Page 33 of On Fire

Chapter Eight

Dave Keller

Damn Luke. I could kill him.

I know he gets frustrated with me but what happened in the car is fucking out-of-line. If he still lived with me, I’d rake him over coals later. But then Devon would hear about it, and I’d have to deal with her too.

Damn Russos.

Nic didn’t say a word after that. I don’t think Luke even noticed; he was too busy trying to tell us what he was seeing in the photos. All the bombs were left in or near the kitchen areas of the bars where the main gas lines entered.

I asked Nic once if he needed directions to either of the bars and he said no. This does nothing for my confidence as we roll up to the first site.

It’s not about you.

Boyz was the establishment’s name and had been a fixture in Portland since the mid-sixties. Back then it was completely underground. Housed several streets back from the wharf behind Commercial Street, the front panels of glass are blown out from the façade. The front door, basically a heavy piece of fucking furniture made with wood and leather, is hanging on by one hinge.

Turrow is already here, dodging under the zigzags of yellow tape, waving at us as we pulled in. Luke steps out and shakes his hand. We all worked on that arson case together. I still can’t believe the guy hasn’t retired. His shock of bright white hair bobs as he makes his way inside what’s left of the structure, both lunging and recoiling with each step like an elderly rock star. He’s bow-legged, but I swear one leg is shorter than the other.

Bryce has already shown up too, and waves at us through what’s left of the door. The guy is as tall as me and though we don’t see eye to eye on everything, we see eye to eye on enough.

The inside is sobering. There’s taped numbered flags where bodies or body parts had lain, twisted metal, blasted wallboard, pulverized brick. The smell was metallic, like wet aluminum, warm iron and something burnt, acrid.

I put a handkerchief over my nose.

Turrow nods. “The only good thing about losing my sense of smell.”

Luke’s already busy, taking pictures with a three sixty camera we can upload and pour through later. Nic, thoughtful, quiet, moves to the kitchen and begins tagging places, objects, walls, anything he thinks Luke might be interested in.

The spray of blood, some pooling in places tells me why the place smells of iron. I’ve seen bodies scorched, burned, burned and dead, burned and still living. I’ve also heard of “pink mist.” Now I’ve seen it.

Nic is cool, in command, asking questions of Turrow. No there’s no chance of fire, everything is secured. No one has turned up asking questions. Yes, there’s been police presence the entire time.

I end up helping Luke with site meters and measurements. The bomb itself, what remained, seems a lot like the one we were debriefed with yesterday from the Boston incident.

Bryce explains how even though the one at the Blue Wave was contained, the frame of the vault meant the bomb itself was nearly obliterated. This one, he says using a long steel tool to lift one part, “has more left to it.”

Nic’s stares at something on the floor, very near what was left of the bomb. It’s a rubber dice. He leans down to pick it up.

“Has this been cataloged?”

Luke taps through the list on the keyboard and shakes his head. “Why?”

“There was one just like it at the Blue Wave.” His face grim, he makes a quick call. All I catch is “I’m glad they were willing to go. Let me know when they’re safe.”

He surveys the scene again and then excuses himself and drops out the back door. Luke, Turrow, and I mark off the trajectory of debris, trying to triangulate the exact placement of the bomb.

Luke scratches his head. “It’s just like the one Nic described. Tucked underneath the ovens, only this time it worked. There was no one around to chuck it into a vault.”

It’s then I notice the dice is missing. We’re not supposed to touch anything and certainly not supposed to take evidence.

I bang out the back door to find out what the hell Nic’s doing but catch the door before it slams shut. He’s turned away, bent over and for a moment I think he’s searching for something on the ground. Then I see he’s vomiting—or trying to.

Glancing around, making sure no one will see us, I quickly move to him and put my hand on his back. It’s all I can do.

It’s more like dry heaves. Nothing’s coming up.

“Hey. Nic. Just let it go.”