Fire Season by Jon Loomis

voice hollow, as though it came from the bottom of a well.
    â€œOw,” Coffin said, sitting up, rubbing his ear.
    â€œFire,” Jamie said. “The house is on fire.” She waved a slender arm, went back to sleep.
    Coffin sniffed the air and smelled nothing—just the damp of October, the faint scent of dust, maybe, a whiff of decay from the taxidermied owl glaring down from the big walnut wardrobe. Coffin stood, walked to the window. More rain. In his neighbor’s garden the black skeletons of three sunflowers leaned, left over from summer, their big heads long ago picked clean by the birds. He noticed a strange orange glow on the eastern horizon: it seemed to rise and expand as he watched. The digital clock by the bed said 2:43. Then he heard sirens.
    *   *   *
    The shed fire had seemed impressive at the time, Coffin thought, but this one was enormous in comparison. The entire two-story structure on Brewster Street appeared to be engulfed—flames roared from the upper windows and danced in the night sky, throwing a lurid orange glow against the low cloud cover. Sparks and bits of roofing rose above the building on a powerful thermal, then drifted out toward the waterfront, carried by the offshore breeze. The fire and rescue boys were struggling again with the idle speed on their new pumper: Walt Macy had a control panel open and was fiddling with knobs and buttons while a tall, bony firefighter held a flashlight on what appeared to be the owner’s manual. To Coffin, it looked like the building was already a total loss.
    â€œWell,” Lola said, yawning. “This is exciting.” She was in her off-duty clothes—jeans, boots, leather jacket. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders—Coffin couldn’t remember ever having seen it down before—dark blond and a bit tousled.
    â€œWonder who owns it,” Coffin said. “Seems like it’s been under construction off and on for months and months. Mostly off, lately.”
    Lola yawned again, rubbed her eyes. “God,” she said. “I’d just gotten to sleep when I heard the sirens.”
    â€œTotal hot date,” Coffin said.
    â€œIs there any other kind?”
    Coffin grinned, said nothing. The rain had stopped, finally. The breeze was picking up, though the sky showed no sign of clearing.
    â€œWait a minute,” Lola said, peering at Coffin. “I know your ‘what if’ tone when I hear it.”
    â€œIt’s just a thought,” Coffin said.
    â€œYou have a dark view of human nature, Frank Coffin,” Lola said.
    Coffin shrugged. “It’s possible, that’s all I’m saying.”
    â€œSo, okay: What if you’ve got a building under construction but you’ve burned through your loan and it’s still unfinished.”
    â€œThe market’s tanking, even prime, waterfront condos aren’t turning over…”
    Lola held up a finger. “But your building’s fully insured!”
    â€œCoincidentally, somebody’s been setting things on fire.”
    â€œThat somebody might even be the owner of a half-finished building.”
    â€œMight be, or maybe it’s a different somebody,” Coffin said. “Either way, the other smaller fires appear to be the work of a serial arsonist.”
    â€œWhich could represent an opportunity,” Lola said, thumbing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you happened to own a building you wanted to get rid of.”
    â€œThat happened to be fully insured,” Coffin said.
    Lola took a deep breath, let it out. The fire was growing more intense. The pumper was working, finally, and the firefighters were aiming a heavy stream of water into one of the downstairs windows. “I don’t know how you look at yourself in the mirror,” she said. “Thinking the way you do.”
    â€œIt’s not easy, living on the dark side.”
    *   *   *
    A