Page 16 of Massive Size Lumberjack

“No. Who’s this?”

“This here is Braden Rockwell,” the chief adds in a smooth tone. “Mr. Rockwell is an expert in fire safety. He’s got a lot of experience and actually happens to live just up the hill from your property. You’re neighbors.”

The old man looks at me craftily, and then grins. Literally, a ghastly smile breaks out across his face.

“Neighbors, hmm?” he sing-songs while stepping back to allow us entry. “You said your name was Rock?” he inquires like he doesn’t know.

“Yes, Braden Rockwell,” I respond in a deep tone.

“And where are you from?” Jimbo simpers.

“Here and there,” I say vaguely. “I work all over.”

The old man nods, trying to appear sage, as we step into a dilapidated sitting room. There’s a massive flat screen on the floor, and a sad, patchy couch in front of it. The walls are water-stained and the windows sag in their frames. The entire place stinks to high heaven of pot, but it seems they’ve sprayed air freshener to try and mask the smell.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work because a bucketful of Glade wouldn’t be enough hide the stench. No, hazmat suits are what’s needed, although I try to keep my expression neutral as the old man gestures to the couch.

“Take a seat,” he invites with a cackle. “You work all over, hmm? Some kind of lone wolf? You got a permanent place?”

I stare at him, my blue eyes flinty.

“I travel a lot,” I say in a vague tone. “I stay here and there.”

The old man grins, thinking he’s pushed me into a trap.

“I’m sure,” Jimbo simpers once more. “Putting down roots is overrated. Now what’s this about a fire?”

Chief Roscoe pulls out a pad, his expression serious.

“As you know, there was a fire on your property. I believe your daughter Grace lives there, overseeing your marijuana operation.”

That’s when a young man steps into the room. He’s clearly a chip off the old rock, judging from his stained wife-beater, straggly hair, and missing teeth.

“Yeah, my sister Grace oversees the growing operations of Treadwell Cannabis,” the young man interjects. “And you are?” he asks, staring at me with bloodshot eyes.

“This here’s Braden Rock,” Jimbo sings while staring pointedly at me. “You know. Our new neighbor.”

“Oh right,” Robbie Treadwell responds, careful to keep his expression neutral. “I see.”

What the fuck is wrong with these dudes? I realize that I haven’t been upfront about my identity. The lodge I’m building is owned by an LLC, and can’t be traced to me personally. Not only that, but I haven’t been using my full name when I come into town. Instead, I use the name “Braden Rock” to maintain my anonymity.

After all, as a billionaire, there’s a ton of shit about me on-line, from my business deals to my amorous exploits. Most of it is made-up, but there’s no need to fan the flames. I’ve enjoyed living on the downlow, and have half a mind to change my name permanently because it’s been nice like this. Peaceful, even. No one’s asked for anything, no one’s tried to talk to me, and for the most part, people leave me alone. Hell, Idefinitelyshould change my name if I want to enjoy the quiet life.

But right now, something’s off. It’s clear Jim and Robbie Treadwell have done some digging around. They know that I liveup the mountain, and that I’ve been seeing Grace. That much is clear. So I try to play it cool.

“The fire at your farm spread,” I say in a neutral voice. “It crossed property lines and some of the land on my side was affected too. Any idea who started it?”

“Oh no,” Jimbo wheezes immediately. “But it could be anything. A match. A cigarette. A spark from a power line. Shit is unpredictable these days.”

“Does Grace smoke?” Officer Roscoe asks with a direct look at Jim. “And where is Grace, by the way? Is she here? Can we talk to her? I’m sure she’d have pertinent information.”

Robbie shakes his head.

“Grace decided to travel,” he lies through his teeth with a sneer my way. “She only left recently, as a matter of fact. She asked me to oversee the farm in her absence, and so I went there yesterday morning to check up on things, and that’s when I discovered that everything was burned to the ground. So sad,” he says with a fake frown. “But we’ve harvested enough for the year already, so Treadwell Cannabis will be fine. We have plenty of product to carry us through the next sixteen months or so.”

I stare at this man because he’s clearly lying.

“Arson is a crime,” I say in a steady voice. “Fairview FD will do an investigation, and determine the source of the fire.”

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