Page 78 of On Fire

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nic Silvano

I’ve already steeled myself for the van blowing up. That’s why I had that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach yesterday. He’s not going to let us capture him. Finn’s driving, I’m in the passenger seat and Jackson’s in the back. Bryce and Mateus are right behind us in a second Lexus.

Jackson’s been talking about Mark Graham the entire twenty minutes—a good thing too, as it keeps me focused on something else than nailing the guy who strung me up like a piece of meat.

He’s leaning forward. “Jim Graham found the body in what he said was a chicken coop. Mark Graham was found asphyxiated, the cause described as smoke inhalation or carbon monoxide poisoning. Investigators found no probable cause to assume foul play.”

I pause. I can tell when Jackson’s holding back. He’s funny, quick witted, and eager. His girlfriend, Tory, is ten years older than him—my age—thirty-three. She’s got stamina.

“So, what have you got?” Finn grips the wheel then raises an index finger as the scanner pocks up radio play between the feds and Carlson. “They’re going to run him off the road before he gets to Route 1,” Finn repeats in case Jackson caught none of the chatter.

“Okay, so here’s the weird thing. I asked for the autopsy report and had Mateus look at it. The carbon monoxide in his system was never tested. And his lungs were,” he flips through notes on his phone, “well, not just his lungs, but there was ‘negligible thermal damage to the airways.’”

“Are you saying he could have died some other way?”

“Listen to this. The seventh-grade science project runner up was ‘Rocket to the Skies,’ by Jimmy Graham.’ That’s the Searsport Gazette six months earlier.”

Finn works his jaw. “So, he’s dabbled in explosives before,” he says, extending the story out to the present day.

But I’m still stuck in the past. “He could have left chemicals in there, in the coop that killed his brother.”

“They kill quicker than smoke inhalation. Isn’t that why firefighters always wear their masks—because of all the chemicals in houses now?” Jackson grips my seat.

My mind races. “What’s the motive? Jealousy? Was his brother the golden boy?”

Jackson eases back into his seat. “Nope. Guess what was in the chicken coop?”

He waits a moment and then seems unsure how to deliver the message. “A mattress.”

A mattress. A secret place.

“My bet is that kid wasn’t reading,” Finn says.

“I don’t know what the story is yet,” Jackson says, “and we may never know, but I am damn sure Jim Graham murdered his brother.”

The radio crackles again. “We found him. Pull over, repeat: pull over, he’s heading south.”

He will run straight into us.

Finn grips the wheel harder. “You copy that, Bryce?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Let’s show some solidarity.”

The second Lexus pulls into the oncoming lane and both cars slow down. Ahead, blue lights flash and the van is visible about half a mile away. Keller’s engine is on my left, parked at an access road.

“Exit the cars,” Finn says. “Let’s stay behind them, but to the side.”

“What did those poor cars ever do to you?” Jackson asks.

“I’m counting on Carlson not to let them get a scratch.”

We jog into position up a slight embankment and off the road just as a squad car forces the van off to the side. It screeches to a full stop in a cloud of road dust and then sits there. We wait. No one is out of their cars. Neither is Jimmy Graham.

“What the hell is going on?” Jackson’s crouched down, his gaze on the van.