I didn’t bother to park the truck in the driveway — I drove across the lawn and into the back yard, watching the flames billow out and the smoke pour away from my barn.
It seemed like forever as I stood there by the truck, watching the flames grow larger, and watching the paint blister and blacken against the south wall of my house, and there was a quick, horrible debate going on inside my mind — call the fire department or grab the garden hose — what to do first?
Though the debate seemed to go on forever, it probably only lasted a few seconds. I ran to the garage, tossing aside rakes and shovels and grabbing the hard coil of a garden hose. My fingers and hands were trembling as I unrolled the hose in the back yard, and I broke two fingernails (and didn’t notice it until the next day) screwing in one end to the outside faucet. As I worked I muttered a lot under my breath, hoping that someone, anyone, would see the smoke and call County Dispatch.
The smoke and flames rose higher and the heat was tremendous, blackening and curling the grass, blistering the south wall of the house. I turned on the hose and the water came rushing out, and when I turned it against the barn I realized what a pitiful stream of water it really was. I kept the hose on the barn for a few long minutes — remembering what was stored there — but I knew the barn was lost after there was a sharp crack as one of the windows on the south wall of the house burst from the heat. I shuddered and turned the hose onto the south wall, trying to wet it down.
The fire trucks came in a few minutes, and in that time the entire south wall was charred and two windows were broken, but the house was saved. That was at least some consolation, for the barn had collapsed upon itself by the time the trucks arrived.
The barn, with at least two hundred books, my only childhood photos of myself and my parents’ wedding album, my winter clothes, slides from my trans-Canada trip, and two book manuscripts I had always wanted to finish, was gone.
I didn’t bother picking through the rubble. It would have depressed me even more. Instead, I spent fifty bucks for Burke Farnsworth to come by with his backhoe and flatten everything and drive it into the cellar hole.
And seven days later — just a week! — Tate Burnham was arrested and charged with the arsons.
I must give Chief Parnell and the state police credit, for not once had Tate Burnham’s name come up in any of my conversations with the chief or the state. But I learned he had been one of the handful of suspects from the start, and mainly because of the practically-forgotten cottage fire that had started it all, on Lake Arthur. The cottage belonged to the Maynard family, and Tate Burnham — who worked in one of the mills in Tannon — had been dating seventeen-year-old Cindy Maynard. She had broken up with him and for revenge, perhaps, he had burned down the family’s cottage. And to cover his tracks, the barn on Swallow Reach also went up in flames the same day.
Tate Burnham lived with his stepfather and mother in a trailer near the Purmort-Tannon line. And at one time, for about a year, he had been a volunteer firefighter in Purmort, until he dropped out last summer for no apparent reason.
The most-asked question, of course, was why? And in a private few minutes I had with Chief Parnell before Tate Burnham’s court hearing, the chief had shrugged and said, “We think he started liking it, that’s all. Simple as that. He started burning things down and enjoyed it.”
Simple motive, and a simple capture. One Wednesday members of the Greater Purmort Bird Club had been watching for a Great Thrush Whacker or something up on Garrison Hill, and they had seen Tate Burnham walk a ways across a field and go into some woods. Some minutes later they saw smoke rising in the distance and saw Tate run hell-bent-for-leather out of the woods. One of the birdwatchers recognized Tate and the state police and the chief were told, and they got search warrants and found a collection of rags and a box of matches identical to the ones used, a map marking some of the fires, and other evidence.
Though I was happy he was captured, I wished he had been caught sooner, but the fates didn’t work that way. The smoke rising the day the birdwatchers saw Tate Burnham came from my barn.
A few days later I covered Tate Burnham’s bail hearing, and that’s when the so-called Miracle of Purmort occurred.
In the basement of the Town Hall, next to the police station, was the district court. On the day of Tate Burnham’s hearing, the benches were full and there was standing-room only against the cement walls. I managed to get a seat up front. The rest of the media horde had returned, including, I wasn’t too happy to see, Harmon Kirk. He gave me a half-wave and I responded with a half-smile, and then Judge Temple came out, long black robe flowing. After some legal jumbo Chief Parnell and a state trooper came in, with Tate Burnham between them.
Tate was barely twenty, standing at least six feet and gangly. He had an acne-scarred face and a scraggly beard, and he wore army fatigue pants and a black T-shirt imprinted with a colorful logo from one of those rock bands. There was a collective sigh in the room when he walked in, and I wondered suddenly why Chief Parnell or some county sheriffs hadn’t frisked the crowd as they came in. It would have been mighty easy to smuggle in a pistol or a sawed-off shotgun, and Harmon Kirk caught my eye and smiled again, and I knew the same thing was on his — and others’ — minds. No doubt the rest of the media were there to cover the bail hearing, but I’m sure some were secretly hoping for an outburst or a vigilante display.
After some more legal talk Judge Temple set bail at fifty thousand dollars, cash or surety, meaning property or some such being put up for the bail amount. I heard a few low moans from the front right bench, and saw a heavy woman in black polyester stretch pants and a teary-eyed man, arm across her shoulders, and I imagined they were Tate Burnham’s parents. That amount probably seemed as much as a million dollars to them, and I saw Tate turn and smirk at his parents, and at that moment I felt my jaw clench, knowing this smiling twerp had torn a part of my life out with his rags and matches.
Then a few people started coming forward, either with checks or pieces of paper in their hands, and the court clerk look flustered and went up to the judge, and soon there was a line of people at the bench, all carrying something in their hands, and the courtroom started buzzing and I was scrambling to write in my reporter’s notebook as Judge Temple rapped his gavel and said, “Tate Burnham, you should consider yourself one lucky soul. About twenty of your neighbors have come forward to pay your bail.”
There was some shouting and crying from his parents, but after a few moments the handcuffs were off Tate Burnham and he was being hustled out of the courtroom, past the bright lights of the television cameras and the microphones of the reporters. The place became very crowded and I found myself wedged in among some reporters next to Wayne Ferguson, road agent for the town, who scratched at his bald head and explained why he had put up one thousand dollars for Tate Burnham’s release.
Wayne Ferguson said, “Well, the boy’s troubled, anyone can see that. I don’t see what purpose or good it’d do, having him put in jail until the trial. No purpose at all. After all’s said and done, he’s from Purmort, he’s a neighbor. And we take care of our own here.”
With that he pushed some of us aside and I was next to Harmon Kirk, who carried one of those hand-held Japanese tape recorders.
Harmon said, “Hell of a good story, Jerry.”
“That it is. But you must be disappointed — no vigilantes.”