T. Parker - Full Measure

When Ted was climbing into his truck in the Pride Auto Repair lot he saw a tall khaki-suited man standing across the street, seemingly intrigued by the front window display of the photography studio. Ted had sometimes stopped to admire the happy wedding pictures and wholesome family portraits and the flattering graduation pictures of high school students. The man certainly looked like the one in Open Sights and the one who was walking behind him after the Magnus rally the other day. Same big head. Ted wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. Again.

He drove around the Carmella Street barrio looking for Edgar. He had the windows down and it was the first time since the fire that the air of Fallbrook smelled alive: trumpet vine and hillside sage, late-season roses. Young people cruised the fragrant evening, rolling along slowly in their cars, music throbbing. The youngsters walked or rode scooters or bikes. There was a big wheeled barbecue set up in a front yard, with a sign, and a husky man and a stout woman cooking and others waiting in line. Some of the girls and young women had Chihuahuas in their arms or on leashes and the dogs on leashes zigzagged the sidewalks, straining for freedom. Ted looked out at the small groups of people on the corners — all of them wanting to see and be seen. Cortez Market was bustling and the music blared from a small discoteca with posters of musicians in the windows.

Ted put on a Cruzela Storm CD and turned the volume so Cruzela’s voice would be part of the world but not dominate it. Her voice was low and smooth, but it could climb high and not lose its honey quality. Ted found it almost unbelievable that someone as talented as Cruzela Storm would perform at Fallbrook High School. And just to build lighted crosswalks that the city didn’t need. He’d still pay to see her. Although if arrogant Mayor Evelyn got up on her soapbox she’d probably ruin the whole show for him, and for everybody else.

Then there he was — Edgar — standing at the corner of Old Stage and Via Entrada, not two hundred feet from where he had robbed Ted. A streetlamp held him in a cone of light: shorts past his knees and a singlet and the killah shades even after dark. Ted felt his heart speed up and his hearing crank into overdrive. He turned off Cruzela and let the truck move at idle. Edgar’s girlfriend was there, tight jeans and black boots, and they were arguing. Ted saw Edgar register his truck, then who was driving it. He braked and stopped at the corner where they stood. Before even thinking Ted raised his left hand, which was dangling out the window, and made a gun of it and pointed it at the big high school boy. Edgar tracked the motion from behind the dark lenses like a creature with compound eyes. “What do you want, man?”

Ted went brittle with anger. Or was it fear? Edgar’s voice was loud and clear, and Ted was aware of the distant throb of the music and the sound of the truck engine and the sudden silence of the pedestrians at the intersection. When he finally heard it, his voice was high-pitched and wavering. “You owe me twenty-two dollars.”

“I’ve never seen you. How can I owe you? Come on, Jessie, let’s go.”

“I want my money back,” Ted said

“Then get outta that truck and try to take it.”

“Oh, no. You might pull your gun again.”

“I don’t have a gun. He’s trash-talking, Jessie. Let’s go.”

Edgar took her hand and turned away but she wrenched loose and stepped into the street and up to Ted’s open window. “Get fucked, you fat shit.” Edgar grabbed her wrist again and pulled her to the curb and up Via Entrada. Ted heard her laughter and her boot heels as they disappeared gradually into the darkness. Get with the program. Get even. Get fucked. He drove away with his heart beating hard and his ears ringing with defeat and rage. He would love to get even. Love to. And then some.

With everybody.

Evelyn Anders stood under a shade canopy at the Emergency Resource Center, waiting to tell her fellow citizens what the city could do for victims of the fire. It was a warm Saturday morning, eleven days since the blaze had been extinguished. The tables in front of her had stacks of informational pamphlets, anchored by rocks against the breeze. The Emergency Resource Center was set up in a church parking lot in the hills east of downtown. The centerpiece was a large gleaming trailer with the words CERTIFIED EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAM — C.E.R.T. emblazoned across its flanks.

The mayor looked around at the olive drab National Guard trucks and uniformed guardsmen, the trailers and booths staffed by FEMA and various state and county agencies. There were sheriff’s patrol cars, vans, and SUVs, California Highway Patrol, police cars from outlying cities, and newspaper, TV, and radio vehicles everywhere she looked. Iris Cash from the Village View waved at her then turned back to a fireman wearing a yellow helmet and a bulky fire-fighting suit. The cannons of Pendleton began booming in the west, a sound that made Evelyn cringe. They could go on for hours.

“Does anybody know who started the fire?” asked a tall boy whom Evelyn recognized as a classmate of her son.

“There has not been an arrest,” said Evelyn.

“I don’t understand why someone would do that.”

“Here, watch this.” She touched Play on her laptop and turned it to face the boy. She had made this video segment, “Arson,” with the help of her son and daughter. They’d enlarged some of the photographs she’d taken out in Rice Canyon where the fire had been started, then used a Flip to shoot them. Also on the video were sketches she’d drawn of the weirdly fused triggering device and container for accelerant that she had found. The DA wouldn’t release forensic photos to the public before trial, so Evelyn had drawn her own. Then they had recorded Iris Cash interviewing Fire Chief Bruck and two sheriff’s detectives familiar with arsonist behavior. “Arsonists are often secretive, introverted individuals,” one of the detectives explained. “They often derive feelings of power and superiority from the fire itself, as well as the human efforts to control the fire. Some arsonists join in to fight the fire as a way of enjoying their control. Some arsonists experience a sexual component when observing the fire.”

“That’s totally gross,” said the boy. “It’s murder if someone dies, right?”

“Some arsonists have been charged with homicide,” said Evelyn. “And have done years in prison or in mental hospitals.”

“Mental hospitals creep me out,” said the boy, staring down at the monitor. Another boy, apparently a friend, came over and stood beside him. Evelyn watched the emotions play across their faces as they tried to understand the psychopathy of fire-setting. The first boy looked offended, the second amused. On-screen the detective explained in a deadpan cop voice that mental illness and antisocial tendencies sometimes found expression in arson. “It’s a crime of control and power,” he said. “Most arsonists are repeat offenders. They begin with small fires and escalate. This Fallbrook fire is one of the largest arson fires in the history of California. It is likely that whoever set this fire has set others. The damage is in the billions of dollars and three lives were lost. It is one of the most heinous crimes I’ve ever investigated. So please, if any of you saw anything suspicious at or around the time of the fire, please contact the San Diego Sheriff’s Department.”

“How much is the reward up to?” asked the second boy.

“Ninety-eight thousand dollars,” said Evelyn. “That jar there is for reward donations.” She had spiked it with three fives earlier, and since then had collected a handful of change and two wadded-up dollar bills.