Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

Childish of me to do that, I suppose, but I didn’t really think that Parker cared too much about what happened to anyone but himself.

Despite the summer warmth and the heat from the fire, I felt a tremor of cold watching him leave. Abandoned by the gentle patronage of our mayor, I plunged into the crowd, searching for Candace and Lorna. I saw Miss Twyla, Nina, and Tiny, all sitting in Tiny’s pickup truck, watching the crowd. I thought of waving at Miss Twyla but didn’t want Tiny to fancy I was waving at him. I found Lorna standing with Dee and Jenny Loudermilk. I could see Jenny was crying. Unless she had an unsuspected emotional attachment to antebellum architecture, it wasn’t the destruction of the Mirabeau B. that had reduced her to tears.

Lorna looked lost, so I collected her and headed up the road. I glanced back at the Loudermilk women; they both appeared upset as hell. What was going on in that family? Candace was sitting on a porch two houses up, holding Chet’s chubby hand. Eula Mae, never one to be away from the excitement, was holding his other hand. He was fighting back tears as the main chimney in the house shuddered and fell apart, scattering soot and brick and a hundred and sixty years of history.

“Chet, what happened?” I squatted across from him. His heavy face glanced at me, as though he hadn’t known me for years. “I-I don’t know. I mean-” He coughed again, as though trying to clear his mind and his throat. Candace patted his back. Lorna came up to us, kneeling next to Candace. Eula Mae stared daggers at Lorna, but Lorna ignored her. Chet wiped tears from his eyes. “I’d just gone out to the backyard to put seed in the bird feeders, and there was this horrible explosion. I ran back into the house, I tried to get up the steps, there was all this white smoke, but suddenly fire broke out and the heat, the smoke-they drove me back. So I ran. I just ran.” “Chet, was anyone else in the hotel?” He shook his head. “I’ve only got one couple staying, and they went over to Bavary about ten minutes beforehand, to eat at one of the German restaurants. I haven’t had any other guests check in since Mr. Callahan died and Lorna left.” He broke down, crying now, holding Candace’s hand. “Why, why? Why would someone do that?” I stood, staring up at the charring building. The firefighters seemed to have it under control now, but the old house looked gutted. The fire was retreating, but already sated with a diet of fine antiques, expensive fabrics, handwoven carpets, and the dark memory of Greg’s murder. I noticed that one of the fire trucks was maneuvering for a position closer to the west side of the house, and several people were moving a car out of its way. The car was a teal Ford Taurus with RIVERTOWN REAL ESTATE emblazoned on a magnetic sign on the driver’s door. Debris from the explosion covered the car, having thoroughly dented its hood and starred the windshield. I watched the volunteers move the damaged car and I wondered where its owner was. I’d been meaning to talk to Freddy Jacksill about his deals with Greg. We sat for another hour, watching the fire die. Neighbors offered Chet a place to stay and he accepted mutely, taking a flask of whiskey from one fellow and disappearing into a house across the street. The cop cars and fire trucks stayed, their lights whirling in a red-and-blue dervish. It was as though no one quite wanted to go home. Lorna and Candace decided to head back to the house; I told them I’d be there shortly. I thought they might not enjoy talking about me so much when I wasn’t around, but they’d have to make do. Junebug was talking with the firemen and Franklin Bedloe, watching the house. A few heavily suited firemen came in and out of the smoldering remains.

I wondered how compromised the structure was, if the timbers would give way and collapse at any time. Much of the house still stood, but it looked weak behind its smoky veil. Junebug nodded at me as I came up. “Hey, Jordy, I guess you heard it all, huh? Were you at home?” I nodded. “Yeah, and Chet told us what happened. You think it’s the bomber? I mean, couldn’t it be a gas leak or something?” “It was a gas fire, but we think the gas line was ruptured by the explosion. That in turn caused the fire.” He sighed. “This doesn’t exactly fit the bomber’s pattern, though, does it? He’s just been blowing up little diddly things, not taking out buildings.” “Maybe,” I said. “I remember reading about pyromania in college in a psych class and I wonder if the impulse to blow up things is connected to a pyro’s impulse to set fires. I remember that they said they tend to start off small and work their way up to bigger targets.” “They say that about serial killers, too,” Franklin Bedloe offered helpfully. “Goddamn it, that’s all I need,” Junebug muttered. “I already got a killer and a terrorist-in-training. All I need’s a serial killer.” “I guess Sergeant Garza should know about this,” I suggested quietly. Junebug didn’t smile. “I don’t care much for seeing Teresa under these conditions. I’m just thankful no one was hurt.” “Yeah,” I answered, then glanced back over at the fire trucks. “You’d think Freddy’d see about getting his car out of here. His insurance agent’s going to have a hissy fit when he sees all that damage.” Junebug shot me a look, then followed my pointing finger toward the wrecked Taurus. He glanced back at me. “Have you seen Freddy?” I shook my head. “No, not today.”

I paused, then looked back at the remains of the bed-and-breakfast.

“Oh, God, you don’t think-” The blaze had died down long enough for some of the firefighters to try to go up to the second floor. It held; they built houses to last back in the olden days. The search was short. They found Freddy at the top of the stairs. And along the second-story hallway. And in Greg’s room. And on what was left of the ceiling. Whatever caused the blast, Freddy Jacksill had been right next to it. When I got home, Candace and Lorna had filled Sister in on the explosion. Sister was nearly frantic and had called my nephew Mark home to stay. Mark’s thirteen, a bright independent boy who’s never quite recovered from the desertion of his daddy, who vamoosed to play cowboy in the rodeo all those years ago. He’s dark like his daddy, but smart-mouthed like Sister and me. We’ve had a rocky relationship at best, but he’d finally grown to accept me as a more or less permanent part of his life. When I came into the living room, thirsty and wanting a beer, Mark was animatedly telling Lorna how I’d saved his life a few months ago. Lorna raised an eyebrow at Mark’s highly embellished story. “I had no idea you were such a hero,” she said.

“Big hero. I nearly got a bunch of folks killed, including myself. Try scared-shitless hero.” “Uncle Jordy was cool!” Mark bragged. “He was in the newspaper and everything.” He was obviously still hoping that Nintendo would take heed of my adventures and fashion a video game on me. We still hadn’t heard from them. I told them about Freddy Jacksill being torn apart in the explosion and the blood drained right from Sister and Lorna’s faces. Lorna was quiet, but Sister didn’t hold back. “That does it, Mark. There are some extra loonies in town and you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here where it’s safe.”

“Maybe it’s not safe, Arlene,” Lorna said quietly. She stood and looked at us all, a wild fear in her gray eyes. “My God. First Greg, now Freddy. Is someone killing everyone that had anything to do with the land deal? What if they come after me next?” That was a distressing possibility. Several terrified looks crossed the room. I felt the tug of panic at my heart. Candace, as always, was the rock.

“Look, Lorna, we’ll get you some protection, okay? Jordy, why don’t you call Junebug and see about getting an officer to stand watch here.