Ashes to Ashes

When you play with fire, sometimes you get...well, caught

The fires started in July, when the air was thick enough to choke a fish. First it was the Millers' barn, then the Granger place two nights later. By August, you could hardly swing a dead cat without hitting a pile of charred beams somewhere out on the county roads.

Sheriff Harlan Simms called me into his office and greeted me with sweat rings under his arms and breath that reeked of the cheap rye I knew he kept tucked in the bottom drawer of his desk.

"Someone out there seems intent on burning our county to the ground," he said, his voice hoarse. "Maybe just punk kids. Maybe worse. I need some extra help on this one, Hensley, but I need you to keep it on the down-low."

He slid an empty glass across the desk to me. Two twenties were folded underneath.

I didn't argue, either with the money or when Simms produced a brown-paper-wrapped bottle and tilted it toward my glass. Paid work was paid work, and I'd seen worse than scorched hay bales in my time. No sense in letting the man drink alone in his time of need, either.

I drove the backroads, talked to farmers standing knee-deep in blackened fields, listened to the same story over and over: "Went to sleep, woke up, smelled smoke." No witnesses. No signs of busted latches, splintered siding, or unexpected tire tracks. Just torched barns and ruined crops. Someone had a knack for this – quick, clean, mean.

The Millers had just switched their insurance two weeks before the fire. So had the Grangers. And the Daltons, whose barn went up like a Fourth of July rocket last Tuesday.

Coincidence doesn't walk that straight a line.

I dropped by the office of one Mr. Walter Green, the town’s only insurance man. I couldn’t help but notice the new Studebaker parked by the curb as I walked in. Green’s secretary, a sweet young lady with red nails, tried to stall me, but I had my mind set.

Green stood and greeted me with a big, cheshire-cat grin and a hearty handshake. His wristwatch was shiny enough to blind you.

The man was all miles until I asked about the claims. Then he got twitchy.

"Unfortunate business," he said, smoothing his tie. "But that's what insurance is for, isn't it?"

"Funny thing," I said. "Every policy you sold in the last six months...up in smoke. Barns, silos, feed sheds. Always just after you signed 'em. Real funny."

His smile cracked like thin ice. "You accusing me of something, detective?"

Not yet, I thought. Out loud, I said, “Just making an observation, is all.” Green gulped under his tight shirt collar, and wondered if he’d get a sudden urge to take a drive that night.

As it turned out, he did better than that.

Around midnight, Green tried to set fire to his own office, figuring he’d cash out on an "accidental" blaze and blow town with the money. Problem was, he didn't see me parked two doors down, nursing a cold coffee and watching his silhouette fumble with a can of gasoline.

When Simms cuffed him, Green looked small. Smaller than I'd expected. Like a man who knew the jig was up the minute he struck the match.

The next morning, the smoke hung low over Main Street like a tired ghost.

Simms clapped me on the back. "Owe you one, Hensley."

"Forget it," I said, lighting a cigarette with hands that still smelled like last night's fire. "No shortage of men willing to watch the world burn, Sheriff. Just a shortage of men who think they’ll get caught."

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Agent Green may have thought his plan for riches was out of this world, but as things happened, he was pretty much stuck at home (and in jail). If you’re in the mood for some stories that are really a little more out there, check out the May Sci-Fi + Fantasy Giveaway on StoryOrigin. Featuring four dozen stories in about as many different worlds (including my own “Empire Seed”), this group is bound to whisk you away on an adventure.

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