* * *
Jake examined the man sitting across from him. After a week of speaking to everyone with a bone to pick with Leroy and Jethro, he was no closer to a suspect then he’d been. So, it was back to the Slaney fire. With that in mind, he’d called Ralph Willard in for questioning, hoping to get him to reveal his source.
As much as he would like to believe In the Know’s editor had created the news by setting the fire that had killed Slaney, it was obvious he couldn’t have. Ralph Willard, a skinny, balding, sixty-year-old still had the hospital pallor that came from even a short stay. There was no way he could’ve moved a man Slaney’s size once he’d incapacitated him.
“Thanks for coming in, Ralph. I hope you’re feeling better,” Jake said, placing the cup of coffee the man had agreed to on the table before him. “As I said on the phone, I just need you to answer a few questions for me.”
“Going to be a long time before I’ll feel better,” he grunted, taking a sip of his coffee. “If it’s about my source for the fire at Nate’s cabin, forget it. I don’t know who it was and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” He stuck out his chin and scowled.
“You do realize he’s killed six people, don’t you?” he asked, holding a tight rein on his own temper.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got no proof he knew that drifter was in the cabin anymore than you know he set the fire Saturday night. This is a fishing expedition because I figured out something you, Mr. High and Mighty RCMP Profiler, didn’t.” He chuckled. “I heard the way you’re accusing the good people of this town of setting those fires. Is that why I’m here? You think I did it? The jokes on you then. You’re not as smart as you think you are. I’ve heard the way you refer to my paper—think I’m a crackpot, eh?”
Jake rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t use those words, but I do think you take a few liberties with the truth. I seriously doubt Satan set that fire and neither do most sane people.”
He wouldn’t apologize. This man’s diatribes usually did more harm than good. It was amazing he hadn’t been sued a hundred times in the past.
“You claim the fire occurred August thirty-first.”
“I don’t claim it. My source did. He mentioned the blue moon. I just did the math.”
“So, your source is a man, which confirms what I thought. Anything else he said that might be helpful?”
“I’m not saying another word.” He crossed his arms. “You’re the profiler. Do your own digging.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said.
He could read Ralph like a book. This belligerence was a defense mechanism to cover his own insecurity, maybe the fear he felt with the cancer eating away at him contributing to it. He’d seen the type before. He wouldn’t need specific answers to his questions. All he had to do was read the man’s reactions.
“Why did you say the fire was the devil’s work? We both know there’s nothing supernatural about this fire any more than those nurses were witches last summer. This is all about sensationalism, and with people dead, it’s in bad taste.”
“Says you. They could’ve been witches,” he defended himself. “Wicca’s a recognized religion. Just because they weren’t doesn’t mean others aren’t. I apologized to them for the misunderstanding.”
“This time, but one of these days, you’ll go too far, Ralph, and it’ll cost you. Now, back to my question. Why bring in the supernatural?”
“Other than the fact it sells papers? Everyone’s fascinated by it right now. Hell, half the programs on television deal with some aspect of it. This fire setter might not be a devil, but anyone who sets fires and destroys people’s property for the fun of it has to be demon-spawned. Why else crave fire?” He slammed his fist on the table. “Ed Keller was a good friend of mine. Losing those horses was a bitter blow. The ass who set that fire could’ve let the animals out, but no, he had more fun listening to them scream, smelling them as their hides burned. Takes a monster to enjoy something like that.
Jake frowned. “What makes you think that fire and the recent ones are connected?”
The elderly man rolled his eyes. “For the love of Pete, everybody thinks we’ve got a firebug on our hands. No one believes the cock and bull about lightning strikes and electrical shorts, spontaneous combustion. It’s all crap. I told them after the fire at the cabin that things would get worse, and I was right. I might’ve been in Toronto, but I know there was a full moon Saturday night, just like there was each and every other night of the fires this year. Whoever your fire starter is, he worships the moon. If he’s not a warlock—a real one this time—he’s a pagan and those fires are offerings to the devil. Now, he’s added human sacrifice to the mix. Mark my words. There’ll be another fire on the next full moon. How many will die this time is anyone’s guess. And you don’t have any idea who it is you’re looking for, do you?”
Goosebumps traveled down Jake’s spine. This sounded a lot like a prophecy or worst yet, copy from the man’s next article. The last thing he wanted was to incite panic. Ev had fielded calls every day from someone wanting to know if they’d learned anything.
“Ralph, I can’t ask you not to keep writing about this, but I’m begging you not to spread rumor and innuendo that could cause panic.”
The man sat back, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Then you do realize my newspaper serves a worthy purpose and that people read it,” he stated.
“I never said people didn’t read it. I’m just asking you to limit your predictions. Can you tell me anything about the man who witnessed the fire? I really don’t think he set it,” he said, trying another tactic. “I can’t reveal too much about the case, but I can tell you the man who started the fire knew John Slaney was inside just as he knew Leroy and Jethro were home. Your source might’ve seen something that could help us in our investigation.”
Ralph scowled. Jake could see he was digesting this new idea.
“You’re sure of that? That he knew there were people inside? There were five bodies recovered from that. My brother-in-law saw the firemen carry out three of them from the other side.”
Jake nodded. Maybe he could use this to his advantage.
“The person who set these fires doesn’t care how many people die in them. We think Slaney, Leroy, and Jethro were specific targets and the others collateral damage. Can you think of any reason why someone would want them dead?”
“I don’t know that Slaney from a hole in the ground, but I heard he was a two-bit drug dealer out to corrupt our youth. As far as Jethro and Leroy go, a lot of people in this town had it in for them. Maybe they just screwed the wrong one. Maybe I’m wrong about him and sending them to hell isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Ever think of that? He could be a hero, a vigilante cleaning up the mess no one else has the guts to do. I might even owe this guy an apology. Maybe instead of a demon I should consider him an angel, a fire angel out to save us from reprobates like those.”
“Then, if I were you, Ralph, I would be careful. A lot of people might file you under that category. You aren’t without enemies and you know it. Remember that saying? ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend?’ Well, he’s also your enemy. No one’s safe as long as that killer’s out there meting out his own version of justice.”
The editor’s face paled.
“Look, Jake, you’re right. Lord knows how much longer I’ve got, but I wouldn’t wish death by fire on anyone. The man phoned. I knew there’d been a fire, we’d all smelled the smoke that night, but the where of it was a mystery. He said the fire at Nate Simmons’s cabin happened under the blue moon and hung up. That’s it. That’s all. I checked the calendar, found the date, and wrote the story.”
“What can you tell me about the voice?” he asked.
“It was low and muffled. Kind of reminded me of Eamonn Walker, the chief on Chicago Fire, but I sincerely doubt he’s in Paradise. I’m beat. I need to get home to rest. Are we done here?”
He nodded. “I hope the treatments go well. When do they start?
”
“Next week. I just hope I’m strong enough to survive them.”
* * *
With the next full moon less than ten days away, Jake and Matt scrambled to find clues as to the Fire Angel as Jack Willard had called the arsonist.
The story had come out in the paper three days after his interview. If Ralph was trying to provoke the killer, he was certainly going about it the right way. Jake had cut the article out of the paper and added it to the material on his case wall. Ev was furious about it, but he’d been too late to stop the flow of copies. If the intent was to instill panic, then Ralph had done his job well.
As a long-time resident of Paradise, I’ve seen many people hurt by the actions of others, apparently myself included. Are we being hounded by a creature of the night, a devil come to punish us, or an angel seeking retribution in God’s name? Either way, it’s brought terror to our town, turning neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend. Is this creature responsible for all of the increased violence in our area? He’s killed six men, all on the night of the full moon. Will he kill again? Will he target you this time? Only God or Satan know for sure.
People of Paradise, none of us are safe as long as Fire Angel flies free.
Looking for potential victims as well as suspects, Jake had compiled a list of complaints against Leroy for shoddy workmanship. It had come as a surprise to see how many people had shown up on that list. He’d cross referenced it with those who fit the profile, but hadn’t found anything that sent up red flags. Duffy’s Garage, the only full-service station in town had a few complaints as did Dwayne Crites, the town’s exterminator who didn’t seem to be able to eradicate rodents as well as he should. There was even a complaint against the undertaker, Charley Plunkett, because the family had objected to the makeup job he’d done on a body. He’d checked on how the woman had died. Bad car accidents were often good reasons for closed caskets. Others with grievances against them included the local pizza place, the garbage collector, and Ansel Curtis, the veterinarian. Ralph was wrong about one thing. His Fire Angel might be guilty of a lot of things, but turning people against one another wasn’t one of them. That had started long before.
With due diligence, he’d questioned those who’d filed serious complaints against Leroy and Jethro, but none of the people he’d spoken to had a connection to could be linked in any way that he could see to Slaney. He’d been unable to follow up on a few complaints because the people had either died or moved out of the area.
Jake went over every shred of evidence collected by the forensic technicians so often he could see it in his sleep—when he slept. Whatever the perp had brought with him, he’d taken back when he’d left. They’d searched the trash for booze bottles, had even involved the environmental waste management company that collected recycling in noting where the empty alcohol bottles were picked up and how many. That search had yielded no leads.
Yesterday, he’d finally spoken to the bartender who’d been working at Stumpy’s Sports bar the night of the fire. He would’ve put him at the top of the list, considering the way the men had died, but Bill had been in Scotland since the murders, having left for Ottawa International right after his shift that night. Tim Anderson, the local cab driver, had the receipt to prove it.
The coroner’s report had stated that both men, in addition to Rohypnol in their blood, in a much lower quantity than Slaney, had had extremely high alcohol levels. Bill verified that Leroy and Jethro had been in the bar, but the place had been packed that Saturday night. He didn’t recall any strangers or anyone who was out of place. He was pretty sure the two had stumbled out of the place around eleven, just after the game had ended. He’d tried to stop them to call a cab for them, but by the time he got to the door, they were driving away in their truck. He didn’t see anyone follow them—at least not from the bar’s parking lot. He’d confirmed that Ian and Cal had been in the bar long after the others had left.
Jake had asked about flaming drinks, and the bartender had sworn they didn’t serve them—it was far too dangerous to do in the tight quarters they occupied.
Matt had heard from West Nipissing. The bones belonged to a hooker named Sylvia Sloan. She’d been reported missing back in June of last year, around the same time as the fire in Ed Keller’s barn. The animals had feasted on her remains and because of that, the coroner couldn’t give him cause of death or time. What he did say was that the animals might not have been the only reason the woman was in pieces.
Finally, out of desperation rather than any real intuition, he’d spoken with Lynette and then Frank to see if they had noticed anyone or had seen anything unusual around town. As the town’s number one busybody, Lynette would be up on all the latest gossip, and since Frank ran the canteen, he traveled pretty much all over the district. If there was anything weird going on, one of them would’ve known it. They’d both bowled Sunday afternoons, and while the fires continued to be a hot topic, neither of them had any valuable insight to offer.
This Fire Angel might as well be a supernatural being. He was a ghost—but that made no sense. The man had to have been in that bar. Why didn’t anyone remember him? Because he belonged, and that was the scariest thought of all. He was one of their own. Everybody knew him, and no one saw him for the vicious killer he was.
* * *
By the end of the month, Jake’s eyes burned from hours of reading reports, his back hurt from sitting at the desk making countless entries into his computer, numerous phone calls following up on cold cases, and his leg ached from the countless visits he’d made outside the station to follow leads. The white board in his office was overflowing with information, but he was no closer to the identity of the killer than he’d been when he’d started.
Not knowing where to turn next, he’d made a call to San Francisco to a professional fire investigation firm, but the person had yet to return his call. He needed questions answered. There was too much about these fires that he didn’t understand.
Bone-weary, he pulled into the parking lot of the inn well after six. The lot was almost full—Friday night was wing night and karaoke in the restaurant, always a busy time. He parked the car in the garage and walked around to the back door, in no mood for company. Besides, all anyone wanted to talk about was the Fire Angel and whether or not he’d catch him in time. More like Fire Devil. There was nothing angelic about that monster.
The early autumn air was crisp and clean. Stars twinkled in the sky. To his right, the giant orange ball of a harvest moon rose over the escarpment. Halloween wasn’t for another couple of days. That was the kind of moon trick-or-treaters dreamed of. Too bad it might create a monster tonight.
* * *
“The telephone startled Jake awake. He reached for the offending handset, knowing instinctively who it was.
“Hello?” he answered, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Jake, it’s Everett. Duffy’s Garage is on fire.”
“Son of a bitch. Duffy’s was one of the places with a dozen complaints against it. I was going to go and talk to him on Monday. I’m on my way.”
He made it to the fire scene within the half hour. When he stood and stared at the destruction and raging inferno in front of him, Jake doubted this was their man. The last thing they needed was a copycat.
This fire was out of control, a hellhole from which spewed heavy, putrid black smoke, death, and destruction, completely at odds with what his profile and the previous fires had shown. Maybe, for once, it was accidental.
Paramedics were parked nearby as was the hearse. What was Plunkett doing here? The coroner’s van sat nearby as well. Firefighters—and it looked as if all the volunteers were here tonight as well as two trucks from North Bay—worked valiantly to stop the fire from spreading to the neighboring houses. Nothing could be done to save the garage. As Jake panned the crowd, he noticed women outside the police lines crying. There was Duffy’s wife held tightly in her brother’s arms, another in Ansel Curtis’s arms. What did the veter
inarian have to do with this? Father Geoff stood on the sideline looking as stunned as the rest of them. There were bodies inside. How many was the question.
His stomach in knots at the thought of more casualties, he walked over to Matt and Ev, standing side by side, while uniformed officers tried to keep everyone back.
“This looks bad, but, despite the timing—full moon—this fire’s as out of control as they come,” he said.
Ev nodded. “Gas stations and garages can be dangerous places at the best of times. If this isn’t his, let’s hope to hell he doesn’t do it tonight. It’ll take everyone here and more to contain this damn thing. As much as I hate to say it, I hope he is responsible. Maybe it just got away from him? We won’t know until we get inside for a look.”
“Agreed. That crash course I got in fire behavior in Ottawa may come in handy if it isn’t his. If it is, God help us all. He’s changed his MO again. How many do you figure are in there?” he asked.
“Duffy hosted a poker game every Friday night, usually five or six at the table. I’ve played myself on occasion. Buy in was twenty bucks. Tonight, according to Father Geoff, Father Martin was playing, too. He was hoping to win enough to cover the cost of this year’s Christmas pageant.”
“I didn’t think priests gambled,” he said.
Ev laughed, but the sound was filled with bitterness. “What do you think Bingo is? They drink, too.”
“We know Duffy was in there as well as Leo Preston, his brother-in-law who worked with him,” Matt said, flipping open the notebook he carried. “That’s Sandra Duffy’s sister, Shirley, Ansel Curtis is trying to console. Sandra said there was an apprentice living in the back room of the garage to save money. I don’t know if he was home or in on the game, but ... that could mean four bodies.”
“Is that why the hearse is here?” Jake asked.
“Yeah. Dr. Shillingham called for backup.”
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