“Shit. The thing coming up, the ceremony,” Warren says. “He’ll want to sabotage it, won’t he?”
“Exactly,” I snarl.
Everybody trades awkward looks over the table.
None of us wanted this damn ceremony at the carnival.
It’s not worth it.
Some kind of prideful circus the town council threw together for morale or something. Really, it’s just making a big hoopla out of the hell we’ve been through over the past couple years and acting like we did anything other than try to make sure Heart’s Edge survived along with us.
I can’t stand it.
The way folks look at us, gab about us. Like they wouldn’t do the same if they were under pressure. This town’s full of good people.
We ain’t special.
We’re just the guys who got tossed in the pressure cooker and had to come out the other side.
But Holt wouldn’t miss a chance to show the town who we “really” are.
The people he still sees.
The big kids who didn’t give him enough attention. Because if I know Holt, I know some part of him is still holding old grudges.
Doc cocks his head, watching me keenly over the top of his glasses. “Then the plan is to lure him out at the ceremony?”
“The plan’s to keep him away from the ceremony,” I correct. “He’s gonna try to set some kind of fire, if his pattern holds up. So far it’s been juvenile-level prank shit. Easy to pass off as one of the kids. No one really gets hurt. But so many people at the winter carnival…he fucks one thing up, and we’ve got a lot of casualties.”
“So what do we do?” Warren asks.
I grin.
“Easy,” I say. “We give him a bigger target.”
* * *
It doesn’t take us long to come up with a plan.
We’re gonna put on a variety show.
Listen. I know it’s silly. But people like my radio show, and I know I can bark up a crowd.
And that crowd’s gonna be gathering around inside the ice palace they’re building.
I can’t think of a better place to keep a bunch of people safe from an arsonist than inside a building that’s damn-near solid ice bricks.
He can try to pull his shit, but it won’t work.
I’ll have fire containment on standby, Justin and Rich and the part-timers ready, plus a fire truck or two.
The town council might complain about the aesthetic—but considering they’re building a temporary wooden windbreaker wall around the entire carnival grounds so nobody freezes their asses off in the biting winds, they won’t even be able to see the trucks.
It’ll be fine.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll either catch the bastard red-handed…or just bust up his schemes so he’ll turn tail and run right out of town.
Right now, though, I’m out following up another lead. Chasing down loose ends.
Even though my suspicions are fixed on Holt, I gotta cover all my bases.
That’s why I’m at the Patten house, eyeing the big white rental truck in the driveway with the Patten Pyrotechnics logo stuck to the side on a big magnet.
Just makes me think back to that dark, glittery truck Peace saw.
Damn.
Why ain’t nothing sitting right?
Why does everything keep bouncing between Holt and Clark, but never really falling on either?
At least this means Roger Patten’s home.
The poor man looks like a flustered mess when I bang on his door, holding the half-busted pyrotechnic device in my hand from the clinic.
His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he stares at me, then down at the phone in his hand, tapping redial on a listing that says Clark.
“Blake Silverton? Thank hell, man, I was gonna call Langley.”
“Langley?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah, uh, have you seen my nephew? Is he out with your daughter?”
My lips pinch a thin line.
Ah, shit.
“Haven’t seen him. You want me to call Andrea?”
“Please!” Rog says, his throat working in a hard swallow. “Clark hasn’t answered his phone in over a day.”
Not good.
And I don’t want to tell Rog what I’m thinking.
That maybe Clark did it, and he’s gone to ground till we lose his scent.
I’m starting to get whiplash from this case. It still doesn’t make sense, that whole thing about Jenna Ford when Clark’s too young to remember that crap, but maybe he heard enough whispers?
Or maybe nothing about this makes a lick of sense.
I pull my phone out and dial Andrea. I’m half worried she won’t answer.
Nobody wants to pick up the phone for their idiot dad—but after a few seconds her voice comes over the line, laughing breathlessly. There’s someone else laughing with her, a male voice, but it’s not Clark.
“What, Dad?” she asks without a hello, and I wrinkle my nose.
I taught her manners. I swear I did.
“Where are you?” I ask. “Is Clark with you?”
“Dammit, Dad, are you really—”
“It ain’t that,” I cut her off. “Listen, he’s not answering his phone, and his uncle’s scared sick.”
She goes still. Dead silent.