They didn’t question him, only began flinging lockers open. Graham started in the back corner, where the smell of something burning was the strongest, though still not overpowering.
“Found it—Jesus H. Who does this shit?” Brad stood back as he opened a locker and thin, white smoke billowed out. There, at the bottom of the locker, sat a candle, flame flickering. The hem of a t-shirt hanging on a hook, dangling over the open flame, smoked, but there was no active fire yet. A pair of workout shorts dangled from the other hook, high enough that it wasn’t in danger. Yet. From the look of it, the clothes were too damp with sweat to make a fire likely, for now. Brad grabbed the damp T-shirt from the hook and tossed it to the tiled floor, stomping on it a little just to be sure there was no live flame. Greg reached around him and blew out the candle.
They all stared into the locker, watching the swinging shorts and the black smoke tendril coming off the charred, extinguished wick.
“Whose locker is this? What asshole lights a fucking candle in their locker and then just shuts it? God.” Greg ran a hand through his hair, which really needed a trim if he wanted to be within uniform regs. “How stupid could someone be?”
“They’re babies,” Graham reminded him. “They can’t think straight with all the testosterone flowing through their veins, combined with the competition. It’s someone’s locker, so let’s find out whose, give them the ass chewing of a lifetime, and make anything that could start a fire off limits from here on out. No more prematch ritual candle or incense.”
“Guys,” Brad said quietly, looking at the name written on the waistband of the shorts. “This wasn’t an accident. These were Tressler’s. He’s not the candle-lighting type.”
“Tressler?” Greg’s jaw ticked. “That little pencil dick . . .”
“No.” Brad shook his head and slapped a hand down on Greg’s shoulder to contain him. Greg and Tressler had had an . . . altercation a few weeks ago after the younger man had made some inadvisable comments about Reagan. It wouldn’t take much to have Greg’s anger running loose where the young Marine was involved. “This wasn’t him. Think. Is Greg the kind of guy who would light a freaking Bath & Body Works candle in his locker?”
Graham and Greg both blinked at each other, then stared more closely at the candle still cooling in the bottom of the locker. Sure enough, it wasn’t the plain grocery store candle most guys would have picked out. It was a pink confection of a candle, with a gingham-style bow for a label and a froufrou name. No guy would have selected it and intended to burn it in public.
“So . . . what? How the hell did it get there?” Graham thought for a moment. “Did someone else . . . shit.”
“Yeah,” Brad said quietly. Greg’s eyes narrowed as he caught on. “I think our vandal has just upgraded to arson.”
“And with something that smells like a perfume counter,” Greg added with a sneer. “Could the guy not even pick a manly candle to try to burn the locker room with?”
“Who said it’s a guy?” Graham waited while they both turned to look at him, stunned expressions on their faces. “What? So far, nothing that’s happened has been anything a female couldn’t have pulled off. I’m not saying it is a woman, but we can’t discount it.”
“Whoever it is can’t be all that brilliant. I mean, I’m no genius, and even I know you can’t light wet shit on fire, and those clothes are obviously soaked.” Greg scoffed as he toed the shirt, still on the ground.
“There’s an entire building full of people. I wonder if they hoped the clothes would dry, and later on, they would catch more fully. After everyone was out of the building. A poor man’s long fuse.”
Brad’s idea made sense. “God. Just . . . God. We have to do something.”
“What, check every guy’s locker for the matching lotion scent?” Greg rolled his eyes.
“No.” With the finality and calmness that made him the team’s captain, Brad straightened and shut the locker door. “We handle this as a team. In-house. We don’t tell anyone about this. The MPs will get this program shut down. Or we’ll lose our practice space. Either way, it’s no good for anyone. We all meet here, Monday night, ten o’clock. Tell your squads. Nobody else.”
He didn’t have to specify the squads were the guys they’d been assigned to watch over during tryouts. Though the squads were no longer in play, it worked as an efficient sort of phone tree. Each younger Marine would trust them, and subsequently would show up when asked.
“I just want to get out of here. I’m done with this shit.” Graham slammed his own locker shut, rubbing a towel over his head before chucking it into the laundry bin in the corner by the door.