Gerry waited for the catharsis that psychoanalysts, preachers, teachers, and talk show hosts say comes after an unburdening of a tortured soul. Despite Michael being the only man off the job he would trust with his life, the admission left him with regret. Gerry held up his Timex Indiglo watch and pushed the stem for the face to illuminate. He looked at his friend. They sensed the ending of their night and got in the truck, each deep in whiskey-clouded thoughts as they drove away. The whiskey bottle still had half remaining.
Gerry nodded off only to be awakened by a slap on the shoulder. “What?”
Michael pointed out the windshield. “We’re on Gravel Street, Gee.”
Red flashers and beacons, and white strobes lit up the night down the street.
“Some trouble there,” he added, and stomped on the accelerator, surging the big V-8 forward.
A spike of terror pierced Gerry’s funk. He sat up and leaned forward, cursing. No such thing as coincidence, he thought. It never. Freaking. Stops.
Two fire pumps were parked diagonally effectively blocking the street in front of Arthur’s house. Michael slammed on the brakes some distance behind the nearest one and they rushed to the scene.
A large yellow-clad firefighter blocked Gerry’s way. “This is my dad’s place! Where is he?”
The firefighter looked at Michael before his arm came up to point up the driveway. Gerry raced past him relieved to see the fire hoses continuing past the house into the backyard. He headed for the body of activity to seek out his father.
Michael talked with the captain who told him only the garage sustained damage.
Gerry found Arthur beside the picnic table alongside the back of the house. Arthur wore a bathrobe, nervously fidgeting with the chairs’ toggle, causing the motor to whine spastically.
“Dad, you okay? Calm down, everything’s okay,” said Gerry, immediately realizing how hollow that sounded. He put his hand on his father’s, stopping the chair from moving.
Michael walked into the yard with Captain Horlund.
The fire officer stepped beside Gerry and shook his head. “I don’t know what the heck is going on with you,” he said to Gerry, accusation thick in his tone. “Having you around town isn’t good for business, Ormond.”
Gerry lifted his shoulders and shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me, too.” He leaned over to his father, scanning him quickly. “You’re okay, right? What the hell happened?”
Arthur told him the neighbors were banging on his door like maniacs. “Scare snot onna me.”
The firefighters from two stations finished their cigarettes and socializing and began rolling up hose and stowing equipment. Water, draining from unconnected hoses, ran down the driveway in thin streams. Beacons from the two rigs played on the homes like red gum balls.
“Who woo do zis?” asked Arthur, shaking his head.
“I don’t know, Dad. I really don’t.” Yesterday, Nick would have been his first choice.
Arthur grabbed his son’s hand, looking up at him and slowly shook his head. Gerry broke from his father’s demanding eyes, looking away to firefighters peeling siding from one wall, checking for fire extension.
Michael came over with a firefighter who explained that the neighbors next door, partying around a bonfire, called it in. Gerry looked over and saw they’d come out to fold up lawn chairs and pick up bottles. It appeared they had a yard full of company earlier; empty lawn chairs surrounded a still smoldering fire pit. Faint rock music still played from somewhere inside their house. Gerry went over and thanked them for alerting his father. They told him they didn’t see anyone skulking around the yard. By the time he returned, the rigs were nearly ready to leave. Arthur had disappeared inside.
Michael and Gerry examined the damage, agreeing that the corner of the roof, an eave, and adjoining sections of two charred walls at a corner would have to be replaced. They went into the garage to inspect Arthur’s car and brushed off insulation and bits of wood from the hood.
Michael gave him a long look and raised his brow expectantly.
Gerry threw his hands up. “I have no idea.” He walked toward the picnic table and turned. “In real life, I should be out fishing, sitting in my boat kicking back, working on a six-pack. Not a damn care in the world. Fernly is—a nightmare.”
Michael lit up a smoke and offered one to him. Gerry took it and lifted a foot to set on the picnic table but missed and stumbled. Michael flicked opened his lighter and wavered it in front of his cigarette.
“You’re as pissed as I am,” remarked Gerry, taking Michael’s smoke from his mouth, reversing it, and putting it back. “Pay attention…filter to lips, eh?”
A stupid grin crossed Michael’s face as he stood still long enough to light it. They sat on the picnic table and stared at the rising sparks from the fire pit next door. Air brakes hissed, and a diesel engine roared as one fire truck pulled away.
“Your dad know about any of that shit you told me about?”
Gerry shook his head. “Think I should I tell him?”
Michael nodded solemnly. “Your sister is really going to put the screws to you now.”
The last rig left, its diesel noise fading down the street. Their attention went to a flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. An erect figure in a black slicker carrying a silver hard case walked into the dark backyard. Reflective tape on the figure’s coat flashed red, echoing the remaining fire truck’s lights. The flashlight beam scoured the garage and swept across to the two men at the table. They winced and shaded their eyes, looking away.
“Awful damn rude of you, Investigator Markham,” said Gerry, slightly slurring the words.
“Pardon me.” She switched off the light and lifted her head in a greeting to Michael. She ambled over and set her clipboard on the table, casting Gerry a long look.
Gerry put his hands up in mock surrender. “I didn’t do it! Don’t start on me.” He thumbed toward Michael and said. “We don’t know nothin’. We’ve been together all night at the West Gate reunion.”
“And having plenty to drink, too.” She fanned a hand at them a few times and turned away to the garage for a moment, then back to Michael. “Seems I’m getting to associate your pal here with work. How might that be?” Her dark eyes turned to Gerry as if trying to gun him down.
He met her accusing look head on despite his alcoholic haze. “We covered this before, Sam. I’m sticking to my story.”
“It’s that particular story I don’t like. Now the other one—”
“Gotta go.” Michael felt her gaze and stood. “Got some honey warming up. I must do my manly duty.” He pulled out his cellphone and called a cab. “I’m gonna walk for a bit up the street.”
Sam watched him shuffle away and lifted the hard case onto the picnic table. She brought out a high intensity light and quickly unfolded a tripod. The light illuminated the garage and fence like daylight. She checked her camera and wandered over to scan the damaged area. She stood motionless as she examined the area for a long minute.
“Could have been some juvenile delinquents climbing fences,” she said, over her shoulder. “Someone climbed down here from your neighbors’ backyard.”
The information tore Gerry from his glum thoughts. “And here I thought it might be an innocent ember from that bonfire next door,” he said, knowing it was an impossibility but one he dearly wished for.
She frowned at him. He moved beside her for a better look. Her flashlight beam targeted a long grass streak mixed with some white smeared across two fence boards. “This isn’t paint, it’s…crumbly, sort of. Possibly from new sneakers.”
“Send it down to the lab, eh?” said Gerry, with sarcasm.
She turned to him swiftly, her eyebrows colliding together, and took two steps toward him. “This is way-y-y beyond coincidence, Ormond. How is it, the only fires in this town this week are centered around you? Why didn’t Mr. Sneakers here,” she gestured at the fence, “set fire to the house?”
The last question floated in Gerry’s haze. He glanced at the house hoping his father wasn’t near a window. “Sometimes you get lucky, I guess.”
She frowned. “Tell you what, Ormond.” She shifted her weight to one leg, exaggerating her hip. “I’ll show you mine and you show me yours.”
There was little humor in her tone.
Gerry pulled a face. “Geez, what the…? You’re insane.” He stepped around her, stumbled, and headed for the door.
She scooted around him beating him to the door and slapped her palm against the glass, blocking his entry. “I got your picture on a whiteboard, Gerry, right in the middle. And I got all these cute little arrows pointing to Nick, to Brian, the AXE frat. Got these lovely little flames, too; got Vancouver flames, Fernly flames. Now, I got these flames and another arrow. Somehow, they all connect, and all these arrows flow to you, through you, and from you. Got you in my crosshairs. Got a letter about Zimmer, too. Twenty years isn’t such a long time ago. That name sound familiar?”
Gerry’s throat went dry. Shit, Ginny’s letter again. He crossed his arms. “Sounds like some kind’a Ontario investigator voodoo. You stick pins in me, too?”
She let out a raspy grunt through her teeth. Her eyes glared. She leaned into him. “That’s what I been thinking—voodoo. You’re the only warm body left on my board. Everyone else is dead. This is fate, Gerry. Could be somebody’s waiting to stick a pin in you.” She drew in a long breath. “You’re stupid if you don’t think you’re on this guy’s radar.”
Gerry pushed her arm from the screen door and opened it. “Believe it or not, Investigator Markham, we are on the same side, so—”
“So, tell me the damn truth!” She slapped her palm on the aluminum door frame slightly startling him.
“Keep your voice down out here, Investigator.” He glanced past her to the neighbors heading inside. He flung open the door. “This is bullshit! I’m goin’ to bed.”
She backed up a half-step. “You’re dancing pretty close to a trap door.”
He stopped and turned to face her. “You don’t think for a minute I’d like to know what in the world is goin’ on, too? If I could tell you I would,” he said. “I didn’t kill Nick or anyone else. I think you’ll do better to chase down guys with grudges against Modano.”
“If you give me the straight goods it might save a life here.”
And destroy mine, thought Gerry.
She handed him her card and lifted her chin at him. He reluctantly took the card, staring at it for a long moment before going inside. He closed the inside door and leaned his back against it, aware how strong heart pounded, sensing her hot glare burning through the door. A tangible force emanated from her, one he’d merely brushed up against in the investigator’s van after Nick’s fire. Tonight, it felt like a crushing hand.
Arthur waited in the kitchen and shook his head at his son. “Who woo do zis, son?”
Gerry shrugged and slapped the card against his palm. “Stupid kids or stupid Chelnick. Karen’s husband. I’ll be gone in a few days, Dad, and all this bullshit will stop. I am sorry. I didn’t cause any of it.”
“I nah so sur,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “Dat wowon not stu-id. Me doo.” He watched his son stalk away to the bedroom.
Gerry flopped fully clothed on the bed. A faint breeze, tinged with the stink of charred wood, whispered through the open window along with the annoying light from Sam’s harsh light. She was chipping evidence samples from the charred wood, every scrape grating on his consciousness. Arthur’s wheelchair prowled the house for a time.
Gerry’s room began to float oddly. He immediately sat up, refusing to believe he was all that drunk. He’d shared the bottle of whiskey with Michael. A vehicle door closed, and a diesel engine turned over as Sam left the scene. He lit a candle and its glow immediately brought on a soothing effect with its softness and hypnotic shadows across the walls and ceiling.
He thought Sam would almost be attractive if she dropped the Jekyll-Hyde routine. Her confidence was unsettling as was her voodoo pin analogy. She’d obviously gotten the letter from Ginny, who was sniffing around for a big scoop, poking into a pile of shit to raise a stink.
The medallion, now on the dresser, was the only evidence, real or otherwise. No matter how clever she was, nothing else could connect him. Everything on her whiteboard fit. It would take little from him to tie it together. Even so, they still wouldn’t have the arsonist.
Gerry ran motives through his mind for the small blaze, matching them with faces, even considering Nick coming back from the dead like a stalking ghoul or ancient Egyptian mummy curse. His mind braked on Branko’s face—the best candidate. Why not him? Nick’s best buddy and probable go-fer; partners in crime running dope over to New York State. Branko mentioned he knew about him running out on Nick. Maybe the two got drunk one night and Nick, making like a tough guy, told him how he’d beaten and fried old man Zimmer. Gerry could see them laughing about it. Toasting the deed.
If so, had Nick told Branko why? Gerry couldn’t imagine Nick being that stupid, especially after stickhandling around cops and prosecutors and courts for most of his life. Blabbing about minor shit was one thing, but Zimmer was murdered. Nick alluded to stuff in vague references, planting suspicions. If he wasn’t directly involved, he usually knew who, what, why, and when—and enjoyed throwing out tidbits. Not much in town got by him. Nick would have made a prized police informant.
And there was the fight in the high school parking lot, probably the worst humiliation Branko ever suffered. Especially in front of old buddies from the West Gate glory days, pals who at one time worshipped him. And his lovely wife Karen witnessed it, too. Gerry smiled when he recalled Michael’s words “…don’t anyone call the teachers.”
Obsessing on a woman was one thing but being partly responsible for whaling on her husband of twenty years was quite another. That ended the story for him and Karen. Gerry’s thoughts faded. His eyes slowly closed as the flickering candle glow soothed his troubled mind.
A rustling noise came from the open window.
A spike of fear jolted him from the bed onto the floor, banging his knees.
He froze, his mind racing, preparing to run out of the room.
“Gee?” whispered the voice.
Karen.
Gerry let out his breath and went to the open window. Karen stood just beyond the weak candlelight, her features dim, unreadable. Fine drizzle peppered the window. An odd thought struck him; her wielding a gun, blaming him for everything. That would end this story. Maybe he deserved it.
“Are you all right? I can hardly see you,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“No. Not really.”
This was crazy, he said to himself, ready to step over the line. A better man would keep her at bay, come up with some lame excuse to make her leave. But he wasn’t any better; no moral crusader.
“Why don’t you come in? You’re getting wet. We could talk.”
“I don’t want to wake your father.”
He didn’t want her haunting his dreams again tonight—he wanted her now. His need was overwhelming, bursting at the seams. He could only imagine the release, sweet and warm.
In his mind’s eye, a flash of their first time came to him; his clumsy teenage attempt at love-making; Karen stretched out on the blanket like a feline creature, every move and nuance on her face unmistakable, memorable. Even with his limited experience, he knew. But it was over so fast he’d hardly had time to appreciate her.
This time would be different.
The picnic table had been moved against the house, probably by the firefighters, or Sam to set her equipment on.
“Step on the table and I’ll help you in,” he said.
Karen stood on the table and turned to one side placing a leg over the sill. He held her hand and guided her in, placing a hand on the top of her head as she ducked inside. Her small handbag swung from her wrist.
She still wore the blue dress. Her breasts strained against the fabric. Gerry’s adolescent dream of sneaking girls into his room finally came true. He thought of his father down the hall and wondered what the old man would say if he caught him in bed with the ‘neighbor woman’.
She smelled of sweat and rose perfume. She sat on the edge of the bed, blocking the candlelight, her face shadowed but smiling thinly. Her arms were folded tightly, hugging herself.
“Oh, Gerry. I didn’t know where to go, or what to do.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond. She stared at the floor for a long moment as if deciding. Her profile in the poor light appeared like a soft focus in a photograph. Gerry stared at her knowing that regardless of what occurred, he'd always remember this image. Eyeing her closer, he noticed a long tear in the hose along her calf, and one strap on her blue shoe was torn and hanging limply. It wasn’t the only thing wrong with this picture.
He leaned closer to her. Good God. Her left eye, black and slightly swollen, appeared almost ghoulish in the dim light.
His jaw dropped.
The sight tempered a desire to comfort her. He cursed under his breath and closed his eyes, his jaw clenching, wishing Branko was here right now. A swell of anger coursed through him. He regretted the events of the night, wishing he could have taken control of the situation. He closed his eyes tightly, thinking he should go over and haul Branko out and lay a holy beating on him. When he opened them, her hands covered her face.
Her body shuddered as she broke into soft sobs, ashamed.
“Oh, Karen, I am so sorry.”
She held a hand up palm out as if to ward him off. Tears ran freely. She attempted to get up, but he placed a strong hand on her shoulder and pressed her down.
His eyes wandered over her bare arms and chest. Even in the poor light, he could see bruises spotting her arms, precisely where cruel fingers and rough hands had gripped.
Damn him.
Her sobs grew louder, racking her body. He wanted her warmth, her body to melt into his, but he knew she needed comfort. He reached for her and pulled her to him hugging her gently, almost politely, for a long moment. He eased her down onto the bed and lay quietly beside her, facing her back, spooning.
After a time, he rolled her onto her stomach and kneaded her shoulders. She lifted her shoulders in turn and slid the spaghetti straps from them revealing a pale breast and the edge of the rosy nipple, already hard. He recollected the feel of it against his chest during a long-ago school dance.
She trembled while his hands kneaded away the tightness. He memorized her birthmarks and occasionally slipped his hands down around her rib cage, the tips of his fingers occasionally feathering the sides of her breasts, making her shudder.
After a time, her flesh yielded. A low moan escaped from her as her hips began to gyrate gently. She’d opened the door, and he eagerly and wantonly stepped in.
He stripped off his t-shirt and blew out the candle.