Winterfall (5 page)

Dear Juliet,

You don’t know the real me, but I know you. I’ve known you a long time. You can’t hide from me, even though you try. I’m the one you should turn to now that the world is going to hell. And it will continue to go to hell. You and I both know that. You’re a smart girl, but you’re so caught up in yourself that you come off selfish. That needs to stop. Stop. It. Right. Now. You see, there isn’t anywhere you can escape me. You’re under my protection and my watch from here on out. Now and for always. When the world finally comes to an end, I’ll be the only one you can count on.

I know you love the fire. I understand how it licks at you, how it burns you inside and out. I’m the only one that understands. You see, I’ve started these fires for you. Only for you. I know how you want to fight them. How they eat away at you, and each time you fight a fire you defeat a little bit more of what threatens to consume you. So I’ll keep on starting them. Oh, yes I will.

Your true and only love,

Fire starter

She dropped the letter and it fluttered to the floor. Fear rose in a slow approaching tidal wave. Was this letter from the person who’d started the fires in Buckleport? A deep shaking started at her core.
No. No.
This couldn’t be happening to her. Not here and now. It was true that her life seemed centered too often on fire, so much so that she didn’t know what to do with herself if she wasn’t fighting it. But this…this was sinister. Ugly. She bent down to retrieve the letter and envelope. Her mind whirled as she stared at the white paper, all hand written in a weird scrawl that was barely decipherable. Fear shot through her again, and she crumpled the papers between both hands, balling them up. She started for the trash can under the kitchen sink and stopped.
Oh, hell.
She couldn’t throw it away. This could be evidence in a crime. Mortified, she returned to the kitchen table and smoothed the crumpled paper. She flattened the expensive writing paper under her fingers and did the same with the envelope. She knew better than to muck with evidence.

She thought of reaching for a shot of whiskey. She’d had a bottle for two years and hadn’t found a reason or desire to open it. No. She wouldn’t start using alcohol for a crutch. She’d never done that and never would. But damn, it was tempting to take the edge off some way, somehow.

“Stupid,” she murmured. “Do something. Don’t stand here.”

She’d call Chief Krisky first and then the police. As she grabbed her cell phone and found the station in her contacts, she received a busy signal and then the line dropped. She tried again. And again. Nothing. This happened more often since Long Valley. The cell systems went haywire day and night and at inconvenient times. Systems broke down under the strains, under the apathy of people running them. She tried calling the police, and this time the call went through. They said they’d send a car around. As she went into the kitchen and looked at the note, a ball of anxiety rolled around in her stomach. Her mind ran a hundred miles an hour. She tried the fire station again and reached Captain Detmer. When she gave him the lowdown, he immediately said he’d contact the Maine State Fire Marshal’s Office in Bangor. He expressed concern, and she told him the police were on the way.

After they hung up, the police arrived fifteen minutes later in an unmarked green sedan. At first the unmarked car threw her off, but when the suit-wearing blond officer supplied his credentials, she allowed him inside. The cop was a detective around forty years old, and he introduced himself as Grant Morrison. He carried a small bag that she imagined held forensic supplies. He’d already worked with the State Fire Marshal’s office on the arson cases that had sprung up in Buckleport.

She showed him the crumpled page lying on the kitchen table. He put on cotton gloves and used a tweezers-like thing to pick it up.

After he read the letter, he asked, “Did it come today?”

“Yes.”

“Crumpled?”

“No.” Embarrassed that she’d messed with the evidence, she nevertheless fessed up. “I did that.”

He hooked his thumbs in his utility belt, his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I…it scared me. I just wanted to throw it away.”

He nodded, but there was subtle accusation in his eyes. She explained her connection to the fire department and that she’d spoken to her captain. He slipped the letter into a clear evidence bag and stowed it in the forensic kit. The muscles tightened across her shoulders and created a low ache. Fear crept into her, a relentless feeling that wouldn’t stop.

He filled out a report, asking numerous questions such as whether she knew anyone at all who could have sent her the letter.

Immediately she thought of her father, but the idea sickened her. “My father. But the letter is too bizarre. It doesn’t sound like something he’d say. It sounds like a stalker.”

“Your father?”

“Robert Van Pelt. He’s been in prison for years on arson charges. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

“The letter doesn’t appear to be posted from prison, but he could have smuggled it out.” Detective Morrison’s voice held a world of cynicism. “Stranger things have happened. You say you haven’t talked to your father. Why?”

Her nerves jumped and prickled. “Because of who he is. Because of who he
was
. He was just lucky no one was killed in any of his fires.”

“Anyone else who could have anything against you? A clear enemy who might want revenge or to frighten you?”

She rubbed the back of her neck and thought for several moments. “No. I get along with all my neighbors.”

“What about your job?”

“I’m a freelance accountant for several businesses. And no, I can’t see any of those people doing something like this. Most of them are having trouble keeping their heads above water. They seem like upstanding people. I volunteer as a firefighter and none of the people at the station would do this.”

He took more notes and told her he intended to take fingerprints off the mailbox. The detective spent a lot of time questioning, plucking her brain for ideas on the arson situations. She started to wonder if he thought she had written the letter and sent it to herself. Instead of taking a defensive position, she continued answering his questions and let him think what he wanted.

Before he could ask anything else, the doorbell rang.

Juliet rushed to the door and left the detective in the kitchen. As she looked through the peephole, she hesitated.
Mark O’Day?
What was he doing here? Today he wasn’t wearing a hat or even the Sentry Security uniform. Instead he wore a plain red long-sleeved shirt and jeans. She opened the door.

“Hey, there,” he said. “I saw the unmarked police car. Is everything all right?”

She could tell him everything was okay, but she had a distinct feeling he’d press to know why she had a cop car in front of her house. “Not exactly. Come in.”

As she allowed Mark inside, the detective entered the living room carrying his forensic bag.

“Detective Morrison, this is Mark O’Day…a friend.” She didn’t know what to call him. The men greeted each other with a handshake, and she continued with, “Mark is a part of Sentry Security.”

Detective Morrison’s closed expression didn’t tell her much. “Oh, yeah. Private security company.”

The tone betrayed cynicism, but if Mark found it offensive he didn’t show it.

“The detective is here because of a strange letter I got in the mail today. I’ll explain more in depth later,” she said.

The detective gave her his card. “If you think of anything else that could help the investigation, call me. I’ll be in touch with the State Fire Marshal. Forensics will get on this letter as soon as possible.”

After the detective exited her house, she closed the front door and sighed with relief now that he’d taken the creepy letter.

“You okay?” Mark asked.

“Not really. This letter shook me up. Have a seat. I’ve got to call the station.”

While Mark settled on the couch, she called the fire station and reported to Captain Detmer what had happened, and he promised to relay the information to Chief Krisky. As she talked she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious of Mark sitting there, his expression calm and composed. She felt anything but calm or composed.

Mark leaned forward and propped his forearms on his legs. “You got a letter detailing information about the arsons happening around town?”

She stayed in the middle of the living room and explained the content of the letter. “I wish I had a copy of it to show you. It was so creepy. The letter made it sound like I’d understand the arsonist. The motivations behind setting the fires. I think the detective is looking at me like a possible suspect.”

“Shit,” he said softly. When she made a noise of disbelief, he rushed on with, “I know you don’t have anything to do with the fires.”

She paced the room, her cell phone still in hand. “You barely know me, O’Day.”

“Mark. Call me Mark, remember?”

He’d managed a smile, damn him. And against her will that handsome grin, so charming without being the least bit fake or smarmy, put her a little more at ease. “Mark.”

“You think the cop believes you’re a suspect because of your father?”

“That and maybe because I crumpled the letter and almost threw it in the trash.”

“Understandable.”

Hesitation returned. “It’s complicated. The thing with my father.”

He tipped his head slightly to the side. “I’ve got time.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t have to be at work?”

“Our team has a week off. Our boss wants us all to rest up, but I couldn’t relax or sleep.”

“And you just happened to be driving down my street?”

“Hell, no. I wanted to see how you were doing. When I saw the cop car I freaked a little.”

“Freaked?” She couldn’t help smiling herself.

“Yeah, I was afraid something had happened. And it has. The letter isn’t anything to play around with.” He kept those intense eyes pinned on her. “Look, if you want me out of here, all you have to do is tell me to leave.”

His absolute upfront attitude surprised and refreshed her. “No. First I could use some coffee. Want some?”

“Sure.”

She went to the kitchen and waited for the entire pot to brew. He stayed in the living room, quiet as a mouse.

“How do you like your coffee?” she yelled from the kitchen.

“Black.”

She liked it that way as well, and when she entered the living room with two mugs, he was still sitting in the same place on the couch with his hands clasped over his stomach. Patience was his middle name apparently, because he didn’t say a word.

She sank onto the couch, making sure she kept as much distance as she could from him. The room between them seemed a little ridiculous on the big couch, but on the other hand it also provided a sense of security. She didn’t know what she feared—certainly not him. She had too much to say and didn’t know where to start.

He sipped his coffee. “Damn, that’s strong.”

“Sorry. Sure you don’t want cream in it?”

“No. I love strong coffee. This is just the way I like it.”

“A lot of people complain about my coffee. They don’t even let me make it at the station house anymore.”

“Really?”

“Yep. But the stuff they make now tastes like piss.”

He choked on his sip, then laughed and choked again. She laughed with him and it felt good.

“Okay, now that we have that out of the way,” he said once he’d regained his voice, “tell me why you think you got the letter?”

“I don’t know where to start. I’m not even sure I want to start,” Juliet said.

Mark took another tentative drink of the coffee. “I can tell.”

He didn’t offer to change the subject, but then she didn’t imagine he would. Something had started, and she couldn’t toss it back into Pandora’s Box and pretend it didn’t happen.

“I crumpled the letter because it reminds me of my past,” she said, her throat tightening at every word.

“Something to do with arson?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t hide the curiosity in his eyes, and maybe a hint of apprehension. She sipped her coffee, black as his and just as strong. She placed her mug on a coaster sitting on the coffee table.

“My father was an arsonist,” she said.

Her words hung there, heavy, dark and thick.

When he stayed silent, she continued. “It goes back a long ways. Mom and Dad and I lived in Bangor. That’s where I grew up. Anyway, Mom was a stay-at-home mother but she had addiction issues. She was a meth addict.”

“Damn,” he said softly, lines forming in his forehead as he frowned.

“Yes. That’s a long story all by itself. Anyway, she died one day while Dad was out starting a fire in a warehouse.” She rubbed her face. “God, I’m mixing this all up.”

He shifted more toward her and put his arm along the back of the couch. “It’s okay. Tell me in whatever order you want.”

His quiet patience unraveled her. She couldn’t resist that soothing, warm voice. Rain splattered steadily against the window, sheet lightning brightening dark clouds.

“Mom and Dad were dysfunctional from the start. I never knew my grandparents because my parents kept me from them. When my mother overdosed one day, I was three years old and at a daycare center. I guess my mother didn’t want me to be in the house when she shot up. It was good for me that I wasn’t home. Anyway, Dad started a fire and then picked me up at daycare and found Mom dead in the bathroom. I remember a few seconds of seeing Mom lying there. My Dad mumbling, shouting.”

“God.”

She glanced up, saw the momentary shock on his face. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s the youngest memory I have.” She shivered. “It’s not a strong memory, but it’s real.”

Once more she reached for her mug, aware that with each sip she stalled for more time. For a way to express all of this.

Finally, she said, “Anyway, after that my father decided he couldn’t take care of me. I went into the foster system. While I was with the first family I was an only child, but they treated me like crap. No, not like crap exactly. Like I wasn’t there.”