Their Secret Son

Also on hand was Detective Harry Logan, who spoke on the teenager’s behalf. “He wasn’t trying to be malicious,” Logan argued. “His dad had been using that dilapidated building to deal drugs, and the boy was only trying to draw attention to the man’s crime.”

Saturday night’s blaze caused Reynolds about $25,000 in damages and resulted in several fines for the condition of some of his other buildings on the street. When questioned about the faulty wiring and broken glass in the burned warehouse, as well as the other structures, Reynolds declined comment.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

W ith every call to a fire, a shot of pure adrenaline coursed through Joe Davenport’s blood and didn’t let up until the last hot spot was out. And this one was no different.

The scent of ash filled the air as Joe walked through the charred weeds that once blanketed the vacant lot on the corner of Tidal Way and Harbor View Drive. He was searching for a point of origin and he spotted it near a melted blob of blackened red plastic.

The blaze had taken only ten minutes to contain, but the situation could have become deadly if the flames had reached the Billings place, an old clapboard house that sat next to the burned property.

Edna Billings, whose arthritis confined her to a wheelchair, might not have escaped from the house in which she insisted upon living alone.

Dustin Campbell, a rookie fireman, strode toward Joe, his hand clamped on the shoulder of a kid who looked no more than seven years old. “We’ve got us a firebug, Joe. I caught him standing in the copse of trees, and he smells like smoke.”

The boy wore a crisp pair of khaki slacks with dirt and grass stains on the knees. A suspicious bulge rested in the ash-smudged pocket of a freshly pressed, white button-down shirt.

“What do you have there, son?”

The towheaded boy, whose clothing suggested he’d grown up in a well-to-do home, shrugged, then reached into his pocket, withdrew a gold, monogrammed cigarette lighter and handed it over without any qualms.

Joe had no intention of scaring the kid, but a serious talk about the dangers of playing with matches or lighters, followed by an offer to make the youngster a junior fire marshal usually worked like a charm.

He’d found that instilling a bit of fear and guilt didn’t hurt, either. A small flame became dangerous in the hands of a child. He assessed the boy with a narrowed eye of authority. “What’s your name?”

“Bobby.” The boy stood as tall as his seven-year-old stance would allow. The small, squared chin told Joe he’d have to practice his intimidation skills a bit more.

With a stubborn cowlick, a scatter of freckles across his nose and a dirt-smudged cheek, the boy reminded Joe a lot of himself at that age.

Joe had also been a cocky, towheaded kid, prone to trouble. But he shook off the comparison. “Did you start the fire?”

“Nope.” Bobby crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one side.

“But you must have seen it.”

The kid nodded sagely.

Joe continued to prod for some answers and a confession. “How big was the fire when you first saw it?”

The boy used his thumb and forefinger to measure an inch. “About that big. But I didn’t start it.”

Joe merely nodded at the pint-size explanation that had to be a lie. “Only that big, huh? You must have been the first one on the scene.”

Bobby shrugged his small shoulders in a flip defense that reminded Joe of his own run-in with the law after starting a fire in an abandoned building when he was a kid. Joe hadn’t meant to do anything other than draw attention to his father’s illegal activities.

His old man had been dealing crack from that warehouse for years, and Joe decided to do something about it, something that would make the firefighters and cops take notice. As a fourteen-year-old, he’d hoped the efforts of the authorities might cause a drug-addicted dad to see reason.

That day, nearly twelve years ago, had been a real turning point in Joe’s life.

Once charged with arson and delinquency, Joe Davenport was now well on his way to becoming a fire chief, thanks to the guidance of Harry Logan, patron saint of bad boys.

“How do you suppose the fire started?” Joe asked Bobby.

“It was my mom’s fault,” the kid said in his own defense.

Now the story was getting interesting. “Are you telling me that your mom started the fire?”

“Nope. But it was her fault.”

Joe remained focused and controlled, but a grin tugged at his lips. “Suppose you tell me why it was her fault.”

The boy took a deep breath, then blew out a sigh, as though frustrated he had to explain something that should have been apparent. “I got a model car for my birthday, and some of the little prongs that hold the parts together broke off. I asked her if I could use her nail glue, ’cause it works good enough to stick your fingers together forever, but she wouldn’t let me.”

Joe raised a brow, but refrained from showing any other expression. “So she set the field on fire?”

“No. I had to figure out another way to make it stick together. Then I remembered how plastic melts, cause once I stuck a plastic fork in the fireplace and it melted into a glob that got real hard. So I took my grandpa’s lighter, even though I’m not s’posed to play with it, but I was gonna be real careful.” The boy’s hazel eyes shimmered, and his bottom lip quivered in what looked like his first bit of remorse. “And the car caught the field on fire when it melted.”

At the boy’s defensive explanation, Joe considered turning his back so the kid wouldn’t see him grin at a child’s logic. How did parents deal with this stuff on a daily basis? This boy needed some firm, loving guidance.