Contagious Page 72

BURN, BURN, YES YA GONNA BURN (REDUX)

Even though most of the Jewell house was already gone, flames still shot into the dark sky. Flashing fire-truck lights added to the visuals, the mixed illumination coloring snowflakes that dropped straight down like slow-motion rain. In the dark isolation of the Jewell property, the place felt like an island of light surrounded by an infinite black ocean.

Hoses from the trucks poured water onto the burning house, turning the yard into a slushy mess filled with cinders and mud. A lead on a triangle case taking him to a house on fire? Gosh, Dew thought, what a surprise. If he’d come as soon as they reached g.a.y.l.o.r.d, he’d probably have the Jewells in custody right now. Instead, Dew had a feeling all he’d get would be more corpses for Margaret’s collection.

Margaret. She was a mess. Amos had gone out hard. The longer she stayed in this business, in the secret land of the Murray Longworths and the Dew Phillipses, the more she’d understand s.h.i.t like that was inevitable. He wondered if she’d block it out, or if someday in the future she’d be telling her own war stories.

Dew looked at Perry, who stood expressionless, watching the fire. What was going on in that big melon of his? Three days since they’d tussled, and Perry really seemed to have come around. Looked like Margaret was right again. Dew hoped it was a genuine change. As f.u.c.ked up as it sounded, and it sounded d.a.m.n f.u.c.ked up, he was starting to like the kid.

Dew nudged Perry. “You feel anything?”

Perry shook his head. “Just that gray feeling. Something else is there, but I can’t lock onto it.”

“How about that other feeling?” Dew asked. “The one where they’re mounting the fourth-quarter comeback?”

“Yeah,” Perry said. “I still feel that. Only now it’s stronger.”

A man wearing fireman’s gear stomped through the slush toward them. “You Dew Phillips?”

Dew nodded and offered his hand.

“Brandon Jastrowski. The police chief said I need to help you guys in any way.” Brandon looked at Perry, then offered his hand. “And you are?”

Perry looked at Dew. Dew nodded.

“Perry Dawsey,” Perry said, shaking the offered hand.

“Dawsey? Scary Perry Dawsey?”

Perry nodded.

“Holy s.h.i.t,” Brandon said. “A real pleasure to meet you. Used to love watching you play. Oh how I hate Ohio State, am I right?”

Perry nodded again.

“And what was up with all that murder stuff in the news a few months back?”

“Mistaken ident.i.ty,” Dew said. “Perry’s working for the government now. What’s the deal with the house? Any bodies?”

“Unfortunately, there are,” Brandon said. “Adult male, adult female and a child, maybe seven to ten years old. Probably Bobby and Candy Jewell—they owned the place—and their daughter, Chelsea.”

“Probably?”

“Bodies are in bad shape,” Brandon said. “All three were in the kitchen, where the fire started. Definitely arson, no question. And some major foul play. The woman has a hole in her skull, likely a gunshot to the back of the head.”

“We need the bodies,” Dew said.

“Excuse me?”

“The bodies, we need them. Have your men get them out, put them in body bags, then leave them over there, under that little swing.” Dew pointed to a tree in the front yard. Two ropes hung down from a bare, snow-covered branch and ended in a little plank of snow-covered wood.

Brandon looked at the swing, then looked back at Dew. “But . . . ah . . .we need to take bodies to the county morgue.”

“Not today,” Dew said. “The morgue is coming to us, so to speak. Put the bodies in the bags, put the bags over there, do it as fast as you can. Understood?”

Brandon stared for a second, then nodded. He went back to the fire.

Dew pulled out his cell phone and dialed. Otto answered immediately.

“Otto, it’s Dew. We’re at the Jewell place. Whole family is dead, house fire, maybe some gunplay.”

“Perry go off again?”

“No, he had nothing to do with it.”

“Seriously?”

“Shut your pie-hole,” Dew said. “Get your team moving, I want the MargoMobile here ASAP. It’s time for Margaret to sack up and get back to work.”

THE MAP

Chelsea sat behind a gla.s.s door looking out over Mr. Jenkins’s backyard. She’d pulled the curtain almost closed, leaving only a one-inch s.p.a.ce to look through the gla.s.s. That was enough to see up the hill and watch the flames lick up from her house. It looked so small from this far away. She couldn’t really make out individual people, but she knew they were there.

One person in particular.

The boogeyman.

Chelsea was very careful not to reach to him, not to connect. If he sensed her now, when he was this close . . .

“Chelsea,” Daddy called from Mr. Jenkins’s living room, “I think you need to see this.”

Chelsea carried her bowl of ice cream into the room and sat down next to Daddy. Mr. Jenkins didn’t have ice cream bars, but double chocolate almond wasn’t bad, either.

The TV was showing a commercial. Five people were in the living room: Ryan Roznowski, Daddy, Old Sam Collins, Mommy, Mr. Burkle the Postman and Mr. Jenkins.

Mr. Jenkins sat in a La-Z-Boy. He didn’t look well, all sweaty and pale under his big red beard, but he was getting better fast. Chelsea could already sense his mind. Mommy’s smoochies had worked. Chelsea knew that was very important—the ones Chelsea kissed could kiss others. G.o.d’s love could spread from person to person to person, until everyone in the world knew the joy.

Mommy was sitting on Mr. Jenkins’s lap, petting his head with a wet washcloth.

It will be okay, Mr. Jenkins. You’ll feel better very soon.

The man looked at her with sunken eyes. He smiled. “Thank you. Thank you for the gift of G.o.d’s love.”