Dark Horse (4 page)

Eight

Hank Coolidge

Nice, Illinois

“Hank, maybe we should call it quits for a while.” Dakota stretches in the computer chair and rubs the small of her back.

I’m not sure how long we’ve been sitting at the computer, but I don’t care. “Look, you said you wanted to stay home from school and work on this with me. If you didn’t mean it, you should have let me do this on my own.”

“I didn’t know we were going to sit in front of the computer all day and try to find people who hate us. I could have gone to school for that.” She glances at the kitchen clock. “School’s getting out about now. Man, I thought my high school teachers were slave drivers, but you beat them all.” She stands. “How about we take a break? We could ride Blackfire and Starlight before Kat and Wes get home. I’ll bet our horses could use the company.”

“I don’t have time for that.”

“Well, let’s go see Cleo. Maybe she’s calmer now.”

Something catches in my throat, and I feel the burning there. It makes me cough. Our house still smells like smoke. So do our clothes. So does the world.

“Look, Dakota, this is what I need to do. I have to find out who burned down our barn. I don’t have time to play with the horses. But don’t let me stop you. Do what you want.” She’s twice as fast as I am at typing. And she can find anything on the Internet, when it takes me forever. But I’ll do this all by myself if I have to.

She sighs and drops back into the chair. “You win. But we’re going in circles. You’ve got notes on barn fires in Illinois. A stack of printouts from news archives. There haven’t been any suspicious fires in this whole county for six years, right?”

“That we know about,” I admit.

“And even if it was arson, we’ll never prove who did it.” She reads from one of the sites she printed out. “About 90 percent of all arson cases go unsolved. No convictions.”

“Doesn’t mean they didn’t know who did it,” I tell her. “They couldn’t prove it because all the evidence burned up. But they
knew
. I want to know.”

“Okay.” Dakota lifts her long hair off her neck, then lets it fall. “Fine. But you’re all over the place with your whodunit suspects. Like these.” She taps a pile of printouts I ran off. “Your mom’s patients? Make that your mom’s
dead
patients—which, quite frankly, is grossing me out.”

“So? Maybe somebody blames
her
.”

Dakota tilts her head at me, letting me know she doesn’t buy it. “They blame her and then burn down your barn? Not very logical, Sherlock.”

“Who said fires are logical?” She’s making me mad, but I rein it in. I need Dakota’s help, no matter how crazy she makes me. “Besides, I have other ideas.”

“Like the fires your dad’s fought?”

“What’s wrong with that? If Dad’s department took a long time getting to a fire, maybe somebody blames the fire department,” I explain. “You know, we should work on getting response times on those fires.”

Dakota isn’t paying attention to a word I’m saying. She stares up at the ceiling. “Then we’ve got the places you’ve turned in for abusing horses.”

“That’s a strong lead, Dakota. Even you have to see that. Like that last trail ride place we got closed down. Those guys were pretty angry. You were there. You saw it. Tell me you don’t think that guy with the red beard would love to get even with us for taking in their horses.”

“Then why did they wait so long to do something about it?” Dakota asks. “We’ve already found homes for most of their horses. And you still think they did it?”

“I didn’t say they did it. I’m just coming up with possibles. You think I like listing people who hate us?”

“Now there you go. Finally. That’s what we need here,” Dakota says. “We need lists.”

I groan. Dakota is the queen of list making. She’s got journals all over the place, and she’s always making her lists.

She starts to get up again. “Fine. If you don’t want to take advantage of my list-making skills . . .”

“No.” I put my hand on her head and press her back down in the chair. “No. You’re right.”

“Excuse me?” Dakota has the most infuriating, smug look on her face. “I’m
what
? I don’t think I heard that correctly. Did you actually say I was right about something?”

I ignore her and her sarcasm. “Lists of possible suspects—people with grudges against any of us—could help the sheriff take us seriously. That fire inspector who came out this morning wouldn’t even talk to me. He didn’t want me anywhere near the barn.”

“He’s got to do his job,” Dakota says. “Fire inspector, huh? Who knew this podunk county even had a fire inspector?”

Dakota’s from Chicago, and every other town in Illinois is “podunk” to her. I let it go. I don’t feel like getting into it with her. I’ve got more important things on my mind.

“Anyway, I can start listing the places we’ve reported for animal abuse since I’ve lived here.” She types four names.

I give her three more, but my mind’s not working. I can picture every horrible scene at every farm, ranch, pasture, or stable where we reported animal abuse, but the names aren’t coming back to me. “I’ll have to check my records to get the names of the other places I reported—” I stop.

Dakota turns and gives me a sad smile. She gets it. I don’t have records anymore.

“I should have kept copies on the computer,” I mutter. Every record I had was in the wooden file cabinet in my barn office. They’re not there now. This must be the 10th thing I’ve started to get, then remembered it wasn’t there. It doesn’t exist any longer because of the fire.

“Never mind,” Dakota says. “The names will come to you.”

“Yeah.”

She shrinks the document she started and googles
fire investigations
. She gets 79,202 hits. “Too many,” she says. She goes back to her list. “What about Popeye?”

“What?”

“Popeye,” she repeats. “Your dad? You remember him—short, no hair.” She opens a new document. “Does Popeye think it’s arson?”

I shrug. I haven’t been able to talk to Dad much since the fire. This morning he was already out with the fire inspector when I got up. I listened to the two of them talk, and it didn’t take long to figure out that neither one of them sees what I do in this fire. I
know
it’s arson.

Dakota stops typing and stares at me, silently demanding an answer to her question.
Does he think it’s arson?

“You know Dad,” I finally answer. “He’d never believe anything bad about anybody.”

“So that would be a no?” Dakota says. “He doesn’t think somebody set the fire on purpose?”

“I don’t know what he thinks. Besides, he’s a fireman, not an inspector.” I shove my chair back from the computer desk and walk to the window. It’s a dreary day with a heavy gray sky. The fire inspector is still there, standing in the middle of the rubble. He’s wearing his hard hat, even though there’s nothing left to fall on him. I watch as he writes something in his notebook. He squats down. Then he writes again.

“What could he be doing out there all day?” I mutter.

“The fire inspector?” Dakota asks. “Inspecting, I suppose.” She joins me at the window.

We watch the man move around what used to be our barn.

“Look on the bright side,” Dakota says, which is pretty funny coming from the all-time pro of looking on the dark side. “Maybe the investigator will find out who did it—if
anybody
did it. Then we can go ride our horses.”

I wheel on her. “What do you mean ‘
if
anybody did it’?”

Dakota starts to answer, but I don’t let her.

“Somebody did it. The barn didn’t just burn itself.”

“Well . . . they do sometimes, Hank,” she says, like she’s talking me off a ledge.

I shake my head. “No. I don’t know about other barns. But I do know about
our
barn. It didn’t go up in flames by itself.”

“Think about it,” she pleads. “Sometimes things happen, and there’s nobody to blame. Barns burn, and it’s nobody’s fault.”

“You’re wrong! This
is
somebody’s fault.”

Dakota reaches for my arm, but I shake her off and storm outside. She is so wrong. This whole nightmare is somebody’s fault. And if it isn’t an arsonist’s fault, then whose fault is it?

Whose fault is it?

Nine

My heart is pounding as I gaze at the pile of black ash and rubble. Either the fire inspector doesn’t know I’m here or he’s ignoring me. How can he ignore me? It’s my barn . . .
was
my barn. I want to ask him what he’s found. I have a right to know.

Wes’s dog trots up to me and barks twice.

I reach down and pat him until he stops barking. “I’m okay, Rex. You don’t have to worry about me.”

The big German shepherd wags his tail. Wes, my foster brother, rescued the dog, and now Rex is Wes’s anger-meter. The dog barks when he senses Wes is getting too angry, and I know the warning’s helped Wes control his anger.

This is the first time Rex has barked at me.

A horn honks. I look up to see Mom’s van swerve into the driveway. Most days Wes rides the bus, but not today. Kat and Wes are both in the van. Rex abandons me and races to greet his owner.

Kat’s the first one out. Usually she’s the one who has to stay home from school. Her cancer is in remission, but her kidneys aren’t working like they should. Mom says that’s why Kat’s so weak and gets sick so often. Kat looks more like a fourth grader than a seventh grader. But when she opens her mouth, out comes the wisdom of somebody twice her age. Her cat, Kitten, still hasn’t shown up. I don’t think any of us want to admit that the cat probably didn’t make it out of the barn.

“Hank!” Kat jogs up and hugs me. It’s the first smile I’ve seen from her since the fire. “Wait till you hear what we’ve come up with.”

I look at the fire inspector. He doesn’t even glance our way, and I know he can hear us.

“A Fur Ball!” Kat shouts. “Isn’t that a great idea?”

“What?” I’m only half listening to Kat. Mom is shouting something to me, but she’s too far away.

Wes stumbles toward the house, carrying Kat’s book bag and his own backpack while fighting off Rex’s nonstop nuzzling and tail wagging.

“A Fur Ball!” Kat repeats. “Like a dance! I called Gram Coolidge from the car, and she’s going to help me. She said they raised a ton of money with their policemen’s ball last year.”

Mom walks up and puts her arm around Kat. “I am so proud of these kids. It was all their idea.”

“What was their idea?” I can’t focus. The investigator is walking out of the rubble. I can’t let him leave without talking to me.

Wes and Rex come outside again. Wes drops to the ground to wrestle with his dog. “Kat came up with hers first,” he says.

“But tell him
your
ideas, Wes!” Kat beams at me. “Wait till you hear what Wes is going to do.”

Wes is flat on his back now, with Rex standing over him. “Okay, Rex. You win. I give.” The dog sits at attention, and Wes gets to his feet. “These are just ideas. I don’t know if they’re going to work or not.”

“They’ll work. Go on, Wes,” Mom urges.

Dakota comes out of the house. “What was all the shouting about?”

“Wes and I are going to raise money for a new barn!” Kat answers. “Gram’s going to help me put on a Fur Ball and invite cats and cat owners and everything. And sell tickets and take donations.”

“Cool, Kat,” Dakota says.

“And listen to Wes’s ideas.” Kat motions for Wes to talk.

“Okay. Like maybe a doggy day care thing, where people pay to have me dog-sit or walk their dogs. And we could take pictures of people with their dogs. I thought I could set up a stand in the park. Call it ‘Bark in the Park.’ And maybe the old people at Nice Manor could help. Buddy already called and asked what they could do. They’ve got great stories about dogs they had when they were kids. So maybe we could have some kind of story night there, like ‘Tales of Tails,’ you know, like dog tails. Or maybe that one’s stupid.”

“They’re wonderful ideas!” Mom exclaims. “I can’t believe you came up with so many ideas so fast. We’ll have that barn rebuilt in no time.”

I know I should say something. They’re all looking to me to be excited with them. But I’m not. Not about fur balls and dog tales. I want somebody to pay. Whoever burned our barn should be the one to rebuild it or at least pay for it.

“All I could come up with,” Mom says, and I can tell she’s trying to get us out the awkward moment of silence, “was elephant painting. I saw it in the paper or a magazine or something. You put paintbrushes in the trunks of elephants, and they just love to paint on canvas. Of course, we don’t have any elephants.”

“That’s great,” I say, but there’s nothing behind the words, and they know it. “I mean, the cat and dog things. Thanks.”

Silence falls again.

“Well,” Mom says, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but all this creativity is making me hungry. How about a snack?”

“No kidding,” Wes says. “Think Popeye left us anything to eat?” Wes refuses to eat anything Mom fixes, and even Mom can’t blame him. She can do surgery, but she can’t fry an egg without burning it.

The others trail in after Mom. I feel guilty for bringing them down, but it’s not in me to fake it. They’re trying to help, but they’re not. They just don’t get it.

A stick cracks. Leaves crunch. The fire inspector is walking toward his truck.

“Wait!” I shout. “Wait a minute!”

He tosses a shovel into the back of his truck, then waits for me. He’s a large man, heavier than Dad and half a foot taller. His hard hat is off, but it’s left a deep hat line like a band around his head. He could be my dad’s age, except for the deep wrinkles carved into his forehead.

“Did you find anything?” I ask. The stench of smoke is strong. The wind picks up leaves and black ashes, then drops them all around us like dirty snow.

He leans against his truck and pulls off his rubber boots. They’re like my mud boots, the mud boots I used to have before they burned up. “My findings aren’t official,” he begins.

“So you did find something, then?” I knew it. I felt it. “How much longer do you have to investigate before you can give us some answers?”

“I’m finished.”

“What? You’re done?” I can’t believe it. “I thought it would take weeks for you people to investigate.”

“Well, I have to write up my report. But I don’t need to come back here again,” he explains.

“Then you have to tell me what you found out. How did they do it? How was the fire started?”

“Look, my findings are confidential until I turn in the report. Sorry, kid. I understand how you feel.”

“No you don’t. Not unless your barn burned down and your horses were scarred for life. I’m not asking you to name the arsonist or anything. I just want to know how it happened. Please?”

I think he’s going to turn me down again. Then he looks out at the road, where Dad’s truck is pulling in.

“That’s my dad. If you can’t tell me, you can talk to him, can’t you? He’s a fireman. We won’t tell anybody. I promise. I just have to know.”

We wait in silence while Dad drives up, shuts off the engine, and walks toward us.

“Say, Brady! Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Dad says, like they’re old friends.

“Dad, he won’t tell me anything about the investigation,” I complain.

“Sorry, Chester,” Brady says. “You know how it is.”

Dad picks up Brady’s mud boots and sets them in the truck bed. “I know how it is,” he admits. “But it would be nice to put this business to rest and get down to the business of rebuilding, if you know what I mean.”

I hold my breath while Brady thinks this over.

“Well, I don’t suppose it could hurt.” He nods to the barn. “Come on. I’ll show you what I found.”

We follow him through what used to be our barn. I know every step of this place, even with nothing but charred boards lying everywhere. The wood over the earthen foundation has mostly burned away. Pieces of the roof lie strewn about as if someone tossed them there.

“What I look for are burn patterns,” Brady begins. He’s standing in the middle of what used to be our round pen. “Right away, I was pretty sure we weren’t dealing with accelerants.”

Dad nods. “I saw that too.” He glances at me. “If somebody had dumped gasoline, there would have been a strong burn pattern.”

“It was a pretty straightforward investigation,” the inspector continues. “Basically I was looking for the area that was most charred. See?” He stomps the concrete footer by the old entrance. “There’s no concentration anywhere there shouldn’t be. Not here. Not by any of the doors.”

“Ah,” Dad says. He nods like he gets this.

“Wait. What does that mean?” I demand. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

Dad walks over to me. “Wherever a fire starts, you expect to find the biggest destruction at the place of origin. If it’s arson, that’s usually by a door, so the arsonist can escape.”

“But—you said usually, right? Not always?” I feel like I’m holding on to ashes that are blowing away.

“Not always by a door,” the investigator admits. “But out of place. See, in an electrical fire, the biggest burn—the most charring—will be on the wall by the electric—the wires or the fuse box.”

“Was it? Was it there?” I demand. Dad and I bought the best, the safest wiring we could find. We were so careful.

“Nothing unusual there either. I ruled out faulty wiring pretty quick.” Brady walks to where the loft used to be. The whole hayloft collapsed in the fire, stacking burned rafters onto burned floor. “Here’s where I think it started.”

Dad and I move there, not stepping on the area, like it’s a grave site.

“It doesn’t look worse than anywhere else to me,” I insist. “Look at this.” I pick up a piece of straw that hasn’t burned up. It’s gray from smoke, brittle, but not burned up.

“Straw smokes and smolders,” Dad explains. “It doesn’t always burn. Look at the floor, Hank. It’s blacker than black here.”

“But it can’t be the loft,” I insist. “Dad, tell him. We never put up wet hay. We know how combustible it is. We’d never do that.”

“Not saying you did, son,” the investigator says. “Sometimes something makes a hole in the roof. Water gets in. You just never know. What I do know, what I’m putting in the report, is that this fire was not caused by arson.”