Fire Season by Jon Loomis Page B

right. A trail of boot prints led from the back of the burning building, through the hedge and out to Brewster Street, which was a narrow one-way for most of the block. Coffin also wore a size eleven—not that big for a man his height ( you know what they say , he thought)—the boot prints leading out to the hedge appeared to be at least a size or two larger than his own.
    â€œWhat would you guess?” he said. “Thirteen?”
    â€œSounds about right,” Lola said. “You’re a what? Ten?”
    â€œEleven,” Coffin said, trying not to sound defensive.
    â€œEleven?” Tony said. “That’s it? What are you, six-two?”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake,” Coffin said.
    â€œSo we’re looking for a fairly big guy,” Lola said, kneeling down, pointing Tony’s flashlight at the scorched trail across the patio. The fire leaped from the second-storey windows into the night sky. It was much too hot to get close, but the scorch marks were unmistakable. “Long stride, too—not a small guy with big feet, or a small guy wearing big boots.”
    â€œDefinitely not a woman,” Coffin said. The prints were reasonably clear, and bore a distinctive tread design—the interlocking chain that, as far as Coffin knew, was unique to L.L. Bean duck boots.
    â€œA really big woman, maybe,” Lola said. “But yeah, probably not.”
    â€œWell, there you go,” Coffin said. He patted Tony on the back. “Good find. You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.” The fire seemed to be gathering strength, burning hotter and faster—the flames shooting from the windows maybe thirty feet into the night sky. If you watch a fire long enough, Coffin thought, it becomes beautiful: malevolent but lovely, a dancing, many-armed Shiva, bent on destruction.
    â€œI always hated that guy,” Tony said. “You know, as a kid? What a freakin’ know-it-all. I kept hoping Dr. Watson would get fed up and punch him out.”
    Coffin said nothing. A section of the roof collapsed, throwing a shower of bright cinders into the air. Big sheets of burning tar paper rose on a column of smoke and sparks, and wheeled toward town center on the breeze. Like something out of Dante , Coffin thought. Like the souls of the damned.

 
    Chapter 8
    The next morning all of Provincetown smelled like a doused campfire, smoky and damp. Kotowski sat with Coffin’s mother in her room at Valley View Nursing Home, watching the big, flat-screen TV Coffin had bought for her at Best Buy in Hyannis. Kotowski often stopped in to see her before the “art for seniors” class he’d been teaching at Valley View for the past eight years.
    Film of the condo fire played over and over on the Boston FOX affiliate. A banner scrolled across the screen that said, P ’TOWN FIREBUG STRIKES AGAIN . A blond news model was interviewing a TV minister from South Carolina, who seemed to think that God’s judgment was finally being visited on Provincetown.
    â€œLook at that fat dickwad,” Coffin’s mother said, black eyes glittering, bright and empty as a doll’s. “What’s he grinning about?”
    â€œHe sure seems happy,” Kotowski said. “What’s up with his hair? It looks like molded fiberglass.”
    â€œSomebody ought to set fire to this place,” Coffin’s mother said. “Put the drooling idiots out of their fucking misery.”
    She looked at Kotowski. She wore a blue housecoat. Her hair was brushed and her teeth were in. She smiled with them, her face a bit lopsided. Kotowski wondered if she’d had a small stroke.
    â€œIt’s nice of you to come visit. You’re a good son.”
    â€œWe’ve been through this, Sarah. I’m not your son. Frank’s your son.”
    Coffin’s mother scowled. “Frank? Who the hell is Frank?”
    *   *   *
    â€œJesus,” Jamie said, sitting