Valley of Ashes

by Cornelia Read

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  I pinched the phone between my ear and shoulder so I could spring Parrish from booster jail, then swung her up into the air before settling her on my cocked hip.

  “Want to switch back to arson now?” asked Mimi.

  Parrish patted me on the boob with a sticky little fist, then stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  It was getting dark out, and I had no doubt India was going to wake up any minute.

  “Come over,” I said. “I have beer. And you can help me convince Intrepid Spouse that my bush-league journalistic endeavors pose no threat of disharmony to our bower of familial bliss.”

  “You make the invitation sound so tempting,” she said.

  “No hard sell, I promise. Just, you know… you’re interesting and cool with a meaty job that actually matters, and you’ve raised kids and it turned out okay.”

  “This may require cheese and crackers.”

  “Brie,” I said. “Nice and runny, with fig paste and Stoned Wheat Thins.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” she said, laughing.

  30

  By the time Mimi pulled up out front, I had the living room in reasonable shape, both kids in the playpen—pink-cheeked and freshly diapered—the offspring and grown-up dinners well under way, and my promised appetizer-bribe attractively arrayed on a sterling Tiffany plate engraved with my great-grandmother’s initials.

  Oh, and three pilsner glasses chilling in the freezer, because hey, when you’re trying to smooth troubled marital waters, why fuck around?

  I led Mimi into the kitchen and opened us a couple of IPAs.

  She thanked me, leaning against the counter with her frosty glass in hand while I strapped the girls in for their steamed broccoli and chicken nuggets.

  “So this guy’s used acetone before?” I asked, doling out the meal components once their bibs were secured.

  “Yeah. Except for the car fires. Looks like he’s developing a bona-fide MO for himself now.”

  “McNally thinks he’s done all this before, somewhere else.”

  “Yeah, he talked to Benny about it. They’re on the same page.”

  “You agree?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  I turned on the kitchen tap to rinse off my hands. “So do arsonists get ritualistic about method?”

  “The pros or the fetishists?”

  I cranked off the faucet and reached for a dish towel. “Either, I guess.”

  “I suppose they both do, but the reasoning’s a little different.”

  “Want to go sit down in the living room?” I asked.

  “Love to,” she said as I picked up the cheese plate. “Can I help you carry anything?”

  “All set.” I bowed her through the doorway ahead of me.

  A car pulled up as I was setting the Brie on the coffee table.

  Lamplight had transformed the windowpanes to mirrors now that it was full dark outside, so I couldn’t tell whether it was Dean until I heard his footsteps climbing the front-porch stairs.

  “Hail the conquering hero,” said Mimi, smiling at me as she raised her glass toward the sound of the twisting doorknob.

  I raised an eyebrow in return, then walked toward the front hall.

  “Hi honey, you’re home,” I said, as Dean stepped inside.

  “Hey, Bunny,” he said, leaning down to plant a kiss on my forehead. “I’m sorry I was so pissy at lunch…”

  Had Cary given him shit, after all?

  He pulled me in for a hug, tender.

  I felt something in my chest unclench. Loneliness, or whatever sour fist of apprehension had been wrapped around my heart.

  “All is forgiven, kind of,” I said. “But we have a guest.”

  He shrugged off his coat and hung it on one of the hooks under the staircase. “For dinner? I don’t want to be rude, but I might need to bail. Early flight tomorrow.”

  “You’re leaving tomorrow? For where?”

  “Japan.”

  “Japan?”

  “I told you about it.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Dean, I think I’d remember that you were planning to leave for, like, Asia in the morning, had you mentioned it at any point.”

  “Wow,” he said. “I really forgot to tell you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude,” he said, “your husband is such an asshole.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Unfortunately, he is an asshole who has to pack for a trip to Japan in the morning.”

  “No worries. We’re just having cheese and crackers. And a couple of beers.”

  He rested a hand on my shoulder and followed me back into the light.

  “Dean, this is Mimi Neff,” I said. “She’s the arson investigator who’s been kind enough to let me tag along lately. Another ex–New Yorker.”

  They exchanged pleasantries and shook hands. I told Dean I’d grab him a beer and check on the girls.

  Parrish and India had plowed through round one of dinner, so I dished out a few more mushy broccoli florets and mushier chicken nuggets.

  “Applesauce for dessert,” I confided, opening the freezer to retrieve Dean’s glass.

  “So Mimi was just going to tell me about the difference between the ritualism of professional versus fetishist arsonists, when you came home,” I said, walking back into the living room.

  I gave Dean his beer and knelt down next to the coffee table to pre-load some crackers before passing the plate around. “I’d imagine that the pros just rely on what works, what they’re comfortable with. Less ritual than acquired competency?”

  Mimi accepted a cracker, but kept it balanced it in her hand. “Well, of course the pros don’t want anyone to know they had a hand in instigating a fire, for the most part. If they’ve developed a ritual, it’s more to do with enhancing the appearance of accidental combustion. Sometimes that can mean changing it up, method-wise—taking advantage of existing circumstances.”

  Dean was enjoying his own Brie-laden Stoned Wheat Thin, but looked intrigued by what she was saying.

  As well you should be, Mr. Oh-by-the-way-I’m-off-to-Japan.

  I moved up into a chair. “So, for instance, messing with wiring that already looks a little wonky?”

  “Or enhancing the look of wonkiness to begin with,” she said, nodding.

  “Makes sense,” said Dean, “making it seem ‘natural’ if you’re after insurance money. And why else would you hire someone to set a fire, right?”

  “For the most part, it’s for the money,” said Mimi. “Sometimes it’s to cover up another crime. Occasionally it’s a warning, or to take out a rival business, but that’s usually an urban thing. Organized crime.”

  “Remember that house on the next street in Syracuse, Bunny?” asked Dean. He looked at Mimi. “The landlord set it on fire two nights in a row—didn’t get enough damage the first time. Idiot.”

  Mimi laughed, took a sip of her beer.

  “I can understand that kind of stuff,” I said. “I mean, I wouldn’t ever do it, I don’t think. But the people who are just in it for kicks—I can’t get my head around the attraction. Just, glorying in destruction, or whatever kind of passion it quenches, for the person? Fire’s too intense. Scares the shit out of me.”

  “Is it a power trip?” Dean asked Mimi. “Being in control of something? It’s always struck me as the grown-up version of aiming sunlight at dry leaves with a magnifying glass, when you’re a kid—messing around with something scary to feel powerful.”

  Mimi looked thoughtful. “I have to confess I haven’t dealt directly with that many arsonists like the guy we’re investigating now. Besides the pros, it’s usually kids lighting a grass fire, just to see what happens. Stupid crap.”

  “Do you guys have to study up on the psychology of it, though?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “And to get back to what you were asking, Dean, I think that’s more of an impet
us for people who get involved with firefighting—wanting to pit themselves against a force of nature.”

  “You guys must really have to be rock-solid on the science of it,” he said. “So many factors to consider: chemicals involved, structural integrity, potential electrical hazards… whether you’re fighting a fire or trying to figure out what caused it.”

  “For starters,” said Mimi, flattered.

  “I used to do construction with my father,” Dean continued, “so I’ve got a good, hands-on sense of all the factors you have to keep in mind just building a house…”

  Mimi smiled.

  So did I. Good Dean was back… for the night at least.

  And I wouldn’t exactly have to ask his permission about the community meeting… not if he was off to Japan in the morning.

  Dean was shaking his head, thinking about what Mimi had said. “But running into a burning building, staking your life on your own split-second comprehension of the sequence in which it will most likely deconstruct around you… That takes an astonishing level of courage.”

  “Damn satisfying when you do it right,” said Mimi.

  “I bet,” I said.

  I still needed a babysitter, of course…

  Mimi took another sip of beer. “I miss it. Well, the part of me that’s a little crazy misses it. But even going through the aftermath of a fire, in my line of work—you’re struck by the devastation, the randomness, the magnitude of damage fire’s capable of, reflected in even the smallest detail at a scene.”

  “Those melted toothbrushes,” I said.

  And what that level of heat would do to flesh.

  Mimi looked me in the eye, acknowledging the thought I’d left unspoken.

  “It’s awful,” she said, “in the oldest sense: awe-filled. Even after the fact, my heart rate picks up on behalf of our crew—every time.”

  She took another cracker.

  “I’m really grateful to you for letting me tag along on your job,” I told her. “It was fascinating, and so generous of you to take the time to explain everything.”

  “Well,” she said, looking from me to Dean, “I’m sure you both know how gratifying it is to talk to someone about your work. And Madeline’s article was one of the best I’ve read by someone outside our field.”

  Dean reached for his beer.

  “Your wife is quite a talent,” Mimi told him. “You’re a lucky man.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Listen,” she continued, looking at him. “We really need Madeline covering this for the paper. There’s a community meeting tomorrow night…”

  I tried giving her an ix-nay on telling him about the eporting-ray look, now that Dean was leaving the country, but she ignored me.

  “It’s important that what we say gets reported accurately, compellingly. I trust her to do that,” she continued.

  “I’d be happy to spring for a babysitter,” said Dean. “I’ll be away for a few days.”

  Mimi looked at her watch and stood up, smiling at us both. “I should hit it, let you guys have your dinner.”

  When he went ahead of her to open the door, she gave me a big fat wink.

  Dean went upstairs to pack. I called McNally, who was still at the office. Lucky for me since I didn’t have his home number.

  “Acetone,” I said, when he picked up. “And I have money for a babysitter.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “That I’d get the money, or that it was acetone?”

  “That it was acetone,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s miscible with water.”

  “Meaning what?” I asked.

  “If someone uses most petroleum distillates as an accelerant—kerosene, gasoline—they don’t mix with water. So sometimes you might see a rainbow sheen on any water left at the scene. And you’ll continue to get an odor, too, especially if you hit the fire with water early. The water keeps non-miscible liquids from evaporating for a while, so the scent lingers. Acetone mixes with water, so it evaporates more quickly. Doesn’t leave any smell by that point, doesn’t rainbow.”

  “Huh.”

  “You were there. What do you remember?”

  “The water in that back room wasn’t rainbowed, and the house didn’t smell like gasoline or kerosene.”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “Arson Guy had been using acetone, so you all kind of already figured that’s what had been used this time, right? Before Mimi got the gas-chromatography results back.”

  “Pretty much, yeah,” he said.

  “Glad I didn’t have any money riding on this, then.”

  He laughed. “And we won’t be mentioning any of these details in any articles we write, either.”

  “Of course not. Why give a primer to wannabes?”

  “You’ve been trained well.”

  “I like to think so. Some might beg to differ.”

  “So,” McNally said, “you said you have a babysitter?”

  “I have money. Finding someone willing to take it is step two.”

  The chick I’d used for the business dinner always wanted a week’s notice, at the very least. So she was out.

  “Anybody in mind?”

  “Yeah, actually.”

  “Good,” he said.

  31

  Cary made me read your article this afternoon,” said Dean, as we were lying in bed a couple of hours later. “Mimi’s right. You did good pieces for the paper in Syracuse, but you’ve learned a lot since then. You’re even better at it now.”

  “So is that your way of saying I don’t need to give up this writing shit because you want a homemaker?”

  Even in the room’s moonlit half dark, I could see him wince.

  “I said that?” he asked, contrite.

  “Today. At lunch.”

  He laughed at himself. “Jesus, your husband is such a prick, Bunny. I don’t know how you put up with him.”

  “He’s mostly patient with my absolute lack of homemaking skills. But yeah, he can occasionally be a total pain in the ass. Especially lately.”

  “He better start flying right then, appreciate how good he has it at home.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Definitely,” he said. “And this is my official apology, mea maxima culpa. You need to take advantage of work that makes you happy, and I need to shut up about it and help out more, okay?”

  I turned toward him, sliding my arm across his chest, pulling his head close to kiss him. “Okay.”

  “Let’s have Mimi over for dinner when I get back,” he said, turning toward me, his breath sweet and warm on my cheek. “She was fascinating.”

  “She’s damn good at her job.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Raised five kids, too.”

  “Wonder Woman. Like you.” He snaked his arm under my ribs, started stroking my back.

  A galleon of cloud sailed across the moon outside, leaving us in shadow.

  When it reappeared I could see Dean’s face more clearly, my vision sharpened by the interlude of darkness. Blue light played along his cheekbones, the stripe of fair hair that had fallen across his brow.

  He looked about ten years old, and I told him so.

  “You’re my best friend,” I said. “You know that?”

  He kissed my forehead, then my mouth, whispering, “I’ll try not to fuck it up. Any more than I have already.”

  “Hey,” I whispered, “the two of us? Navigating all this grown-up shit? I feel like a ten-year-old, most days. At least in terms of general competence.”

  Dean tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. “You’re doing a great job. You’re an amazing mother.”

  “Dude, come on—we both know I’m barely domestic enough to housekeep a fucking tree fort, with someone else’s mom providing snacks.”

  He pulled me closer, resting his chin on the top of my head. “That’s not how I see you at all.”

  I turned my ear to his chest, looking up at the light-dappled
ceiling. “What do you see?”

  “The woman I’d want with me in a wagon train.”

  I could hear the words rumble, behind his ribs.

  “Calico dress and a prairie bonnet?” I kissed his collarbone, amused.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “That’s the first thing I knew for sure, when I came to see you in Williamstown for our second date.”

  I trailed a fingertip down his waist, slowing along the crest of his hip. “Probably because I hadn’t shaved, the first time we slept together.”

  “No, Bunny, I mean the way you look it didn’t matter. Most chicks, Jesus… three months on the Oregon Trail, no access to waxing?” He shivered. “But you, you’d just get tanner and blonder. And you’d think it was an adventure. You’d make it more fun, instead of whining.”

  “Oh, please,” I said, “I’d’ve been bitching about the lack of Szechuan before we crossed the Missouri.”

  “And meanwhile would’ve shot an elk, skinned it out, and stir-fried that sucker over the campfire in a little hot oil and black bean paste.”

  “Huh,” I said, quite pleased with us both.

  “You know I’m right.”

  “Okay, but if we ever fall through a rent in the fabric of the space-time continuum and have to actually do this?”

  “Mmm?”

  “We’re bringing paper plates.”

  He laughed, yawning.

  I brought my hand up to his cheek. “Are you leaving really early, tomorrow?”

  “No.” Dean yawned again, voice fading. “Couple of hours at work. I’ll catch the Airporter from there.”

  “How long will you be away this time?”

  He didn’t answer, already asleep.

  I closed my eyes, happy the evening had borne out all those strident parking-lot marital pronouncements I’d made to Cary, after lunch.

  Admittedly, I was even happier that he’d forced Dean to finally read my article.

  True friends are the ones who totally see through your bullshit façade of humility and self-sacrifice whenever you protest too much.

  I raised myself up on one elbow, peering over Dean’s shoulder at the glow of the digital clock.

  “Ten P.M.,” I whispered, “and all’s well.”

  Famous last words.