Gilt (2 page)

A clap of thunder sounded overhead, startling the man. He twisted and as I watched, he stumbled to his knees, or, rather, to his knee. His right leg extended straight in front of him and his left leg buckled so he ended up crouching on the ground, his hands supporting his body. It appeared painful and awkward.

I pulled to the side of the road and shut off the car then brushed through the arborvitae to hurry across the small expanse of lawn. "Can I help you?" I asked, leaning over him.

He was younger than I initially thought, probably only a few years older than me. His thick brown hair was cut short, with reddish highlights and a hint of gray at the temples. He had a sharply receding hairline that made him seem tough, like a military man with precisely trimmed hair. When he looked directly at me, I saw dark brown eyes flecked with gold. "Thanks," he said in a husky, low voice. "I lost my balance. If you can get my cane for me?"

I turned and grabbed the cane, almost over-balancing myself as another clap of thunder boomed over us. The man put his left hand on the tall gravestone and took the cane I handed to him in his other hand, getting his balance as I stood nearby, ready to help if he asked for it. He wore a dark blue T-shirt with Northwest Fitness stenciled on it tucked into faded blue jeans. I recognized that shirt. I had a green one like it in my closet. His shirt was snug, showing his heavily muscled arms and chest. When he straightened, I saw that he was only a few inches taller than me. His stocky build made him seem much bigger.

I retrieved the fresh bouquet of flowers that had fallen to the ground, next to the dried bouquet. "Would you like me to put these on the grave for you?" I glanced at the marker.
Diane
Steele, beloved wife to Dan, cherished mother of Patricia and Martin
. The birth and death dates weren't that far apart. I did quick mental math and realized the woman had died two years ago while in her forties. Then I did a double-take.

The death date was the same as John's.

The man took the flowers from me and put them into the metal vase affixed to the side of the marker. "Thank you, Mrs. Carlson. I appreciate the help."

I stared at him, perplexed, then I looked back at the marker. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?" He seemed vaguely familiar and for some reason, I associated him with John. Was he a fireman? Perhaps wounded in the line of duty? He had a long face that was lightly tanned with two bright spots of color on the high cheekbones, probably from his earlier exertion. His eyes were very dark and fringed with heavy lashes. I frowned in confusion. He wasn't a handsome man, but those eyes--I would remember a man with eyes like that.

"I attended your husband's memorial service two years ago. I saw you there. You probably don't remember me. It was a long receiving line." He faced me squarely, both hands crossed on top of the cane, his dark eyes intent on mine.

The memorial service was a blur. John had been buried with a hero's honors attended by firemen from around the state and from surrounding metropolitan areas, all coming to participate. I stood in line with John's sister, Amy, and firemen from the department for what seemed like hours as people filed by to convey their condolences. I didn't anticipate the outpouring of love, support and grief that surrounded me and carried me along like a tide. No one suspected John and I were having marital problems. He walked out of the house on that hot June day to his death and became a hero.

And I was left with the guilt. The mayor came to his funeral, the governor came, and the news media covered it all in exhausting detail. I stood there, numb with guilt that I had argued with him on the day he died and sad that I couldn't retract the last words I said to him.

"I wanted to thank him for fighting the fire, even though he couldn't save my wife." The man's fingers tightened on the carved wooden handle of his cane. His hands were rough and solid-looking, like a workman's hands or an outdoorsman who spent time fishing or hunting.

It took me a second to understand what he was saying. The woman who died in the fire...this was her husband. He was married to the woman who had been murdered, whose body was found in the rubble. The article about the fire had given a brief biography of her family and the family of the little girl who died. I struggled to remember the article and the details. "You were related to her?" I glanced at the headstone.

"I was Diane's husband." He held out a hand, which I automatically shook. "I'm Dan Steele."

"Genny Carlson." An awkward silence fell and I rushed to fill the void. "You were a policeman, weren't you? Or was it a teacher?"

"Both. I was a policeman for sixteen years but I was injured and I retired." He shifted position, leaning heavily on the cane. "After that I became a high school baseball coach and business teacher. Then I retired again, a month or two before the fire. I coach baseball now for a local league." He frowned. "Retirement isn't what I thought it would be."

The details came drifting back to me. He had a double major in college in criminal justice and education, so when he was injured in the line of duty he shifted to teaching. His voice had a mix of sadness and anger that I recognized. For an instant, he sounded like John. "I'm so sorry," I murmured. "It would be hard to lose your wife and your home like that just when you were looking forward to retirement. It must have been terrible."

One corner of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I wasn't living there. Diane and I were separated at the time of the fire."

My mouth opened and closed in a soundless 'oh.' Before I could say anything, a drop of rain splattered on the gravestone.

Dan Steele didn't seem to notice my confusion. "I'm glad I ran into you. I wanted to talk to you about the investigation. Do you have time?"

"You know about it?"

He nodded. "I still have friends in the police department. A friend called me and told me the department was reopening the case. It's typical for the police to lead the investigation. But in this case, the FBI is being called in. That means--" He looked skyward as another drop joined the first one followed quickly by another. "I'd like to talk with you about what they're doing."

"I was going to the library this afternoon to meet someone about it." I glanced around and saw there was no car nearby. "Is somebody picking you up? Or can I give you a ride?"

"Thanks. My car is over there." He gestured with the cane to another part of the cemetery, near the junction of two roads. "My parents are buried in that section. I stopped there before I came here. I parked near their graves."

I led the way to my car, Steele keeping pace next me with a limping gait. We reached the car as a regular staccato of rain drops splattered the grass and pavement. I opened the passenger door and leaned into the car to move the accordion folder on the passenger seat. Lightning tore through the sky and thunder boomed nearby, making me jerk upward in surprise, bumping backward into Steele.

He put his left arm around my shoulders to steady me then in one fluid movement he released me, took the file, twisted to drop into the passenger seat, and sat down. He swung his left leg into the car, pulled his cane inside, grasped his right leg with his right hand and dragged it inside, too. The entire action took only a few seconds to execute.

I stared at him, amazed at such a graceful maneuver for a handicapped man. Another splat of rain on my face woke me from my trance. I raced around the back of the car and slipped into my seat as the heavens opened, buckets of rain drenching the car in an avalanche of sound and moisture. I grabbed the door and got it closed, my head and shoulders getting a thorough soaking in the process. I cowered in the driver's seat when lightning and thunder crashed overhead, flinching every time a jagged streak tore through the sky.

Conversation was impossible given the din of the pounding rain and I decided not to try driving since I could barely see a foot in front of us. Steele said something to me but his voice was drowned by the noise. I shook my head to show I couldn't understand and he leaned over. I tilted toward him. "It will probably pass in a minute," he said, his voice loud in my ear and his breath warm on my neck. "These summer storms never last long."

I shivered and straightened, nodding. He gestured with the file folder and said something else but I shook my head again. Steele sat back and adjusted his cane so it was tucked beside him on the floor near the car door, then he waited with the folder on his lap, watching the rain as it pounded on our now foggy windshield. His left hand tapped a gentle beat on the folder, not impatiently but almost as though he heard a melody in his head and was playing along with it. The man appeared totally placid in the middle of the chaos. I envied him his calm. Storms always jangled my nerves and I usually found a good reason to go to the basement during storms at home.

I had no such refuge now. I hunched my shoulders and gritted my teeth, resisting the urge to grip the steering wheel. A minute or so later the downpour lessened enough so we could speak. I wasn't sure what to say to this stranger sitting in my car, so I settled on the banal.

"I exercise there, too." I gestured to his T-shirt.

He glanced at his chest as though unsure what he was wearing. "Really? I don't think I've seen you. When do you usually go?"

"Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, early in the afternoon. I only work part-time so I go early and beat the rush."

"I usually go at night. I guess that's why I never saw you."

I started the car and turned down the stereo, lest Pink Floyd blast the man's ears. I switched on the air conditioner and set the vents to defrost to clear the windows. "Which way?"

Steele pointed to the right, where the road wound past the tall Civil War general. "Around the corner there." He paused. "Would you mind if I joined you at the library? I'd like to talk about the investigation."

I hesitated. I wasn't sure if Paul would appreciate a stranger sitting in on our impromptu discussion. "I'm going to do a little research," I murmured, driving along the narrow roadway flanked by trees. "Nothing much."

"Arson research?" He pointed ahead. "My truck is there, around the curve."

I pulled in behind the forest green pickup truck parked on the side of the road. I turned to him. "I wanted to see if I could find out what the procedure for an investigation is." Several other faux excuses raced through my brain but when I looked into his dark brown eyes, I knew he would see through my hesitation.

"I know they did a thorough investigation at the time. I was kept apprised of everything they did." He put his hand on the door handle, his face set and hard.

Good Lord. I longed to slap myself on the head. Of course he knew about the investigation. His wife was murdered and he was an ex-cop and he had friends who would keep him informed every step of the way.

"Something must have happened to make this an active case, something new that came to light," he continued, oblivious to my embarrassment. "It's not like you see on TV. These things don't always get solved in a few hours."

"I realize that. I just want to know what to expect."

"The best thing I can say is to expect the unexpected." He probably saw my exasperated expression because he smiled apologetically but it didn't seem to reach his eyes. I realized that I was seeing a dispassionate, objective cop. "From what I heard, your husband was implicated in starting the fire."

"They're lying." I met his gaze squarely.

Steele didn't look away. "It's been two years. It's a hard thing to prove or disprove."

"John loved his job."
He loved his job more than he loved me
. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. "He hated fires. He would never do anything like that." My wedding and engagement rings, worn now on my right hand, glittered as a fickle sunbeam peeked through a hole in the clouds. I felt as though my rings were drawing energy from my temper. "They've reopened the case and I want to know why. I want to know what kind of evidence they have that could possibly implicate John."

Steele shifted his gaze to the gravestones around us then opened the car door. As he predicted earlier, the rain had stopped, turning into a light mist hovering in the hot, muggy air. His maneuver to leave the car was almost as fast as his maneuver to get into it, including dropping the accordion folder back to the seat, almost exactly where it was before he entered my car. I admired his dexterity then silently berated myself. The man had been injured decades earlier. Of course he would be adapted to his handicap by now.

He leaned into the car, resting one arm on the frame. "I was a cop for thirteen years. I can't tell you how many suspects had families who were surprised by what their loved one was capable of doing."

I scooted forward and faced him over the console of the car. "Not John. He would never put anyone's life in danger. Never." I struggled to keep my voice from rising.

Steele's tanned hands opened and closed on the handle of his cane. "And you're going to prove them wrong?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do," I admitted, my hammering heart starting to slow. "I'm not going to let them smear him without a fight." It was futile to explain. Unless you knew John, you wouldn't know how appalling the charges were. "John died trying to save a child. Whoever set that fire put a fireman and civilians in danger. It's not possible John did it."

Steele's eyes narrowed slightly and his mouth twitched as though he wasn't sure whether to frown or smile. "I'd like to help."