“Apparently he was never in the feed shed at all,” Alex said. “His name’s Esteban Rodriguez if you want to talk to him.”
“Who called 911?” Ken asked.
“Abe’s wife, Mary.” Alex pointed a thumb back at his cruiser. “Should I head over to that burglary call?”
“Go,” Ken told him. “I’ll handle this.”
With the fire reduced to smoldering charcoal, the battalion chief came around the engine to meet us. His name tag identified him as Peterson. “Rodriguez tried to pull Abe out, burned up his hands pretty good. The paramedic patched him up, but he refused further treatment.”
The young Hispanic man paced beside the ambulances, soot covering his T-shirt and jeans.
“How’s Abe?” Ken asked.
“Second-degree burns, I’m guessing,” Peterson said. “Likely some third-degree as well. Don’t know how much smoke his lungs took. All in all, not good for a seventy-six-year-old man.”
“Damn it,” Ken muttered, glaring at the shed. “Do you know what time Abe spotted the fire?”
“Based on what we’ve been able to piece together, around three o’clock.”
Ken’s gaze swung toward Peterson. “Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. We haven’t even begun the investigation. Mary’s in hysterics, and our only other witness no habla ingles.”
Esteban watched as the EMTs pushed Abe’s stretcher into the back of the ambulance then shut the doors. Esteban couldn’t have been much older than twenty, young and scared and likely far from home.
Ken still had his teeth sunk in the fire’s timeline. “It doesn’t fit. It’s too late in the day.”
We stepped out of the way as the ambulance with Abe inside pulled out. Esteban looked ready to follow it all the way to Greenville Memorial.
“But no flashover this time, thank God,” Peterson said, “or Abe would have been charcoal.”
“What about the ignition source?” Ken asked.
“If suppression didn’t wash it away, we might be able to see if it was another candle,” Peterson told him. “From the way it burned, it could have been kerosene as an accelerant.”
“Maybe. Could have.” Ken shook his head in frustration. “Just get your samples to my DOJ contact ASAP.”
I followed Esteban’s agitated path. “He doesn’t speak any English?”
“Muy poquito,” Peterson said. “And I speak even less Spanish.”
“A couple of our deputies are fluent.” Ken handed me his notebook and a pen. “See what you can find out in the meantime.”
Two years of high-school Spanish hadn’t made me an expert, but my time with SFPD had given me ample opportunity to practice. I was beyond rusty now, more capable of ordering pollo mole and cerveza than conducting a cogent conversation.
I wandered over to the young man, in my mind cobbling together a few Spanish phrases from my limited lexicon. I motioned toward the burned out shed. “¿Que paso?”
He rattled out a torrent of Spanish words, overflowing my capacity to understand. I waved my hand to stop him. “Mas despacio, por favor. No entiendo.”
He took a breath, then recited his story more slowly. I still didn’t catch every word, but with some judicious interruptions and requests for clarifications, I managed to patch together a story, scribbling it as fast as I could in Ken’s notebook.
“¿Todo lo demas?” Anything else? I asked when Esteban had finished.
He thought a moment, swiping sweaty soot from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Anoche. Oi los perros ladrando.” I heard the dogs barking.
Cuando?” I asked. When?
“A las cinco o cinco y media,” he said. “Momentos antes de amanecer.”
Just before dawn. “¿Viste alguien?” Did you see anyone?
He shook his head and the motion nearly knocked him off his feet. I steadied him, urging him over to a rock outcropping to sit. I cadged a bottle of water from the EMT and stood over Esteban as he downed it.
I remembered the photos in my back pocket. “Una otra cosa.”
“¿Si?” His eyes shut, he swayed slightly, empty water bottle clutched in his hand.
I pulled out Enrique’s picture, “¿Conoces este nino?”
He took the photo in a shaking hand. “Quiza...” His brow furrowed. “Lo he visto en alguna parte, pero no recuerdo...” I’ve seen him somewhere, but I don’t remember...
His brown eyes lit with recognition, and hope sparked inside me. “Es el nieto de Sehora Lopez. Yo trabajaba para ella tres, cuatro meses pasado. Ella tenia lo mismo en su casa.” Mrs. Lopez had the same photograph.
Excitement prickled up my spine. Maybe he knew where she’d moved, “¿Sabes donde vive ella ahora?”
“No, no se.” He slumped tiredly.
My enthusiasm deflated, “¿Pero, estuvo lo mismo fotografia? ¿Exactamente? ¿Estas seguro?” Was he sure it was the same photograph.
“Si. Seguro. El venia a vivir con ella.”
So she had a recent photograph of her grandson and was expecting him to come live with her. ¿Viste el nino?”
He shook his head. He’d never seen Enrique. I got Esteban another bottle of water, then let him be, thanking him for his time.
So, had Enrique arrived in Greenville? Had Mrs. Lopez taken her with him when she left? The boy could be safe, for all I knew, in his grandmother’s care.
I caught up with Ken at the Explorer. He waved off the notebook when I held it out to him. “Tell me as we drive.’’
As we bumped our way back along the gravel road, I flipped open the notebook. “Abe asked Esteban to check the shed for some kind of horse supplement. Twenty minutes later, Abe goes outside and sees the smoke.
Esteban is nowhere in sight, so Abe enters the structure, thinking his ranch hand’s inside.”
“Damn lucky Abe told Mary to call 911 before he went in.”
Lucky if Abe survived. Ken knew as well as I did how badly burned the man had been.
“So where was Esteban?” Ken asked.
“He’d gotten distracted along the way. A calf got itself caught in barbed wire, and Esteban went over to cut it loose. He was on the other side of the barn and didn’t see the smoke. Then he heard Abe yelling.” I tapped the notebook on my knee. “You said the timeline didn’t fit, that it was too late.”
He jammed on the brakes as a deer leapt across the road. “The other fires started at ten, eleven in the morning. We’ve never had one so late.”
“How many fires are we talking here?”
He grimaced. “Counting this one, seven in the last three months. All with traces of candle wax left behind.”
“Pretty low tech ignition source.”
“Provides a time delay for the fire. We haven’t got trace results back on all seven blazes, but from the first few, it looks as if the candle was set in kerosene-soaked rags piled on the floor.”
“Regarding your late start.” I flipped a page on the notebook. “Esteban heard the dogs barking around five or five-thirty this morning. Just before dawn.”
“Five-thirty’s not so early on a ranch. The dogs could have been barking at one of the other hands.”
“Dogs wouldn’t bark at someone they knew,” I pointed out. “Could have been your arsonist getting a late start. If the fire was set around five, it would match the timeline of your previous arsons.”
“I suppose.” He grabbed his cell phone from his belt and dialed. Phone wedged between shoulder and ear, he dodged potholes on the rutted road as he talked. “Yeah, Pat. Ken Heinz here. Any word on Abe?” He listened, his expression growing darker. “Damn it. Keep me posted, okay?”
“Well?” I asked.
“He had some kind of heart episode on his way in.”
“Heart attack?”
“Cardiac ischemia, whatever the hell that is.” We reached the highway, the Explorer sliding to a stop. “This shouldn’t have happened. We should have had these arsons nailed down before now.”
“You’re sure
they’re all the same person? Not just local kids getting their kicks setting fires?”
“Kids would want to watch the fire. That’s the big thrill, watching the flames, seeing the destruction first hand.” He turned to me. “But these fires have eight, ten hour time delays. They’re set in the middle of the night to start in the daylight hours.”
“Maybe they come back later.” Even as I made the suggestion, it didn’t make sense. Why come back during daylight when the chance of getting caught was so much greater? “No witnesses at all?”
He waited for a semi to pass, then pulled out onto the highway. “Folks aren’t awake at three in the morning, generally. The perp’s quiet.” He accelerated to pass a slow-moving RV. “When are you heading back to the city?”
“Tomorrow. I have a few cases close to resolution and three new clients waiting.”
“What about the two boys?”
Culpability draped itself, shawl-like, around my shoulders. “I’ve done what I could.” Which was piss- poor little. “I’ll take a look at Paul Beck’s place one last time before I leave.”
Rather than grapple with guilt over my failure to find the boys, I surrendered to my fire compulsion. My brain redirected itself to the scraps of information I’d learned about Ken’s arsons. A notion had crept into my mind, a dangerous proposal. I tried to keep my mouth shut, to keep from opening that Pandora’s box, but I’ve always had crappy impulse control.
“I could give you a hand before I leave,” I said. “With your arsons.”
He flicked a glance at me as he slowed to exit the highway. “Yeah?” There wasn’t a wealth of encouragement in the tone.
Still, I plowed on. “I could come over to your place tonight with my computer. Run ProSpy against what we know. You bring the incident reports and we can brainstorm, see what we come up with.”
Say no, say no, say no, say no! my better judgment screamed as a long beat of silence passed. “You think that’s a good idea, Janelle?”
It was a lousy idea. We’d be tempting fate. But I chose to sidestep the main issue. “You don’t want my help?”
His jaw flexed. “Cassie’s not home tonight.”
“Where is she?” Not that it mattered. Without the scowling teen there as a buffer, Ken and I would be skirting perilous territory.
“Spending the night at a friend’s house,” he said as he pulled into the sheriff’s office parking lot. “A birthday slumber party.”
“Don’t you think we can behave like adults?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” His hands strangled the wheel. “I suppose you’d expect dinner, too.”
“I’ll pick up takeout. Burgers and fries from Emil’s.”
“I eat there too much as it is.” He shut off the engine. “Hell, I’ll cook. Give me a couple of hours.”
I bid my farewells and headed off to the motel. It was time I checked in with Sheri, although she’d probably already left the office. I’d have to call her cell.
As I lugged my computer inside, I tried to ignore the palpitating dance of my heart. It would be wrong in so many ways if I indulged in some bedroom athletics with Ken again, but that didn’t stop my overactive imagination from considering the possibilities. That we’d be alone at his place only made the temptation harder to resist.
I’d be an idiot to give in. But then, I was always stupid enough to play with fire.
CHAPTER 12
It took Mama longer than usual to get down to the river. Daylight disoriented her, piles of dry brush on either side of the deer trail distracting her. When she went at night, by moonlight or the dim beam of a flashlight with dying batteries, she could focus on the path ahead. With the sunshine pouring down, the brush in clear view, Mama had to fight to keep her mind off the lighter in her jacket pocket.
She should have waited until tonight. She always waited until dark to cleanse herself at the river. Then she would be ready for the purification that would come later.
But she hadn’t expected to find the creature yesterday, trapped at the river’s edge, half-drowned in the water. Her first impulse had been to set it free, let it go to live or die. But when she shone the flashlight on it, the eyes glowed red. Fear coursed through her as she recognized Satan inside the creature. She had no choice then but to burn it, even though it would delay the night’s ritual.
Afterward, she’d performed her fire sacrament with a new purpose, knowing she had pleased God. That sense of righteousness had persisted in the morning, consuming her, taking her by the throat so tightly she could barely breathe with the memory of it. She understood God wanted another sacrifice and since she wasn’t yet ready for the ultimate act, she would have to find another instrument to demonstrate her devotion.
Still, she should have waited until nighttime. But with the passion upon her, she couldn’t sit still contemplating it. What if Satan crawled from his carnal domain and inside another creature, then used that innocent being to commit foul, filthy deeds? If she waited, lost her opportunity to intervene, she would never be able to expiate that sin.
The trees thinned around her, giving way to a wide sloping expanse of granite and shale. She was still out of sight of the river and more importantly, the highway on the other side. The trees and thick brush that grew alongside the river screened the highway. At the speed most drivers went, they were unlikely to spot her, even as exposed as she was.
At least here temptation wouldn’t prickle along her fingers and the lighter would stay in her pocket. Not only was there nothing to burn, the sheer granite face and slippery shale made for unreliable footing. If she didn’t maintain her focus, she could twist an ankle, or worse, could tumble down the rocky slopes. There would be nothing to stop her fall until the creek near the bottom.
Mama breathed easier as she reached the narrow stream that bordered the next stand of trees. The creek dropped into a ten-foot waterfall to her left, but above the fall two or three large stones gave her a path across. Stepping carefully on the dry tops of the stepping stones, she hurried under the cover of trees again.
She could hear the river now. Over its muted roar, Satan whispered in her ear, telling her the same lies he always did. That the necessity to keep his evil self at bay wasn’t what drove her to perform her nightly rituals. It was the fire itself, her own selfish need to burn. Why not stop now amongst the trees, pull out the lighter and set that glorious flame to the pine needles at her feet or to the rotted log across her path? The fire was what she really wanted, not Satan’s sacrifice.
She didn’t listen, just kept walking, certainty of her righteousness growing. Satan was near, lurking at the river. Only she could stand between his putrescence and an ignorant world. Between human sin and the glory of God.
As she reached the last cluster of trees before the slope opened up again, her compulsive sense of purpose made her careless. She nearly marched right out into the open, stopping herself just in time as a car whipped by on the highway.
Mama forced herself to wait, to search the shore for intruders before she allowed herself to start down the rocky bank. Although not as precarious as the granite, the hillside still required caution. So eager and anxious was she to reach the water, she didn’t react quickly enough when a rock shifted under her foot. Going down on one knee, she scraped her hand on a broken tree branch. She found a wadded up rag in the pocket of her jacket and wiped the blood on it as she continued on.
When she reached the quiet cove where she’d found the creature last night her heart sank in disappointment. There was something tangled there, something draped over the submerged tree that had lodged there. But it was only a bundle of trash, not anything she could sacrifice to God. Her trip down here had been wasted.
But when she drew closer to get a better look, elation filled her, making her almost dizzy with happiness. Beyond all hope, the Lord had blessed her again. It was her son that lay slumped across the tree branch, Thomas miraculously returned to her, just as Lydia and Sean and Junior had been.
Despite the rapture filling her soul, Mama knew she had to be careful. She took off her running shoes and rolled up her pant legs. She avoided the mud where she might leave a footprint, stepping on the rocks instead.
The water curled gently in the protected cove, lapping nearly to her knees. Even as it numbed her feet, strange, treacherous thoughts filled her mind. What if she lay down here beside Thomas, let the river envelope her from head to toe? Release the last of her breath, let the chill soak to her bones, quench the fire that scorched her soul. Find peace.
Mama stood over the tree branch, the longing to sleep beside Thomas overpowering. She could pull him down with her, finish the river’s job, take them both to heaven not with fire but with ice.
But she couldn’t leave God’s work undone. She couldn’t leave her other children behind. It would be selfish to depart from the evil of this world, to go on to paradise without them.
She bent to pick up Thomas’s slight body, his wet T-shirt and jeans soaking into her jacket. One of his feet snagged in a vee of the tree branch, catching his shoe. The sneaker floated off, spinning, until the fierce rush of the river carried it away.
Thomas close to her chest, Mama returned to where she’d left her shoes. It didn’t seem wise to walk home barefoot, so she set her boy down to put her shoes back on.
Thomas’s lips were so blue, his thin arms and legs so cold. Bruises colored his swollen right wrist and the hand was twisted at an odd angle. One of the fingers on that hand was bent to the side.
Mama quickly took off her jacket, grateful it was big enough to enclose her boy in its warmth. Once she had him wrapped, she eased him over her shoulder and climbed from rock to rock up the hill.
She was winded when she reached the trees and had to stop to catch her breath. As she leaned against a tall cedar, she looked down at the river again. Her heart raced when she saw the man on the other side. He was behind a screen of willows, head bent down, arms at his sides. When she realized the man was relieving himself, she turned away, cheeks hot with mortification.
Mama took a tighter grip on Thomas as she crossed the creek. Behind the cover of a manzanita, she eased Thomas down, then gathered enough dry twigs to make a cleansing offering. She stuffed the twigs between two rocks, far enough from the manzanita to avoid a spark igniting the highly flammable red branches. Once the flame died down, she packed dirt over the embers.
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