Torch Song Read Online Free PDF

“Ya done good, babe,” he said.
    She gave him a mean look. “I’m just about ready to faint from hunger. You cook.”
    That night, Charlie dreamed of the fire, his fire. He was in the endless corridor, where every doorknob burned his hand as the fire roared behind him, forcing him on until he couldn’t breathe and his knees were buckling. He woke up, to find Constance’s arms around him. He drew in a long breath, another, and said, “Thrashing about a bit?”
    â€œA bit,” she said.
    He was soaking wet, the way he always was after that dream. “Shower,” he mumbled, pulling away from her. A moment later, as he stood under the hot water turned on full force, her shadow fell on the glass door; she opened the door and stepped in beside him.
    â€œWanton hussy.” He reached for her.
    â€œDamn right,” she said.
    Charlie hated it that he never could sleep later than seven, but there it was. They had remade the bed last night, and the last thing he remembered was seeing Constance turn the clock away. She intended to sleep late. He grinned; on the whole, he felt better than the few hours of sleep warranted. He was whistling as he made coffee and fed the cats. Constance was right; they stayed out from underfoot as he scrambled eggs. He took his plate to the table and only then glanced out the glass doors to the patio, and he stopped whistling. Iced in. Ice coated everything. He turned on the radio for weather news.
    When Constance came down at nine, at first he thought her radiant smile was for him, but then he saw that she was gazing past him at the world turned into fairyland.
    â€œOh,” she said, and went to the door.
    â€œAnd good morning to you, too,” he said huffily.
    A thin coating of ice glistened on every blade of grass, every twig, every tree branch; already it was starting to drip diamonds. The weather forecast said it would be gone by noon. If he could go out there with a giant heat machine, he thought, he’d do it, and it would be gone now. He continued to watch her at the door, and when she turned away finally, whatever it was on his face changed her smile into an expression tender and private. Charlie didn’t think anyone on earth but him had ever seen that look.
    â€œI’ll make you some scrambled eggs,” he said. “I’ll even bring your coffee.”
    She nodded and sat down, then eyed the table curiously. He had brought out the road map, a calendar, his notebook, and the faxes of ex-cons’ names, and she couldn’t tell what else.
    He brought coffee and went back to the counter near the sink. “Onions, cheese?” he asked.
    â€œEverything. I’m starved.”
    He laughed and began breaking eggs, enough for both of them; he was starved again, too. When they were both eating, he said, “I looked for a pattern for the dates—zilch. Two on a Saturday, one on Tuesday, and like that. No pattern. And they’re spread out over the months, too. Not the first week, or the last, just sort of random. No pattern there, or in the intervals between fires.” Always look for patterns, he had advised rookies in training. But you don’t always find them, he now added.
    â€œSo, what’s the plan?” she asked, motioning toward the papers he had pushed to one side.
    â€œFirst, I want to see the other sites, just to check them out. I don’t know what I’m looking for, to be honest. Then, a visit to Marla.”
    â€œYou think he might be hanging around her?”
    â€œMaybe,” he said soberly. “I hope to God he is.”
    He would take his gun, she knew, and no doubt Peter Eisenbeis would be armed. Slowly she said, “Charlie, listen a minute. You know a lot of people, and most of them will be like Werner, on your side. An APB on Pete might catch him in a day or two. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”
    â€œThe people who really count won’t be like