Page 20 of Playing With Fire

“Here, your turn.”

Ricky looked up in surprise. The pleasant-faced woman across from him, whom Ricky recognized as the bearer of the collection plate at church (who carries cash anymore anyway?) leaned over and passed him a wriggling child. A bundle of chubby limbs somewhere between a baby and a toddler.

In other words, big enough to sit on his lap and make a grab for his fork but too young to understand why such a fascinating toy was plucked away.

The small, outraged face turned towards him. Ricky was suddenly up and personal with Jaime, the newest foster child.

Her wide eyes locked onto his.

“Hey there,” said Ricky in an uncertain voice. How did one make conversation with an infant anyway?

Her lips screwed up into a tight, dissatisfied rosebud. Her little fists banged a soggy crust against his chest.

Charmed, Ricky couldn’t help but laugh. Jaime stopped. Smiled. The tears disappeared, and she let out a gurgle of joy, bouncing up and down in his lap until he grabbed her to stop her from lurching sideways to try for the fork again.

“That, young lady, is a fork. I take it you missed the safety video,” he said gravely. Maybe this stuff wasn’t so hard.

Jaime thought this was hilarious. She wacked him harder with the crust and tried to reach for his plate.

“Whoa,” said Ricky in alarm. Silas Beecham appeared at his elbow and carefully extracted the wriggling toddler from his arms. Crumbs cascaded everywhere, and Jaime let out a howl of frustration.

“Sorry,” said Silas. “She’s a bit of a handful at meals.” He leaned into Jaime’s grubby face and blew her a kiss. She responded by throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him like a koala.

“Dadda.”

Ricky’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. He laid down his fork with great care.

Dadda.

He was not a father, never would be. That was reserved for men like Silas Beecham, for whom biological links were clearly irrelevant to his instinctive drive to father the strays and outcasts. For men like Ricky’s own father, who had lived and breathed a deep protective love for his only child.

Ricky? He was a...sperm donor, if that. An accidental contributor who was a parent in name only. And any random biological offspring no doubt was tucked up securely in the arms of loving parents, in some rose-covered cottage on the other side of the county.

His mouth was suddenly dry. Ricky tasted only the bitterness of his own self-delusion.

***

Chief Leroy Browning was a bear of a man who ran the Temple Mountain Fire Department like his own personal kingdom. His mud-colored uniform, adorned by fire chief regalia, was tailor-made to his tall, bulky frame, adding to the Smokey the Bear persona.

He wasn’t pleased to see his new assistant trolling through firefighting sites instead of out on the streets building up the brand.

“You’re wasting your time. This is not some big New York City mystery. I can tell you right now who’s responsible. Some bored kids cutting school,” Browning growled, tweaking the brim of his oversized cowboy hat for extra effect. “Get out on the streets and get your boots dirty. Catch the little bastards red-handed before some public-spirited citizen starts posting photos on Facebook and scaring folks.”

The Chief checked his reflection in the window. There was clearly some official function in the offing.

“And while you’re out there, rescue some cats or round up some stray pooches. Folks want to see their tax dollars at work.”

Ricky mustered up a polite smile, pushing away the tiredness of a sleepless night. After the lunch at the rectory, his mind had gone around in circles until he finally banished the excoriating demons of self-doubt at two in the morning by plugging in his laptop and diving down the rabbit hole of research about pyromania.

He nodded towards the row of plastic bags containing blackened chunks from each of the fires he’d followed up on—unfortunately, long after the firebug had gone.

“I’ve been to three fires now, and that accelerant they are using isn’t exactly household stuff. If it was kids, then I reckon they’d have just tossed in a couple of fire starters from their old man’s barbecue.”

Ricky turned his screen so the Chief could see it. “And that smell is petroleum.” He tapped his finger on the image of a compact red canister that looked like a fancy metal water bottle with a long slender wand and a small black handle. “I reckon they used something like this drip torch.”

“Pffff.” The Chief let out a frustrated huff, sending a strong waft of tobacco and cologne Ricky’s way. “I couldn’t give a cuss what they used. Probably threw an old rag soaked in gas into the trash and added a cigarette butt. See! What’d I tell you son?”

He jabbed one of the bags, where a shred of cigarette filter remained.

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