Combustible (A Boone Childress Novel)

by CC Abbott

  Whump!

  The branch slammed against his undercarriage, and there was a metallic clank, followed by a clacking noise. On the dash the oil pressure needle dropped like the second hand on a watch.

  "Don't do this to me, girl."

  Boone pulled back on the highway toward Stanford, praying some place would still be open. By his estimate, the truck had less than a quart of oil left. He wasn't going to win the race. Then he remembered a small store on the left somewhere ahead, though. In the dark, he wasn't precisely sure where he was, so he had no idea if the store was just around the corner or miles away.

  After cresting a hill, Boone stuck the transmission in neutral and shut the engine off to keep it from seizing. He rolled through a stop sign without stopping and rounded a bend.

  A light shone ahead above a small, hand lettered sign.

  “Yes!” he said.

  He guided the wounded truck into the store's gravel lot. After parking, Boone opened the hood to let light in and the peered underneath the engine. The branch had punctured the line, and oil was dripping from the hole.

  Okay, he thought. Nothing a little duct tape couldn't fix.

  Inside the store, Boone stepped into a time capsule: It was crowded with an assortment of dry goods, hunting supplies, hardware, clothes, cleaning supplies, and groceries. They had the usual bread and milk, along with a cooler in the corner and a display of cigarettes behind the cashier.

  A cardboard sign was taped to the register: No Spanish Spoke Here.

  Boone flinched like he had been popped with a rubber band. What kind of racist jerk ran this place? If he hadn’t been desperate, he would have turned heel and walked out.

  The guy at the counter looked up from the comics. He was leaning on his elbows to read, lips moving with the words, and laughing at every joke. His shirt hung loosely on his concave chest, and his pimple-dotted cheeks looked like they had seen a razor only once or twice in his life.

  He didn't have a care in the world, until Boone walked over.

  “I need some oil,” Boone said. “I’ve got a leak.”

  "We ain't got none," he said, licking his fingers and turning the page. "You'd have to ask Red."

  "Who's Red?"

  "My cousin."

  "Where is he?"

  "He…ain't here right now."

  "I noticed that."

  "I’m just minding the store for him."

  Boone picked up five quarts of 10w40 from a display shelf and set them in front of the register. He added a roll of duct tape and a packet of clamps. That would stop the leak long enough to get home.

  "Can't sell you no oil," the clerk said.

  "This is a store, right?"

  He started picking at the scabbed pimples on his cheeks. "Red won't let me take no money."

  "Is that right?"

  “That’s right.”

  Boone’s eyes narrowed. “If you can’t take cash, I’ve got a debit card.”

  He dropped the card onto the counter. The guy read the name on it, his lips moving as he sounded out Childress.

  “Red!” The clerk shot around the counter and disappeared behind a dingy curtain.

  Boone heard voices, and when the curtain opened again, Eugene Childress stepped out.

  Two more guys joined Eugene from the back. They weren't big men. All were shorter than him, but they were put together like Eugene, barrel chested with forearms the size and density of cast iron pipe. They both wore jeans and red T-shirts that displayed the rebel flag and the slogan, "Heritage, Not Hate."

  Considering the sign on the register, Boone found it hard to believe that heritage was their motivation.

  "We're closed," Eugene said.

  Boone put both hands in his pockets and tried to act nonchalant. "I need motor oil. I've got a hole in my line.”

  "We're all out," Eugene said.

  "That’s funny,” Boone said. “I put five quarts on the counter. That guy wouldn't sell me any, either. I'm beginning to think you’ve got something against me."

  Eugene cracked his neck. “I think it’s t’other way around, possum.”

  “Why? I’m not Mexican, am I?”

  Eugene motioned for the clerk to take down the cardboard sign. “Sell the stuff to him. Cash only. Debit cards are just another way for banks to stick it to the working man.”

  Sneaking sidelong glances at Eugene, the clerk rang up the goods.

  “Dewayne was right about you,” Eugene said as Boone picked up his bag.

  “How's that?”

  “You’re too nosy for your own good. Now get off the property and don’t ever come back in here again.”

  “No problem,” Boone said and backed out of the door. "One question: You guys don't speak Spanish. How do you feel about Japanese?"

  Boone watched Eugene for a reaction. He didn't flinch. The clerk, though, did. He dropped his head and stared at his shoes, which were suddenly very interesting.

  It was all Boone needed to know.

  Eugene shut the door in his face, threw the deadbolt, and flipped the sign to closed.

  It took a few minutes for Boone to duct tape the leak and refill the oil, but the repair was a success. He started the engine. The oil gauge drifted to full and stayed there.

  He was pulling the door shut when he noticed a red minivan parked beside the store. The license plate was in the shadows, so he unclipped his small keychain light and crept over to the rear bumper.

  This, he was sure, was the same van used during the attack on Luigi. If only Luigi would press charges, they could send the whole crew to jail.

  Get over it, Boone, he told himself. Luigi isn’t going to press charges, and Hoyt would need more than a license plate number to get a conviction.

  His cell rang. He glanced at the ID and said, “Abner? I just left your house to—“

  “Ain’t there. I’m in Greenville. On the way to meet with the hyphenated lady.”

  “Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith?”

  “The one and the same. Hoyt had the body sent to her for identification, and I offered to lend a hand. Meet me there.”

  “Where is there?”

  “Basement of McClain Hall. Get here as quick as you can, or you’ll miss the fun.”

  When he reached McClain Hall on the campus of Carolina Tech, Boone pulled around the service entrance, where he found Abner’s car parked near a SUV with a faculty sticker. There was a light in the basement windows and another coming from the service doors.

  He knocked for a good five minutes before Abner finally showed. His grandfather was dressed in a white lab coat and rubber apron, and he wore latex gloves and a face shield. In the old days before everyone worried about pathogens so much, Abner would do field examinations without any gear at all, using just a dab of vapor rub under his nose to cut down on the stink of decomposition.

  “Wear these,” Abner said as he thrust a coat and apron at Boone. “The hyphenated lady runs a clean ship.”

  “No gloves?” Boone pulled on the gear. “What if I have the urge to touch something?”

  “Then keep your urges to yourself.”

  Abner steered him to the lab. The basement made for a half-decent morgue. It had a stainless steel table, refrigeration units, instruments, and a good light.

  “Why are you so interested in this case, Boone? It’s not like you’ve got a horse in this race.”

  “Guess I'm too nosy for my own good.”

  “You get that from your mama.”

  “She says I got it from you.”

  “All you got from me,” he said as he opened the door and stepped through the decontamination curtains, “was my charm and good looks. Hey, Meredith, I'd like to introduce you to my grandson, Boone.”

  Boone reached out to shake her hand through the latex gloves. Meredith was in her mid-30’s, with above-average height. Her blonde hair was cut chin length, and her cheeks blushed red from the cold air in the room. Boone noticed that she had eyes the color of coffee when she flashed a pol
ite smile. Her handshake was firmer than Boone expected and warmer, too.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Boone. Your grandfather tells me that you’re thinking of following in his footsteps.”

  “His footsteps are too big for me,” Boone said, “but I am interested in a career in forensics specializing in fire investigation.”

  “You should consider our forensic program, then,” she said and nodded at Abner. “If you’re half as gifted as Dr. Zickafoose, you’d be a good fit here.”

  “I’ll certainly consider it.” In truth, he was considering three schools. Carolina Tech was one of them, but lately, State seemed more appealing.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Now could you sit over there? That way, you won’t be tempted to touch anything like a certain anthropologist I know.”

  Abner laughed and Boone slunk over to a stool, feeling very much like a dunce.

  Meredith Windsor-Smith opened the body bag containing the female torso. “Dr. Zickafoose, can you hit the tape?”

  Abner thrust a mini-recorder under Boone’s nose. “Boone can handle it for us.”

  “Okay, Boone. Hit it.” She waited until Boone had pressed the record button, then began with a clear voice. “This is Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith, Associate Professor, Carolina Tech University.” She stated the time and date and the names of the people in attendance. “Individual to be examined appears to be a female, between sixty and sixty-three inches in height. Age is still indeterminate. Traces of polyester fabric at the victim’s waist.”

  Unable to fight the temptation, Boone snuck over to the table. He picked up a probe and pushed away the material on the pelvis, exposing skin that was less burned.

  “Skin has a glossy appearance,” Meredith continued. “Arms are drawn up in the typical pugilist position.” She grabbed Boone’s wrist. “Put the probe down, please. I'm trying to work. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Any evidence of accelerants on the skin?” Boone asked. “Or anything to determine the source of the fire that killed her?”

  Meredith paused, then seemed to decide to answer his question. “Before you arrived, I detected small amounts of shrapnel in the epidermis, along with some residue that I haven’t had time to identify. For example.” She pointed to a chunk of metal in the corpse's belly. “All burns are post- mortem. Ergo, cause of death is most likely smoke inhalation. There was enough skin, however, to take fingerprints. If she has any record in AFIS, we'll find her.”

  Boone glanced at the corpse’s fingertips, wondering how Meredith could ever see the prints, just as Sheriff Hoyt stepped through the curtains into the room.

  “Well hell, Abner,” Hoyt said, “if this ain’t a pleasant surprise. Except it ain’t pleasant, and I sure ain’t surprised to see you sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

  Boone and Abner glanced at the doctor, who stared at Hoyt. “Sheriff, Dr. Zickafoose is here to assist me.”

  Hoyt tossed a manila folder on to the table. “The fire investigators filed their final report, and there’s no sign of foul play. Y'all go home. This autopsy is over.”

  “I haven't finished my work, “ Meredith protested. “I can't file a complete report about the identity of the victim.”

  “That ain't your problem anymore,” Hoyt said. “You’re done here.”

  Boone and Abner shared a look as Meredith pulled off the latex gloves and tossed them on the table, obviously disgusted.

  “You two,” Hoyt said to Boone and Abner, “will be leaving.”

  Boone walked toward Hoyt. “This is a public building, sheriff, and you’re out of your jurisdiction, so whether we leave or stay is none of you business.”

  “Suit yourself.” Hoyt turned back to Dr. Windsor-Smith. “Tag and bag the body, professor. I’ll be taking it back to Bragg County with me.”

  SATURDAY

  That night when Boone got home, the weather turned windy. Before dawn, he got out of bed, intending to shut the window. On the pond's floating deck, he saw Lamar staring into the water.

  What's he doing out there? It was still a couple of hours before his stepfather normally woke up to feed the animals. It wasn't like him to go for moonlight strolls. For a few minutes Boone watched him. Lamar barely moved. Then Boone saw the flicker of a lighter's flame, the glowing ember of a cigarette. That explained it. Lamar was sneaking a smoke. He had quit years ago, but he had been known to sneak one or two when something was troubling him.

  Since he couldn't read minds and Lamar was as tightlipped as a snapping turtle, Boone decided to go back to bed. But sleep didn’t come easily. Lamar wasn't the only one with a troubled mind. The fires. The dead woman. The graveyard. There had to be a pattern here, an underlying set of dots that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye but would come together under the magnifying glass.

  Then there was Cedar. Her comment about accelerating kept coming back to mind. What did she want accelerated? Their relationship? How was he supposed know? She had thanked him for not pushing when they snuggled in the barn, but now, she’s was mad because he was going too slowly?

  Long before the alarm clock went off, he gave up. He climbed out of bed, then checked the window. Lamar was gone. In the bathroom he pulled on a pair of nylon running shorts and a shirt. He added a State hoodie for warmth.

  "Feel like a run?" he asked the cat as he passed through the living room.

  The gold and white tabby looked up from her rug in the living room. She sniffed, then put her head back down as Boone pulled the door shut behind himself. Exercise clearly was not on her agenda. Maybe they needed a dog like Chigger around the house to motivate her.

  Outside, he trotted down to the driveway. He stretched out beside the cars. Then he took off down the road. Except for the random logging truck, the roads around Frisco were always empty before dawn. His hands and feet were cold at first, but the air was still humid enough for him to work up a sweat. He trotted for a few minutes, then lengthened his stride and turned from the dirt road leading to the highway.

  Mist rose from the creek like a blanket that hid the water. In the summer months, the creek would be noisy from the sound of frogs croaking, but now it was quiet. The only sounds were thud of his sneakers on the pavement and the rise and fall of his breath. He was spinning his wheels in the quest to bring Eugene Loach to justice. The man was a racist who hated Mexicans. Latinos had turned up in the hospital, hurt but afraid to talk. The farmers in the western part of the county were complaining that they couldn't hire enough help to bring in the fall crops because the workers had left the county. It all added up an organized campaign against the Latino community, and Boone was sure that Loach and his boys were involved somehow. But where they smart enough to conduct an organized attack against the Latino community? He didn’t think so. Was someone else behind it? Or maybe he was just connecting dots that weren’t there.

  The cabin was empty when he returned. Mom had left a note reminding him to take the trash to the compost pile and also letting him know she would be late for dinner. She had a meeting with her attorney, whom she was consulting about the Tin City graveyard project.

  As Lamar had expected, the sheriff hadn't shown much interest in old dead bodies when he had a fresh one to occupy him.

  As Boone expected, Mom wasn't about to let that stop her.

  So Boone showered, did his house chores, let the cat out, and opened the door to a fire. Flames poured out of a bundle of sticks piled up outside the door, and a rivulet of fiery liquid spread down the gallery. Boone stepped back inside and grabbed a mini extinguisher from the pantry.

  As he doused the flames with foam, he realized there was something wrong. The sticks weren't just sticks—they were switches, freshly stripped and stacked neatly for burning, an old-fashioned way of warning someone that they were in trouble.

  No, he told himself, it's just a prank. One of the dumbass kids from down the road had too much time on their hands. Last year, they had lit a paper full of cow patties in the driveway. He was lucky it w
as just switches and not a pile of steaming dog crap.

  After hosing the mess off the gallery, Boone drove to class, palms already sweating because he was going to see Cedar.

  Cedar and Dr. K were waiting for him in the lab. A desk and four filing cabinets covered one wall, and a door to the supply closet, which was plastered with OSHA and NC Department of Safety stickers, took up most of another. There was a round table in the middle of the room. The table was stacked with circuit boards, a black box, and something that looked like a man's sock stuffed with cotton.

  Cedar sat at the table. Chigger was in her lap.

  "Hey," she said with a tinge of excitement. "Hope you don’t mind, Dr. K's trying to help me calibrate the N.O.S.E., and Chigger keeps acting up. That's a problem because technically, no dogs are allowed in school, even in the name of science."

  Dr. K greeted him, though she seemed a little out of sorts. “I understand that don't you mind helping us? You'll be excused from the lab assignment you missed."

  "I'll be glad to help,” he said. “What do I do? Record the data? Calibrate the machine?"

  "Hold the dog," Cedar said.

  Cedar had inserted two metal probes the width of spaghetti into Chigger's nose and secured them with white tape. The beagle tolerated this pretty well, as long as Boone was willing to rub his belly.

  "We're measuring the water vapor of the air he inhales and then exhales." Cedar said. "According to my research, dogs can separate the air they inhale from air they exhale. My experiment today hopes to show that the amount of vapor proves that the air is different."

  "What difference does that make?" Boone held Chigger in his lap.

  "Basically," Cedar said, "It keeps the dog from resampling odors. See the slits in the sides of Chigger's nose? They push exhaled air out. That stops it from blending with the new smells and diluting the scent. Keep rubbing, please. He's getting bored."

  He wasn't the only one. Boone's attention had begun to wander, too. Why would Dr. K be agitated? "What's the point in the water vapor? I thought beagles had thousands of scent receptors."