Chasing Fire

They eased off over the winter, but started coming back at the start of the season. And they’re getting worse.”
    “You found another fire victim, someone else you knew. That would kick it up some.”
    “He’s started to talk to me in them—cryptic warnings. I know it’s my head putting words in his mouth, but I can’t figure it out.”
    “What did he say tonight?”
    “That it wasn’t finished. There’d be more coming. I guess I’m worried there will be, and that’s probably all there is to it.”
    “Why are you worried?”
    “Well, Jesus, Gull, who isn’t?”
    “No, be specific.”
    “Be specific at half past whatever in the morning after twisting myself up into a panic attack?”
    The irritation in her tone settled him down. “Yeah.”
    “I don’t know . If I knew, I’d . . . Dolly and Latterly, obviously that’s connected. The odds of them both running afoul of some homicidal arsonist are just short of nil. If we were dealing with random, that would be cause for some serious worry. But this isn’t, and they’re probably going to bust Brakeman for the whole shot. But . . .”
    “But you’re having a hard time buying he’d set fire to his own daughter’s body. So am I.”
    “Yeah, but that’s what makes the most sense. He finds out Dolly’s not only lying but screwing the preacher. They fight about it, he kills her—in a rage, by accident, however. Then panics, does the rest. It broke something in him.”
    Tears running down his face, she remembered.
    “He shoots at us, kills Latterly. Case closed.”
    “Except you don’t quite believe it. Hence—”
    “Hence,” she repeated, and snickered.
    “That’s right. Hence you have nightmares where Jim—who’s connected to you and to Dolly—verbalizes what you’re already thinking, at least on a subconscious level.”
    “Thanks, Dr. Freud.”
    “And your fifty minutes are up. You should catch the couple hours’ sleep we’ve got left.”
    “We’re still on the floor. The floor was most excellent, but for sleep, the bed’s better.”
    “The bed it is.” He rose, grabbed her hand to pull her up. Then, to make her laugh, swept her up in his arms.
    Laugh she did. “I may have shed a few this season, but I’m still no lightweight.”
    “You’re right.” He dropped her onto the bed. “Next time, you carry me.” He stretched out beside her. “One thing, it looks like your nightmare blew any potential tequila hangover out of me.”
    “Always the bright side.”
    He snuggled her in, gently stroking her back until he felt her drop off.
     
     
    AFTER THE MORNING BRIEFING, she got in her run, some weight training and power yoga with Gull for company. She had to admit, having someone who could keep up with her, and more, made the daily routine more fun.
    They hit the dining hall together where Dobie slumped over a plate of toast and what Rowan recognized as a glass of Marg’s famed hangover cure.
    “Mmm, look at these big, fat sausages.” Rowan clattered the top back on the warmer. “Nothing like pig grease in the morning.”
    “I’ll hurt you when I can move without my head blowing up.”
    “Hangover?” she asked sweetly. “Gosh, I feel great .” There might have been a dull, gnawing ache at the base of her skull, but all things considered, small price to pay.
    “Hurt you, and all your kin. Your pets, too.”
    She only grinned as she sat down with a full plate. “Not much appetite this morning?”
    “I woke up on the floor with Stovic. I may never eat again.”
    “How’s Stovic?” Gull asked.
    “Last I saw him, his eyes were full of blood, and he was crawling toward his quarters. If I ever pick up a glass of tequila again, shoot me. It’d be a mercy.”
    “Drink that,” Rowan advised. “It won’t make you jump up and belt out ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,’ but it’ll take the edge off.”
    “It’s brown. And I think something’s moving in there.”
    “Trust me.”
    When he picked up the Tabasco Lynn kept on the table for him, Rowan started to tell him he wouldn’t need it—then smiled to herself as she cut into a sausage.
    Dobie doused the concoction liberally, gave a brisk, bracing nod. “Down the hatch,” he announced. Closing his eyes, he drank it down fast.
    And his eyes popped open as his face went from hangover gray to lobster red. “Holy shitfire!”
    “Burns like a helitorch.” Struggling with laughter, Rowan ate more sausage. “It may scorch some brain cells while it’s at