Fireproof (14 page)

He started to cross his arms over his chest before he realized his wrist was shackled to the floor. It didn’t deter him. “Her car broke down. She was stranded at one of those rest areas off the interstate. He took her to a place in the woods. Bashed her head in. But not so that she was dead. Just part dead. So when he cut her open she’d still be warm.”

He paused with that silly grin on his face, like a little boy waiting to see their reaction, wondering if he’d be punished or praised.

“That’s what he said. He liked it when the blood was still warm on his hands. Then he pulled her guts out just to see what they looked like. What they felt like.”

When neither of them flinched, he continued. “He took everything off her so nobody’d know who she is. Everything except her orange socks. He wanted her to keep those for some reason. I don’t remember if he told me why. Then he stuffed her in a culvert.”

Otis P. looked away for the first time, up at the ceiling as if trying to think if he had forgotten something.

“At first I thought,
Well, this guy is full of it
, you know. I could tell he wasn’t a drinker and we were doing shots. But my daddy wasn’t a drinker and some of his biggest truth-telling came out after a shot of whiskey.”

He shifted in his chair and looked from Jeffery to Sam and back at Jeffery. He was finished. And now he did look as though he was waiting for praise.

“What did he look like?” Jeffery asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Otis P. shrugged and shook his head. His
tongue darted out to lick his lips again and Sam realized it was a nervous habit, not meant to be salacious, as she had thought earlier. “He looked like a pretty ordinary fella to me.”

And that was all he was going to tell them. This wasn’t about the other guy. This was about Otis P. getting attention. He wasn’t going to share his time in the spotlight, not even with the murderer whose tale he was telling.

“I can show you where she is. He told me.”

“What makes you think she’s still in the same place?”

“Oh, she’s still there.”

“You’ve been in here, what? Almost a year?”

A nod. The tongue did a quick poke out of the corner of his mouth and slipped back inside.

“What makes you think the body’s still where he said he dumped it?”

“Oh, she’s still there. Ain’t nobody found her.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I’ve been watching.” Another shrug of his shoulder. “I know she’s still there. It’d be somethin’, wouldn’t it? Have a camera right there?” He waited to make sure Jeffery knew what he was talking about before he added, “You let me know. I’ll take you there.”

Then he was finished. He had told them all he was prepared to say.

It was dark outside when they made their way back to the car. Both of them had been quiet while they went through the halls and waited for the doors to unlock.

Now out in the open, walking side by side, with no one to eavesdrop, Sam asked, “What do you think?”

“He just wants a free road trip.”

Sam could tell Jeffery had already dismissed the idea and she
was surprised. It sounded like the sensational crap he loved. “You don’t believe him?”

“When it comes to arson, I think Otis P. Dodd knows just about every single way to start a fire. He’s a master and his letters share all sorts of details. But this?” He waved his hand. “This is bullshit. I thought he’d give me something I could use for the warehouse fires. I’m not going to help him fly the coop or, worse, pull a Geraldo and go live only to get a frickin’ empty crypt.”

“So what about the woman in the orange socks?”

“If she ever existed, she’s been dead for over a year. There’s nothing we can do to help her now.”

Patrick had spent the afternoon racing all over the neighborhood. He had gone door to door. Even met the asshole who, again, threatened to shoot Jake if the dog ended up anywhere on his property.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just call me?” Patrick had asked the man.

“Not much point after the third or fourth time. My solution keeps that bastard out of my yard permanently.”

That’s when Patrick went back, put Harvey on a leash, and the two of them set out to canvas the entire neighborhood, again. He even checked the empty house that was for sale next door to Maggie’s. Canvassed the backyard. Peeked inside the windows after he saw a light on. Lamp on a timer. People hated leaving empty houses dark, but they didn’t think about lights being a fire hazard.

Three hours later, it was dark and still no sign of Jake.

The thought of telling Maggie nauseated Patrick. She had gone out of her way to let him into her home and he’d let her down. How could he have been so negligent? He’d let the meeting with Braxton rattle him too much. It was just a job. Could the man really destroy his entire career over one mistake?

Harvey jerked to the left. The Lab wanted to cross the street. His nose was in the air.

“You smell him, Harv?”

He let the dog lead him, allowed him to tug hard on the leash and guide him. Harvey trotted up and over the sidewalk, continuing along a ridge of pine trees, dragging Patrick to the back corner lot of a huge colonial. Before they made it to the fence Patrick could smell what had piqued Harvey’s attention. It wasn’t Jake. Someone was grilling steaks.

They trudged home as the moon peeked from behind that same ridge of pines. Maybe Jake had come back on his own. As a boy Patrick had always wanted a dog but his mother always said no. She said a dog was too much responsibility. He longed for the company, someone to greet him at the door when he came from school to an empty home. He hated to think his mom might still be right—that he couldn’t handle the responsibility of another living being.

He saw Maggie’s Jeep Grand Cherokee parked in the circle drive and he hoped he’d find them together. No such luck. She was at the kitchen island checking the Crock-Pot he’d left simmering.

“Did you take the boys for a long walk?” she asked when they came around the corner. She was in her robe, her hair still wet from a shower. As she turned to look at Patrick he saw her face fall when she saw he had only Harvey. “He got out, again,” she said. Not a question. She knew.

“I’m really sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. “We looked everywhere. Twice.”

She was trying to hide the panic he’d seen earlier, but he caught a glimpse in her eyes before she purposely turned away.

“Maybe I should never have brought him here. So far away from everything he knew.”

“He’s a smart dog. He’ll find his way back.”

“That’s if he wants to.” She still avoided his eyes, but he heard the emotion in her voice. This was more than just concern for a lost dog. It cut deeper, and she didn’t want to share it. Besides that, she looked exhausted.

She pointed to the oven, where he had left the scallops on warm. “This smells wonderful.”

“I wanted to treat you. Are you hungry?”

“I’m starved.”

She bent down to take Harvey’s leash off and hugged the big dog. He sniffed the back of her neck and suddenly started a low whine.

“Is he okay?” Patrick pulled the pan out of the oven, tipped the lid, then, satisfied, slid it back in.

“The smell of blood makes him nervous.” She petted the dog, trying to calm him.

“And why would he … Oh crap, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a few stitches.”

“What happened?”

“A second fire blew out some windows along with the front of the building.”

“I hate when that happens,” he joked.

“Yes, I suppose you are familiar with that sort of thing,” she said, as if she only now remembered that he was a firefighter.

Patrick tried to shrug it off. He pulled a bottle of Shiraz from the fridge and held it up for Maggie.

“Not an expensive vino, but very tasty. I thought you’d get a kick out of the label.”

“Shoofly?”

“It’s Australian.” He tipped the bottle for her to see the decal on the cork and on the label.

“It looks like a blowfly.”

“Aussies have an interesting sense of humor. So what do you say, mate,” he attempted his best Australian accent, “would you like a glass?”

“Sure.”

She watched him set out an antipasto plate with olives, cubes of cheese, and Genoa salami. Then he worked the corkscrew and poured two glasses of wine.

“You went all out,” she said, plucking up an olive and popping it into her mouth.

“Hey, I know you’re trying to be nice and calm about Jake, but the truth is I should have paid closer attention. You’re allowed to be mad as hell with me.”

He handed her a glass of wine. She gulped almost half of it like she was chugging water. Patrick stopped, surprised. He hadn’t seen this side of Maggie. He suspected that she was being careful and selective in what she let him see.

“It isn’t your fault, Patrick. He’s done it when I’ve been here. Sometimes immediately after I’ve let him into the yard. I see my fenced fortress as security. Jake sees it as a prison.”

She emptied the rest of her glass before Patrick even took a sip of his.

“This is the longest he’s been gone,” Maggie told Lucy Coy over the phone.

“Jake’s used to taking care of himself. He always ran off for days when he was with me.”

“But that was in the country, where he had the forest and cornfields and fresh rabbits. He doesn’t know about traffic and neighbors with guns.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice. She wasn’t sure why this upset her so much. Maybe it was simply that she was exhausted. Too little sleep. The fire, the stitches, her strange adventure down in the sewer. Jake escaping and not coming back was just the break point in a long day.

“Jake saved my life,” Maggie said, “and how do I repay him? By taking him thirteen hundred miles away from everything and everyone he’s ever known.”

“You’re taking his leaving as an affront.”

“Isn’t it?”

“He’s checking out his surroundings.”

“It’s been almost four months. They’re not that new anymore.”

“Marking his territory. Staking his claim, if you will.”

“Escaping from the prison I keep him in.”

Lucy Coy laughed that melodic sound that came rarely but, when it did come, sounded natural and heartfelt. It was also contagious, and Maggie laughed, too.

She rubbed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Yes, she was being melodramatic and ridiculous. The physical exhaustion of the day had spilled over into her mind. It had taken twenty minutes in the shower to get the smell of smoke, hospital antiseptic, and the sewer removed from her skin, out of her hair.

“We cannot tame the wild spirit that lives within Jake.”

This was the philosophical side of the woman that had mesmerized Maggie while she was a guest in Lucy’s home in the Sandhills of Nebraska.

“Is it possible,” Lucy continued, “that you find it so unsettling because you wrestle with the same nonconforming spirit within yourself?”

Maggie smiled and attempted to shake that “aha” feeling that Lucy so often triggered. Her preintroduction to Lucy Coy was a county sheriff who called her “that crazy old Indian woman.” The retired death investigator for the Nebraska State Patrol was nowhere near crazy or old. Instead, words like “graceful,” “contemplative,” “disciplined,” and “wise” beyond her sixty-plus years better described the woman whom Maggie recognized as a kindred spirit. When Lucy mentioned Maggie’s nonconforming spirit, Maggie took it not as an accusation but as the compliment it was meant to be.

“Didn’t you tell me there’s a stream that runs behind your property?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like the perfect hunting grounds for him.”

It was one of the reasons Maggie bought the place. The steep
ridges on both sides of the stream made it a natural barricade, almost like her personal moat.

Lucy’s voice and manner had started to soothe and calm Maggie until she heard the
tap-tap
of rain begin to hit the glass of the patio door. Immediately she was on her feet, Harvey beside her, looking out into the dark backyard. Leafless trees waved skeletal branches.

“It’s starting to rain,” she said. “It could be sleet by morning.”