“He has the Bailey good heart.” Joan drew in a few breaths, feeling her throat tighten and her palms sweat. “I wish them both happiness.”
“I doubt Gideon really has been happy since you left.”
Joan stared into her wineglass and the play of light from the fire. “I don’t believe that.”
“He’s always felt like he failed you, Joan. Wished he had tried living back east with you.”
Joan had realized her mistake two months after the fire. She had called Ann, fear tangling with hope as she’d asked about Gideon.
“He’s married, Joan,” Ann had said.
Joan had gripped the phone, certain it was a bad connection. “What?”
“He married Helen. She’s pregnant.”
Joan had sat down, her head spinning. “What?”
“She’s eight weeks along, and before you say anything, Clarke and I are also married. I’m pregnant, too.”
Now, in the distance, an owl hooted and brought Joan back to the present. She cleared her throat, hoping she sounded steadier than she felt. “I’m not sure I can make anyone happy. I’m moody and difficult on my best days, and if you hadn’t noticed, I’m a workaholic.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Ann said, smiling.
Joan allowed a small smile of her own. “Yep, it’s true.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Ann asked, “What do you think you’re going to do about Elijah? He’s served his time. He’s free to do whatever he wishes.”
“I thought about that on the plane. There’s nothing I can do legally, but I feel in my bones that he has a bigger agenda.”
“What kind of agenda?”
“You told me how angry he was after his conviction and how he still insists he’s innocent. He’s back in Missoula because he wants something. You think it’s revenge?”
Ann paled. “I don’t know what Elijah wants.”
“If he and I can build a rapport, maybe he’ll reveal himself to me. Secrets always have a way of coming out. The trick is to be on the lookout for the signs.”
The flames in the pit crackled as they ate through the wood. The tripod Nate had built collapsed in a flurry of sparks and fire.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” Ann said.
“I don’t. But that’s never stopped me before.”
Confessions of an Arsonist
Burning brush and wood has its own pleasure, but watching the fire eat through property and destroy what others love . . .
It’s a rush beyond measure.
CHAPTER FOUR
Missoula, Montana
Saturday, September 5, 2020
7:15 p.m.
The fire sirens wailed in the distance as Elijah Weston sat on the front porch of his new residence, a boardinghouse five blocks from the university. It was a split-level, five-bedroom house and his home until he could get a better place.
But for now, he would share a bathroom with Rodney DuPree, a recovering drug addict. And if he was really hard up for company, he could sit in the den during the evenings and watch television with the other two residents. Their names escaped him, which suited Elijah just fine.
The owner of the house, Ax Pickett, was a former Vietnam vet who had opened the boardinghouse as a tribute to his dead wife, Delilah. In his early seventies, Pickett had a long, lean frame and weathered features that suggested many years in a saddle.
Though Delilah was long gone, her porcelain cups, blousy pink drapes, and overstuffed furniture covered in rose chintz remained. Her recipes were cooked at mealtime, and her rocker remained beside Pickett’s on the porch. Delilah’s house rules, which had straightened out Pickett, also still applied. There was no cussing. Smoking was limited to the front porch. And according to Rodney, Pickett did not allow drinking except for the first Saturday of the month, when he indulged in his six-pack limit.
Elijah sat forward, listening as another fire truck’s siren raced down one of the central streets. His heartbeat kicked, and a familiar pleasant tension pulsed in his veins as he imagined the flashing lights and the truck racing toward the blaze. Those first few seconds at a fire were always exciting. Fires were an enigma, even to those closest to them.
He drew in a breath and forced himself to sit back in the chair as he stared at the remains of the black graffiti, ARSONST LEAVE! spray-painted on the sidewalk. The misspelled warning had been waiting for him when he arrived last night, and he had spent a couple of hours today scrubbing the paint with hot soapy water and a wire brush. A faint outline of the words still remained, but he would see to it again tomorrow.
As tempted as he was to go and witness the fire, the words were a reminder that being seen near a blaze would be his one-way ticket back to prison.
Missoula was one of the biggest towns in Montana, but the reality was it was a small town with fewer than seventy thousand people. There were three fire departments in town. The one on Pine Street served the city, whereas the other two were on the outer edges of town. Of course, all three would respond to any fire that needed all hands on deck.
Hearing the multiple sirens confirmed that the blaze was growing larger and fiercer.
The front door squeaked open, and Elijah looked over his shoulder to see Pickett step out onto the porch. Nodding a greeting, the old man walked toward the porch rail and removed a cigarette packet and lighter from his jeans pocket.
Pickett struck the flint of his lighter, holding it up for a moment before he pressed it to the tip of his cigarette. The tip flared with an orange glow magnified by the graying sky. White smoke puffed and swirled around narrowing eyes that looked toward the direction of the sirens.
Elijah understood this was a test. The town arsonist was living in his house, and fire engines were blaring down the center of the city.
Pickett offered him a
