A week later, with her hands still bandaged, Joan had left without a word to him or any of them. Gideon had called her more times than he could count, and only when he threatened to drive to Philadelphia had she finally called him back.
“Why are you calling?” she had said. “We were over before the fire.”
“I made a mistake.” Memories of his night with Helen lingered close. “I want to come east with you.”
“You belong in Montana,” Joan said. “I see that now.”
Nothing he had said would convince her otherwise, and he’d finally hung up in frustration. A week later, Helen had told him she was pregnant. They were married July 1 in a courthouse wedding. By the time Kyle was born, they were fighting regularly.
Gideon sipped his coffee. “Elijah met Ann through Joan.”
It was Clarke’s turn to squirm. “I remember.”
“I’ve been through his police file a few times. He’s always denied setting the fire. He even petitioned the Innocence Project to have a look at his case five years ago, but they denied him.”
“Because they saw him for what he was,” Clarke said. “Psychopaths don’t confess.”
“Detective Jefferson interrogated him for a long stretch.” By Gideon’s standards, Jefferson had leaned on Elijah too hard. These days, a defense attorney would have a field day with that kind of law enforcement overreach. But Gideon also understood that Detective Jefferson, like many folks in town, was terrified an arsonist who had nearly killed two coeds would go free.
“Don’t forget all those brush fires that popped up that last winter before the College Fire. They stopped completely when Elijah was arrested.”
“The arsonist profiles for rural fires are very different from those who execute structural fires.”
“That’s true in some cases, but I would bet you those fires were meant to relieve stress and provide practice for the main event.” Clarke stared into the dark depths of his cup and then took a sip. “You know that son of a bitch wrote to Ann from prison?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Upset the hell out of her. I visited him in prison and told him to stop. He didn’t seem to care what I thought, so I spoke to the prison officials. They couldn’t do anything, so I had the post office hold our mail. From that day forward, I’ve picked it up from the post office.”
“Did he write her again?”
“There were two other letters. He insisted he did not set fire to her house.”
“Did you keep the letters?”
“Hell no. I tossed them.” Clarke sighed. “He’s going to do it again.”
“Not if I have any say in it.”
Clarke swallowed the last of his coffee and motioned for his two men to join Gideon and him. “The rubble should be cool enough now to walk, as long as you have your boots.”
“Let me put my thermos back, and I’ll be right there.”
Gideon joined the firefighters as they began to search the charred rubble. Hot pockets still gave off some steam, but for the most part, the fire crews had saturated the structure all the way down to the brick foundation. He moved toward the spot where he’d seen the woman through the window. The area was covered in thick debris.
“It’ll take time to clear the rubble,” Clarke said. “Have a look over here.”
Gideon stared at the large window and then at the wreckage. He had been so close to her, just as he had been only a dozen feet from Joan all those years ago. If he had been a minute quicker, the woman might be alive.
He turned toward the melted and scorched beautician chairs and their work areas. All the flammable products at the stations had exploded in the intense heat and had shattered the mirrors behind them.
Gideon paused in the center of the room, where the destruction appeared absolute. “Where did the fire start?”
“Near here. It explains why the woman you saw was trapped in the blaze,” Clarke said.
Gideon knew the human body literally melted at fifteen hundred degrees, and, judging by the destruction here, this fire had surpassed that mark.
The water from the fire hoses had turned the ash to a black sludge that squished under Gideon’s boots as he walked toward what had been the back of the store.
“This is where the shop stored chemicals like acetone and hair dyes,” Clarke said. “An experienced arsonist would have dumped accelerant here and then trailed the remainder out the door down the alley.”
“Creating a fuse.”
“Exactly. Once the fire trail hit this room, it was game over. All those chemicals are flammable as hell.”
“Everything in this structure appears designed to burn,” Gideon said.
A firefighter covered in soot and grit approached. “Captain Mead, have a look over here.”
Gideon and Clarke crossed the room, mindful of where they stepped and preserving any evidence that might have survived the fire. Following the firefighter’s outstretched hand, Gideon dropped his gaze to a pile of rubble. What at first looked like a badly charred mannequin hand peeking out from the ceiling debris was, in fact, human. The fingers and most of the hand had been destroyed, leaving only a blackened stump behind.
Gideon peered into the charred beams, now tangled together like pick-up sticks. As he stared into the gaps, he followed the remains of the arm to a charred torso and head.
He tried to reconcile Lana Long’s driver’s license image with what lay before him. However, nothing was recognizable.
“I’ll put a call in to the medical examiner’s office,” Gideon said. “The sooner I get an autopsy, the sooner I’ll have a cause of death and an identity.”
“Maybe it was suicide,” Clarke said.
“Could be.”
Clarke shook his head, his gaze transfixed on the form before him. “Reminds me of the house fire north of town.”
“Three years ago,” Gideon said.
“Caused by a dried-out Christmas tree the father had promised to take down, but he put it off several weeks
