“So just a couple blocks back the way we came,” he noted. The black wreckage of the fire didn’t become apparent until he zoomed in closely. “I wonder how hard it will be to walk that with all the debris lying around.”
“No telling,” Lacey said. “We might just have to take our time and really be careful.” She glanced down at his soft knee-high moccasins. “You don’t want to step on a nail with those,” she cautioned.
“No, I sure don’t,” he said.
Lacey knew Sam liked to feel the earth beneath his feet when he walked. That might be difficult here. They’d just have to do the best they could.
Luckily it was a perfectly clear, sunny day, so at least they had that in their favor. They decided to walk to the site, both to stretch their legs and to get a feel for the town.
The store fronts on the main road were typical of small towns trying desperately to lure in passersby. They passed an antique store, a fudge shop and an outfitter that specialized in hiking gear. Toward the end of the block was a mom and pop grocery store and a place that sold t-shirts emblazoned with all the local spots of interest.
Across the side street from there were the charred remains of Beau’s convenience store.
“Wow,” Lacey said as they neared.
What had been wooden beams and two-by-fours were now leaning, crumbling spires of blackened charcoal. Those that had fallen to the ground had broken into chunks, and sooty ash covered the ground. Just outside the perimeter was a hardened gob of goo with a wire handle—what used to be a plastic bucket.
They stood on the sidewalk and stared at the mess. Lacey knew the fire had been impressive.
A truck pulled up beside them and parked at the curb: white pickup, four-door. The black man that got out was of average height but stout, his polo shirt stretched over his bulging belly.
“Beaumont Hewitt,” he said, putting out his hand and peering at them through glasses.
“Sam Firecloud, my wife, Lacey Fitzpatrick.”
“Glad to meet you both,” Beau said. He shook enthusiastically, taking Lacey’s hand in both of his. “You’re early; I like that.”
“We wanted to see what we were up against,” Sam said.
“Yes, well…” He waved toward the ruins. “There you go.” He put his hands on his hips and sighed heavily. “Unbelievable.”
“When was the fire?” Lacey asked. She got out her notebook and a pen.
“Three weeks ago, Sunday night. The volunteer fire department got the first call at something like two a.m., but by then, it was already fully engulfed.”
“So the police have finished their investigation?” She’d noticed there was no crime scene tape draped anywhere blocking entrance to the ruins.
“Pretty much. I haven’t seen the final report, but they’re done here.” He shook his head. “My insurance company is having kittens. They’ll either hike my rates through the roof or cancel me outright after this. Unless,” and he tipped his head toward them, “you two can prove it was a ghost, and get rid of said ghost.”
Lacey made a face. “I’m not sure how compelling our findings will be to an insurance company. Let’s see what we can find first.”
“Sure, sure,” Beau said. “So how do we do this?”
“Given the conditions,” Lacey said, “I’d recommend that you and I stay here outside the perimeter. It looks like some of the rubble is pretty unstable, so Sam doesn’t need us in there making it more so. He’ll walk the ruins and I’ll film him. Depending on what he gets, we’ll chase it down.”
Beau nodded. Lacey had a feeling if she’d said they all needed to wear tinfoil hats, he’d have gone for it. He looked pretty exasperated.
“Okay,” Sam said. He glanced at Lacey and she put her notebook away in her pack and got out her cell phone. She set it on video and nodded.
“Any time.”
Sam took his first careful step over a downed, blackened beam. Normally, Lacey knew, he would walk in almost a semi-conscious state, tuning into the ghostly vibrations that permeated the site, but for this he was going to need to stay fully aware of his physical surroundings. She wondered if that would affect the impressions he received.
He moved very deliberately, stepping, stopping, moving on. The black and gray ash stuck to the soles of his suede moccasins.
“Anger,” he said. “No, rage. Seething, all-consuming rage. Rage at the betrayal. Rage at the injustice. Screaming, wailing. Crying. Cursing.” He put his hand to his forehead and rubbed the creases there. Lacey wondered if he heard those screams in an auditory way or a spiritual way only.
“This was a church,” he said. He put out a hand. “The main chapel here; the pulpit here, the organ over there.” He stared hard to the right. “Graveyard. Fenced. Consecrated ground.” He walked carefully toward the back of the ruins, picking his way. “Despair. Doors closed, over and over. Doors, gates. Closed out. Denied. The shock and sorrow give way to rage. Rage that will not be denied. Will not be denied.” He emphasized those words pointedly.
Finally he moved beyond the ruins, out the back where the bare ground was littered with nails and a few metal brackets.
“Sorrow. Apology to the innocent. Too young, too naïve. No one told her. No one told her.”
His last words faded away. He stood quietly, head down, breathing deeply. Lacey continued filming, watching him on her screen, but she could see the helpless dejection in his sagging shoulders.
Finally he lifted his head and pulled in a long breath. He gazed out at the forest that clustered just beyond the property line.
“That’s all,” he said. He turned and walked back to Lacey and Beau, taking a route around the ruins rather than through them.
Lacey turned off her camera.
Beau looked stunned. His eyes behind the lenses of his glasses were wide, the coffee-colored irises afloat in the bulging whites. As Sam rejoined them, Beau stared at him. “You got all that… from this?”
Sam nodded. “Strong emotions imbue the ground, and none of our activity affects it. You could pour a slab over the entire lot and the emotions would still be there.”
“Amazing,” Beau said. He paused, his brows creased. “You know, I had actually wondered at some point if this might have been an attack on me.”
“You?” Lacey asked. “Why?”
He shrugged and held out a hand. “For this.”
Lacey frowned down at the hand, not following. Then it hit her. “Your skin color?”
“Exactly. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Both Lacey and Sam absorbed that quietly. He put his own hand out next to Beau’s. “I can understand why that would be a possibility,” he said.
“You know, too?” Beau asked.
“Oh, yes. It happens. But that’s not what this is about. It’s not about you at all. It’s all about her. Whoever she is.”
“So now what?”
“Now the real work begins,” Lacey said, putting away her phone. “We have to find out who the ghost is, what happened to her. Find out what happened to enrage her so much. Once we know her story, we can encourage her to move on.”
“Encourage,” Beau repeated. “I like that.”
“We can’t force them,” Sam said.
“No, no, I suppose not.” Beau looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “Okay. So we’re done for now?”
“Yes. We’ll call you when we have anything,” Lacey said. “Give us a day or two.”
“Thank you.” He pumped both their hands again. “I have a good feeling about this.”
Lacey hoped he was right.
~~~
FOUR
She checked her watch as they walked back down Main Street. Just after eleven.
“Want to go to the diner and have an early lunch? They’re probably still doing housekeeping at the hotel.”
“Sure.”
They claimed a booth and Lacey pulled her laptop from her pack and set it on one end of the table. She put her notebook on the other side,
leaving just enough room for a plate in between.
Abby was not in sight; instead they got Kirstie, a twenty-something, tall and gangly, chewing gum.
“Mawning,” she said with a born-in accent. She set water glasses on the table and passed them both menus. “What can I get you to drink?”
They both ordered iced tea and Kirstie left them to peruse the menus. Lacey scanned the lunch options, decided, and pushed the menu aside.
She fired up her laptop.
Her go-to resource was almost always property records, since they often told the history of a property in very brief terms. Her bookmark for LA County would do her no good here, though.
Kirstie came back with their iced teas and set them down.
“What county is this?” Lacey asked.
Kirstie blinked at her. “Uh, Berkshire?”
Lacey ignored the questioning lilt at the end of the sentence. “Great, thanks.”
Kirstie stood befuddled for a moment, as if Lacey’s question had thrown her off track. “You ready to order?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll have a turkey sandwich, with fries. Thanks.”
Sam passed his menu over. “Fruit and cheese plate, please.”
Still looking slightly rattled, Kirstie took the menus and walked away.
“Berkshire County,” Lacey said more to herself than anyone else. She checked her notebook for the address. “Four-oh-one Main Street. Let’s see what we got.”
She clicked on the link and got the encapsulated version of the property records.
“Okay, 1919 to 1921, owned by a guy named Francis Higgins. From 1921 to 1935, the First Methodist Church of Meadeview.” She looked up at Sam. “You did say it was a church.”
“Yes.”
“In 1935, the property passed to a Berkshire Property Management company, then in 1951 it was bought by Massachusetts Enterprises, Inc. Sold to a bank in 1989, then our friend Beau bought it in 2010. So the only church is the Methodist.” She sat back. “That must be the one.”
“Must be,” Sam agreed.
Lacey jotted a few notes. “So the church had it from ‘21 to ‘35. I wonder if that’s when the fire was. Did you feel like the church was in use at the time?”
“Definitely,” Sam said. “Not at the moment of the fire—it felt like the middle of the night—but it was fully furnished. I got a sense of the organ, the bench in front of it, some kind of slim vase with a flower in it.”
“Definitely in use.” She noted that. “So we need to find out when—”
Kirstie returned with their lunch plates. She slid one in front of Sam, then hesitated to put the sandwich down in Lacey’s crowded work area.
“Here,” Lacey said. She pushed her laptop aside to make room. Rather than taking a chance on disturbing the arrangement, Kirstie gave the plate to Lacey and let her place it.
“Do you need anything else? Ketchup?”
“Yes, ketchup, please,” Lacey said. “And do you know if the Methodist Church ever tried to rebuild after the fire?”
That slightly stunned look froze Kirstie’s face again. “Fire?”
“Yeah. Down the street? On the corner?”
Kirstie’s brow knitted in confusion. “But that wasn’t a church. That was going to be a quick mart or something.”
Lacey kept herself from sighing. “No, not this fire. The one back in the 1930s, maybe.”
“Oh. Uh, I don’t know about that. The Methodist Church is on Second Avenue, just a block up. I’ll get your ketchup.” She skittered away.
Lacey watched her go with a resigned shake of her head.
“She’s young,” Sam said.
“Yes, she is,” Lacey agreed. “And apparently has no interest whatsoever in local history.”
When Kirstie brought the ketchup, she handed it to Lacey from the greatest distance her arm could bridge, and bit her lip as if fearful Lacey would ask her something else she didn’t know.
“Thank you.” Lacey smiled at her. “This looks good.”
Kirstie nodded and trotted away.
“This younger generation,” Lacey sighed.
“She’s like ten years younger than you,” Sam noted with a dry smile.
“Young enough,” Lacey grumbled. She poured a glob of ketchup next to her fries and took a bite of her sandwich, then went back to her notebook. “Okay, church on Second Avenue. We can go by and see what they know”—she rolled her eyes toward the kitchen—“and we might also check with the local library and the newspaper if we need to.” Grabbing a French fry, she moved across to her laptop. “I guess I should check to see if there is a library or a newspaper.” She chewed mindlessly as she worked.
Sam stabbed a piece of cantaloupe with his fork and pointed it at her.
“Your food’s going to get cold. You should eat.”
Lacey stared at him. “It’s a turkey sandwich. It is cold.”
“Your fries aren’t. Yet.” He snagged one without ketchup on it. “But they’re getting there. Eat, Lacey. We’ve got plenty of time to work this out.”
She looked from her laptop to her lunch to her notebook and huffed out a breath. “Okay.” Maybe she was being a little single-minded. Even as she picked up her sandwich, part of her brain was itching to get back to her laptop. Sam was watching, his dark eyes knowing.
“Cop mode.” She shrugged and took a bite.
“I know. Cool your jets. We’ll get it done.”
She couldn’t help but glance at her notes. “So this woman was royally pissed at someone, huh?”
“Pissed is not the word,” he said. “She was rip-their-throat-out pissed. Threatened mother bear pissed. I got the impression she was… exhausted, yet still enraged. I have a feeling she trashed the church before she torched it. But even that, even throwing things and breaking things didn’t take the edge off her anger. She was... practically possessed.”
Lacey’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Not like that, no,” he said. “Not literally. But as close as you can get.”
“Oh, okay. Good.” They’d had their share of cases with supernatural elements to them. She much preferred the ordinary ones—if any of them could be called ordinary.
“Well, there’s gotta be a record of the fire somewhere. The 1930s aren’t all that long ago.”
“Not like the seventeenth century in Ireland, huh?” He smiled.
“Right. And we tracked that one down.” She saluted him with a French fry. “Damn but we’re good.”
Following his lead, she set the case aside for a moment and concentrated on her lunch. She had to admit, her sandwich was very good and the fries were perfect. “They do know how to do food right in this place,” she acknowledged.
When Kirstie came to check on them and see if they wanted dessert, Lacey gave her a friendly smile and complimented the meal. The girl relaxed slightly, even smiled back as she left the check. Lacey left her a twenty-five percent tip.
She stowed her laptop and notebook in her pack and they left the diner. In the foyer, she glanced around.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Just wondering if they might have some of those newspaper boxes. You know, you put a quarter in and get the daily? Does any place still have those anymore?”
“Don’t know. Not here, obviously.”
“We can keep an eye out on the street,” she said.
They walked the direction Kirstie had jerked her thumb when she’d mentioned the church. The first cross street was First Avenue.
“I’m guessing that’s Second,” Lacey said as she pointed toward the next street.
It was. They turned the corner and could see the spire just a half a block up.
The church reflected the building pattern so prevalent here: tall and narrow, as opposed to short and wide. She wondered if it was a natural inclination here because of the lay of the land—hilly, therefore less level building sites—and the number of people, opposed to the wide open spaces of the west. Whatever it was, everything seemed shoe
horned into small, narrow lots.
The church was a cheerful soft yellow with white trim. The spire had a white cross set atop it, and a wooden sign set in the lawn proclaimed its denomination.
First Methodist Church of Christ
One of the double doors in the front was open. Lacey moved up the three steps to the doorway and peered in.
It was dim inside—dimmer than outside—but stained glass windows set up high on either side of the chapel funneled sunlight into shafts of color that slanted across the room. Lacey moved forward between two rows of wooden pews toward the pulpit in front.
A man came through a door in the back. He was of average height with a shaved head that was peppered with the shadow of dark hair around male-patterned baldness. He sported a dark goatee and wore black slacks and a short-sleeved black shirt. The small square inset of white in his collar was the only badge of office—that and the gold cross that hung around his neck.
“Welcome,” he said when he saw them. He immediately came around the pulpit and walked toward them. “I’m Lyle Hillenbrand. How are you folks today?” He stuck out his hand. As Lacey shook it, she noted the small good nameplate, Rev. Hillenbrand.
“Fine, thank you,” she said. He shook Sam’s hand as well.
“What can I do for you folks?”
Lacey handed him a card. “I’m Lacey Fitzpatrick, and this is Sam Firecloud. We’re private investigators, and we’re looking into the fires on that corner property in town. We’re hoping you can give us some information.”
Hillenbrand’s brow creased. He gave the card a cursory glance. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about that. Have you tried the police?”
“Let me rephrase that,” she backpedaled. “We’d like to know something about the history of the property. We understand the Methodist Church used to be situated there. Is that correct?”
The frown deepened and Hillenbrand looked at them more closely. “Yes, but that was decades ago.”
Lacey pulled her notebook from her pack and glanced around. “Is there a place we can sit?”
Fire Walk Page 2
