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.
I can just hear her breath turn quick and wild and scared.
“Oh,” she says. “I’m...I’m at the carnival grounds helping Justin right now. Clark’s not here. He was supposed to come help, but I thought he just ditched me and was busy with his uncle.”
Fuck.
“What’s wrong?” Justin asks in the background. “Drea, you look pale.”
She pulls the phone away enough for her voice to mute a bit, though I can still make out, “It’s Dad. Clark’s missing, he thinks.”
There’s a fumbling sound on the other end of the line, then Justin’s voice comes over. “Chief? It’s Justin.”
“Hey,” I say with a flush of relief. At least I know my daughter’s somewhere safe; Holt must’ve dropped her off. “You seen Clark Patten around?”
“Not hide nor hair,” he says. “But I’ll keep an eye out. Ask around. Somebody had to have seen him recently. Half the town’s been in and out of here getting the last stuff set up.”
“That’d be appreciated.” I pause. “Say, if you run into him, keep him busy, Justin. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Chief?” Justin sounds puzzled.
“Trust me, I got a funny feeling,” I say. “That’s all.”
We exchange a few more terse comments, then I hang up and look down into Rog’s watery, worried eyes.
“We’ve got fire crew out at the carnival grounds,” I say. “They’re keeping an eye out and asking around about Clark. Wherever he is, they’ll figure it out.”
“Oh, thanks! Finally some good news,” Rog says, clutching his phone to his chest, closing his eyes. “I’ll go have a drive around and see, too.”
“Good man. I’ll keep my eyes peeled. But you should let the sheriff know, too, just in case. Missing minor and such. He can put the word out to his deputies.”
I pause, though, fingering the device in my jacket pocket. “One more thing...I don’t wanna add to your woes, but I came by to show you something.” I hesitate a moment longer, then pull the device from my pocket—and I know by the click of recognition in his eyes even before I ask.
“Is this yours?”
It’s his.
And that’s another nail in Clark’s coffin.
Except Rog says it’s been messed up by someone who doesn’t know how to use it.
He says it’s a little magic trick, not meant to hold more than an ounce or two of fuel. Magicians use them all the time for dramatic bursts of flame.
He said someone who knew how to use it wouldn’t have dented up the little fuel can like it is. They’re fragile and have to be opened just right. Whatever the person who used it did, it also fucked up the firing mechanism, so it only gave off a weak flame.
Somebody clueless tried to rig it to go off by itself once he left the building.
But since he didn’t know what he was doing, he just broke it, and sabotaged his own arson attempt.
That’s a pattern pointing at unfamiliarity with pyrotechnics, and once again steering away from Clark.
So if Clark’s missing, and he ain’t the arsonist...
Where’d he go?
That question’s still weighing on me like ten tons of bricks by the time I make it home.
The burden lifts a little as I step inside, and I’m greeted by the sound of singing.
Peace.
She’s practicing that song from The Nest.
The one about a desperado who’s got a heart of gold inside gunmetal plating, that tired man looking for a reason for his heart to still beat.
Can’t help but smile. It still feels like she’s singing that song for me.
Like she’s singing it to guide me home.
And I can’t resist following the sound upstairs, where she’s curled up in my bedroom like she belongs there.