Blue Smoke

matchbooks, rags on fire.
    He watched it start to smolder and leap, watched it slyly sneak its way along the path he’d provided for it.
    He gathered his pack, strolled out and lit his stage in the kitchen. Then he turned on the gas stove, extinguished the pilot and left the door open.
    The fire was edging toward her, crawling over the bed like a lover. Smoke rose in sluggish plumes. He stepped around it, opened the window two inches.
    For a moment he stood there, watching it circle him, daring him.
    He’d loved nothing in his life the way he loved the dance of flame. It tempted him to stay, to watch, to admire, just another minute. Just one more minute.
    But he stepped back. The fire was already starting to sing.
    “Hear it, Deb? She’s alive now. Excited and hungry. Feel her heat? I almost envy you. Almost envy you what you’re about to experience. Almost,” he said.
    And hitching his pack, he picked up the florist’s box and slipped out the door.
    It was dark now, and fires burned brighter in the dark. This one would. He took a Sirico’s takeout menu, dropped it at the front edge of the building.
    When he reached his car, he stowed his backpack, the empty florist’s box in the cargo area. He checked his watch, calculated the time, then took a leisurely drive around the block.
    He could see the whiffs of smoke finding their escape from the window he’d opened, and the sparkle of flame just rising up, seeking the air he’d provided.

    He dialed Reena’s number. He kept it short this time, simply rattled off the address. He tossed the phone out the window and drove toward home.
    He had work to do.
    T he war was being fought when Reena arrived. Arcs of water hurled against the building, battled the bright flames that shot out of windows. Firefighters carried people out of the building while still others dragged hoses in.
    She grabbed a helmet out of her trunk and shouted at Bo over the sounds of battle. “Stay back. Stay way back until I get a handle on the situation.”
    “There are people in there this time.”
    “They’ll get them out. That’s what they do.” She raced over, around barricades that were still being set up. Through the haze of smoke, she spotted the company commander barking into a two-way.
    “Detective Hale, arson unit. I called it in. Give me the status.”
    “Third floor, southeast corner. Evacuation and suppression. Black smoke, active flames on arrival. Three of my men just went in the door of the involved unit. We’ve got—”
    The explosion blasted out, punching through the wall of noise. Glass and brick rained down, lethal missiles battering cars, the street, people.
    She threw up an arm to shield her face and saw the sword of fire stab through the roof.
    Men rushed the building, charging into the holocaust.
    “I’m certified,” Reena shouted. “I’m going in.”
    The commander shook his head. “One more civilian reported inside. Nobody else goes in until I know the status of my men.” He held her off, snapping orders, questions into his two-way.
    The voice that crackled on reported two men down.
    The night was full of the fire, the power of it, the terrible beauty. She stood, as mesmerized as she was horrified as it danced out of wood and brick, toward the sky.

    She knew how it capered inside that wood and brick, flying, consuming, lashing back at those who tried to kill it. It roared and it whispered, it slithered and it flashed.
    How much would it destroy? Flesh and bone as well as wood and brick, before it was tamed. This time.
    The third floor collapsed with a sound like thunder and opened the gateway for the fire to soar.
    Men stumbled out of the building with their fallen comrades on their backs. And paramedics dashed forward.
    She moved forward with the commander toward one of the men taking long hits of oxygen through a mask. The man shook his head.
    “Bitch was in flashover. We got in. Victim on the bed. Gone. Already gone. We laid down a line of suppression, and it blew. Carter took the worst. He took the worst. Jesus, I think he’s dead. Brittle’s bad, but I think Carter’s dead.”
    Reena looked up at the sound of more thunder. More of the roof going, she thought dully. And most of the floor under the apartment he’d chosen.
    Who had he killed tonight? Who had he burned to death?
    She crouched down, touched a hand to the shoulder of the firefighter who dropped his head to his knees. “I’m Reena,” she said. “Reena Hale. Arson unit.