Wild Fyre

by Ike Hamill

  She walked out and slammed the door behind her.

  Dale didn’t envy her anymore. In ten seconds, his whole notion of Caroline had shifted.

  Spence sat down on the edge of his desk.

  “You’re a good guy, Dale,” Spencer said. “I’m glad I got the chance to work with you. Maybe under different circumstances…”

  Dale stood up.

  “Final paychecks are going to take some time,” Spencer said. “Do you have any direct reports?”

  “Just one,” Dale said. He had been authorized to hire a department of four, but he had only needed one so far. He was glad he had kept it small.

  “Tell them they’ll get four weeks pay, but it’s going to take some time. We’ll mail out the final checks. We want to clear out of the building by the end of the day,” Spencer said.

  “Good luck,” Dale said. He held out his hand. Spencer looked up and shook Dale’s hand briefly.

  Dale returned to his own desk for just long enough to pack his family photos and write a recommendation for his one employee. After he delivered the bad news, he drove straight home. The kids didn’t need to be picked up until later. Dale wanted to wallow. He wanted to drink. He picked up the phone to call Helen. It rang in his hand.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “Dale?”

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Hi, Dale, this is Ed Statler at Statler Staffing. I just heard. I’m so sorry about the company,” Ed said.

  “Oh,” Dale said. “It’s okay.”

  “I feel terrible about recommending that place to you. I really thought Spencer had his house in order. I don’t take this kind of thing lightly. You have to let me make it up to you.”

  “I’m sorry?” Dale asked.

  “I’m working to find you another job—no commission. We’ll get a nice soft landing for you if you’re up to it. Do you want some time, or do you want to jump back in?”

  “Look, Ed, this isn’t your fault. I really liked working in that place, and it lasted a few months. You’re off the hook,” Dale said.

  “You can tell me to back off if I’m being too pushy, but I really do feel bad. Let me give you some time to adjust, and when you make sense of everything just give me a call. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Thanks, Ed,” Dale said. “Take care.” He hung up the phone and called his wife. Helen didn’t say much. She asked Dale not to tell the kids—she didn’t want them to feel the instability of his career. Dale felt worse having talked to Helen.

  By that night, as he was sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to resolve himself to lying down, depression reached it’s hungry tentacles around the back of his brain.

  “Maybe I’ll spend the day with the kids tomorrow,” he said. Dale tried to imagine their smiling faces, swinging side by side at the park.

  “Don’t do that,” Helen said. She was propped up against a pillow, reading a book with her glasses on the end of her nose.

  “Why not?” Dale asked. He twisted around to look at her.

  “Because I don’t want to interrupt their routine. They’ve just gotten into a rhythm of going to daycare and coming home. What if you get another job in two weeks? Are you going to pull them in and out of daycare?”

  “Kids are adaptable,” he said. “We’ll have fun.”

  “Kids are adaptable when they have to be,” she said. “That doesn’t mean they like it, or that it’s good for them. Look, we have to pay either way. Why don’t you use the time to work on your résumé?”

  “I just did it three months ago. Besides, that headhunter already called. He said he would get me another job if I wanted it.”

  “Great—do that. Just take time off until you get another job, but don’t disrupt the kids. I can make you a list of things I’d like done around here if you’re looking for something to do.”

  “Like what?” Dale asked. He straightened and turned to face Helen.

  “Calm down, it’s nothing big.”

  “I’ll call Ed,” Dale said.

  “Who?”

  “The headhunter,” he said.

  “Oh. Good.”

  Dale slipped between the sheets and turned his back to his wife’s reading light.

  He woke up at three and got out of bed. He had already started the coffee brewing before he realized that he had nothing to do for another five hours. He unplugged the coffee maker and went back to sleep on the couch. He got up again at seven and cooked breakfast for the kids. After dropping them off at daycare, he called Ed.

  “Hi, Dale,” Ed answered the phone.

  “Oh. Hi,” Dale said. He had expected to introduce himself.

  “What do you think—are you ready for the next challenge, or do you want some time?”

  “I’m ready,” Dale said. “Maybe something a little less risky this time?”

  “Just what I was thinking,” Ed said. “I’ve been poking around all night. I’ve got a big company in Maryland—short commute—and they need an employee portal for a bunch of big services.”

  “I’ve never done anything like that,” Dale said.

  “I know, but you’d be brilliant at it, trust me,” Ed said. “If you want something more familiar, I’ve got a company that does custom sites for small businesses. They’re like a web concierge. You need to sell earrings and they stand up an earring site by the end of the week. They’ve got existing tech, but they want to upgrade and automate everything—make it drag and drop, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Dale said. He took a deep breath and tried to exhale away from the phone. He didn’t want Ed to hear the butterflies in his stomach.

  “Look, Dale, I know you just got burned. That’s why neither of these are long-term commitments. The portal job is transitional. Maximum time would be six months. The other thing is a slightly longer project, but it’s up to you if you want to stay when it’s done. You can treat either one of them like a contract if you want,” Ed said.

  “That sounds easier, actually,” Dale said.

  “Good. Which would you like to pursue?”

  “How about both?” Dale asked.

  “Both what?”

  “How about I do both jobs?”

  “I’m not sure how that would work logistically. Don’t you have a family?”

  “I’ll worry about that,” Dale said. “Just make sure that these companies are results-oriented. I’m not going to go sit in an office for eight hours a day just because they want to see a warm body filling the chair. I’ll get the work done, but I’ll do it how and when I choose.”

  “Let me check on that,” Ed said. “I think we should be able to swing something with your track record.”

  “One more thing, Ed,” Dale said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Eventually, I’m going to want to work on something important. I’m going to do something I care about.”

  Dale disconnected. Years later, when Dale found that job, he never told Ed about it.

  CH.11.Investigation ()

  {

  Stronghold();

  /*****

  AUGUST, 2013 (3 WEEKS A.J.)

  Ploss was leaning against the trunk of his car. He pulled his foot up and propped it on the bumper.

  “Where is this guy?” Aster asked.

  Ploss looked at his watch. It was almost one fifteen. “I don’t know. They said noon.”

  Aster crossed his arms. Ploss had only seen Aster in the formal dress of a detective. He looked ridiculous in his t-shirt and jeans.

  “Maybe we should just go over there without him,” Aster said.

  “You want a sweatshirt or jacket or something? I probably have something in the trunk,” Ploss said.

  Aster nodded. Ploss fished the keys out of his pocket.

  “I thought it was supposed to be hot down here,” Aster said. “What’s your guy’s name?”

  “They said it was Leslie,” Ploss said. He turned the key and popped the trunk. From his getaway bag, he pulled a hooded sweatshirt and handed it
to his partner. It was a little too small for Aster, fitting his torso snugly and revealing a little too much wrist. It made Aster look even more ridiculous.

  “That’s a guy’s name?”

  “It can be.”

  Ploss closed the trunk and leaned back again. The day was overcast, chilly, and damp. Despite the fresh puddles around, they had felt no rain, just a steady cool breeze from the west. Aster walked slowly across the parking lot towards the road. they had parked between the motel and bar. Since noon, patrons had been trickling into the bar. The motel seemed quiet.

  A yellow Datsun pickup turned in and headed for the bar. Aster strolled back towards Ploss.

  “My grandfather used to drive a pickup just like that,” Aster said. He nodded towards the Datsun. “He died in eighty-four. I wonder how that lady got fifty years of rust on a thirty-year-old truck.”

  The lady he referred to was clearly younger than the truck. She pushed open the squeaking door and stepped out, mashing her boots into the strewn cigarette butts on the asphalt. She didn’t go into the bar—she approached the two men slowly, with her head tilted.

  “You should be younger,” she said.

  “Pardon?” Ploss asked.

  “Two cops drive down unsanctioned from Virginia? You guys are too old to be trying to prove yourselves like that,” she said.

  “We’re just curious,” Aster said.

  “You must be,” she said.

  “I’m Ploss. Thank you for meeting us.”

  “No problem—glad to help. I assume I can call you if I ever need any contacts up your way?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Ploss said.

  “And I’ll make sure that we don’t have any official visitors, but if someone calls us in, then we have to go.”

  “Understood,” Aster said. “Let’s get going.”

  Leslie nodded and led the way. The two men walked behind her and on either side. They paused at the edge of the highway and then strode across when it was clear. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the two-lane road, but it ran fast. Leslie didn’t head for the paved entrance of the industrial park. She walked up over the landscaped hill. Aster and Ploss followed.

  They were looking at two long rows of buildings. Between the rows they found enough room for a big truck to pull in and back up to the loading bays. Parking for the workers was on the other side of the buildings. The detectives were looking at the commerce side—where stuff was loaded and unloaded.

  “Where’s suite fourteen?” Ploss asked.

  “Last one down on the right,” Leslie said.

  “Let’s start here,” Aster said. He approached the first building—suite two—and climbed the short staircase. There was a regular door next to the big garage door. He knocked. After a second, he put his ear to the door and tried to twist the handle. He shook his head.

  “Maybe we should go around front?” Ploss asked.

  “I doubt you’ll find anyone on a weekend,” Leslie said.

  Aster walked down to the next door and knocked. Ploss stood back with Leslie, watching from a distance. Aster knocked on the fourth and fifth. He climbed the stairs to suite eight.

  Ploss whistled a quick, sharp burst.

  Aster looked up and then followed Ploss’s pointed finger. The man didn’t see them. He set down a brown bag and commenced locking the door of suite ten. Aster walked towards him casually. Ploss ducked between the buildings before he broke into a run.

  The man was tall and older. His jaw was moving like he was chewing a mouthful of food. As Aster approached, the man turn his head, spit, and coughed.

  “Excuse me,” Aster said.

  The man whipped around. He wiped brown spit from the corner of his mouth and rose to his full height as Aster walked up.

  “Yes?” the old man asked. His eyes darted around—to the door, out to the street, down to the brown bag at his feet.

  “Hi,” Aster said, pulling his badge from his pocket, “I’m detective Aster. I’m wondering if you could answer a couple of questions for me?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the man said. He bent down. His hair was very thin on top of his head and his teeth were brown-stained nightmares. The man’s long fingers stretched down as he reached for his bag.

  Aster kept an officially polite smile glued to his face. “It will just take a second, sir.”

  “Oh, all right then,” the man said. He picked up his bag and it shifted in his grip. The bag tipped to the side and Aster reached forward to steady it. The man’s hand darted inside and came back out with amazing speed. Aster closed his eyes just in time.

  The old man misted him with pepper spray from a little pink cannister.

  Aster’s arm went up and he breathed through the sleeve of the borrowed sweatshirt as he turned his head to the side. He backed out of the cloud with his eyes still closed.

  “GET DOWN, ASSHOLE,” Ploss yelled from the other end of the loading dock.

  “Here,” a gentle voice said close to Aster. Leslie pressed a folded wet-wipe into his hand.

  “Thanks,” Aster said.

  “PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK,” Ploss yelled.

  Aster wiped his face carefully before opening his eyes.

  “He didn’t get you bad,” Leslie said.

  “I know,” Aster said.

  Ploss was putting handcuffs on the old man. He helped him up and then sat him down on the steps. Ploss put his gun back in his concealed holster.

  “You have no right to hold me,” the old man said.

  “What’s your name?” Ploss said. He produced a little notebook from his pocket.

  “I refuse to tell you anything. I’ve done nothing to warrant this harassment.”

  “You just assaulted an officer after he identified himself,” Ploss said. “Now what’s your name.”

  “Arthur,” he said. He pursed his lips and looked, for a second, like a very sad child.

  “Arthur what?”

  “Russell. Two S’s and two L’s.”

  “What are you doing here?” Ploss asked.

  Aster approached, holding the brown paper bag. He set it down next to Arthur and pulled the items out.

  “I work here,” Arthur said. “These things hurt my arms.”

  Aster looked him over. He revised his initial assessment. The man wasn’t as old as he had first appeared. He was maybe in his fifties. He wasn’t as bald as he looked, either. The top of his head was shaved and his roots were coming in darker than the white hair he still had on the sides.

  “You’ll be okay,” Ploss said. “Where’s your ID?”

  “I don’t have any,” Arthur said.

  Ploss reached into Arthur’s back pocket. Arthur leaned back, trying to block his access, but Ploss pulled out a wallet. He flipped through it.

  “You can’t search me. It’s illegal,” Arthur said.

  “Probable cause,” Ploss said. “It says here that your name is Bertrand Russell Arthur Williams. I thought you said Arthur Russell.”

  “Those are two of my names. Do you always give all your names to everyone? I think not.”

  “No cash, and no credit cards? How’d you buy the pepper spray, Bertrand?” Ploss asked.

  “Store credit,” Bert said.

  “Where were you going with this stuff, Bert?” Aster asked.

  “What’s he got in there?” Ploss asked.

  “Candy, coffee, razors,” Aster said, lining up the items on the concrete next to where Bert sat.

  “I wasn’t going anywhere,” Bertrand said. “I was simply carrying a bag with my own possessions. What’s wrong with that?”

  “He was going to trade them,” Leslie said.

  “Nonsense,” Bert said.

  “What do you mean?” Aster asked.

  “You get those government assistance cards and you can only buy certain staples. People buy those and trade them for cigarettes and booze,” Leslie said. “A lot of it goes on at that bar across the street.”

  “You don’t look destitute,
Bert,” Ploss said. “Why would you have to trade for tobacco?”

  “And he asked the delivery guy for…” Aster said.

  “Pipe tobacco,” Ploss said, finishing Aster’s thought. “What are you working on in this building, Bert?”

  “We manufacture appliances.”

  “Who is we?”

  “What does that mean?” Bert asked.

  “Give me his keys,” Aster said.

  Ploss reached for Bert’s front pocket. Bert thrust his head forward at Ploss.

  “No biting, Bert,” Ploss said. He held back Bert’s head with one hand while he used to other to find the keys. He handed them to Aster.

  “I’ll be back,” Aster said.

  There was only one key on the ring. The fob was from a local locksmith. Aster turned the knob and opened the door to dark room. He felt around for the switch and flipped it on. Lights ticked on high overhead. There wasn’t much to see at this end of the room. All the action was at the far end. Aster walked slowly, taking it all in.

  Behind interior windows, a set of offices lined the right side of the shop. A little propane-powered fork truck was pulled up to the door marked as the men’s room. Aster veered towards it.

  “He’s living in here,” Leslie said. Aster spun around, startled. He didn’t realize she had followed him in. She was looking through one of the windows into an office. Aster walked over.

  The desk was pushed against a wall and a small cot was set up opposite. Boxes were stacked next to the cot, functioning as furniture.

  “Look at the trash,” Leslie said.

  Aster looked. He figured out what she meant. In the can next to the desk, the trash was all wrappers from processed food.

  “I think he’s living off things he can get shipped here,” she said. “Nearest grocery store is a few miles away.”

  “He doesn’t have any money anyway,” Aster said. “The delivery guy said he was dropping stuff off here almost every day. I wonder what he’s been making.”

  Aster walked towards the end of the shop where the tables were set up. Whatever it was, the operation was orderly and clean. He saw metal racks at one end, stacked with boxes. Radiating out from the racks were lines of tables, bolted together to form thirty-foot-long counters.