by Gerry Boyle
The chief took a long breath, through his nose, mouth still clenched.
“What’d you say your name is?”
I told him.
“What paper you from?”
“I’m a freelancer. A stringer. I write for different papers.”
“Like what?”
“New York Times. Boston Globe.”
He finally looked up.
“Don’t they have their own fires down in New York?”
“I’m sure they do. But I write about Maine.”
“What do they care about Maine in New York?” the chief said.
“Some stories are just interesting,” I said.
“Somebody burning down an old woodshed?”
“You’d be surprised.”
He gave me a long look.
“I guess I would,” he said.
There was a sound behind me, his son standing in the door, rag in his hand.
“I finished the pumper, Chief,” he said. He didn’t address him as Dad.
“Got the hoses laid out?”
“Yessir.”
“Casey and Ray-Ray done with Rescue One?”
“Finishing the wax.”
“Well, Paulie, then get over there and help them, ’stead of just standing here jibber-jabbering.”
“Yessir,” Paulie said, and he was gone.
Ah, I thought. The chief was the king and this was his fiefdom. His son polishing the truck, hoping for a morsel of approval.
I turned back to Frederick.
“So, the arson fires; like I said, I saw the news briefs.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m just wondering. Is there a pattern? Seems like the buildings are getting bigger. What was the last one—a poultry barn?”
“Falling down. Probably shoulda had a controlled burn ourselves, keep some kid from falling through the floor.”
“But that’s not a small fire.”
He shrugged. I was encouraged.
“So have you seen this sort of thing in town before?”
“Fires? We have ’em once in a while. That’s why we have all this equipment.”
“Arson,” I said. “Three fires in what, three weeks? I mean, are people in town getting concerned? It’s been fallen-down barns. Next week, it could be one with animals in it, right?”
Frederick stood up. He was a big slab of a man, probably had lost a little muscle to age, but not much.
He rubbed his chin, seemed about to say something but thought better of it. He sat back down again. The chair creaked. He picked up a yellow pencil.
“Been chief long?” I said, trying a new tack.
He looked at me closely, like he was deciding whether to answer or have me flogged for impertinence.
“Twenty-five years. My father was chief for twenty-two years before that.”
“So you’ve been with the department since you were a kid?” I said.
“Right,” he said.
The three guys walked by carrying buckets. I heard water pouring into a sink.
“Any idea who’s doing this?”
“Oh, we’re looking into it.”
“You worried one of your guys will get hurt? Barns really go up fast.”
He didn’t answer, started scratching more figures on his notepad. I’d been dismissed. I felt a burble of annoyance. This morning, Ratchet, Roxanne, all piling on.
“So you must know about firefighter arson,” I said.
He looked up like I had a rope on his chin and had jerked it. Then he was up from his seat, around the desk. A big finger in my face, a gold ring flashing on his fist.
“You saying one of my boys is burning these places?” he shouted.
A sound behind me. One of the boys in question.
“ ’Cause I’ll tell you, mister, I run one of the tightest departments in the state of Maine. And no flatlander reporter is gonna come in here and say that my firefighters are arsonists.”
“That’s fuckin’ crazy,” Paulie said, behind me. “You gonna put that in the paper?”
“Shut up,” the chief said.
“Them’s fightin’ words,” Paulie said. “Let’s settle this outside.”
“No, he’s not gonna put that in the paper in New York or Boston or anywhere else, because it’s a lie, and I’ll tell you right now, you print any bullshit like that and I’ll sue you for slander.”
“Libel,” I said, ignoring the theatrics.
“What?”
“When you print something, it’s libel. Slander is speech.”
“I don’t give a goddamn—”
“I’m just talking about the phenomenon, a known predilection that some people associated with fire departments are known to have. That’s why they’re drawn to fire departments to begin with. It’s a minuscule minority. Like some pedophiles get involved with kids’ groups.”
“Now he’s saying we’re molesting kids?” Paulie said.
He stepped up behind me and gave me a shove. I staggered and he said, “Come on, asshole. Outta here.”
I looked at Paulie, his arms at his sides, fists clenched. I took out my notebook and said, “Seems like we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Dude, you can’t come in here—”
“So you have any theories about who is setting fires in your town?” I said.
“A fuckin’ whack job,” Paulie said.
I wrote that down in my notebook, in big letters.
“These fires are under investigation by the office of the state fire marshal,” the chief said. “There’s no indication whatsoever that anyone in the Sanctuary Volunteer Fire Department is connected to these fires.”
Huh, I thought. No dope.
“I’m sure,” I said.
He pulled the papers toward him.
“Got work to do, sir,” he said. “Budget season.”
Paulie waited at the door, Casey and Ray behind him. Frederick looked up, like he was surprised I was still there.
“You’re sure that’s all you’ll say?” I pushed. “What about the way the fires were started. The same MO? Any tracks leading to or from? Would it have to be somebody local? Could you see the buildings from a road?”
He stared, then heaved himself back up, came around the desk, boots squeaking on the cement floor. We stood nose to nose. I was looking up.
“Listen, Mr.—”
“McMorrow.”
“Right. I’m gonna tell you something. And this is off the record. Agreed?”
I hesitated.
“Agreed,” I said.
“Okay. Here’s the deal: People who do this, they just want attention. Picture it. You’re some nobody. Total loser. You light a building on fire, get the fire trucks, the lights, the firefighters running all around. Well, now you’re somebody.”
“Right.”
“So the bigger deal you make of it, the more they want to do it. And you’re right. Maybe next time they want something bigger. Maybe next time they do an empty house. Maybe the time after that, it’s a house that’s not empty. You see where this is going?”
“No, you tell me,” I said.
“The more attention they get from the media, the more likely somebody’s gonna get hurt.”
“Well, Chief, I respect your opinion, but—”
“You want a story about small-town life or whatever, how ’bout you write about the pumpkin festival. Second week in October. People come from miles around. Lotsa tourists. Got your Pumpkin Princess. Your pumpkin pie contest. That’s a nice story for the people down there in New York.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Not a problem,” Frederick said.
“But I’m still going to do something on these fires,” I said.
“I got no comment.”
“Okay.”
“Except for this: Somebody gets hurt, you’re gonna have blood on your hands.”
The jacked-up Dodge was idling beside my truck, the three firefighters—Ray-Ray, Paulie, and Casey—seated in a row. Paulie
was on the passenger side, closest to me. We looked at each other and nodded. I started to open my door, stopped and turned. They stared. Paulie pushed a pinch of tobacco between his bottom lip and gums.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “What’s your theory about these arson fires?”
The one in the middle, said, “It’s all ’cause Woodrow’s a douche bag.”
“Ray-Ray, shut up,” Paulie said, and he smacked him in the shoulder.
“Woodrow?” I said. “Who’s that?”
Casey, behind the wheel, revved the motor and said, “Woodrow the Freak Show.” He backed out, stopped, and pulled into a turn. The door slammed behind me and the chief poked his head out. “You boys talking to him?”
They clapped their mouths shut. As the truck pulled away, Paulie, facing straight ahead, said, “I’ll be seeing you, dude.”
“Looking forward to it,” I said.
The truck motor roared, the back tires spun in the gravel, and they squealed off down the road.
I turned back to the chief, smiled, and said, “Nice guys. They were a huge help.”
He looked at me, scowled, and pulled his head back and shut the door.
4
The Sanctuary General Store was on the far side of the common, taking up the first floor of an old brick building, an open porch on the front like the Old West. There was red, white, and blue bunting draped across the storefront and window boxes with red geraniums blooming on the porch floor.
I parked and headed for the door just as a woman was climbing out of a red Jeep, the top down. I waited and held the door for her to let her pass. She gave me a quick glance and I did the same: dark hair in long ringlets, beaded earrings, gauzy hippie skirt. A wildness in her dark, intense eyes. A boundlessness to her, like there was way more to her than showed. Very attractive.
I followed her into the store, heard the guy behind the counter say, “How’s Lasha today?”
“Okay, Harold,” she said. “How you doin’?”
“Hangin’ in, dear,” Harold said. “Hangin’ in.”
He nodded at me, said, “Good morning—or is it afternoon?”
I looked at him—glasses, ball cap, hair cropped or nonexistent—and checked my watch.
“Twenty more minutes,” I said.
“Time’s flying, I’m having so much fun,” he said.
I circled the store once, past the groceries, the fishing supplies, the beer cooler, the meat counter. Next to the meat counter was a small deli, and I stepped up and ordered a ham-and-cheese sandwich from a high school girl in a Red Sox jersey. Number fifteen. Dustin Pedroia. She turned and went to work and I stood by the counter and waited. And listened.
A police scanner on the wall behind the meat counter bleated scratchy chatter, a common sound in small towns where the fire department was volunteer. Two men in khaki shorts and polo shirts (one maroon, one pale blue) were standing to the side of the counter.
A third—same uniform in lime green, reading glasses slung around his neck—stepped up and ordered boneless chicken breast. He turned to the pair and moved closer and I drifted over toward them, eyed the hams, the blocks of cheese.
“You know he’s got problems,” Maroon Shirt was saying.
“Totally antisocial,” Blue Shirt said.
“They come back from that war and they’re never the same,” Green Shirt said.
“People blown apart,” Maroon Shirt said.
“Never even see the enemy, these goddamn IEDs,” Blue Shirt said.
“But you don’t think he would act out like this?” asked Green Shirt.
“Heard he stopped going to counseling at the VA,” Maroon Shirt said. “Just stays out at the cabin, twenty-four/seven.”
“Or not,” Blue Shirt said. He looked up, noticing me, and nodded.
I smiled, turned back to the deli counter.
The high school girl handed me my sandwich and I thanked her.
When I turned back, only Maroon Shirt was left. He ordered a pound of smoked turkey, sliced thin. A pound of Swiss, the imported, not the domestic.
I headed for the front of the store.
There was a line at the checkout and I lingered, made sure I was at the back.
From the chatter I learned that the woman in the hippie skirt was Lasha; Green Shirt was Russell, a summer person from away; and the guy behind the counter was Harold, and he was in the fire department.
“Just like they’re made of kindling,” he was saying.
“Wood’s been drying for a hundred and fifty years,” Russell said. He put a copy of the Times on the counter by the chicken.
“Scary fast, way they burn,” Harold said.
“Well, I hope somebody’s doing something about it,” Lasha said.
“Oh, they’re working on it,” Harold said.
“Question is, will they do something about it in time,” Russell said.
“But it’s just these old sheds, right?” Lasha said, as Harold put fruit and yogurt into her cloth sack, pushed a six-pack of Geary’s summer lager toward her.
“For now,” Harold said. “Who knows what’s next.”
“Exactly,” Russell said, his accent unfamiliar; maybe Maryland?
“I’m telling people, check the batteries in your smoke alarms,” Harold said.
“By that time it’s too late,” Russell said.
“You don’t think this freak’ll do houses, do you?” Lasha said.
Shrugs all around. Harold handed her the sack and beer. Lasha turned and glanced at me, and she and Russell started for the door. I put my sandwich and juice down on the counter, waited as Harold rang them up. I gave him a twenty and watched out the window, Russell and Lasha standing by her convertible Jeep, still talking. Then she was getting in and he was headed for his car, a big blue Audi. Harold was counting out my change.
“Be right back,” I said.
Russell was backing out by the time I got outside onto the porch. Lasha was in the Jeep, the motor running, but she was digging in the sack. By the time I got to her, she’d come up with an apple
“Hi, there,” I said.
She looked up, not startled.
“Jack McMorrow,” I said. “I’m a reporter.”
“Lasha Cabral,” she said, and added, “I’m an artist.”
She held out her hand and I clasped it. Her grip was strong, her skin rough.
“Could I talk to you for a minute?” I said, smiling. She held my gaze.
“About what?” Lasha said, tentatively smiling back.
She was older up close, nearer fifty than thirty-five. Pretty face, her dark eyes lined with mascara, a hint of fortune-teller. She smelled of soap and cigarettes. Her shirt was open at the neck and a gold cross dangled in her cleavage like an arrow.
“The fires,” I said.
“Oh, God.”
“Sorry—eavesdropping. It’s a professional pastime.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Lasha said. “I mean, I don’t know why it’s getting to me. Probably just some kids.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“But when you live alone.”
She glanced away, then back.
“In a big old house. I mean, there’s the shed and my studio, and this building that used to be the sap house; now I just keep a kayak in there. And another shed behind all of that.”
“Cedar shingles?”
“Not the house. That has clapboards. But the rest, that’s shingles. Flammable as hell. My ex—well, he wasn’t my ex then—he used old shingles to start fires in the woodstove. Just a little newspaper, a few pieces of shingle, and—”
“Whoosh?”
“Goes right up,” Lasha said.
She adjusted her skirt, up and then down. For my benefit? Her legs were muscular and tanned, her toenails painted red There was a tiny gold band on her left little toe.
“So I’ve been telling myself I shouldn’t worry. But if the New York Times sends somebody, this must be a big deal, right?”
“I live up here, a
ctually. Ten miles away.”
“Oh,” Lasha said. “So I shouldn’t worry?”
I smiled.
“Listen. I’ve got to get my sandwich from inside,” I said. “Will you wait? Do you have a few minutes?”
Lasha looked at me. I counted the small gold hoops in her left ear. Six. She ran a hand through her hair, which was held back by her sunglasses.
“Okay, Mr. Jack,” Lasha said. “I’ll take my fifteen minutes of fame.”
Lasha didn’t want to talk in the store parking lot with Harold watching through the window, so I climbed in the passenger seat and she backed out, her tanned legs working the clutch and the gas.
We rounded the common, passed the war monuments, more geraniums in pots. She kept driving east, down a long hill, past big restored colonial houses, long gravel drives leading between century-old maples. She saw me looking them over, said, “Old money. Not from here.”
I nodded, saw the Audi parked by the barn at the next place.
“Russell?” I said.
“He has some connection to Harvard, some diplomat thing. Some people say he was CIA but who knows. There’s a little group of them retired here. We call them ‘The Think Tank.’ ”
“Huh. How’d they find Sanctuary?”
“One bought a place, summer house. The rest followed. Kind of like immigrants, the way they follow each other to a place, you know? Like my grandparents, my mother’s parents. Came here from Portugal. First one, then another. Before you knew it, the whole village had transplanted to Fairhaven, Massachusetts.”
“Where you grew up?” I said.
“Until I escaped,” she said. “Hated being in a place where everybody knew my business.”
“And now Sanctuary?” I said.
She looked at me, shook her head. “I know. Into the fire.”
Partway up a ridge the road ended at a T and Lasha took a right. Then she slowed, pulled off the road and onto a dirt lane, a mailbox at the end, no number. The Jeep bumped and heaved over the ruts as the lane swung left through clumps of trees, small ash and poplar. The road snaked right, then left again, and we emerged into a clearing.
There was a white clapboard Cape Cod house, the outbuildings stretching beyond it. A porch on the front, two Adirondack chairs, one occupied by a black-and-white cat. Lasha skidded the Jeep to a stop by a shed door and shut off the motor.
