Mudlark (5 page)

The Shoalwater Fire Department might be a volunteer outfit, but they were well trained and efficient.
Within half an hour the fire had been reduced to a stink of smoke on the thickening fog. Jay and I stood with the
woman in the pansy sweat shirt and watched.

"I told old Tom McKay he should get asphalt shingles," she mourned. "I never did trust them cedar
shakes. He was a stubborn old cuss, though."

Jay said, "I'm grateful to you for acting so fast, ma'am. I'm Jay Dodge."

"At the Jorgenson house?" She held out her hand. "Ruth Adams. You're the quick one, kiddo. I never
hear nothing while I'm watching the TV. House could burn down around me." She had a hearty, full-throated laugh
with a wheeze at the end. "That's a good one. I'm sorry for young Tom, though. He don't have very good luck."

"First a dead body, now a fire," Jay said cozily.

"That, too." The woman turned to me. "Someday, huh? I'm glad it's over. You his wife?"

I introduced myself, and we shook hands.

"Come over in the morning," the woman said. "You and me can help with the cleanup. Bound to be a
mess."

She was right about that. I agreed to come, rather doubtfully. I could see that the house was still
standing, but I wondered how severe the damage was inside.

Jay said, "They're starting to wind down. I'm going back over. Lindquist will need a place to stay. He can
use the guest room."

"I'll go home and make a pile of sandwiches," I offered, but I wasn't ready to leave. The sightseeing
drivers, among them the woman with the notebook, had removed their cars. People on the lawns were beginning
to drift back into the mobile homes, though the children were still whooping and shouting at a safe distance from
the uniformed deputy. He was not Dale Nelson.

Jay walked across the road to where Lindquist was standing, now alone, by the board fence. Jay touched
his arm. Lindquist listened and said something, shaking his head.

Ruth Adams and I chatted and watched. The fire captain and two of his men were conferring at the edge
of the reeking porch. They had turned on the powerful lights of the tank truck to illuminate their task, so watching
them in their dark outfits as they probed at the structure was a little like watching a film set. The scene took on an
air of dramatic importance. Fog and smoke coiled everywhere like the special effects in a 1950s horror flick.

"What is that boy doing now?" Ruth stood on her tiptoes and craned.

Since I was a head taller I could see. Tom Lindquist had gone over to the fire captain and was arguing
with him. Both men's gestures looked emphatic in the cold light. After some shrugging and head-shaking, the
captain appeared to make a concession. He beckoned to another fireman who removed his hat and breathing mask
and handed them to Lindquist. Lindquist put the gear on and took the fireman's coat as well. Then the captain
walked with him to the front entrance of the house. They went in together, the fireman leading the way and
probing the darkness with the beam of a heavy flashlight.

Jay drifted back across the road.

"What're they doing?" I asked.

"Lindquist needs to get something from the second floor. The chief decided the far end of the house was
probably not dangerous, but he wasn't happy that Lindquist insisted on going in. Damn fool wanted to go back in
when I first got there."

"Whatever it is he must want it badly."

"No lie."

"Was he already outside when you got here?"

"Had the hose out and the water on." Jay sounded terse and unhappy. "I thought you were going to go
home and make sandwiches, Lark."

"Yes, massa." I was far too curious to leave before I saw the two men come back out of the house.

The firemen continued to prod at the charred shingles. Two of them got up on the south end of the
porch and tried the door. They, too, had powerful flashlights--and axes and portable extinguishers. When the door
swung open they entered the kitchen.

"Looking for hot spots." Jay sounded glum.

Finally the fire captain and Lindquist emerged from the front door. Lindquist was carrying a small box.
He removed his gear and handed it back to the waiting fireman. Then he looked around. One of the other firemen
touched his arm and pointed in our direction.

He came over to us, stumbling a little in the alternate bright light and blackness.

Ruth Adams said, "I told your granddad to get rid of them cedar shakes, Tom."

Lindquist's teeth flashed white in his grimy face. "So you did. Thanks for the use of your hose,
Ruth."

"This lady and me will help you muck out tomorrow."

"If the fire department lets anybody in, I'll take you up on it. They're going to investigate, though."

"Arson?" Jay said.

"It was a fucking Molotov cocktail," Lindquist snarled. "Sorry, Ruth. I heard it smash against the porch. I
thought it was kids or vandals."

"Did you see the arsonists?"

"No, but I heard the SOBs drive off onto the beach. Sounded like a four-wheel drive."

Jay rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes didn't leave Lindquist's face.

"Did you go back in to turn off your word processor?" I asked. I had been doing some simple
reasoning.

Lindquist registered my presence. "Mrs. Dodge--"

"Lark."

"I was about to say Robin and something stopped me."

"Fortunately."

His brief grin flashed again. His face was a mask of grime. "Yeah, I turned the computer off." The smile
disappeared. "I pulled the disk out and chunked it into the box along with a couple of others. Will you keep them
for me?"

I took the small box. I wanted to say it would be an honor, but there are some occasions when a smart
mouth is a dumb idea. "Do you think you saved it?"

He shrugged. "I hope so. I tend to save rough drafts to a floppy automatically. If I didn't, I just lost that
chapter. The rest of the book's on the hard disk. The smoke--" He cleared his throat. "I may have lost the whole
fucking novel."

I said, "I'll take your disks home with me. Bring him, Jay. I'll fix the sandwiches."

Jay said, "It'll be awhile."

"I know."

Lindquist looked from Jay to me to Ruth Adams. "Thanks."

Ruth patted his arm.

About halfway down the unlit road I began to jump at shadows. The nearest street light, like the nearest
city water, was three blocks east. Fog transformed the ordinary darkness into a threatening presence. I could make
out our house lights, though, and, as I approached the driveway, I saw that the figure lurking at the edge of the road
was just Matt Cramer. I went up to him.

"Did it burn to the ground?" He sounded excited the way nice people do at a disaster.

I told him my guesses about the damage and that Jay was bringing Lindquist home for the night. I didn't
mention the novel.

"That's good, that's good." When he was agitated, Matt was apt to repeat himself. He was a burly man of
medium height with mild, rimless glasses and receding gray hair. "I was putting Lottie to bed when I heard the
siren--you know, the one they use to call out the volunteers."

I hadn't heard it at all. I was probably too close to the fire by that time. "They came fast."

"Good department. The siren worried Lottie. I had to stay there with her until her pills worked." The
reflection of our porch light glinted on his glasses. "I feel like a rotten neighbor."

"There was nothing you could do, Matt."

"Well, tell Tom if I can do anything just to ask."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that." It took me awhile to disengage. Matt's distress was real, and he
repeated his message several more times with minor variations of wording. He kept saying that he was a bad
neighbor, that he should
do
something.

Finally I announced in firm tones that I had to go check the guest room. Then I went in.

There was nothing wrong with the guest room that removing the green flocked wallpaper and putrid
green shag rug wouldn't cure. I had changed the sheets several days before. I did place fresh towels on the foot of
the bed. I also caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the bureau. My face was smeared with soot, and my
curly black hair looked as if it had been coiffed by a helicopter. I dashed upstairs, showered, and changed into fresh
clothes. As I was coming down to make the sandwiches I heard Freddy's car in the drive. He always squirreled the
Trans Am in the loose gravel.

It was a good thing I had gone to the grocery store. I was laying sandwich bread on the butcher block
counter when Freddy thudded into the room. Freddy is not fat, just short and chunky, but he walks like Godzilla
trampling Tokyo. I bit back my annoyance and smiled at him.

His round face was a mask of woe. "Darla wanted to go home early."

I wondered what I could say to console him.

"What's the excitement?"

"Did you see the emergency lights?" I described the fire and remembered he hadn't heard about the
murder either. By the time I had told him everything and built a stack of sandwiches, Freddy looked almost
cheerful. Then I thought of Lindquist's disks. If there is one thing Freddy understands it's computers, so I also
mentioned the inaccessible novel.

"What does he have, a Mac?"

"I didn't ask. Hey, what're you doing?"

"I'm hungry." He had snaffled a turkey sandwich. He got a Coke from the refrigerator and sat down to
encompass the food. "Where are the disks?"

"In the guest room, and no way am I going to give them to you. We are talking Pulitzer Prize here. The
man is a
good
writer."

He looked hurt. "I was just going to volunteer to clean them."

"Clean!"

He took a bite of sandwich. "Somebody will have to clean them, or they'll gum up the heads on the disk
drive."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not going to run a magnet over them."

"Well--"

"Let me clean them. I have this great stuff I got in Palo Alto, and I can put new sleeves on them,
too."

I felt myself caving in. Freddy did know computers.

"When I find out what his word processor is I can do a printout."

I thought that might be a morale-builder, even if the disks didn't contain the whole novel. Freddy
cajoled. I resisted. Finally I gave them to him.

I made more sandwiches. As I was setting them out on the kitchen table, the front door opened and I
heard Jay and Lindquist talking in the hall. I went out to them.

Both men were filthy with soot and grime. I told Jay to find Lindquist something clean to wear and sent
them to the showers like a coach with a pair of players who had broken training. Our bathrooms, like the kitchen,
were state-of-the-art. When we bought the house neither Jay nor I felt like coping with plumbing and wiring, so we
had had that work done professionally. There was plenty of hot water.

Jay came into the kitchen first. "Jesus, I'm thirsty."

"Have a beer."

He took one and leaned against the kitchen counter. "This is a damned bad business. An arson
investigation on top of a murder."

I said, "He didn't do it...them." I wasn't sure.

Jay looked troubled. "I hope not." He didn't say anything more, because Lindquist dragged in wearing
one of Jay's old sweat suits and looking like death warmed over. I fed them both and hoped that Lindquist wouldn't
ask about the disks.

In fact, he didn't say much of anything. Jay made a few vague remarks about the likelihood of the
insurance company sending in an investigator and when Lindquist didn't respond added, rather sharply, "The
house is insured, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Standard policy." He looked into his beer.

"When did you take it out?"

"Uh, when...oh. Five years ago." He took a swallow. He had eaten two sandwiches.

I watched Jay's tension ease and regretted that I could read his mind. He had been thinking that
Lindquist could have set the fire to collect on the insurance. I don't believe Lindquist understood him. Our neighbor
had the unfocused look of a man at the end of his physical endurance--and no wonder. I was about to suggest that
we all go to bed when Freddy's characteristic clomp sounded on the stairway. He entered the kitchen, and Jay
introduced his brother.

"What kind of computer do you have?" Freddy asked when the brief courtesies were over.

Lindquist blinked and said a name I had never heard of.

Freddy nodded. "An IBM clone. Good machine. Of course it's kind of slow."

"I had a new hard disk installed in April."

"Good. What word processor?"

A brief gleam of amusement lit Lindquist's dark eyes. "Wordstar."

Freddy grimaced.

Lindquist raised his glass in ironical salute. "I like it. I'm used to it."

"If you'll bring me the computer tomorrow I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile I've cleaned your
disks."

Lindquist stared. "For chrissake, that was the fifth chapter of--"

"I didn't say I erased the disks. They were all sticky with smoke. I cleaned them."

Lindquist looked marginally relieved. "Okay, sorry. I'm brain dead. You cleaned them but you didn't
erase them. Thanks."

Freddy smiled a benign smile. "That's all right. Night, guys." And he was off.

I said, "I'm sorry I didn't ask your permission, Tom. Freddy is something of a genius with computers. He
wouldn't have hurt the disks."

Lindquist set the beer down. "I think I'd better hit the sack. Where--"

Jay led him off.

We went to bed soon afterward. I could hear Freddy's laser printer humming.

The wind came up in the night. With it came one of those low fronts from the Gulf of Alaska that sweep
rain into the Pacific Northwest at a rate drought-stricken Californians envy even as they make rude jokes about the
climate.

I woke around nine when the wind gave our French doors a sharp rattle. Jay mumbled something and
rolled over. After a drowsy pause I got up and wedged the doors tighter. Rain spattered the glass. I closed heavy
winter drapes over the privacy curtain. The big room was black as night. Jay made a satisfied noise and burrowed
deeper in the covers.