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“Think this is Thatcher’s?” Dean asked as I reached his side. I nodded, screwing up my mouth. Dean sighed and reached for his side, and I watched him pat what I assumed to be a concealed pistol before starting to press on. Before he could take another step though, I caught his arm, gripping it.
“Wait,” I said, and breathed in the air.
It had shifted, changed from the fresh earthy breeze that usually swirled around the Ozarks. Now the air had a different weight to it. Air thinned at higher altitudes, but this was different; the air felt heavier, denser, and as I slowly let the smell settle into my lungs. I could detect, almost taste, a strong scent of wood and ash.
“Do you smell that?” I looked at Dean.
He paused and lifting his head, sniffed, and his eyes widened with what I assumed was the same realization. Our tiff was now forgotten as we both powered over the remaining hill between us and the house, our eyes to the sky as we saw the single plume of white smoke rising towards the moon.
Chapter Six
The house was hardly more than a shell by the time we got to it.
Dean and I stood at the top of the hill and looked over the wreckage; a small home, not so much a trailer but more like the cabin Slim Jim had lived in when we found him. What windows were left were covered with soot and half of the oak roof was caved in, the remnants of splintered furniture poking through broken walls.
The only thing that was still standing was the ancient mailbox hanging over the path, with the nameThatcherwritten on it in chipped black paint. Smoke was rising from the back of the house, so we circled around and found the starting place of the fire, judging by the massive hole in the wall and its charred edges.
“It’s been burning for a while,” Dean said, eyes squinted towards the smoke. “If it were active, the smoke would still be black. That means the fuel’s spent.”
“You don’t think there’s anyone inside, do you?” I asked. Dean’s mouth thinned, and I felt my stomach drop.
“We won’t know until we go in. But, even if there is someone inside, we wouldn’t be able to do anything for them at this point.”
Dean rolled down his sleeves. I did the same, and together we clambered into the smoldering mess. We decided against going in through the big hole in the back to avoid the heat and, instead, found a smaller one (without any smoke) near the front door. I went in first, since I was shorter than Dean, and I was fairly sure the smoke would do less to my body than it would to his. As I walked in, I felt my body tense while I looked over the remains of the living room.
“God,” I breathed.
The smoke still lingered in the air, made worse by the ash we’d kicked up as we walked. Everything was covered in a shroud of black dust. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought something had exploded. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it—Windy Ridge had been subject to a Phoenix during the first few weeks of the Fog, and the aftermath of those bursts of flame looked similar to this.
“This was a big one. This entire place is burnt to a crisp,” I said.
“I wonder what was used to set it?” Dean came up beside me and I turned to see his police officer face had returned with a vengeance. Jaw tight, eyes forward, he scanned the room and I mimicked him, spotting a singed bear rug near the back, some picture frames with the photos turned to ash, and, to the side, a fireplace that was nearly full of broken wood and soot. I trudged over and raised the back of my hand to the stone of the fireplace. It was cold and with a closer look, the wood inside didn’t seem to be that badly burnt.
“The fire that burned this place down didn’t come from the fireplace.” I turned to raise a brow at Dean.
“Hmm.” Dean’s brow furrowed as he shuffled through more ash, turning to what might have been the kitchen as he waved me on. “I’m gonna look around for possible causes of the fire. Can you muscle through the other rooms and see if you can find anything of interest?”
If it was any other day, I probably would have made a comment about him suggesting I do any kind of “muscling,” but there was a distance between us now, owing to our last conversation. Instead, I just nodded, grateful to have something besides hiking to put some physical effort into.
There were two rooms connected to the main hallway, and both were blocked either by wood or melted hinges. One of the doors, I assumed, led to the bedroom, so I stepped back and slammed the flat of my foot against it, holding back just enough to make sure the rest of the ceiling wouldn’t cave in with the power of my kick. The door cracked the minute I made contact with it, and with another shove, it scraped open. I started to walk in, but looked behind me in time to hear a cough—Dean was staring, eyes wide, and I could have sworn I saw a blush across his olive skin before he quickly turned and began searching again. Hmm, so he was impressed with my little kicking-the-door-in stunt?
That was a little satisfying.
But only a little.
***
A few minutes later, I emerged from the room, brushing stains out of my pants. “There’s no one here, Dean,” I called. “Did you find anything?”
I found him kneeling before the remnants of a bathroom cabinet. Glass bottles were littered around him, and as I watched, he produced more from the inside, though as he pulled his head out and sat up, he didn’t look very enthusiastic.
“Nothing.” He nudged one of the bottles, looking down at it with obvious interest. I picked one up and wiped the label with my finger, snorting at the triple x’s donning the front.
“You could start a fire with moonshine,” I said. “You don’t think this is anything?”
“No, they were all under here.” He stood up and patted the sink, then flinched as part of its side fell apart. “Oops. Anyway, if whoever started the fire used moonshine, I doubt they’d take the time to put the bottles back here and this whole area is in much better shape than other parts of the house.”
“Fair point.” I turned back to the front of the destroyed house. “Let’s get out of here before we get smoke poisoning.”
