The Farm Fires

By Laurie Loveman

In June of 1934, newly-divorced Glynis Hampton and Woodhill Fire Department Captain Freddy Pratter find they share an interest in photography. They start going out on Sunday afternoons to snap pictures, and Freddy builds a darkroom in his apartment for developing film.
Dalebridge Fire Chief Max Roper asks Freddy to investigate some field fires that Max believes were started by disgruntled farmers. Dalebridge firefighters Joe Lindbloom and Charlie Cooper, also are present. Shortly afterward, Glynis' brother, Mark Barneshill, who lives on his family's dairy farm, and is also a Dalebridge volunteer, warns Charlie to stay away from Glynis, making an enemy of Charlie.
Another field fire is set in Dalebridge. Then, a suspicious fire in an abandoned barn in Woodhill is followed by a fire in an abandoned house where the body of a man is found in the basement.
Joe Lindbloom, having helped Charlie set the first field fires, tells Charlie he will no longer help him. In turn, Charlie threatens Joe that if he doesn't continue to help, Charlie will make sure Joe is blamed for the death of the man in the basement.
Mark and his father, Ben, argue and Mark takes off. That same night a farm fire in Woodhill results in the death of a child. Joe accuses Charlie of setting that fire and Charlie puts the blame on Mark.
One afternoon when Glynis is alone in Freddy's apartment developing film, she sees an ad for an impotence cure. That same day, Freddy learns that Glynis' ex-husband is a homosexual. When Freddy and Glynis confront each other with their newly-found knowledge, each is mortified, and an argument ensues.
While setting another fire, Charlie tells Joe that he can easily abduct Joe's wife or daughters if Joe implicates Charlie in the fires. After that fire is extinguished, Charlie further taunts Joe by suggesting that Joe's wife ran off with Mark. When Joe realizes that Charlie has been inside his house, he and Charlie fight. Charlie boasts that he is going to make sure Mark dies in a fire at the Barneshill farm. Joe tries to warn Ben, but is too badly injured to make himself understood. As Glynis drives Joe to the hospital, Joe admits his part in the fires.
In the meantime, Charlie sets a fire in the Barneshill's dairy barn and lures Mark into the lower level of the barn thinking the upper-level floor will collapse, crushing Mark to death. The floor holds, Mark is rescued, and Charlie attempts to escape using Glynis as a hostage. Glynis manages to break free and Charlie is caught.
Following Charlie's arrest, Freddy and Glynis make up and explain their reasons to each other for keeping their friendship platonic. As soon as they separate, though, they each regret their words. The next day, Freddy asks Glynis to marry him and she joyfully accepts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781617922176

Laurie Loveman

            Laurie Loveman has always lived in northeast Ohio. She is an author, retired fire department officer, and a former member of the National Fire Protection Association (NFPA) Technical Committee on Fire and Life Safety in Animal Housing Facilities.  She has a degree in Fire and Safety Engineering Technology from the University of Cincinnati and is a consultant on fire safety in equine facilities.  With a lifetime's experience in the horse industry, Laurie has written many articles for equine and fire service publications, and her novels, set in the 1930s, reflect her interest not just in horses, but also on topics relevant to firefighting today, such as firefighter stress, medical ethics, and arson.   In her spare time Laurie enjoys horseback riding, attending barbershop harmony performances, spending time with family and friends, and researching 1930s history. 

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9781617922176

CHAPTER ONE

Twenty feet north and this would have been Lyle Benson’s problem, Matt Gardner said, turning in disgust from the body in the drainage ditch. Goddam Depression, putting people on the road goin’ to nowhere.

Standing behind Matt, and knowing better than to comment on his boss’s running commentary on the lousy state of the country’s economy, Policeman Jim Stevenson waited patiently for the Woodhill, Ohio police chief to issue his orders.

Matt ran a hand through his blond-turning-gray hair. Since his fifty-eighth birthday in March, Matt’s waistline had gotten bigger than he liked, but at six-foot-two, he was still an imposing figure, and according to some, still a very handsome man. As usual, an unlit Havana Perfection cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth. Did you get a statement from the guy who saw the horse?

Yessir. He said it just wandered onto the road and he swerved to miss it, and the horse ran back into the cornfield. Jim pointed to a lane between two plantings of corn, where his fellow officer, Giles Hessing, was holding onto the reins of a small, scraggly gold-colored horse. Every time the horse moved its head the slightest bit, Giles leaped away. Even at this distance Jim could see sweat glistening on Giles’ face and dark patches expanding on his shirt. Giles was definitely not pleased with his current assignment. Jim was tempted to razz him about being a hitching post like the iron ones people put on their lawns, but he resisted the impulse, fearing Matt would make him change places with Giles.

Matt’s immediate concern was the body in the ditch, so he made an effort to ignore Giles’ protests. It was only the third week in June and the corn didn’t have much growth on it yet, but enough tender corn stalks had been trampled, along with the grass on the lane being grazed down to the ground, to indicate the horse had stayed close to the spot where his rider fell off. Judging from the way maggots covered the man’s body, that could have happened up to a week ago. The maggots’ frenzied writhing made it appear that the man was alive because his clothes billowed and waved as the maggots ate their way through him. The only things left on the man’s skull were a patch of brown hair and part of an ear. The stench of rotting flesh rose from the ditch, but fortunately, a westerly breeze was blowing the odor away from the road. Matt glanced at his watch, muttered, Damn, it’s three o’clock, then called over to Giles, Look in those saddle bags, see if there’s anything to identify the guy. To Jim, he said, Go back to town and get Freddy Pratter out here to take photographs, then go to Laura Darvey’s farm and see if she can board the horse until we figure out who the guy is and where he came from.

Captain Freddy Pratter strolled to the front of the Woodhill Fire Department apparatus floor, where all three bay doors were open. Now that the sun had passed overhead and the front of the station was shaded, Freddy felt the beginnings of a breeze. He leaned against the front bumper of Engine 2, a 1930 Ahrens-Fox pumper, and crossed his arms on his chest. It was relaxing to watch the traffic on Court Street. A few cars and delivery trucks passed by and people walked in and out of Rosenfeld’s Department Store and Mercy Drug, on the other side of the street. Also across the street was the First United Presbyterian Church and next to First United was the Mason’s Hall, with Sylvia’s Lunch Bar on the street level. Then came Rosenfeld’s and Mercy Drug, a single building divided into two sections with apartments on the second and third stories. In two of the apartments women were washing windows. Freddy settled lazily into watching the comings and goings, and was close to dozing off when Hank, the red and white hound who had adopted the firefighters a couple of years ago, came up beside him.

Hoooohooommaa, Hank yawned, plopping down next to Freddy. She gave a second rumbling yawn and stretched out on her side.

That’s just how I feel, Freddy murmured, letting his eyes close and his thoughts drift. The breeze felt good.

Freddy’s best friend, Jake McCann, crossed the vacant middle bay and settled next to Freddy on Engine 2’s bumper. Awful hot for June, Jake muttered. He gazed idly at traffic for a minute. The ambulance has been gone a long time. You know where they went?

Nope. You’re the fire chief, Jake. You’re supposed to know everything that goes on in this place.

Spare me, Jake retorted mildly, then was stopped from saying more because the ambulance arrived in front of the firehouse and the driver, First Aid Man Casey Durban, stopped traffic by angling the ambulance on the street in order to back into the middle bay. The engine noise reverberated off the yellow-tile walls and a smelly cloud of purple-gray exhaust fumes billowed onto the apparatus floor. Casey cut the engine, leaving a sudden void of sound that gave people who weren’t used to it a momentary sensation of having gone deaf. Even being used to the phenomenon still occasionally made the vacuum somewhat eerie, especially at night when the apparatus floor lights were dimmed.

Leaving the driver’s seat, Casey ran a hand through his wavy red hair and said, Okay, so you don’t give a damn, but I do.

Alighting from the passenger seat, Lieutenant Eli Sheffler grumbled, You’re worse than a woman, the way you fuss with your hair. Eli’s own hair was light brown and perfectly straight. No matter how he combed it, it always returned to flopping over his eyes, which unlike Casey’s vibrant green eyes, were a common brown color.

The damn cowlick won’t stay down, Casey said as he followed Eli to the watch office, worst haircut I ever got. Casey leaned on the counter at the front of the watch office while Eli went inside and sat down at the built-in desk.

Thank God it’ll grow back, Eli said, checking his notes in preparation for writing up his report. I hate the thought of hearing you cry about it for another month.

Captain Mickey Justini sauntered over to the watch office, wiping grease off his hands on a rag. Whatsamatter? he asked, looking from Eli to Casey and back again. Mischief lurked in Mickey’s blue eyes. At six-foot- three, he towered over Casey’s height of five-foot-seven, and his sandy-colored hair and ruddy cheeks, combined with Casey’s vivid coloring, made Eli’s pale complexion appear even more drab than it was.

Eli raised his eyes from the desk and said, I’m tired of hearing about bad haircuts. I’m tired of Casey using up every bit of my Vitalis. One of these days, because of Casey, I’ll probably kill his barber and the poor man won’t have the slightest notion why. I’ll either get the electric chair or spend the rest of my life in jail. Either way, I will, at last, not have to hear about Casey’s hair.

And here I thought the two of you were best pals. It’s a damn shame to break up the team over a cowlick.

Go to hell, Eli muttered, but Mickey caught the trace of a smile before Eli scowled, warning the men away. And stay away from my stuff! Eli yelled as Casey headed for the stairs.

Mickey couldn’t resist. You’re the one who wanted to live in the firehouse, Eli. You should’ve listened to Freddy and got your own apartment like he did instead of taking his old room upstairs and living here with Jake.

I don’t mind living with the chief, Eli growled. At least he keeps outta my stuff. And what’s the difference where Freddy lives, anyway? His apartment’s just across the street, so how much better does he have it than I do considering he not only eats every meal here, he cooks for the rest of us? All he’s got is a little more privacy.

Yeah, the better to entertain the ladies. Well, back to Engine 1, Mickey said, his voice trailing off as he headed towards the 1926 Ford pumper sitting in the first bay. He was done adjusting the carburetor, he just had to clean up and put his tools away. As he worked, Mickey chuckled over Eli and Casey. They really were good friends regardless of how they argued. They were as much a part of the firehouse family as he, Jake, and Freddy were. Casey and Eli were like brothers. Like we are, Mickey reflected, taking his tool kit into the storeroom behind the middle bay.

Jake McCann was his brother. Freddy Pratter was his brother. Since the day they’d met in firefighter training in the Fire Department of New York City sixteen years ago, Mickey had loved them as he supposed real, blood, brothers loved each other. They were almost the same age. Freddy was a few weeks shy of thirty-five, Jake was thirty-four, Mickey and Eli were thirty-three, and at twenty-five, Casey was the kid.

Mickey returned to the watch office to enter the Engine 1 repairs in the daily report, then he looked for Freddy and Jake in Jake’s office, which was not much more than a large closet behind the first bay. He didn’t have to go inside because the office had a big plate glass window that faced the apparatus floor. The men weren’t there, but Mickey caught Freddy’s laughter coming from in front of Engine 2. Approaching them, Mickey thought how much Jake and Freddy looked like brothers, which was kind of odd since Jake not only had a brother, he and Dave were identical twins. On second thought, Mickey decided, Freddy didn’t really look like Jake and Dave McCann, because the twins had thick, wavy brown hair and eyes that were a deep rich brown, while Freddy’s hair, which was the same shade of brown, was absolutely straight, and his eyes were blue. You could tell Freddy’s mood by the color of his eyes. They’d be as deep blue as a summer sky when he was happy, but heaven help the guy who saw Freddy’s eyes when they were icy-blue. Oh yeah, Mickey thought, one thing we don’t want is for Freddy to be angry.

Mickey took a spot against Engine 2’s front bumper on the other side of Freddy just as Jim Stevenson drove his police car up to the bay door and called out the open side window, Hey, Freddy, Matt wants you to bring your camera up on Court, just south of the township line. We got a dead body and he wants pictures.

What happened? Jake asked.

Jim shrugged, Just another hobo lookin’ for work, at least that’s what Matt thinks. You coming?

Yeah, but I’ll drive my own car.

Okay, I’m on my way to Laura’s farm now, see if she’s got room to keep the guy’s horse. Talk about a dog food candidate. See ya up there.

Jim drove off. Freddy sighed and looked at his wristwatch. It was three-twenty. Well, as long as I’ve got to head north to take pictures, I may as well go to Dalebridge and meet with Chief Roper about those two fires he had.

Good idea, Jake said. I can’t for the life of me understand why he asked for our help. It was just a couple of field fires, which, for Max Roper, is nothing when you consider that most of Dalebridge is fields. He’s had field fires every year for forty years. I don’t know why he thinks a city boy would investigate better than he can.

Well, this city boy thinks it’s an interesting challenge. I should be back around five, maybe sooner. Either of you need anything while I’m out?

Mickey shook his head, but Jake said, No thanks, but could you cover for me for about an hour when you get back so I can go to Laura’s farm? I want to see those new hay bales she’s getting today from Ben Barneshill.

If you ask me, it’s too goddam hot to fool around with horses, Freddy said, easing up from the bumper, but it’s okay, I’ll cover for you.

Twenty-year-old Mark Barneshill was in a touchy mood. Here at Laura Darvey’s horse farm in Woodhill he had no way of knowing if there were any fire alarms at home in Dalebridge, four miles north and four miles closer to Cleveland. As much as Mark loved farming and looked forward to spending his life in the profession, Mark also loved being a volunteer firefighter.

Mark had planned to spend today at the Dalebridge firehouse doing some of the odd jobs that awaited someone with extra time on their hands. Instead, here he was, sweating and itching, with his shirt stuck to his back and bugs, dead and alive, caught in his hair or crawling around inside his shirt, all because he couldn’t get out of the dairy barn before his father had decided that today would be a good time to bring Laura the load of timothy-clover mix she’d been waiting for. And now the last bale had been tossed off the truck into the loft of Laura’s barn. Mark stepped back, shaking the fabric at the sides of his shirt to loosen it from his skin. At the other end of the loft, Laura and his older sister, Glynis, were rearranging one of the stacks, experimenting with the best way to stack the bales. Mark jumped from the loft door into the bed of the stake body truck, and from there to the ground. At Laura’s outside wash rack, he turned the hose on his head and back, then, dripping wet, he walked around the side of the barn to find his father, Ben, sitting on a park bench that overlooked the pastures and river.

Pretty, isn’t it? Ben said when Mark flopped onto the bench beside him. Look down there at the water, looks like diamonds dancing around that big rock. Almost makes me want to take a swim.

Mark gave a desultory glance down the slope. Laura’s farm was a mile east of Woodhill on thirty acres bounded on the north by Kips Creek, which was actually a river not a creek. Along the farm property the river widened to about forty feet at a spot where a large flat rock jutted out over the bank. The water there was over eight feet deep, making it a perfect spot for swimming and diving. Laura’s barn sat atop a gently sloping hill that ended at the river. The hill was divided by split-rail fencing into five pastures, with one pasture separated from the others by a lane leading down to the river. There was no house on the property; Laura had a house in town she shared with her aunt and uncle.

Laura’s Appaloosa stallion, Envy, was in his paddock on the far side of the riding ring. The sorrel and white horse drank deeply from his water bucket and when he raised his head, the blaze on his face showed up brightly white against the red of his hair coat. In two of the pastures, four Appaloosa mares and their foals lazily cropped grass. Like Envy, all of the horses were a solid color over most of their bodies, but their rumps were blanketed in white. Small spots—the same color as the main coat color of the horse—dotted the white hair on their rumps.

Achh, Ben groaned, this is gettin’ ‘way too comfortable. He got to his feet and called up to the loft, C’mon girls, I don’t have all day.

Just then Laura and Glynis came out of the barn, each carrying two bottles of Coca-Cola. After giving Ben and Mark each a bottle they dropped onto the grass and took huge, very unlady-like gulps from their bottles. Mark leaned against the pasture fence, letting the breeze cool him off and ease his aggravation while it dried his shirt. Ben sat down again and eyed the women. They were a sight, these two friends who’d grown up horse-crazy. He usually thought of Laura as a five-foot-three bundle of energy, but she sure didn’t fit that description now. Her hazel eyes were glazed from the heat in the barn loft and her chestnut-colored hair straggled out from under a beat-up straw cowboy hat. Glynis was in just about the same sorry state; the only difference between the two women, Ben thought with some amusement, was that Glynis was taller, her hair was lighter, and at this moment she was about twice as filthy as Laura. Just showed she’d been away from farm work too long.

Looking up at the sky from flat on her back, Laura said, Mr. B, Mark, thanks so much for bringing the hay and helping stack it. You too, Glynnie. I think I’m going to like this baled hay much better than loose hay. It’s much less work to handle it and I can store twice as much hay in the same space as the loose hay took up.

Wait’ll you see how sore your muscles are tomorrow, Glynis groaned.

Ben chortled, Get used to it girls. My new hay baler is modern technology, the best of ’34! No more loose hay for me, no siree. And you watch, pretty soon they’ll invent a baler that does the bale-tying for us instead of us having to tie the bales by hand.

Next thing to go’ll be Prince and Jasper, Mark said, watching one of the foals stretch out on its side for a nap.

Nope, son, the old boys are family. We’ll always have a place on the farm for a good team of draft horses, no matter how many tractors we get.

Mark snorted, We’ll probably be the only farm left by the time the banks get done with everyone. You did something right, Dad. I’m not sure what it was, but from how folks are talking, and from seeing how much trouble the Dawsons are in, our place is about the only one around making money.

We were part lucky, son, Ben said as he stood up and gave a stretch. He set his empty Coke bottle on the bench. Your grandpa died without a single debt, gave me the farm free and clear, and that’s how I intend to leave it for you kids, free and clear. It just goes to prove that there’s times to go with the new ideas and times to hang back and study on it for a bit before you bite off more’n you can chew. Ben settled his hat better on his head and nodded towards Glynis. Well, let’s get a move on, can’t waste the day.

Oh, wait ‘til I get your hay money, Laura said, scrambling to her feet, it’s in my car. As they walked towards Ben’s truck and Laura’s station wagon Laura said, Listen, Glynnie, I’m so glad you’re home, and I really mean it about wanting you to help me teach the riding classes.

Glynis cast an excited glance back at the mares and foals. I’d love to do it, Laura. It’ll be fun, and I’m looking forward to working with the babies, too. I’ll be here for sure tomorrow and I’ll bring my kids. Cory can go exploring in the woods. That boy’s not happy unless he’s discovering new places.

Tires crunched on gravel as Jim Stevenson braked the police car to a stop so it blocked both Laura’s station wagon and Ben’s truck. Hi folks, he said, getting out of the car. He saw Glynis, and reaching his arms wide, gave her a hug. Wow, Glynnie, my wife said you called. It’s nice to have you back home! Hey, and you, too, Mr. B, it’s nice to see you after all these years. Sorry I haven’t kept in better touch with you and Mrs. B.

You can keep in touch again starting now, Ben said, shaking Jim’s hand.

Is something wrong? Laura asked.

Oh, yeah. Sorry. Seeing Glynnie made me forget why I came here. We found a dead guy in a ditch near the township line, a hobo, according to Matt, and the guy had a scroungy little horse. Matt wants to know if you’ll come and get the horse and keep it until he finds out who the guy is and if he’s got any family that wants the horse back.

No, thank you, Laura said, shaking her head, I don’t dare bring a strange horse in here with my mares and babies. No telling what kind of diseases that horse might have. Besides, I don’t have a spare stall.

I might be able to help, Ben said. Where’d you say the horse was?

On Court, just before the township line.

Dad! Glynis exclaimed, What do you need another horse for?

It’s just temporary. We’ve got that small pen at the back of the horse barn. The weather’s warm, the horse can stay out there away from any of our stock. And look, we’ve got the stake body, we can load it right up. It’s on our way home, we’ll stop and take a look.

Glynis, Mark and Laura knew better than to try changing Ben’s mind when he had that steely expression they all recognized, the look that meant end of discussion.

CHAPTER TWO

Jim coulda told me more about the body, Freddy mumbled as he set the fire department camera on the floor behind the driver’s seat of his blue Chevy. It was one thing to be the fire department’s official photographer—Freddy had taken on the job because he enjoyed photography—but he’d never volunteered to be the police department photographer, too, a fact Matt Gardner seemed to have conveniently overlooked.

Freddy drove north on Court Street past the stores on either side of the street, past the Blue Moon Restaurant and the New Woodhill Hotel, past the village square where the Village Hall, an old Victorian house, and the police station were located. The police station was a one-story brick building that most people agreed was the ugliest building in town. Finally, Freddy passed Hank Atkinson’s Garage and drove over the bridge crossing Kips Creek, the northern boundary of the Village of Woodhill. There were two miles more of Woodhill Township, then Dalebridge Township began, and that was where Freddy saw two police cars parked alongside the road. He parked behind the Woodhill car and carried the camera over to where Matt and Dalebridge Police Chief Lyle Benson were standing.

Matt waved his cigar. Sure took ya long enough, Pratter. It’s a good thing you’re faster at answering fire alarms. Matt tilted his head in Benson’s direction. You know Lyle Benson, police chief in Dalebridge?

How could anyone not know Benson? He was almost as old as the Dalebridge fire chief, Max Roper, and between the two of them they had pretty much run Dalebridge for forty years. Sure, Freddy said, shaking the man’s hand, nice to see you, Chief. Where’s the body?

Down there, Benson said, pointing towards the ditch without looking.

Jim Stevenson arrived in the other Woodhill police car and parked behind Freddy’s car. Laura won’t take the horse, he called out as he strode towards the men, but Mr. Barneshill said he’d take it. He was at Laura’s farm when I got there. Should be along any minute.

Hey, Giles Hessing called from the lane between the cornfields, This horse is trying to bite me! How long do I have to hold him?

Until I say different, Matt yelled, then turning back to Freddy, said, Before you start on the body, take some pictures of the horse and a couple of Giles; that’ll keep Giles from whining until Barneshill gets here.

Freddy took a cursory look at the body in the ditch when he walked over to Giles and the horse. What little he saw and smelled didn’t make him want to take a better look, and he wasn’t any more thrilled with having to take pictures of the horse, who, even though he looked small standing next to Giles, seemed to loom dangerously large as Freddy got closer.

You here to relieve me? Giles asked hopefully.

Nope, just to take pictures of the horse. Walk him up the lane a little ways, will ya, I’m getting a shadow here.

No.

Whaddya mean, no? Take those reins and lead him.

You want him moved, you do it.

Giles, for Godsake, ya wanna be out here all day? Just take the reins and make him walk with you.

I hate horses.

Oh, for the luvva Pete, Freddy snapped, putting his camera down on the grass. He didn’t know the first thing about handling horses, but he knew he could do a lot better than Giles, and with a lot less belly-aching. He led the horse to a spot where the horse wouldn’t cast a shadow in front of himself. See, he said to Giles, who had followed along behind, was that so damn hard?

The horse nuzzled Freddy’s wrist, startling Freddy. He jumped away in surprise. Giles took off for the road. Come back here, Freddy ordered, stroking the horse’s neck to show Giles the horse wasn’t mean.

Giles came back. Did he try to bite you?

No, he just licked my wrist. Would I be standing here petting him if he was dangerous? Just take hold of the reins so we can get this over with.

Giles warily grasped the reins. He’d used up all his courage holding the horse by the road, now, back in the field where the horse was shaking his head, yanking the reins through Giles’ hand in order to bite flies off his neck, and stamping his hooves to shake flies off his belly, Giles was so rattled he could barely stand still long enough for Freddy to snap some pictures.

Freddy took his time, savoring Giles’ nervousness, thinking of how he could make jokes at Giles’ expense. He was also in no hurry to get close to that body. But finally, having stalled as long as he could taking the horse’s picture, Freddy told Giles he could take the horse back to the road. With a loud sigh, Giles tugged on the reins and the horse walked easily at his side. Freddy stayed where he was and watched the horse. He wasn’t particularly comfortable around large animals, but he hadn’t felt intimidated by this horse, in fact, he had the odd feeling that the horse was trying to make friends. The idea elicited some chuckles until he got close enough to the ditch to be enveloped by the stench of rotting flesh.

Freddy saw a stake body truck slow at the side of the road and was tempted to join Matt and the man who alighted from the passenger side, but he knew he was just avoiding his job, so he went to the ditch, and taking a deep breath, forced himself to study the body so he could line up his shots. He had to walk away every fifteen seconds or so to take a breath, which slowed the job down, but it couldn’t be helped.

While Freddy was taking pictures, Ben told Mark to drive the truck further up the road where the ground sloped enough to form a loading ramp to the bed of the truck. Glynis went to get the horse from Giles. On the way she noticed Freddy taking pictures, so she veered off to find out what kind of camera he was using.

Hi, she said, striding over to Freddy, who had the camera aimed at the bottom of the ditch, I hope you don’t mind, but photography’s a hobby of mine, and I’d love to take a look at your camera.

Stay back, Freddy cautioned without even looking at Glynis, wanting only to get the job over with as fast as he could before the sight and the stench completely overwhelmed him.

His warning came too late. Glynis stared into the ditch. What is it? she gasped, even as she realized that the shape beneath that writhing mass of maggots was human. The rotting-flesh smell hit her. I’m going to faint, she thought in some amazement as her stomach revolted, sending acid shooting up into her throat, and the sky and cornfield began to spin. She felt herself pitch forward and vaguely realized she would land in the midst of the maggots. Then, suddenly she was yanked away from the ditch by Freddy, who had hold of the back of her shirt. With Glynis safely away from the ditch, at a spot where they could breathe uncontaminated air, Freddy took hold of her arms to steady her.

Are you okay? he asked.

Oh, that was awful, Glynis sputtered.

I know, that’s why I told you not to look.

I’m sorry, Glynis said, stepping away when Freddy released her, I was so interested in your camera, I forgot the reason we came here was because of a body. I should have known that that’s why you were taking pictures.

Well, I’m done now, Freddy said, picking up his camera and holding it out to Glynis. "It’s a Kodak. The editor of the Express donated it to the fire department."

Matt shouted, Pratter, you done yet?

Excuse me, Freddy said to Glynis, taking the camera from her, I’ve got more work to do before I call it quits for the day.

Yes, of course, Glynis said, falling into step beside Freddy before remembering that she was supposed to be leading the horse to the truck. She halted suddenly. Oh, I forgot the horse! We’re taking the horse. I mean, my father offered to keep the horse until— Glynis clapped her hand to her mouth, embarrassed that she was stumbling over her words, that she was barely making sense to herself let alone to this total stranger. She recovered with a laugh, and cocking her head at Freddy, said, I’m not really an idiot, I just sound like one now and then. Thanks for rescuing me; now I’ll rescue that poor policeman who’s holding the horse.

Glad to help, Freddy replied, filing away her laugh and her face to think about later. She was loading the horse in her father’s truck when it occurred to him that he didn’t know her name and had forgotten to introduce himself.

I’ll ride back here with the horse, Glynis told Ben and Mark, just in case he gets frightened.

Seems quiet to me, Ben said, but he didn’t argue, merely chuckled as he got into the passenger seat of the cab. Mark eased onto the road as Ben envisioned long-ago scenes of his older kids, along with Laura Sanderson—who grew up and married that sneaking gangster, Dan Darvey, may he burn in Hell—loping through the fields on those two-dollar horses they rescued from the killers. Remembering brought a low chuckle.

What, Dad?

Huh? Oh, just remembering how I used to dread what Glynnie and Laura were gonna bring home from the auction barns. Just like that damn pony we’re still feeding. The thing’s probably gonna outlive me! You were too young to know about it, but those silly girls paid a quarter for that tiny, starved pony colt back in ’17 and suckered Rick Henderson into bringing it home from the sale with the load of feeder calves he bought. Stupid kids rode in the back of the truck to protect that colt from the calves and ended up gettin’ the bejeezus kicked outta them while the colt didn’t have a mark on him. Seventeen years I’ve been feeding Lucky, can you believe it?

Mark didn’t give a damn about how Laura and Glynis got Lucky. The whole day was shot and even more time had been wasted loading up the dead guy’s horse. Then, Dad, he said with an unintentionally nasty edge to his voice, if you think keeping Lucky was a mistake, why the hell are you bringing home that mangy nag in the back, huh?

Just helping Matt Gardner out, that’s all, and I’m also thinking that it might be a good project for Glynnie’s kids, and furthermore, it won’t hurt you to watch your tone of voice.

Well, dammit, Dad, it’s another mouth to feed. Which reminds me, what’s the deal with Glynnie?

What kind of talk is that? Ben demanded, glancing through the back window at Glynis, hoping she couldn’t hear the conversation in the cab. Are you thinking Glynnie and her kids are a burden? I’ll have you know that if I have to take care of my daughter for the rest of my life, I’ll do it gladly! Don’t you dare infer that your sister is a burden on our family!

I didn’t mean that, I only meant that—oh, forget it!

No, you explain yourself.

God, Dad, I only meant that I was concerned about Glynnie. She’s not a burden, she’s my sister and I love her, but, dammit, I don’t like what she’s done about Joe Lindbloom. Ya know, she didn’t waste any time calling Laura and Clair and her other old friends to say she was back, but she didn’t call Joe and she told me not to say anything at the firehouse. I think she’s afraid to face him. I think she doesn’t want Joe to know she got divorced, but you know he’s the last person in the world who would look down on her. He was crazy about her.

We know that, son, Ben replied, but you know being divorced is kind of shameful, not something you want everyone to know, and right now we don’t know what’s going on in your sister’s head. And I don’t think Joe has anything to do with it. She went to college at Columbus, Joe went to trade school and got his mechanic’s job, and it seems like in no time both of ‘em was planning weddings to different people. Ben shook his head. Your sister was married eleven years, so what Joe Lindbloom thinks or how he could make her feel isn’t too important any more, besides, he’s got his own family.

Yeah, but it’s a damn pain for me when I’m at the firehouse, trying to keep my mouth shut.

Ben’s temper flared again. Mark, that’s enough! he said, checking through the back window that Glynis was okay. She was stroking the horse’s neck and talking to it. You just hush up about it.

Mark drove along in silence, trying to think of something to talk about that might interest his father yet not start another argument. You know what I heard at Harmon’s yesterday? Some places they’re having ten-cent sales, ya know, where if somebody’s farm gets foreclosed and goes up for sheriff’s sale, the neighbors all come and bid real low on stuff, like a buck for a combine or a horse for a quarter, then at the end of the sale, everyone who bought stuff gives it back to the farmer. I don’t know what they do about the land, probably make it so tough for anyone to bid on that nobody bids at all.

They get violent, that’s what they do.

Well, that’s one way to put a stop to foreclosures, I guess, but Dad, I also heard the men talking about meetings around here, something about fighting back, like the Farm Holiday did when they stopped produce and livestock from going to market, and—

Hold up, son. I heard about those meetings and I’m staying clear of ‘em. The Farm Bureau will fight for what’s right for us, that’s why I belong to it.

Aw, Dad, the Ohio Farm Bureau’s not doing a thing! I think I’ll go to a meeting and see for myself what’s up.

No you won’t. I don’t trust those meetings. You end up with rabble-rousers making trouble for the rest of us. We’re going to run our own farm just like we always have, like my father and his father before him. We are not going to participate in those meetings, is that clear?

Why can’t I go?

Because I said so, Ben replied with that steely edge to his voice that Mark knew all too well.

There was nothing more to say on the matter, so even though Mark seethed with angry thoughts he wisely kept his mouth shut. A couple of times he sneaked a sideways glance at his father, but Ben was staring out the passenger side window, lost in thought.

Ben had felt a tight knot of dread listening to Mark talk about those meetings, so to settle himself he let his mind float, a trick he’d learned years ago, tilling, seeding, harvesting . . . hundreds of miles of following the team back and forth across the fields. His feet had walked the earth, but his mind had soared far above like the hawks that circled the fields, cruising on air currents.

He examined the changing panorama of woods and fields as the truck moved along, playing his private game where he pretended he owned all the property he saw, and with money no object, could do anything he wanted with it. He rarely built upon any of his pretend property unless his plan of the moment required a farm outbuilding of some sort. Usually he only mentally fenced in some areas for pastures and planted the good, well-drained land in oats or corn. The worst thing he could imagine happening to this beautiful land was to see streets put in with house after house, like in Woodhill. Because you had to remember, he’d told his kids so many times, once the land was built on, there was no way short of total destruction by some disaster of ever restoring it to its former state. Every farm that went under was just that much more land for the developers. Those farm meetings could spell disaster if they provoked men to violence; every man who resorted to violence could end up in jail, and then what happened to their farms and their families? It’s a risk Ben wouldn’t take. It was risky enough just getting through the growing season.

Right then Mark drove alongside their horse pasture. The pony, Lucky, raised its head at the familiar sound of the truck engine and jogged along the fence line next to the road. Ben gazed lovingly beyond the pony at the house where he had been born sixty years ago, just like his father before him. He’d been present in that house when Emma gave birth to their first child, Glynis, thirty-one years ago, and he’d been by Emma’s side for the birth of each succeeding child, ending with what he and Emma called their grand finale, the twins Abby and Betsy, now eleven years old. Nine kids in twenty years and the family was still growing, too, what with the addition of grandchildren. Then there’s the other side of the coin: one less member now that Glynnie’s divorced. All of a sudden comes that phone call last month. Lord, I’ll never forget Glynnie talkin’ so straight, as if she was reporting the weather. Out of the blue she says, Dad, Jim and I got a divorce and I want to come home for awhile. The children get out of school on Friday, June eighth, and we’ll be home on Saturday or Sunday. That simple. She didn’t say she and Jim were thinking about getting divorced; it was an accomplished fact before she called. The shock of it was that there hadn’t been a single sign of anything being wrong.

Mark turned in at their driveway. Dad, Did you hear me?

Huh? Oh, no, son, I’m sorry, I was thinking.

Mark backed the truck up to the loading ramp in front of the dairy barn, still irritated that Ben didn’t share his opinion, either about Glynis’ behavior or the farm meetings. He really wanted to defend his right to go to a meeting, but he decided, as he started to speak, that Glynis was a much safer subject. I think I should tell Joe that Glynnie is back.

Ben shook his head. No, no, you don’t betray your sister’s trust just because you don’t agree with her.

Freddy didn’t wait around to watch the body being removed from the ditch. He drove north, wondering along the way if the body would have to be shoveled out. It would probably fall apart. Freddy pictured a maggot-covered arm falling off, dropping back into the ditch to be retrieved by someone with a shovel. Who would it be? The coroner? Someone from Wadsworth’s Funeral Home? It sure as hell better not be the Woodhill ambulance.

Shaking free of those thoughts, Freddy turned his attention to the road and immediately fell into wondering how Dalebridge could be four miles closer to Cleveland and have more farmland than Woodhill. Woodhill and the township had only a half-dozen farms left; just Laura’s horse farm, Jess and Boris Hegerty’s fifteen acres, the Miller place, and three good-sized horse-boarding stables. Only George Miller made a living from farming. In Woodhill it was rare to see a horse and wagon on the streets, not counting Tony the Fruit Man’s wagon and his mule, Sweet Virgin, but horses and wagons were still common in Dalebridge. And Dalebridge’s business section, if it could be dignified by that description, only consisted of the four corners created by the intersection of Court, which was called North Street in Dalebridge, and Markethouse Road. On the northwest corner was Max Roper’s five-bay truck garage with a gas pump out front and beyond that, a general store that also served as the post office. The combination township hall and police station took up the northeast corner, with the fire station on the next lot over. Across the road was the Roadhouse Restaurant, which was mainly a truckstop, not the kind of place you got dressed up and went out to dinner at, except for the locals who went there for lunch after church on Sundays.

A mile south of the intersection, Freddy slowed down passing a dairy farm on the west side of the road, knowing now that it was the Barneshill place because he saw the stake body truck in the yard. Freddy had often admired the farm when passing by. The house and outbuildings, including a huge bank barn, were painted white with gray trim. On the slate tile roof of the bank barn the year, 1844, was done in darker-colored slate. Even the cropland was picture-perfect, like the kinds of scenes used for jigsaw puzzles.

He mulled over using his desire to take photographs of the farm as a way to see the woman again. She was obviously a member of the Barneshill family; he’d seen the strong resemblance between her, her father, and the younger man, who must be her brother. Maybe, Freddy thought, he could get Laura to introduce him since she knew the family well, or maybe Jake could make the introduction since he’d met the Barneshills when he’d gone with Laura to the local livestock auctions. After kicking that idea around for a minute or two, Freddy tossed it aside. If he was going to meet the Barneshill woman, he’d have to do it on his own.

Knowing Fire Chief Max Roper would be at the garage, not at the Dalebridge firehouse, Freddy drove onto Max’s lot, but couldn’t park his car until the driver of Max’s big wrecker maneuvered a school bus so he could back it into the garage.

Freddy found a safe place to park then went into the garage part of the building. He’d only been at Max’s place once before, and that had been up front, on the gas station side. Even with four of the bay doors open, the garage was dark. The concrete block walls were black from the floor to about four feet up, and here and there black handprints blotched the walls, looking almost as if they were some kind of interior decorating scheme. Tools were scattered on a workbench and oil deposits created multi-colored swirls on the concrete floor. Max was nowhere to be seen, but a mechanic was guiding the driver of the wrecker in backing the school bus inside. Seeing Freddy, he called out, If you’re looking for the chief, he’s at the Roadhouse, gettin’ some pie. He should be back any minute if you want to wait.

Yeah, I’ll do that, Freddy replied, glancing with interest at the wrecker, impressed by how much bigger it was than the tow trucks that picked up automobiles.

You must be Captain Pratter, the mechanic said once the bus was parked. He was in his early thirties. The blond hair closest to his forehead was black from brushing the hair off his face with the back of a greasy hand, as he did now. The chief said to expect ya. I’m Joe Lindbloom. I work here but I’m also on the Dalebridge fire department.

After releasing the bus from the wrecker, the wrecker operator joined Freddy and Joe at the other end of the garage. I’m a fireman, too, name’s Charlie Cooper. I’m real interested in what you can tell us about our fires, Captain. Just seems they started for no reason at all. ‘Course, there’s probably no fire scenes for you to see anymore. Chief said he was done with ‘em and told the owner to go ahead and clean ‘em up. You probably know the owner, he’s that Jew guy in Woodhill, the one with the store. Rosenfeld. Wouldn’t surprise me if he set those fires himself to clear the land. Hell, both fires were the same, two old run-down houses, both about ready to fall over by themselves. Not worth fixin’, ya know, and I’ll betcha, as soon as things get better, money-wise, and folks start lookin’ to build new houses, Rosenfeld’s gonna make a killing on that land. You know how Jews always think ahead like that, lookin’ for chances of makin’ money off us Christians.

Freddy’s eyes brushed Charlie Cooper’s and casually took in the rest of the garage. You have something against Jews? he asked mildly, still looking around.

Me? Charlie stabbed himself in the chest with a finger. Me? Hell no, I think they got all the brains when it comes to money. Hey, more power to ‘em, if ya ask me. I’ll bet that Rosenfeld guy makes fifty thousand a year, easy.

The screen door in the gas station part of the building slammed. Pratter, you here? Max Roper called out.

Over here, Joe answered.

Dalebridge Fire Chief Max Roper appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, a short, rotund figure, with tufts of frizzy hair making a halo around his head. He came into the garage with his round face creased in a grin so big his eyes appeared as little slits on each side of a perpetually red nose. Max was in his seventies, and had been the Dalebridge fire chief since the department was formed.

Ho, the cavalry to the rescue! Max chortled, shaking Freddy’s hand. Joking aside, fella, I’m glad you’re here. Let’s go to my office, he said, dropping Freddy’s hand and walking back towards the gas station. Max’s office was merely a paper-strewn desk in front of a window that looked out on the gas pump. He paused to light a cigarette before lowering himself gingerly into a squeaky oak desk chair with a lumpy pillow on the seat. ‘Roids gettin’ to me, he explained, motioning towards the only other place to sit in the room, two stacked cases of Sinclair Motor Oil with a couple of magazines on top for padding.

While Max was shuffling papers, looking for his fire reports, Charlie leaned against the door frame between the gas station and the garage. You want me to start on the bus?

Max found what he was looking for and handed the reports to Freddy. No, too late in the day.

Freddy scanned the reports. There was nothing exceptional about the fires other than their being so obviously set they screamed arson. The property may have been Irwin Rosenfeld’s, but Freddy was sure Rosenfeld had nothing to do with the fires and didn’t even know about them until Max Roper called him. Maybe it was kids, Freddy commented as he handed the reports back to Max.

Nope, wasn’t kids, Max declared, I think it was some hot-headed farmers.

Freddy said, You’ll have to explain that a little better. It seems to me that the farmers would be the first ones to protect their property, or even an adjacent property if a fire could spread onto their land.

Sure, sure, if they were regular farmers, but these guys aren’t, Max said, tilting back in his chair and resting his feet on the desktop. He sighed deeply, staring at his cobwebbed-draped ceiling for a moment before going on, these’re a bunch of men who want to forcefully stop the government and the banks from putting farms up for sheriff’s sales. They’re trying to interfere with lawful activities in the name of protecting the family farm from the banks. They walk right on the edge of the law, ya know what I mean? They don’t shoot at nobody, they don’t block nobody’s way, but they scare folks away from the sales by talking like there’d be trouble if they went.

What makes you think they set the fires in two vacant houses? Who were they threatening? Rosenfeld? He’s not a farmer and he’s certainly not being faced with foreclosure on his properties. Maybe it was set by transients. They’re coming through Woodhill pretty steadily now looking for work. In fact, one was just found dead in a ditch right near the Woodhill-Dalebridge line.

Joe came in, elbowing Charlie out of the way to come through the doorway. He was wiping Lava soap residue from between his fingers. Yeah, he said, we see them around here, too, but I don’t think they started the fires. Maybe if it was winter and they built fires in those houses to keep warm, you could blame the fires on them and count them as accidents but these fires—

Charlie cut Joe off. "I worked on both those fires. I don’t pretend to know what’s on someone’s mind when they set a fire, but I know it sure wasn’t kids that set ‘em for fun, not with the tension around here ‘cause of those vigilante farmers, or whatever you wanna call ‘em.