knew, too bad.
“Black bones pointing to the sky and some dead livestock,” he said shortly. “There isn’t a whole lot left except the herds out in pasture. Amazingly, we didn’t get a grass fire. It was hot, it was too fast and the Buells were damned smart to have alarms. Now Fred Buell is out there every day trying to tend his cattle from the back of a truck with the help of neighbors. He didn’t gain a thing that I can see except a whole pack of new problems.”
She nodded, willing to accept his judgment for now. Her own would come later.
He stood up and went to stare out his own plate-glass window at the men who were finishing the cleanup. “We got us a firebug, Ms. Atkins. Bad and mean. I want him.”
“Your inspector mentioned this was the third arson in a year.”
“Close to. Less than a year, to be specific. The first two were definitely gasoline, but this one is different. If they’re the same perp, then we have a huge problem. He’s getting smarter.” He turned and looked at her. “And more dangerous. The first two didn’t go up like a bomb. We had time to get out there, and the ranchers are pretty good with a hose themselves. This time...” He shook his head, a dark frown on his face. “Are you gonna help me?”
She started. She hadn’t expected this. She had come to assess one situation, not hunt for an arsonist. But something in her quickened, and she felt a touch of his fury.
“I hate arsonists,” she said finally. “Passionately. I’ll do what I can, what my job allows.”
After a moment he said, “Fair enough. You’re an expert. I’m not really. I can recognize arson, can usually tell where the fire started and what caused it. But this is different. I need some expertise around here. I sent for a state investigator, but they’re shorthanded. I’ve covered the points of ignition I could find, but with every passing minute, evidence is disappearing.”
She completely understood and shared his concern. While she had no stake in any of this, she did indeed want to help figure out what had happened and who had done it before this creep managed to kill someone. Still, given her job, there were definite limits on what she could do. She also liked that Wayne Camden cared this much. She’d known some who didn’t.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll go out first thing in the morning. Where are you staying?”
“There’s a motel...”
He shook his head sharply. “You won’t catch any diseases there, but you’ll be right across the street from the truck stop. It’ll be noisy and it’s probably not what you’re used to.”
“I’ll survive,” she answered, but just from the way he’d objected to the idea, she already felt her skin starting to crawl.
He returned to his desk and picked up his phone, dialing a number from memory. “Hank? Wayne. Listen, I got an arson investigator in town for a few days. You wanna do me a favor? She needs a place to stay, and I don’t mean the La-Z-Rest. Yeah, okay.”
When he hung up he said. “Solved. A friend of mine has a furnished house for rent. You can use it, no charge.”
Astonishment filled her. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he used to be a fireman, too. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
* * *
She followed his red SUV down narrow tree-lined streets for a few blocks until he pulled up in front of a small house. A man was waiting for them outside, the perfect image of a cowboy except he canted a little, suggesting he had some kind of back trouble.
He smiled and held out his hand. “Hank Jackson.”
“Charity Atkins. It’s so kind of you to do this.”
He shook his head. “Teeny little thing. The place is empty. Empty houses aren’t happy houses. It’s fully furnished, though. Some groceries and you’ll be all set. Let me show you.”
“Tell her about Maude’s,” Wayne Camden said. “I need to get back to the station. Paperwork awaits.” He paused and looked at Charity. “I live just one street over, not that I get home often. Hank here can help you with just about anything, okay?”
“Thanks so much.”
“No problem. Not for me anyway. Should I pick you up around eight in the morning?”
Converted to Eastern Time, she realized, that would be her equivalent of ten. “Or I can come by the station after I get some breakfast.”
“Okay, I’ll see you there.”
He strode to his car, leaving her with Hank Jackson, a man with a weathered face and eyes that crinkled when he smiled.
“So you were a firefighter, too?” she asked.
“A long time ago. Now I’m just a cowboy. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”
* * *
Elsewhere, an arsonist pondered the arrival of the insurance investigator. How much did she know? How much could she figure out? Was she like the state investigator?
That was worrisome. The delay in getting the state guy down here created time between the fire and the investigation, and time made evidence go away, killing it with sun, wind and rain. Longer was better.
If the woman was a threat, the arsonist needed to know. Certainly, the fires had to stop for now. Frustrating, but necessary. There was no way to explain that the fires were meant to be helpful. Watching the investigator became paramount. If she became a threat, she would have to be removed somehow.
But that Buell fire had been something else, far more than the arsonist had expected. So fast, so all-consuming, way beyond the plan. Watching it erupt had been a thing of pure beauty and pure terror. The arsonist had been afraid of it, even at a distance. Way beyond control, not supposed to happen that way. The kind of fire that would draw major attention from every direction. A mistake.
Looking through binoculars, the arsonist had made sure the family escaped, and only then could enjoy the show. Sheets of flame reaching heavenward, whirling in fiery tornadoes, the sparks creating fireworks as the house and barn had collapsed. The biggest fire, short of a wildfire, ever. Two buildings, barn and house. That hadn’t been intentional, but the show... Well, maybe that made it worth it.
A perfectly created work of art. And all of it for a good cause.
But that arson investigator could prove to be a huge headache. Something drastic might need to be done.
With memories of that gorgeous fire still dancing, the arsonist decided the investigator needed to be driven away. Somehow. With any luck, it wouldn’t take much.
But if she nosed around too much, killing her was a possibility.
By morning, Charity felt she had begun to land. Yesterday had been long, with a red-eye flight out of Atlanta to Denver so she could catch the puddle jumper to Conard City in time
