A Garden of Vipers by Jack Kerley Page B

face. “Carson,” she whispered.
    â€œAnswer me!” I screamed.
    She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.
    Said, “Yes.”
    â€œYou’ve got some items at my house, Ms. Danbury,” I said. “I’ll leave them on your porch in a day or two.”

CHAPTER 16
    By two-fifteen a.m. I had all Dani’s possessions in a green garbage bag. I set the bag in the kitchen, but that didn’t feel right, so I put it on the deck. That felt wrong, too. The same with the stoop. I finally carried it downstairs and jammed it in the little cold-water shower beneath the house.
    I tried to sleep but pictures clashed in my head and feelings banged into feelings in my heart. The internal warfare kept me awake until four, when I went outside and fell asleep at the edge of the water. The sun woke me at daybreak. I stood, brushed sand from my clothes, and went inside to shower and make coffee.
    Though it was barely half past six, I decided to head into the department, get a jump on the day. I was still ten miles south of Mobile when I saw a plume of smoke rising above town, a heavy smear against the crystal-blue sky. I flicked the radio to the fire band, heard the cacophonous mix of voices that indicated a bad burn.
    â€œJeffers here, on the east side. We’ve got flames from the fourth-story windows.”
    â€œGet a hose on it.”
    â€œAll the high-volume hoses are working the south side.”
    â€œThis is Smith. We’re losing pressure from the Corcoran Street hydrant. Get us a tanker, fast.”
    â€œJeffers. I’ve got a woman says there’s people on the fourth. She heard screaming. Wait…I got a man at a window. Elderly. Jesus, he’s getting ready to—”
    I stuck the flasher on the roof, pushed the accelerator to the floor, aimed the truck at the plume.
    Eight minutes later I was weaving through the crowd of gawkers at the periphery. I pulled onto the curb a block away, staying well back from the firefighters. The last thing they needed to deal with was a vehicle blocking a needed path. I flapped my badge wallet open, stuck it in my pocket, jogged toward the scene. The air was oily with the smell of smoke and steam.
    I knew the place, an old apartment building, four stories, maybe a dozen units per floor. The rent was inexpensive, but not so cheap the place became a haven for junkies and derelicts. I’d been on a few calls there as a patrolman, a couple domestic beefs and picking up a hooker on a bench warrant, no big deal. Back when I was working the streets, there were one or two hookers who lived at the place, out-service types, not streetwalkers. They tended to keep low and stay out of trouble and we pretty much left them alone, having a lot worse to deal with than call girls.
    I saw a firefighter buddy of mine, Captain Rawly Drummond, standing beside a truck and shedding his air tank and yellow flame-retardant coat. He shook off his gloves and wiped sweat from his forehead.
    â€œHey, Rawly.”
    He turned, showed a smile beneath a red handlebar mustache that would have looked at home on a gold-rush prospector.
    â€œYo, Carson. You here to see how real civil-service types work?”
    â€œI was looking for a doughnut joint, took a wrong turn. How’s it going?”
    â€œTough at first, but we’re getting it knocked back. Lotta combustibles in that building.”
    â€œI caught some radio traffic. People in there?”
    The mustache turned down. “Don’t have a resident count, but it seems most people got out. An old guy panicked, dove from a window. Another two minutes and we could have had a ladder to him. They took him to the hospital, but it was over.”
    â€œAny idea what caused the fire?”
    â€œI had two guys made it, back toward the heart of the burn, the start point. They thought they caught a whiff of gasoline, even with the masks.”
    â€œArson.”
    â€œSome materials put off a smell of gas when