Burn You Twice

by Burton, Mary

  Clarke frowned as he regarded the rubble. “You really think she did this?”

  “I can’t say yet, but it sure looks like it.”

  “We’ll be on the lookout for the body you saw when we walk this place. So far, no one has spotted any remains, but there’s a lot of debris to sort through.”

  Gideon nodded. “I spoke to Elijah yesterday evening.”

  Clarke frowned as he sipped his coffee. “And he denies anything to do with the fire.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I’ll know better once I confirm his alibi, but he was cool as a cucumber.”

  “He always was. Never could get a read on that guy.”

  “I didn’t know him, really, until the fire. We were seniors and he was a freshman,” Gideon said.

  “Smart as hell. Remember he was in Joan’s class when she was a teaching assistant,” Clarke said, studying Gideon’s expression.

  Joan Mason. He had not heard that name in a while or seen her in ten years. To say he thought about her every day would be a stretch. Sometimes a few months went by without her trespassing on his thoughts, but she was always there in the shadows.

  Though they had been ill matched from the beginning, Gideon and Joan had found something in each other that just fit. They dated all their senior year, and as deep as his roots were sunk into Montana, Joan had nearly coaxed both Gideon and his sister out to the East Coast. But when Elijah had set his fire, it had changed everything.

  A week later, with her hands still bandaged, Joan had left without a word to him or any of them. Gideon had called her more times than he could count, and only when he threatened to drive to Philadelphia had she finally called him back.

  “Why are you calling?” she had said. “We were over before the fire.”

  “I made a mistake.” Memories of his night with Helen lingered close. “I want to come east with you.”

  “You belong in Montana,” Joan said. “I see that now.”

  Nothing he had said would convince her otherwise, and he’d finally hung up in frustration. A week later, Helen had told him she was pregnant. They were married July 1 in a courthouse wedding. By the time Kyle was born, they were fighting regularly.

  Gideon sipped his coffee. “Elijah met Ann through Joan.”

  It was Clarke’s turn to squirm. “I remember.”

  “I’ve been through his police file a few times. He’s always denied setting the fire. He even petitioned the Innocence Project to have a look at his case five years ago, but they denied him.”

  “Because they saw him for what he was,” Clarke said. “Psychopaths don’t confess.”

  “Detective Jefferson interrogated him for a long stretch.” By Gideon’s standards, Jefferson had leaned on Elijah too hard. These days, a defense attorney would have a field day with that kind of law enforcement overreach. But Gideon also understood that Detective Jefferson, like many folks in town, was terrified an arsonist who had nearly killed two coeds would go free.

  “Don’t forget all those brush fires that popped up that last winter before the College Fire. They stopped completely when Elijah was arrested.”

  “The arsonist profiles for rural fires are very different from those who execute structural fires.”

  “That’s true in some cases, but I would bet you those fires were meant to relieve stress and provide practice for the main event.” Clarke stared into the dark depths of his cup and then took a sip. “You know that son of a bitch wrote to Ann from prison?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Upset the hell out of her. I visited him in prison and told him to stop. He didn’t seem to care what I thought, so I spoke to the prison officials. They couldn’t do anything, so I had the post office hold our mail. From that day forward, I’ve picked it up from the post office.”

  “Did he write her again?”

  “There were two other letters. He insisted he did not set fire to her house.”

  “Did you keep the letters?”

  “Hell no. I tossed them.” Clarke sighed. “He’s going to do it again.”

  “Not if I have any say in it.”

  Clarke swallowed the last of his coffee and motioned for his two men to join Gideon and him. “The rubble should be cool enough now to walk, as long as you have your boots.”

  “Let me put my thermos back, and I’ll be right there.”

  Gideon joined the firefighters as they began to search the charred rubble. Hot pockets still gave off some steam, but for the most part, the fire crews had saturated the structure all the way down to the brick foundation. He moved toward the spot where he’d seen the woman through the window. The area was covered in thick debris.

  “It’ll take time to clear the rubble,” Clarke said. “Have a look over here.”

  Gideon stared at the large window and then at the wreckage. He had been so close to her, just as he had been only a dozen feet from Joan all those years ago. If he had been a minute quicker, the woman might be alive.

  He turned toward the melted and scorched beautician chairs and their work areas. All the flammable products at the stations had exploded in the intense heat and had shattered the mirrors behind them.

  Gideon paused in the center of the room, where the destruction appeared absolute. “Where did the fire start?”

  “Near here. It explains why the woman you saw was trapped in the blaze,” Clarke said.

  Gideon knew the human body literally melted at fifteen hundred degrees, and, judging by the destruction here, this fire had surpassed that mark.

  The water from the fire hoses had turned the ash to a black sludge that squished under Gideon’s boots as he walked toward what had been the back of the store.

  “This is where the shop stored chemicals like acetone and hair dyes,” Clarke said. “An experienced arsonist would have dumped accelerant here and then trailed the remainder out the door down the alley.”

  “Creating a fuse.”

  “Exactly. Once the fire trail hit this room, it was game over. All those chemicals are flammable as hell.”

  “Everything in this structure appears designed to burn,” Gideon said.

  A firefighter covered in soot and grit approached. “Captain Mead, have a look over here.”

  Gideon and Clarke crossed the room, mindful of where they stepped and preserving any evidence that might have survived the fire. Following the firefighter’s outstretched hand, Gideon dropped his gaze to a pile of rubble. What at first looked like a badly charred mannequin hand peeking out from the ceiling debris was, in fact, human. The fingers and most of the hand had been destroyed, leaving only a blackened stump behind.

  Gideon peered into the charred beams, now tangled together like pick-up sticks. As he stared into the gaps, he followed the remains of the arm to a charred torso and head.

  He tried to reconcile Lana Long’s driver’s license image with what lay before him. However, nothing was recognizable.

  “I’ll put a call in to the medical examiner’s office,” Gideon said. “The sooner I get an autopsy, the sooner I’ll have a cause of death and an identity.”

  “Maybe it was suicide,” Clarke said.

  “Could be.”

  Clarke shook his head, his gaze transfixed on the form before him. “Reminds me of the house fire north of town.”

  “Three years ago,” Gideon said.

  “Caused by a dried-out Christmas tree the father had promised to take down, but he put it off several weeks because the kids wanted to keep it up.”

  Gideon knew Clarke had nearly been killed saving the father and his two young children. He had turned around to go back in for the mother, but the structure had been fully engulfed. The mother had died in the blaze. Clarke had later been decorated by the city, but he’d privately admitted he’d been deeply shaken for months.

  “When can you tell me definitely that this was arson?” Gideon asked.

  “My boys and I need to thoroughly comb th
is place and search for traces of accelerants and incendiary devices.”

  “But you have a theory.”

  Clarke dropped his voice. “I’d bet my last dollar it’s arson.”

  “Keep me posted. I’ll send a deputy by to secure the scene until the medical examiner arrives.”

  Gideon strode across the blackened debris, and when he stepped out onto the curb and ducked under the crime scene tape, his chest was tight. He drew in a deep breath, expanding the compressed muscles banding his rib cage. He reached for his phone and dialed Detective Becca Sullivan’s number.

  She picked up on the second ring. “I knew three consecutive hours of sleep was too much to hope for.”

  “I wish I could let you sleep,” he said. “I’m going to need you at the fire scene. We just found the body of the woman I spotted during the fire.”

  In the background, he heard a light click on. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I’ve put out a few queries about Lana Long. Can you also see if there’ve been any hits?”

  “She connected to the fire?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “Appreciate it. I’m going home for a few hours to check on Kyle and talk to Ann. She might have a few insights about this fire.”

  “Solid police work and forensics is going to solve this, not psychology,” Becca said.

  “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  They made promises to touch base by noon before he ended the call. As he tucked his phone in his pocket, a blue pickup truck splashed with dried mud parked behind Gideon’s car. A tall man with a thick waist and broad shoulders climbed out. He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and old work boots. Dark hair was brushed off a square face.

  Gideon recognized the man instantly. His name was Dan Tucker Jr. Like his father before him, Dan owned Tucker’s Diner, a fairly successful eatery that was popular with the college kids. But his real claim to fame was the creation of a local citizens’ action committee dedicated to keeping Elijah Weston out of Missoula. Dan and his followers had made it clear during parole hearings that the ex-con was not welcome, and Gideon would bet money they were behind the faint remains of the sidewalk graffiti in front of the boardinghouse.

  “Mr. Tucker.” Gideon moved to cut Tucker off as he strode toward the gutted structure. “I’m going to have to ask you to stand back. This is an active crime scene.”

  Tucker stopped, clenched fists at his sides as his gaze remained rooted on the former beauty shop. “I knew this was going to happen. I been telling you since the day his release was approved that it was a matter of time. I’m only surprised he did it so quickly.”

  “We don’t know how this fire was set,” Gideon said. “It’s going to take days, perhaps weeks, to determine that.”

  “I can save the taxpayers a lot of money,” he said, turning to Gideon. “Elijah Weston set the fire. He can’t help himself.”

  “We don’t know that.” Gideon took a step closer to Tucker. “And I want you to stay away from him. No vandalizing and no threats, or I will put you in jail.”

  Tucker’s anger turned sullen. “How many buildings and people does this guy torch before something is done?”

  Gideon ignored the comment. “If I end up with a case against Elijah, I don’t want a defense attorney getting my charges thrown out because some vigilante compromised the investigation.”

  “I haven’t hurt him.”

  “Keep it that way. Stay away from him. That includes any more spray-painting stunts. Let me do my job.”

  Tucker glanced toward the sun gaining distance above the mountain range. “I respect you, Gideon. You’re good at what you do, but you haven’t been around for months.”

  “Your point, Mr. Tucker?” Gideon’s voice was steady enough to pass for calm.

  “Must be nice to take the summer off. I just want to make sure you’re with us now that we got a madman living among us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Tucker.” He was committed to the community and the ranch’s legacy more than ever.

  “I’ll leave it to you, then,” Tucker said. “But I’m going to be watching, and if you or the law can’t act, then someone will.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Take it any way you want. I care about this town and will do what’s necessary to protect it.”

  Gideon stood in the center of the street, his body tense with fatigue and frustration as he watched Tucker storm to his truck and gun the engine.

  He reached for his phone and dialed the medical examiner’s office. The situation was going to spiral out of control quickly if this was arson.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Missoula, Montana

  Sunday, September 6, 2020

  9:55 a.m.

  Joan did not understand the concept of a sleepover. Nate and Kyle had barely slept last night, and both still possessed boundless energy.

  After pouring a fresh, extra-strong cup of coffee, she took a long sip as Nate and Kyle sat at the kitchen table laughing at another stupid joke. Ann was serving them a second batch of pancakes after they had devoured the first.

  Joan used to have that kind of energy. She could go and go like the Energizer Bunny. These days, her idea of pure pleasure was rising on a Sunday, having a coffee, getting back into bed, pulling the covers up over her head, and sleeping. If only she had such a luxury today.

  “Joan, can you pull my finger?” Kyle asked, giggling.

  “No thanks,” Joan said.

  “Auntie Joan has not had a full cup of coffee,” Ann offered. “Let her drink her witch’s brew so it can transform her into Glinda the Good Witch.”

  Joan arched a brow. “That’s very optimistic.”

  Ann shrugged as she set a platter of blueberry pancakes in the center of the table. “I see the sunny side of life.”

  Joan topped off her coffee cup. “Can I borrow your car today? I’d like to visit an old friend in town.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Ann asked.

  “Very,” Joan said.

  “Who’s the friend?” Nate asked.

  “You don’t know him,” Joan said.

  “I might. Who?” he insisted.

  “Never mind,” Ann said. “And yes, you can take Mom’s car. It’s in the garage.”

  “Great.”

  The front doorbell rang, and Ann sighed as if she was a little relieved to have this boy party end.

  “The cavalry,” Joan said.

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  Joan was anxious to get into town. Elijah had been out of prison only forty-eight hours, and he would still be getting his bearings. In her experience, suspects were more likely to make unintentional, telling comments when they were off balance.

  The front door opened, and she heard Ann’s light tone mingle with the deep timbre of a man’s voice. For a split second, she thought it might have been Clarke, but as she listened closer, she heard a very familiar voice. Her nerves tightened like an archer’s bow. Gideon. They had not seen each other in more than a decade, and though his voice was deeper, there was no mistaking it.

  A tremor radiated from her tightening belly, shimmying up her back and over her scalp. Her fingers grew unsteady, forcing her to set the half-empty mug on the counter. Most days she could convince herself he was part of her past. But right now, with him so close, she wasn’t sure how she felt.

  Stepping out the back door was an option, but that would make her look weak, and if anything, she was strong. Fireproof, as a paramedic had said years ago.

  Squaring her shoulders, Joan came around the corner and into the foyer. Gideon held a familiar black Stetson from his cowboying days in his hand and was smiling as he spoke to Ann. Immediately, she was struck by how tired he looked. Fatigue was part of being a cop. She’d surely pulled her share of all-nighters when she was working a case. But seeing him worn down troubled her more than she would have imagined.

&n
bsp; She had a scant second to look Gideon over. Even with the bulky police jacket, she could see that his body remained lean. The once ink-black hair had touches of gray at the temples. She’d hoped he might have grown fat or bald, but he still looked great. She felt her face flush.

  She’d pretended that her feelings for him had died when she’d left Montana years ago. But those feelings had never died. They had just curled up into a tight ball and waited for a bit of sunshine and water so they could spring back to life like a bitterroot blossom.

  “Gideon.” Joan had mastered the art of a clear, crisp voice, because no one respected a cop who sounded like Minnie Mouse.

  His gaze, still on Ann, froze. She could not blame the guy. If he had stepped into O’Toole’s last week, she might have done the same.

  “I was about to tell you,” Ann said. “Joan flew in last night. Did you know she’s a homicide detective in Philadelphia?”

  “I did.” Gideon shifted his full attention to her. To his credit, he produced a subtle, almost pleasant smile. “Joan.”

  He had always been careful with public displays of affection. They both had agreed in college that PDAs were beneath them. But given that it was taking every bit of her to keep her body from melting, she hoped her presence had jostled his apple cart a little.

  She held out her hand. “Good to see you.”

  He took her hand, squeezing gently and slightly frowning as her rough scars brushed his skin. His gaze wavered, suggesting he was taken aback. Good. They could all stand on shaky ground together. “Likewise.”

  Kyle ran up to his father. “You smell like smoke.”

  “There was a fire in town last night,” he said, dropping his gaze to his son.

  “What burned down?” Nate asked.

  “A beauty shop.” Gideon’s voice sounded almost conversational, as if he did not want to alarm the boys.

  “Can we go see it?” Kyle asked.

  “No.”

  “I want to see it,” Nate said.

  “Me too,” Kyle piped in.

  “Maybe in a few days,” Gideon said. “Right now, it’s still not safe.”

  Joan shifted to cop mode. “Do you know how it burned down?”