She tried the doorknob but found it locked. As she looked along the back of the house, she spotted what appeared to be a slightly open window. She slinked down to the window and peered inside. With no search warrant, anything in this house would be inadmissible in court. She could get herself arrested, and whatever chance she had of catching Avery Newport would go up in smoke.
Reason screamed for her not to go inside.
“Jesus, Joan, you’ve lost your mind,” she whispered.
She pushed open the window and listened for the beep of an alarm system. The house remained silent as she glanced left and right and then hoisted herself through the window and onto the floor.
She had landed in Clarke and Ann’s bedroom. The large king-size mattress was directly on the floor and covered in a tangle of blankets and sheets. Clothes were scattered about, and a couple of pairs of boots lay in the corner.
Joan picked up one of the shirts and raised it to her nose. The scent of smoke clung to the rough cotton, but she could already hear the defense attorney arguing it was common for firefighters to have clothes that smelled of smoke.
She walked over to a bureau and saw the collection of framed pictures. There were several of Ann and Nate. And there was also the picture taken of Ann and Clarke in college all those years ago.
She moved through the darkened house, listening for any signs that she was not alone. A clock ticked in the house, and a refrigerator hummed.
In the living room was a wide-screen television, recliner, and TV tray. She could tell the furnishings had been selected by Ann, but Clarke had made no effort to keep it clean.
In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and noted there were two large milk jugs. Clarke did not strike her as the type to gulp down milk, but it was plausible, given he had a son. She could also argue that the jugs could be easily drained and filled with gasoline. Nice theory that was not even remotely strong enough to support a search warrant.
She opened the kitchen pantry and found a box of heavy-duty rags, five empty gallon-size milk jugs, and a ten-day supply of boxed macaroni and cheese. She snapped pictures of the rags and then the milk jugs.
Why had he stockpiled the jugs? Was he really into recycling, or was he saving the jugs for another fire?
Outside, a flash of headlights swiped across the front of the house. Closing the pantry, she dashed to the bedroom window, exited, and lowered it to where she had found it. Behind her, she could hear the front door open.
She raced across the yard and into the woods, crouching as she watched the house. The kitchen light clicked on, and she saw Clarke standing at the sink. He stared into the woods, almost as if he knew someone had been in his house. She ducked down, lowering her gaze, fearing he would somehow sense her presence.
He opened the back door and stepped out onto the patio, peering into the darkness. He was holding a paper bag.
Finally, he turned and opened a side shed. Stacked inside were three gas cans. He chose one, opened the grill, and dumped the paper contents of the bag onto it. He poured a liberal portion of gasoline on the debris and then pulled a packet of matches from his pocket. He struck one, stared at it a beat, and then tossed it onto the grill.
The flames shot up in an angry, explosive whoosh. Any sane person would have stepped back, but Clarke held his position. She could not tell if he was daring the flames or if he was simply drawn to the heat.
The night chill seeped into her bones, and as tempted as she was to leave, she did not dare make a sound.
As she watched, the flames slowly died down. Clarke stoked the flames with a stick several times.
He had all the elements of the incendiary devices that had set fire to the beauty shop, Ann’s shed, and the Halpern cabin. Lots of pieces that any good defense attorney would argue were strictly benign, just as Avery Newport’s lawyer had done. Who did not have milk, rags, and gasoline? It was not a crime to burn papers on a grill. Or to have a picture of your wife from college.
Clarke remained by the fire, the glow of the embers shadowing his firm jaw and hooded brows. After about fifteen minutes, he closed the lid and glanced back at the woods one last time before entering the house. The lights shut off in the kitchen, and soon his car drove away.
She waited until the headlights had completely vanished before she ran back to the patio to inspect the grill. She lifted the lid and stared at the hot, smoldering embers. Whatever he had burned had been reduced to blackened ashes. What was so important to bring him home just to burn one stack of papers? She grabbed a stick from the yard and burrowed through the ashes. She found a fragment of a picture featuring what looked like a blue blouse very similar to the one she had been wearing in the pictures found all those years ago in Elijah’s dorm room after the College Fire. She knew those pictures had been taken in the bar, but even now, she did not remember seeing Elijah there. But Clarke had been present that night with Ann, Gideon, and her.
She replaced the lid and tucked the picture fragment in her pocket. If Clarke had set the recent fires, then it was plausible that he had also set the College Fire. Framing Elijah would have been the perfect way to eliminate a rival.
The same gut feeling that had convinced her that Avery had set her fire was even stronger now. But in a court of law, feelings meant nothing.
Dan was not sure what had woken him up from his drunken stupor. He reached for a beer but found only empty cans on the side table. He glanced at the sweatpants covering the thick bandage and was pleased to see that the bleeding had finally stopped. He had been lucky. Elijah had been so quick with the blade that he never saw it.
That would be the last time he brought a baseball bat to an ambush. The next time it would be a gun and a lot more caution.
The back of his neck tingled, and he had the faintest sensation that something was off. But before he could process the feeling, a plastic bag was slipped over his head and quickly tightened around his neck.
He sucked in air, using up what little remained inside the bag. He reached up for the hands holding the bag, but the booze combined with a lack of oxygen made his movements sloppy and ineffective.
The air gone, his senses screamed as panic cut through him, his head dropped back, and his world went black.
Joan called the hospital and discovered that Elijah had been released, so she drove to the boardinghouse, where she found him sitting on the front porch.
When she walked up, he moved to rise and winced, so she beckoned him to sit. “I thought they were going to keep you another day.”
“As you already know, I’m not fond of confinement.” He shifted in his rocker and leaned back until he seemed to settle on a comfortable spot.
“Do your doctors know you left?” she asked.
“I’m sure they do by now.” He sniffed. “How was the half-birthday party?” he asked.
“You know about that?”
He shrugged. “I keep up.”
She sat in the rocker beside him and steered the conversation away from the boys. “I would like to run a hypothetical scenario past you.”
His eyes brightened with interest. “All ears.”
“If someone had several empty milk jugs, rags, and gasoline in their house, what conclusion would you draw about them?”
“You have not given me enough variables,” he said. “What else can you tell me about the individual?”
“All those elements could be put together to make an incendiary device.”
“Sure. But it’s certainly not a given.”
“This person burned papers on a backyard grill.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary there, either, Joan.”
“Could a small, controlled fire on a grill be a way of a guy letting off steam?”
“Maybe. It’s also an efficient way to dispose of important papers. Identity theft is a real problem these days. My cellmate was doing time for that very crime.”
She should have been having this conversation with Gideon, but he would never have approved of her methods. And he had been Clarke’s friend since childhood. Their boys were best friends. As much as she wanted to do it all by the book, she wanted—no, needed—to catch the arsonist more.
“We can keep playing this game of guess who,” Elijah said. “Or you can tell me what you’ve really been up to.”
It was so tempting to trust him and tell him about her suspicions of Clarke. He had a calm voice that lulled her into believing that they had somehow become friends. But they were not friends. She sensed in her gut that though he might not have set the fires, he had an agenda that might one day put them at odds. She recalled the scorpion and the frog fable and was damn sure she was not going to end up the poor, trusting frog.
“Maybe later. I need more before I name names.”
“Be very careful, Joan. If you know about this individual, chances are you’re on his radar.”
“Where have you been?”
Gideon’s rough voice reached out from the darkness, halting Joan midstep as she approached the side entrance to the garage apartment. She paused and turned slowly, doing her best to look casual.
“You startled me.”
He stepped out of the shadows. “Where have you been? Ann said you left a couple of hours ago.”
“Checking up on me?”
“I thought you might have gotten lost on the road.”
“You could have called me.”
“I did. Twice.”