Montana Fire

by Vella Day

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  Spotting Rich, Max picked his way over to him. “What do we know?”

  “Fire’s going fast, eating up the place from west to east. There are multiple source points, too.”

  That screamed arson. Sirens sounded and another truck pulled into place. Behind it was an ambulance, and he and Rich moved out of their way. The last few fires had been linked to gangs. “You have a chance to check for graffiti?”

  Rich shone his light on the far right side of the building that had yet to burn. “It’s too dark to tell the colors, but it looks liked the same gang related swirls.”

  “Fucking kids.” As Max studied the intensity of the flames, the back of his head and legs began to chill. “You take a photo of their handiwork?”

  “You bet.”

  “Guess it was good you got here in time.”

  Rich clicked off his light. “You’re right about that.”

  About five minutes after Max arrived, a loud explosion jarred him out of his reverie. A ball of flames shot from a top floor window of the abandoned warehouse, sending exploding glass in their direction. The powerful blast tossed him a good five feet before dumping him on the ground like a rag doll. Holy fuck. He broke his fall with his forearms, but his knees took the brunt of the impact. Jesus, his achy body didn’t need that.

  Before attempting to get up, Max assessed the damage, but decided nothing of importance had been harmed. Fuck. After working as a fireman for six years, he should have been prepared for that. He hoped no one else was caught in the flying debris field.

  Max glanced over at his assistant who was a decade older than he was. “You okay?” Even with the light from the fire, it was too dark to see much.

  “Think so.”

  Max scrambled to his feet and helped up Rich, who grunted and wheezed a bit as if the impact had knocked the wind out of him. Max brushed off some burning embers that had landed on the sleeve of his good coat. Crap. The cracked leather had seen better days, but this jacket held a lot of sentimental value.

  “Son of a bitch. I guess there’s a reason why we wait until the fire’s out before we do our job.” His wife had given him the coat on his thirtieth birthday. Guess after thirteen years, it might be time to retire it.

  “Yeah, but how often do we get to see a fire like this burn?”

  Once is often enough. “You’re right. It’ll save us time, too. Won’t have to interview the firemen.”

  As Rich flicked the glass off his jeans, Max stepped farther from the crackling building. After a few more minutes of studying the blaze, his curiosity about how the fire started got the best of him. Stepping around the hot debris, he edged toward the side of the building where the fire was only now making its way. Rich followed.

  “I wanted to check and see if the gang left a taunt,” Max said.

  Each of the previous fires had a design as well as some kind of warning. Between the graffiti markings and the accelerant, he’d know which gang started the fire. The punks were quite repetitive in their destructive process.

  Before Max had the chance to shine his light on the side to check for spray paint, the side door burst open and one of the firemen lumbered out, carrying someone on his back.

  “Holy shit,” Rich shouted. “There was someone inside.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Max’s heart lurched.

  Two paramedics rushed to the fireman’s side and helped the injured man onto the gurney. Forgetting about the source for the moment, he and Rich dashed toward the ambulance where the paramedics frantically began work. One look at his body had Max’s stomach in near revolt. The man was covered in blood and ash. Max held his breath, trying not to gag from the putrid stench of burnt flesh.

  Horrendous images of his own home being consumed by fire flashed in his mind. Don’t think about them. Not now. He needed to focus on this case.

  Hands clenched, Max wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of whoever had started the blaze. The victim groaned and thrashed. Max didn’t recognize the old man, but he doubted anyone would. Most of the salt and pepper beard on his left side had been singed off, and his shoulder appeared burned. Blood trickled down his forehead. The rest of his body was covered in soot. From the nature of his injuries, the poor guy might not last long.

  Paramedic Drake Longworth placed an oxygen mask over the man’s face then covered him in a sheet. The man opened his eyes for a few seconds and grunted. The guy’s body then shook as if he was going into shock.

  “Max, can you stand back? I need to get him into the ambulance.” Drake motioned with his head for Max to move out of the way.

  “Let’s give him some space,” Rich prodded.

  This tragedy was horrifying, purposeless, sad. Max strode back toward the far side of the building again. The gang fires had stopped a few months ago, so why restart now? Both he and Thad Dalton thought they’d caught the arsonist.

  The fire trucks were making good progress against the blaze. Smoke was billowing out of the building, forcing him to stand far enough away to avoid the toxic fumes from clogging his lungs with soot.

  As much as he wanted to go inside and check for an accelerant pattern, it was too dark, too hot, and way too dangerous. They’d have to wait until tomorrow to investigate. A set of headlights pulled into the lot near the fire trucks, and Detective Trent Lawson exited his car.

  “The circus is about to begin,” Max announced.

  It didn’t matter that Trent was a capable guy—and Max’s best friend. The more people who came to the fire, the higher the chance something important would be disturbed.

  Rich nodded to Trent. “If you want, I can wait around and make sure RHPD doesn’t muck up our evidence.”

  It was Max’s job now to stay behind. Four days ago, he’d replaced the former fire marshal, who’d stepped down from the position due to health reasons. Now Max had double duty—he was both the arson investigator and the fire marshal for the small town. The fire chief said Max’s police background, coupled with his fire science degree made him a better choice than Rich.

  Since then, Max had worked pretty much non-stop, only taking time off for his friends’ wedding. Last night, he’d spent hours creating a spreadsheet for the cyclic maintenance inspection of existing buildings around town. His predecessor hadn’t kept the files electronically, and in this day and age that made finding anything quickly almost impossible.

  “I’ll stay. You can go.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Get some sleep. One of us needs to be fresh in the morning.” Max tried to keep his voice light in contrast to the terrible tragedy.

  “What about the old guy? You think he’ll make it?”

  “I’ll stop by the hospital first thing tomorrow and check,” Max said. “Then I’ll come out here.”

  Rich nodded. “Call me with your ETA. I’ll meet you.”

  “Will do.”

  As soon as Rich left the scene, Max’s friend, Trent Lawson, came over. “You okay? Heard one of the top floor windows exploded.”

  “Yeah. It’s all good. You give Ed Hanson a call yet?”

  “Ed?”

  “Owner of the building.”

  Trent made a note of the man’s name. “You’re thinking arson here, right?”

  “The color of the smoke and the markings on the wall make it a strong possibility. Rich said he spotted multiple source points, too.”

  “Crap. Hanson might have torched his own place for the insurance money.”

  Max shrugged. “It’s possible, but he already submitted a zoning proposal to tear this thing down so he could build a gym. Torching it would be a little obvious. A bulldozer would be less messy.”

  “Agreed. Got any other ideas?”

  “The graffiti on the front of the building implies this might be gang related.”

  “Gangs? Shit.”

  “Whoever was responsible, I just wished they’d checked the inside first.”

  “Amen.”

  Max
shook his head. “Christ. This is shaping up to be a long ass night.”

  Chapter Three

  Around four in the morning, after Max was certain Detective Trent Lawson had everything under control, Max left the smoldering, wet mess, and headed home. Since he wanted to be back at the scene as soon as the sun rose, he quickly showered and changed into fresh investigative gear. Knowing he’d be covered in soot by day’s end, he donned blue overalls and the last of his clean long sleeve shirts. This one scratched, but it would keep him protected from the hot debris.

  He fixed a shitload of coffee that he hoped would clear the cobwebs from his mind, along with a simple breakfast of eggs and toast. As he was finishing the last of his meal, his cell rang. It could only be one person at five thirty in the morning. Christ, the sun wasn’t even up.

  “Hey, Rich.” Max lifted his shoulder to hold the phone against his ear while he spread the jam on the remaining bite of his whole wheat toast.

  “You won’t believe what I found.” Max’s hand stopped in mid spread. Rich’s voice actually shook, and Max swallowed hard, forcing back his alarm.

  From the noise in the background, his assistant was at the warehouse. They must have just missed each other. “What is it?” Had they unearthed a body?

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I drove over to the scene. I think you’ll want to see this.”

  His patience dried up. “Spit it out, dammit.”

  “There’s a message, not just a bunch of swirls like on the front of the warehouse.”

  The tightness in his chest eased, relieved Rich didn’t say there’d been another victim. “There’s often been a message. What did it say?” Max wanted to strangle his assistant for not just telling him.

  “It was spray painted on the back of the east side door.”

  That didn’t answer his question. “Does it look gang related? Were the letters black with multiple colored haloes around each word?”

  “Sort of. Just come and see for yourself.” Rich’s authoritarian tone seemed out of character, but Max chalked it up to his excitement.

  “Be right there.”

  Other than needing to turn off the coffee machine and placing his dirty dishes in the sink, he was ready to go. When he arrived, cops and CSU techs were crawling all over the place, looking like ants at a picnic. The morning light had breached the horizon, but the sun had yet to make an appearance.

  Rich was standing at the east end, waving him over. The sweet ember smell permeated the air, and while the smoke was gone, the heat still rose from the ground.

  Max reached Rich but couldn’t spot any additional graffiti. “Where’s this message?”

  “Let me show you. We didn’t see it last night because it was too dark. It’s on the outside of the door—the door Donner Pearson ran out of carrying the burned victim.” Rich pointed to what was written in black spray paint.

  Max said the words out loud. “You fucked with the wrong—,” He tried to read the last word a few times, but the dark paint against the burned wood make it next to impossible. “I can’t make out—”

  “Guys, maybe?”

  “That’s it. Guys.” Something seemed off. He read it again. “You fucked with the wrong guys. Hmm. Note how the whole phrase is outlined instead of each letter.”

  “Maybe he was in a hurry. Besides, the colors look similar to those used at the last fire.”

  “I agree.”

  Rich stepped closer. “I wish I knew why they’d leave such a personal message if they’re only going to burn down the building.”

  “Because they can?”

  “Maybe. We might be coming at this from the wrong angle.”

  Rich often had good instincts. “How so?”

  “Could be the target was the interloper.”

  “Based on what evidence?”

  “None.” Rich scratched his nose. “Merely throwing something out.”

  They often tossed out theories. The first few were just that—guesses, but the more they dug, the closer they got to a solid lead. “I guess the trespasser could have been running from someone. When they found him, why not just kill the guy? What would be the purpose of torching the place? No one would have found the guy for weeks or months instead of a few hours. Any evidence would have been long gone.”

  “Beats me,” Rich said.

  “I’m going to ask Thad to compare the lettering to the other fires. When the lab comes back with the composition of the accelerant, we’ll have a better handle on things.”

  “I know we kind of dismissed the owner, but I’m thinking he could be guilty. Maybe he hired some kids to paint graffiti on the side to throw us off.”

  Max glanced over at Rich. “You know the old saying. When you assume something, you make an ass out of you and me.”

  * * *

  Jamie drove toward the clinic the next morning, feeling almost like her old self. Zoey’s words had made a big impact on her. Jamie liked the idea of doing something proactive, whether it be taking gun lessons, asking for a different shift, or even finding a new job.

  All positive thoughts about having a lot of options disappeared the moment she caught sight of the travesty in front of her. Dear God. Her throat nearly closed. Not only were local law enforcement vehicles blocking the path to the vacant parking lot, the horror of the mostly collapsed warehouse had her heart slamming against her ribs so hard she almost lost her grip on the wheel.

  She rolled down her window to draw in more air, but not only did the cold fail to relieve the sludge in her veins, the heavy scent of the fire made her gag. Stunned by the shambles, she shut the window.

  Reality pierced her brain. The burned out shell of a building was where she believed Jonathan lived. Oh, my God!

  Quickly nabbing one of the prime spaces in front of the clinic, instead of waiting to be diverted to a new lot, she jerked the car to a stop and jumped out. Leaving her food purchases in the car, she ran down the sidewalk. Cop cars, a CSU van, as well as an assortment of other vehicles, were spread out everywhere.

  Where was her friend? Jamie frantically searched for Jonathan, and prayed he had the sense to find other shelter once the blaze started. As she glanced across the street, she spotted Larry and sighed. Thank God, he was safe. He might know where to find Jonathan.

  Swallowing the ebbing panic, Jamie rushed across the street, holding her hand over her nose to keep the stench from entering.

  “Larry. Have you see Jonathan?”

  He looked up from the sidewalk with bloodshot eyes and shook his head. A giant claw of worry ripped a hole in her gut.

  “It be bad, missy. Real bad.”

  Her stomach contracted as his ominous words found their mark deep inside her. Maybe he was talking about the state of the building and not about her good friend.

  “What about Jonathan?” Blood pounded in her ears.

  Larry wove his gnarled fingers together and refused to look at her. Then he shrugged. “Ambulance came for him last night.”

  She prayed Larry knew the difference between an ambulance and a coroner’s van. “He isn’t…dead, is he?” The word dead wedged in her tight throat.

  “Tall man talked to him.”

  Tall man? Did he mean Max? “Did you see the blaze?”

  He nodded. She waited for him to say he’d tried to help his friend or that he found someone to call 911, but she didn’t want to push him. Larry often shut down when she asked him too many questions.

  Jamie wanted to rush to the scene to find out about Jonathan’s condition, but Larry probably needed her kindness more. Jonathan was his friend, too. “I’ll be right back.”

  She jogged to her car, grabbed the snack bags with the fast food, and returned. She set the food next to him. “You might as well eat Jonathan’s share. I’ll see what I can find out and let you know. You take care now, you hear?”

  “Yes, missy.”

  Larry refused to call her Jamie. He said it wouldn’t be a sign of respect to use her first name.

  She
jetted back across the street, dodging the rubberneckers, and headed toward the carnage. A good head taller than the short squat man next to him, Max Gruden was easy to spot. He’d have the information she needed.

  As she approached the yellow crime scene tape, a cop materialized as if out of thin air. “I’m sorry, ma’am. No one is allowed any closer.”

  Desperation flooded her system. Even if she explained she was a friend of the man who’d been burned in the fire, the cop would have no reason to let her speak with Max. Jamie had been raised never to lie, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “I need to speak with Max Gruden. He’s my boyfriend.”

  * * *

  Trent strode up to Max. “Your girlfriend has asked to speak with you.” He nodded toward Jamie.

  “My what?” Max must not have heard Trent correctly.

  He and Jamie had gotten along really well at the wedding until he started to preach to her about how thinking like a victim would hinder her ability to heal. Like she needed a lecture from him? Jesus. He’d been such a jerk. And she’d told him, too.

  “Your dance partner over there tried to convince poor Bernard that she had to speak with you about something.” Trent chuckled. “From the way she avoided you after dinner, I’m guessing she’s exaggerating about your blossoming relationship.”

  Max glanced over at her. Blonde hair whipping around her face, Jamie stood there with her hands clenched. With the way she was shifting her weight from foot to foot, she had something important to tell him. “I’ll speak with her.”

  As he took a step to face her, his left knee and thigh sent out a stabbing ache from where he’d landed after the blast, and he worked hard to suppress a groan.

  “I can get rid of her if you want,” Trent offered. The detective must have misinterpreted his grimace.

  “I got this. I’ll chat with her over there.” It was a mud bath where they stood.

  Not only did he want to know what she had to say, he wanted to make sure she was okay. Trent had told him about the clinic break-in last night.

  Max recalled his last conversation with her. After an enjoyable meal with the rest of the wedding party, he and Jamie had gone for a short walk. While they were chatting outside the owner’s farmhouse, he’d come at her with some very sensitive questions about her plans to get her life on track. No surprise, Jamie immediately retreated into her shell. He never should have pushed her so hard. Stupid, stupid. His dating skills really needed work.