Page 98 of Fire Fight
Lane was bent over the table, scribbling, and didn’t look up when he asked, “Any identifying features?”
“Tall-ish?” Parker phrased it almost like a question. “Probably a few inches shorter than six feet. No idea if they were a man or woman, though. Their voice was all jacked up, like they were using some sort of device to distort it. Like Batman or some shit.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. This kid was really growing on me. His act of arson notwithstanding, he appeared to have a really good head on his shoulders.
“Why did you turn yourself in, Parker? You’ve lived here your entire life, so you have to know we didn’t find anything on the cameras or our door to door canvas.”
“I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve come to realize this has to be connected to the Prom Night Arsonist, right? Like…the person that paid me is likely the killer?”
A shiver wracked his body as he spoke, and I understood the feeling. Coming face to face with someone who had murdered twelve people and almost took a thirteenth out would make anyone’s skin crawl.
“Yes, Parker. We think the dumpster fire is connected,” I said.
“Do you have the money by chance?” Lane asked.
Parker leaned to the side and dug through the backpack resting at his feet, withdrawing the thin stack of bills and sliding them across the table to my brother. Without a word, Lane got up and left the room, returning shortly thereafter with an evidence bag, a pair of nitrile gloves covering his hands.
“We’ll send this up to Boise for fingerprinting and other diagnostics,” Lane said as he slid the bills into the bag.
“They were wearing gloves both times I met with them,” Parker said. “I doubt you’ll find anything.”
I had to agree with the kid, and I was sure Lane did too.
Only Lane had gone completely still, the only movement of his body his eyelids slowly opening and closing.
“You met with them twice?”
“Yeah,” Parker said, clearly confused by the question.That made two of us. “Once when they approached me in the park, and then after the fire when they gave me the rest of the money.”
Lane sealed the evidence bag and swept it off to the side, then peeled the gloves off and returned to his chair, pen poised over his notebook once again.
“Where’d you meet the second time?”
“In that little field on the backside of the school gym.”
For another ten or so minutes, Lane pressed Parker for more information, asking Parker to recount every minute detail he possibly could. I had to admit, I was impressed. The kid had incredible recall, and though the person who’d approached him didn’t give much in the way of identifying information, Parker handled each of Lane’s questions with poise. Finally, when there was nothing left to say or ask, Lane let Parker go with only the promised warning.
We followed him out and when Parker turned right toward the front of the building and the exit, Lane and I headed left toward his office.
The door slam behind us was heavy, and Lane’s carefully crafted facade began to crumble right before my eyes.
“This guy has evaded capture for forty years,” Lane said. “This kid is the first solid lead we have?—”
“And Aspen,” I cut in.
“—and the fucker made certain to completely mask his identity.”
Without warning, Lane’s fist shot out and slammed into the wall, punching a hole clear through it. Dust floated around him, and several pictures fell, shattering on the floor.
“Woah!” I shouted, grabbing his arm a second before he landed another. “What the fuck?”
Lane pulled away from me and stalked behind his desk, resting his palms on the surface and bending over.
“I fucking hate this guy, Crew. Anytime we get close, he takes off running. It’s like he’s forty steps ahead, and no matter what I do, I can’t close that distance.”
I moved to his side and placed a hand on my brother’s shoulder. He was tense as a statue, and I didn’t envy him this job that made him feel like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Hell, I understood that feeling better than anyone.
