Heart of Ice Read online

  CHAPTER 15

  Portland Fitness Center

  The boot camp class had gone well. Cassidy imagined this becoming their new routine a few times a week. She thought she could talk Allison into joining, but Nicole was trickier. But then she gave Cassidy an unexpected opening.

  “Do you know if they have swimming lessons here?” Nicole asked Elizabeth. The four of them were the last people in the exercise room. “When my daughter was three, we were at a family reunion, and she slipped into the lake when no one was watching. Luckily she was only there for a minute or two, but it left her terrified. She won’t even go to the pool with her friends. I’ve tried to teach her, but she’s picked up that I’m a little nervous around the water myself, and it just makes her more afraid. ”

  Cassidy hadn’t heard before about Makayla’s accident. Nicole was always so vigilant about her daughter. It must have been horrible for her.

  “Actually, I offer one-on-one instruction for reluctant learners.” Elizabeth took a card from the top of the wooden console that held the stereo system and scribbled a phone number on the back. “Give her to me, and I’ll guarantee that by this summer she’ll be splashing and having fun.”

  Nicole took the card. “Hey, thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

  Looking from her old friends to her new one, Cassidy said, “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we all go have coffee?”

  Allison and Nicole nodded, but Elizabeth shook her head. “Oh, I wish I could, but I have a personal training session scheduled.”

  The news splashed cold water on Cassidy’s vision of the four of them laughing around a table. Elizabeth would have told them about one of her amazing adventures—rock climbing in Nepal, working as an assistant to a famous novelist, a May–December affair with one of her father’s rock star friends—and Allison and Nicole would have hung on every word. And Cassidy would have basked in Elizabeth’s reflected glory.

  Now she would be free to parse Elizabeth with her two old friends, but all they would have to go on was how Elizabeth had taught the class. And while Cassidy could try to repeat one of her stories, she didn’t think she could do any of them justice.

  So what did you think?” Cassidy asked as they settled around a table at the gym’s café.

  She had gotten a mocha, Allison a nonfat latte, and Nicole had only asked for ice water. Nic could normally be counted on to order the largest size coffee available, but Cassidy was too focused on Elizabeth to inquire about the switch.

  “Wasn’t her class amazing?” As a nod to their habit of always splitting the richest dessert on the menu, Cassidy had gotten the closest thing, a chocolate chip scone, and was now trying to break it into crumbly thirds. “There’s one woman in there who has gone from a size sixteen to a six. I didn’t even know where my triceps were until Elizabeth showed me.”

  “It’s a tough class,” Nicole said. Grudgingly, if Cassidy was any judge.

  “It’s more than tough,” Allison said. “It certainly showed me how out of shape I’m getting.” She pinched her midsection.

  “So will you think about joining?” Cassidy wheedled. “If you do, the first month’s dues are free.”

  “Maybe I should.” Allison took a sip of coffee. “Although I think I’d rather work out at my own pace on one of the ellipticals or an Exercycle, instead of trying to keep up with everyone else. I’m not coordinated enough to be in a class like that.”

  “It’s only complicated the first couple of times. After you know what to expect, it’s automatic.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Typical Allison, never saying what she really thought. Then she surprised Cassidy by adding, “You know who I would really like to see join here? Lindsay.”

  Nicole, who hadn’t even seemed to be listening to the conversation, raised her head. “Your sister?”

  “She’s living with us for a little while.”

  “With you?” Cassidy asked. “Why not your mom? Isn’t that where she usually goes?”

  “Mom actually said no. She’s said no before, of course, but this time she meant it. I guess she got burnt out.” Allison sighed. “But I couldn’t turn Lindsay away. She won’t stay in a shelter. If Marshall and I didn’t take her in, she’d be out on the streets.”

  Even back in high school, Lindsay had been notorious for getting into scrapes.

  Cassidy asked, “Do you feel comfortable having her at your house when you’re both gone all day?” Then she wondered if she had gone too far. Lindsay was Allison’s sister, after all.

  “She says she’s not using right now, and I believe her, because she looks terrible.” Allison sighed. “She’s trying to get back on her feet again. But I would like to find something healthy to keep her occupied. Otherwise she just might go running back to Chris.”

  Or steal all their stuff and pawn it, or party in their beautiful house with some new friends she had just met at the bus mall, or pass out in the bathroom in her own vomit. Over the years, those were the kinds of stories Cassidy had heard about Lindsay. But she admired Allison for never giving up on her sister.

  Cassidy turned the conversation back to her new favorite topic. “It’s too bad Elizabeth couldn’t join us. She’s amazing. She’s done, like, everything. Her dad is—well, I can’t really tell you who he is, she would kill me—but someone famous. She even helped him write that song about—oops, almost gave it away.” Cassidy put her hand across her mouth, hoping they would urge her on. If she told them something was a secret, they wouldn’t share it. Both Allison and Nicole were far better at that sort of thing, sometimes to Cassidy’s chagrin.

  But Elizabeth’s stories, told secondhand, clearly weren’t as engrossing as the real thing.

  “She sounds … interesting,” Allison said politely.

  And in her head, Cassidy heard Elizabeth’s comment the first time Cassidy had talked to her about Allison: Sounds like that girl needs to let her hair down.

  Nicole didn’t even bother to say anything. She was staring into her glass of water like the ice cubes held the answers to life’s questions.

  Giving up, Cassidy switched subjects. “So I’m going to do that interview with the Want Ad Killer tomorrow. He’s going to call in, collect.”

  “I’m surprised his attorneys haven’t put a stop to it.” Allison flipped open her cell phone. “What time is that going to air?”

  “At five and six thirty.”

  “So it’s prerecorded?”

  “I’m not taking the chance of doing it live.” Cassidy pinched the last of the scone crumbs. “Too many unknowns.”

  Allison closed her phone. “You’ll tape the whole thing, right? Can you let us hear it—even what you don’t air?”

  “Sure,” Cassidy said. Phone calls from the jail were always recorded, so Allison could have subpoenaed the conversation anyway.

  Allison tapped her phone against her lips. “Maybe you could even go one step further.”

  “What are you thinking?” Cassidy asked.

  “What if we leaked you some information that you could use with Foley?”

  “Allison!” Nicole’s brows drew together.

  Allison touched the back of Nicole’s hand. “I’m thinking we could give her some information that wasn’t quite right—and see if he corrects it.”

  Cassidy caught on. “Because it would be something only the killer would know.” She imagined taking the stand to testify. She wouldn’t just be covering the news—she would be making it.

  “Exactly.” Allison nodded. “But whatever happens, you’d better ask all the questions you can—it might be the only chance you get.”

  “He’s promised me an exclusive.” Cassidy felt smug. It had taken an endless amount of cajoling to get it. But given the chance to tell his side of the story, Foley had overridden the objections of his attorney.

  Nicole made a huffing noise, and the other two women turned to her.

  “Sometimes it feels like your priorities are all out of whack. Don’t forget, there are three d
ead women out there. And you’ll be giving the guy who killed them a platform.”

  The words hit Cassidy like a blow. “Colton has a right to be heard as much as anyone else. And I’ve offered the same deal to the friends and family of the victims, but they won’t go on camera.”

  “And this might help us, Nicole.” Allison laid her hand on Nicole’s arm, but she shook it off. “Cassidy could get him to say something that we could use against him in court.”

  “Do you really think that she’ll trap Colton Foley into incriminating himself ?” Nicole’s laugh was devoid of humor. “She’ll just give him a chance to be in the limelight. That’s the kind of thing Foley craves, and you’ll be handing it to him on a silver platter. And I just keep thinking that those three women never got a chance to speak.” Nicole pressed her lips together before she spoke. “And now it’s too late.”

  “Hey, Nic. This is just what Cassidy does. She talks to people who you and I can’t talk to—or won’t. And sometimes that means she learns things before we do. We all have the same goal—making sure the bad guys get what’s coming to them.”

  “Oh, really? Are you sure her goal isn’t to get more air—” Suddenly Nicole put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes.

  Cassidy and Allison exchanged a shocked glance.

  Finally Nicole said, “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well today.” And then she pushed back from the table and left without saying another word.

  And as she did, Cassidy heard Elizabeth’s voice in her head: Why be such a killjoy?

  CHAPTER 16

  Unincorporated Washington County

  Teachers, counselors, and even a judge had lectured Joey about the dangers of playing with fire. By the time he was discharged from the Spurling Institute, he could reel off fire’s “negative impact”: property damage, fines, prison, injury, death, trauma. All of which he had seen firsthand.

  But that denied the beauty and truth of fire. Fire changed things. It burned things clean. Fire was terrible and magical, warm and cruel, beautiful and ugly—all at once.

  Joey had discovered fire when he was eleven. It started when he took a book of matches from a bowl on a restaurant counter. Just having them in his pocket had been like having a special secret. It had made him forget the new baby, who cried all the time, and his new stepdad, who didn’t like Joey very much. Who sometimes called him Josephine. Called him a little girl.

  That night, in the basement, Joey lit a match. The flame shimmered. He was mesmerized by how it moved, dancing like a sculpture in motion. Finally, he blew it out. He lit another match, for longer this time, only blowing it out when it singed his fingers. The end was black and curled. It crumbled away when he touched it with the tip of his finger.

  Soon he was experimenting every day after school. His mom never asked what he did. She was just happy that he was entertaining himself. Joey learned how fire tested everything. Some things turned black and shriveled up. Some made red and orange flames, others blue and purple. Pens and plastic spoons melted and dripped.

  Away from the basement, if his mom was busy upstairs with the baby, Joey put things in the toaster, laid them on top of the burners on the oven. Stuck them in electrical outlets.

  So many things burned. Cleaning fluids. Rubbing alcohol. Paint. Hair spray. Perfume. Spray deodorant. You could shoot a torch of fire if you had the right kind of spray can and a lighter. And by now Joey had stolen his stepdad’s silver Zippo.

  He taught himself some stunts and then impressed the heck out of other kids in vacant lots. Like curling his hand into a ball, filling it with gasoline, and lighting it.

  Walking home from school one day, Joey pulled out the Zippo. He was alone. The other kids liked his tricks, they did. But when two or three would decide to play fort or soldiers after school, they never asked him. He told himself he didn’t care.

  A dead bush sat at the edge of an empty lot. No leaves, just gray brittle branches. Joey flicked the lighter, and the flame popped up obediently. He ran the orange-red wavering triangle underneath one of the branches until it began to smoke. As fast as water, the fire ran down the branch, streams of orange and red that hypnotized him. He could smell the smoke now, the good smell of a campfire.

  Watching it come alive was a thrill, the way it always was.

  But what happened next came as a shock.

  The bush crackled as the fire leapt from one brittle twig to the next. It was moving much faster than he had expected. He had planned on stamping it out. But then suddenly the dead yellow grass underneath the bush was also on fire.

  Joey turned and ran to his house, three blocks away.

  And then was lured back by the sirens. Two red fire trucks. And from them spilled shouting men with fire hoses and high boots and heavy brown coats circled by orange reflective tape.

  Joey had done this thing. Made all these adults rush around. They didn’t know it, but they were dancing to his tune.

  Fire was everything Joey wanted to be. Exciting. Dangerous. Beautiful. Destructive. And yet he controlled it. Other people were too boring, too afraid to do what he did.

  So he conjured up fire more and more. Until one evening when he was fourteen, the fire again leapt out of his control. Only this time it was in his home. Wild flames raced along the floor of the basement, fed by the paint thinner he realized, only too late, that his stepdad must have spilled during his latest project. Then the blaze found the pile of newspapers in the corner.

  Joey tried to trample it, but the fire was too fast for him. In less than a minute the flames had doubled, snapping, leaping, climbing to the wooden rafters supporting the oak floor above. Six minutes later the neighbors called 911. The firefighters were there in another three and a half minutes. By that time, everyone in the house but Joey was dead. His mom and his stepdad and his little brother—they had been on the top floor of the old house.

  Joey had always thought of fire as being synonymous with light. But trapped in the basement, he discovered that fire could also be dark, due to the smoke. Finding the door to the outside was like finding his way out of a maze, blindfolded. He had to crawl on the ground like a snake, because it was the only place where the air was cleaner and cooler. But to open the door, he had to stand up. Stand up into the fire. When he ran out, his clothes and hair were ablaze, and the hand that had turned the knob was ruined.

  At the trial, they said that parts of the fire had reached a thousand degrees. His mother, stepdad, and his half brother had not died from the flames but from breathing superheated air that destroyed their lungs. When they found his stepdad, his body was wrapped around his son. The fire had melted their clothes onto their skin.

  The juvenile judge sentenced him to the Spurling Institute. The first person Joey saw when he was driven through the barbed-wire-topped gate at Spurling was a guy wearing a five-foot-tall dunce cap. Around his neck were three or four homemade cardboard signs. The top one said in block letters WELCOME MAT, and Joey’s first confused thought was that some guy named Mat was coming.

  Like Joey, half the students had a criminal conviction, referred by state juvenile corrections systems with no place to put them. For the rest, Spurling was the end of a line that had begun with an exclusive boarding school, then devolved through a series of less-choosy schools, and finally a military academy or two. Most had exhibited bad behavior of some sort—taking drugs, stealing, vandalizing. Some were violent. A few had mental illnesses that either hadn’t been diagnosed or that didn’t respond to medications. But for everyone, Spurling was the school of last resort.

  In fact, there was very little school going on at the school. During the day, the students provided much of the labor that kept Spurling running, as well as attended group therapy sessions and individual counseling. School was held for just a few hours after dinner, and it was easy enough to cheat. Spurling liked to brag that its students had a B average or better, but administrators never revealed that the tests were all open book.

  At Spurling, Joey was
told that he was a delinquent, irresponsible, oppositional, lacking judgment, and had poor interpersonal skills.

  According to the lesson plan the school filed with the state, at Spurling Joey was supposed to develop self-esteem, insight, and self-awareness. He was supposed to learn how to express anger “in an appropriate and verbal manner.”

  None of that was as beguiling as the sound of a Zippo.

  Joey was not allowed to have lighters, matches, cigarettes, or magnifying glasses. He could not “accumulate combustibles.”

  He was searched, as was his room, every day. But it was like they thought he had no imagination. A single piece of paper, held against a lightbulb long enough, would catch on fire. A fire that had to be carefully shielded until it could be applied to something else.

  And then there was Sissy, one of his few friends at Spurling. Which was far better than having her as an enemy. They were the same age, but by the time Joey was sentenced to Spurling, Sissy had already been there for a year. She liked being held up by the administrators as a success story, an example of how even someone who had committed the most terrible offenses could be rehabilitated. So at Spurling she was careful to cover her tracks. But she had a million sneaky ways of getting back at someone she didn’t like.

  And a few ways of helping you, if that’s what she felt like. So sometimes Sissy would bring Joey a match. A single match, but he would do whatever she wanted for that match. Give extra food to her, do her chores, plant contraband in the room of an enemy. He knew she lied to him sometimes, but it didn’t matter. Not when she was willing to be his friend. Not when she acted like she couldn’t see the scars on his face and hand.

  Once he got caught with a match in his room. But Joey never admitted where the match had come from, not even when he was forced to stand out in the stifling August sun for two days straight wearing shorts, no shirt, no sunscreen, and a sign that read BURN BABY BURN.

  Sissy left Spurling six months before Joey. He got used to being alone, which was good, because it wasn’t any different on the outside. People took one look at his patchwork face and then looked away. Even his dad winced when he looked at Joey’s hand. Once he was in line for a slice of pizza, and a kid told him the workers should just put the toppings on his face. Younger kids would sometimes ask what had happened, but more than once before he could even answer, a mom would drag the child away, warning the kid not to talk to “those people.”