Archer Mayor - St. Albans Fire

She pursed her lips slightly. It wasn’t Bobby’s fault, of course. As good and as sympathetic as he’d been, she knew it hadn’t fully made sense to him. He’d been too brainwashed by the whole farming family mystique, and God knows, that was no surprise, given the company he kept. Jeff treated the farm like the Holy Grail, Dad saw it as a sacred trust, even Mom got it twisted up in the Bible, if only from the Book of Job. None of them could be expected to see the wisdom of her insight-the sheer, unromantic practicality of it.

She rubbed her flat stomach with her hand, touching the underside of one breast in the process, and smiled. Okay, truthfully, it hadn’t started that way, so altruistically. She’d been attracted by the man’s style-his clothes, his car, the self-confidence in his eyes. He was clean, for one thing, with slim, well-cared-for hands, and smelled great. That first day, the only time he’d been by the farm, to ask if they wanted to list it with his company, she reacted to the whole package like an animal in heat, bumping up against him once at the door, placing her hand against the small of his back, catching a whiff of his aftershave.

It was a small step to finding out where he lived, to dropping by his house after hours one night, to literally stepping into his arms as soon as he opened the door. Not saying a word, she kissed him hard, feeling his hands immediately slipping under her clothes, expertly undressing her all the way to his bed, in total silence, like a tangible, corporeal dream.

That had been all about relief and freedom and unbridled sex. The visionary stuff came later, when she understood that at least some part of this pleasure could be transplanted to her home and husband, who she knew could supply the love that John was incapable of. In the sex was born a greater hunger, and in that hunger, a need that slipped imperceptibly into obsession.

She told Bobby of her affair with John Gregory, of her attraction to his belongings, his freedom, his money, and his lifestyle. But she didn’t tell him of her plans to make a gift of their ilk to her family-how she would end their mother’s anger and shame, alleviate their father’s crushing responsibility, and allow Bobby and Jeff and her children to taste and flourish in a life beyond cow manure, poverty, and the grinding dictatorship of daily chores.

She didn’t tell him how pure serendipity let her appear at John’s house one night, when he was distracted by a phone call and hadn’t noticed her enter, and overhear him discussing a barn-burning job with a professional arsonist.

So quiet she thought she’d stopped breathing, she listened, transfixed, all horror displaced by the notion that this was like a sign from above-the answer to everyone’s problems. The herd and the barn could be destroyed in one fell swoop, the insurance money collected, and the entire farm sold for several times its value.

All because of her sleeping with John.

Her guilt replaced by mission, she made achieving her goal her only purpose. She went at her affair with renewed vigor, satisfying John every way he wished, until she found an opportunity to go through his files and extract the name she’d heard mentioned-Dante Lagasso.

The rest followed naturally. Contacting Lagasso, starting the process, gathering the money. She didn’t know when it would happen or who would do it-Lagasso had said that was a rule-and stayed awake for nights on end, waiting for her liberation.

She leaned her head back against the smooth granite of the headstone, closing her eyes to hold off the tears.

Bobby, what the hell were you doing in there? Of all nights? I was giving you a whole new life.

She tried emptying her mind, getting things lined up again. There was a path to follow here-fault to find… Right. John. In the end, this was all his fault. If he hadn’t come by that day; hadn’t flirted with her the way he had, in her own kitchen; hadn’t exposed her to… everything.

He was the one who killed Bobby in the end, because that’s how you had to look at things these days-you had to find the source. The source of evil. And once you traced it, you had to get rid of it. Find the evildoer. John had threatened them all, finally-burning barns of hardworking farmers; seducing married women; driving around in that useless car; killing innocent boys…

She’d done well, killing him. She’d set things right.

Joe met Gail and her bodyguard at the door of the overflow hearing room. He’d waited in the hallway until the crowd had dwindled to a handful before crossing the threshold, knowing the cop would hold her back, not wanting her surrounded by a crush of people. And a crush there had been. Joe wondered what the fire marshal’s opinion might have been had he been there.

“Worthwhile day?” he asked her as she approached, slinging her bag onto her shoulder and weaving her way through the tangle of chairs. He exchanged friendly nods with the cop, a state trooper he knew only as Mark.

“Not really,” she said. “You catch the guy yet?”

“No, but we’re making progress.” He didn’t tell her that the progress concerned only Linda Padgett and that no one had the slightest idea of Gino Famolare’s whereabouts.

“Great.” She brushed by him, paused as Mark stepped ahead of her into the hallway to check, and then followed suit, Joe bringing up the rear. He noticed that Mark was keeping a diplomatic poker face.

“You want to switch off a little?” he asked him. “I’ll keep her company if you want to follow in my car.”

They both looked to Gail, who nodded tiredly. “I’d like to pick up a few groceries on the way.”

They stepped out into the setting sun and walked over to the parking lot reserved for members. Joe had parked illegally, half on a sidewalk, and left his badge on the dash, hoping for some mercy from the overworked Montpelier parking enforcement officers. Either they hadn’t been by or it had worked.

He opened his passenger door for Gail, asking as she stepped in, “How’re you doing?”

She didn’t answer, waiting for him to circle around and join her. He started the engine and pulled into the street.

“That’s a loaded question,” she finally answered.

“He may never show up,” he tried comforting her. “It was probably just a lot of hot air.”

“Amazing as it sounds,” she said, her voice hard, “that’s not very helpful.”

He didn’t say anything, aiming for State Street instead, and eventually the Shaw’s supermarket around the corner, on Main.

“I’m sorry,” she said a few minutes later, not looking at him. “I’m tired.”

“You may be tired,” he agreed. “But you’ve also had your life turned upside down-again. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

She suddenly burst into tears, causing him to almost rear-end the car in front of him. As he reached for her with one hand, she caught it in her own and squeezed it, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I just… I don’t know.”

He pulled into Shaw’s and parked haphazardly, noticing in the rearview mirror that Mark was more carefully doing the same, keeping them in sight.

With the engine still running, Joe reached out for her and took her in his arms. It was the first real display of affection they’d shared in quite a while, a realization that filled him with sudden bittersweetness. She hung on tight, her face buried in his shoulder, as he rubbed her back.

“I was so hoping all this was behind me,” she said eventually, her voice muffled by his jacket.

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s happening all over again,” she continued, pulling back slightly to speak. “Getting worse every night. The nightmares, the insomnia. I’m back on sleeping pills that don’t work. I check the doors and windows again and again. I can’t taste what I eat, and I’m never hungry anyhow.”