Her Captive (Redwater City Fire Dept. #2)

Chapter 1

MAX

"Come."

I push the door open.

She's behind her desk in the dark. The city glitters past the window at her back, a grid of lit towers and red taillights bleeding into the river.

One lamp is on. The green-shaded brass kind that costs more than a month of my pay.

The light lands on her hands, her watch, the folder laid flat in front of her. The rest of her stays in shadow.

"Sit," Val says.

I sit.

I've been deputy chief again for nineteen days.

I count them the way I count laps on a drill.

Nineteen days since she slid the rank back across this desk like it had never left.

Nineteen days since she looked at me and said, we don't speak of it again.

I owe her this chair. I owe her the badge pinned to my jacket.

I owe her the quiet that came after a year of eating my demotion in silence, the year I spent running gear inventory in a basement office while the rest of the house did the work I used to run.

Every morning of that year I came in through the side door because I couldn't stand to walk past the board with my name no longer on it.

I ate my lunch at my desk. I didn't raise my voice in a meeting once.

I paid that tab in full and then she gave me the rank back and told me we didn't speak of it, and nineteen days later here I sit in this chair where she put me and where I still sit only because she lets me.

I pay what I owe. That's the arrangement. It's always been the arrangement.

"Clark," she says.

I don't answer. She hasn't asked anything.

She opens the folder and turns it a quarter-turn toward me, not all the way.

I lean forward enough to read. Surveillance photos, three of them.

A man in a tailored suit at a restaurant.

A man on a yacht. A man getting into a black car outside City Hall.

Daniel Clark. I know the face. We have discussed him before.

"Tonight," Val says. “His home address. Accelerant in the east wing, the way we talked about.

He's been sleeping in his office suite since Tuesday.

Marital something. None of our business.

Wife's out of town until Thursday. He'll be alone.

Make it look like bad wiring in the panel room.

I want the fire crew already en route when the first neighbor calls.

Kessler's on shift tonight. He'll sign whatever report we put in his hand. "

"Yes, Chief."

"You look at me when I say his name. You don't look at the photo. You leave this office, you go do the job, you finish and you tell me it's done. Are we clear, Hale?”

It isn't a question.

"Yes, Chief."

"Good." She closes the folder. Her watch catches the lamp, a flash of steel on her wrist. "Go."

I stand. I've stood from this chair a thousand times and walked out this door and done what she told me to do. My hand is on the knob when she speaks again.

"Hale."

"Chief."

"There's a second photo in the folder. I don't want you to look at it."

I turn back. She hasn't opened the folder. She hasn't moved.

"Understood."

"Dismissed."

I go down the stairs. My boots sound wrong against the concrete.

I make it halfway to the landing before I stop and sit on a stair and put my forearms on my knees.

I press my thumb into the ridge of scar on my left forearm because it gives me something to do with my hands.

The warehouse collapse in 2019. A beam came down, I didn't get out of the way fast enough, I got the scar and Val got the story she needed for my meritorious conduct jacket.

Years before that she'd chosen me out of a class of thirty.

Years before that she'd pulled me out of a hose line and told me I was going to run a crew someday if I stopped flinching.

Everything I am started in this stairwell.

Val never tells me not to look at something unless she wants me to know it's there.

I go back up.

I knock. Three, pause, two.

"Come."

She hasn't moved. I cross the carpet. I open the folder. The first three are the man. I flip to the fourth.

It's his wife. Evangeline Clark.

The photo is three quarters profile, outdoor, some kind of charity event.

Pale hair pinned up, a long neck, a string of pearls, a mouth that isn't quite smiling.

Her eyes are turned a half-inch off camera.

She looks like someone who has been photographed her whole life and knows exactly how much to give the lens.

Pretty, I register, and I drop the word the second it lands because pretty is a civilian word and I don't think in it.

I think, I don't want to set this fire.

The thought arrives whole, in my own voice, and I stand very still until I can catalog it and set it aside.

It's the kind of thought I'm trained to have and ignore.

Years of turnout gear and rescue drills and dragging unconscious bodies out of structures will put a reflex in you.

The reflex is, protect. Val's work has taught me the override. The override is, obey.

I close the folder.

"I wasn't going to miss her, Chief."

"I know you weren't," Val says. "Go."

I go.

---

The drive to the Clark house is forty minutes east through the hills.

I take my own truck, not a city vehicle.

Dark jeans, dark henley, boots that won't leave tread I'd recognize.

My turnout gear is in a duffel on the passenger seat in case I need to play off-duty firefighter when the first engine rolls in.

Two steel cans of accelerant in the bed, double-contained.

Plain hardware-store gas with the tracers burned out.

Gloves nitrile under leather. Hair under a watch cap.

Phone off, stashed in the glove box. The radio I leave on a country station I don't like, low enough to be a hum, because silence in the cab does things to my head I don't need it doing tonight.

I run the route through in my head as I drive, the way I used to run ladder drills for Val.

Entry through the service gate on the north side, code 4422, Val has a man in the security contractor's back office.

Kitchen door, no alarm panel. Hallway left, through the butler's pantry, past the wine room, down the back stairs.

Daniel's office suite is on the second floor at the east end.

The panel room is directly under it on the lower level.

I lay accelerant there and I light it on a delay I've used four times before and never failed.

I clear the house through the door I came in.

I am back in my truck before the kitchen smoke detector pings.

Forty minutes to drive. Eighteen minutes to set. Two minutes to clear. Then the call goes in to dispatch from Val's contractor and I'm twelve miles away changing into gear before Engine 9 turns out of the bay.

I've done worse. I've done many of these. I am very good at setting fires. It doesn’t bother me. They are always bad bad guys who die in my fires. Redwater City is always far better off without them.

The photo is still in my head. I drive and I run the route and the photo is still in my head.

Pale hair pinned up. A long neck. The pearls.

The mouth that wasn't quite smiling. I have been shown faces of targets in Val's folder before and I have never once carried one out of that office in my chest. I carried this one.

I'm still carrying it. She is so beautiful. Clark’s wife.

Evangeline. But, she is out of town till thursday.

Somewhere past the second ridge of hills I catch myself running a thumb along the seam of the steering wheel and make myself stop.

Wife's out of town until Thursday.

Val never misspeaks. Val doesn't misspeak.

If Val said Thursday, Val knew what day it was, and Val knew where Evangeline Clark was going to be when I struck the match.

That tracks one way. I don't want it to track the other way.

I run the route again. Kitchen, pantry, wine room, stairs, panel.

I feel my jaw set. I keep the truck at three miles under the limit because I'm angry and angry drivers get pulled over.

I pull off the county road two miles short of the property and kill the headlights.

The truck rolls the rest of the way on parking lamps.

The forest closes in on both sides, black against blacker, and the only sound is my tires over gravel.

I park in a cut of pines a quarter mile up the service drive and walk in.

Stone and glass, a roofline that runs a hundred and twenty feet. A six-car garage with imported cobbles out front. Gardens laid out in geometry. Fountains. A gate with wrought iron worked into the letters C C. I find the service gate where the map said it would be and key the code and walk through.

The kitchen door opens to my hand.

The house smells like lemon polish and money.

I move through it the way I move through a fire.

Low. Fast. Close to the walls. Nobody's awake.

Nobody's on staff overnight. Val confirmed that.

I pass the butler's pantry, the wine room, a hallway of framed black-and-white photographs that look like they were taken in Europe.

I don't look at them. I find the back stairs. I go down.

The panel room is exactly where the blueprints said it would be. Behind an unmarked door off the lower east corridor. Breaker box on the wall, HVAC intake above it, a drift of old file boxes against the far wall. Daniel Clark stores old tax returns in here. He won't be storing anything much longer.

I lay accelerant along the base of the boxes and up the wall under the HVAC intake.

I set the delay at the panel box. I use the screwdriver from my pocket to pop the panel face and scorch a section of wiring the way a bad splice scorches when it fails.

Nobody who isn't looking hard will ever read it as anything but old wiring. Kessler isn't looking hard.