Coincidence?
I didn’t believe in coincidences.
Swatting a cloud of gnats, I climbed down the tree, this time with faster, swift movements reflecting my racing thoughts. My loafers hit the ground with a feminine whisper while I pulled my phone from the pocket.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Tanya, it’s Jagg.”
I heard a rustle on the other end of the phone, followed by something clamoring against the floor, then a distant, ‘shit.’
Finally, “Ah… Detective, good to—how can I help you?” Her octave increased with each stutter. She’d probably been painting her nails or scrolling through Pinterest.
“Send someone out to the city park. I’ve got a fire hazard and some sort of Wiccan shrine I want to get eyes on.”
“I’m sorry… a shrine?”
“Yes. Shrine. A sacred place.”
“Okay, where would you—”
“Six yards east of the cemetery. Tell them to follow the music.”
“Music?”
“Is there some sort of connection issue here, Tanya?”
“No. Sorry. Shrine, music, got it. I’ll have someone there right away. Can you please tell me—”
I clicked off and swept my light along the forest floor, kneeling beside a patch of bent grass that was next to another, then another. I followed the boot prints past the Voodoo Tree into the thicket, where they disappeared. Weeks of no rain and sweltering temperatures would make it impossible to pull a cast from the prints, or discern the length, width, or tread of the shoes worn. Assuming shoes were worn, of course. Did witches even wear shoes? Are clogs considered shoes?
I sat back on my haunches, surveying the ground. No cigarette butts, chewed gum, match sticks, vials of potion, pixie dust, or little green frogs with little golden crowns. Just a pile of deer scat and a few acorns.
I was photographing the shrine when a twig cracked behind me.
“Holy sh—”
“Watch your step.”
In full uniform, Tommy Darby, a recent high school graduate and even more recent academy graduate froze mid-stride, his big brown eyes wide, his mouth squeezed into a little “O.” Rumor was, the only reason Darby had been hired four months earlier was that he’d been the only person who applied for the position at BSPD. Doesn’t get more quality than that. Darby was as green as the stains that colored his tube socks, and to this day, I wondered if he either only had one pair, or simply never washed them. The kid was long and lean, with a pair of spaghetti arms sure to intimidate no one. To top that off, Darby had a smattering of freckles over pale skin, colored with a constant flush from either heat or nerves, I wasn’t sure which. His uniform was always wrinkled, stained with something I assumed to be jelly or Hershey’s syrup, and a size too big. He was the modern day Barney Fife. The kid had the high and tight, though, I had to give him that. His hair was always freshly cut and combed to the side, not a strand out of place. It was the only thing about him that ever seemed to be on point. He reminded me of a puppy—and we all know how I feel about dogs. Darby was eager, which I appreciated, but absolutely clueless. I did not do clueless well.
Hell, I didn’t do eager well, either.
“What is this, sir?”
Sir. It was always sir.
“You tell me, Darby.”
“Looks like a shrine.” He didn’t move beyond the bush he’d froze behind.
“Did you deduct that from Tanya telling you to respond to my call about a shrine in the woods, or from Tanya telling you to respond to my call about a shrine in the woods?”
His eyeballs shifted to mine.
Snap back at me, I wanted to say. Grow some fucking balls. But he didn’t. Snap back, I mean. Not sure about the balls. My guess was that the damn things hadn’t dropped yet.
“Yes sir. Stupid question.” A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as a moment passed.
“You waiting for a fucking invitation, boy?”
“Sorry sir.”
Darby stepped over the thicket, his eyes skirting between the voodoo dolls. This kid. I shuddered to think what would happen when he saw his first real-life homicide.
I returned my focus to photographing the surrounding trees.
“What’s the code for unlawful burning, Darby?”
“5-38-310, sir. Is that right?”—How the fuck should I know?—“A class A misdemeanor and a five hundred dollar fine.”
“Incorrect.”
He looked over his shoulder at me. I waited, waited, waited…
“Pretty damn hot out here isn’t it, Darby?”
“Oh! The burn ban. We’re under a burn ban.”
Christ. “That’s right and this triples the penalty.” Whatever that was. I picked up a handful of brown pine needles. “We’re smack dab in the middle of wildfire season. Wind is supposed to increase to fifteen miles per hour tonight. Those candles would’ve been on their side within the next hour.” I tossed the needles at his feet. “These pines would’ve gone up quicker than a trucker’s dick at Juicy Lucy’s.”
He laughed at this. A girly cackle, really.
“This ring a bell?” I asked.
“Uh, well, yeah. I’ve been to Lucy’s a few times, I guess. Quarter drafts on Tuesdays. Your picture is still on the wall, by the way.”
“That plaque was from two decades ago and the number relates to shots, not women. Just so we’re clear.” I deadpanned.
“Of course…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, yes sir, I’m familiar.”
“Good to know, but I was talking about wildfires, not how many fingers Lucy can slide between her legs, you perverted son of a bitch.”
His cheeks hit a new shade of red.
I shook my head, then continued the good fight. “Eighty percent of forest fires are caused by human neglect. An ember can travel hundreds of feet. What’s hundreds of feet from here, Darby?”
“Main Street.”
“Exactly. Your little fire just turned into a mass evacuation, and probably a search and rescue, too, which cuts the manpower to fight the thing in half. With dry weather like we’ve been having, this fire could travel eight miles an hour—a mile an hour faster than your sprint, according to what I saw when Jenkins delivered a dozen jelly donuts yesterday. And double that in valleys and gorges. Got any valleys around here, Darby?”
“More than I can count.”
“Think close. Closer.”
“Devil’s Cove, a few miles west of here.”
“That’s right. That cove connects us to miles of forest. This town is surrounded by steep mountains, a ticking time bomb for wildfire season. Now, tell me again, what’s the charge for unlawful burning in this case?”
“Uh, okay, let’s see. The penalty for leaving a fire unattended, like these candles, while violating a fire restriction, such as a burn ban, can lead to six months in jail and fines exceeding five thousand dollars. But…”
“… But what?”
“This particular incident didn’t cause a forest fire. So, it’s still a class A misdemeanor.”
“Look around. What else do you see?”
His gaze lifted to the carvings on the tree trunk.