Combustible (A Boone Childress Novel)

by CC Abbott

Boone grabbed the end of the towel and jerked it free. His speed and strength surprised Ronnie, and for a second, they stared at each other, not moving.

  "What do you morons want?" Boone said. He tossed the towel into the locker and pulled on his shirt.

  Donnie slammed him against the lockers. "Who you calling a moron?"

  "Let go of me,” Boone said, his voice calm and unwavering. It was a warning, not a request.

  "Or what? Get your slant-eyed friend to use kung fu on us?"

  "I said, let go of me," Boone's voice took on the hard edge of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. “Last time I'm going to say it before one of you ends up in the hospital.”

  This seemed to confuse Donnie, who let go. He looked back at Ronnie, who was busy dumping Boone's book bag on the floor. His textbooks, notes, and pencils fell on the tiled floor, including a copy of the newspaper article about Mrs. Vega being identified.

  Ronnie snatched the newspaper. "You want to know what we want?" he said, his face getting redder every second. "We want this shit to cease."

  "What shit?" Boone said.

  "This dead Mexican shit. Yesterday, somebody filed a complaint against Eugene. Now, he's suspended while Cap investigates. That complaint needs to disappear. You got it?" Ronnie walked over to the toilets near the showers. He tossed the paper into the bowl and flushed it. "If that complaint don't disappear, that's going to be your head going around the bowl and down the hole. Got that, socialist?"

  "Socialist?" he said, "Why do y'all keep calling me that?"

  “You're dumber than you look. Come on, Don."

  They used the side door, which led to the emergency exit near the parking lot. Boone heard the alarm sound. After they left, he picked up all his stuff and shoved it into his backpack. Dumbass rednecks. If they thought threatening would change anything, they were bigger morons than they looked.

  He stood up at the sound of tennis shoes squeaking.

  "Turn around," Dewayne Loach said.

  Boone turned slowly. "What's this about?"

  "Your friend, the Japanese kid. He wasn't supposed to get hurt. I made them stop after I recognized him."

  "I'm calling the sheriff. You're going to jail."

  Dewayne shook his head. "Your word against mine, Childress. Like the cops would believe you anyhow. You think they don't know what's been going on?"

  "Spare me." Like he was going to believe that Sheriff Hoyt would look the other way if he knew about it. "What's the difference between Luigi and the woman who died in the fire?"

  "The Japanese kid isn't here taking folks' jobs. That's all the Mexicans are good for, working cheap and sucking the working man dry."

  "She was Guatemalan."

  "Who?"

  "The woman. She wasn't from Mexico. She was from Guatemala."

  "What difference does that make?"

  "The way I see it, if you're going to let somebody die for being Mexican, you should at least make sure they're from Mexico first. Or do they all look alike to Eugene and you?"

  Dewayne balled up a fist. He swung hard, and Boone ducked, but Dewayne wasn't aiming for him. His fist slammed into a locker. It left a dent. A trickle of blood ran between his fingers.

  Boone was sure Dewayne had broken something, but he decided to push his luck. "You say you're sorry. Prove it. Come with me to the sheriff's office, and tell him what they did to Luigi. Tell him about the guys terrorizing the Latinos."

  Dewayne shook his head. "You must want me in the graveyard, because that's where I'd be in Eugene found out."

  "The sheriff can—"

  "Eugene's the only kin I got left." Dewayne headed for the door. "My whole family was firefighters. My granddaddy and daddy both died trying in the line of duty. There ain't nothing like seeing the fire marshal's white car pull into your driveway, instead of your daddy's truck. You think you got it all figured out, Childress, but it ain't as easy to be a hero as you think."

  After class, his cell rang, and Boone answered, expecting it to be Cedar. He was disappointed when his grandfather’s voice came through the phone.

  “Meet me at the jail,” he said.

  “Sorry, Abner, I have a test at noon.”

  “You studied for it?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Then meet me at the jail. It won’t take but a few minutes, and you’re the only one he’ll talk to.”

  “Who?”

  “Stumpy Meeks, of course.”

  Twenty minutes later, Abner led Boone down the hallway to the visitors’ area of the county jail. There was a bank of what looked like teller windows, complete with dark green phones for talking to the prisoners. The prisoner in this case was Stumpy, whom Boone hadn’t seen in days.

  As he and Abner pulled up heavy metal chairs in front of the glass, however, Boone was stunned by the magnitude of the change. Stumpy had never been a model of good grooming. Now, he looked like a man who had gone feral and spent his time wallowing in the mud. His hair was thick and matted, his bead caked with black dirt, and there were red welts on his forehead and neck. The blindingly orange inmate jumpsuit he wore didn’t help, either. Nor did the fact that it fit him like an oversized tent.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Boone said through the phone, trying to be polite.

  Abner had other ideas. He yelled through a vent in the glass. “You look like death warmed over. Good god, man. Didn’t they bathe you?”

  Stumpy blinked slowly. His brows knitted and then his mouth formed the words, “Do I know you?”

  Boone held the receiver out so that Abner could listen, too.

  “He’s my grandfather, Abner Zickafoose. He’s here to help. Me, too.”

  Abner leaned down to the vent again. “You got a lawyer yet? You didn’t talk to the cops, did you?”

  “Sure, I did,” Stumpy said. “I told them to kiss my ass and to get Mr. Childress here.”

  “Why me?” Boone asked.

  “Cause you’re the only one that would believe that. I didn’t burn down that house.”

  “Of course, you didn’t.” Abner said. “Anybody with any sense would know that. The thing is, there’s not a lick of sense to be had in this county. So you need an attorney.”

  “Like I got the money for a lawyer. Ain’t got two cents to my name.”

  “The court will appoint one for you,” Boone said. “The first thing he should do is petition the court to lower your bail.”

  “You actually believe that?” Stumpy laughed. “Shoot, they’re going to let me rot under the jail.”

  It was hard to argue with a man wearing swamp mud for makeup. “At least give it a try.”

  Abner took the phone from Boone. He spoke softly, so that the jailer couldn’t hear. “Why did you take the chemicals out of the school storeroom?”

  Stumpy blanched. It was hard to tell from the mud, but Boone could see him jerk slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned down. “How’d you know about that?”

  “You just told me,” Abner said. “Got an answer to my question?”

  Stumpy shook his head. “They’ll kill me.”

  “Who?”

  “I ain’t as stupid as I look. Folks like this, you don’t mess around with.”

  Abner interrupted. “That’s why you’ve been hiding out in the swamps? You’re afraid?”

  “You’d be afraid, too, old man.” He lipped his chapped lips, then chewed on a piece of dead skin. “Between you, me, and the wall, I got myself into a bad spot. To get out of it, I had to do this thing, you know? I had to take a few things from the storeroom and then leave them in the janitor’s closet for pick up. But that’s all.”

  “You didn’t have any idea what the chemicals were for?” Boone asked.

  “I didn’t ask questions. That’s a bad thing in this county.”

  “Who picked up the chemicals?”

  “You think I’m stupid?”

  “Well, then, you asked you to steal them?”

  “Y’know, now that I
think about it,” Stumpy said, “maybe it’d be good idea if I was to stop talking. Y’know, till my lawyer shows up.”

  Boone took the phone from Abner. “Listen to me, Stumpy. We can help, but you have to give us the information to prove you’re innocent.”

  “That’s the problem.” Stumpy hung up the phone and stood. He signaled the jailer. “I ain’t innocent at all.”

  “That didn’t go as planned,” Boone told Abner as they walked down a long concrete corridor to the waiting area.

  “I wish he’d given us more about the chemicals.” Abner agreed. “That’s the key to solving this thing.”

  Boone signed out at the jailer's desk and handed his grandfather the pen. “I understand why he’s afraid. I would be too, if they were accusing me of arson.”

  And doubly afraid if Eugene Loach had ordered him to steal the chemicals in the first place. It all made sense now. Loach tells him to steal the chemicals. Traces of the chemicals are found at both sites. One thing wasn’t adding up, though: Loach and his boys weren’t at the Tin City fire.

  "The arson charge isn’t scaring him. He knows he’s not guilty. There’s something more going on. That should come as no surprise to you, by the way.”

  The jailer buzzed the door, and they walked into the waiting room. Boone noted that the place was empty. “Don’t you think that Hoyt is going to be pissed about you continuing to investigate?"

  “What Hoyt doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He can arrest me again if he wants, but the charges won’t stick, and he knows it. He’s just trying to scare me.”

  “But why? You’re helping him. Even if he won’t admit it.”

  “Some men,” Abner said, taking a drink from a water fountain as Boone opened the outside door, “don't want to be helped.”

  Boone followed Abner out. “So, what’s next? What steps do we take now?”

  “You interviewed that band teacher, right?”

  “Not yet. Now about Eugene Loach—”

  “Loach. That name keeps coming up, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, Doc,” Boone said, “It does. Is he next on my list?”

  Abner looked doubtful. “Not on your list. Let the experts handle that one.”

  But Boone had no intention of letting Abner handle it. Stumpy Meeks was counting on him. Eugene Loach was behind the arson, he was sure of it. All he needed was the evidence to prove it. The chemicals stolen from the schools were all alkali metals. Highly reactive. Highly volatile. Very difficult to remove once they were handled. Easily discovered with spectra analysis. All he needed was to get Eugene near a spectra analysis machine. He laughed at his own suggestion. Obviously, that wasn’t going to work. What he needed was a lord high substitute, something capable of identifying minute traces of alkali metals. Where was he going to find that?

  They reached the main entrance to the jail area. Boone pulled the door for Abner again, and in walked a middle-aged woman wearing heavy sunglasses and a kerchief over her hair.

  "Dr. K?" Boone said.

  Startled, she bumped into Abner, then patted her chest. "Please excuse me. I didn't see you there. Boone? Good heavens, what are you doing here?"

  "Visiting Stumpy Meeks."

  "Oh," she said. Her mouth pinched so tightly, her lip disappeared. "How, how do you know Henry?"

  Henry? That was Stumpy's real name, but the only time Boone had ever heard was on the APB Hoyt put out for him. "We're friends. Sort of. He asked me to come down. They're trying to charge him with arson. He doesn't have a lawyer."

  "He certainly does now," she said. Her shoulders drew back, and her spine straightened. "I've seen to it."

  "So you're friends with Stumpy?"

  "No," she said and removed the sunglasses. She had been crying. "Henry Meeks is my brother. Half-brother, to be exact, and I'm here to see him through this ordeal. We Blevinses always stick together."

  Dr. K excused herself, and Boone and Abner left the building. As they walked across the parking lot, Boone's mind reeled with the implications of what his science professor had just revealed. If she and Stumpy were half brothers, then so were Stumpy and Mr. Blevins. That meant that Stumpy had an interest in the same property that Blevins had sold to Landis. Funny, Stumpy didn't look like someone who had recently inherited valuable property.

  "That was interesting," he said as they climbed into Abner's Range Rover.

  "Downright peculiar," Abner agreed. "But it does make your job easier. After hearing what that woman had to say, there's no reason for you to go interviewing that band teacher. I found out all I needed to know."

  “With Blevins off my list, I can go after Loach.”

  “No, leave Loach to the—“

  “Experts. I know.”

  But Boone’s days of taking orders were over.

  “You need to borrow my what?” Cedar said to Boone a few hours later.

  “Your nose.”

  Cedar clapped a hand over her face. “No way.”

  “Not your nose, you’re N.O.S.E. Your device for detecting smells. I need it to gather evidence against Eugene Loach.”

  They were on the courthouse green, where volunteers were setting up tents for the Bragg Fest vendor fair. Boone’s mom had reserved three booths for the fair. One for her vet practice, one for Lamar’s business, and one for the Bragg County Historical Society. The Society had launched a petition against the Tin City development, and they were hoping to collect hundreds of signatures to stop the re-interment of the cemetery.

  “You’ve got Loach on the brain,” she said.

  No, he had Cedar on the brain, ever since she’d gone quiet when he used the “L” word. Loach was what he was using to distract himself. “What if I told you that he was responsible for the fire that killed Consuelo Vega and that all I need is to find traces of alkali metals on his person to prove it?”

  “Alkali? That’s like sodium and lithium.”

  “And potassium, rubidium, cesium, except for francium.”

  “Which hardly exists on Earth. I know. So you’re looking for all of them?”

  “Sodium, definitely. Maybe others. I’m looking for the chemicals that might have been in the school’s lab.”

  “The one’s that were stolen.”

  “Bingo.”

  “And you think Eugene Loach stole them?”

  “Bingo.”

  “And you think Eugene Loach is suddenly smart enough to use alkali metals without blowing himself up?” she asked. “If you say bingo, I’m never kissing you again.”

  “Maybe not smart enough. Stumpy hinted that he stole the chemicals and left them in the custodian’s closet for pick up.”

  “Let’s get back to the others. You’d like to borrow my research experiment, a project that I’ve worked on for months, for hundreds of hours developing the software, the N.O.S.E device, calibrating data, and crunching numbers?”

  “Yes?” he said.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. Absolutely not. Winning the Olympiad means more to me than any stupid tennis trophy. I’m not going to let you stick it up to a redneck version of Bigfoot and risk getting it crushed. Besides, it’s too unwieldy. I use a shopping cart to transport it.”

  “Er. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I do have another idea.”

  “Oh?”

  She whistled. “Chigger! Here, boy!”

  On command, the beagle bounded out of her Bug, which was parked on the green near the stature of General Bragg. He raced across the grass, zigzagging through the rows of metal folding chairs, until he reached Cedar. He sat, then lifted his head for a treat.

  “Here,” Cedar said, rubbing the dog’s ears, “is your answer.”

  “Chigger?” Boone said.

  “Hello? Five million scent receptors,” she reminded him, “and trained by Customs to detect bombs.”

  “But I thought Chigger flunked out of bomb sniffing school.”

  “Only because he was too aggressive,” she said. �
�Don’t besmirch the name of my dog.”

  “Besmirch?”

  “Didn’t you get the memo? Girls with extensive vocabularies are hot.”

  That’s the truth, Boone thought but didn’t say it. He was too busy trying to read her signals. “Cedar, about the other night. When I said…that thing.”

  “What about the other night?” she said with a straight face.

  So that’s how we’re going to play it, he thought. Fine. At least she was still speaking to him, instead of giving him the heave-ho. “Chigger will be great. Thanks for the offer. Really. I’ll be glad to have him.”

  “You should act quickly, then,” Luigi said, coming up behind them. He wore oversized earphones and carried something like a tuning fork in one hand and an ergonomic mouse in the other.

  Boone shook his hand. “Hey, Luigi. Where did you come from?”

  “I heard your discussion and thought that I could aid you.”

  “You heard us?” Boone said. “Where were you?”

  “At the Red Fox Java enjoying an iced milk and tea.” He raised the tuning fork. “I heard you with this.”

  “What is this exactly?” Cedar asked.

  Realization dawned on Boone. “It’s his research project.”

  “Hai, hai. A small part of it. It allows me to isolate conversations from hundreds of meters away. For example, Eugene Loach has gathered with the other firefighters for the parade.”

  He pushed up his glasses with his middle finger. The mop of his hair blew in the breeze, and his cheeks looked red enough to bleed, but he had this look in his eyes that told Boone that he was onto something.

  The parade. That’s right. Boone had forgotten it, since he was still suspended from the Frisco VFD. “Perfect. Okay, here’s the plan.”

  The Bragg Fest parade was a big deal. Over two hundred organizations, clubs, businesses, departments, and schools either marched or walked the route. In fact, there were so many people involved, Boone wondered how there was anyone left in town to watch it. Except for the parade route, the streets of Stanford were virtually deserted, so Boone and Cedar had no trouble running parallel with the parade.

  They trotted at first, the beagle stretching the leash and pulling Cedar along. They lengthened their strides and turned on Fremont to cross ahead of the parade. As they crossed on the WALK sign, the dog padded along, his attention focused on the chimney swifts that dipped and swooped around the smoke stack of the physical plant.