Fire Season by Jon Loomis Page A

crowd of forty or fifty sleepy-looking spectators had gathered in a loose, L-shaped cluster at the corner of Brewster and Bradford streets, well below the muddy rise on which the burning building stood. Lola held up a camcorder and started to film them.
    â€œIt’s not going to be easy making an ID with this,” Lola said. “Lots of hats and hoods.”
    â€œChilly out,” Coffin said, and it was—the damp October wind was picking up, and Coffin felt himself gritting his teeth. He’d worn only an old suede jacket over his jeans and flannel shirt: time to get out the winter coat. “Nothing you can do.”
    Lola nodded, peering into the camcorder’s view screen. “It also occurs to me that we’re likely to keep seeing the same people over and over, it being the off-season and all.”
    She had a point—even in October, Coffin began to feel that he was seeing the same faces over and over, day in and day out: Jamie, Lola, Tony, and the rest of his co-workers, the new town manager Monica Gault, the beautiful Haitian girl behind the counter at the Yankee Mart, where Coffin usually stopped for coffee on the way to work. Kotowski, maybe. Squid. Captain Nickerson. The stuffed goat in his mother’s house. By the time the winter nor’easters began to blow, half the town seemed to be in hibernation: it was as though the locals—year-rounders, they called themselves—stayed in their burrows as much as possible, emerging only to forage now and then at the Stop & Shop.
    â€œMaybe we’re looking for the guy who only shows up once,” Coffin said. “The guy who looks uncomfortable being filmed.”
    â€œSo don’t be subtle about it,” Lola said.
    â€œRight.”
    Lola paused the camcorder, walked up to within ten feet of the crowd of onlookers, pushed the record button again and slowly panned the camera across their faces.
    Coffin watched. No one walked away. No one pulled their hat brim over their eyes. A pair of Tall Ships in faux mink primped their wigs for the camera.
    â€œOkay,” Coffin said when Lola was done. “It was worth a shot.”
    â€œI hate this,” Lola said. “I want some freaking evidence to think about.”
    Coffin’s cousin Tony came bounding toward them from behind the burning building, struggling a bit in the mud. He’d probably been taking a leak, Coffin thought.
    â€œYo, Frankie,” Tony said. He was in uniform, holding a big policeman’s Maglite. “I think I got something.” He pointed to the backyard. “Looks like fresh boot prints back there.”
    Coffin had scheduled him for the graveyard shift at Tony’s own request. Things hadn’t been going so well at home, Tony had said. Doris, his small, frowning wife, wanted to leave the Cape, move closer to Boston, send the kids to private school. Tony would only leave the Cape in a box, Coffin thought—he was local to the core. What would big, sloppy Tony do with himself in some upscale Boston suburb? What would Tony’s kids—five little versions of Tony in graduating sizes, like Russian matryoshka dolls—do in a private school?
    â€œTony?” Coffin said.
    â€œDude.”
    â€œAre you sure they’re not your footprints?” Coffin was looking down at Tony’s muddy boots.
    â€œFrankie—for fuck’s sake,” Tony said. “Do you really think I’m that dumb?”
    Coffin raised his eyebrows, said nothing.
    â€œOkay,” Tony said, waving his hands. “I admit it—I fuck up sometimes. But here’s how I know: I got kind of small feet for my size—just an eleven. This guy’s feet are bigger. Plus, his boots have a different tread.”
    Coffin and Lola exchanged glances. Coffin inclined his head a bit and Lola nodded. “Okay,” Coffin said. “Let’s see the boot prints.”
    *   *   *
    Incredibly, Tony seemed to be