by Andrew Grant
Alexandra delayed until she heard the first chord being played on the organ inside the simple, single-story building, then left the shade of her favorite oak tree and called for Nicole to follow her inside. But when she reached the door there was no sign of her daughter. She looked around, momentarily panicked, and saw Nicole racing around between the spherical bushes at the side of the driveway, a frenetic blur against the green of the leaves and the reds, blues, and silvers of the shiny cars in the church’s small lot. Suddenly furious, Alexandra called again, louder, and as soon as Nicole was within reach she grabbed her daughter’s wrist and dragged her inside.
Alexandra made for the rearmost pew, anxious to avoid drawing attention to herself, and the moment she settled in the seat she felt her flash of anger turn to guilt. Nicole hadn’t done anything wrong. All kids like to run around in the fresh air, making up games. Alexandra certainly had, when she was Nicole’s age. And who can blame a child for exercising her imagination? Nicole wasn’t to blame for the change in their circumstances. Alexandra reached across and stroked Nicole’s hair. She was blessed to have a daughter with such a divine temperament, she told herself, as she watched the little girl sitting demurely with her two little dolls next to her, arranged so they were holding hands.
Nicole waited for her mother’s attention to be drawn to the hypnotic rhythm of the pastor’s soothing words, then moved her dolls onto her lap. She took hold of the little girl doll’s hand, pulled, and smiled as the slender wire that ran up the mother doll’s sleeve tightened around its neck…
Chapter Twelve
Sunday. Morning.
Screw Ockham, Devereaux thought, whoever he was. Here was a much better rule: Think snake, grab stick. Start beating the undergrowth. Leave the horses and zebras for someone else to worry about.
Devereaux stopped at his desk on the third floor for just long enough to get the ball rolling on the canvassing that Lieutenant Hale had asked for, then he hurried outside to his car. He felt a touch of regret as he fired up the engine and headed west on First Avenue instead of east, thinking about Alexandra walking into the church without him. But the closer he came to the Jones Valley campus, the more his curiosity took over. He pictured his old school being consumed by flames, and all the misery of his childhood being burned away along with the buildings he’d been so bored in. Then his imagination kicked up a gear, and visions of smoldering, desolated European cities filled his mind, flooding back to him from the WWII movies he and his father had loved to watch together when he was a kid. Even from a mile away he could feel his adrenaline level rising as he anticipated the untamed, elemental violence of a fire in its full fury. But the images in his head still left him completely unprepared for what he saw when he turned onto Dowell Avenue from 31st Street and approached the school’s main entrance. It was as if the blaze had sucked all life out of the structure, leaving just a hulking, extinct carcass. It was dull. Inert. And above all, dirty.
The redbrick walls above the row of jagged, broken windows in the school’s central block were stained black from the smoke. Sections of chain-link fence had been knocked down, and sagging swathes of police tape had been strung across the gaps. The grass banks and verges had been torn up by the fire trucks’ enormous tires. A handful of the saplings that had recently been planted around the edge of the parking lot had been uprooted. The parking lot itself was caked in dried mud caused by the torrents of water used to defeat the flames. And the whole place stank as if that water had been taken directly from a sewage plant.
There were cars parked on both sides of Dowell Avenue and 30th Street. The vacant lot opposite the side of Powderly Baptist Church was also full of vehicles, and that gave Devereaux an idea. An extra few minutes couldn’t make things much worse with Alexandra at this point, so he pulled his Charger onto the sidewalk at the bottom of the church steps—hoping it was as big a giveaway as Nelson had suggested—grabbed a BPD windbreaker from the trunk, and waited for the congregation to come out.
“Pardon me, miss?” Devereaux tried to hand a business card to the first worshipper to make her way down the steps, five minutes later. “Is there anything you can tell me about the fire that happened across the street yesterday?”
The woman shook her head and hurried away.
“Sir, do you live in the neighborhood?” Devereaux offered a card to an old man who walked with a cane. “Did you see anything suspicious going on at the school?”
Soon too many people were swarming past Devereaux for him to address them all individually, but still no one stopped to speak to him. Devereaux wasn’t disheartened by that. He wasn’t expecting to be given any information. He just wanted the chance to take a good look at the stream of parishioners. To see how they reacted when they spotted him. To pick up on anyone who seemed too keen to avoid him. Or who paid him too much attention, like one guy he soon had his eye on. A man who’d managed to recirculate through the crowd three times, and was now standing in the exact same spot at the top of the steps, between the right-hand pair of rectangular pillars, as the guy Nelson had photographed.
“Come on.” Devereaux gestured to the guy. “Come down here. Let’s talk. Maybe we can help each other out.”
The guy didn’t reply. He stood stock still for a moment and a pink rash began to spread up from his neck and across his face. Then he started down the steps, trying to dodge to Devereaux’s right and break away down Dowell Avenue.
“You looking to get shot?” Devereaux had anticipated the guy’s move and caught up to him in three strides, grabbing him by the collar. “Knock it off. I only want to talk to you. Let’s start with your name.”
“Cooper?” The guy twisted around to face Devereaux, and looked like he was ready to burst into tears. “Cooper Devereaux? You don’t remember me?”
—
Devereaux bundled the guy into the Charger’s passenger seat and drove down Dowell Avenue until he reached a spot where he could park well clear of any other cars.
“Of course I remember you, now.” Devereaux killed the engine and turned his head. “You’re Swedish Dave. But give me a break. I haven’t seen you since tenth grade. That’s a lot of years. Your face has changed a little bit. I expect mine has, too.”
“No.” The guy shook his head. “I’m not Swedish Dave. I’m just Dave. Dave Bateman. I made the Swedish part up to try and sound more interesting when I was a kid. No one calls me that anymore.”
“Dave Bateman, that’s right.” Devereaux tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He’d come in search of a snake, but all he’d found was a bunny rabbit. He should have spent his time waiting for Alexandra outside her church, instead. “That’s what I meant. So what are you doing with yourself these days, Dave?”
“Not much.” Bateman seemed to shrink into his seat. “I’m working retail right now.”
“But you were planning to be an actor, right? Or a singer?”
“I was going to be the next David Bowie. Only it didn’t quite work out. I’ve been selling Hi-Fi, mostly, since I quit school. When I’ve been in work.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. It keeps the wolf from the door, right?”
Bateman shrugged.
“Do you live around here, Dave?”
“No.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Going to church.”
“Do you come every week?”
Bateman nodded.
“Did you go yesterday?”
“Yesterday was Saturday.”
“I know. But did you go to the church yesterday? Say around 2:20 pm?”
“Why would I do that? Services are on Sundays.”
“Dave, I have a picture of you. Standing at the top of the steps, where you were just now. Wearing a hoodie. A passing motorist took it. Don’t make me pull out my phone and show you. Just confirm you were here, tell me what you saw, and we can both go home.”
“OK.”
“So you were here?”
“All right. Y
es. I was.”
“You were watching the fire.”
“I guess.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“Nothing much.”
“But you did see it?”
Bateman nodded.
“You could see the smoke?”
Bateman nodded again.
“What color was it?”
“Black.”
“Was it thick? Or thin?”
“Thick. Real thick.”
“And the flames? I heard they were a hundred feet tall.”
“No way. More like twenty. Thirty at the most.”
“OK. Good. But I want you to think carefully now, Dave. Did you see anyone else? Watching the fire? Running away? Driving away?”
“Not really. I mean, a few cars went by. People probably saw the fire from their houses. I guess someone called 911, because the fire trucks came pretty soon. That’s when I left.”
“Why didn’t you call 911, Dave?”
Bateman shrugged.
“Seriously, Dave, why didn’t you call? Most people see a fire in a school, they call 911. Why didn’t you do that?”
“I didn’t want the fire trucks to come so fast, I guess.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Give me a minute.”
“Come on, Dave. It’s a simple question. Give me a sensible answer and we can both get out of here.”
“Just give me a minute!” Bateman’s voice had dropped a couple of octaves, turning into a kind of bass growl, and he started to rock jerkily back and forward in his seat. “I told you. I need to think.”
“OK, Dave.” Devereaux eased to the side, making sure there was nothing between his elbow and the side of Bateman’s head, just in case. “Take your time. No one’s rushing you.”
Bateman’s movements gradually became less frenzied, and after another minute he turned his head and stared out of the side window.
“All right.” Bateman turned to Devereaux a few seconds later, his voice back to its usual pitch and a look of childish excitement on his face. “I’m ready. You might want to write this down. Because I’m confessing. The reason I didn’t call 911? That’s easy. It’s obvious. It was me who set the school on fire. I did it. At last.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday. Late morning.
Diane McKinzie read the text message for a second time, then pushed her bedroom door closed and leaned against it.
This is good news, she told herself. This is good news!
Except that somehow she was going to have to break the consequences of it to Daniel.
This is not good news…
—
Daniel slammed his bedroom door so hard that the nameplate—Professor Daniel McKinzie, Department of Theoretical Physics—broke free from its mounting and slammed into the wooden floor, adding another deep dent to the scored and scratched surface.
“Daniel!” Diane bent down to retrieve the enameled metal square. “Your grandfather had that made specially for you! Now you’ve bent the corner again. If you do that one more time, I’m taking it away. I’m serious!”
There was no response from inside the room.
“Daniel, come on.” Diane tried in vain to keep the wheedling tone she hated so much from entering her voice. “Come out. Please. Let me explain. You know I don’t like talking to you through the door.”
Diane heard a familiar ting sound from behind her so she hurried back to her room to check her phone. Part of her hoped it would be her contact at the police department again, saying the previous tip-off was wrong. That there hadn’t been an arrest in the school arson case, after all. But that was crazy! Think of the scoop she could get. That’s what journalists live for! Or should live for. But she wasn’t just a journalist anymore. She had other responsibilities now. Had done for a long while. Not that anyone noticed. Or cared. She had too many balls to keep in the air to stay sane, unless—maybe no other reporters would find out about the arrest until tomorrow? Then she could ignore the last message. Or pretend she hadn’t seen it. Her editor would never know. Or would she? Because turning her back on an opportunity like this—it would be career suicide. And in the current environment? No. She couldn’t risk it. She’d just have to find a way to smooth things over with Daniel. Get him to agree to reschedule their plans for the next weekend…
By the time Diane retrieved her phone she was back to hoping that the new message wasn’t from her police contact, after all. But when she checked the screen, she was momentarily confused. It was Daniel’s name that was displayed. Diane figured an old message must have been resent due to some network glitch, but she clicked on it, anyway, to be sure. And she found that she was wrong. The text was marked as unread:
I will speak to you in ten minutes. Wait for me in the living room.
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday. Late morning.
Tyler Shaw took one of the lengths of two-by-fours off the cart and replaced it in the vertical rack at the hardware store. In other circumstances he’d have taken it. As a rule he preferred to be safe rather than sorry. And he could always find a use for a good length of wood. But as things were, he couldn’t risk getting too much. He had a long way to carry it, and no one he could trust to help.
Next up was the paint section. Shaw parked the cart at the end of the aisle and walked slowly up and down each side, carefully contemplating all the available colors. Blue would be best, he decided, eventually settling on a deep shade of cobalt. It was the most powerful. Perfect for what he had in mind. And he could pair it with blue lightbulbs, for an even greater effect. He’d need to pick up a couple of packs. Unless he just painted some regular ones? No. What was he thinking? This was not a project to skimp on. He’d buy some colored ones. But not any batteries. Those, he could steal from his work. Paying for them would just be a waste. And all the other stuff, he already had.
In fact, once he was through the register, he’d have everything he needed. Everything apart from time. If he was going to get the real work under way on schedule, he’d need to get the preparations nailed down double-quick…
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday. Late morning.
Diane McKinzie’s tongue recoiled from the metallic tang of the blood but she continued to suck the tip of her finger, anyway, anxious to stem the flow before it dripped onto the pale yellow fabric of the couch.
She hadn’t realized she’d been picking at the scab again until she felt the familiar, warm stickiness reach her palm. She’d been too busy trying to figure how much later she could afford to leave and still get to the coffee shop in time to meet her source and get the scoop on the school fire arrest. She really should have left already, but if the traffic on I-65 was kind—it was Sunday, after all—and if she found somewhere to park right away, and if there wasn’t a line, and…and if Daniel didn’t keep her waiting much longer! He’d said ten minutes. That was fifteen minutes ago. She’d changed her clothes and grabbed her purse the moment she got his text. He was usually so punctual. But of course, not today! He must still be pissed about having to change their plan. And she still hadn’t figured out what to say to him about that. Maybe if she offered to—
“What have you done to the floor?” Daniel had appeared in the arch between the living room and the hallway. He leant his shoulder against the wall, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and stared at her. He was barefoot, his hair was washed and brushed, and he had on a T-shirt so new the fold lines from the packaging were still visible. It was black with a picture of three rappers wearing their signature hats and heavy gold chains, only each of their faces had been replaced with Einstein’s, and a caption at the bottom of the image read RUN EMC2. “You’re always telling me not to wear shoes in the house. You’re such a hypocrite.”
Diane looked down and saw that her heels had cut a series of zigzag-shaped scratches in the polished wooden boards as she’d fidgeted. One more thing she’d have to fix. If she could ever get the time…
> “Maybe if you wore normal shoes, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.” Daniel sneered. “Why do you have to dress like that, anyway? Maybe things would work out better if you put more effort into your writing, instead of worrying about how you look. I read your ‘article,’ by the way. The one you stayed out late for, yesterday. Was that really the best you could do? It was terrible. Making out like you know what happened at that school. How could you possibly know?”
“It’s what journalists do, Daniel.” Diane clamped her eyes shut for a moment, desperate to stop any tears from escaping. “We investigate. Talk to people who do know. Build—”
“Investigate. Right. Talk to people. Uh-huh. Come on. What were you really doing last night? Where were you?”
“I’ve explained that to you, and I’m not going over it again.” Diane moved her purse onto her lap and started to rummage through its contents, looking for a Band-Aid for her finger. “Now, I have to get going. I have work to do, and I’m already late. So let’s talk about the museum. I’m—”
“It’s not a museum!” Daniel levered himself off the wall, pulling his hands from his pockets and clenching his fists.
“OK.” Diane held up her hands. “The science center. Whatever. The point is, I will still take you. Just not today. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” Daniel rolled his eyes. “What good is that? Was Albie’s mother sorry when his Greek teacher disparaged him? Was Oppie’s mother sorry when he had problems taking the bus to school? No. Because they were real parents. They did what was needed to help their sons. How can I fulfill my destiny and become the greatest physicist of the twenty-first century when I’m lumbered with you?”