Playing with Fire

by Rachel Lee

  Charity stared at him, everything else forgotten. “You’re giving me a whole different kind of willies here.”

  “Me, too. It doesn’t explain the barn, but that could be explained just as a way to muddy the whole thing if it worked. And if it didn’t work, he’d still have the barn fire to amuse him.”

  “God!” She was appalled, although why this seemed more appalling than the other scenarios they’d discussed, she couldn’t imagine.

  “Worse,” Wayne continued inexorably, “what if it worked better than he expected? What if he didn’t expect the house to go up that fast? Fire’s an unpredictable animal. I know I keep saying that, Charity, but you and I both know how fast it can get out of control. What if he thought it would be nowhere near as bad, that maybe the Buells would get out, that they’d save the animals...or what if the house didn’t go up when it was supposed to? What if...”

  She tripped over his words. “What if the house took longer to ignite than expected? So the fire happened after the Buells were in bed, too late to save the livestock, with barely enough time to save themselves? But what does that tell us?”

  “That we’re back to an arsonist who wasn’t out to kill an entire family. One who maybe didn’t even want to kill the livestock.” He shook his head. “Circles.”

  “No, no. That could be important.” Her mind was racing now.

  “But how?”

  “I read the description of the house. Plaster walls. Those contain gypsum, a fire retardant. So the fire probably worked its way up through the walls, which mostly likely were hollow and pretty oxygen deprived except for those small holes we found. So it would most likely have smoldered for a long time. The gases had to reach the attic, at which point they went into flashover and from there it was fast. God knows what was in that attic, but probably a lot for the fire to feed on. Old furnishings, old letters and boxes? And plenty of oxygen once it got there. Attic vents. The mix would have been explosive. It could have found its way down through the ceilings through light fixtures. Heck, the burning on the ceilings they saw could have been paint or wall paper responding to the excessive heat above, not the plaster. The roof would have gone up like tinder. The attic floorboards, too. After that, the rest was inevitable and fast.”

  He cussed quietly and nodded. “I can see it. The arsonist might have even thought it wasn’t working if it was slow enough. Which brings us to the barn. The house wasn’t burning, so light the barn, which would have been easy enough.”

  “Too easy.”

  “But a big fire.” His nod became more emphatic. “I hate to say it, but this is starting to make sense.”

  “Or the arsonist may have thought all those plaster walls and ceilings would stymie the fire. How many times did they tell us that, Wayne? How many walls and ceilings have you had to axe open to make sure fire wasn’t brewing behind them?”

  “Plenty,” he said heavily.

  “So maybe a slow fire was expected. A controlled one. The barn was lit when nothing seemed to be happening and boom, it all happens practically at once. If I were the arsonist, I’d be scared crazy about what I did. Because it wasn’t what I intended at all.”

  He sat quietly for a minute. “So an arsonist who had a cool idea, but it played out differently from what he expected. Maybe he practiced, maybe he didn’t, but he sure didn’t expect the buildup of gases in the attic to cause a flashover. Maybe figured the accelerants he pumped in might not even get there in a large enough quantity to cause that kind of result, or that the attic vents would let enough of it escape. Maybe even figured smoke alarms would warn the family before it got out of hand. Then...nothing happened. So he spread a little accelerant in the barn as his consolation prize and...”

  “And,” she agreed. “Here we are.”

  He turned sideways on the couch, looking at her. “Line shacks aren’t very sound structures, and few have been weatherized. No need. They’re basically a place to get out of the wind and rain, and use a camp stove to cook. To know what would happen in a house, you’d need a house to practice on, which I should have heard about if it were anywhere nearby. So an attic flashover could have been unexpected.”

  “And a fire smoldering for lack of oxygen even less so. I mean, even if you found an abandoned house or shack to practice on, it wouldn’t be the same as a lived-in, cared-for house.”

  “Not nearly as weatherproof,” he agreed.

  She thought a light had come into his gray eyes, a flicker of excitement, as if he knew they were on the trail. It still wasn’t much of a trail, but it might explain some of the perplexities of this situation. It made sense of the Buell fire, which until now had seemed utterly senseless.

  “So now,” Wayne continued, “you’ve created a catastrophe so big that even a fire department response couldn’t save a thing. Seems like you’d want to lie low for a long time.”

  “Until an arson investigator for the insurance company shows up,” she mused. “Do you know how many of us deal with most of this over the phone, and with the records sent to us? A lot of companies don’t even send an investigator to the scene unless one is nearby. We rely on you guys and law enforcement, and spend a lot of time trying not to step on your toes so we don’t shut down the information flow. But we depend on you. We don’t have the authority to do what an official investigator can do.”

  “I made that clear at the firehouse. I’m sure word got around, since everyone’s talking about the Buell fire.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe the arsonist didn’t believe it. Or maybe my suiting up at that fire with you changed a perception. Or someone’s after me for another reason. Take your pick.”

  “Or you hanging out in the break room afterward,” he reminded her.

  “There is that. But how to tie it all together in a useful way?”

  “That’s the question,” he agreed. His phone buzzed and he lifted it off the table to answer. “Hi, Lindy. How’s it going?”

  Not wanting to eavesdrop, she headed for the bathroom. Some freshening was in order, and a splash of cold water on her face felt like heaven. When she no longer heard the faint sounds of Wayne’s voice, she returned to the living room. He stood facing the window, even though the drapes were closed.

  “Something wrong?” she asked immediately.

  He turned with an odd smile on his face. “I think I just got lectured by my daughter.”

  “Really?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, really. She called to tell me she’s going to stay with Mo tomorrow night—that’s another one of her girlfriends—so she’d stop by tomorrow afternoon just long enough to pick up clean clothes. Then I teased her by asking if she was sure she wasn’t going to stay with Jeremy Dalton.”

  “Wait. Jeremy is Gage’s son?”

  “One of them.”

  “Wow.” She absorbed the tight knitting of this town once again. “And?”

  “She told me she remembered every single word I ever told her about puppy love, and how people who are seventeen still haven’t found themselves and really don’t know who they want to spend the rest of their lives with, and, oh, by the way, unless I’d forgotten, she had a prime example of that mistake in her own life.”

  “Ouch.” Charity actually winced.

  “Well, I have lectured her on that. Wonder why.” He shook his head a little, looking rueful. “She’s right, of course. I just didn’t know if she really heard me. I guess she did.”

  “I guess so.” Charity smiled and stretched a bit. She enjoyed the way his gaze trailed appreciatively over her, but resisted the urge to stretch again. No more teasing.

  “She’s glad you’re here under the circumstances because nobody would stay at the La-Z-Rest if there was another choice.”

  Charity laughed. “She’s something else.”

  “It didn’t end there. She told me she wouldn’t
look into the bedrooms to see where we’d slept.”

  Charity felt her cheeks heat again. “She didn’t!”

  “She did.” He looked as if he was trying awfully hard not to laugh. “So of course I scolded her. Which earned me one of those huffs of impatience teen girls are so good at, and she wanted to know if I thought she was born yesterday.”

  Charity sank onto the edge of the couch and put her face in her hands. She had the worst urge to laugh, too, although she didn’t know if it was from near hysteria.

  “I know,” he said. “The odd thing is, it feels as though she was born yesterday. Clearly not.”

  “Clearly,” Charity said, her voice muffled.

  “Cheer up, you’re leaving soon.”

  At that her head snapped up. “Meaning?”

  His smile faded. “I don’t want you to go. But you have to. And the sooner the better. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “We’ve beaten this horse already. Let’s not kill it. I’m not going anywhere. I might be your only link to this arsonist.”

  She stared at her laptop. Did he really just want to get rid of her? Or was he truly concerned about her safety? If she had any sense, she’d be concerned, but right now she wasn’t feeling sensible. She wished she could read his mind. “Back to the fire,” she said in a businesslike voice. “What if those holes we found weren’t used to introduce accelerant?

  “We won’t know until the lab results come back. What are you thinking?”

  “Not sure, except that eight holes seems like an awful lot, and there might have been more we didn’t find. I’m having trouble imagining someone having the time or interest to pump in a whole bunch of accelerant through holes that size.”

  “But we know the accelerant had to be there.”

  “Yup. Circles again.” She tapped on her keys, bringing up the assessor’s records. “Okay, this house was built in 1922. Back in those days, if they included any insulation, they used newspapers.”

  “Stacked newspapers don’t burn well.”

  She nodded, but raised her gaze to him. “But who can speak of newspapers a century old? Very brittle, very dry, and while they might have done some sagging initially, some would still be hung up throughout the walls.”

  “We don’t know what was in there.”

  “No,” she admitted. She tapped some more and brought up the description of the siding job that had been done only a couple of months ago. “Says here that the old siding was ripped off and the new siding applied to plywood already in place. That’s no help. Plywood began to be used in construction in the US all the way back in 1865. Chances are, nobody has seen what was inside those walls since the place was built. Plywood, studs, lath then plaster. All of it combustible except the plaster.”

  “And electrical wiring was added later. I remember seeing it when I was out there once.”

  She nodded. “That answers my next question. I was wondering why, if there was a slow smoldering fire, they wouldn’t have had electrical problems to warn them.”

  “They wouldn’t have had any. Conduits ran through the house at the corners of the ceiling as I recall. More conduits to bring plugs down to a useful level. In some places the conduit had just been papered over.”

  She laughed a little. “I’ve seen that. I guess nobody was going to move electrical wiring just to get the wallpaper under it. For a long time it was that way in a lot of places, I guess. Nobody wanted to tear out walls to wire, nobody wanted to move wires. So were you out there to inspect?”

  He nodded. “Sometimes we get asked to do it when people change insurers. Other times we do it simply because the owner asks. As near as I could tell, the Buell place met code sufficiently because of the conduit. No exposed wires.”

  She sighed. “This gets us nowhere.”

  He stirred, taking a few steps around the room. “Okay, that’s it for tonight. I’m getting brain fried, which is never a useful place to be.” He faced her. “You’ve had a long day. Time to hit the hay, especially if I’m going to make it out to the Buell place ahead of the bulldozer in the morning for one last check.”

  She nodded agreement, even as her heart began to skitter. Was he going to make a pass? If he didn’t, could she stand it? If he did, how would she answer?

  Sick of her own maunderings, she closed the laptop and picked it up. “I need to plug this in.”

  “Plenty of sockets. Help yourself. Anyway, go change into your sleeping togs, then we’ll say good-night.”

  That struck her as a slightly odd way of ending this. Why not just say good-night here?

  But she was feeling frayed and worn-out, and trying to sort out something so insignificant seemed like a waste of the few brain cells she had left.

  She went to the guest room, dug out her charger and plugged in the laptop. She changed into her T-shirt and yoga pants she slept in and put ballet slippers on her feet.

  Then off to the bathroom for a washup and teeth brushing.

  When she emerged, she found Wayne a few feet away, wearing a navy blue fleece jogging suit. He stared at her for several moments, moments that seemed to stretch almost endlessly. Her body awoke despite her fogged brain, responding to an ancient call.

  Then he astonished her by reaching for her hand and leading her farther down the hall.

  An instinctive protest escaped her lips. “I told you I can’t make promises.”

  “I don’t remember asking for any.”

  “But...I hurt people!”

  “Been hurt before, and you’re jumping your fences.” His room was dimly lit, a golden glow from a bedside lamp. All the interior decoration in this house was elsewhere. This room looked like a monk’s cell except for the large bed. Basic, colorless, a place to sleep and nothing more. That tugged at her somehow, as she imagined the ex removing everything and him not bothering to replace anything but bare essentials. And Linda had decorated everywhere else, according to what Wayne had told her. Apparently he’d never given her rein in here.

  Before she could think of any sensible protest to utter, he pulled down the comforter and sheet. She considered backing out of here now, but before she could unfreeze her leg muscles, he swept her off her feet and laid her on the bed. Once he’d tugged the covers over her, he lay behind her on top of them, and drew her close into his embrace.

  “Just sleep,” he said. “I don’t want you to be alone if today hits you again.”

  The light remained on, as if to comfort her and guide her. His warm, hard strength pressed to her back felt like a bulwark. Astonishment woke her fully. He couldn’t really mean to hold her chastely all night just in case she needed someone.

  But soon she heard his breathing deepen and become regular as sleep overcame him. He did mean it. One lone tear rolled down her cheek as her heart squeezed with understanding. This man’s capacity for caring exceeded any she had ever known. All he wanted was to ensure she wouldn’t wake alone in a strange place, afraid and without anyone.

  Bighearted didn’t begin to cover it.

  Slowly, she, too, relaxed, safe in the protection of his arms, and sleep led her into the quiet places.

  * * *

  Charity awoke suddenly. It was still dark outside, the inky night held at bay only by the dim glow of the bedside lamp. While she’d slept she had become tangled in both covers and Wayne. He now lay on his back, she half across his chest with her blanket-wrapped leg tucked between his.

  His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn’t snore. His heartbeat was a slow thud beneath her ear. A day’s beard growth shadowed his chin and jaw.

  Comforting. Amazingly comforting. Intimate without being too much so.

  She snuggled a little closer and his arm tightened around her shoulders, welcoming her, but he didn�
�t wake. She wondered what time it was but couldn’t even guess. The time zone change, compounded by the latitude change, gave her no clues by which to judge. Her internal clock had been slightly off-kilter since she arrived.

  As near as she could tell, the sun rose here a half hour earlier than Atlanta at this time of year by the local clock, but then there was the difference between Eastern and Mountain Time, two hours. Her head whirled with calculations she wasn’t awake enough to do, and she gave up.

  What did it matter anyway? The fact that she had awakened probably meant it was close to her usual waking time at home. Which would make it about 4:00 a.m. local time. Good enough.

  She realized she was trying to ground herself in some way, not that it would do any good. She’d spent her whole life trying to ground herself in a world that kept changing. Jet lag, followed by new time zones, days of different lengths, different climates, new faces, new sights, new rules, new problems. Often even new languages. One teddy bear she refused to part with even though it was excess baggage, a favorite T-shirt she outgrew too rapidly. Until she finally felt she couldn’t land at all. The sun would rise and the sun would set, and with each move that would vary, altering even the lengths of her days as horizons and latitudes changed.

  Alaska had scared her a bit, with a sun that almost never set in the summer and almost never rose in the winter. After that, Norway had seemed almost familiar, although everything else had changed. Sometimes living in a walled compound and never seeing what was beyond the gates, locked in with a bunch of other misfits like herself, who didn’t even band together because what was the point when they’d be leaving soon?

  Sometimes having a bodyguard, because executives from big companies and their families were targets for kidnapping. One year they stayed with her aunt Maria because it was too dangerous to go with Dad, and then Aunt Maria had gotten sick and everything had been turned on end again.