“Because I decided to stay here,” Ann said. “I like being close to Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Is it because you got pregnant with me?” Nate asked.
It did not take a math genius to backdate his conception to his parents’ wedding. “That was part of the reason. And for the record, I made the right choice.”
Nate’s frown deepened as Kyle asked, “May we build the fire now?”
“Finish your chili and then put your plates in the sink,” Ann said.
The boys quickly finished their meals and hurried their dishes into the kitchen. Seconds later, the back door opened and then slammed closed.
“You let them build the fire alone?” Joan asked.
“Yes. But I’m there when they light it.”
“In my neighborhood, fires are contained to grills,” Joan said. “And even then, I keep my distance.”
She glanced out the window and watched as the boys rushed toward the stone firepit with armloads of wood. Both worked together to place kindling in the bottom and build a tripod of wood over it.
“My father says any self-respecting cowboy knows how to handle a fire.”
Shifting away from the subject, she asked, “Is Nate really ready for high school, let alone college?”
“Intellectually,” she said. “He’s still a kid, and I’m trying to give him as normal a life as possible. But he needs the academic stimulation, so he’s auditing a class this fall to keep him engaged.”
“Clarke on board with this?”
“He’s for whatever is good for Nate.” Ann set her napkin down by her half-empty bowl. “It’s nice outside tonight. Let’s have another glass outside.”
Joan ate the last of her buttered biscuit. “I shouldn’t, but I will.”
Ten minutes later, they were on the porch, and she was sitting in a wooden rocker. Nate and Kyle’s logs would have made any Boy Scout proud. Ann handed a flint lighter to each boy and took a step back, watching closely as they lit the kindling tucked in the center. The blaze caught quickly among the carefully placed logs.
Joan eased back in her chair and firmly planted her feet on the ground. Tension rippled up her body as the heat from the flames warmed her.
Ann took the chair beside her. “You okay?”
“Sure, I’m fine.”
“Joan, I’m a psychologist,” she said softly so Nate couldn’t hear. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m tired. Been burning the candle at both ends, no pun intended.”
“Can I get more wood?” Nate asked.
“Sure,” Ann said. “But we won’t be out here more than an hour. It’s been a long day.”
“Understood,” he said before the boys set off in search of wood.
Ann watched as Nate and Kyle vanished into the shadows. “We’ve never talked about the College Fire.”
“It was a near miss for us both. We should count our lucky stars.” She tucked her feet in, trying to be relaxed and casual as the fire consumed the wood. She was not in the mood for a counseling session about PTSD or phobias.
“Fire makes you nervous,” Ann said.
“No wonder, given my history,” Joan said.
“I didn’t notice it in college, but Clarke did. He said you always kept your distance at the bonfires.”
“We all have our quirks.” She heard the boys arguing about which types of wood to collect. Kyle’s theories about the proper wood-to-burn ratios were as strong as Nate’s. “They’re having fun.”
“Nate hasn’t seen Kyle all summer, and he’s missed having his cousin around. The other boys at the elementary school tease Nate about leaving them behind this fall. Some are intimidated by his intelligence, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care.”
“He has the Bailey good heart.” Joan drew in a few breaths, feeling her throat tighten and her palms sweat. “I wish them both happiness.”
“I doubt Gideon really has been happy since you left.”
Joan stared into her wineglass and the play of light from the fire. “I don’t believe that.”
“He’s always felt like he failed you, Joan. Wished he had tried living back east with you.”
Joan had realized her mistake two months after the fire. She had called Ann, fear tangling with hope as she’d asked about Gideon.
“He’s married, Joan,” Ann had said.
Joan had gripped the phone, certain it was a bad connection. “What?”
“He married Helen. She’s pregnant.”
Joan had sat down, her head spinning. “What?”
“She’s eight weeks along, and before you say anything, Clarke and I are also married. I’m pregnant, too.”
Now, in the distance, an owl hooted and brought Joan back to the present. She cleared her throat, hoping she sounded steadier than she felt. “I’m not sure I can make anyone happy. I’m moody and difficult on my best days, and if you hadn’t noticed, I’m a workaholic.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Ann said, smiling.
Joan allowed a small smile of her own. “Yep, it’s true.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Ann asked, “What do you think you’re going to do about Elijah? He’s served his time. He’s free to do whatever he wishes.”
“I thought about that on the plane. There’s nothing I can do legally, but I feel in my bones that he has a bigger agenda.”
“What kind of agenda?”
“You told me how angry he was after his conviction and how he still insists he’s innocent. He’s back in Missoula because he wants something. You think it’s revenge?”
Ann paled. “I don’t know what Elijah wants.”
“If he and I can build a rapport, maybe he’ll reveal himself to me. Secrets always have a way of coming out. The trick is to be on the lookout for the signs.”
The flames in the pit crackled as they ate through the wood. The tripod Nate had built collapsed in a flurry of sparks and fire.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” Ann said.
“I don’t. But that’s never stopped me before.”
Confessions of an Arsonist
Burning brush and wood has its own pleasure, but watching the fire eat through property and destroy what others love . . .
It’s a rush beyond measure.
CHAPTER FOUR
Missoula, Montana
Saturday, September 5, 2020
7:15 p.m.
The fire sirens wailed in the distance as Elijah Weston sat on the front porch of his new residence, a boardinghouse five blocks from the university. It was a split-level, five-bedroom house and his home until he could get a better place.
But for now, he would share a bathroom with Rodney DuPree, a recovering drug addict. And if he was really hard up for company, he could sit in the den during the evenings and watch television with the other two residents. Their names escaped him, which suited Elijah just fine.
The owner of the house, Ax Pickett, was a former Vietnam vet who had opened the boardinghouse as a tribute to his dead wife, Delilah. In his early seventies, Pickett had a long, lean frame and weathered features that suggested many years in a saddle.
Though Delilah was long gone, her porcelain cups, blousy pink drapes, and overstuffed furniture covered in rose chintz remained. Her recipes were cooked at mealtime, and her rocker remained beside Pickett’s on the porch. Delilah’s house rules, which had straightened out Pickett, also still applied. There was no cussing. Smoking was limited to the front porch. And according to Rodney, Pickett did not allow drinking except for the first Saturday of the month, when he indulged in his six-pack limit.
Elijah sat forward, listening as another fire truck’s siren raced down one of the central streets. His heartbeat kicked, and a familiar pleasant tension pulsed in his veins as he imagined the flashing lights and the truck racing toward the blaze. Those first few seconds at a fire were always exciting. Fires were an enigma, even to those closest to them.
He drew in a breath and forced himself to sit back in the chair as he stared at the remains of the black graffiti, ARSONST LEAVE! spray-painted on the sidewalk. The misspelled warning had been waiting for him when he arrived last night, and he had spent a couple of hours today scrubbing the paint with hot soapy water and a wire brush. A faint outline of the words still remained, but he would see to it again tomorrow.
As tempted as he was to go and witness the fire, the words were a reminder that being seen near a blaze would be his one-way ticket back to prison.
Missoula was one of the biggest towns in Montana, but the reality was it was a small town with fewer than seventy thousand people. There were three fire departments in town. The one on Pine Street served the city, whereas the other two were on the outer edges of town. Of course, all three would respond to any fire that needed all hands on deck.
Hearing the multiple sirens confirmed that the blaze was growing larger and fiercer.
The front door squeaked open, and Elijah looked over his shoulder to see Pickett step out onto the porch. Nodding a greeting, the old man walked toward the porch rail and removed a cigarette packet and lighter from his jeans pocket.
Pickett struck the flint of his lighter, holding it up for a moment before he pressed it to the tip of his cigarette. The tip flared with an orange glow magnified by the graying sky. White smoke puffed and swirled around narrowing eyes that looked toward the direction of the sirens.