A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  Seeing her expression, he put the tools down, came over and sat beside her, laying an arm around her shoulders. "Don't take it so hard. It was a good theory, but never more than that. We'll still find it somehow."

  "I know," she answered, "but I was so sure it was here; it just seemed so... right, somehow."

  "Come on," he said, getting up and collecting his tools. "You'll feel better when you've had lunch and cleaned up. What time do you have to be at work?"

  He reached down a hand to help her up, then continued to hold hers even after she was on her feet.

  "Around three-thirty, but Peter—"

  "Where's your favorite place to eat?" he interrupted.

  "The seafood place on Chatway. But I don't think they'll let us in." She looked down at her smudged, filthy jeans and sweat-soaked shirt. She didn't even want to know what her face looked like. Peter wasn't any cleaner or cooler.

  "You're right." He grinned. "Where's your favorite place we can go in our present condition?"

  "I'm not sure they'd let us in the city dump the way we look right now," she said, "but any hamburger place will do."

  He didn't even flinch; he was beginning to know her well enough to expect it. "Do you know one that has a salad bar?"

  "Yes," she answered.

  "Let's go."

  That night was the first quiet, routine work night she'd had for days. Aside from the sensation caused by the mud-and-ink shaded bruise on her face, it was just the normal frantic business of putting out a newspaper. She told co-workers she'd had an accident, but fudged on the details.

  She slept late Sunday morning, an unusual occurrence, but then she'd been keeping unusual hours the past few days. The blare of the telephone roused her at ten o'clock. Cathy crawled out of bed, hoping whoever it was would give up so she could go back to sleep. No such luck.

  Peter, on the other end, sounded irritatingly alert and decidedly upset. He ignored her grunted "good morning", and jumped right in. "Have you seen or heard from Danny since yesterday?"

  "Who?"

  "Danny. Danny Stark. You remember, we saw him yesterday morning?"

  "Oh, yeah, I guess so."

  "Cathy, are you awake?"

  "No. Is it a crime? I work late."

  "I'm sorry, I forgot." He actually did sound vaguely penitent. "I was so worried, I didn't think."

  Her mind was stirring into wakefulness and she didn't like the drift of this. "What's the matter? Is something wrong with Danny? What has he done now?"

  Peter sighed into the phone. "Disappeared," he said.

  -24-

  Sunday - Monday

  "What?" She came to full consciousness with a jerk. "What do you mean disappeared?"

  "I called his house this morning," Peter said. "His mother said Danny left the house soon after we did yesterday, and he hasn't been back. It's not unusual for him to be out late, so she didn't get worried until this morning when she discovered he hadn't come home at all."

  "Are any of his things gone?"

  "I don't know," he answered. "Mrs. Stark isn't in good shape right now. I can't blame her; she just buried one son, and her only other child has disappeared. I'm going over there in a few minutes. I'll see what I can find out."

  "Do you want me to come with you?"

  "No. I can handle things here. I'd rather you stay where you are. Danny called you once before when he needed help; he might do it again. I'll set my phone to forward to yours, and I'll get back in touch when I know something more."

  He hung up, and she flirted with going back to bed, but knew it was hopeless. Not only was she wide awake now, she was worried as well. Work was the only cure, but in this case it wouldn't solve anything, and might not even make her feel better.

  Still there was plenty to do around the place. She'd neglected the chores rather badly the last few days. There was still the disposal of the remaining exotic cultures in the refrigerator to be seen to; the freezer needed defrosting; the floor mopping; and the bathroom was unsightly...

  By two o'clock, the refrigerator and freezer shined with short-lived but soul-satisfying splendor. Cathy, however, was a wreck and not entirely because of the grime that smudged her shorts and shirt. When the phone rang, she dove for it like a drowning victim after a life preserver.

  "Have you still got that list of names Danny gave you yesterday?" Peter asked when the preliminaries had been observed.

  "Yes." She dug the pad out of her pocketbook and read the names off to him. "He hasn't shown up yet?"

  "No." He sounded discouraged. "It doesn't look like he took anything with him. All of his things are still here. I've called every friend and acquaintance of his I could get hold of. No one has seen him. I even called his boss at home. Nothing. I'm getting ready to make the rounds of bars and hangouts and see if I can get hold of some of these people on the list, maybe shake something out of one of them."

  "Peter, I want to—"

  "No way. Too dangerous. Hold on, I can hear you hyperventilating. It's not because you're female. I have reason to know you're a good woman to have around in a fight; it's because you're the person our villains—whoever they are—want to get their hands on. And I'm not planning on going alone. I've already recruited a friend—a large, muscular friend—to go with me. Just sit tight and I'll be back in touch as soon as I can."

  The kitchen floor was thoroughly mopped and the bathroom cleaner than it had been in a long time. She used so much disinfectant, she nearly choked on the fumes. Cathy couldn't decide whether she was furious with Danny or worried sick about him. He was probably holed somewhere, nursing his hurt feelings, and would show up later, wanting to know what all the fuss was about. She hoped that was the case. But she couldn't make herself believe it.

  There were also several ugly scenarios that kept playing themselves out inside her head. She cringed from them and tried to distract herself every time one reared up. The boy was so damned impulsive and unpredictable. There was no telling what he might have done.

  She washed clothes and, when Peter still hadn't called by five, decided on lasagna for dinner. She didn't do a lot of cooking, but lasagna was one thing she did really well. Slopping together noodles, cheese, and tomato sauce had a soothing effect on her nerves. Eating it had a soothing effect on her stomach as well, or maybe it was the glass of wine that accompanied it. Whatever the reason, she felt slightly better by the time she'd finished.

  She was cleaning dishes when the doorbell rang. Cathy looked through the peephole before unhooking the chain, a wariness years of living alone had taught her. The man standing outside was Peter.

  She opened the door for him. He entered and sank into the nearest chair. He looked tired, disheveled, dispirited, and something else. Edgy, maybe. She didn't say anything, but went to the kitchen, poured another glass of wine, and handed it to him silently. He took it and drank a third in one slow, steady pull. When some of the rigidity left his body, she saw him notice the smell of tomatoes and cheese on the air and thought she detected a gleam of interest.

  "Lasagna," she said. "Have you eaten? I made it for dinner, but there's plenty left if you want some. It's not low calorie or low cholesterol, though."

  "If it tastes half as good as it smells, it can be solid cholesterol for all I care right now."

  Cathy put the dish back in the oven, got out a plate and silverware, and cleared a place on the serving counter while it warmed. Peter ate in silence, but she was flattered by his obvious enthusiasm and appreciation.

  "There may be something to those old adages," she remarked.

  He looked at her. "You've lost me."

  "You know, the one about the way to a man's heart?"

  Comprehension dawned and he gave her an odd look, one she couldn't read at all. He made no further reference to it, eating the rest of his dinner in a sort of frowning abstraction.

  She waited until he was finished to ask the questions that were pressing for release. "What did you find out?"

  "Can I have
a refill?" He held out his empty wine glass.

  "Of course."

  "You might want to pour one for yourself."

  "Is it that bad?"

  "Pretty bad," he said.

  She poured herself a glass, too, and took it into the living room where he joined her and settled on the sofa, propping his long legs on the coffee table. Cathy settled herself into her favorite old rocking chair. "You'd better tell me. Did you find Danny?"

  "No, but I think I know what happened to him." Peter stopped and took another pull at the wine as though he needed the support.

  "Danny left home shortly after we did, you knew that already. I don't know what he did for the next few hours, but by four o'clock he was in one of his favorite hangouts, drinking beer. He went to two other places over the rest of the afternoon and evening. He was still drinking. Not heavily, apparently, but steadily. He was talking, too."

  Peter stopped and swirled the wine in his glass thoughtfully. She watched him, frightened and puzzled. When he looked up, there was wrenching pain in his eyes. "Danny told a number of people that he—and only he—knew where Bobby had hidden the evidence."

  She sat in stunned silence until the implications sunk in. "Dear God," she whispered. "What did he think he was doing?" But she already knew and it appalled her. Shock took over. Her brain continued to function but her emotions cut out for the time being. "When was he last seen?"

  "He left the third place around ten. Nobody admits to seeing him after that."

  "We know they work fast," she mused. "But would they believe it? It contradicts everything he said just three days ago."

  "They can't afford not to believe it," he answered. "They'd act even if they weren't sure. What's one more kid to them? If he's lying, he's expendable, and that would save a bunch of trouble, too." His bitterness scraped her nerves.

  "Peter!" She didn't think she could be more shocked. "You don't think they killed him?"

  "No. I don’t think so. They want the evidence, badly. Too many people may or may not know about it; the only way they're going to be safe is to have it in their possession or destroyed. Even if he doesn’t have it, they can use him as leverage."

  "We've got to find him. But how do we go about it?"

  Peter shook his head, the lines of strain showing around his eyes and mouth. "I've talked to all but two of the people on that list Danny gave us. None of them are admitting to a damned thing. I leaned pretty hard, too, but got nowhere. I've talked to everybody I could at the three bars we know he went to. Still nothing. I don't know, Cathy. I've still got those two names to track down, and I think another talk with Mrs. Townsend is in order."

  "How about the police? They've got to believe something's wrong now."

  "Mrs. Stark called them. They're looking into it; put out a bulletin for him."

  "An APB? That's all? What good is that going to do?"

  "Not much." He stared down into his wine.

  "Then why?"

  "They aren't saying it outright, but the police believe Danny jumped bail and ran."

  "Jumped bail! I never even thought of that." She was amazed it hadn't occurred to her.

  "I didn't think of it either until they mentioned the possibility. But it's a logical assumption from their point of view."

  "But how do they explain all that business yesterday? They can't just ignore it, surely."

  "A blind; cover for his shipping out? Remember, they still don't have a lot of faith in the existence of that evidence. Even less now, I think."

  "A cover for running away? Danny's not that clever."

  "You and I know that. The police can't afford to make assumptions."

  "If he was a little smarter, he would've seen it wouldn't work; maybe he would never have tried it in the first place. What do you suppose he planned to do when they started putting the heat on to tell where the stuff is hidden?"

  "I don't know. I doubt he even thought of it. Danny never looks more than one step ahead, if that much. He just acts, without regard to the consequences."

  "The damned fool!" The anesthesia of shock was starting to wear off; Cathy could feel the pressure of tears starting to gather behind her eyes. "God, he's such a damned stupid, ignorant young idiot. Why the hell did he have to do that?" The tears finally spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She stood, awkwardly, half-blind, to find a tissue. Peter stood, too, and pulled out his handkerchief; then he pulled her down with him onto the sofa, so that they half-sat, half-lay together, his arms wrapped around her. She turned, buried her face in his chest, and wept.

  When the storm abated, and she'd been calm for a while, Peter nudged her and asked if she could make coffee. "I still have work to do tonight."

  She roused herself, reluctantly, and started coffee brewing. "I'm going with you."

  "I don't think it's a good idea."

  "Why? Danny's gotten me off the hook, temporarily at least. And, anyway, I can't sit around here all night, thinking about what they might be doing to him. I just can't; I'll go crazy."

  "All right," he agreed.

  She changed clothes and straightened her face while the coffee dripped. When she got back, Peter was looking over the books in one of her makeshift block-and-board bookcases. "College texts?" he asked.

  "Mostly."

  "I don't see much in the way of Journalism textbooks. It looks like you majored in either Sociology or Political Science."

  "Poli Sci. There are a few English books there; most of my reference books are at work."

  They spend a fruitless, frustrating evening trying to chase down people who didn't want to be found. At the Townsends' apartment, they pounded on the door, but no one answered. Peter talked to the neighbors on either side, but no one had seen the couple for at least a day, maybe more. They finally found the resident manager, who opened the door with a master key. There was nothing in the apartment but a lot of trash and some dilapidated bits of furniture; every personal item was gone.

  "Moved out in a hurry, I'd guess," Peter commented, looking at the mess. "Probably after dark."

  "Didn't pay last month's rent, either," the manager added.

  They followed that fruitless effort with a tour of a few more bars, looking for the people Peter hadn't been able to locate earlier. Sunday night was slow; most places were nearly empty. A few were familiar with the names, but no one could tell them where to find the individuals. At eleven-thirty they gave it up for the night, no further ahead for their three hours of work.

  Cathy spent Monday morning at the motorcycle shop talking to Danny's employer and co-workers, still getting nowhere. She'd slept badly the night before and was depressed and irritable by the time she got to work at two. The phone call came at three. Cathy answered it, as she'd been doing everything all day, halfheartedly. She jerked back to full attention when she heard the voice on the other end. "Miss Bennett?" it asked.

  "Danny!" She almost screamed, "Where the hell are you? Are you all right?"

  -25-

  Monday

  "Miss Bennett." The voice was Danny's, but it sounded distant and... tired. "Can you come meet me?"

  Ignoring the feeling of deja-vu, she asked, "Where are you?"

  "Just a minute, I'll give you directions." There was a short pause. "Take Highway eight west 'til it crosses U.S. twenty, then get on twenty going north until you come to an exit that says 'Skyeville'. Get off there, right at the bottom of the ramp, half a mile on 54. There's a motel called the Hargrove Inn. Check in there and I'll get in touch with you." Cathy scribbled the directions on a piece of paper. "Come alone," he added. "Don't bring Mr. Lowell with you."

  "That's up in the mountains, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, I think so."

  "Danny, I'm at work. I can't just drop everything and make a three hour drive."

  "Come as soon as you can. It's not like last time. It's real important."

  "All right," she said. "I'll come as soon as I can, but I may not be able to get there before tomorrow sometime."


  "Just come. Alone. I promise this ain't like last time." His breath caught just before the phone was hung up.

  She sat a moment, receiver to her ear, listening to the vacant buzz of the dial tone. Finally she put it down, then picked it up again, and pressed the numbers for Peter's office.

  Mr. Lowell was with a client, the receptionist informed her, and couldn't be disturbed. Cathy left a message to return her call and tried to impress the urgency of it.

  "I'll tell him the moment he's free," the woman assured her.

  She sat at her desk, doodling and trying to figure out Danny's puzzling message. The directions were clear enough, just as it was obvious that somebody had either dictated them to him or had written them down. In fact, most of the conversation had been scripted for him, except for that one phrase, twice repeated, "It's not like last time."

  Danny had added that himself and repeated it. He was trying to tell her something, but it wasn't clear what. The "last time" he referred to had to be the night he was beaten. Something about the circumstances of this request were different from then. On that night, he'd really been hurt and needed help. Was he trying to tell her he wasn't hurt now, and despite the rest of the message, he didn't need help? Not likely; the sound of his voice had given away the lie.

  More probably he was trying to say he didn't really want her help. That made some sense. He'd been forced to make the phone call, but despite what he'd said, he didn't want her to respond, or at least not in the way he'd directed. Danny was trying to warn her this wasn't like last time when there hadn't been any danger to her in answering his call for help. There was very real danger here, and he didn't want her to walk into it unaware.

  Only ten minutes passed before Peter called back, and Cathy blessed his efficient secretary. She related the gist of the conversation with Danny as well as her own speculations and echoed his profound relief at knowing the boy was at least alive.