A Field of Red Read Online Free PDF Page B

all that was left were a few renegade cubes floating in cold water. He worked to keep the bucket steady, lifting smoothly, not wanting to spill.
     “As you can see, the home was fully involved when the first firefighters arrived,” the reporter continued over the footage, sounding winded. “Little could be done to save the home.”
    Thanks, Captain Obvious, Frank thought.
    Frank had never investigated arsons or fires, but he’d known people who did. A nice black guy named Williams in Birmingham who specialized in arsons. The guy was like a savant. He knew all the subtle signs of accelerants and scorch patterns. That man could walk into a fire that had burned out a month before and say immediately whether or not it had been lit. It was amazing.
    Williams sat near Frank in the Birmingham office and would, on occasion, bring over pictures of horribly burnt victims and vacant buildings.
    Frank would always say the same thing:
    “Holy shit, Williams.”
    Why did people enjoy sharing their shock? It happened a lot in the offices where he’d worked—NOPD, the field office in Florida, and now the cubicle farm in Birmingham. Investigators would run across a particularly gruesome photograph in whatever case they were working on and walk it all around the room, sharing them like baby pictures. Frank had done it too, a few times. Somehow, sharing the stories and the indignity helped make it seem less real, more tolerable.
    But there were cases that he could never joke about. Like that little boy in Atlanta and the cardboard box. That one had gotten to Frank, more than the others. He’d never felt comfortable talking about it. Certainly never would have walked any pictures around. He hated the images he had in his head from that day, images that would never go away. And sharing them with others—well, he wouldn’t wish those pictures, if they existed, on anyone.
    Frank lowered the ice bucket and glanced at the clock. Time to go. He went into the small bathroom, brushed his teeth, and combed some water through his hair. His wife had always liked his hair—ex-wife, that is. After another glance in the mirror, he decided to spend a few minutes and shaved the beard and goatee from his face. Being clean shaven always made him feel more presentable. Normally, he didn’t care, but tomorrow was different.
    He left the hotel room and pulled the door shut behind him, then headed down the long, carpeted hall and took the stairs down to the lobby. He skipped the elevator. After St. Bart’s, Frank wasn’t a fan of enclosed spaces.
    In the lobby, he passed the front desk and nodded at the young kid working behind it. Frank couldn’t recall his name, but he remembered clearly that the boy—he looked about 14—had sounded like a mouse when he talked, his voice high and squeaky. Good luck hitting puberty, kid.
    Outside, the rain had let up. That was one thing he didn’t miss from growing up—it had rained a lot in Baton Rouge. It was always humid, all year round, in the BR. Wet and steamy, they used to say. Birmingham was better, but it was even cooler here in Dayton, and Frank wasn’t used to it. The sky was peeking out from behind the October clouds that covered the sky from horizon to horizon.
    Frank started across the parking lot to the Tip Top Diner, next to the Vacation Inn where he’d already eaten a couple times. He glanced at the beat-up Taurus to make sure it hadn’t been stolen. Unfortunately, it was still sitting there, hulking in the spot, exactly where he’d left it.
     

6
     
     “Georgie!”
    She was calling again, from inside.
    George stood and wiped his muddy hands on his pants. He was surrounded by tall, bushy plants planted in long rows that stretched off toward a distant fence line and trees beyond.
    He liked working in the mud, working with the plants. It made him feel like he was doing something real with his life, instead of wasting time in a jail cell. He’d had enough of that. Now, he truly appreciated