John Lutz - Scorcher

“Where is she now?”

“Her place. Hey, I told you, she’s all right. The emergency’s over, my friend.”

Over for now, Carver thought. Fire had been introduced into his life like hell on earth, maiming him in body and then mind. First fire from the barrel of a sadistic holdup man’s gun, then from the mind of a maniac. As if he’d done something to piss off a supreme being that liked to play with matches.

“I’m driving to Del Moray,” Carver said.

“Thought you’d want to, amigo. That’s why I called.”

“Was the fire an accident?”

“Could be. Lots of lightning in that area last night. But it’s too early to tell. Thinking about Paul Kave?”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“And maybe now, amigo , he can’t stop thinking about you.”

The eastern horizon was still smeared with orange-tinted pink, like an art student’s garish first attempt at a sunrise, when Carver reached the highway and pointed the long hood of the Olds toward Del Moray.

Last night’s storm had left the air clear and sweet-scented, and he had the top lowered. Large flying insects smacked off the windshield to abrupt oblivion. A sea gull soared gracefully along parallel to the car for a while, as if blatantly observing Carver, then veered sharply to the south, maybe on its way to report to McGregor.

Carver felt as if he were in deep water that was beginning to swirl and draw him toward the black vortex of a whirlpool. He cursed and goosed the Olds another five miles per hour faster.

If he drowned-or burned-he wanted to do it alone. Not with Edwina.

As if death came with options.

As Carver braked the Olds to turn into the driveway of Edwina’s home, a yellow-orange fire engine gave a shattering blast of its air horn, flashed more different-colored lights than Carver could remember seeing even at Christmas, and bounced from the drive onto the highway. The jackhammer roar of its powerful diesel engine reverberated as it disappeared into the bright morning like a chimera.

Carver expected to see more fire-fighting equipment when he topped the crest of the driveway, but there were only Edwina’s red Mercedes, parked well away from the garage, and a yellow Plymouth with a cherry light on its roof and the seal of the Del Moray Fire Department on its door. The garage itself was blackened, and half the roof had either collapsed or been axed in by the fire fighters. He noticed that the front end of the Mercedes was also blackened, and both front tires were flat and melted like modernistic soft sculpture.

Edwina and a short, dark-haired man in a bright white shirt weren’t looking at the car, though; they were staring up at the house as if assessing damage. The white shirt looked incredibly clean and pure, contrasted with the charred areas from the fire. When they heard Carver’s car parking near the yellow Plymouth, they turned and looked in his direction. Edwina seemed relieved to see him and leaned slightly toward him. White Shirt stood his ground and gave Carver the flat, disinterested but appraising stare of officialdom everywhere. Carver saw now that there were epaulets on the man’s pristine shirt, and a gold insignia sewn above the left breast pocket. He wondered if firemen saluted.

Carver hugged Edwina and listened to her assurances that she was all right. She seemed calm and unafraid. He sensed a vibrant anger in her, held in check beneath her surface but seething.

White Shirt stood patiently waiting for the scene to run down, glancing only once at Carver’s cane. Edwina stepped away from Carver; her eyes were puffy, as if still irritated by smoke. She said, “This is Chief Belmont of the Del Moray Fire Department. Chief, Fred Carver.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Carver,” Belmont said, not moving to shake hands. He spoke in a slow Georgia drawl that probably led people to underestimate him. He was in his fifties, starting to go to fat, and had pale, doughy features, what was either a burn scar or a birthmark high on his forehead, and murky green eyes the color of martini olives. His black, probably dyed hair, was swept back but mussed, as if combs were for pansies and he’d raked his head with his fingers. He looked as if he needed sleep. “Miss Talbot here tells me you mighta been the target of this.”

“You mean the fire was deliberately set?” Carver had never really doubted it.

“Oh, it’s sure-enough arson. Damage is mostly to the garage. Flames got to the insulation in the wall and smoke curled over the ceiling and set off one of those five-dollar alarms. It saved Miss Talbot’s life, most likely. Don’t take long for smoke to work its way down and fill a burning house. Sneaky stuff. Kill you while you sleep.”

Carver had once almost died himself in a late-night fire. He knew the danger of slumber and smoke. For an instant he relived the panic he’d felt on awakening and realizing what was happening. Suffocation in the dark. Still real. Still scary.

“Maybe you’d better stay somewhere else for a while,” he told Edwina.

Her smooth chin was thrust forward like that of an amateur boxer with too much heart and too little skill, begging to be hit to show she could take it. “I’m not leaving my home because of this. Besides, whoever set the fire must have thought you were still here.”

“My car was gone,” Carver pointed out.

“Maybe he thought it was still in the garage. That’s where you had it parked. He might have seen you drive in but not out.”

Carver didn’t answer. Edwina had given this some thought. He looked at the chief, who seemed puzzled.

“You saying you know who mighta done this?” Belmont asked. He asked it lazily, almost as if inquiring about whether Carver thought it might rain today.

“I have some idea,” Carver said. “I’m a private investigator working on a case involving fire.”

“Arson case?”

“Murder.”

Comprehension transformed the chief’s pale features. The murky olive eyes narrowed and gained intensity. “That screwball that torches folks, huh?”

“That’s the one,” Carver said.

“Well, the law’s gonna want to talk with you about this anyway, the way it was so damned obviously arson. Young lady here’s lucky to be still amongst the living.”

“How was it done?” Carver asked.

“Show you,” Belmont said, and waved an arm a few inches in a signal to follow. He was a man comfortable in his authority and took for granted compliance with his orders.

The three of them walked around to the back of the garage. The ground was soggy there; Carver had to prod gingerly with the cane. Belmont pointed to a buckled and charred area of wall near where the garage joined the rear of the house. There were blackened chunks of debris scattered around, and pieces of roof tile. It looked like the scene of a pyromaniac’s wild party.

“That wall’s stucco,” Carver said. “Stucco doesn’t burn.”

“Does if you pour a flammable substance on it. Which was done here, I’m sure. Burned long enough to catch the wooden eaves, then the flames walked across the roof timbers of the garage. Good thing we got here before it got a hold on the house. We’d have had to create some real water and smoke damage inside to put this thing out. Sometimes we gotta make a helluva mess dousing a fire, but there’s no other way.”

“The house is all right,” Edwina said. “It smells like burned rubber but it’s relatively undamaged. I can live in it. I will live in it.”

“You don’t have to,” Carver said.

“Sure I do.” Her voice was low and unyielding, the mind behind it made up. Carver remembered her telling him she would never again run from trouble and create a past that haunted. She’d meant it. “I’m not letting Paul Kave influence my life,” she said, “any more than you would. You should understand that.”