Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Look. I didn’t ask you to play the decoy. You took the role on yourself. So don’t get snippy with me.”

  “It’s not a game, or don’t you understand that? He followed me. Don’t ask why. He got suspicious for some reason.”

  “Acting was never your forte.”

  “Thanks.” Eva got up, poured the boiling water into her teacup and glanced at the clock. “I’d tell him all about you if it wouldn’t incriminate me. Step on my toes again and I will and to hell with jail time. It would be worth it to see you arrested, too.”

  The rush of words on the other end of the phone hit Eva’s ear with an eagerness that confirmed the caller’s panic.

  Eva removed the tea bag from the cup, poured in milk and a spoonful of sugar. Stirring the beverage, she said, “That’s better. Apology accepted. Now what do we do? You’ve had a good while to think of something, I assume, considering what time it is.” She placed the spoon on the saucer and took the tea into the dining room.

  “He’s not scared off, is he?”

  The liquid burnt her throat but Eva swallowed it anyway. “What do you think? He’s a leech. A sniffer dog. We’ve excited him, appealed to his cop’s curiosity. We haven’t scared him in the least. He’ll probably be more of a problem now than he was when he started his investigation.”

  “But he doesn’t suspect—”

  “I don’t know what he suspects. I’m not his priest. Or his wife. We made a mistake, that’s all, and we’ll have to live with it. Oh, I know,” she took another sip of tea, “it was my idea. I’m the one who suffered for it by running through that wood and around that damned lake. But I thought the original idea good, and I wanted to protect you.”

  “I know. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that.”

  “We’ve both got a lot to lose if we can’t shake him or if either one of us is caught. And I don’t mean just prison time.”

  Silence returned Eva’s statement.

  “What are you thinking?” she said, annoyed at the quiet and lack of resolution. “It must be something or you wouldn’t have rung me up.”

  “Your phone’s not tapped, is it?”

  Eva laughed, a strange mixture of absurdity and contempt. “He’s not a cop. Where would he get hold of phone tapping equipment?”

  “I don’t know. But he could have some means. A mate in the police department. I don’t know.”

  “You’ve seen too many bad films. No, the phone’s not tapped. Now, hurry up. I’ve got a hair appointment.”

  Again the voice hesitated, as though afraid of being overheard. Or having to resort to such measures. Finally the answer came over the line. “Another fire. But bigger and closer to home.”

  * * * *

  Sean Fallon waited outside at The Sleeping Fox, slumped against the corner of the pub. The shadows of early evening reached with ever lengthening fingers toward the eastern horizon, wrapping buildings, objects and land in its darkening gloom. Sean gazed across the town square, a brick-paved rectangle that hosted vendors’ booths on market days. Lights from storefronts and streetlamps glowed yellow in the gray dusk, pinpricks of sanity in the black whirlpool engulfing him. He’d never been inside the bookshop at the other end of the square, but the illuminated window with its colorful posters and stacks of books looked cheery. Friendly. A piece of normality in his nightmare. Same with the other establishments ringing the area. Commonplace. Safe. Where proprietors welcomed you without threats or looked at you as a golden egg-laying goose.

  A sharp footfall on the bricks near him diverted his attention from the blinking pelican crossing light. He stood up, expecting Helene. A stranger approached, glanced at him, then entered the pub. Sean sagged against the wall. Where the hell was she?

  Across the square a group of teenagers laughed their way toward him, the girls clinging to the boys and they, in turn, draping their arms over their companions’ shoulders. The homogeneous group flowed down the street, past him, and entered the fish and chip shop. The aromas of the fried foods hit him in the stomach. He hadn’t realized he was hungry until now.

  He glanced at his watch again. The air had turned darker in the five minutes he’d been looking at the lights. Not that he had to work tonight. He’d changed with another chef so he could meet Helene. But the wait angered him. Not only because it wasted his time but it also illustrated Helene’s opinion of him: not worth the effort of arriving on time.

  Two cars turned off the High Street and into the market square, used as a car park on non-market days. He watched the cars park and the people emerge. Obviously a party too large to come in one car, Sean thought as the group walked toward the pub. They passed without glancing at him, intent on their upcoming fun. The pub door opened, letting out a wave of music and laughter, then shut to leave him alone in the chilling air.

  Sean stood up and stretched. To hell with the woman. He’d spent enough time on her. He had other things to do, a life to live. He’d deal with her some other day.

  He’d taken a few steps toward the car park when he heard his name being called. Turning, he saw Helene hurrying up to him. Her figure was a faint silhouette against the indigo sky, but he recognized her. He glanced at the smear of dark gray clouds creeping in from the west and waited until she was within several feet of him before saying, “I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

  A rumble of thunder underscored Helene’s light laugh. “Wishful thinking, dear? Or potentially disappointed? Now, don’t tell me. I couldn’t bear to hear the wrong answer. I’d be devastated.” She grabbed Sean’s hand and steered him to a bench on the western edge of the square. They were away from the main flow of pedestrian traffic and out of the majority of the store lighting glare, a dark pocket that suited Helene’s furtiveness.

  Sean glanced up at the blackened façade of the town hall, rising phantom-like behind them, a nebulous bulk against the murky skyline. He clasped his hands tightly, as though in prayer, and wondered what he’d say to her. Wondered what she’d say when his response wasn’t to her liking. Had she picked this gloomy spot so she wouldn’t be seen when she knifed him? Did she have a muscular friend in the shadows, ready to kidnap him? People were sometimes kidnapped and held for ransom. But who would Helene extort if Sean didn’t willingly hand over the money? His wife and he had nothing in the bank, had nothing of value to pawn. And he had no family. Sean shifted his gaze to Helene, now a vague profile beside him, and tried to swallow. His throat tightened as she shifted slightly and put her hand into her jacket pocket. He felt his muscles tightening, ready for fight or flight.

  “I’ve wasted enough time.” Helene’s voice came to him from the darkness, startling him in its closeness. She’d dropped her friendly, concerned tone of their meeting; frost now coated the words. “You bring the money?”

  His throat went dry as he searched for her face. He choked on his words as he tried to speak. “Uh, no. I didn’t.”

  “What do you mean? You rang me up, said you wanted to get this money deal over with. I assumed—” She stopped, perhaps her sixth sense suggesting she was wrong.

  She leaned toward him and Sean could feel her upper arm against his, feel the heat, the flesh, the implied warning. He leaned away from her; she was too close.

  “Well?” The one word broke into the silence like a gunshot.

  “I don’t have the money, no.” He could sense that she was looking around the square—not because he could see her movement but because he couldn’t feel her breath on his face.

  “You have a cash card?” she said when she spoke again. “I think there’s a bank on the High Street.”

  Sean shook his head, afraid to trust his voice.

  “I’d make you show me your wallet contents but you could’ve left the card at home.”

  “Honest, Helene, I don’t have one. Never did.”

  “Liar.”

  Strangely, the insult stung. Like a slap across his face. Sean sat up straighter, more determined than he had ever been with her. “I don’t
have a card, but that’s not the point. I’m not giving you any money, Helene. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. I didn’t kill Janet and you can’t blackmail me for your silence.”

  “Can you prove you didn’t?” Her voice dropped to a chilling whisper that cut through Sean’s blood. “Just because the police overlooked you five years ago doesn’t mean you’re home free. I believe there’s no statute of limitation on murder.”

  “You’re all words. The cops never considered me a suspect because they never considered Janet’s death as murder. And even if the investigation went that way, I had an alibi.”

  “Sleeping with your girlfriend is hardly a worthy alibi, dear.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping with her. Or anyone. And I don’t have to defend myself to you. I didn’t kill Janet, I’m not giving you any money, and you can’t prove my guilt.” He stood up, his heart racing. Looking down at her, he felt more powerful. Like a puppeteer controlling a marionette. Like a cat toying with a mouse.

  Helene smiled, and he saw the glint of light from a streetlamp on her white teeth. She tilted her head up. He sensed that she looked at him with contempt, for the tone of her voice was sharp and low-pitched. “You little bastard. Don’t play high and mighty with me. I’ve got position in this community. Who do you think the cops will believe when I tell them about your quarrel with Janet? Me, or you—a convicted criminal whom Janet fired? I heard your argument; I know what you said. You had everything to lose if you lost your job, so that’s motive enough for the police. Try to convince them nothing came of your anger.” She sat still, the quiet creeping between them, the shift of power inching into Helene’s hands.

  Sean took a step forward, his fists clenched, his jaw set. A veil seemed to drop before his eyes, for he barely saw Helene. “You on something? Must be. Or you’re sloshed. Or barmy, ’cause there’s no truth to anything you’re saying and you bloody well know it. Now, bugger off before I make you sorry you didn’t.”

  “Darling, what a tone! So angry! I know you’re just talking, putting up a brave front to convince yourself you’re fine. But I’m serious, Sean. And your pathetic threat doesn’t mean a damned thing.” She stood up and stared at him, her breath once more in his face, her hand on his sleeve. “I mean everything I say. I want that money, and if you don’t come through with it…” She shrugged and again stuck her hand into her jacket pocket. “I can’t predict the future, of course, but in this instance I believe you will be sorry you didn’t come up with the cash.” She patted his arm and leaned into him. “¿Me comprende Ud, bien?”

  “I understand you’re trying to laugh this off. But I want you to understand that you can’t intimidate me. If you don’t leave me alone you’ll see how fast something can happen. Accidents happen all the time, you know.”

  Helen’s laugh cut through his warning. Her hand slid onto his cheek and she held it there while she said, “Darling, I’m not just a gorgeous figure and pretty face. I do have some brains, and I wish you’d credit me with using them. You can rabbit on all you like, but it doesn’t change a thing between us. Your words are very brave, but you forgot something.”

  In spite of his resolve, he asked what she meant.

  “Curiosity is a good sign, dear. It shows you’re using your own cerebral facilities, limited though they are. What you forgot, sweets, is that there are such things as letters, lawyers and safe deposit boxes. Need I say more?”

  Her hand remained on his cheek, warm and familiar. Sean jerked his head to the left and her arm dropped to her side. She squeezed his arm and turned toward the pub. Calling to him over her shoulder, she added, “Try to remember that if anything happens to me, my lawyer will be the first one to talk to the cops. I’ll expect the money, then. Have a nice evening, dear.”

  She opened the pub door, and a ripple of laughter, conversation and music slipped outside. Components of ordinary lives in Sean’s surreal existence. The door closed as she slipped inside and Sean wandered back to his car, panic and fear formulating the plan that would free him from Helene’s trap. The first pelting of rain hit him as he unlocked his car door.

  TWENTY-TWO

  McLaren would have laughed at Jamie’s comment if the subject hadn’t been so serious. He shoved the empty beer glass away from him and said, “I know some firefighters go the arsonist route. It’s a power trip for them: the media coverage, the call out of the service and personnel to combat the fire he set, the police, the crowd of onlookers. Even his ‘name’ in the newspaper and on television reports…if he’s satisfied with a vague reference to himself and his deed. But I don’t believe Corey Chappell is the arsonist. He didn’t seem the type.”

  Jamie set down his pint and sighed audibly. “There you go again. Need I remind you that most criminals don’t seem the type? What is the type, anyway? A tattoo declaring ‘I’m an arsonist’ on their forehead? An ever-present can of paraffin with them? Come on, Mike, think logically.”

  “I am. You know how you get impressions about people if you’re in the job long enough. Anyway, I didn’t get physical with Corey. I just got a bit vocal. And there’s no reason for him to torch my drive. I didn’t imply he was a suspect in Janet’s murder. Or arson.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t take that much to scare folks into acting. Just having a cop—okay, okay, even an ex-cop—sniffing around sets them off. They get spooked and they act.” He drained the last of his beer before admitting, “You might be right, Mike. Aren’t most fires set by women?”

  “Revenge fires, yes.” He looked over at the Ring-the-Bull players. The excitement had died down and they were all at the bar, ordering drinks. “I don’t know if he found out where I live, but he couldn’t have followed me home. I talked to Miles Tyson after I spoke to Corey, and that was in a pub. I’d phoned him and asked him to meet me there. So even in my befuddled dotage I bet you that I would have noticed Corey’s car following me from his house to the pub and then on to my house.”

  “Does kind of open oneself to more risk than usual for being spotted, yes.”

  McLaren stood up. Dusk had fallen in the short time he and Jamie had been talking, and he wanted to get home to phone Dena. “Thanks for the tip on the pot, but I’ll take it with a grain of salt.”

  He had turned and took the car key from his pocket when Jamie said, “Hardly anyone’s a saint, Mike. Take off your rose-tinted glasses. You’re falling in love with her.”

  McLaren walked toward the door without another word.

  * * * *

  Sean sat in the front room of his flat and stared out at the night. Darkness had nearly claimed the land but fingerholds of pale sunlight, almost without color, clung to the higher elevations. The light gilded a crest of trees toward the east, crowning the tallest section of yellow leaves with a pat from Midas. The rain had not caught up with him, but it would come. He could feel it. The aroma came downwind, announcing the storm, even if the swirl of dry, cast off leaves didn’t.

  He fumbled for his beer in the half-light of the room. He hadn’t bothered to turn on any lamps; he felt less vulnerable in the gloom, as if Helene wouldn’t find him or he could bury himself away from everyone forever. A jolt of lightning crackled through the ebony clouds and the room flashed into stark relief momentarily before dying back to black. He returned the beer to the table and turned back toward the window as the cloud broke overhead.

  Where the hell was he supposed to get the money Helene demanded? Even if he sold his car, that wouldn’t get him more than half her price. And if he ignored her? He jumped as the rain drummed on the lid of a metal rubbish bin. Was he prepared to ignore her? Could he call her bluff? Did she really have something for the police? Even if she didn’t, would they investigate anyway, and would they find out about the bribe?

  A car drove slowly down the street. As it braked, its taillights mirrored red in the small puddles. Like blood, he thought, mesmerized by the brilliance of the color. Fresh blood, flowing blood. Or fire. Fire destroyed a lot of things, including people.

&n
bsp; The rattle of a key in the kitchen door pulled Sean from his thoughts. A gust of rain-chilled air rushed into the room and the door eased shut. Keys clattered onto the top of the table, a chair scraped, shoes thudded onto the floor, and seconds later his wife padded into the room.

  “Didn’t you pay the electric?” she asked as she reached for the light switch. “It’s pitchy in here.”

  “Leave it alone,” Sean muttered. “I like it this way.”

  “Fine. Feed your darker side.” Kathryn walked to the sofa and sat down. She scooted around on the cushion until she was facing him. “What’s the matter? You don’t usually sit in the dark.”

  “I feel like it now, okay?”

  “Sure.” She grabbed his hand and kissed it. “Tell me about it. I’m a good listener.”

  In spite of his feeling, he smiled. “You forgot to say you’re beautiful, too.”

  “You already knew that.”

  Sean didn’t need the lamp turned on to see her. He could picture her in his mind—a pixie with long, dark hair. Sighing, he squeezed her hand, yet didn’t turn to her. The rainy night called to him.

  Slowly, almost painfully, he related his talks with Helene. Toward the end of his speech he turned and looked at her. She was a dark shape against the blackness.

  “What are you going to do?” she said as she slumped against his chest.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Ignore her. You didn’t do anything to Janet, not even plead with her to take you back. Helene’s got no foundation for her threat.”

  “But she’ll go to the police. I know her. She’ll tell them her story and they’ll pull me in for an interview. I can’t afford that kind of publicity, Kathryn! You know what that would do? I’d be fired.”

  “Might not do. You’re innocent. Why fire an innocent person and a smashing chef?”

  “You don’t know Helene, or you wouldn’t say that. She’s got a way about her.”

  “The police aren’t dumb, Sean. They’ll want more than Helene’s say-so, surely.”