets. Still in love with his wife, I tell myself this time.

  Then I stand and turn away. “Get out.”

  *****

  I pick up Dolan the next morning in the precinct parking lot. I notice that the boy’s bicycle is gone from the back of his small hatchback.

  As soon as he buckles up he turns to me. I meet his stare head on.

  After a moment he says, “I want you to talk to the lieutenant. Tell him we need a stakeout on that Hitler wannabe.”

  His arrogance has returned. Of course it has. I refuse.

  “But if we follow this guy, we’ll catch him in the act.”

  “The person you dragged in is not involved. I won’t waste time on him.”

  “Humor me, then. Convince me you’re right.”

  This is why I don’t like partners, having to connect the dots gets tedious. “For starters, we’ve ruled out a for-profit motive and the instant-hero motive.”

  “You’re forgetting a hate crime. That Aryan oath bullshit.”

  “Look,” I say. “You go to prison you’ve got to join a club. Lifers, bikers, racists, whatever, but you’ve got to wear the colors.” I knew all about that.

  Dolan crosses his arms. He’s not convinced.

  “The problem with your line of thought is you’re totally focused on male-dominated motivations.”

  “So Mrs. Whacko firebombs the church?”

  “I think we’re dealing with someone younger here, an adolescent female.”

  “Maybe didn’t get invited to the prom,” Dolan says.

  “I think it’s worse than that. I think our little arsonist is a victim herself.”

  “Victim of what?”

  “Somebody molested her. And probably still is.”

  I turn into the spacious parking lot of St. Francis’ Cathedral. Sanctified faces stare down at me from the stained glass windows as if in stern rebuke.

  “You haven’t made the connection,” Dolan says. “Getting molested – burning a church.”

  “Young girl gets abused by her father, uncle, whoever. She’d seek help from an authority figure.”

  “Go to the mother.”

  “Unlikely. Much more probable that the victim would seek someone outside the family. Someone traditionally to be trusted.”

  “A priest,” Dolan says, catching on. “Or minister.”

  “Exactly. And he’d listen sympathetically, pat her on the hand, and then the goddamned sonofabitch would send her right back home.”

  “Jeez,” Dolan says. “What’ve you got against –”

  “Forget it,” I say, getting out.

  We trudge up the side steps to the ornately-carved wooden door. As if on cue it swings open and the youth from our last visit stands there.

  “Hello, Absalom,” I say. I put out my hand and after a brief hesitation he reaches out to shake it.

  “Monsignor will be available shortly. He’s extremely busy.”

  I’m glad that I called ahead and confirmed this meeting. Monsignor strikes me as much too important a person to just drop in on.

  I let my eyes adjust to the shadowy gloom of the hallway. Same old ancient saints on the walls staring at nothing. The air is close, and I smell a hint of incense, mixed in with mildew.

  I turn and face the youth in his brown robes. “My Hebrew’s a little rusty. Absalom… peace?”

  “My Father is peace. From the Old Testament, Kings Two.”

  “Hebrew,” Dolan mutters.

  At the far end of the hallway a doorway opens and the Monsignor briefly stands there, backlit from the lights in his office. Then he turns and retreats within.

  It’s as good an invitation as any and we follow Absalom across the deep carpet and once again into the ornate office.

  The Monsignor sits behind his regal desk, fingers laced together, not offering to shake either one of our hands.

  “Dr. Toussaint,” he nods at me, then turns his gaze at Dolan. “A pleasure to see you, Gil. It’s been quite a while.”

  “We don’t…” Dolan starts out, “The family, that is. Sundays are kind of, you know, work and school and stuff.” He trails off.

  “And Tracie?” the Monsignor asks benignly.

  “Real good.”

  The Monsignor turns his eyes toward me. Chitchat is over.

  “Five years ago there was another church fire,” I say.

  “Very tragic. A young man died, one of our acolytes.”

  “Were you the…” I can’t think of the right word to use.

  “No, that was Father Jake’s church. He and the youth who perished were extremely close. I transferred Father Jake shortly thereafter. His grief was excessive.”

  “It would be helpful if I could speak with Father Jake.”

  “He passed away two months ago. Is there something else I can help you with?”

  “What we’re looking for, sir, is a record of someone who might’ve gone to Father Jake for help.”

  “Many people went to Father Jake. He listened. That’s what I tell the young clergy today. The key is listening.”

  “Would it help if we narrowed the search down?” I ask. “A young girl, maybe ten or twelve.”

>   “And why would she have sought out Father Jake?”

  “She was being molested.”

  “Ah,” is all the Monsignor says.

  “She might’ve gone to Father Jake. Confided in him.”

  “I’m afraid that presents a serious problem. I cannot breach the sacred trust of confession.”

  “She wouldn’t have told him under the seal of confession. This is a young girl going to her priest for help.”

  “I’m truly sorry. There is nothing I can do.”

  I nod my thanks. I do not trust my words. Absalom leads us out as my fury grows.

  I manage to get into my Cherokee, start the engine, and pull into traffic before my rage explodes.

  “That posturing bastard,” I yell. “There’s a young girl out there in need of help.”

  Dolan looks over at me. Then like a fool he says, “So what are you going to do? Sue the church?”

  “You know,” I say. “That’s a very good idea. The trust of confession is one thing. Withholding information on a crime is another.”

  “Sue the church,” he says. “You’re crazy.”

  I stomp on the brakes and we slew into a screeching stop. “Don’t you ever call me crazy,” I whisper.

  *****

  I kick Dolan loose back at his precinct house. I cannot stand to have him around anymore. I have no doubt he will run inside and complain to his Lieutenant about what an insane bitch I am. How I want to sue the church.

  But I sense that everything would come together if I could get into the church’s records. I know in my heart that sometime in the past a vulnerable, innocent young girl contacted someone she knew and trusted.

  It wouldn’t be at confession. Damn the Monsignor for blocking my efforts.

  I call up my boss, Creighton Calderwood, the State Insurance Commissioner. He is the only one I know with any clout.

  I explain to him what I need and why.

  He doesn’t sound at all surprised. Of course, someone has already informed him of my intentions. Damn this city, too many people behind the scenes pulling strings for their own agendas. But then I remember that Creighton has kindly worked behind the scenes on my behalf. If he didn’t have his own strings to pull, where would I be?

  “You can’t litigate this,” he tells me. “What you want is a motion to compel.”

  A court order, in other words. Which no judge in his right mind will grant me, based solely on gut feelings.

  “Father Jake's personal correspondence is not the confessional. Someone might have written him, asking for help.”

  “Well,” Creighton says after a long pause. “On the one hand are the legal issues. On the other hand are the politics.”

  I understand his oblique warning and I realize that nothing like this is simple and straightforward.

  “Which means it would take too long and any number of things could derail it,” I say.

  “Exactly,” he enthuses at my kindergarten-level understanding of how things work.

  *****

  I watch as the firefighters knock down the blaze later that evening. Response time for the responding company was short, so there is probably not too much structural damage inside. But the cleanup within will be substantial just from the soot and water. Plus, the telltale stench of the fire itself must be dealt with.

  This is nothing more than a store-front bodega recently converted into a church, serving the poor who live in the surrounding tenements. Rejoice Ministries, the sign reads.

  “How the hell did you get here so quick?”

  I turn and see Dolan, looking as if he has slept in his suit. I picture him watching TV at home, dozing fitfully by himself on the couch.

  “Scanner,” I reply.

  Two firefighters, in their bulky turnout gear, manhandle a stretcher from inside the smoke-shrouded building. I recognize the Aryan oath suspect from the other day. Dolan recognizes him, too.

  “There’s book smarts,” he says. “And street smarts.”

  “Copycat,” I say. “Impressing his friends.”

  “Copycat,” Dolan says, giving me a hard look.

  Before I can respond, a uniformed cop approaches. “You in charge?” he asks.

  “Who are you?” Dolan asks.

  “Manahan. I called it in.”

  “Go on,” Dolan orders.

  “I was responding to an assault. Saw the flames.”

  “Then what?” I ask.

  “I ran up to see if anyone was inside. Saw that guy –” he gestures at the stretcher being loaded into an ambulance. “He was on fire. Clothes, hair. Not moving, though. Figured he was dead.”

  “Meet me at the hospital,” Dolan tells me, spinning on his heel and striding off.

  *****

  We walk alongside a harried intern with no time to spare, dressed in blue scrubs with a stethoscope draped around his neck.

  “Talk?” he says to Dolan. “His lips are charred off. Third degree burns over half his body. What was it, gasoline?”

  “Most likely,” I say.

  “This is a major candidate in a serial arson case,” Dolan tells the intern.

  “Right now he’s a major candidate for hypostatic pneumonia, staph infections, and a lot of pain. Morphine’s going to do him about as much good as aspirin.

  Dolan and I take the elevator down.

  “Poetic justice,” he says, almost smirking.

  “You ever been injured like that?”

  “You set a fire, you get burned. Eye for an eye.”

  I dig out a butane lighter, ignite it and hold it up to his face. “Eye for an eye. You got any unpaid debts, Dolan?”

  *****

  I’m back at the tenement storefront bright and early the next morning. I wear my turnout boots and rake through the cinders. Mostly for show, but you never know.

  A car approaches and stops. I look over and see a hatchback. Dolan opens the door and hefts himself out.

  “Congratulations on wrapping the case,” he says.

  “Look around,” I reply. “Everything is different. Accelerant, ignition device, delivery mechanism.”

  “Still flogging that theory. Young girl gets molested, sends a pyrogram to God.”

  “It’s not theory. It’s fact.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” he says, climbing back inside his car. Then he calls out, “I got a question. Why are your juvenile records sealed?”

  I turn away and sift through more rubble. My thoughts are as hot and bitter as the smoking ash surrounding me.

  *****

  I cannot stand the waiting. Waiting for a call from Creighton. Waiting to get thrown off this case. Waiting for Dolan to accuse me of setting the fires myself.

  But I know I can help this young girl. If only I can find her first. Otherwise, there is only one way for of all this to end.

  Then I have a thought and head for the university library, closer than the computer in my office.

  “Religion,” I tell the librarian behind the desk. She tells me which floor and which aisle.

  I find the section I need and pause to breathe in. I love the smell of old books. So much knowledge, or adventure. Or whatever else one seeks to discover. Books don’t hate. Or hurt, or misunderstand. Or kill.

  The book I remove from the shelf is decades old, and probably hasn’t been looked at since it first arrived. I find a comfortable seat and riff through, noting down the pages I need. Then I find a nearby copy machine and begin feeding in coins, copying everything I think I may need.

  I should have thought of this before, I reflect.

  In a city with seven thousand churches, how would one innocent hurt young girl go about selecting targets?

  By name, of course.

  The first arson occurred at St. Jerome’s, the patron saint of abused children.

  Next came St. Sebastian, protector against enemies of religion.

  After that was St. Aloysius Gonzaga, protector of church youth.

  And the most recent was St. Jude’s, the pat
ron saint of hopeless causes.

  Now all I had to do was guess which was next, and wait. For I knew I could help this poor child. I just knew it.

  *****

  The late afternoon sun burns a dull orange from the chronic smog that afflicts Chandlertowne. Unfortunately my circuit runs east to west so the glare gnaws at my eyes like a dull hangover.

  Lost mariners? I wonder. Probably not. I eliminate shepherds, bakers, musicians, and anything else without some shred of connection.

  I cruise by St. Matthew’s Chapel. Too small. Too unlikely.

  Next is St. Gabriel’s, neglected, abandoned, boarded up for years.

  A cheery sign in front of St. Peter’s reads, Please Pardon Our Growing Pains! It is undergoing massive renovations.

  I have reached the middle of the city now, halfway through.

  Then I see it in the distance, and my heart whispers out, this is the one.

  St. Francis Cathedral, the largest and most majestic church in Chandlertowne. I pull into a vacant parking space and gaze up at the ornate spires and towering bell towers stretching several stories up toward the heavens. The structure occupies one full city block, absolutely overpowering anything else in view.

  Good old St. Francis, the patron saint of fire.

  Evening vespers will commence in an hour. I reach behind me into the backseat and retrieve my stun gun. I don’t want to hurt this girl, just talk with her and let her know she’s not alone. But right now she’s thinking crazy thoughts. I know all about that, too.

  *****

  The service is beautiful, serene, powerful, comforting. The candles sputter peacefully high up from wall sconces. Passing car lights reflect in through the stained glass windows, shading the walls with reds, greens, blues, and golds.

  I sit alone in a rear pew, the dark wood rubbed smooth from countless others sitting here before me. I hope that they have all found the peace and solace that they were seeking from this place.

  Then, like a gentle wave, all heads bow in prayer. It is time for me to disappear. I retreat into the shadows where I had scouted out a small utility closet. I close the door behind me as softly as a baby breathing. I had previously placed a small folding chair within it, and sit down. All I can see is the bar of light shining under the door.

  The time creeps by.

  Footsteps shuffle past outside. Muted voices murmur just low enough that I cannot make out exact words. I hear a child giggle. At last all grows quiet. Then, finally, all the interior lights are doused.

  The bar of light under the door fades to black. I wait another twenty minutes.

  When I creep out, my eyes are adjusted to the dark and I can see well enough. I look around and observe no one. I listen intently, but hear no sounds.