OF the four agents that David Ogden chose to carry out his last requests, Gemstone was the one least motivated by a blind loyalty or by the money involved. True, she was loyal to Ogden and indebted to him, and true, she welcomed the sizable sum that had been deposited into her Zurich account, but Gemstone would have done the job for virtually anyone, and for nothing, if necessary. She would have burned down your barn for five bucks and the cost of the kerosene, and she would have burned down an orphanage just for the hell of it. Gemstone, whose name was Louise Abruzzi, was a firebug, a torch, a pyromaniac, and burning things down was more than just a job to her. It was her food, her drink, and her love life rolled into one.
She came into Glen Grove on the twenty-fifth of February, three days before the beginning of the time frame, and she spent those three days observing the Southern Manor from a room in a similar establishment directly across the street. By the end of the third day she knew exactly how she was going to do the job, and she spent the next day assembling the equipment she would need. With that accomplished, she left the rooming house and checked into a decent hotel on the other side of town. She was ready to roll on the job, but she was safe in the time frame and she could afford to give herself a day to let the anticipation and the excitement build inside of her. The anticipation was part of it for her, and she relished every minute of it.
Whenever time allowed, her routine for the day before a job was unvarying. She made it a time of complete relaxation as she drifted into a dreamlike state, thinking about the fire the next day, and of all the fires that had sparked her life over the years. This time was no exception. She started with a dip in the hotel pool, pleased that at her age she was still able to wear the most radical of bathing suits without embarrassing herself, then a light breakfast, and then she stretched out in the sun beside the pool to drift and dream. As usual, she let her thoughts wander back to when it all had begun. She no longer wondered why she was the way she was, but she still found it odd that she had been twenty-eight years old before she had become aware of the fires that were burning inside her head.
The year was 1970, and she was stationed at the Third Surgical Hospital at Binh Thuy, which was not a good place for an Army nurse to be that year. It wasn't the shelling so much. They were rarely shelled closely at Binh Thuy, the Air Force unit a few miles away drew most of the incoming, but they were operating around the clock and the strain was heavy. It wasn't just the wounded, either, not the legitimate wounded. There was a lot of dope going down at that time, medics coming to work stoned on horse, shooting up in the bathrooms, shooting up the patients who could pay for it. And the other kind of shooting, the gunfights. Guys coming into the hospital full of holes that the VC never put there. Gunfights among themselves almost every night, and always when the town was off-limits and the guys couldn't get in to see the girls. Stoned MPs and stoned GIs shooting it out in the compound; it was scary, and later, after she had set the fire, they tried to make a case that she had cracked under the strain. It's nothing to be ashamed of, it can happen to anybody, they told her, and she finally went along with it although she knew it wasn't so. She said, yeah, that must have been it, I must have flipped, because she wasn't going to tell them what really had happened, and she had to say something.
What she did was burn down the supply building at Binh Thuy. She did it in the middle of the night, and she did it by pouring gasoline around the base of the structure and setting it off with a homemade Molotov cocktail. It was an amateurish way to do it, but she didn't know anything about setting fires then. The foundation was cement block and the roof was tin, but the rest of it was wood, and it cooked up quickly. By the time that the fire squad arrived the roof was glowing pink; there was nothing to be saved, and later the CID investigators told her that she had roasted a half-million dollars worth of government issue.
She didn't try to deny it. She told them exactly what she had done, but when they asked her why she had done it, she went silent. She wasn't going to tell them that at the moment it had seemed like the most satisfying, pleasurable thing in the world to do, and so she had done it. She wasn't going to tell them that she had done it the way she would have eaten an apple if she had been hungry, or taken a drink if she had been thirsty. She wasn't going to tell them how she had felt when the flames went up.
"What's going to happen to me?" she had asked. There were two of them, a major and a captain, and both had been civilian cops.
"All we do is file the report," said the major. " Saigon makes the charges."
"How bad could it get?"
"You could pull some time. Why did you do it?"
It was perhaps the tenth time they had asked the question. As she had all the other times, she shook her head silently. The major nodded to the captain, who got up and left the room. When he was gone, the major said, "I'm old enough to be your father."
"No, you're not."
"Maybe an older brother. You want to tell me, just me, why you did it?"
She shook her head.
He shrugged. "I'm going to put down in my report that you cracked under the strain. Otherwise, you're looking at some heavy time."
"What strain?"
"You joking? All the wounded, all the shit that goes down here? You cracked, that's all."
"I've been a nurse for seven years. I don't crack."
"Suit yourself."
"If I say that I cracked, that makes me a nut case. They put me in a psycho."
"Not necessarily. What do you say we stop horsing around. You want to tell me what it felt like?"
His eyes were laughing at her, and she realized that he knew. She managed to say, "I'm not a nut case."
"Oh, yes you are. I've been a cop long enough to know exactly what you are."
"How much time am I looking at?"
"Could be five to ten."
"That much?"
"Could be."
"I guess I cracked under the strain. I just flipped. It's been hell around here."
"Now you got it."
The report was filed in Saigon, and while the wheels of justice were turning she was confined to her quarters with an MP on guard outside the door. She welcomed the confinement. It took her away from the physical and emotional pounding of the war, and it gave her a chance to think about what she had done, and what her future might be. She figured that if she was lucky she would be booted out of the Army, which meant an end to her nursing career, and that at the worst she would wind up in jail. She was wrong on both counts. Seventeen days after the report was filed she was visited by a middle-aged civilian with a warm smile and an easy manner who introduced himself as David Ogden. The interview took place in her room. Ogden took the only chair, and she sat on the edge of the bed.
"First of all, let me assure you that I'm not with the CID," he said. "I represent a civilian organization that's interested in your case." "Which organization is that?"
"We'll get to that in a while. First, I'd like to ask you a few questions." The questions he asked were about her childhood, her education, her vocation for nursing, and her feelings about the war. She answered them easily, warming to the man. Like the CID major, he was almost old enough to be her father, but unlike the major, he gave off an air of trust and confidence. For the first time since the night of the fire she started to relax.
"These questions," she said. "All that stuff is in my file."
"I know," he agreed, "but asking questions is a way of getting to know someone. Now I'll ask you for something that isn't in your file. When was the first time you ever felt like setting a fire?"
She stiffened, and the feeling of trust evaporated. She did not answer.
Ogden nodded as if he had expected that reaction. "Without wishing to appear overly dramatic," he said, "you should understand that your fate, your future, rests entirely in my hands." He showed her two envelopes. "This one contains the orders for your court-martial on charges of second degree arson, wanton destruction of government property, and half a dozen other infractions. If you go to trial, I can personally guarantee you a guilty verdict and a heavy sentence."
"I cracked," she said softly. "The strain."
He brushed that aside, and tapped the second envelope. "This one contains your honorable discharge from the United States Army. Clean record, no charges brought, now or ever."
She stared at him.
"Before I leave here today, I am going to destroy one of these envelopes. Which one depends on you, and how honestly you answer my questions. Is that understood?"
She nodded.
"I'll repeat the question. When was the first time you ever felt like setting a fire?"
"The night it happened, here at Binh Thuy."
"Never before?"
"Never. Look, I know it sounds like a lie, but I never had that feeling before. You know, that I wanted to burn something."
"Wanted to, or had to?"
"It's the same thing, isn't it?"
"It could be. Never before?" She nodded. "All right, it happens that way sometimes. What do you remember about that night?"
"Everything."
"Clearly?"
"Clear as a bell. I know that I could make a better case for myself if I said that I had a blackout or maybe that things were fuzzy, but I'm trying to be straight with you. I remember everything."
Ogden said softly, "Tell me about it."
She told him about the cans of gas from the motor pool, swishing them around the base of the building until they were empty. She told him about the gas in the empty beer bottle, the rag for a wick, the match, the whoosh as it caught. She told him how she stood and watched as the flames crept up, burst through the roof, and stretched to the sky. She told him how she knew that she should run, but how she couldn't. How she had to stay and watch, no matter what.
"You knew that you'd be caught?" he asked.
"It didn't seem important at the time. I know that sounds crazy, but that's the way it was. I had to watch."
"Yes, I understand that. Now, I want you to tell me what happened while you watched. Will you tell me that?"
She did not answer.
"I'm asking you to trust me, and to tell me." He held up the two envelopes. "Remember, it's your choice."
In a small voice, she said, "I wet my pants."
"Yes, that often happens. And something else happened, didn't it?"
"Yes," in that same small voice.
"Tell me."
"Do I have to?" He nodded. She looked away from him. "I had an orgasm."
"Yes, that also happens."
"More than one." She laughed jerkily. "I don't know how many times… those flames, I never had anything like it." She put her hands over her face.
"Bingo," murmured Ogden. He moved to sit beside her on the bed. In a comforting tone, he said, "Relax, it's all over now. No more questions."
She still would not look at him. From behind her fingers, she said, "I'm so embarrassed."
"Don't be. It's happened to other people."
She lowered her hands. He gave her one of the envelopes. "You're out of the army, you're a civilian. Do you want to watch me tear up the other one?"
"No, I trust you." She meant it. "What happens to me now?"
"You can go wherever you wish, do whatever you please. I can have you stateside in a matter of days, if that's what you want. But you have to consider one thing. I dislike the word 'normal,' but what you did the other night could never be considered normal behavior, not by anyone. You know that, don't you?"
"I'm not crazy."
He shrugged. "You're a pyromaniac, you show the symptoms. Do you know what a pyromaniac is?"
"Someone who likes to set fires?"
"Someone who is obsessed with setting fires. Someone who gets pleasure out of it. Enormous pleasure."
"But I never did it before."
"Some people start late. Believe me, you're a torch, a natural."
"I promise, I won't do it again."
"Do you mind if I say that I don't believe you? Torches don't quit. It's not something you have any control over. Look, the way I see it, you have three courses of action open to you. Do you want to hear them?"
She nodded dumbly.
"You can do nothing about it, and try to lead a normal life. Frankly, I don't think that will work. Somewhere down the line you'll set another fire, and another, and one day you'll get caught. You won't walk away from that one. Is that what you want?"
"Obviously not."
"An alternative is to go into psychotherapy. The condition is treatable. Perhaps not curable, but treatable."
"I told you, I'm not a nut."
"And you don't want to lose what you just found, do you."
She smiled for the first time. "Hell no, it's too good."
"Then I suggest that you come to work for me. You'll make a good deal more than you did as an army nurse, and you'll report only to me."
"Doing what?"
"Setting fires. Only when I tell you to, and only under strictly controlled conditions, but that will be your job. To set huge, blazing fires."
"What if I get caught?"
"You won't, not if you're working for me."
"I really don't know much about setting fires."
"You'll be trained. If you want the job, you'll leave this evening for a place called Quon Trac. We have a training camp there that specializes in… in the sort of work I have in mind for you. After a month at Quon Trac, you'll be ready for your first assignment."
"Fires? Just fires?"
"Just fires." He saw the look on her face, and he smiled. "What is it?"
"Nothing, nothing at all."
"You were getting excited, weren't you?"
Again the jerky laugh. "Yeah, I guess I was."
"Well, how does it sound to you?"
"It sounds like heaven."
And it was, she thought as she lay beside the pool, her eyes closed against the Florida sun. Years and years of heavenly fires, and now he wants one more. One last fire tomorrow for the only man who ever truly understood me. All the others were for me, David, but this one is for you, and I'm going to make it a beaut.
"They had a chance and they blew it. It could have been a diplomatic coup," said Mike Teague. He pronounced it coop. The old man propped up in bed, a stained and wrinkled pajama top showing over the covers. He had a three-day growth of stubble on his face, and his wispy white hair stuck out in all directions. "It coulda solved the whole Cuban business in one stroke of the pen. You know how?"
"How?" Julio asked politely.
"Baseball, that's how. Cuban people are crazy about baseball, right?"
"Right," Julio agreed, conjuring up childhood memories.
"So here you got the National League, they add two more expansion teams, which is stupid in the first place because you got too many teams already, not enough major-league talent to go around, but that's something else. So they add two more teams, and who do they pick? Miami and Denver, that's who. Okay, nothing wrong with that, but can you imagine what happens if they pick Havana instead of Miami?"
"Havana?" Julio started to grin.
"Don't laugh. You put Havana into the National League and you got Cuba back on our side again. I mean, what's stronger, communism or baseball?"
"Baseball, of course."
"See what I mean? It brings the countries together."
"It's a thought," Julio admitted.
"A thought? It's a natural. You know, Castro was a ballplayer once, a good one."
Julio nodded. The story of the Maximum Leader's tryout with the old New York Giants was a part of Cuban folklore. Havana in the National League? It was a crazy idea, but like most of Teague's ideas there was a germ of sense in it. That was why he enjoyed spending time in the old man's room. He was a cranky old goat, but he had a never-ending fund of sports stories, and the walls of his room were covered with photographs. There were boxers with names like Tiger Arroyo, Battling Benny, the Williamsburg Kid, the Chocolate Kid, and Kid Kelly. There was a photo of the Brooklyn Dodgers, with Mike Teague the assistant trainer. There were team photos of the colleges at which he had worked: the Bowdoin lacrosse team, the Hamilton football team, the Van Buren basketball squad. There were photos of track men breasting tapes, a discus thrower at the moment of release, a vaulter caught in midfight. Every photo was signed; Mike wouldn't have any other kind. Julio was the old man's favorite audience. He had heard the stories so many times that he knew most of them by heart, but he always listened politely.
Julio, check in. The thought came winging from somewhere near.
Right here, Snake, he replied. All quiet.
Where's here?
Mike Teague's room. You?
In the parlor with Mrs. Costigan.
Right. Check again later.
They had divided the days into eight-hour watches so that each could get some sleep, and now at four in the afternoon they were both awake, circulating around the house and waiting for Gemstone to make a move. As he signed off with Snake, Julio felt a touch of excitement. As much as he hated to admit it, it felt good to be back in harness again, doing the work of a sensitive, even if the job was nothing more than standing guard over a ramshackle rooming house. And it was a pleasant change from the daily routine of hanging around the fronton, and telling the fortunes of elderly Cuban ladies. His only regret was that this renewed connection with Snake had not yet led to a renewal of intimacy. The eight-hour shifts made that impossible, but once the job was over…
He broke off the thought, and asked, "Did you ever see any baseball in Cuba?"
"Couple of times in the forties. The Havana Sugar Kings. You got some crazy fans down there."
"Was that when you were with the Dodgers?"
"Jesus, what's the use of me telling you things if you don't listen? I was with the Brooklyns in fifty-three, just that one year."
"Sorry." There was an electric razor on top of the bureau. Julio tossed it onto the bed. "Give yourself a shave, you look like a bum."
Teague let the razor lie. "The hell with it, I don't need it."
"Come on, Mike, the nurse will be here soon. Don't you want to look good for the nurse?"
"That old cow."
"Hey, she's a nice lady, Mrs. Coombs."
"Cow," Teague repeated, but he picked up the razor. "Maybe you were thinking about that Cuban runner I trained that time."
"Who was that?"
"Christ, don't you remember anything? That's him on the wall over there. To the left of the door, about halfway up."
Julio peered at the faded photo of a man in a warmup suit. It was inscribed, a mi bien amigo, Miguel Teague. It took him a moment to make out the signature. He said in surprise, "You worked with Alberto Juantorena?"
"Bet your ass. Fastest son of a bitch over a quarter mile that I ever saw in my life."
"You never told me, Mike, really you didn't. He was a hero in Cuba when I was a kid. When was this?"
"Seventy-six Olympics in Montreal," Teague said with a certain smugness. "Won the four hundred meters in 44.26. He was one rapid bastard."
"That's amazing. I thought you were still at Van Buren in seventy-six."
Teague shook his head sadly. "If I told you once, I told you a dozen times. I quit Van Buren after the seventy-five season. That was the year that we beat Polk in the big game, and then we won the tournament. That's the Van Buren team over there."
Julio followed Teague's pointing finger to another photograph on the wall. There were ten players standing or kneeling, with the coaches in the center, and Teague off to the side. There was no way that Julio could have known it, but one of the men in the picture was Hassan Rashid.
Julio, are you tapped in? Julio? Snake sounded hurried.
Go.
We're on. Mike's nurse just showed up and it isn't Mrs. Coombs. She says that Coombs has the flu and she's the substitute. She's on her way up.
Gemstone?
It figures, doesn't it?
Did you tap her?
No time. I'm coming up behind her.
There was a knock on the door, and a woman walked into the room. She wore a nurse's uniform, and she carried a black bag. She smiled at Teague, and started to say something. She never got the words out. Julio grabbed her wrist, twisted it, and pulled the bag away from her. He threw it across the room, and in the same motion he twisted her arm behind her back. He got his other arm around her neck in a lock. She screamed and struggled as he pulled her against him. She fell forward to the floor, and he lay on top of her, pinning her. She kicked, and a heel scraped his shin.
"Cut it out," he muttered. "I'll break your neck if I have to." She stopped struggling, and went limp. She felt warm and soft under him. Snake came pounding into the room. She had half a sandwich in her hand.
"What the hell?" said Teague. "What the hell?"
Tap her, said Snake.
Going in now. Come on along.
They went in together and poked around. They went through her head from the attic to the basement. They checked the closets and blew dust out of the corners. They mowed her lawn and spaded her flower bed. They gave her a thorough housecleaning, and when they were finished they had nothing. She was nothing more or less than she was supposed to be.
Martha Rattigan, registered nurse, Snake said disgustedly. On substitute duty for Ellen Coombs. She's clean.
And she's twenty-six years old, added Julio. You might have mentioned that she was young before I made a fool of myself. Gemstone was in Nam with Ogden. Does she look old enough to have been in Nam?
I think she's angry.
Wouldn't you be? What's the sandwich?
I was hungry, Snake said defensively. Who gets a chance to eat with these hours?
Teague said, "That's a nice solid lock you got there, Julio. I used to train a wrestler once."
I think you'd better let her up, said Snake. Unless you're enjoying yourself in that position.
I'm tempted. It's the closest I've been to a woman in a while.
Poor darling. Now let the nice lady up and apologize like a good boy.
I've got a better idea. At the count of three I'm going to get to my feet and run like hell. You do the apologizing. One.
"She's pretty cute," Teague observed. "Maybe I shoulda shaved."
Wait, said Snake. What do I tell her?
Tell her I get this way when the moon is full. Two.
But the moon isn't full.
Tell her I'm an escaped mental patient. Tell her I was abused by a nurse when 1 was a child. Tell her I have a thing about uniforms. Tell her anything you please, but I'm out of here. Three.
He jumped to his feet, and ran from the room. He hurried down the stairs, and stopped at the first landing. He heard the nurse's strident voice complaining, and Snake's soothing tone as she tried to calm her. He grinned, took a deep breath, and danced down the rest of the stairs to the parlor. Mrs. Costigan was there, and she wasn't alone. With her was a middle-aged woman with grey hair and a distinguished bearing. Mrs. Costigan was holding something in her hands, and on the floor was a salesman's sample case.
Mrs. Costigan said, "Julio, come and look at this. Isn't it lovely?"
Julio came closer to see what she was holding. "A clock?"
"Not just an ordinary clock."
"Not at all," said the other woman with a practiced smile. "Hello, I'm Stella Amsell, and I represent the Jefferson Timepiece Company of Wilmington, Delaware. What Mrs. Costigan is holding is a faithful reproduction of a Seth Thomas grandmother clock, slightly reduced in size, but otherwise the exact same clock that was first produced in the Thomas factory in 1871. It's a beauty, isn't it?"
"It certainly is." It was about three feet long and a foot high, the body sculpted of gleaming walnut that curved gracefully around the clock itself.
"And it's free," said Mrs. Costigan.
"Actually, it's a promotional gift," said Mrs. Amsell. "Normally, this clock sells for one hundred and thirty-nine ninety-five, but we're giving away a limited number of them to a selected group of people in the community."
"People like me," said Mrs. Costigan, beaming.
"People like you," Mrs. Amsell agreed. "We're hoping that your friends and neighbors will see this handsome reproduction perched on your mantelpiece, and will admire it so much that they will want one for their very own."
Julio said, "That's a lucky break for you, Mrs. C."
"I was picked by the computer. It picked me out of all the other names."
"You and several others," said Mrs. Amsell. "I still have some other stops to make." There were four more clocks in the sample case at her feet.
Snake, Julio called, get down here.
I can't, she answered. I've got my hands full of nurse. She wants to call the cops.
Get your ass down here now. I think I've got Gemstone.
Julio went into the woman's head. He did a deep and careful tap, as comprehensive as the one he had done on the nurse upstairs, and when he was finished he knew as much as he wanted to know about Stella Amsell, aka Gemstone, aka Louise Abruzzi, onetime army nurse.
Snake came into the room, still with her half-eaten sandwich. Mrs. Costigan introduced her to Mrs. Amsell, and showed her the clock.
Snake made the appropriate sounds of admiration, as she said to Julio, Have you tapped her yet?
She's Gemstone, all right. Take a look for yourself.
Snake went in and out of the woman's head. What a sweetheart. The device is in the clock. Did you catch how it works?
It's a sophisticated job. The clock itself is the timer, and it ignites a tube of compressed thermite that throws a jet of flame under high pressure. Should be as hot as a welding torch, burn down anything from a barn to a battleship.
Only if it's undetected.
She has it set for one in the morning.
What next? You going to jump this one, too?
I think we can do better than that. He told her what he had in mind.
You running this job now?
Not at all. You asked me to help, and I'm trying to. What do you think?
I like it, but how do you know she'll react?
She used to be a nurse.
So was Mrs. Costigan. And speaking of nurses…
Not now.
I think you can get to that one upstairs. She was doing a lot of complaining, but I think she enjoyed that roll on the floor.
Not interested.
Really? As I recall, you were doing some complaining, yourself.
Listen, my onetime lover, once this job is over you and I are going to find ourselves a quiet place and we won't come up for air for days.
Well see about that, but right now it's time to get to work.
Make it good.
The other two women were debating where in the parlor to put the clock. Mrs. Amsell was partial to the mantelpiece, while Mrs. Costigan thought that it would look better on the sideboard. She put it there, and both women stepped back to take a better look. As they did, Snake took a bite of her sandwich, and began to chew. Then she stopped chewing. She made a strangled sound deep in her throat, and a look of panic came over her face. She gasped for breath, but no breath came. She made another strangled sound, and the other women turned to stare at her. She put one hand to her throat, and her other hand stretched out in appeal.
Julio shouted, "She's choking."
"The sandwich," said Mrs. Costigan.
"Somebody do something."
"Help her."
"Heimlich maneuver."
"I'll do it, I'm a nurse," said Mrs. Costigan, but Mrs. Amsell was ahead of her. Moving quickly, she got behind Snake, and wrapped her arms under the rib cage. She went through the motions of the Heimlich maneuver once, again, and a third time. A gummy wad of food shot out of Snake's mouth, and fell to the floor. In the scene that followed, Snake sat slumped in a chair, breathing shallowly. Mrs. Amsell received congratulations modestly. Mrs. Costigan cleaned up the mess on the floor. Julio hovered around the edges.
Sipping a glass of water, Snake asked, How was I?
Too good. You had me scared.
Did you make the switch?
Nothing to it. All the eyes were on the star.
"Are you feeling all right?" asked Mrs. Amsell. She and Mrs. Costigan had finally settled on the mantelpiece for the clock.
"Thanks to you. I can't thank you enough."
"Not at all, I was happy to help."
"I could have done it," muttered Mrs. Costigan.
"I'm sure you could have," Mrs. Amsell assured her. "Now, will you look at the time? I'll have to run."
"This must be heavy." Julio picked up the sample case. "I'll give you a hand with it."
"That's kind of you. Good-bye, Mrs. Costigan, and I hope you enjoy your lovely clock."
Julio took the case out to the car, and when he came back, Mrs. Costigan was still in front of the mantelpiece, admiring. "You know, this is the first time in my life that I ever got something for nothing. Never won a lottery, not even a door prize."
"Your lucky day," said Julio. "You want a beer to celebrate?"
"Don't be silly. When did you ever see me drink beer?"
Julio went to the kitchen and came back with two beers. He gave one to Snake, and they raised their bottles in a silent salute. Snake asked, Where did you put the case?
In the trunk, with the hot one facing the gas tank.
What if she gives the others away?
Never happen. Those spares were just window dressing.
She might dump them.
She might, but I doubt it. She's a torch, and there's only one thing on her mind right now. She has to see it burn.
We'll see.
That we will.
They saw it in the middle of the night, sitting on the front porch. There was only the sliver of a moon, but there was enough light to see the street, and the street was empty. They sat side by side on the glider, waiting. They had been waiting for almost an hour.
"What time is it?" asked Snake.
"Almost one."
"What if she doesn't show?"
"She'll be here. She has to see it. That's the biggest part of it for a torch."
"That nurse…"
"Which one? There were three of them here today."
"Come on, the one you jumped. I really think you got to her. She asked me about you before she left."
"Like what?"
"All sorts of things. I could see that she was interested."
"What did you tell her?"
"Well, I said that you were Cuban, and a man of passion, and…" She stopped as a car turned the corner, and rolled to a stop down the street. "Do you think…?"
Julio was silent for a moment, and then he nodded. "It's Gemstone. I just tapped."
Snake shivered. "Not me. I wouldn't want to be inside that head right now. What time is it?"
"Just one o'clock. It might take a while."
"How long?"
"Long enough for the flame to eat through the metal. Might be a few minutes."
As he spoke, the car exploded into flames. The explosion rocked the street and rattled windows. A figure was flung from the wreck. It looked like a flaming doll. It was also a screaming doll. The doll rolled over and over in the street, burning and screaming.
"Gemstone's last fire," said Julio. "I hope she got a kick out of it."
"It's the least we can wish her."
The screaming stopped. Julio tapped. "She's gone."
"Feel like calling the cops?"
"Let someone else do it." Lights had begun to show in windows. "Now that the job is over, would you like to tell me what it was all about? Why did she want to burn down this place?"
"Would you believe me if I said I didn't know?"
"No."
"I'm sorry, Julio, but I really can't say anything."
"I didn't think you would." He stood up. "Your room or mine?"