Figuring I might as well face the music, I opened the door wearing a ratty, blue bathrobe.
“I’m having trouble making eye contact with you right now.” The wall behind his head was looking good, though. “Can we do this later? When I have on more clothes?”
“I take it as a compliment,” he rumbled over my head, his voice booming in the tight space, rolling like thunder off in the distance.
A compliment. Ouch. Talk about getting parked in the friend-zone. Better than him wanting to bleach out his nostrils, but still. Yeah. Ouch.
“I need to get dressed.” I shuffled past him. “I promised Sherry I would visit her today, and I would like to drop in on Dad too before I head to work.”
“All right.” He held his ground and allowed me to retreat. “Be ready to leave at eight.”
“Sure.” I kept addressing my toes. “See you then.”
Closing my bedroom door behind me had never felt so good, and that was saying a lot considering all the times I had slammed it after fighting with Dad over teenage drama. Some things never changed it seemed. My hormones were right back to getting me in trouble.
The black phone sat undisturbed on my pillow, and I eyed it warily like it might sprout fangs and bite me. I woke it and checked the contacts. There was only one number saved. No name. I scrolled through the call log and found the call I had missed earlier. No surprise, it matched the digits from its address book.
I almost hit redial just to give myself an excuse to vent, but Wu was an unknown, and I wouldn’t live long if I poked too many bears without first filing down their teeth. That decision made, I left the phone behind and dressed for work. I had a couple hours left to burn, but I would rather run my errands in uniform than come back home to change.
Downstairs, all was quiet. The coterie had vacated the premises, and I sent up a prayer of thanks I didn’t have to endure a walk of shame to reach the Bronco. I checked to ensure the cooler was secure then headed into town.
The visit with Dad wouldn’t take long. Our interactions never did these days, so I made the Rixtons my first stop.
I pulled into their driveway and turned off the Bronco. The engine was still ticking when my phone rang, and I answered as Rixton stepped out of his house. He was dressed for work too, and the sight of him wearing his cop face on the front steps of his home chilled my blood. I still held the phone to my ear, like the filter of technology might soften the blow of whatever news he was about to deliver.
“We’ve got another victim. Same MO. This time off Hart Road.”
“The Culberson cattle ranch.” Uncle Harold had lost a bet on the Super Bowl three years ago and paid up in the form of an entire side of beef that Dad and I had to haul from the farm to the freezer. “It’s a small operation. They do everything in-house, and there’s a farm-to-fork restaurant on the premises.”
“Leave the Bronco in the drive.” He slid behind the wheel of the cruiser. “I’ll bring you home with me after work.”
The trip out to Culberson’s took about twelve minutes. We spotted the thick, black smoke long before we hit the dirt road leading up to the pasture. Cattle huddled together in the corner of the fence nearest the road, their eyes white with terror, and their screams punching through the blare of the siren. Two gangly teen boys, probably the owners’ kids, worked to separate individual cows from the herd and then load them onto a waiting trailer.
“Stop the car,” I barked at Rixton when we got even with them. “Shut that gate, boys. I’m radioing in for backup. You can’t handle that many cattle alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“This is our livelihood.” The taller one stiffened, his chin jerking high. “We have to save what we can.”
“I agree.” I stared him down. “Starting with your own skins.”
“She’s right, Hank.” The other boy hooked his arm around the tall boy’s shoulders. “We gotta be smart about this, bro. Mom and Dad have enough to worry about.” He nodded at me. “We’ll wait, ma’am.”
“Good call.” Rixton keyed up the radio so I could call in the promised backup. “Those kids are brave, but there’s a thin line between brave and stupid.”
I finished the call and was ready to hit the ground running when we parked in front of the roaring bonfire that used to be a sprawling plantation-style home. A portion of the downstairs had been dedicated to the family restaurant and other business pursuits while the living quarters were upstairs. None of it would survive. I read it plainly on the faces of the firemen working to keep the blaze from spreading to the western fields. The eastern fields, where the trapped cattle bellowed for salvation, was being devoured on the whims of the breeze.
Three men and a woman dressed in jeans and matching tees looked on with grief in their eyes. The oldest of the group, a man of around forty, noticed us and limped over to offer his hand.
“I’m Peter Culberson.” He favored his left side, but I could tell the EMTs had been and gone thanks to the missing lower leg of his jeans and the bright bandage wrapping his shin. “Guess you’re here to talk about Boris Ivashov.”
Rixton handled the introductions then asked, “Is he the arsonist?”
“Yeah.” The man ruffled his hair. “I guess.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he did this. He’s been with us for years.” He glanced up, a hint of shock dulling his eyes. “You think you know someone, right?”
Telling him you could never truly know another person was counterproductive, so I shepherded him back on topic. “Where is Mr. Ivashov?”
“They took him to Madison Memorial.” He shifted his weight, grimaced. “He’s in bad shape. I’d be shocked if he survived the night.” He scanned the fields around us through bleak eyes. “Hell, I’d be impressed if they got him there alive in the first place.”
Despite the wall of heat roasting my cheeks, I shivered with the knowledge we would have to stop by the hospital at some point, assuming the man survived. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“We’re trying out a new lunch menu, so the restaurant was open earlier than usual. I was in the back with our chef when customers started screaming. I ran into the dining room in time to see Boris smash out the front window with the butt of a drip torch, one of those metal canister deals we use for controlled burns on the back forty.” Mr. Culberson rubbed his face with the heels of his palms. “He set fire to the tablecloths first, and once the customers started scattering, he got serious about lighting up the tables and chairs.
“We focused on distracting Boris long enough for everyone to clear the building, but he got riled up when he lost his audience and started chasing folks to their cars. I took a shovel and beat him back, but it was like he didn’t feel it.” A harsh chuckle moved through him. “Guess I did my job a little too well. He started running after me then. Scared me so bad the way he was waving that torch around, I tripped over my own damn feet and fell through a busted-out window. I got my shin cut up pretty good, but I’ve had worse. Working on a farm, we’ve all had worse. I got out of there, but Boris walked right into the house, sat down at one of the tables like he was waiting to be served, and didn’t budge until one of the firemen hauled him to safety.”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Culberson,” Rixton said, ending the interview. “I hope you make a speedy recovery.”
“I’m glad no one else was hurt,” I added. “You were all very lucky.”
“Tell me about it.” He looked back at the others. “We’re all alive. That’s what matters. We can always rebuild.”