Janice Johnson - This Good Man

So, okay, she could be right that on some subconscious level he was seeing himself in this younger brother, who looked so much like him. Why else the cauldron of emotions he’d been feeling, the ingredients of which he didn’t even want to identify? That kind of transference was probably inevitable. He’d needed to be saved; now it was his turn to do the saving. Paying it forward was what people called it these days. That’s all I’m doing.

He didn’t think about why he was looking forward to seeing Caleb. Or why he was so disappointed when, twenty minutes later, he conceded defeat.

The disappearing act was so good, it was clear his brother didn’t want to see him. Reid told himself that was okay. The two of them hardly knew each other. When Reid had first come here, he’d been like a feral animal in a trap, suspicious of anything that looked like affection. He didn’t know why he’d expected different of Caleb.

The Hales had a gift for healing wounded, fearful young men. Paula was wrong; Caleb didn’t need his brother, the stranger.

Which raised the question, why had he turned his own life upside down to be nearby when he’d already fulfilled his responsibility? He could have stayed in touch long-distance well enough.

He laughed, short and harsh, as he climbed into his Ford Expedition. Taking a last look at the ramshackle lodge that anchored a line of even more run-down cabins strung along the bank of Bear Creek, he breathed in the distinctive odor of ponderosa-pine forest, sharp despite the near-freezing temperature. Trust Paula to get him analyzing his choices. One of her more irritating characteristics.

But he was a big boy now, capable of resisting. A big boy who, for whatever idiotic reason, had taken on a new job with more scope than he’d anticipated. What he needed to do was concentrate on that job, not hanker for some elusive connection he’d lived his whole damn life without.

CHAPTER TWO

“IT’S ARSON,” REID said flatly. He crouched and stared closely at the distinctive pattern of charring that climbed the interior wood-paneled wall of the cabin. He’d been lucky to find it, given the extent of the damage. “I’m no fire marshal,” he said, rising to his feet, “but I don’t have to be.”

Beside him, Roger Hale grunted. “I thought I smelled gasoline.”

“Hard to miss,” Reid agreed.

He hadn’t expected to hear from either of the Hales so soon after his Wednesday visit. On this fine Sunday morning, he’d been sprawled in bed trying to decide whether he could roll over and get some more sleep or was already too wide-awake when his phone had rung. Given his job, he kept the damn thing close, despite how often he cursed its existence. Hearing what Roger had to say had driven away any desire on his part to be lazy.

When he arrived half an hour ago, a cluster of boys had hovered on the front porch of the lodge. Caleb wasn’t among them.

Walking to greet Reid, Roger had seen where he was looking. “Probably his turn in the shower. We were all pretty filthy by the time we got the fire out.”

Paula had been the one to spot it, according to Roger. She’d gotten up to use the john and seen a strange orange glow out the small window. Roger had yanked on clothes and run outside to find the fire climbing the back wall of the last cabin in the row. Even as he’d hooked up hoses, he had yelled to awaken the boys.

“This wasn’t one of the occupied cabins,” Reid said, turning slowly to examine the interior. Frigid blue sky showed through a gaping hole in the roof. There hadn’t been much furniture in the cabin. No mattress—or at least no springs—but the wooden bed frame was so much half-burned firewood now. On instinct, he started picking through the debris.

“No, we haven’t put anyone in here in...oh, five or six years,” Roger replied. “I’d been thinking I either needed to raze it or do some serious work. But you know we never fill all the cabins.” His expression was troubled. “You’re saying our firebug didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Yet. Reid didn’t like thinking that, but had to.

“No, this was done either for fun or to get some attention.”

He debated whether to say more, but suspected he didn’t have to. Roger was a smart, well-read man. He’d already been thinking hard, or he wouldn’t have summoned Reid to take a look.

Arson wasn’t like shoplifting or half a dozen other crimes Reid could think of, tried by a kid once out of curiosity or on a dare, then forgotten in a generally well-lived life. Famously, arson was one of the classic precursors of a serial killer. A budding pyromaniac, who set fires for the thrill, was bound to escalate in a different way.

This fire had been relatively harmless. The cabin hadn’t been close to any of the others, and given that the last snowfall had melted only a few days ago, sparks had been unlikely to find dry fuel in the surrounding woods.

Reid found what he’d sought and wordlessly held out what was left of the side rail of a bed for Roger to see. One end was seared; the other was freshly splintered. As he’d suspected, the bed had been broken up to serve as firewood that would give the blaze what it needed to grow until it had the size and heat to bite into the solid log walls.

Roger shook his head. “We’ve had our share of troubles, but never a kid who wanted to burn up the world.”

“There’s a first for everything.”

“We can’t be sure it’s one of the boys.”

Reid kept his mouth shut.

“Goddamn.” Roger vented by kicking at a still-steaming pile of half-burned wood. One piece fell away, revealing an orange spark beneath. Part of the headboard, Reid diagnosed, as he stamped out the ember beneath his booted foot. “Shit,” Roger growled, “we’d better rake through this and be sure there’s nothing that can start it up again.”

“Yeah, you got lucky none of the neighbors spotted the glow and called the fire department.”

Everybody around here had acreage, so there were no close neighbors. This fire must have leaped pretty high into the sky before they began fighting it, though. The last thing the Hales needed was a fire marshal out here asking questions. He or she wouldn’t be able to help but notice that the Hales had too many kids. Even if Paula and Roger succeeded in hiding some of them, it would take barely a casual glance to see that a number of the cabins were occupied. With the addition of Caleb, there were currently ten boys in residence in the old resort, which was actually fewer than Reid knew they sometimes had.

Roger paused in the act of kicking through the charred debris. “Could that have been the point?”

“To rat you out?” Nice thought. “Only if you’ve got a kid who doesn’t want to be here.”

“Who says it has to be one of the boys? The middle of the night, anyone could have brought a can of gasoline and a matchbook. With this cabin down at the end, he’d have been unlikely to be heard.”

“It’s a possibility.” Reid wasn’t sure it was one he liked any better than the idea that one of the boys here was a newbie arsonist.

Roger gusted out a sigh. “We’ll talk to all of them. Along with Caleb, we’ve got two other relatively recent arrivals.”

Something in Roger’s tone caught Reid’s attention. He turned slowly to meet his shrewd gaze. Damn. Of course that question had to be asked.

“Caleb has no history of anything like this.” His jaw set. He made the reluctant addition, “That I know of.”

Roger waved his hand in what Reid knew was a conciliating gesture. “Didn’t think so, but he’s the newest.”

“And you’ve never had a fire before.”

“No. We’ve never had a fire before,” Roger echoed. “Guess it had to happen sooner or later.”