Heaven's Fire (38 page)

Psycho, like he said.

As Simon disengaged himself, his radio crackled.

*****

Jake flipped her phone closed. She still wasn't getting through on Simon's cell, though she had managed to contact the Sheriff's Command Center on the grounds to report what the Lake Mist had found.

"I don't care what Neal says, Archie," she to her tech director. "I want to know the contents of that note before the last shell goes off. You understand me?"

Archie assured her he would do her best, and got back on the radio, but Jake wondered whether anything short of walking over and ripping the thing out of Neal's hand on-camera would be enough to keep him from "sharing" it with the audience at the most dramatic moment.

Having "shared" the close-up of Pasquale's death with the audience without screening it, Jake didn't want any more surprises.

The Coast Guard had already cordoned off the dock where Ray's body was, so Martha was in camera-hog heaven with her exclusive. Jake went to Pete live, and then checked the time. 9:41. Simon would be meeting Angela in less than ten minutes.

And Angela was a murderer.

How else could you explain what Martha was now reporting? That the side of Ray Guida's head had been bashed in, and around his waist was a rope with the remnants of a sandbag still attached to the end of it.

The canvas bag probably ripped when Ray was dumped into the water. When enough sand had sloshed out from the motion of the water, the body--no longer weighted down--had surfaced.

And since Angela had been the only person on the barge with Ray, it wasn't much of a leap to presume he hadn't bashed his own head in.

But there was more: After dinner on Sunday night, Angela's Coach bag had slipped off her shoulder and clunked to the ground when she knelt down to pet Lugosi. Jake had noticed it because Angela and the dog made such an incongruous picture.

Angela had used that same bag tonight to carry the bottle of Pasquale's white "Tribute" wine to the stage. Which meant the Carry-all certainly would have been big enough to conceal an empty bottle of the identical wine on Sunday night.

The recycled champagne bottle--made of thick green glass to withstand the pressure of effervescence--would have been perfect for yet another recycling. To make the Molotov cocktail that had destroyed Simon's house.

Waste not, want not.

Jake would have laughed, if she hadn't been so worried about Simon. If she couldn't get hold of him, could anyone else? Did he even know Ray’s body had been found?

She picked up the cell phone, started to dial his number again, and then changed her mind and punched in the Command Center number instead.

She was put on hold.

She checked the clock again: 9:45.

What was she going to do? She couldn’t leave the van, or Gwen would certainly have cause for firing her. Heck, Gwen already had cause, but even
Jake
would fire Jake if she abandoned her post now.

Yet in five minutes, Simon would be meeting a woman who had not only murdered her husband and likely her own father, but had done it in a way that brought Simon back into her orbit.

It was brilliant, when you thought about it. Even when Jake's involvement with Simon had thrown a wrench in Angela's plans, she had managed to make double lemonade out of life's lemons: punishing Simon by firebombing his house, while at the same time implicating Ray by leaving his lighter at the scene.

A woman scorned. And ingenious. Not to mention nuts.

And Jake was still on hold.

"Oh, fuck it," Jake said into the phone, and snapped it shut.

Archie turned from the console, his mouth dropping open.

"You're in charge," Jake told him, and slammed out of the van.

*****

The "Star Spangled Banner" was playing on the loudspeakers, but Simon and everyone else in the park had to take the "bombs bursting in air" on faith. They sure couldn't see them. The thunder of the salutes was deafening, though, amplified by the thickening fog.

So deafening, Simon had to reposition his earpiece to be sure what was coming across into his ear was mere static and not words.

"Your radio is not working?" Angela asked.

He shook his head irritably. "I need to be closer to the seawall to get a signal. This conversation will have to wait."

Simon turned and walked away, but Angela trailed after him. "It can't wait," she pleaded.

Simon quickened his pace, but so did Angela. "My father was sick, Simon."

He'd reached the seawall and now he turned, frustrated. "I know that, Angela, you can stop being a drama queen. What I don’t know is why you didn’t tell me. Why I had to piece it together from what Pat found on Pasquale’s computer."

Angela looked down, her dark hair covering her face. "He made me promise. The dementia, it happened so gradually. My father tried everything to make it better. First, simple things, like vitamins and herbs. Then he thought he caught it from aluminum and so he took my mother’s pans and gave her cast iron to cook in. He changed deodorants. Started sending money to people to find cures."

She put her hand out to him.
"
But there
is
no cure, Simon. And he was so frightened. Try to understand.
"

Simon stepped back.
"
Are you saying your father committed suicide?
"

"
I know how he felt, waiting to lose his mind,
"
Angela was saying.
"
It could happen to me, too. Some types of Alzheimer’s are inherited. My uncle had it, my father.
"
She threw herself into his arms.
"
What about me, Simon? I could get it, too. We must make the most of life, while we have it. Together.
"

Simon disengaged himself, thinking she’d already lost her mind. "It was one week of our lives, Angela, more than two years ago. Forget it."

Angela shook her head stubbornly. "You're only saying that because of this TV producer."

"Leave Jake out of this," Simon said. "She has nothing to do with it."

"Jake." She spat out the name. "She's disfigured, not even a woman any longer. Look, she even chooses to use a man's name."

"She's as much of a woman as you are," Simon said, losing it. "More.
"

But Angela didn't react, apparently deciding to switch tactics. She reached out and took his right hand, placing the palm of it against her left breast. Simon felt her nipple harden. "Do you remember, Simon?" she whispered. "Are you willing to never feel this again?"

Jesus. Simon pulled his hand away just as his thumb started to curl instinctively down toward her nipple. "Hell, yes." He shook his hand to make it behave.

Angela stepped back, looking like she'd been slapped. "You're living together, aren't you? I called her number yesterday, and you answered."

The hang-ups on Jake's phone made sense all of a sudden.

As he opened his mouth to reply, his own phone rang.

*****

Luis picked up the camera Dave had just set down by the fence.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dave said, trying to grab it.

Too late. Luis had it, and he also had Dave's number. "I'm doing what a reporter does. What a camera man should do. I'm going after the story."

Luis looked toward the center of the landfill where flashes of light were disappearing into the fog above. "We've already missed most of the show, thanks to you."

"What show? You can't see a thing from down here. What are you going to do? Take shots of fog?"

Luis was disappointed in his former colleague. Then again, it just proved that Luis was right. Dave didn't have what it took to be a reporter. "You don't get it, do you?" Luis yelled, trying to be heard over the thunder of the fireworks. "The story isn't the shells, it's the people."

Dave was looking at him like he hadn't heard him.

Luis tried again. "It's
always
the people, don't you get that? Not the fireworks, not even the explosions. It's the people the audience cares..."

But Dave wasn't listening. He was looking over Luis's right shoulder. Was it a trick? Was Dave trying to distract him? Get him to turn around and then tackle him for the camera?

Nah. Life was never that good.

Luis turned and saw what Dave saw: The ATF guy feeling up the Firenze broad.

Then again, maybe life
was
that good.

Luis shouldered the camera.

*****

Angela checked her watch as Simon moved to stand next to the seawall. She had no need to, though. She knew the call meant time was up. Simon would find out about Ray, find out that she'd killed him and her father.

She watched Simon turn away from her in an effort to hear his cell phone over the sound of the salutes. Angela wrapped her arms around herself.

Nothing was as it should be.

Angela had seen the emptiness in her father's eyes and she knew then, that she couldn't watch it grow each and every day until it swallowed him up. Her father’s mind was wasting away. But before it did, she feared he would destroy the company he had worked so hard to build.

Pasquale Firenze had died doing what he loved. Even Simon had said her father hadn't felt a thing. His end had been so much more fitting, so much more peaceful, than…

Angela looked at Simon on the phone, probably hearing about Ray’s body. Putting it all together.

As Simon turned back to her, his eyes hard, Angela stepped in and swung hard.

It was the bottle of her father's favorite home-made wine she had in her hand, instead of the flare like it had been with Ray, but as her brother Pat would say, Angela had hit this one out of the park, too.

*****

Simon had gone over the seawall.

Jake had seen it in the flickering light of the fireworks, like something out of an old silent movie:

A flash of Simon and Angela...standing close.

Simon...walking away from her.

Angela...raising the bottle and following.

Simon...turning back.

Jake had shouted a warning as she ran, and had seen Simon try to block the blow with his arm at the last minute. It wasn't enough.

Now Jake ran up the rock seawall and looked over. The light from the fog-obscured fireworks was reflecting on the lapping water some twenty feet below Jake, the motion making her feel queasy as she scanned the water. Jake could swim, but if she couldn't see Simon, she couldn't...

Then a light went on.

Literally.

The light was on Luis's camera, not four feet from her. He was leaning over the seawall, shooting straight into the water.

And there she saw Simon. She couldn't tell if he was moving, or if it was merely the motion of the water she was seeing. She called his name, but got no answer.

"Luis." She grabbed the camera operator's arm, inadvertently making the light bobble around. Luis steadied it.

"Keep the light on him," Jake told him. "So I can find him when I get down there," she said.

But the light was suddenly in her face. "You're going into the water?" the voice behind the camera asked.

"Light, Luis!" Jake screamed, as she climbed up onto the seawall. Not five feet behind Luis, Angela stood watching like she was in a trance. Jake didn't have time to worry about it.

"Light...on...the...water, Luis!" she yelled again. Then she held her nose and jumped. She hadn't been kidding when she told Luis she didn't dive, but going in feet first seemed the prudent thing to do anyway, though probably not as photogenic from Luis's point of view.

Jake had been smart enough to direct her jump so she didn't land on top of Simon, and lucky enough to surface less than ten feet away. She let go of her nose, and then almost plugged it again. The water was cold and black and smelled like fuel oil. It tasted like fuel oil, too.

Spitting a mouthful out, she swam over to Simon and struggled to turn him over so she could tuck the crook of her elbow under his chin like she'd learned in high school swim class.

He seemed semi-conscious and the side of his head was sticky with blood. Jake let out a little whimper as she tried to tread water and hold up Simon's head at the same time. Treading water was another one of those things she'd never quite gotten the hang of, like diving. Moving in the water she was fine. Staying still? Uh-uh. Jake sank like a rock. Boobs probably would have helped. Saline implants. Salt water...wonder if they'd provide extra buoyancy--

"Swim, Jake," Luis urged from above. "Swim to the ladder."

Luis gestured with his light and Jake bobbed and scissor-kicked her way hundred-eighty degrees around, so she could see the corrugated metal that formed the seawall down here in dead-fish-and-floating-garbage country.

Sure enough, there was the ladder that led up to the promised land of cotton candy and porta-potties. It was the same ladder Jake had thought Luis would climb, given half the chance, to get back from the barge with his tape the night of the explosion that had killed Pasquale.