“Did he have visitors?”
More papers rustled. “Lana Long saw him six times this year. Approved visitors are allowed once a month.”
“Was Elijah allowed conjugal visits?”
“He was not.”
“He was never alone with Lana Long? Perhaps a blind spot on the cameras?”
“We’re very careful.”
“Did he get any work release jobs because of his good behavior?” Gideon asked.
“No, all his jobs were on the prison property.”
“You said he worked for you in your office.”
“He did. He was a great help.” Warden Martin cleared his throat and lowered his tone. “Why are you pressing this?”
“I’d rather not say now. But as soon as I know more on this end, I’ll give you a full brief.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
He stood in the darkness, staring at the Bailey ranch house, waiting for all the lights to go out. The boy’s room had been the first to go dark, at about 9:00, and after that, the mother’s room at 10:15. But the guest, she was a stubborn one. Her light stayed on till almost 11:00.
Picking up the plastic milk jug full of gasoline, he crossed the large lawn toward the house. Out here, there were no neighbors to see him, and under a moonless sky, he was nearly invisible to the naked eye. Thankfully, there was no dog to contend with, although he had managed quite easily with them in the past.
In a low crawl, he moved toward a shed located near the woods. He was tempted to set fire to the house, but this was meant as a warning, and he always stuck to the plan.
As he approached the shed, he realized the door was ajar. Not smart to leave a shed unlocked. Even this far out, thieves turned up. He reached inside the door, set the lock, and then gently closed the door. He tested the handle and made sure it was locked.
He removed a sock from his pocket and twisted it into a spiral before shoving it in the gallon-size plastic milk jug filled with gas. He then fished out a lighter from his pocket.
He flicked the lighter, and when the flame caught, he paused for a moment and admired the dancing flame. “So pure,” he whispered.
He held the flame to the cloth, which had already wicked up the gasoline. It immediately embraced the cloth and enveloped it in a blue-and-orange flame. Its heat warmed his face and chased away the evening chill. In these few seconds, he understood completely the danger. It was the one last intimate moment he shared with his creation before releasing it.
After setting the jug down in the mulch, he quickly backed away as the flame snaked down the sock. He held his breath.
He counted. One. Two . . .
The flame ignited the gasoline, and the plastic jug exploded in a fireball that was nothing short of perfection. How could he not love something like this?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Tuesday, September 8, 2020
11:50 p.m.
The explosion jerked Joan out of a restless sleep. She sat up in her bed, her heart pounding and the glow of flames dancing on the walls of her room. She thought for a moment that she was dreaming. Despite the decade that had passed, the College Fire had never been far away. It lurked in her subconscious and sometimes invaded her dreams. She blinked, but even as her head cleared, the flames did not die down. She realized this was no dream.
She quickly reached for her phone and swung her legs over the side of the bed, grabbing her jeans, boots, and shirt. Her clothes were always within reach since the College Fire, and then later, when she became a detective, she was always ready to respond to a call and primed and ready to run for her life.
She bolted into the living room and shouted to Ann as she pulled her shirt over her head and shrugged on her pants. “Fire! Ann, wake up. Fire!”
The lights upstairs flicked on as Joan shoved her feet into her boots.
“Joan!” Ann appeared at her bedroom door, still wearing her pajamas. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a fire outside my window. I think it’s the shed. Is there a hose outside?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded heavy with sleep. “I’m getting Nate.”
Joan ran out the front door, bracing as the cold wind slapped her face. Adrenaline pumping through her body, she ran along the side of the house until she saw the hose and the spigot. Another couple of weeks and the hose would have been winterized and the exterior faucet turned off.
She wrapped her fingers around the cold metal and turned. The knob was stuck, forcing her to tug her sleeve down over her palm for traction. Gritting her teeth, she put her weight and energy into the handle. The heat of the flames warmed her back, and when she looked over her shoulder, it was licking up the side of the shed. “Turn on, you son of a bitch.”
The handle budged slightly, and she renewed her efforts. She twisted again, and this time it gave way. Water spurted out, and she dragged the stubborn coil of hose with her. She opened the nozzle and hit the fire with water. The fire hissed and spit but resisted any attempts to quell its fury.
Joan’s heart hammered in her chest as she took a step closer, the heat so hot now that her cheeks felt blistered.
“I can’t find Nate!” Ann shouted behind her. “He’s not in his room.”
Joan stretched the hose as far as it would reach and then squeezed the nozzle harder. “Have you checked the entire house?”
“Yes!”
She peered into the blaze, praying the boy had not slipped outside to build one of his bonfires and ended up trapped in the burning shed. “Would he have come outside?”
“No! Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know! What about the closets and under
