“Not even close.”
“You know more than a forensics expert?”
Casey shrugged. “As much as. Enough to know how to trick one.”
“Well, let’s hope you know enough to finger whoever pulled this.”
“I can tell you how it started, where it was set, what accelerant they used, what temps it reached, and how it moved—but I’m not a detective. I don’t have a lab, and even if I did, there’s not going to be much left in the way of fingerprints and fibers in there.”
“Maybe not, but you’re what we’ve got.”
“There’s Miah and Christine, too—they might have some guess who could’ve done this . . . though it doesn’t feel right to start grilling them anytime soon. Not if he’s . . .”
Vince nodded. “But the second you get a chance, I want you in there. I want to know what cocksucker did this. And I want to be there when we find him.”
Casey swallowed, nodded.
“I’m leaving it to you,” Vince said, and he headed toward the farmhouse, no doubt to find his best friend. That left Casey on his own, staring at the rising steam and dwindling smoke, the plumes of water still dousing the razed husk of the barn. Every gallon washed away a little more evidence, a little more of any trail that might’ve been left. And under all that mess must lie the body of one of the best men Casey had ever known.
When it all became too much to look at, he turned away, and went in search of Abilene.
? ? ?
Abilene was in a daze.
She’d followed the hands, walking a half mile or more to the edge of a quiet service road, a dozen of them huddled in a confused group, watching the black smoke snaking up and sliding away over the range on the wind. Sirens had come in wave after wave, the only noise more piercing than Mercy’s wails.
An errant thought visited her as she stood there, lost in a storm of murmuring, nervous voices.
Casey showed up just before that fire started. He’d come trotting over to them not twenty minutes before the smoke had begun to billow, a self-described pyromaniac arriving from the direction of a blaze, to the party that had conveniently cleared all the witnesses away from the scene.
Don’t be ridiculous. And that was how the notion felt to her—ridiculous. Though the coincidence was impossible not to notice, not after everything he’d told her last night.
When the smoke began to thin, it was collectively decided that everyone should head closer and see if there was any way to help.
Saddled with an infant, Abilene veered toward the farmhouse while the hands continued on to their colleagues, who were leading horses away from the stables. Things looked safe enough at the house, and there were two sheriff’s deputies on the porch, talking with a firefighter and Christine. Abilene couldn’t have guessed her tanned face could ever look so pale, and dread dropped like an anchor into her gut. Something was wrong, something that went way beyond property damage. She didn’t dare butt in and ask, but instead slowed as she climbed the steps, listening.
“When was that?” asked a young black woman dressed in bulky tan and neon yellow firefighter’s coveralls, speaking gently to Christine. Too gently.
“Early,” she replied, sounding shell-shocked. “Seven o’clock, maybe?”
“And did he expect the repairs to take several hours?”
“I couldn’t say. It depends on how much work the thing needed. But I haven’t seen him . . .” Her normally capable, athletic frame looked frail and breakable, arms hugged tight around her middle.
She’s talking about Don. He’d been going to look at some John Deere thing or other. Could that have caused the fire? A mechanical issue?
Then she remembered the mystery creep, and all at once it felt much too convenient for comfort. She’d stopped on the porch, staring now, and Christine reached out to touch her arm, steer her gently in the direction of the front door. So she wouldn’t overhear anything more? Or simple permission to get inside, away from all the chaos?