The Protector (12 page)

He wasn’t surprised at the extensive bandages and gauze she had stocked but it was sad she needed to use them again. He took out supplies for her hand.

He was under no illusions that anything he said in the next few minutes would help. She thought it was her partner setting the fires.

Few things would cut more than that.

The humor he could normally dredge up to defuse a tense situation wasn’t there. And he never needed it more.

She was on that brittle edge of tears. He hated being asked to deal with a woman who was ready to cry. Of all the things he could remember with clarity about his childhood, one of the most vivid was how lousy he was at comforting someone who was crying. He wished liked crazy she hadn’t told him. Why couldn’t she have waited and told Cole? His friend could deal with this.

She hadn’t sat as he instructed. Jack set down what he carried on the mahogany end table next to the lamp, settled his hands on her shoulders, and put her into the recliner. He settled on the ottoman and handed her the glass. “Take the pills. This is going to hurt.”

She set aside the ice pack as it had warmed. Jack carefully unwrapped the bandage Neal had put around the blisters. It was damp with more than just water; the blisters were weeping.

He carefully added burn cream and replaced the gauze. This he could do. This was practical and tangible. He did his best to ignore the fact she was occasionally sniffing against the threatening tears. “Tell me why you think it was Ash.”

“He lives in that neighborhood.”

Jack stopped. He wasn’t expecting that. “Where?”

“Quincy Street. He moved there about a month before he disappeared.”

“Why?”

“Why did he move?”

Jack nodded.

“Something about storage for a boat. He called it his little rowboat.”

“The way he stood, moved, reminded you of Ash. What else?”

“His clothes. Jack, the impression I got was a confident, comfortable, reflective man.” She shook her head. “It feels so incredibly disloyal to think this.”

“Cassie—it wasn’t Ash. He would not have started a fire and let you walk into it. It’s impossible.”

“But what if he did?” she whispered.

“Then he’s become a different man than the one we’ve known for years.”

“I can’t get the impression out of my mind. I looked through the arson books for someone who looked like Ash. I’m so ashamed of that. I was wishing I could find someone who looked like him.”

“Figuring out who you saw will be Cole’s job to solve. Trust him. The description gives him a lot to work with.”

“Would you talk to him for me?”

He was going to be talking to Cole all right, pushing his friend hard because this arsonist had just made this very personal. It was one thing to go after him, but when Cassie got hurt— Whoever was setting these fires, whatever his motivation, he had hurt a friend. “I’ll talk to him,” Jack reassured. It was something else practical he could do for her. He rubbed the tape in place. “This should hold for the night. Soak your hand in the morning.”

“I will.”

He didn’t immediately release her hand. “Cassie—” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I hate to leave you alone tonight. Is there someone I can call for you?”

“Amy is across the hall. Go, Jack. I’ll be fine and you’ve got work to do.” She lifted her good hand to touch her hair. “Besides, I need to wash my hair.”

“Get some sleep first.”

“That would be more logical.”

The right answer to that was a smile. “Those pain pills are going to knock you the rest of the way out. Come lock the door after me.”

She leveraged herself from the chair and walked with him to the door.

“Are you moving?”

She nudged one of the boxes. “My extra inventory of books that are on their way to the bookstore.”

She had eight boxes of books in her hallway. “I’ll haul them over to the store for you.”

“I’d appreciate that. Call me later with what Cole has found?”

“Around noon,” Jack promised. He took out his keys as he stepped across the threshold. “Cassie?”

She paused in closing the door.

“Check the batteries in your smoke alarm tomorrow.”

It took a moment, but then her smile reached her eyes. “I will. Good night, Jack.”

He headed downstairs.

Where did he go next? The fire cleanup would have Cole’s attention for the next few hours as he located and secured the evidence. He needed to talk to Cole. This news was going to go over like a lead balloon.

Jack started his car, thought for a moment, and instead drove to Quincy Street. The first fire had happened a week after Ash disappeared. It was too troubling a fact to ignore. Forget what he had said to Cassie. His gut reaction was intense.

Ash setting fires…it was a reach. But Jack could remember the hallway conversations at the hospital. There had been a lot of anger at the cost cutting being made that Ash felt had been a factor in Cassie’s getting hurt. The nursing home annual inspection was delayed because the number of inspectors had been cut back. When the drastic cost cutting resulting in fire department consolidations had come down, Ash had been vocal and horrified at what was happening.

He had been so focused on helping Cassie—Jack couldn’t see Ash abruptly turning off that emotion and going on a long and sudden vacation. The department consolidations…what if he felt he had no choice but to act? There had to be a reason he disappeared.

Was Ash back?

Dawn was brightening the sky when Rachel shut her car door and started walking, having been forced to park three blocks away from the fire scene.

Engine 81 and Truck 81 were on the scene to deal with cleanup. There were two police squad cars and three news vans. Spectators watching the firemen work were gathered in clusters on the sidewalk across the street. Four of those spectators had brought out lawn chairs to sit and watch the scene in comfort.

The entire scene was sad.

Cole was here somewhere. Finding him was going to be a challenge. Rachel picked her way across a snake’s nest of hose lines. Since she came in an official capacity wearing her Red Cross jacket, she was waved across the police lines.

The firefighters were still cooling off what had once been the garage. The water flowing away from the house had cut rivers in the yard. The mud was thick under the men’s boots.

She looked for Jack as he had also left her a message but didn’t see his distinctive helmet. Jack had painted a yellow smiley face on the back of his helmet and another on the back on his fire coat. He said it was to make it easier when he had to deal with scared kids at a wreck, but Rachel knew the truth. It was Jack’s attitude about life. He didn’t waste his time worrying about something he couldn’t change.

Cole strode through the front door carrying a power saw. He saw her coming up the drive and nodded. She stopped and let him join her.

“Thanks for coming.”

She tried to read his face, but the man didn’t give much away. “You said it was important.” She had been surprised by the request but was not about to show it. She frequently was asked to make assessments about how victims and witnesses were dealing with a trauma, how law enforcement could best get answers about what had happened. But from what she could see of the scene, they didn’t appear to need that kind of help here.

“I need your opinion on something.” Cole set down the power saw beside the black plastic sheeting at the curbside. Opening the cab door of Engine 81, he reached in back and retrieved a fire coat.

Rachel spotted Gage’s partner Jeffrey in an animated conversation with the fire captain. She hoped Gage wasn’t here. Hanging up on him hadn’t been wise. It would guarantee several pointed questions when he saw her next.

“Rachel.”

She took the coat from Cole.

“This stays confidential.”

She was annoyed by the reminder. She was bound by professional ethics as well as moral ones. “I’m not going to tell Gage.”

“His yappy terrier of a sidekick has been pestering us.”

She had to bite her tongue; the description fit Jeffrey perfectly. “You have never liked reporters.”

“That’s a given.”

She struggled into the coat and looked with distaste at the fire hat he held out.

“Quit thinking fashion, woman. No one around here is going to be taking your picture.”

“I’m entitled to a little vanity for how my hair looks this early in the morning.” To think she had actually lingered in front of the closet this morning debating over what to wear when she met him.

She understood practicality. Her shirt was heavy khaki and the jeans broken in, the shoes near boots. The accessories were anything but practical. The scarf was expensive, the belt braided, the bracelet wide and bold. Cole didn’t even notice and now she was annoyed she’d made the effort. “Is Jack around?”

She was surprised at the look of irritation on his face. “Talking to the man who reported the fire.” He changed the subject before she could ask what Jack had done now. “When we get in the house, I want you to step where I step.”

“There’s not someone dead in there, is there?”

“I wouldn’t let you near the scene if we had a victim. No one was home.”

“This was an arson?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation or qualification. “Show me.”

Rather than lead the way to the house, Cole pushed his hands into his pockets, took out a roll of lifesavers, and with his thumb offered her the cherry one at the end. “The other night, did you ever find the lost Gage?”

“Yes.”

“I wondered. How’s he doing?”

“Ask him yourself,” she replied, not feeling in a generous mood to talk about a friend. The two men were polite with each other, there was even grudging respect, but Rachel had no intention of stepping between them. Cole did not like reporters probing into ongoing investigations, and she was under no illusions about Gage. The man could irritate a saint.

“You were late getting home.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“I called,” Cole said simply.

He didn’t elaborate and Rachel wasn’t comfortable asking. He had a piercing gaze and his brown eyes were warm as they watched her. But she did feel a need to at least offer something. “I shared a piece of pie with Gage and then swung by to see Kate for an hour. Why are you stalling showing me what you asked me here to see?”

“It’s disturbing, Rachel.”

“I’ve walked into a fast-food restaurant where a man sprayed an assault rifle and left eight people dead. Disturbing is relative.”

“This
is disturbing.”

“Cole.”

“Just be prepared. If I didn’t need you to see it, I wouldn’t ask. If this means what I suspect it does, you and I are going to need to talk.”

This wasn’t going to be good. She followed Cole up the drive to the house, skirting around worktables made of plywood braced on sawhorses, past sheets of plastic marked with bright yellow criminal evidence tape.

Inside the house the smell of smoke was overpowering. Her eyes immediately started to water. “It was toxic?”

Cole glanced back at her and gave a sympathetic smile. “Onions. A bag of onions in the kitchen pantry burned.”

She separated the smells and realized he was right. She wanted to get away from this as soon as possible. “Please tell me we are going upstairs.”

“We are. Stay close.”

Heavy plastic had been rolled out down the upstairs hallway.

Rachel was surprised at the amount of structural damage. Normally a fire consumed the contents of rooms, the personal items that made fire such a tragedy for people, but left the house itself only scarred. This fire had gutted walls. There were openings torn in the ceiling to get to the attic.

Rachel looked in the rooms as they walked down the hall, getting a sense of the occupants. The bathroom had a melted mermaid shower curtain. “The family had children?”

“A daughter.”

Cole stopped at the third doorway. “The fire started in this room.” He clicked on his torch flashlight and gingerly skirted the door, hanging half off its hinges, to enter the room. Rachel followed him.

“What do you make of this?” Cole illuminated the message. He’d wiped down the wall to reveal it. Drywall and plaster had fallen away but the letters were huge and the single word was readable. It glowed in a fluorescent red.

Murderer.

She pulled her emotions back, fighting the swamp of reaction that shallowed her breathing. “This is the master bedroom?”

“Yes.”

The huge letters were an assault to her senses. She followed the flow of the spray paint, feeling the sensation the man who held the paint can had also felt. Arm straight, fully extended, even reaching, as he walked along the wall. “He moved the furniture before he wrote this.”

“Good observation.”

The letters tightened and grew smaller, the paint much heavier at the final Rs. It was adrenaline and excitement at the first part of the word and tightly wound anger at the end. The word was huge, the wall a billboard into the arsonist’s mind. “How many fires?” she asked, dreading the answer.