“More paint?” In the background, the television blared.
“Not this time. Thinking maybe he should get a dose of his own medicine.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the lighter. He struck the flint and lit the flame until it got too hot to hold.
“What do you want from me?”
“It might take two of us. He’s bigger and stronger than I remember from high school.” Elijah had been quiet, in a know-it-all kind of way. It had been easy to push him around then.
“You almost sound afraid of him.”
The challenge stoked Dan’s frustration and anger. “I’m not.”
“You’re still pissed about what he did to you in high school.”
Dan remembered walking outside his home to discover fire licking up all four wheels of his new truck. The flames had scorched the white paint, popped his tires, and melted his side-view mirror. As he’d tried to beat the flames out with his shirt, the smoke had scorched his mouth, nose, and lungs. Coughing, he had run to the side of his parents’ house and grabbed the hose. His hands trembling, he’d squeezed the nozzle. To this day, he could remember the sound of the flames hissing like a viper as he shot them with cold water. Later, the truck was towed to a body shop that had soon slapped him with a $4,000 repair bill, half of which he’d had to eat because insurance did not cover it.
The cops later decided it was arson. No shit. And said the fire had started in a plastic milk jug filled with gas. A rag had been used as a wick. At the time, they’d had no idea who’d set the fire.
After the College Fire, the cops had come to talk to him, but there was no proof linking Elijah to his truck fire. Dan knew it was that weirdo Elijah. Who the fuck else would have been crazy enough to mess with him?
“I just want to make a smart play,” Dan said. “In this PC world, too many people don’t fully grasp the old brand of justice.”
A heavy silence lingered on the line, and then he heard the swig of beer. “I’m in.”
Confessions of an Arsonist
I miss the days I saw fire burn in my lover’s eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Monday, September 7, 2020
8:00 p.m.
Enough evidence was pulled from the Beau-T-Shop fire to suggest that Gideon was dealing with an experienced arsonist. Whether it was Lana Long working with Elijah or someone else, this perpetrator had been skilled enough to fashion low-tech incendiary devices and then place them for maximum effect.
However, before he talked to Elijah or the warden at Montana State Prison, he wanted a complete record of recent arson reports across the state. He glanced up the darkened stairwell of his home, listening for signs of Kyle. The quiet suggested he was asleep, but Gideon still closed the door to his home office before placing a call to Bryce McCabe, an agent with the Montana Highway Patrol. He had known Bryce for years, and if his theory was full of holes, Bryce would say so immediately. As the phone rang, he reached for a yellow legal pad and pen.
Bryce picked up on the third ring. “Gideon.”
“Bryce, how are you?” Gideon asked as he leaned forward at his desk.
“Can’t complain. What’s up? Not like you to call on a holiday weekend without a good reason.”
Gideon uncapped his pen and drew a #1 at the top of the yellow pad. He circled it once. “Did you hear about the fire we had on Saturday?”
“I did,” he said. “I also understand your newest resident is a convicted arsonist.”
“That’s correct.” He circled the number a couple more times. “I have a few questions that may seem off base, but bear with me.”
“Have at it.”
“Have you had any significant fires in your area in the last few years?” Gideon asked.
“You mean while Elijah Weston was incarcerated?”
Gideon sat back and wondered what the hell path he had set out on. “That’s correct.”
Bryce was silent a moment. “You don’t think Elijah Weston is responsible for your fire?”
“He’s on my radar, that’s for damn sure.”
“Fair enough. Let me get to my computer. Hang on.”
“Got all the time.”
In the background, a door opened and closed, and a light switch clicked. “Here we go,” Bryce said. “We had a warehouse fire eighteen months ago in Helena. The structure burned to the ground.”
“Cause of the fire?” He jotted down the incident by the number one.
“Electrical. No fatalities, but the damage and losses totaled more than a million dollars. That’s all the structural fires we’ve had recently. In 2018, there were four dumpster fires in Bozeman. No real property damage sustained in those events, beyond the dumpsters.”
Gideon made a notation. “Any rural fires?”
“Funny you should mention that. Statistics show a thirty percent increase in brush fires. The causes range from unmonitored campfires to electrical line failure.”
“How many were undetermined?”
“Of the seventy-four fires reported, sixty-two weren’t resolved.”
“Where were they?”
“I would have to get back to you on that one. I just have overall statistical data.”
“I’d appreciate the locations.”
“Sure. What are you going after, Gideon?”
He ran his hand over the top of his head. “Just a hunch.”
More computer keys clicked at a slow, steady pace. “Okay, I missed two Butte house fires in 2018. One was caused by a Christmas tree, and the other one was ruled arson.”
“Do you know how the arson fire started?”
“Plastic jug filled with gasoline and a rag. No arrests.”
In 2018, Gideon had just signed divorce papers, and Helen and Kyle had moved out of their home. If there was a year that he would have happily erased, it was 2018.
“What was the cause of your beauty shop fire?” Bryce asked.
“Plastic jug filled with gasoline.”
The silence grew heavy. “All the materials are easy to get, and it’s impossible to trace the source.”
“Very true,” Gideon said.
“Want me to poke around?” Bryce offered.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time on a holiday weekend.”
“It’s a holiday, and if I knew how to have fun, I would not be sitting around,” Bryce joked.
“I appreciate this.”
“No worries. I’ll call if I find something.”
Gideon kept digging in the surrounding states of Wyoming and Idaho. He located several fires on the Wyoming and Montana border, and within a half hour, Bryce had texted him the locations of all the urban and rural fires.
Most of these incidents had been small and involved dumpsters, trash cans, and rubbish piles. In the rural areas, the brush fires had each destroyed less than an acre of woodland. Several had mysteriously extinguished themselves, which many had reported as minor miracles.
As he thumbed through the yellow notepad, he realized he needed to map out the fires. The only large map he had was the one Kyle had used for a Montana history project two years ago. He found it rolled up in a closet, and he flattened it out and pinned it to his wall.
He did not have pushpins to indicate locations, so he cut Post-it notes into small strips and began to mark each fire’s location. Green indicated rural fires, and purple denoted urban fires. It took more than an hour to geo mark all the events, but by the time he was finished, he could see distinct patterns.
Near Helena in 2018–19 was the large warehouse fire, and also dozens of rural fires in the surrounding counties in the months leading up to the fire. In 2016–17, several rural fires near Bozeman had ended up burning a few residences. And in 2019–20, a similar cluster had appeared in the Missoula area.
As Gideon stood back, staring at his makeshift geo-profiling system, he reached for his coffee, discovered it was cold, and went into his kitchen to make a fresh pot.
“He’s practicing. Building up his nerve in the country before coming into town,” he said to himself.
And if these fires had been started by the same man, then that definitely ruled out Elijah. No way he could have done any of them.
He took a picture of the map and prepared to text it to Joan. He paused. He knew his desire to share his findings with Joan was due to fatigue. Normally, he would not have considered it. If he could get a couple of hours of sleep, he would think more clearly. He deleted the text.
He sat on the couch, and the softness immediately coaxed him back. As he put his feet up, he glanced at his watch, noted the time. He just wanted to close his eyes and steal a few minutes of rest. The instant he did, his mind tripped back in time to a moment he had shared with Joan.
She was pulling the Christmas Day shift at Tucker’s Diner, and Gideon had skipped the family festivities so he could spend time with her. She always took the Christmas and New Year’s shifts because airfare home was expensive, and the double-time holiday pay was too rich to resist.
He sat at the breakfast bar decorated with silver garland. He made no secret that he liked watching Joan move about the diner in her pink uniform. The red Santa hat and earrings were a cute touch.
A dozen folks dotted the seats at the breakfast bar, and she moved down the row of customers with practiced efficiency. She chatted with everyone while staying on the go, setting down platters of food and refilling coffee cups.