Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (21 page)

T
hey met at midnight at an old warehouse in Charlestown. Johnny was already inside rigging the last few devices as Kevin sat on the hood of his Crown Vic, keeping watch and wondering what his life had become. Thirty minutes earlier, they’d busted the chain-link gate of the condemned toy factory on the Mystic River. Later, in the dark, moonless night, they’d touch off several spots on the second and third floors. To hear Johnny say it, everyone believed Zucco was to blame. And when it was all over, and fires started, no one would come after him or Kevin.

Kevin still couldn’t believe Zucco had turned on them. All he knew is that he just wanted everything to be over and didn’t want to go to jail. He’d followed Johnny this far, and he’d follow it until things were done. After this
maybe he’d leave Mass for a while, try to find some work at a fire station up in Maine somewhere. Get away from the city, live off the grid.

“Come on,” Johnny said, walking down from the loading platform. “It’s time.”

The building was old, with busted-out windows and weeds growing through the asphalt. A big realty sign had been staked out in the front parking lot. Along the side of the building, big white letters painted on the brick read
TOYS & GAMES
.

“Now they’ll know it’s Zucco,” Johnny
said. “Let’s set this thing off right. I been scoping
this place out for months. You’ll see it fucking burning
all the way to China. It’s a statement that Boston Fire
needs more men and better facilities. They may hate Mr. Firebug
now, but he’ll be remembered as a hero in history. We done real good.”

Kevin lowered his head and followed Johnny into the building. Johnny shone a flashlight up onto the wooden crossbeams overhead and the stacks and stacks of scrap wood and trash.

The warehouse was dark and hot. Rain water dripped down from the floor above, pinging in puddles. He swallowed, as it was tough to breathe. In a far corner, he spotted what he thought was some kind of mannequin, false and artificial, propped up by a couple of old mattresses and a big stack of tires.

He walked closer. Behind him, Johnny continued to
arrange the tires and douse them all with the kerosene. Johnny whistled “Mr. Heat Miser” from the old kids’ Christmas special as he worked. Kevin remembered watching it every year with his mother. She loved it.

“Why does it matter if we use La Bomba?” Kevin said. He walked forward to the big mess of tires.

“’Cause it’s his fucking trademark,” he said. “The dumb bastard.”

Johnny talking now like Mr. Firebug was someone different, a person separate from them doing all of this. As he got close to the pile ready to burn, Kevin stepped forward and looked down into the face of the mannequin—Ray Zucco. Zucco was gray and still, openmouthed and surprised, his head turned in a weird angle as if he were watching the tanker ships sliding by outside on the Mystic.

“Holy shit,” Kevin said. “Holy shit. What’d you do, Johnny? What’d you do? Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

Johnny looked like a fat little
troll in the moonlight, almost like the Heat Miser himself.
Lights flashed red and green off the passing cargo ships.
He lit a cigarette and craned his head to study
Zucco’s face a little. “Hmm,” Johnny said. “Looks to me
like he got caught in his own job. Cops think
it’s Zucco. Now they’ll know it’s Zucco. He’s dead and
they got nothing on us. He ate a gun and burned himself up.”

“What did you do?” Kevin said. “Jesus. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

“Good night, Mr. Firebug,” Donovan said. He tossed
the lit cigarette into the mess by Zucco and the blue flame started to spread and zip onto the tires and trash. The burn and the heat came on strong and fast. “Now get going upstairs and light it up. We need to get the fuck out of here. Now.”

“No,” Kevin said. “No fucking way.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Donovan said. “You gone mental? Zucco sold us out.”

A
little after midnight, Kevin Teehan had ridden up into Charlestown and parked outside an old warehouse by the Tobin Bridge. Belson parked at a safe distance where we watched Teehan meet up with Johnny Donovan. Then they both walked inside and disappeared from view. We waited.

Captain Cahill was on his way. If caught in the act, Belson and Glass would charge them both for Featherstone’s murder and the deaths of Pat Dougherty, Jimmy Bonnelli, and Mike Mulligan.

“I’m shocked I don’t see Ray Zucco,” Belson said. “What are the freakin’ chances?”

“They’re gonna burn it up.”

“And Cahill and his people will have a front-row seat,” Belson said. He reached for his radio and called in some patrol officers to watch the side streets in case they ran. “I can’t believe
we lost Johnny Donovan the other day. He’s a tricky little bastard.”

Twenty minutes later, Captain Cahill, Glass, and Cappelletti from Arson pulled in behind us. Belson and I got out of the car and explained how long Teehan and Donovan had been inside the old building marked
TOYS & GAMES
. Prophetic.

“This reminds me of a building I worked when I was a firefighter,” Cahill said. “The building was in Southie right off the channel. We had to use the fireboats to attack the other side. They light this thing up and we’ll be fighting it for two days. Let’s get them before the show starts.”

Belson looked to them and said, “Shall we, boys and girls?”

Captain Glass nodded. They all walked ahead toward the gate of the old warehouse. I followed and no one tried to dissuade me. Belson reached for the radio and told the plainclothes officers to move toward the back of the building and watch the exits.

As we got closer to the landing dock, there was a cracking sound and smoke started to pour thick and heavy from broken windows on the second floor. Belson reached for his gun and ran up toward the landing. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

A large boom sounded and glass rained down from the windows just as we got under the deck. We heard two sharp cracks of gunfire.

“Holy hell,” Cahill said. “Here we go.” He reached for his radio and called in the nearest fire company, saying they may need more soon. “We got gunshots. We got fucking shots fired.”

K
evin reached for Zucco’s body, grabbed him up under the armpits, and began to pull him from the smoldering mess. Johnny yelled at him to stop as he strained and pulled Zucco backward toward the door. The air was thick with smoke, and for a moment Johnny disappeared, Kevin thinking maybe he’d run upstairs to touch off the last few fires.

He pulled Zucco to the landing, where the air choked his lungs as he dragged the body halfway through the second floor. The entire space lit up in bright flame, the heat tremendous and white hot. Kevin coughed and gagged. He wouldn’t let Zucco burn up in this shithole. He’d pull him out and let Johnny answer for his killing and for everything he’d done.

He never wanted to be a killer. He’d only wanted to help.

How many now? Three firefighters, Featherstone, and now his
own friend. If Donovan wasn’t caught, Kevin knew he damn
sure would be next. There was a damn good chance
that if he didn’t hurry, he’d never make it out.

Just as he got to the second-floor landing, Johnny was on him. He punched him in the head and wrestled him to the ground. With his fat little hands around Kevin’s neck, he kept on yelling for him to think straight. “Get your mind straight,” he said. “Leave him. There’s cops outside.”

Kevin stopped struggling, and when Johnny’s fingers let up
the pressure on his neck, gasped for oxygen in the
smoky air. He rolled to his knees, the fire cracking
and catching in the big old space. He got to
his feet and looked through a window at dozens of
cop cars with their blue lights flashing. Now he heard
the whoop-whoop of the fire engines coming.

Donovan had a gun on him now. “Walk, Kevin,”
he said. “Leave Big Ray and let’s get the hell out of here. Come on.”

Kevin’s body flooded with adrenaline and his hands shook with fear as he reached for the automatic in Johnny’s hands. He tried to snatch it as they fell to the ground, rolling on the puddled floor now boiling with the heat.

He kicked free of Johnny.
The gun clattered to the floor.

The men both went for it at the same time, just as the ceiling began to crack and fall in big, fiery pieces.

T
his is far as you get, Spenser,” Cahill said. He slid into his fire coat and helmet, with a breathing apparatus in hand. “You won’t see shit up there. You won’t be able to breathe.”

We stood at the bottom of the first-floor stairwell. Firefighters wearing heavy coats and oxygen tanks brushed past us and raced up the steps. Cappelletti, Belson, and Glass had gone around the side of the warehouse, clearing the way for the firefighters and hoses being rushed into the building.

The building swelled and buckled, making nasty cracking noises, with breaking glass tinkling down onto the parking lot. I could hear the firefighter’s boots thundering upstairs. Suddenly the flat hose sprang to life on the landing, a fat yellow snake bucking all the way to the second floor.

In full gear, Jack McGee ran past me and caught my eye as he spoke into the radio. He nodded and kept on moving. I stepped
back and let the pros work. I knew the limits of my crime-fighting skills. I may be occasionally impervious to bullets but didn’t stand a chance with fire.

Cahill followed the crew.

I walked away from the burning warehouse when I spotted three cops scaling a fire escape on the far side. Belson and Glass waited at ground level, looking as if they were about to follow the uniformed officers. Belson looked to me and said, “We got the crazy bastard on the roof. He says he’s gonna jump.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Who knows?” Belson shrugged. “It’s a free country.”

“Which crazy bastard?”

“We’re not sure,” he said. “A bad guy. Another bad guy is getting barbecued as we speak.”

Belson was sucking wind from the climb by the time we reached the roof. Four officers and Glass had leveled their revolvers over a low brick wall, trading shots with Teehan or Donovan. Or both.

Belson and I got down on our hands and knees and made our way over to the officers. Two more shots came from across the top of the building.

The Tobin Bridge stretched out long and tranquil behind the shooter, lighting up the night. Smoke filtered up from both sides of the mammoth brick warehouse. More companies started to arrive, and their sirens whooped and wailed below us. I could hear people shouting and see more hoses being pushed into the building while ladder trucks craned to the higher floors.

The shots stopped.

Belson quickly took a peek around the edge of the wall. He
motioned for the uniformed guys. The shooter was gone. He’d run back down the steps, and back into the burning building.

“You want to follow him?” I said.

“Whatta you, nuts?” Belson said. “Screw him. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Glass nodded in agreement. We headed back to the fire escape well away from the worst of the fire.

Out on the Mystic, the fire boats had shown up and started to hose down and cool the top floors and roof. The dark old warehouse was alive with energy and light. With great speed, we took several escape ladders down to the ground floor. As we walked away from the burning building, firefighters rushed in the opposite direction, toward the flame and the danger. Red, white, and blue lights spun from the fire engines and cop cars.

Belson was out of breath and gagging on the smoke when we reached the lot choked with police and emergency vehicles.

“Maybe this will cure your cigar obsession,” Glass said.

“Wanna bet?” he said. He pulled a cigar from his coat and plugged it into his mouth as he walked toward a collection of cop cars.

“Jesus, Frank,” Glass said.

“God love him,” I said.

“I guess someone has
to.”

K
evin had shot Johnny. Big Ray was dead, too.

Kevin walked into the flames as the water shot through the broken windows and fell down from the rafters. Firefighters aimed hoses in steady looping arcs, concentrating on the heaviest flames and the roof, where the fire had started to spread. Even after all of it, this was exactly where he wanted to be. He would’ve given anything to wear that jacket and helmet and be part of a Boston Fire company.

Maybe he could explain to them that he’d been trying to stop Johnny. Let everyone know that he’d been working on the inside to make sure that Zucco and Donovan were stopped before anyone else was hurt. Sure, he’d helped out on a few fires, but that had only been to gain their trust and respect, he’d say. He hadn’t known anything about
Holy Innocents. And when those firefighters were hurt on Marlborough, he knew these guys had to be stopped.

Donovan was crazy, not a genius like he’d once thought when he held court back at the pastry shop. That was just talk. It was theory. This was real. Kevin could feel the heat burning his face and hands and smell the hair on his head and his arms starting to curl and smoke. This wasn’t like walking into an oven, this was like standing in the middle of a furnace. The coals burning bright and red, even the water raining down on your head was boiling. More than anything, Kevin wanted to be a part of it.

He looked to the firefighters and one of them turned a hose on him, knocking Kevin off his feet and sending the gun scattering. This wasn’t the way. He got to his knees but lost sight of them in the smoke. The firefighters returned to his view, his eyes watering and stinging, but then everything was just smoke.

He knew he’d die here. But maybe he’d be a hero when it all came out. They’d know who killed Johnny.

Mr. Firebug was dead. That meant something.

He crawled toward the heat and the flame. A big piece of wood, a crossbeam, dropped from the ceiling and pinned his legs. He heard the crack and knew one was broken. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe or feel anything, everything black smoke and gagging. He closed his eyes. He would die here. He would just lay down and fucking die.

But then he heard a groan and a pop and his legs still hurt like a bastard but were free. He turned onto his
stomach, feeling weighty, strong hands around him. Someone was pulling him out of the bubbling hot water and the deep fire. Before he fell from consciousness, he saw the full, reddened face from behind a mask.

The name on his battered old Boston Fire helmet read
J. MCGEE. CAPTAIN
. “Come on,” the man said. “You dumb son of a bitch.”