Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

One peek gave rise to alarm.

The room sparkled with a million points of iridescence.

A moment of confusion, then comprehension.

Light from a streetlamp was filtering through a shattered window behind the sofa, sparking shards of glass blanketing the furniture and rug.

Birdie was on an end table, a pale, fuzzy cutout in the shimmery gloom. His nose was raised, his nostrils testing the out-of-place scents of flowers, grass, and soot. On sensing my presence, he focused round questioning eyes on me.

I had no answer for him. A missile hurled through the window? By accident? On purpose? No foreign object lay embedded in the aurora borealis display.

A break-in?

Was the burglar still in the house?

I tried to calm myself to think.

Phone Slidell! The old gaggle of wary neurons urged.

Yes.

Of course, I got voice mail. Left a message.

911?

Not yet.

Why not?

I stood, breath frozen, listening for movement upstairs. Heard footsteps. Rustling. A soft sssshh .

No pistol being cocked. No semiautomatic slide being ratcheted back. That was good.

Ignoring the alarmist neurons, I gathered Birdie and locked him in the pantry. Then I grabbed a hammer, retraced my steps, and stole up the stairs. With each tread, the smoky stench grew stronger.

Halfway up, I paused. Was I actually hearing movement? Or were the sounds a new fantasy born of my paranoia? Of my unbearable grief over Boyd?

At the top, my anxiety went suborbital. The thuds and swishes were real and coming from off to the right.

I tried to swallow. My mouth was too dry.

Tightening my grip on the hammer, I tiptoed down the hallway toward the new shared office.

The door was open, the rolled towel kicked to one side. A Coleman LED lantern sat just inside, throwing off-angle slashes of light and shadow upward from its floor-level placement.

The room looked like a nuclear bomb had gone off. The south and east walls remained as scorched uprights backed by mangled exterior siding. Melted wiring dangled from the exposed framing and damaged ceiling.

Both desks were destroyed, my patinaed old oak charred and blackened, Ryan’s glass cracked and fragmented. The two filing cabinets were now scorched hulks, their drawers exploded outward by the intense heat. What was left of my reports, printouts, and photos lay scattered across the floor as sodden sludge.

The reek of smoke, seared metal, and liquefied plastic was so overpowering my eyes began to burn, and tears ran down my cheeks. And, underlying the mix, another noxious note. Paint? Turpentine?

I pictured the broken window downstairs. Wondered again about an intruder. Could the added element I was smelling be an accelerant such as gas or kerosene? Was I the victim of arson?

Amid the wreckage I spotted what survived of Ryan’s Guy Lafleur bobblehead, my picture of Katy, the Nebulon frigate lamp, all twisted and distorted. My framed diplomas leaned cockeyed, glass shattered, documents torn, every component covered in soot. Propped against what was once the east wall was a blackened metal ladder. Flanking it, along the baseboard, were incinerated cans and remnants of what had been drop cloths and rags.

Also amid the wreckage was my neighbor, dressed in bathrobe, PJs, and sneakers. A mask covered his mouth, and a fire extinguisher jutted from between his arms and his ribs.

“Walter?”

He turned and lowered the mask. “Oh, Tempe. I am so sorry.”

“What happened?”

“I looked over and saw smoke billowing from your window.” Pointing the extinguisher’s nozzle in that direction. “Called 911. That was around seven.”

“Thanks.” Stunned mumble through fingers pressed to my lips.

“One responder said the fire appeared electrical in origin. A flying spark hit the rags and open paint and turpentine, and boom .” Dramatized with exploding fingers. “Apparently, the new smoke alarm wasn’t functioning properly.”

“Did you open the door for them?” Knowing Walter had an emergency key to my place.

“Seriously?”

“Right.” The startled hand floating down to my chest.

Disbelieving, I took in the devastation.

“They said it was one of those freak situations where the fire exploded, blew up fast and incredibly hot, then ran out of fuel and died without spreading to other parts of the house. They had a term for it. Flashover? I don’t recall.”

I nodded, eyes still on the chaos.

“You can relax, though. The flames are totally out, and the walls are cool. I checked. I didn’t really trust that crew to be thorough, so I went over everything after the truck left. Twice.” Raising the extinguisher. “My grandfather was a firefighter. He always said secondary flare-ups were the real danger.”

Sudden horrifying thought.

My eyes flew to my desktop. The AC adapter was there, gnarled and melted. A lump of plastic that was once the mouse. Both were embedded in the charred wood on which they lay.

My computer was gone!

Blind fury ramrodded through the shock. “Sonofabitch! Where’s my laptop?”

“Where did you leave it?” Walter, eyes roving.

Ignoring the question, and the gritty crunch of glass underfoot, I darted into the room and began rummaging through the mess. Walter set down the extinguisher and joined in the search.

“I suppose it could be on the lawn,” he said, after several fruitless minutes. “They chucked things out the window.”

I raced down the stairs, fired through the door, and circled to the back of the annex. Shapes littered the ground, unidentifiable in the darkness. Frantic, I moved from object to object, desperately hoping my laptop had somehow been spared and lay among the jumble.

I nearly cried when I found it, a hunk of blackened metal, melted keys, shattered fiber-optic glass and circuit board. Devastated, I laid down the ruined Mac, hurried back inside, and mounted the stairs. With trembling hands, I began picking up and setting aside random items. Paper scraps. Fragments of pillow stuffing. Hunks of wire.

At one point, Walter again offered his condolences, then took his leave, saying something about later retrieving his lamp. I paid no attention.

How could Fred/Frank have been so negligent? How could I have been so stupid? The small space must have been pyrotechnic. Why hadn’t I checked the room following his abrupt departure? Why hadn’t I personally tested the smoke alarm? Why hadn’t I replaced the bungling twit?

My self-recrimination was such that I didn’t hear the SUV engine. The doorbell. The buzz of my mobile against my ass finally caught my attention. I answered.

“You OK in there?”

“Best day of my life.” White-hot with anger at myself.

“You want I should call a SWAT team, or you plan to answer the door?”

I trudged downstairs, let Slidell in, and led him up to the study.

“Holy fucking fuckville.”

“Poetic. Add a bleating goat sound to that, and you’ve got a hit.” Mean, but I hated this. Hated Fred/Frank and the equally inept electrician for causing it. Hated myself for letting it happen. Hated Slidell for being in my home. For being a witness to the disaster.

Slidell’s nose wrinkled, and his face crimped. “That paint thinner I’m smelling?”

I just glared at him.

“What did you lose?”

“My laptop.”

“What else?”

“The Rolex and keys to the yacht.”

Slidell ignored my snark. “You got any idea—”

“Bad wiring and fumes,” I snapped.

“You keep any valuables in here? Jewelry? Electronics? Stuff you’ll need to document for insurance purposes?”

“Isn’t my goddamn laptop enough?”

I noticed that the front of Slidell’s shirt was sweat-stained in the shape of a newt, the holstered Glock at his hip fully exposed.