St. Albans Fire

by Mayor, Archer

  After learning the alarm’s entrance code yesterday, Gino had picked the lock and checked the place out, outfitting it with a series of minute, wireless cameras which he’d hidden behind books, among plants, behind a stack of towels, and elsewhere, until he was sure he had every angle covered, including the bathroom, where he’d made sure to coat the camera lens with antifogging fluid.

  He wasn’t always this thorough. But then again, his norm was to make sure no people were around.

  Not this time. This time the target wasn’t a building, but its occupant, and he’d convinced himself that he needed to know her habits, her daily rhythm, as if such knowledge might alter his approach or his overall plan. It wouldn’t, of course. He intended to strike in the middle of the night, when she was asleep. There was no point in knowing when she watched TV or brushed her teeth or which side of the bed she used. Simply watching the house for several days and seeing when the lights went off would have been adequate for his purposes.

  This all stemmed from some other need.

  On the computer, Gail moved into her bedroom and kicked off her shoes. Gino clicked on the image and brought it up to fill the screen. He watched, barely breathing, as she removed her sweater, then her blouse, slipped off her skirt and panty hose, and moved about the room, either putting clothes away or placing them in a laundry hamper. In front of the latter, she also took off her underwear and tossed it into the hamper with the rest, before reaching into a closet, taking hold of a terry-cloth robe, and covering herself once more.

  Every movement had been routine to the point of blandness—an attractive woman presuming herself to be without an audience. There had been no shred of sexuality, no enjoyment in doing what might have been seductive in another setting. She had merely been making herself more comfortable.

  But it had left Gino sweating in his van, his breath short and his eyes glued to the picture, the complex of emotions gripping him—anger, loss, and lust—all swirling for attention in different and conflicting ways.

  He missed Peggy as if a part of him had been amputated. Over the time they’d been together, he’d begun merely blessing his lucky stars that he’d been able to get such a woman into bed. Every time he’d dropped by her tiny apartment to see her, he’d been amazed once again by her beauty, her sensuality, her clear and inviting openness. As he tugged at her buttons and zippers, ran his hands under her clothes, and made love to her in any way he wished, he found himself constantly wondering when she would suddenly bring herself up short, see him as if for the first time, and immediately throw him out.

  But it never happened. Time passed, he moved her into the house Down Neck. Her joy in his company never slipped, her expectations that they would forever be a couple never wavered. Her conviction was catching. From simply being unfaithful, which he’d been many times before, he eventually came to feel that sleeping with his wife was cheating on Peggy, and he stopped. He moved downstairs to his den, slept on the couch, and put up with the attending domestic fury. It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He had Peggy, and everything was going to work out.

  By this time, Gail had stepped into the bathroom. Gino, in a daze, slowly closed the first window and expanded the second, making Gail leap in size just as she removed her robe. He stared at her as she used the toilet and then entered the shower.

  It was glass-doored, and the minicamera had been set high, so he maintained a full and unimpeded view of her as she stepped under the water stream, tilted her head back, and let a warm cascade wash over her. He sat transfixed as she reached for the soap, lathered herself up, and went through the clearly memorized, almost soothing routine of a breast exam. She raised each arm in turn and hooked it behind her neck as she caressed and kneaded her breast with the other hand, using the soapy film covering her to ease her motions.

  Gino hadn’t slept in days. He’d barely eaten and hadn’t changed his clothes. He’d stayed at Peggy’s house, lying in her bed, surrounded by her things, despite Fredo’s constant urging that he beware of the cops. Fredo had kept watch downstairs, his eyes on the street, his panic rising to the point where Gino had finally paid attention.

  Still, as he’d formed his plan and put it into motion, Gino had clutched his loss and its metamorphosis into obsessive revenge like a dying man clinging to false hope. Now, his eyes glued to Gail, naked, glistening, self-absorbed, all he could see was Peggy, all he could remember was how she had felt under his hands, and all he could think of was how she had burned alive.

  Just as this one was going to. Very soon.

  · · ·

  At the same time, an hour’s drive away, north by northwest, a light was killed in an upper bedroom of the Cutts farmhouse, and curtains spread apart to better afford a view of the barn’s charred remains, now cradled in the snow-free black soil of the surrounding field like the skeleton of an oversize Viking ship locked in an ancient bog, its ribs gleaming slightly in the moonlight, polished by the scorch of fire.

  Marie Cutts, barely visible as a black-on-black silhouette, sat by the window, looking out. She was still—to the point of breathlessness—to where all she could feel was the heartbeat she so casually took for granted. Her unseeing eyes were fixed on the center of the cold pyre, her deaf ears filled with the dying screams of her youngest child.

  Marie was wishing she was dead, too, as quiet and calm as Bobby in his grave. She’d had enough of the fury that had fueled her for most of her life, that she’d channeled into pushing her family to avoid the shoals her own father had so callously ignored. From the moment she’d met Calvin and seen in him the soundness she lacked at home, she’d laid out plans for a future of prosperity and safety. She’d driven him to be cautiously innovative, to never spend more than they could afford, to avoid work habits born of simple repetition, and to establish others that would stand them all in good stead.

  Cal was compliant at first, a willing student, eager to please, hardworking, and patient. He listened carefully to her ideas and put many of them to use. But only at first. Over time, he created his own visions, often willfully at odds with hers, she thought, simply because he could do so. He became easygoing, too friendly and trusting of others. It hadn’t resulted in any reversals of fortune—yet—but it reminded her of her socially adept father, and it hung over her head like a sword.

  When the kids were born, she shifted her attention, planning an education for Linda that would make her a farmer’s best partner, and a training program for Bobby that would ready him to inherit and thrive.

  But there again, she’d been thwarted. Calvin’s insidious good nature and independence, so valued by others and so weak at its core, took early genetic hold, making of Linda a rebellious acolyte, more interested in boys than in farming, and downright lazy at home, doing chores only under threat. Bobby, of course, had been perfect, quick and eager and happy to participate in his mother’s dream, and for a brief few years, Marie thought she’d caught her golden ring.

  But then Linda, of all people, messed things up, marrying Padgett, becoming pregnant, and getting her weakwilled father to betray his own blood for the sake of an interloper.

  Marie shifted in her seat, her anger stirring like the lava from deep inside a volcano—just as it always had. Linda, she thought derisively. Didn’t even like farming, despite all her fakery in pretending to be Padgett’s helpmate.

  Bobby had once more been the hero, acceding to his father’s decision, saying how relieved he was to play second fiddle to a former juvenile delinquent. As furious as Marie had been by the whole turn of events, she’d still been amazed by her son’s good grace.

  Bobby had been all she’d ever hoped for, her dream incarnate, her comfort in the face of old age. His death had broken her heart and made of life something not worth living.

  · · ·

  Back in Newark, Lil Farber and members of her unit, supported by an armor-wearing tactical team, grouped around a scarred, stained, hollow-core door on the second floor of one of the city’s tenement buildings. Wh
ispering into her radio to the people watching the fire escape, she called off a brief countdown, nodded to the two tactical men carrying a steel battering ram between them, and stepped back to give them room.

  With precision born of frequent practice, the two easily smacked the door’s handle on the first swing, sending the door flying back on its hinges with an explosive bang. The men instantly peeled off to both sides, one of them taking the ram with him, while four more with flashlight-equipped shotguns poured through the opening, shouting out who they were and warning everyone not to move.

  It was a raid, brought about by a solid tip from a trusted snitch, who said that keeping company with a prostitute at this address and looking forward to a long evening of sex and illegal drugs would be Fredo Loria, Gino Famolare’s right-hand man and chief flunky.

  The tip proved sound. Sprawled naked on the bed with an equally exposed young woman, Fredo even had the telltale white smears under his nostrils of a recent snort of cocaine. With no small degree of satisfaction, Farber placed him under arrest.

  · · ·

  Several hours later, Joe Gunther, staying at a motel on the edge of St. Albans, was dragged from his sleep by the nervous buzzing of his pager as it vibrated across the glossy surface of his night table.

  He read the number and the brief message, “Call me now—Lil,” and dialed back immediately, propping his pillows against the wall behind him.

  “Farber.”

  “Lil. It’s Joe.”

  She didn’t waste time. “Sorry to bounce you out of bed. We busted Fredo Loria tonight, Gino’s lieutenant, or best buddy, or whatever you want to call him, and threatened him with the three strikes rule unless he ratted out his boss. He told us something I thought you’d like to know ASAP.”

  “Shoot,” Joe said, the last shreds of fog clearing from his brain.

  “I’ll give it to you in two parts,” she went on. “The easy stuff first. Fredo confirmed that, just as we thought, Gino made three trips to Vermont, the timing corresponding to your three barn fires. But here’s the catch, and it ties into what Santo Massi told us the night we grabbed him. You asked him if the forty grand was for one or more jobs, and he said one, meaning the phone conversation he overheard between Gregory and Lagasso was probably about the first one.”

  “Loomis,” Joe said softly.

  “Whoever. But what we got out of Fredo just now was that there were only two jobs brokered through Lagasso in any case, each for forty thousand. The third was done off the books.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Lagasso knew nothing about it. The customer and Gino dealt direct.”

  “Did Fredo know who the customer was?”

  Lil laughed. “You want it that easy? Forget about it. There’s one more thing, though: The night we sweated Santo, he told you that later Gino heard about someone dying in—quote, unquote—‘it.’ He screwed that up. The death didn’t happen in the fire he’d heard discussed, but in the third one he knew nothing about. He just assumed they were one and the same. Fredo remembers otherwise because Lagasso talked about how Gino was on a roll, and that they were all top-dollar deals from out of state.”

  “Did Gregory do all the hiring?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Lil answered him, “and nor did Fredo. But, for what it’s worth, the price remained the same.”

  Joe remained silent, thinking.

  “There’s something else,” Lil added. “While Gino never told Fredo who hired him, he was worked up enough about the fatality in number three to vent a little.”

  “That upset him?” Joe asked, surprised.

  He could almost see Lil shaking her head in amusement. “Not hardly. That death ended a perfect record—it was all about vanity. Anyhow, again according to Fredo, Gino ranted how he hadn’t wanted any of the jobs to begin with, since he wasn’t used to barns and didn’t like the way they’re laid out. He was also angry about having to kill the cows, so the kid dying, too, really turned his crank.”

  Joe thought back to when all this started. He, Shafer, and Jonathon had wondered if—given the evidence—the torch might have improvised and that a lack of familiarity with barns might have played a role in making two of the arsons so easy to pair up.

  Lil’s voice changed to something a little warier. “Joe, Fredo also told us something you’re not going to like. That’s really why I woke you up instead of waiting till morning.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. “What is it?”

  “Gino’s holding you directly responsible for Peggy DeAngelis’s death.”

  “Me?”

  “Fredo said he’d never seen him so worked up. ‘Out of his mind,’ was the phrase he used. Peggy must have given Gino your name, but whatever it was, that’s all Fredo heard from him: Gunther this and Gunther that. The punch line is that the last time Fredo saw him, Gino was heading your way to even the score.”

  “All right,” Joe said neutrally, adding this surprise to an already complicated equation.

  “That’s not really it, though,” Lil added, hesitant for the first time since he’d known her. “He said he was going to settle it ‘in kind.’ I never asked you. I mean, it never came up. But are you married?”

  A cold chill swept through him. “That’s what he meant?”

  “Fredo quoted him as saying he was going to do to you what you did to him. That’s the way I took it.”

  Joe was already swinging his legs out from under the covers. “Thanks, Lil. I appreciate it. Is there anything else you can tell me—anything at all? What car he’s driving, what he’s wearing, who he might’ve called?”

  “We went through Peggy’s house after the crash. We could tell he’d been living there—or some man had—but to answer your question, no. We’ve checked everything and everywhere. That’s why we busted Fredo. But it looks like Gino’s off the face of the earth for the moment. We’re still on it, though. Anything we hear that’ll help, we’ll let you know.”

  Joe was struggling into his pants with one hand. “Thanks, Lil. I owe you one.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “You broke open a case we were going nowhere with. Good luck.”

  Joe hung up, buckled his pants, and hit the phone’s speed dial.

  “Answering for the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

  “This is Joe Gunther. Oh-two-twenty-four. I need an emergency dispatch of a marked patrol unit to the following address in Montpelier, to pick up a woman named Gail Zigman.” He gave the operator the name and number of the street. “This is Code Three. Take her to Waterbury HQ. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

  “Ten-four,” came the crisp reply.

  Gunther dialed again.

  A very sleepy Gail answered.

  “It’s Joe. Wake up.”

  “Joe?”

  “Yeah. I hate to do this to you, but you’ve got to listen, and please do what I tell you. I’m on my way, and I’ll explain it in less than an hour.”

  “Joe, what’s going on?” Her voice was now clear, brittle, alarmed by his tone.

  “A man may be after you, using you to get at me. You need to get out of the house.”

  “Who? Why? What’s this about?”

  “Later, Gail. I promise. I just want you safe right now.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He was pulling on his shirt, almost dropping the phone. “Not yet, though, okay? Don’t use your car, and don’t leave the house until a police car shows up. He’ll be playing his lights. Right now get dressed and wait by the front door, and then wait till he comes to the door. He’s going to take you to Waterbury. That’s where I’ll find you.”

  “Is he outside now?” she asked, her voice tight with fear. He knew that all the nightmares she’d learned to control since her rape must be suddenly exploding from her subconscious.

  “Not necessarily,” he tried soothing her. “He may not even know who you are. I just got a call about this guy from the police in Newark, and I’m only being cautious. He made
a generalized threat against whoever might be in my life, and then he vanished.”

  He heard a hard edge creep into her voice. “Joe, if it was that vague, you wouldn’t have called me.”

  “I’m not lying to you, Gail. What would you prefer? That I overreact, or pretend nothing will happen until it does?”

  “I’m scared,” she said after a pause.

  “I know that. I’m truly sorry. Now please do what I asked so I can start heading your way. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  · · ·

  The trip to Waterbury was the fastest Joe had ever driven, never dropping under a hundred miles an hour and often hitting a hundred and thirty. Only once did he let go of the wheel with one hand, to confirm by radio that Gail had been picked up, but throughout it all, as in a closed-circuit mantra, he berated himself nonstop.

  To put this particular person into this kind of danger, not only after all they’d shared, but especially as they had recently entered some ill-defined and unaddressed emotional landscape, led to an anxiety he hadn’t felt since he and his late wife had confronted her terminal cancer over thirty years ago.

  The barn fires, the killing of John Gregory, the intellectual satisfaction of trying to solve the puzzle, all melted away in the face of this suddenly loose cannon bringing what was normally an exercise at arm’s length to cataclysmic proximity. All-too-recent memories of how he’d felt watching Peggy’s car burn into the pavement crowded his mind. That death had made him feel guilty. A similar fate for Gail—with him directly to blame—would be devastating.

  Joe drove as if his life depended on it.

  · · ·

  Gino sat in the passenger seat of his van, rendered invisible from the streetlights by the cab’s inner gloom. The throbbing blue flashes from the passing cruiser’s strobes bounced off the row of apartments opposite him, a paradoxical combination of blinding aggression and colorful harmlessness.

  Intrigued after an initial surge of startled apprehension, he watched as the car pulled up to Gail’s address and a uniformed officer got out and approached her door.