by Peyton Banks
* * *
Makena Washington is the only one that will understand why this is happening. Maybe she can stop this before it’s too late.
Prologue
Orange.
Yellow.
Red.
Three of my favorite colors that—when brought together—can detonate into a heat not meant for any to survive, yet some do.
Red.
Orange.
Yellow.
The different stages the color of the skin melt into when it comes in contact with the immense fires that engulf the unsuspecting.
Yellow.
The color of fat as it begins to dissolve.
Red.
The rush of blood that tries to quench the burning sensation as it takes hold.
Orange.
The discoloration of the human body as it begins to succumb.
A blissful sigh escapes me as I step back into the dark, watching my three favorite colors conducting a beautiful serenade of destruction right before my very eyes.
I’m a patient man and I know this will bring the one thing I’ve watched and wanted for so long. The one thing that will rush in to be a hero—to try and save anyone that might be inside and attempt to smother the flames I’ve set.
But this is our song.
This is how I call to my hero on the nights when I need to see that face, that determination to do good in a world where being heroic has no place.
As the sirens begin to wail in the distance, a smile creeps slowly over my face.
Now, the hunt begins.
1
I cough as I step out of the house, removing my helmet and nodding at my crew. I’ll let them extinguish the flames before I go in and try to figure out what started it. I walk over to the firetruck, sit on the back bumper, and put my hands on my knees, trying to regain some of the fresh air I lost in there.
At twenty-four years old, I’m the youngest fire chief the county has ever seen. I started volunteering when I was sixteen, and after eight years of proving myself to the guys that always tried to dismiss my hard work, I was quickly promoted and given control of the Ventura County Department.
I make sure we keep a tight hold on the wildfires that spring up from time to time. We’re the first to respond and the last to leave. I’ve saved more animals than I have actual people, but that’s because I know some animals aren’t capable of helping themselves while some humans are more than useful to themselves.
“Any idea what the fuck happened this time, Makena?”
I let out a sigh as I lift my head and find myself staring into the eyes of the Police Chief, Dominic Griffith. When he sees the look on my face, he gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Not yet, Chief,” I tell him as I cough again. “I have to wait for them to put it out, remember?”
I don’t mean to sound like a smart ass, but he should know better than anyone else on scene by now.
“Maybe if you stopped running in there with the rest of your crew, you wouldn’t be so out of breath right now,” he suggests gently as he takes a seat in the empty spot next to me. “That’s not your job.”
I roll my eyes.
“Thanks, Dom. I’ll try to keep that in mind for the next time.”
“You’re gonna get hurt one day, kid. That’s all I’m saying. You’re too good at your job sometimes, but we need you, Makena—you’re the only one that’s been able to keep these knuckleheads on the straight and narrow.”
My eyes soften as I glance at Dom again. This department was a shit show before I was promoted. While every last one of them has always been a damn good firefighter, most were a little too relaxed when getting to emergencies—skipping important safety steps, and some even stole some of the things inside of the burning buildings to supplement the income gap they felt they were owed.
Like kids in a candy store, high off the sugar rush, and no guiding hand to teach them right from wrong, I think as I reach up and smooth back my curly, black hair. I set the helmet on the space between me and Dom as I reach up to re-secure my ponytail, then shrug.
“I guess I happened to get promoted at a good time. They’re all great guys, Dom. They just needed someone to help them stay on the path to greatness is all,” I say reasonably.
“Chief Washington!”
Dom and I turn our eyes toward the sound of my name being called. Derick Simpson is one of my favorite members of the crew because he’s one of the few that have never needed a guiding hand. I may be his superior, but I look up to him in a way.
“What’s up, D?” I call back.
“The fire’s out. Give it another half hour, then go in and do your thing.”
I nod in thanks and as I get to my feet, Dom reaches over and puts a hand on my arm. I give him a curious look and he arches an eyebrow in return.
“Nothing ever gets done when time is being wasted,” I explain with a grin as I walk toward what’s left of the house. And if I want to find out what caused the fire, I have to get in there and start investigating sooner rather than later.
2
I lick my lips as I watch.
She’s going in to see my work.
She’ll look for the cause, critique what I’ve done, and write up a report.
But will she see what I’ve left for her?
She’s missed it so many times before, though I know if she does see it, she’ll understand.
She doesn’t know I’m hunting her—that I have been for years. We’re locked in a game of hide and seek, and soon, I’ll show her there’s beauty to be found in pain.
I go to sleep each night, tossing and turning, as thoughts of her consume me. Soon, I’ll return the favor.
For now, we have to continue our dance. We have a few more notes to play before our story ends on the most beautiful sonata the world will have ever seen.
I take another step back as people begin to walk up the street toward the commotion. They don’t know it, but they’re providing me shelter in the wide open. I’ll be just another face in the crowd until the time is right to continue strumming the chords that will pave the way to the pre-chorus.
One of the people that has come to watch the great fire chief and her crew work inadvertently bumps into me and turns immediately to offer an apology, but I’ve already moved away from the crowd.
I’ll wait until morning for the local newspaper to publish part of her report and devour each and every word. She’s called me a genius so far as well as a madman, though I don’t take the latter to heart.
She just has to see me again and she’ll know why.
Then the fires will stop.
The world will make sense again and the song will be over.
I bury my hands deep into my pockets as I continue walking down the street, my head low. The feeling of achievement that accompanies the night fires swells inside of me as the tips of my fingers graze the lighter in my pocket.
Sing for me again, Makena.
It’s been far too long.
3
I roll my neck on my shoulders as I sit at my desk, dropping my forehead into my hand. I’m tired, it’s three in the damn morning, and I’m still not done with my report.
D offered to stay with me until I finished, but I sent him home.
He shouldn’t have to take a verbal lashing from his wife for doing his job and then pulling over time simply because he wants to make sure I make it to my car okay.
I don’t get her. She gets so angry when he rushes out of the house, but I guess that can be attributed to the fact that they have a three-month-old baby that wakes up screaming whenever his daddy barrels out to save the day or night.
I’ll have to run some relays with him and show him how to lighten those big ole steps of his, I think with a tired chuckle as I stifle a yawn.
This can wait until morning.
Everything always can, but I don’t want to lose any memory of what I’ve seen, and I need to go over the pictures that Dom’s technicians took at the crime scene. I
ruled it arson almost as soon as I stepped into the house. I could see traces of starter fluid which I followed all the way to the back of the half burnt to hell structure and that’s when I saw something peculiar.
I made sure that Dom’s team got pictures of everything in that room, and then ordered everyone out when a beam fell from the top floor and crashed down through the ceiling of the room we were in.
Then it collapsed.
The entire damn thing collapsed mere moments after we evacuated the building. It makes me angry that someone put so much effort into destroying as much evidence as they could, and almost killed a small group of good men in the process.
It’s obvious to me that whoever has been starting these fires is the same person. More than likely a white male in his mid to late twenties with nothing better to do with his time. He probably lives at home with his parents, in the basement so he feels better about himself, and jacks off to bad mommy porn.
It’s always the fucking weirdos that do this kind of shit.
I sit back in my chair and rub my eyes, then widen them after blinking rapidly a few times. With a sigh, I get to my feet and head into the break room to get a cup of lukewarm coffee so I can continue my report.
Or it could be someone that just happens to like fires, doesn’t know how to stop them when they start them, and then runs away before the good guys come to save the day.
Whoever it happens to be has done a damn fine job of covering their tracks so far, but I’ll catch up to him eventually. It’s part of my duties and I’m very good at what I do. Besides, the sooner I catch him, the sooner the people in this damn county can rest easy.
With almost one million residents, this is one of the largest counties in the States and it’s my job to keep them safe from the crazy people that were bitten by the fire bug.
After I’ve filled my cup, I take a sip of the bitter brew, and make a face before tossing it out. Seems that I’ll have to use willpower to stay awake for the rest of the night.
Once I’m back in my office, I sit down and take the Polaroids that I requested, jog them into place, then set them down and begin to go through each one with a fine-tooth comb.
There has to be a hint in these somewhere.
Something has got to fucking give eventually.
Although, until I can find that one thing I know exists but isn’t really visible to anyone, I know I’ll be able to give the information to Dom to make an arrest.
While I do my hardest to figure out the pieces of the puzzle, I’ll have to do what I do best and stomp the fires out almost as soon as they start.
I place the pictures in a neat stack to the side of my keyboard, stifle a yawn, and keep typing up my report. A few more hours and I’ll be able to go home and forget about this fire.
Until the next one—because there’s always a next one.
4
I’m standing in front of my television, tossing an apple back and forth between my hands, and rocking from side to side. The news is boring for the most part, but I need to see if there’s anything about the symphony I conducted last night.
I wonder if I’ll see her face on the news this time, I muse as the edges of my mouth begin to curve up into a smile.
I’ve never found anyone more beautiful in this world to behold than Makena Washington.
I haven’t felt the simple euphoria of her touch in so long. I haven’t been given the opportunity to inhale the majestic scent of her warm, brown sugar colored skin for over a decade and a half. I’ve been deprived of the absolute pleasure of running my hands over her black, curly hair for longer than I care to recall.
I may not be a good man, but good men never get what they want, and I want—no, I need Makena.
She’s the only one that’s ever been able to quell this monster inside of me, though I doubt she knows it. I’ve done a good job of keeping it bottled up for as long as I could, but when I first saw her picture in the newspaper and the announcement of her being the new fire chief, it nudged the beast that I thought was long since dead.
“Come on, come on,” I mumble impatiently. As the news cuts to a commercial break, I let out a loud sigh and walk toward my couch and sit down in a huff.
The waiting is always the hardest part.
The wondering if we’ll have our small segment for the county to watch, to know that I’m still out there, is what helps me get by from time to time.
I take a bite of my apple, using the palm of my free hand to wipe away the juice that begins to run down my chin.
If all goes according to plan, the taste of Makena will be the next thing I’ll be wiping away from my mouth but until then I have to bide my time and be patient.
I have to watch for the perfect targets, start the brightest of fires, and hope that she’ll see what I’ve left for her at each tomb of ashes.
Orange.
Yellow.
Red.
The simplest of colors that hold so much meaning.
5
Ugh.
I wake up with a sore body, still feeling tired. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s half past noon and feel slightly guilty about sleeping for so long.
I got home at five in the morning and didn’t even bother changing out of my clothes. I walked straight to my room and dropped down onto my bed, face first, falling asleep almost immediately.
Lucky for me, it’s my first day off in weeks.
Not that it’s how the department is run, but with the sudden uptick in arson in the past few weeks, I’ve had to work longer hours than normal. Granted, I could have easily passed this off to D since he’s the Deputy Fire Chief, but I’d rather not get him into more hot water with his wife.
I turn my body toward the window, close my eyes and smile tiredly as a breeze begins to drift into the room. Oxnard is a beautiful city to live in, and since I’ve always had a love for the ocean, I decided this would be the place to plant my roots when I moved out of my parents’ home.
Unlike my frenzied firebug that I can’t quite seem to catch, I think with a sigh as the smile leaves my face.
I don’t want to think about him today but because I have no idea what he’ll burn down next, he always sits in the back of my mind.
Taunting me—tempting me to catch him, yet always being one step ahead.
I think he likes this game he’s roped me into and doesn’t really care about what consequences will fall onto his shoulders when we catch him.
If we catch him.
I’ll do my best not to think of my nuisance today since I want to enjoy my day off. I’ll get up, make some coffee, sit on my deck outside, and watch the seagulls flying high above the ocean while I sip away and wonder where in the world I’d like to visit next.
Traveling is something that I’m quite fond of, but only reserve as a reward for myself after I’ve figured out a particularly difficult case, and this one is going to be like hitting the lottery.
I head into the bathroom, lift the toilet seat and sit down with my panties just below my knees. Closing my eyes, I rest my elbows against my thighs and drop my face into the palm of my hand.
With as much as I don’t want to think about Ventura County’s latest degenerate, I mentally begin to flip through the Polaroids again. I grunt when I reach for the toilet paper roll, rip some off, and clean myself up. After flushing the toilet, pulling my panties back up, and stretching slightly, I walk over to my sink and stare myself in the eyes.
These babies have always helped me stand out.
Dark blue against flawless light, brown skin—and somewhat considered an anomaly, but I never let it bother me. My great-grandfather had blue eyes too. It’s just a family trait that pops up every now and then. With a shrug, I open the medicine cabinet, my hand hovering above the tube of toothpaste, when something suddenly hits me.
All of these bastards have a calling card.
I turn my face away for a moment.
Think Makena, he must have left something.
And t
hat’s when it hits me.
The one thing he has left over and over that I’ve always dismissed as just a burn pattern, even though it looked almost exactly the same each time.
I drop the tube into the sink and walk quickly to the small office I have in my home. Sitting at the desk, I power on my computer, then tap my fingers impatiently as I wait for the damn thing to turn on.
I enter my password into the home screen, then open the internet, and log into the Ventura County Fire Department Mainframe. I have a secret folder on there aptly titled Pain in the Asses, that not even the best tech in the county would be able to find, and if they did, they would have one hell of a time opening. I double-click the folder, quickly scanning the sub-folders I have in there, and click again on the one titled LAGPFB—short for Latest and Greatest Persistent Firebug.
I open the pictures inside the file and set them into slide show mode while I sit back and bring a foot up onto the chair. I chew my lip as I watch the pictures go by slowly.
I see it—once, twice, three times—and when I see it the fourth time, I stop the slide show and enlarge the picture to full screen.
Well, I’ll be damned.
“Gotcha,” I whisper softly as I print the picture out and feel a little grin of triumph spread across my lips.
6
I’m sitting on my couch staring at the broken television.
I hurled the apple through it in anger when nothing was mentioned about the fire. It seems that she isn’t as impressed yet as I hoped she would be, and she hasn’t found what I’ve been leaving for her.
I know this because the news is notorious for letting little details “slip” onto the air. The more they think they know, the higher the ratings. But they don’t understand this isn’t a game to me—it’s my fucking life—our lives that hang in the balance and I won’t be let down.