Burning for Autumn

by Freya Barker

  “I thought we’d catch up here tonight,” I suggest. “I stocked up on wine and beer and picked up a few munchies. We can go another night.”

  “Then m-maybe you can ask your buddy to come,” Sophie directs at her boyfriend. “Wouldn’t hurt Autumn to m-meet s-some new people.”

  “I can do that.”

  Neither of them seems to notice my eyes rolling. “It’s not like I need help, guys.” Both sets of doubting eyes settle on me and I look from one to the other. “Well, I don’t.”

  Keith

  Crap.

  Analysis came back on the dregs in the whiskey bottle.

  Aside from Jack Daniels, they found benzodiazepine. The drug combined with the alcohol alone could’ve been lethal, even without the fire. Doug Boynton didn’t escape just one, but two bullets.

  It also confirms that whoever is setting these fires, fully intended for the victim to be in that trailer, which makes this a case of attempted murder, not just arson.

  Grabbing the report, I kick back my chair and head over to Ramirez’s cubicle. He’s still at his desk, eating a sandwich over a fast food wrapper.

  “D’you see this?” I slap the report on the desk next to his dinner.

  “Yup,” he says, taking another bite before he turns, tilting his head at the computer screen. “I also just pulled up the detailed lab report on the accelerant. Have a look.”

  “What am I looking at?” I lean over the back of his chair and try to decipher what I’m reading, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.

  “See that?” he says, pointing at something I can’t pronounce. “That’s kerosene, and this here is a compound found in anti-freeze: methyl alcohol. Those are the two predominant components. All readily available, but what is interesting is the burn pattern. The report suggests, according to the burn pattern, the cocktail may have been sprayed instead of poured.”

  “How does that match up with the earlier fires?”

  “To a T. Same components, spray pattern, the whole bit.”

  “A firebug.”

  “Looks that way. Hey, by the way.” Tony peeks over the walls of his cubicle before he changes subjects. “My buddy, Joe Benedetti.”

  I do a quick scan of the office myself, but there’s no one within hearing distance. “Yeah? What about him?”

  “Coming to visit his old friend the weekend after next. You should keep your calendar open.”

  I grin and clap him on the shoulder. “I will.” I take a quick look at the clock. “Shit, I should get out of here. I was supposed to meet up with someone five minutes ago.”

  “Hot date?”

  “Fuck no—a buddy visiting from Texas.”

  I call Chief the moment I get behind the wheel to let him know I’ll be a few minutes late.

  He’s already sitting at the bar of the Diamond Belle Saloon when I walk in. Since he took me down to the River Walk when I was in San Antonio a few years ago, I figured I’d give him a taste of Durango history in return.

  Roman Proudfit and I met at a US First Responders Association (USFRA) Emergency Preparedness Conference about five years ago. He’d stuck out because he wasn’t hiding his heritage, but didn’t flaunt it either. He carried it proudly. Even then, in his mid-twenties, he was very composed, which surprised me. I had expected the cocky sense of entitlement you often see in his generation, but that wasn’t him. He was a leader, he was smart, he was spiritual, and he quickly earned my respect.

  We’ve stayed in touch over the years, but this is his first visit to Durango.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” he says, when I pull out a stool.

  “Can’t do Durango without doing the Diamond Belle.” I point at his glass. “What are you having?”

  “Something Pinstripe? All I know it’s a red ale and it’s pretty decent.”

  “Ska Pinstripe, that’s a local brew.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Want another?”

  Instead of answering, he sucks down the rest of his draft and slams the glass back on the counter with a grin. I hold up two fingers for the bartender, who needs no more instruction and starts filling glasses.

  “So where is your girl? I thought I was going to meet her?”

  Chief’s otherwise stoic face softens at the mention of his woman. “She’s hanging with her friend, but they were talking about going out another night. Sophie told me to invite you.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Chief starts grinning. “I don’t think you get it, Keith. Sophie’s looking to get her friend hooked up.”

  Well, shit. If he asked me this two weeks ago I probably wouldn’t have thought too hard about it.

  “I don’t know, Roman. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to meet this girl, who was able to drag you on the first vacation since I’ve known you, but I’m not really in the market for some kind of blind date.”

  “I hear you. I did my duty,” he says taking a sip of his draft. “To be honest, I don’t think Autumn was up for the idea either.”

  My ears suddenly perk up. “Autumn?”

  “Yeah, Sophie’s friend? She moved here about two months—”

  “Friday night’s good for me,” I interrupt him, wearing a grin. “What time?”

  His head swings around and his confusion is almost comical. “What the fuck?”

  Before I have a chance to explain, my phone rings.

  “Blackfoot.”

  “Boss? We’ve got another one.”

  Chapter 5

  Keith

  “This guy have a hard-on for trailers or what?”

  Apparently so.

  When I mentioned I had to go, that a local firebug apparently had struck again, Chief followed me out and hopped in the passenger seat of my Tahoe. This trailer fire was on the north side of town again, except along the river this time.

  “And why at this time of night?” Chief ponders out loud.

  “That’s a good point. Why not overnight when there’s less chance there’ll be witnesses?”

  I don’t really expect an answer and it’s quiet the rest of the drive, until we see the flashing lights and a small crowd gathering in the glow of the flames.

  “Unless…” He points a finger at the crowd. “He’s looking to be seen. This is not for his own gratification, he’s doing it for someone else’s.”

  The only difference from last week is that this trailer backs onto the Animas River instead of the railroad. Apparently the crew got here early enough to douse a neighboring trailer, to prevent it from going up as well. In every other way this scene is eerily similar. Behind the fire engines, one of my guys is trying to back up a nosy crowd, only partially successful, and I spot Evan hacking down some brush surrounding the trailer. It’s been bone-dry here since the beginning of May, that low brush will go up like tinder and act like fuel for a hungry fire.

  The only person I don’t see is the fire chief, until I spot him standing with what looks to be a woman with several small children, all huddled together next to an ambulance. I head straight over there with Chief beside me.

  “Blackfoot.” Curtis sees me coming and steps away from the small group, throwing a curious glance at my company.

  “Buxton,” I respond in kind. “Roman Proudfit, San Antonio Fire Department. Roman, meet Chief Buxton.”

  “Sir.” Roman nods respectfully.

  Buxton all but ignores him, which sets my teeth on edge, now’s not the time to get into it.

  “Single mom, three kids under five. EMTs have the baby in the ambulance.”

  He gives me a brief synopsis of the situation. From the sounds of it, the family was lucky. Mother had fallen asleep on the couch watching TV. Her kids were already down for the night on the far side of the trailer, and the baby was in a cot in the mother’s bedroom on the opposite end. She woke up when she heard glass break. Her two oldest started screaming, so she ran for them. The small bedroom had already filled with thick smoke and flames were leaking in from the window, but she
managed to grab the two kids and hurried out with them. The first engine rolled up just as she was going to run back inside. Apparently she fought tooth and nail as they tried to restrain her, while one of the firefighters went in. By the time he came out carrying the baby, both ends of the trailer were already engulfed in flames.

  The implications are chilling.

  “Bastard,” Roman mutters under his breath.

  “Psycho is more like it,” Buxton contributes. “Fucker lit that thing from both ends.”

  I’m about to ask the woman a few questions when Ramirez shows up. Making sure he’s up-to-date, I leave him to question witnesses and manage the scene. I tilt my head, letting Chief know I’m ready to get out of here, and he follows me to my vehicle.

  “It’s not just about the fire,” he says when we pull away from the scene. “This guy intended for there to be victims. Fucking babies.”

  His angry vibes fire up the already charged atmosphere in the truck. I’m fucking furious myself. And frustrated. The first couple of fires were just structural, but whoever this son of a bitch is, he’s just upped his game.

  “I hope to Christ he left some incriminating evidence. Anything we can put our teeth into, because right now we’ve got nothing concrete to go on.”

  “Maybe one of her neighbors saw something,” Roman suggests.

  “Here’s to hoping, but I’m not holding my breath.” Without thinking, I pull into my slot at the police station. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m gonna be busy for at least a few hours. Can I drop you off somewhere?”

  “I can walk. We’re actually staying just down the road. Autumn’s place is on East 3rd.” I file that snippet of information away as we get out. “Invitation for Friday stands,” he says clasping my hand. “Provided you can get away.”

  “I plan to be there. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sounds good.” He starts to walk away, and I move toward the station when I hear him call out. “Hey, Blackfoot!”

  “What’s up?” I turn to find him standing on the edge of the parking lot.

  “You’ve heard of hero syndrome, right? Don’t be blind to whatever might be under your nose.”

  Well, fuck.

  Autumn

  “Isn’t that nuts?”

  I look up to see Jen sliding into the seat across from me. I’m just having a quick bite at the hospital cafeteria, since I overslept this morning. Not sure if it was the bottles of wine Sophie and I killed last night, or the sore muscles, after those crazy kids hoisted me up on a zip line before that.

  They’d been ready and waiting for me when I got home at around one yesterday, just telling me to prepare for an adventure. I never bow down to a challenge, but I had to swallow damn hard when we drove up on the parking lot of Zip Line Durango.

  I don’t do heights. Not if I can avoid it anyway.

  I almost backed out, then Chief raised his eyebrow at me. Cocky bastard. He knows how to get me going and I was first in line to get strapped into a harness, determined to show him. I showed him all right. When I had solid ground under my feet again, my body felt like it had just been hauled through a cement mixer, and I had no voice. I’d left that behind in the treetops—where I screamed so loud—I’m pretty sure I scared the bird population clear into New Mexico.

  Sophie suggested the wine was celebratory, but for me it had been purely medicinal.

  Either way, the overindulgence coupled with the aching body kept me in bed too long, and I’d had no chance for breakfast before my first appointment. Hence, my desperate grab for hospital food. I have two more patient appointments, and a weekly report to write before I can get out of here.

  “Isn’t what nuts?”

  “Those fires. There was another one set on Wednesday night. They brought in a nine-month-old baby in respiratory distress with some second degree burns.”

  “I know about the baby, I have an appointment with her mother in fifteen minutes, but what do you mean ‘set’?”

  “Just like Mr. Boynton’s. That hot firefighter I saw you talking to last week?” She waves her hand in front of her face. “That guy can rescue me any day of the week. And he’s so sweet—he showed up to check on that baby this morning—I about melted.”

  “Are you talking about Evan?” I ask, mildly amused at her ‘high school girl with a crush’ dramatics. Gives me something to fire back with next time she grills me about Keith Blackfoot.

  “The guy with the red hair? Is that his name?” I see her make a mental note before she continues, “Anyway, he mentioned something about this being the fifth fire in the past month and a half.”

  I’m still thinking about that when I walk into the little girl’s room ten minutes later. A large teddy bear dressed in firefighter’s gear is tucked at the feet of the sleeping baby. Evan’s doing, most likely. He really is a good guy and part of me wishes I could feel something other than purely platonic sentiments toward the easygoing man. Instead, my traitorous mind seems stuck on a brooding, complex cop instead.

  Shannon, little Brooklyn’s mom, readily agrees to enroll her daughter into one of the active clinical trials. She doesn’t have insurance and the prospect of free care and treatment for her little one is a major incentive. Although the baby’s injuries are limited to second-degree burns, they are on one side of her scalp and forehead, and will at least, in part, be visible. This new treatment promises to minimize scarring and I really hope it works for Brooklyn.

  It’s pretty sobering to hear all Shannon’s belongings have gone up in flames. She tells me her other two kids are in the care of her folks, who live just south of town, and she feels fortunate she and her children at least have a temporary roof over their heads at her parents’ place.

  Given that Brooklyn will likely be released in the next day or two, we end up setting a schedule for Shannon to bring her daughter in. I do my best to schedule around her work hours, even if that means an occasional appointment at night. It’s the least I can do for this poor woman.

  When I finally get home, it’s already after three. An hour later than planned, because on my way out the door after my last appointment, Jeff—the barn fire victim—showed up. He happened to be at the hospital and popped in with some concern about the graft on his chest. He complained about itching and, even though that’s a normal part of the healing process, I offered to take a quick look.

  The house is quiet. I guess Sophie and Chief aren’t back from their hike up Perins Peak yet. That’s an activity I was glad to beg off, especially with muscles I never even knew I had still aching from yesterday’s outing. A bath might be nice, actually. A slow soak to ease my body and relax my mind.

  It takes me a few minutes to figure out the damn jets on the tub—it’s my first time using it—but I get them going. I set my phone on the windowsill where I can reach it, and sinking down in the water, groan out loud when the bubbles hit all the right spots. Bliss. With my eyes closed, I let my thoughts drift.

  I may have dozed off, because when my phone chimes with an incoming message, I scramble upright in the tub, almost knocking it into the water with me.

  Sophie: Home in 30. Need anything? Food?

  I wipe my hand on a towel and quickly message back.

  Me: Nope. All good. We’ll grab a bite at the pub.

  Sophie: K.

  My eyes catch the message just below from Unknown—the comment about my hair—and a small charge ripples over my skin. Keith. I never got a reaction to my threat to cut it off. To be honest, I’d half expected him to show up at the hospital. Ridiculous, I’ve had all of two run-ins with him, three if you count the text, and none of them particularly pleasant, but I can’t get the man out of my head.

  I shift slightly in the tub, trying to decide whether to come out, when forced bubbles skim an area of my body that hasn’t seen a lot of activity lately. Another slight shift has the spray of water hit right on target. A tingle starting at the apex of my thighs spreads a warm wave up my belly. A hand smoothing over skin chases the sensation to
the tip of my breast where the hot rush of blood peaks my nipple. My mouth falls open and my eyes close, imagining the rough scrape of deft fingers driving me toward climax. The memory of an assessing hazel gaze, and the amused twitch of strong lips, is enough to trigger a deep, bone-melting release.

  Damn him.

  “Nice place,” Roman comments, looking around with approval.

  We managed to secure a booth along the wall and take a seat. The Irish is a busy place on Friday nights: almost every table is taken. Other than the bartender, who nods when he spots me, I only see one or two familiar faces.

  “You know what, I’ll go grab us some drinks from the bar.” Chief’s ass barely hits the seat when he’s up again, weaving his way to the ancient copper and oak bar. Within seconds, he’s chatting with a guy at the bar wearing a DFD shirt.

  “We’ll be lucky to s-see him back tonight,” Sophie observes, and I turn at her words. The warm smile as she looks at her man’s back allays any worries there might be trouble in paradise. She clearly doesn’t begrudge him his fun. “This place is right up in his wheelhouse.”

  “I thought it might be.”

  “I’m just s-sorry his buddy is caught up with work and can’t m-make it.”

  I don’t respond. I don’t want to let Sophie know I was relieved when I heard there would just be three of us.

  A waitress stops by the table, and since Chief doesn’t look like he’ll be back with those drinks anytime soon, we place an order with her. Over a loaded platter of nachos and drinks, we catch up on friends and a bit of gossip from back home.

  We’re on to our second drink when Sophie’s attention shifts to me. “Tell m-me truthfully, how are you doing?”

  “Good. Like I said before: the hospital is fantastic, the people are great, and I love my work. I really enjoy being able to see the actual impact of the work I’ve done in the lab for so many years.”