An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [78]
"Here you go," he said, and then handed me his badge, which was embedded in a slim wallet. The badge was gold and had some sort of raised seal or crest, and on the crest was some writing that was unreadable in the light and fog. Still, I pretended to examine it closely, as if I knew the difference between a real badge and a fake one. On the wallet flap opposite his badge was an ID with his picture, and his name, Robert Wilson, and his title: detective, Arson Unit, State of Massachusetts Fire Division. The ID looked real enough: I held it up to the streetlight and saw official-looking watermarks and holograms.
"You're a fireman," I said.
"I'm a cop," he said with a little too much force, letting me know exactly what nerve was exposed and how much it didn't like to be hit.
"OK," I said, and handed him back the badge. Detective Wilson took it and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. When he did so, his jacket popped open and came away from his torso and I could see his shoulder holster and the butt of his gun sticking out of it. So even if he wasn't a cop, he was a fireman with a gun, which I figured was pretty close to the same thing.
"Did you know that someone tried to burn down the Mark Twain House last night?" he asked.
"It wasn't me," I said.
"I didn't think it was," he said, although the knowing smile on his face said that he did in fact think I'd set the fire, which made me add, "It wasn't me who set fire to the Edward Bellamy House, either," for unnecessary good measure.
"I didn't think it was," he said again, this time with even less sincerity. He put his left hand in his sport coat pockets and tapped a happy beat through the lining and on his thigh.
"Sure you didn't," I said. "That's why you were following me here."
"Maybe I wasn't following only you," he said. "Maybe I was following your mother, too."
"Why would you do that?"
"Maybe I have my reasons," he said, and then waited for me to ask the obvious question, which I did.
"What are your reasons?" I asked. "Why are you following my mother?"
"The night someone tried to set fire to the Edward Bellamy House," he said, "you were at your parents' house, right?"
"That's right."
"Were they there, too?" he asked, hooking his thumb in the direction of my mother sitting in her illuminated window. "Was your mother there that night?"
"Of course she was," I said. But was she? Had my mother been home, after all? "Where else would she have been?" I said this to myself more than to anyone else, but of course I also said it out loud, thereby losing my sole rights to it.
"Maybe she was here," Detective Wilson said. "Maybe she was somewhere else. Either way, I'll find out." He sounded confident, which scared me. There is nothing scarier to those who lack confidence than those who are full of it. And so I said something right then, something that in the end, and once again, I probably shouldn't have and would end up regretting.
"I know who tried to set fire to the Mark Twain House," I said.
"You do?" Detective Wilson said. His confidence didn't disappear entirely right then, but it did seem as though I'd diluted it some.
"Yes," I said. "His name is Thomas Coleman. He probably set fire to the Edward Bellamy House, too. I don't know where he lives, but you can probably find him at my house in Camelot."
"Your house in Camelot," he repeated.
"One thirteen Hyannisport Way," I said.
"Why would this guy be at your house?"
"He's sleeping with my wife," I said, admitting this to myself and to someone else for the first time. "Or trying to."
What was Detective Wilson's response to this news? It was unexpected. He didn't ask me any questions, didn't wonder who this Thomas Coleman was or why he would want to burn down these houses or how I knew he had tried to do so. Detective Wilson didn't ask me any questions at all. He simply turned away from me, walked over to his car, opened the driver's side door, and climbed in.