Chapter 5 Fire On Forsythia Lane #4
Marcus tips his head in a half-nod. “He was staying at a hotel near the Albany airport when he got the call from the fire department.”
“Why a hotel?”
“Apparently, he had plans to catch an early flight to LA this morning. But I’m sure canceling his business trip is the least of his worries at this point.” Marcus leans back, shaking his head. “This whole thing is a tricky situation, but I intend to find my own answers.”
I frown, crossing my arms over my chest. “How?”
“Questioning witnesses, starting with Mr. Boone.”
“What are you gonna do, just show up at his house? In your little white Prius?”
A muscle tics in Marcus’s jaw as he copies the Wolf Spider Hollow address into his phone.
“I’m not afraid of mud or ex-convicts who may or may not have something to hide.
” His reply is cocky and fearless, matching his ridiculous Brooks Brothers blazer.
“And if you’re about to tell me there are actual wolf spiders on Wolf Spider Hollow, I’m not afraid of those either. ”
“Never seen wolf spiders up there, no,” I return coolly, shoving my hands into the pockets of my Carhartt jacket. “But I have seen cars like yours stuck on the side of the road. You’re gonna need four-wheel drive.”
And that’s how I wind up driving Marcus Verne into the backwoods outskirts of Rockford, him riding shotgun in my pickup truck, obsessively checking his phone for the route directions.
I know exactly where I’m going, but he calls out every turn for me anyway.
Finally, I tune out the sound of his voice and turn up the volume on the radio, forcing him to listen to country rock hits.
Somehow, he strikes me as more of a Taylor Swift kind of guy.
Eventually we turn down the bumpy dirt road called Wolf Spider Hollow. It’s one of those places that rich Manhattan tourists like to pretend don’t exist. One of those sketchy, overgrown trailer parks where the residents have more dogs than teeth.
And speaking of dogs, Boone has one chained to the side of his discolored trailer—a snarling Doberman with a spiked collar and an obvious appetite for flesh. As soon as I pull my truck up and park, the dog lunges to the end of his chain, making Marcus bristle in the passenger seat.
“This the right one?” I ask, nodding towards the crooked numbers above the door.
Marcus swallows hard and checks his phone. “Uh, yes. It is.”
“Well,” I say, leaning back in my seat with a grin, “enjoy your interview.”
Marcus pales, glancing from me to the Doberman that’s blocking the path to Boone’s place with bared teeth and pricked ears.
“Maybe you should come too,” he offers, smoothing a hand over his hair. “It doesn’t seem like a safe place to just sit in your car.”
I grunt, scanning the sagging trailers surrounding us. “Yeah, well… it does seem like a place where everyone carries.”
“Carries what?”
I block a laugh with my fist. And as usual, Marcus Verne is one hundred percent serious. My gaze slides out the window to the pissed-off Doberman jerking his chain.
“Dog treats,” I answer at last.
Marcus’s eyebrows jump halfway up his forehead. “Dog treats?”
“Yep.” I flip open my center console and pull out a Milk-Bone. “My brother has a dog, so we’re in luck. But this is the only treat I have, so be ready to run.”
Together, we get out of the truck, and I break the Milk-Bone in two, putting half in my pocket for an emergency escape tactic. Marcus looks ready to get back in the truck, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing.
If a wolf spider jumped out right now, I’m pretty sure it would be the last straw. He’d run screaming.
“Hey, big guy,” I greet the Doberman with a friendly smile, waving half of the treat in the air. “I’ll give you a cookie if you don’t bite my leg off. Seriously, if you bite my leg, you’re going to regret it.”
The dog’s ears flatten submissively when he spots the treat. He licks his black lips, whining and pawing the ground.
“You hungry?”
“Yeah, I think he’s hungry for more than half a cookie,” Marcus grumbles behind me. “He looks hungry for human flesh.”
“Well, the guy behind me has more of that than I do,” I tell the dog in a stage whisper loud enough for Marcus to hear.
As soon as I’m close enough, I toss the treat on the ground, far enough away to get the dog out of our path. While he dives for it, Marcus rushes up to the door and knocks hard three times. He waits, eyeing the dog with visible terror.
Seconds later, the door swings open, and there stands Jonathan Boone with a baseball bat in his hand.
Marcus reels back a few steps, putting his hands up. “I-I’m not looking for any trouble, sir. My name is Marcus Verne. I’m with The Rockford Chronicle.”
“I seen you last night,” Boone growls, his craggy face twisted in a scowl as he turns his gaze on me. “And you.”
I don’t tell him my name. I’m pretty sure it’s the last thing he’s interested in knowing.
The Doberman wanders back over to me and sniffs at my pockets, looking for more food. I break off another piece of the Milk-Bone and toss it onto the ground.
“If you boys are sniffing around for answers about the Montgomery fire, you can just get back in your truck and get the hell out of here.”
“You were a witness to the fire,” Marcus begins, like he’s conducting an interview for TV. “Can you tell us more about where you were last night around twelve o’clock?”
“I was at the bar in town,” Boone says in a low voice—a voice that doesn’t invite a counter question.
But Marcus can’t help himself. “Is that where you were when you first saw the fire? What brought you all the way up to Forsythia Lane?”
Boone stands frozen in the doorway, thumping his baseball bat against his thigh. The dog trots over and starts licking my hand, so I scratch him behind the ears.
“I don’t have to answer none of your questions,” Boone snarls. “You’re not the police. You’re not the fire department. You want answers? Talk to them. And get the hell off my property.”
“Marcus,” I say under my breath, tipping my head towards my truck.
But he won’t be told what to do. Especially by me.
“All I want to know is when you saw the fire, Mr. Boone. Your answers, if printed, will be credited anonymously.”
“I ain’t giving you any answers,” Boone says. “Now get off my property and don’t make me say it again.”
He slams the door shut, making the whole place rattle from the impact.
Marcus back-steps away from the door as the dog nuzzles my pockets, searching for the rest of the treat.
I give it to him, wondering if it’s the only food he’s had today, and calmly walk back to my truck.
Marcus takes his time following me, whipping out his phone and snapping a photo of Boone’s place.
I don’t know why he does it until we’re back in the truck and he points out the window at something plastic and red hidden in the weeds.
Gas cans.
“He refused to give any answers.” Marcus recaps the situation as if I weren’t standing right there, a victorious spark in his eyes. “He refused to give an alibi. And he has cans of accelerant on his property. Still think he’s not guilty, Weston?”
A few gas cans might be enough for a guy like Marcus to sentence someone to prison (again), but it’s not enough evidence for me.
So after I drop him back off at the Chronicle, I decide to make some inquiries of my own.
I park my truck on the street outside The Howling Coydog—which is the only bar Boone could’ve been referring to when he said “the bar in town.” (The other candidate is a pub that serves alcohol but closes at eight o’clock.
Not the kind of place a guy like Jonathan Boone would go to drown his sorrows.)
The Howling Coydog doesn’t open until five o’clock, but the lights are on inside, and I can see the bartender moving crates around when I tent my hands to peer through the glass door. It takes a few minutes of waving before I catch his attention.
The door swings open on a tall, bearded man in a flannel shirt.
“We don’t open till five,” he informs me, “and I don’t think you’ll be old enough to drink by then. Sorry, kid.”
“No, I’m not… here for that. I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. My name’s Weston. I’m from The Rockford Chronicle. Covering the story of the Montgomery fire.”
The bartender’s eyebrows rise. “Are you, now? Well, can’t tell you much about it. I was here till late, then went home and crashed for the night. I heard the sirens like everyone else around one o’clock in the morning.”
“Do you know Jonathan Boone?”
The bartender nods. “Yep. He was here last night. Last one here, actually. I had to kick him out to lock up.”
“At midnight?”
“That’s right.”
“And did you happen to notice if he got into a vehicle?”
The bartender shakes his head. “He walked. Told me he wasn’t going to make the same mistakes he did before, so he left his truck home. I don’t know where he went, but he wasn’t too steady on his feet at that point—he might not have made it home at all.”
“Did he talk to you about anything else?” I ask. “Did he seem angry about anything? Anyone?”
The bartender shrugs. “No more than usual. Boone isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine.”
With that, I thank the guy for talking to me and let him get back to work. On the sidewalk outside The Howling Coydog, I pivot to face the direction of the Montgomery house. It’s at least two miles away from where I’m standing.
He left on foot.
At midnight.
If the neighbor lady called the fire department at twelve forty-five, the fire would’ve had to break out at least ten minutes before she realized there was a problem.
That means Boone would’ve had to walk from this spot to Forsythia Lane in thirty minutes or less.
Is that even possible?
Only one way to find out.
TESSA