Retribution (15 page)

Bill or Ted could have placed them there.

Someone was playing a joke on her.

The new guests had mistaken her car for their black sedan parked across the drive.

Frustrated, she shook her head. None of her explanations made sense. Someone had intentionally placed the cans in her locked car, knowing she would find them. Breaths came in tight threads as she gripped the steering wheel.

Had her history in Cleveland followed her? This could implicate her to the house fires here in Darlington. Breakfast worked its way up her throat. Who knew her past? Frantic, she searched her brain for conversations about the fire. There had been none—not about the fire in Cleveland, anyway.

She backed out of the drive and started her usual route to Francis Marion University, but she couldn't go there. Not today. Not now.

~*~

Roger eyed the fire chief sitting across from his desk. By now, he anticipated the chief's questions before the man asked them.

“This is the fourth house in four weeks that has burned to the ground. All of them yours.” The chief stared at Roger.

Frustration twanged his nerves. These meetings were a waste of time; there was nothing he felt compelled to share with the chief. “I still don't have any more answers than before.”

Latoya placed a mug in front of each man. She glanced toward Roger and raised her penciled eyebrows slightly before leaving the room.

The fire chief lifted his cup. Faint wisps of steam rose in front of his face and then disappeared. Unlike the vapor, he knew the fire chief wasn't leaving any time soon.

“The house was empty just like the other three,” Roger said, settling back into his chair. “The renters moved out the day before the fire. The home owner's name is…” he glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk, “Nick Bloom, and he lives in Scranton, Pennsylvania. We've been renting his house as part of the government subsidy program ever since I took over the job. We had it five years before that, I think.” He glanced at the chief. “I can look it up if you want.”

“How does your arsonist know what houses are empty?”

Roger grimaced. “He's not my arsonist, and it wouldn't be hard.” The scent of smoke mingled with coffee. Everything the chief owned probably reeked, including the man himself. Dark moons lay heavy under the man's eyes. He probably needed something stronger than coffee. Roger did.

“You make anyone angry lately?” The chief sipped his coffee.

The loud slurp reminded Roger of days past when he, too, would have been that uncouth.

“Not especially.” Roger sighed. Hundreds of people had wandered in and out of the office over the past two years. How many had left upset? Too many, but most of them didn't have the initiative, or the follow-through, to burn down four houses. No need to mention Devon right now. It still rankled him that Devon had been able to spot him so easily outside Takis.

“How about disgruntled employees?”

“Definitely not.”

Latoya poked her head in the office door. “You have an urgent phone call, Mr. Jenkins.”

“I told you to hold all my calls.”

“She says it's urgent. Her name's Lillian.”

Eyebrows raised, Roger struggled to suppress his excitement. He smothered a tight-lipped smile. He had felt their vaporous presence all morning hovering in the back of the room, and now they settled around him, as eager as he.

The phone burned beneath his hand. He had not been alone with Lillian since they had gone jogging in Williamson Park almost four weeks ago. The Friday night dinners at Ted and Trina's gave him the opportunity to watch her, and he still followed her home from work a couple nights a week. He avoided Takis as she had taken to eating supper on weeknights with Ted and Trina. Shrugging an apology to the chief, he picked up the receiver. “Roger Jenkins speaking.”

“Roger, I need to see you.”

He swiveled his chair away from the chief. “You sound upset.”

“Something awful…I don't know what to do.”

“Hold on a minute.” Roger put his hand over the receiver. “I really need to deal with this…”

The chief stared darkly at Roger before he shrugged his shoulders. “If anything helpful comes up, give me a call.”

Alone in the room, he lifted the receiver to his ear. “Where are you?”

“Outside your office, in my car.”

He glanced at his watch; it was barely after eight in the morning. The chief had been his first appointment. “Shouldn't you be at work?”

“I couldn't go. Please…”

“Stay in your car. I'm on my way out.”

Retribution pushed its way to the surface. This time he wouldn't fail.

~*~

The fumes in the car thickened as Lillian waited for Roger.

The grocery store across the street already had a dozen cars. Maybe shoppers were after the advertised daily special of Boston butt, planning to smoke the fatty meat over the weekend.

She thrummed her fingers on the steering wheel. What was taking Roger so long? She coughed and wondered if he would find her dead of asphyxiation. Dare she roll down the window just enough to allow some fresh air to enter? No, Roger had told her to lock the doors. He must have had a reason.

Had she done the right thing to call him? She fumbled for her cell phone. Maybe she should call Paul, or even go back in the house and question Trina. As she choked on the fumes, she remembered why she had made her decision. Roger represented her only safe option. Besides, he had helped her once before.

Roger ran out the door and motioned for her to move to the passenger side of the car. She struggled from one seat to the other, unable to make her legs bend and flex, her motions stiff from tension. With tight lips, she turned to Roger as he settled behind the wheel.

He looked at her, opened his mouth as though preparing to speak, and then stopped. “I smell gas.”

“We need to talk,” she said, “but not here.”

Not here, where everyone could see. Even this early in the morning people dotted the sidewalk, single walkers most likely headed to work. No one looked her way, but even so, she felt their shielded glances, just as in Cleveland, as though expecting guilt to be written on her forehead.

“Let's go to Williamson Park.” Roger turned the ignition. “How about we roll down the windows?”

“Thanks for coming.” She rested her head against the back of the seat, allowing the fresh air to blow over her. Curls fluttered against her face, and she let them fly where they chose. The weight pressing on her since the discovery of the gas cans decreased, shared, as it seemed, by another.

Roger's lips formed a thin line across his face and he gripped the wheel with both hands.

Thankful that he didn't try to pull her into discussion while in the car, she allowed herself a reprieve from fear. This could all be her imagination, after all, and Roger would see her as a flighty female, perhaps trying to get his attention. But then a whiff of gas reached her nose. None of this came from her imagination. She only hoped Roger would have an answer she had not thought of.

In the early morning, the parking lot at Williamson Park stood empty.

Falling leaves added to the soft mulch, muffling their footsteps as they walked down a path.

Roger took her hand in his, and warmth of his fingers entwining hers provided a sense of comfort. If life could stay just like this—peaceful and gentle.

They walked in silence until Roger indicated a cement bench and lead her to it, still cradling her ice-cold hand. Once seated he turned to her. “What happened that has you so upset?”

Her free hand trembled as she swept tangled curls off her forehead. “I might be making too much of this, but I don't know…I can't think.” Now that she had to explain, it sounded so ridiculous, and yet the terror clung to her with its long teeth.

“Talk to me, Lillian.”

She took in as much of the pine-scented air as her lungs would allow, and exhaled slowly, reliving the past hour. “I found three gas cans on the floor in the back of my car.”

“Gas cans? That's what has you so worked up?” Laughter lines ringed his eyes even as his mouth remained grim.

“Yes, I'm ‘worked up.'” She pulled her hand from his, angry that he didn't see the gravity of the situation. She thought he would understand. She had put herself at risk by trusting him, and for what? So he could find mock her distress? “Don't you see? I didn't put them there!”

“So how did they end up in your car?”

“I don't know.” She tightened her shoulders and turned away from him. Her mind was a whirl of frustrating thoughts and at the core was his lack of understanding. “Let's just go.” She stood to leave and he pulled her gently back to the bench.

“Come on, Lillian. You're not telling me something. I can't help you unless you're honest with me.” He put his hands on her shoulders and she allowed him to turn her stiff body towards him. “You can trust me. You know that, or you wouldn't have called me.”

Could she trust him? She felt the heat from his hands through her thin jacket.

His eyes focused on her face, the mirth gone. “Tell me why you're so upset. It's just three gas cans.”

The soft intensity of his expression melted her anger. “I think someone is trying to blame me for the house fires.”

“Here in Darlington?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you want to burn down houses in Darlington?”

“Why else would someone put those cans in my car?”

Skin puckered as he pulled his eyebrows together, his mouth forming a pensive line across his face. “You're sure Ted or Bill didn't ask you to get gas for them, and put the cans in the car for you?”

She had already asked herself these same questions. It made sense that Roger would follow her reasoning, but her ragged nerves had moved beyond needing sense, and hoped for something more than logic and reasoning. “I would remember that. Besides, they would put them in the trunk. I was meant to find them.”

“What about at work yesterday? Did you leave your car unlocked? Maybe someone put the cans in your car by mistake.”

“The cans weren't in my back seat last night. I would have smelled the gas. Someone put them there during the night, I'm sure of it.” She shoved a sandy curl behind her ear. “I always keep my car locked. Someone had to work to get into it.”

“Maybe it isn't about you, but convenience. Your car was there, this unknown person needed to get rid of cans…”

Exasperation filled her expression. “You know that isn't true.”

“So why would someone want to plant gas cans in your car?”

She looked away.

In the distance car tires hummed on the blacktop.

Gnats swarmed around her, and she was grateful when a gust of wind pushed the slight bodies away from her face. What should she tell him? The thing she wanted most—to be able to leave the past behind—lay exposed in the back of her car. No one knew about the fire in Cleveland. No one knew her history, and she ached to keep it that way, to never expose herself to judgmental doubt again.

He couldn't help her unless he knew the whole story, but still…

Finally she spoke. “I know how close you are to Ted and Trina. They probably told you I was married once.”

“They might have mentioned it.”

“Then they probably told you that my husband and daughter are dead.” The words sounded cold and clinical to her ears, not at all like the pain of reality. How could she begin to describe the torment of their deaths, or the emptiness they had left behind? “They were killed in a house fire; one that I was accused of setting.” The words left her mouth by necessity.

Craig and Susan would have loved Williamson Park. Craig would be on his mountain bike with Susan buckled in the child-carrier behind him, the cute princess helmet snug on her head. She would turn and wave…

“You don't need to talk about it if you don't want to.”

Pain from the past ate away at her soul one bite at a time. She couldn't go through it again. Staring at nothing, focusing ahead but seeing only gray, she continued. “When I left Cleveland, there were still people who thought I was guilty of setting my own house on fire. Apparently one of them has followed me here.” Fear caught as she thought of the ramifications. “Roger, I could go to jail!”

His words were no more than a murmur across her ears. “I won't let anyone hurt you.”

He wrapped his arms around her and the protective shield she had maintained for the past two years shattered. In spite of her stiff resolve, she fell into his chest sobbing, her tears wetting his shoulder as she released her fears one drop at a time. The relief of having someone understand overwhelmed her. In Cleveland, there had been no ally to stand with her. Now she had Roger.

Leaving his shoulder but reluctant to move too far from his warmth, she dragged her hand across wet cheeks. “I was never brought to trial, but people still believed I was guilty. I could see it in their faces, the way they stared at me on the streets. Friends who never got around to calling, even my boss…they all had doubts. They thought I got off because of my family's reputation. I had no choice but to leave Cleveland and try to start over.”

“We need to call the police.” He reached for the phone in his pocket.

“No!” Fear tightened her throat. She grabbed his arm, her nails bit into his flesh as she tried to restrain him.

“Lillian, someone put those containers in your car. The police need to know.”

“If the police find out about my past, they'll be compelled to investigate me for the fires here. The public's demanding answers, and it's easier to blame an out-of-towner than one of their own. I can't go through the suspicions again.”

“What about Paul? He really vented some heat on me when I didn't report the non-accident with the bum.”

“His name is Joseph Callahan and he's not a bum.” She wiped her nose with a tissue.