by CC Abbott
"True that," Boone said.
The receptionist led them to an office at the end of the hallway. She knocked and waited. Boone surveyed the building. Plush carpeting. Maple paneling. Solid core doors. Several large contemporary paintings hung on the walls, including a tapestry by an artist that Boone recognized as Ivey Hayes, an African-American artist from Wilmington.
"They're from Mr. Trey's personal collection," the receptionist said. "Quite the collector, isn't he? He wanted to be a painter, but the family business was his true calling. Still, his taste is impeccable."
To the left Boone noticed a door ajar. Inside, the office was furnished with a quarter-sawn oak desk and a leather sofa. Parked near the windows was an electric wheelchair. A man with silver hair slept in the chair, his head tilted to the side and resting on a neck pillow. The nametag on the door read G.D. Landis, CEO Emeritus.
"Y'all can come in now," Trey Landis called from inside his office.
The receptionist frowned at Boone and narrowed her eyes, as if to say, I've got my eye on you.
"Ryobi!" Landis came around the ten-foot-long glass and marble desk to greet them. "Come in, come in."
Luigi bowed and offered another business card with two hands. Landis waved him off. "No formalities here, boys. Save the business stuff for when you're grown up. I don't believe I know you." He stuck out a soft hand to Boone. "Trey Landis."
"Boone Childress."
"Not Mary Harriett's boy?"
"Yes sir."
"Your mama's a damn fine vet. I was just in to see her the other week. My daddy's got this old cat he's had since before they invented sliced bread. If it wasn't for your mama, it would've been dead and buried years ago. Truth is, I should've had it put to sleep, but Daddy's so fond of it."
Luigi snuck a look at Boone. He said nothing, but his meaning was clear: Help me.
"What's that?" Boone pointed at an expansive model set on a conference table in front of the windows, which looked out at the new hospital addition. People were milling around, along with a handful of reports with microphones. One of the Greenville stations was setting up for a remote broadcast. Boone had never seen so many outsiders in town before.
Landis stood beside the model. "This, boys, is the Sistine Chapel, the Mona Lisa, and the Last Supper all rolled into one. It's my masterpiece, Autumn Hall."
Boone was not as schooled in architecture as he was osteology, but he had heard about Autumn Hall, a massive mixed-use development that was planned to skirt the new freeway extension the state was constructing.
"Market it and they will come. That's my motto." Landis slapped them both on the back. "You're like me, Ryobi. Making your own way in the world, I admire that."
The receptionist knocked. "Time to go, Mr. Trey."
"You got Daddy all set?" he replied.
"His nurses have already transported him across the street."
"Thanks, Josie. I appreciate you." Landis turned his attention back to Luigi and Boone. "Boys, been good meeting you. Hate to run off, but I'm expected over to the hospital for a ribbon cutting. Take care now."
He shook hands with both of them again, and the receptionist showed them to the door.
"That was different," Boone said when they were clear of the building.
Luigi wiped his brow. "I am pleased you agree. Want to get a hot dog?"
He pointed to a row of tents set up on the hospital grounds. As part of the ceremony, they were giving away food and drinks.
Boone was never one to turn down free food. "You could have four or five to last until supper, I guess."
"Yes," Luigi said. "That would be a good snack."
Between them, Luigi and Boone devoured a half-dozen hot dogs, four cans of Coke, and one jumbo-sized dill pickle. Boone had the pickle. They finally had to stop when the vendors closed for the ceremony. The pair drifted toward the street, where they watched Trey Landis guide his father's wheelchair to the stage. The crowd applauded, and Landis waved while his father nodded.
George Deems Landis, known as G.D. or Deems to his friends and God Damn to the men who had done business with him before he found religion, sat quietly on the platform. A shrunken, knotted hand rested on a sliver-handled cane. His suit was old and obviously tailored, but it was his shoes that gave him away. Boone saw that they were orthopedic slip-ons with flat soles. Old man shoes. He continued to nod through his son's short speech and the rest of the ceremony.
When the emcee finally called Landis' name to cut the ribbon, he tried to stand by himself. For a few seconds he teetered on the brink between standing and falling back to his wheelchair. Then his son had him by the elbow and lifted him up. Trey half-dragged his father to the lectern. Boone wasn't sure if it was because the elder man was slow to walk or slow to step into the spotlight.
The emcee handed G.D. a large plaque and shook the old man's hand. He whispered something to Trey, who took the plaque and lifted it up like an Olympic gold medal.
G.D. frowned and waved for him to stop. "The important thing is the children this new cancer wing are going to help. Let's get this ribbon cutting over with and open the doors. There's young folks who need helping right now. Don't y'all think?"
G.D. did the cutting with a pair of oversized yellow scissors, and the crowd broke out into applause. Trey Landis dutifully helped his father into his chair and steered him off the platform. As he watched, Boone wondered what George Deems and Ethel Thayer Landis would think about their son building McMansions instead of hospitals.
"Don’t ever ask me to do anything like this again," Cedar said as she walked up behind him and Luigi. She slapped a plastic container into Boone’s hands. True to her word, Cedar had pinch hit for Boone. She had driven out to Tin City to meet with Stumpy, where it had taken her less than a minute to procure the evidence.
Boone peeked inside, then quickly shut the lid. “So how'd you get it away from Stumpy?"
"Negotiation is my forte," she said with a straight face. “I threatened to dissect him like a rat.”
Subconsciously, Boone cupped a hand over his jewels. “You weren’t serious, right?”
She gave him a not-so-reassuring smile.
Luigi pinched a hotdog from Boone's plate. "Yum. Delicious. Do you know what would make these better? Some nattō with yellow mustard.”
Nattō was fermented soybeans so sticky and pungent, it felt like swallowing snot. It was the only Japanese food Boone refused to eat when he was stationed there.
Luigi offered the hotdog to Cedar. "Want some?"
"Think context," she said. "Finger plus food does not equal appetite. It equals regurgitation. Luigi, do you need a ride home?"
"I will walk," Luigi said. "My host family lives only one mile from here."
"That's a long walk," Boone said, "and it's almost dark. I’ll be glad to give you a ride.”
But Luigi refused. "In Japan, I walk three miles to the train station every day. One mile is nothing. I need to make my legs stretchy."
Cedar smiled. "That's stretch your legs."
"Idioms suck." Luigi laughed and wiped his face with a napkin. He ran his hands through the shock of black hair that covered his brow, making it spike in all directions.
They left the event in a pack. Boone and Cedar went to their cars, which were parked in adjacent slots. Luigi waved as he turned down the road toward the home of his host family. A quarter mile down the way, the road turned from pavement to sandy soil. Boone noted that Luigi's shiny ankle boots were completely the wrong footwear for walking in the country, especially on dirt roads.
"Don’t change the subject. You're not getting off the hook that easy," Cedar said over the top of her VW Bug. "Still on for dinner tomorrow?"
“You worried I changed my mind?” he said and leaned on the hood.
She flashed a smile. “My schedule’s pretty full, and I don't like changes to it.”
“Like your coach’s surprise practice tonight.”
“Exactly. He fouled up my plans.”
"You ca
n count on me," Boone said opened her door. “I won’t call a surprise practice.”
Cedar slid behind the wheel and after starting the engine, down the passenger window. "Sorry to be neurotic. I’m not very good at curveballs."
"Some theorize that a curveball is actually an optical illusion."
Cedar tilted her chin just so. Even sweaty from practice, she looked amazingly kissable. "Lyman Briggs used wind tunnel testing to prove that the backspin on the ball causes it to break, so a curveball does curve."
"I’ll keep that in mind the next time I need to throw one."
Boone reluctantly closed her door. He watched her pull onto the highway, then speed off. He sighed and shook his head. “Boone, you’ve got no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
He looked down at Stumpy’s finger, which he’d half forgotten about, and immediately, his mind was on the Tin City fire again. He put the finger on his front seat and fired up the truck.
On the way back to the cabin, Boone drove with only half of his mind on the road. How did the finger find its way into Stumpy's hands? Better yet, who did it belong to? Abner might be able to tell him, or he would know someone who could.
He dialed his grandfather and got voicemail. “Hey, Abner. Call me back. I’ve got something to show you.”
Boone's family lived at the end of Tobacco Road, named as a joke after a trashy novel, in a split-timber log home that Lamar built himself. The farm was about two hundred acres, and on it they grew organic blueberries, scuppernong grapes, and raised horses, miniature goats, and thirty head of Angus beef. Lamar had inherited the farm from his parents, who grew tobacco for fifty years. They passed away just before the tobacco market in North Carolina collapsed under the weight of Brazilian competition and a massive government buyout of the tobacco quota. Unlike many farmers in Bragg County, Lamar had taken the death of tobacco in stride and diversified. He hated smoking anyway. It had killed both of his parents.
Boone came into the cabin as Lamar was pulling food out of the microwave. Dinner was warmed up lasagna, one of the three he had baked over the weekend, which was when Lamar did the week's cooking. With two firefighters and a veterinarian in the house, they never knew when dinner would be, and Lamar liked to be prepared for any emergency. It seemed like life was a potential emergency for him.
Lamar, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, didn't look up, even though he had to know Boone was home. The cabin was surrounded on three sides by wooden decks, and you could hear somebody coming a mile away.
At first, Boone thought of heading upstairs to the loft. If Lamar was ignoring him, maybe he should play the same game. But he knew that doing so would only prolong the inevitable, so he threw his bag on the couch, put the plastic container way in the back of the freezer, and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge.
He leaned against the edge of the kitchen wall. He finished the beer as Lamar set the glass casserole pan and a tossed salad on the table.
"Plates," Lamar said, which was a command for Boone to set the table.
"Silverware?" Boone asked.
Lamar grunted a reply.
It was easy to tell when Lamar was perturbed. Most people yelled when they were upset, and the angrier they were, the louder they got. But Lamar was the opposite. He got very quiet. And he started fixing things. In middle school, Boone learned about Occam ’s Razor, which posits that the simplest solution to a problem is usually the right one. When his mom remarried after the divorce, Boone learned about something called Lamar's Hammer, which posits that the first step in fixing anything is to give it a good whack.
Did the TV have lines rolling through it? Whack.
Glove box rattling in the truck? Whack!
Vent fan humming too loud in the bathroom when you’re using the facilities? Whack!
Fortunately, Lamar didn't believe in hitting people, so he decided to fix his dining table chair, which seemed to have a wobbling leg. He turned it upside down, holding the wooden base in his left hand and hammering the offending leg with the palm of his right.
Boone winced. Even though calluses as hard and thick as a horse hoof covered Lamar's hand, it still hurt to watch him striking hardwood with a bare hand.
"Where's Mom?" he said.
"Horses."
To the untrained eye, that meant that Mom was out feeding the horses. Boone knew different. It meant that she was as angry as Lamar, and that she had put herself in timeout. Taking care of the horses calmed her down, soothed the edges of her ragged temper. Unlike Lamar, when Mom got angry, she got loud. It didn't last long, but her temper was a sight to behold. That kind of flash fire anger didn't bother Boone. It had always been Lamar's stoicism that unnerved him the most.
As soon as Boone finished setting the table, Lamar flipped his chair upright and then sat down. It didn't rock anymore.
"Let's eat."
Boone sat opposite Lamar. "What about Mom?"
"She'll be along."
For five minutes, neither one spoke. Boone didn't have much of an appetite, and he was driven to distraction by the presence of the finger in the freezer. He wanted to get it to Abner tonight, before anyone could find it.
Finally, after shoveling in forkfuls of lasagna and salad coated with Thousand Island dressing, Boone’d had enough. He set his fork on the table.
“There’s something I want to run past you,” Boone said.
Lamar nodded for him to go on.
“Remember the house fire over in Duck that was in the paper? It followed the same pattern as the Tin City fire, I gathered artifacts that shows they were both—"
Lamar set his fork on the table. "Did you know that once all the firefighters leave a site, you need a search warrant if you want to look around again?"
"I didn’t know that."
"Now you do."
Lamar stared into the distance, like there was something there that only he could see. He wiped the corners of his mouth. The longer he took to speak, the more curious Boone became about what he had to say.
"Boone," he began, "serving as a firefighter is serious business. It takes determination and discipline. It also takes teamwork.”
“I known that, Lamar. I’m not a kid.”
“Which is why I’m giving it to you straight. Today, you broke some of the most sacred rules of the job. You tried to be a hero, and you just about got yourself killed. Rookies make mistakes. Lord knows I've made my share of them, too, but you took it to a new level today."
“And yet you toasted me this morning, using beer that I bought.”
“That’s tradition. What was I supposed to do, embarrass you in front of your friends?” Lamar took a cloth napkin from the table and wiped his palms. He looked into the distance again, growing silent.
Boone waited until he couldn’t stand not to. "What're you trying to tell me?"
“Speaking as your captain, you're on probation from the fire department. "
"Probation?" Boone said as his phone buzzed.
Lamar nodded. "One more slip up, and you're suspended."
Boone felt the rushing sound in his ears. He wanted to say something, but his tongue was in a state of rigor mortis. It was probably better that he didn’t talk. Lamar never listened once he had come to a decision, and he was following the rules and regs to the letter.
But rules and regs didn't prevent Boone from acting on the information that he already had in hand. With some analytical work and help from Abner, he could prove the arsons were related, and maybe, if he connected enough dots, he could solve the case and prove that the brotherhood of firefighters was where he belonged.
“Have it your way, cap,” Boone said and walked outside to the back porch to answer a text from Julia in private.
JULIA: Meet me at station. Important.
BOONE: What’s up?
JULIA: Need your help with something.
BOONE: Be there in 15.
He stared at the phone. No way was this legit. What kind of help did Julia need at this time
of night? He came back inside and grabbed his jacket, even though the night wasn’t cold.
“Going out!” he called to Lamar.
“Don’t be late,” Lamar called back.
Fourteen minutes later, Boone opened the side door of the fire station and hit the lights. The bay was illuminated. The big pump engine glistened in the light. They had buffed it just yesterday, when it seemed like there would never be a call to respond to.
“Julia?” Boone called out.
“Up here,” she called. “I need a hand with something.”
Boone looked up the fire pole, where Julia was peering down at him. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait till tomorrow?
“Oh this definitely can’t wait.” She smiled and waved. “Come on up. There’s something I’m just dying to show you.”
Boone climbed the stairs.
When he got to the top, Julia was waiting for him, dressed in her fire coat. Her feet and legs were bare. She dropped the coat and stood in front of him, wearing only a black lace bra and see-through panties.
Her ivory skin glistened with sweat.
“You look hot,” Boone said.
She licked her lips. “I hope you mean that in the way I intended.”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you have good intentions.”
She walked toward him, hands on her hips. She reached around and unclasped her bra. Cupping her breasts, she pulled the bra loose and dropped it on the floor. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
It sure is, he thought, although his intentions were definitely not good. He found himself wondering if he should go through with this when it looked like he and Cedar might do more than smile over dissected animals. But they didn’t have anything, not yet and maybe not ever.
Julia moved into his arms. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she pulled off his shirt. Her skin was hot, and her nipples were so hard, he felt them rub against his stomach. As she turned her mouth up for a kiss that he gladly delivered, her hands unbuckled his belt and unsnapped his jeans. He turned his hips to give her better access while her fingers slid inside his zipper, where his hardness was straining for her touch.
