“Can you make it through?” said Kyle.
“Watch me,” said his father as he struggled to lumber atop the dryer.
Kyle reached out a hand and pulled him up and then dropped to his hands and knees to make a stepping stool.
A few moments later, they were lying side by side beneath the front edge of the front porch. It was a strangely delicious moment for Kyle Byrne. He was racked with fear, yes, and in pain still from the beating, yes, and the heat bearing down on the two of them from the house was excruciating, despite the cool air that was now bathing their faces. But here he was, in the same spot where he’d been lying alone ten years before, once again smack in the middle of trouble, but this time with his father.
An explosion overhead, and the street, already illuminated by the fire raging above them, lit up even brighter. In the distance, sirens could be heard.
“My car is in the driveway,” said Kyle, “around the back. Stay here while I grab it.”
“Don’t play the fool, boyo,” said his father. “The car’s gone, along with the house.”
“The house I don’t really care about, the bank took it already, but the car’s pretty much all I have left.”
“Not anymore. Either it’s been immobilized or he’s waiting for you to jump inside before he starts shooting. It’s a death trap now.” “I can’t leave it.” Pause. “It has your ashes in it.”
“You kept them all this time?”
“Funny, isn’t it?”
“Yes, actually, but not worth your life anymore, are they? I parked my rental about a block away.”
“But, Dad, it’s my car.”
“It’s our only chance. We have many things still to do. We need a clean breakaway. Trust me on this.”
Kyle turned and looked at him, looked at his father, and suddenly he didn’t give a damn about the rusted old Datsun. What he wanted, what he had wanted for years, was someone he could rely on. His father, even before he supposedly died, had never been what you could call reliable, and his reappearance after fourteen years of what could only be considered desertion didn’t bode well for a swift turnabout. And yet Kyle had so often dreamed over the years of just this, a chance to put his fate in his father’s hands, that he couldn’t refuse. There were questions that needed to be answered, and soon, but not now. Now he’d rely on the old man, because it’s what he had wanted to do all his life.
“All right,” said Kyle. “I’ll follow you.”
“Good. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” said Kyle, and then he turned his head. “Hey, Dad.”
“Yes, boyo?”
“Happy Father’s Day.”
A gentle smile on his father’s face. “Is that what it is?”
“That’s what it is,” said Kyle, his voice choked, his heart so full it cracked. “Okay, let’s go.”
In the street a small crowd had gathered, pulled out of their parlors and off their porches by the light and the noise, watching the inferno devour the empty old Cape Cod as they waited for the arrival of the fire engines that had been summoned over and again from one cell phone after another. And every now and then, another rocket would shoot up from behind the house like a signal flare from some fiendish battle, exploding across the stars in fingers of fire emanating from a perfect blue eye hanging fierce and unblinking in the night sky. And the crowd would go “Awww” as if the display were being put on solely for their amusement.
And just as one of those rockets burst incandescent in the darkness over the flaming house, while most faces were tilted to the sky with mouths involuntarily open in delight, a young boy noticed two strange shadows rising like ghosts from the ground beneath the burning house’s porch, one ghost seemingly young and strong, the other older and thicker, moving stiffly as he clutched something to his chest, both running from the house with their waists bent, as if trying not to be seen, running down the street, the young one turning back to take in the splendorous sight, and then running away, away.
“Look, Mommy,” said the boy, pointing at the disappearing shadows.
“Yes,” said his mother, her chin high as she stared at the sweet show in the sky, “isn’t it beautiful?”
CHAPTER 31
DAWN WAS JUST BREAKING as Henderson and Ramirez toured the charred and stinking wreck with mouths shut and hands in pockets. The roof was gone, jagged shards of wall stood out from the debris, the whole site was soaked through as if it had rained nonstop for weeks on end just upon this one patch of blighted earth. The two detectives took it all in with stony expressions. This crime scene was out of their jurisdiction, and they had no inherent authority here, but they had come right out once notified of the fire by a suburban inspector named Demerit.
“I recalled the request you sent in about any information we might have on Kyle Byrne,” said Demerit as he accompanied them around the scene, kicking aside any burned timbers that had fallen in their way. Demerit was short and gray and wore the cheap blue suit of a cop a bit too long on the job.
“We appreciate it,” said Henderson. “It was quite a thing for you to remember that request right off.”
“I knew the kid. Byrne was the best running back we ever had at Haverford High, and that wasn’t even his sport.”
“What was?” said Henderson.
“Baseball. I coached against him in Little League. He had a swing so beautiful it could make you cry. We didn’t have a fence high enough to contain him. I could have sworn he was going places.”
“A regular Babe Ruth,” said Henderson. “So what happened?”
“Life, I suppose. I played drums all through high school, was going to be a rock star, right? What about you, sweetie?” he said to Ramirez. “What were you going to be when you grew up?”
“A police detective,” said Ramirez.
Henderson looked at the interaction with amusement. This Demerit had been talking mostly to Henderson, which had ticked Ramirez off, considering she was the one who had put in the request for information about Kyle Byrne. And then the “sweetie” had pissed her off even more. One more strike and she’d be at his throat, which wouldn’t get them anywhere but would be fun as hell to watch.
“What do you have for us, Inspector Demerit?” said Henderson.
“The fire marshal found evidence of accelerant all over the place, so it’s definitely arson. The house used to belong to Byrne’s mother. The son inherited it when she died.”