Playing with Fire Page 8

  “Chief here knows the Lockes, my wife’s sister. Me and the family are staying with them. I won’t be around except in the evenings.”

  “Do you mind if I talk with your wife?”

  “She’s not talking much right now, but sure, give it a try. I gotta get back out there.”

  A man on a miserable mission, he rose, nodded and left.

  Silence hung heavy on the air for a couple of long minutes. Finally Wayne broke it. “You didn’t ask him who the contractor was.”

  “I didn’t need to. If my company wrote a check, we’ll have the records.”

  He nodded. “What else?”

  “A private conversation.”

  “How about a walk?”

  She shook her head and astonished him by raising one leg and waving her high-heeled pump at him. “Not in these. I’m not crazy.”

  After all that misery, he was surprised to hear a laugh escape him. “Go home. Change. I’ll catch up.”

  And now a lovely length of leg was branded on his memory, too. Sometimes a guy just couldn’t win.

  * * *

  Donna looked up as Charity walked out. “Did you get what you needed?” she asked.

  “Most of it. A few more things to look into.”

  Donna bit her lip. “Fred didn’t do it,” she said firmly.

  Charity paused, her hand on the knob of the door that led outside to the street. “Donna, I’m sorry. I can’t discuss cases openly.”

  Donna frowned. “I’m with the department.”

  “I know, but unless I need to question you about something, I’m limited to talking to the chief, the sheriff and my clients.” Charity softened it with a smile. “We all have rules to deal with.”

  She was glad to see Donna smile faintly. “Guess so.”

  Charity climbed into her car and drove home. She could understand Donna’s curiosity. The whole town was probably waiting to hear what happened to Fred Buell and whether an unlikable insurance company paid what it owed. Plus Donna had said Edna Buell was a lifelong friend.

  She was used to it. Most people resented paying for insurance until they needed it. Year after year those premium notices would roll in, and then large sums of money would roll out. And everyone, it sometimes seemed, had a horror story to tell about an insurance company.

  At home, she powered up her computer and checked out who had been paid for the Buell siding work. Then she changed into jeans and a sweater, and pulled out a light jacket. It was cooler here than Atlanta, and if they were going to walk, she needed to deal with her thin Southern blood.

  The interview with Fred Buell had really troubled her that morning. She felt true sympathy for the man and all the problems he was facing. At least the barn raising Saturday might help him get going again. She wondered just how fast that might happen. A single weekend? Longer?

  She shook her head a little at herself. She had a lot of experience, but it was of a different kind. Even though he’d grown up here, Wayne Camden admitted he didn’t know a whole lot about ranching. Separate worlds.

  And she needed to remember she came from a very separate world and had to go back. What had possessed her to raise her leg that way at Wayne? That went a bit beyond mere flirtatiousness, and she’d seen the heat in his gaze. Was she angling for a fling? Thank goodness she’d glanced out into the bay to be sure no one could see before she did it.

  Why not a fling? she thought. If they went in with clear ground rules, nobody should get hurt...unless this whole town heard about it. There was that to consider, because Wayne had to live here and had a daughter to think about. Also, she’d never been the type before to want a fling. How would she feel about herself if she did it this once?

  Probably pretty good. She giggled to herself. The temptation was huge. The downside minimal, as long as she got through it with some self-respect.

  A knock on the door startled her. She hadn’t heard a car pull up. When she went to answer it, she found Wayne standing there in jeans and a Western shirt. Mufti.

  “Where’d you come from?” she asked.

  “When you drive a fire-engine-red vehicle like mine with a light bar, your doings are pretty well tracked,” he said wryly. “The car’s at my place. Do you want to walk around town or go somewhere else?”

  “Aren’t you about as recognizable as your vehicle?”

  “Probably,” he admitted.

  “Then, come in. I don’t want anyone to overhear. I’ll make coffee and I have some fruit I bought yesterday.”

  “Everybody seems to know everyone’s business around here,” he remarked as he followed her to the tiny kitchen. “I don’t usually mind it, but if you want privacy, good luck.”

  She laughed. “You’ve mentioned that before. But just think, everyone knows everything except who’s committing arson.”

  “I know. That grabs you, doesn’t it?”

  She started the coffeepot, brought out the plastic tray of fruit with some napkins and led him to the living room while the coffee brewed. She devoted a whole ten seconds to drinking him in, then got to business.

  “I have a friend who’s an arson investigator with the Atlanta fire department. I called him yesterday.”

  Wayne sat up a little. “And?”

  “He thinks the scenario we worked out is possible. And frankly, he called it terrifying. He asked that we not publicize it.”

  Wayne shook his head. “No way. Not a word goes past the sheriff.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “That was next on my agenda.” He slapped his hand on his thigh. “Whoever came up with this is too damn smart. He knows this animal.”

  Charity understood exactly what he meant. Most arsonists failed at massive destruction because they didn’t understand fire well enough. The person who had done this did.

  “So we’re back to looking at my department.”

  “Not just,” she was quick to say. “For example, there’s a man right next door who knows fire, and probably others. You’ve got a community college, a great place to do research and gain understanding. You have opportunity in the form of the siding crew.”

  “I noticed that.” His expression couldn’t have been grimmer. “Do you know who they are yet?”

  “Masters Construction.”

  His head jerked a little bit. “Luke’s not the type. No way.”

  “He doesn’t have to be the type. Somebody he hired is enough. Then my friend said something else. He said this guy had to have tried it out first. We need to be looking for where he practiced this method.”

  “How could anyone...” He stopped. “I’ll try to avoid the stupid questions here. Okay, let me think.”

  She ached for him. She hardly knew him, yet she could sense how troubled he was. This was his community, he’d undertaken to protect his neighbors, he seemed to know most of them and he cared about them. Now here he was, watching something ugly creep through the community he had devoted himself to serving. That had to hurt.

  She rose and went to get the coffee, returning quickly with two full mugs to find Wayne pacing the tiny living room. He accepted the cup with thanks, sipped some and continued walking in tight circles. The man was wired.

  Not that she blamed him. She was a little wired, too, and she didn’t have a personal investment of any kind here.

  He waved his free hand. “Thousands and thousands of empty square miles out there. And that’s just this county. Neighboring counties are about the same. There are line shacks everywhere.”

  “Line shacks?”

  “From back in the days when cowboys rode the range all the time. It was a place to stay at the end of the day, closer than riding back home. Some are still used, some aren’t. Point is, you could probably find more than one isolated enough to practice some arson on, and i
f you’ve got a couple of good extinguishers, you’d probably never be found. Smoke might be noticed, but if it goes away quick enough, everybody shrugs and thinks a neighbor was burning something. As long as you keep control, it might be years before anyone discovered the damage.”

  “And it doesn’t even have to be in this county.”

  “No.”

  “Great,” she said. She sat on the edge of the couch and stared into her coffee mug. This was way beyond her purview and her training, hunting for an arsonist. Her mandate was to investigate the client, a long way from a manhunt, usually. And always with all kinds of official resources to help.

  The picture Wayne painted was dismal. At this point she could justifiably notify her company that the arson wasn’t related to the owner and close the file. Nagging questions remained, but they didn’t seem to point to Buell.

  Right or wrong, however, somehow she had gotten more wrapped up in this. Fred Buell had touched her. Wayne had touched her even more. He was a man facing an impossible task, and the state couldn’t even send him a trained investigator. The need to help in any way she could overpowered simple sense.

  He stopped pacing and looked at her. “You could close this now, couldn’t you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw the way you looked after you talked to Buell. You don’t think he had any part in this.”

  She hedged. “I still need to talk to his wife. To make sure the stories mesh.”

  He shook his head. “Charity...”

  She decided she didn’t need to be cagey with him. This guy was dealing with enough troubles given all the arson. “Honestly, no. I don’t think he did it. I’m going to close the file as soon as I talk to Mrs. Buell.”

  “Then you can get out of here.”

  “No.”

  He simply stared at her, as if trying to puzzle it out. “This isn’t your problem once you close the case. You should clear out before someone tries to burn your house down again.”

  “I’m not leaving.” She bit her lip. “Don’t ask me why, but this case is different. I don’t know how much I can help you, but I’m going to try. I’ll take some vacation and hang around. If you can stand me.”

  He shook his head a little and sat beside her on the couch. “The firefighter in you waking up?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’m watching you worry about a whole bunch of people you want to protect but can’t, and I talked to a rancher today who looked gutted but is giving thanks his family is okay. Call me a bleeding heart.”

  His thin mouth curved slightly. “I like your bleeding heart.” Then the phone on his belt buzzed.

  He blew air between his lips. “Never an uninterrupted conversation...” He put it to his ear. “Chief Camden.”

  He listened, then said, “On the way.” He disconnected and stood. “Fire out at another ranch, partly contained. Wanna suit up?”

  * * *

  She drove him to his house to pick up his car. Unsure why he’d asked her along, equally unsure why she was going. Curiosity? Or an old instinct that hadn’t died? A few minutes later they raced down quiet streets to the station. The trucks had already departed.

  Charity waited in the car while Wayne ran inside. She was surprised when he reappeared wearing a turnout suit but carrying another one. “What’s the extra suit for?” she asked as they zoomed away.

  “That’s for you.”

  Her heart slammed. “Chief, it’s been too long now. I can’t fight a fire.”

  “Not asking you to. It’s just protection if you need it.”

  Other thoughts roiled in her head. “Who’ll be in charge of the scene until you get there?”

  “Ken Banister, my assistant chief. He’s good.”

  “But you still have to go?”

  “Damn straight.”

  She decided to just hush. His face was set, and his mind was clearly on the fire ahead. As they reached the roads outside of town, they hit speeds that were close to the edge. She felt a surge of adrenaline, the excitement she used to feel as a volunteer. It ramped her up, stilled everything else and focused her tightly. Was it possible she missed this?

  “We don’t get this many calls in a month of Sundays,” he announced angrily over the sounds of his siren.

  She couldn’t think of a response to that. Besides, she was sure it was an exaggeration brought on by his worry about the ranch and about another arson. Every place had fires, big and small. A bit of carelessness, a short in the wiring, a space heater placed poorly... Causes for fires practically grew on trees. They might get fewer of them here than some places, but fire was an inescapable beast. Man’s best friend, yet his worst enemy.

  And this was no time to be getting philosophical.

  They caught up with the trucks about five miles out of town. These distances must be maddening for firefighters, she thought. All the time they were traveling, a fire was burning.

  “These distances must be frustrating.”

  “No point in thinking about it. Work the problem. That’s all we can do.”

  He was used to it, but she wasn’t. Minutes were crawling by and she was mentally on the edge of her seat, a silent timer running in her head. Ranchers were prepared; she knew that. They might arrive and find nothing left to do but cool down the scene and investigate the cause. Still the timer ticked away.

  Then she saw the wraith of dark gray smoke in the distance. She caught her breath as she caught sight of a second one. Not good. Two fires? Or the ends of one fire?

  They careened around a corner onto a rutted road. Wayne seemed to know the exact capabilities of this vehicle. The fire trucks ahead lumbered; however, keeping them from going any faster.

  She settled fully into the zone. Approaching a fire, ready for just about anything, full of enough adrenaline to keep her sharp, if not always careful.

  They roared through a ranch yard, past the house toward the smoke. At last they pulled up on some pastureland, where a shed was being doused by the rancher. Men leaped off one of the trucks and began unreeling hoses almost before the trucks fully stopped.

  Wayne climbed out, saying shortly, “Suit up. It’s in the grass.”

  From where she sat, she couldn’t see that, but she obeyed. Climbing out, she pulled on the turnout pants, adjusting the suspenders with practiced ease. Her shod feet jammed into boots quickly. The jacket slid over her shoulders with the weight of years past. She grabbed the helmet with a faceplate to protect her eyes from cinders and slipped back in time to another period in her life.

  Fifty pounds of heavy equipment. Hot already. She wasn’t used to it anymore. She shuffled a few steps over the uneven ground until she felt a little more at home and rounded the truck.

  The fire had spread from the shed out along a fence line where a lot of tumbleweeds had caught. Apparently the tumbleweeds blazed fast enough and hot enough that there was now a line of ashes and then fire stretching far out onto the prairie. Old wood fence posts had ignited as well, and flames still licked some of them.

  Suited or not, she had the sense to stay out of the way. She was rusty now, and besides, this was clearly a well-oiled team. One of the trucks raced down to the far end, almost beyond sight, where more tumbleweeds were beginning to burn. So far the green spring growth hadn’t caught, but if the fires burned long enough, it could desiccate and ignite, too.

  She hung back while Wayne took over direction of the scene. She watched as they turned the shack into sodden ribs of wood, but the work on the fire line was more interesting. The trucks rode along from both ends, using water cannons the entire length of the fire, while the remaining firefighters walked behind with shovels, checking for embers, turning a lot of earth.

  “How come you’re not working?”

  She turned and saw the rancher, dusty and sweaty and smear
ed with soot. Apparently he’d stepped back from his efforts to let the pros take over.

  “I’m not a firefighter anymore,” she answered. “I’m just observing. What happened?”

  “Danged if I know. It’s just a shed and I haven’t used it much since I got that steel barn. I was thinking of tearing it down before one of the kids got hurt in it. They like to use it for a fort, but rusty nails are starting to poke out everywhere. Off-limits now. Anyway, it wasn’t a big deal until that tumbleweed caught fire. I guess I waited just a little too long to get rid of it.”

  “I guess,” she said. “How do you get rid of it?”

  “Me and the hands burn it. Got a big concrete box behind the barn for stuff like that.” He shook his head. “I really need my butt kicked. Guess I got the kick.”

  He wandered off toward the house where she could see a woman and three children standing on the porch. At this distance, she couldn’t tell their ages, but guessed them to range from about eight into the young teens.

  Prime suspects, she thought with grim amusement. She’d almost bet that when Wayne started poking in that shack, he was going to find matches or a lighter. Fooling around. The kind of fooling around that led to a lesson well learned...unless there was an incipient firebug in the group.

  With all hands helping, the fire was soon out. Part of the rancher’s fence was gone, too, but she suspected he dealt with that kind of problem on a regular basis.

  Wayne left his crew, pulling off his helmet and tugging down his Nomex hood. He walked straight over to the family on the porch, and Charity, ignoring her own discomfort, moved close enough to overhear without being obvious. If she held her head the right way, the helmet acted almost like an amplifier.

  “So,” said Wayne, “if I go into what’s left of that shed and look around, am I’m going to find signs that someone was playing with fire?”

  The youngest spilled the beans instantly. “It was Brad. He wanted to make some s’mores.”

  Problem solved, Chastity thought. Concealing a grin, she headed back to the car and gratefully shed the turnout suit. The smell of wet ash stung her nose.

  The fresh breeze felt good on her overheated and damp skin, a relief. She noted how quickly the firefighters did the same, removing their extraneous gear before making another check along the fence line.