Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  In the bathroom with the little girl’s blood, now a dark rusty color, all over the floor, he was mindful of where he put his feet. Medicine cabinet had a bottle of aspirin, cotton balls, Q-tips, and nail polish.

  After another run through to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he headed out. Anything more would have to wait until the kid was up to coming with him. One crumpled ball of paper wasn’t much to show for the time and energy exerted in finding it. He drove to the shop, went in to his desk and examined the backpack. Earrings dangled all up the edges of the shoulder straps.

  He put on a pair of latex gloves and unzipped the front pocket. A piece of notepaper folded in half. He unfolded it and read As soon as they’ll let me I’ll come and see you. I’ve got lots to tell you. Stuff I can’t put in words if you know what I mean. Bart asked about you in school yesterday. I think he likes you. He refolded it and stuck it back.

  The main section was packed full. Textbooks—geometry, English, history. Clean socks—orange with black witches—sunglasses, a journal, bottle of water, granola bar, small package of tampax, pack of gum, pens, pencils, erasers, and her journal.

  The first page had Moonbeam, calligraphy letters in black, decorated with green vines and purple thorns. He turned the page.

  Damn damn.

  Very da-damn.

  This time cold.

  Shivering.

  Teeth ta-chattering.

  Heart hammering.

  Can’t sit still.

  Worms crawling under skin.

  He assumed this was either very bad poetry or adolescent angst. He flipped pages.

  March 5

  Sherry made an A on the English test. I made a B+. Not fair. Mine was better. Just because I misspelled a few words and left out a few stupid commas.

  Nothing for the next three months.

  July 4

  Fireworks. Big Deal. I don’t know why I couldn’t go off with the rest of them, but No, I’m too young.

  September 4

  Gayle’s mad about something I don’t think it’s anything I did. I didn’t do anything lately that would set her off.

  September 8

  Figured out what’s sending Gayle into bitching-mad. I think she’s cross-eyed hopping because Vince is off to go skiing. Early snow storm, blah blah blah. He’s going. Unless he’s off to meet a girlfriend.

  I didn’t really mean it. He’s okay. Tells stories about smoke jumping. Sounds pretty exciting. Maybe I’ll be a smoke jumper. Jump down into raging fires though. Maybe I’ll be somebody else.

  He skimmed pages, not easy to do because her handwriting was small and cramped in some places, messy and sprawling in others.

  October 6

  I think Gayle has a boyfriend. How could she! At her age!! Vince has only been dead three weeks.

  October 8

  Haven’t been able to see him. He always comes when I’m over at Sherry’s or somewhere.

  October 9

  I finally saw him. Her boyfriend. Old guy in a wheelchair. Asked her about him. She said he was a friend of Vince’s.

  Demarco turned to get a better angle. He was already getting a headache from trying to decipher the kid’s writing. Her handwriting was starting to bleed together. He squinted and rubbed his eyes. He was tired from being up all night with the girl and it looked like he’d be up all night again deciphering her scribbles. He hoped the dickhead guarding her room got the message. Any more instances of reporters wandering in and he’d have somebody’s nuts in a vise.

  He handed the plastic envelope with the crumpled ball of paper over to Osey Pickett who held it up and peered at it from both sides.

  Osey resembled the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, the one who had no brain. Effective camouflage. He did have a brain and it worked lightning fast. Osey had no problem with Demarco. Didn’t say much, Osey never had problems with anybody. Similar to Will Rogers that way, he never met a man he didn’t like.

  “If you’d get on with it, we could find out what it says.”

  “Right.” Osey cleared an area in the center of his desk, got a clean sheet of paper, opened the baggie, and dumped out the paper ball. With two pairs of tweezers, he carefully pulled the ball open and straightened it. Scrap of paper torn from a larger sheet. Demarco leaned closer to read what it said.

  take care of it

  enough problems

  Bernie

  “You think the intruder dropped this?” Osey yanked open a drawer, got a magnifying glass and examined the scrap.

  “Yeah.”

  “And Bernie is the Bernie Quaid who is with the dog-and-pony show trying to get Governor Garrett on the ballot as presidential candidate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think somebody is saying he’s going to take care of it, or something needs taking care of?”

  “Yeah.”

  With tweezers Osey turned the paper over. Nothing on the reverse side. “What is it he’s supposed to take care of?”

  “Be nice to know, wouldn’t it?” Demarco said.

  “Is Bernie part of the note, or is it written by him?”

  “Something else it would be nice to know.”

  “Yeah. Especially if he’s supposed to tie up the problem by axing Gayle Egelhoff and getting rid of the girl. She know anything?”

  “She says not.”

  “You believe her?”

  “Hard to say. The kid’s a first class liar. Rather lie than eat chocolate. On the other hand why wouldn’t she give it up if she knows anything.”

  Osey leaned so far back the chair creaked. “Maybe she’s thinking she’ll try a little blackmail.”

  “That’d be right up her alley.” Demarco ran a hand over his buzz cut. “I’d like to have a little talk with these political assholes.”

  “Uh—” Osey looked nervous. “You might want to run that by the chief before you go tromping around on powerful political egos.”

  Demarco nodded. “Just see what kind of fingerprints you can find.”

  * * *

  Moonbeam was awake when Demarco got to the hospital, the head of the bed up, listlessly watching a talk show on television with irritating theme music. She zeroed in on the journal he held and grabbed at it. He held it high, but when she lunged again, he let go and she hugged it against her chest as though he might try to snatch it back. Scowling, she clicked off the television and got the laptop. You read it?

  “Yes.”

  Effing weasel!!!!

  “Watch your mouth, kiddo. Tell me about the man who came to see your sister.”

  What about him?

  “Who is he?

  She shrugged.

  Demarco didn’t like shrugs. They’d have to talk about shrugs. “What did he look like?”

  She rolled over so her back was toward him.

  “Hey, talk to me.”

  She moved her head in a limited negative motion.

  Putting a hand on her shoulder, he eased her onto her back. “I need to know,” he said.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You want to know who killed your sister?”

  Her eyes opened to slits glittery with anger and frustration. What she’d like to do was punch him.

  “You want the bastard to get away with it? Is that what you want? Just let him walk away, like you don’t care?”

  Sullenly, she took the laptop and typed. No.

  “Then you need to help me.”

  She rubbed a forefinger back and forth under her nose and typed What?

  “Who was the man who came to see your sister?”

  “Wheelchair.”

  “On October nine,” he said. “The man in the wheelchair was at your house. His name was Wakely. There was someone there on the nineteenth. Was it the same man?”

  No.

  With great restraint, he managed not to grab her by the neck and yell in her face, “Who was this other man?”

  Don’t know.

  “Try to be a little more specific. What did he lo
ok like? Tall, short, hair color, eye color. That kind of stuff.”

  She closed her eyes, either to think or to shut him out. He could see how frail and tired she looked, dark bruises on her face turning purple, white bandage on her throat.

  Old. Like you. Not dishy like Sean.

  “Dishy?” he said with disgust. Almost got him a smile until she remembered it would hurt if she did that.

  Don’t know how tall. Sitting down. Light hair maybe.

  The kid had a feverish look about her that worried Demarco. Cheeks flushed, eyes too bright. “Had you ever seen him before?”

  No.

  “What was he wearing?”

  She flicked a fingernail on the lid of the laptop, then typed, Brown pants, brown sweater.

  “Did you see a car?”

  She nodded.

  “What kind?”

  She shrugged.

  A boy her age would know the make, the model, the cost, and the gas mileage. “What color?”

  Black. Big.

  “You saw a man of undetermined height, wearing brown pants and brown sweater with light hair, driving a black car. Was anybody with him?”

  Don’t know. Maybe.

  “How can you not know if there was one person or two?”

  Friend’s mom came to pick me up. Got in car. Drove away. Black car drove up. Two people in car. One driving.

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  She nodded that short dip possible before pain kicked in, but didn’t type anything.

  “Okay, what?”

  Woman!!

  Gotcha! The little brat had led him along by the nose. He raised his arm like he was going to backhand her across the jaw.

  She looked so pleased with herself, she probably would have giggled if her teeth hadn’t been wired shut.

  “You saw a woman on October nineteenth. Not a man. What did she look like?”

  Maybe like Governor’s wife.

  “Molly Garrett? How do you know what she looks like?”

  Saw her on TV. With friend.

  Two people had come to see Gayle Egelhoff. At least one, the passenger, was a woman, the driver may or may not have been female. The passenger had the usual female characteristics. Moonbeam had seen a news clip of Molly Garrett and her friend Nora on television. She didn’t know which was Mrs. Garrett and which was the friend. Demarco couldn’t get anything beyond that.

  34

  The time was edging toward nine o’clock before Susan felt she could pack it in and go home. Periodically throughout the day, she’d tried to get hold of Sean, but had no luck. She’d left messages that hadn’t been returned. That morning when she’d set out for work, the sun had been shining and the weather warm. As she was crossing the parking lot to get into the pickup, it was dark and the wind swirled around her with sharp edges. She should have worn a coat.

  Why were two people dead, one a definite homicide, the other a questionable suicide? How was Governor Garrett involved? Did he kill his old friend? Why? Because he was tired of being responsible for him? Did Molly Garrett kill Wakely Fromm? Why? Tired of him being part of her marriage? Would the governor answer hard questions? In a rat’s ass. He’d just trot out a lawyer and stand behind him. Did Susan have any lever to make him answer? With the campaign gearing up for the primary in D.C., how much would the taint of homicide affect his chances?

  “Oh, shit,” she muttered as she started up the pickup. She didn’t want to be investigating Governor Garrett. In fact, she didn’t even want to be anywhere near him. She wanted him gone, suspects found that had nothing to do with him, and everybody connected with him out of her town.

  Why kill Fromm even if he was a problem? Why not just ship him off somewhere with his keeper? Putting him in hiding was maybe something the campaign could work with, but the murder of his good friend and constant companion Wakely Fromm was a whole other loaf of bread.

  She turned on the heater. The streets were quiet, nearly deserted and shadowy, a pale quarter-moon setting, a feeling of frost in the air.

  What kind of connection was there between Gayle Egelhoff and Wakely Fromm? Why had he come to see her, what did they talk about, did Gayle want to see the Governor? If she did, it was probably not to get his autograph.

  Susan drove into the garage, grabbed her shoulder bag and the stack of folders on the seat beside her, work she didn’t get finished at the shop and intended to take care of tonight. The garage door rattled down. The wind snatched at the folders. She hugged them close under crossed arms and, head down against the wind, trotted to the kitchen door and went in the house.

  Just as she dropped everything on the kitchen table, the doorbell rang. Now what? Turning on lights along the way, she looked through the fanlight, then yanked open the door. “Sean.”

  He came in carrying paper bags that smelled of food. “Hello, darlin’.” He walked past her and into the kitchen where he put the bags on the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Enough work for today.” He picked up the folders, went to the dining room and plopped them on the table. He gave her a tight hug and kissed her forehead. “How’s everything going in the crime marches on department?”

  “Where have you been all day? I’ve been trying to track you down.”

  “And here I am, at your service.”

  “What’s this?” She gestured at the bags on her kitchen table.

  He opened the bags and took out white boxes. “They came from that little place on Main. Chicken with orange sauce, salad, bread, wine.”

  Susan set out plates, utensils and glasses. “It’s kind of late to be eating, isn’t it?”

  “Not when you haven’t done it all day.” He scooped half the contents of the boxes on each plate and uncorked the wine.

  Susan forked up a cherry tomato. “Sean, how well did you know Wakely Fromm?”

  “I assumed that was the reason you wanted to see me. I didn’t know him at all. He was just always there, in the background.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why was he always there, why does the governor take Fromm everywhere with him?”

  “That question could be better answered by Jack Garrett.”

  “I know that. You also know that the governor isn’t going to answer my questions if he doesn’t want to. What’s the standard reply when anybody asked about Fromm?”

  “That he and Garrett were old friends and had been together a long time.”

  When they finished eating, she cleared away the food containers and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. Wineglass in hand, he wandered into the living room, set the glass on top of the old upright piano, and slid onto the bench.

  “Was Fromm left-handed?” She switched on a lamp, then sat on the floor with her back resting against the hearth, cradling the bowl of the wineglass in both hands.

  Sean crossed his left hand over his right and played arpeggios up and down the keyboard. “I’m not sure. I guess he was. Let me think.” He played scales with both hands. “Yeah, I guess so. He used his left to eat with and write with.”

  Sean rippled through a series of fast chords. “I can see by your face that’s not the answer you want. What’s this about left-handed?” He crossed his left over his right and played a fast, intricate bit of fingering.

  She shook her head.

  “Something about his suicide?” Sean changed key and played another set of chords, a look of deep sorrow settling on his face. “Susan, no wonder you are depressed. This piano is terminal.”

  “It hasn’t been tuned in a while.”

  “Darlin’, what this piano needs is a whole lot more than tuned. Donate it to any church who’ll take it and put it in isolation in the basement.” He played a polonaise and then romped through “The Entertainer” making exaggerated grimaces of pain at the flat notes and the dead keys. “You’re thinking he didn’t kill himself?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Sean jumped right into “Jesu, Joy
of Man’s Desiring.” “His right hand was stronger. He had more strength in his right hand. He’d injured the left somehow.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Sean shrugged. “The only way I know anything. By asking questions.” He swung his legs around and sat with his back to the piano. “You should take this thing out and shoot it, put it out of its misery.”

  “Sean—”

  He took a swallow of wine. “You wouldn’t be asking questions about what hand the man used to write with if you didn’t have some doubts about suicide.”

  She sighed.

  Sean leaned foreward on the piano bench, bracing a hand on each side. “He used his right hand because he couldn’t have lifted anything as heavy as a gun with his left.”

  “This is general knowledge? Everyone knows about his weak left hand?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it. I’m an observing type. Also I talked with the guy.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did I talk with him? Because he knew Jackson Garrett and right now Jackson Garrett is my job. Come on, Susan, I feel like I’m a suspect here.”

  She waited a beat. “You are a suspect, Sean.”

  35

  Three-hundred-foot-high wall of fire, thundering like a waterfall, swept up the mountain. Jack struggled to run. Two hundred fifty feet to the top. He couldn’t feel his legs. Chain saw weighed him down. Feet stuck to the ground. Shouts from the radio clipped to his vest. “Run! Run!”

  The last thing a smoke jumper did was leave his equipment. If he did, it meant the situation was dangerously serious. When Jack dropped the chain saw, he knew he’d never make it. Through the radio, he heard the agonized screams of the dying. His mouth opened. Intense heat scorched his throat.

  Another breath and he’d be dead. Fluid would fill his lungs, his throat would close in response to the super hot air, carbon monoxide would replace the oxygen in his blood, death would be quick.

  “Jack? Jack!”

  Fear pumped adrenaline through his system and his heart beat wildly.

  “Jack! Wake up!”

  Aware of his arm being shaken, he struggled to bring himself back from the dead. When he managed to open his eyes, he squinted in the light.

  “Jack?” Molly, sitting up beside him in bed, rubbed a hand down his arm. “You’re dreaming again.”