He didn’t recognize the four men on the scene, but they recognized him and called him sheriff. Only one of them wore the full regalia of thick rubber boots, suspenders, and the heavy helmet with the plastic shield flipped up and away from his face. While the others loaded the hose back onto the truck, he stood in what looked to be the house’s living room, where huge windows in the back of the room would reveal views of the marsh once the sun began to rise. The wall and floor in the corner of the room closest to the marsh were charred black. The fireman held the beam of his flashlight there and pointed with his free hand.
“It looks like an incendiary device, Sheriff,” he said.
Winston stepped toward the burned area; the floor was wet, and shards of glass crunched beneath his feet.
“Somebody tossed a glass bottle full of accelerant,” the fireman said.
“I see that,” Winston said. He shone his flashlight around the room. The windows had not yet been installed. “Was it still burning when y’all got here?”
“Yes, sir,” the fireman said. “Just barely. We doused it to make sure it was out.”
Beneath the broken glass, the plywood floor was soaked through, and Winston could hear water dripping from the ceiling and the eaves outside the open gaps in the walls where the windows would go. He imagined the four firefighters spraying the house with water beginning with the exterior, snaking the hose through one of the open windows, and then doing the same inside.
“Looks like y’all might’ve saved the house,” Winston said, “or what’ll be a house one day.”
“Thank you, sir,” the fireman said, his body relaxing with a squeak of rubber as he shifted his weight to one leg.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t use more accelerant next time,” Winston said, “or another incendiary device.”
“Next time?” the fireman said. “You think he’ll be back?”
“I would think so,” Winston said. “Most people don’t commit an arson like this one just to see a corner of a room get blacked up before the fire truck arrives. They learn something with each fire they set, and they usually don’t quit until they’re caught.”
The fireman stood there another moment while Winston passed the beam of his light over the floor and ceiling, and then the man stepped outside to where the others had gathered in the dark around the fire truck. Winston could see the glowing end of a cigarette and hear snatches of conversation.
He walked to the window closest to where it appeared the fire had started, and he shone his flashlight on the dark gray, sandy ground outside, looking for fresh footprints. He climbed out the window and dropped the few feet down to the soft earth. Outside, there were countless divots in the ground that could have been the footprints of an arsonist or a construction worker or a firefighter or deer, or perhaps even spots where tools or planks had been dropped or where hard rain had come off the roof and fallen haphazardly without gutters to guide it.
He walked around the far side of the structure where a driveway had been scraped from the garage to the street but not yet filled with cement. He stepped down into the wide trough and looked out at the road, where a truck’s headlights had just been extinguished. Winston raised his flashlight in the direction of the road and knew immediately that the truck belonged to Bradley Frye.
Frye walked around to the front of his truck and talked with the firefighters who were still gathered at the back of the engine. Winston could see that Frye wasn’t dressed as if he’d just left bed in a hurry; instead, he wore a black union suit and boots. Once again, he had a pistol holstered on his belt. Winston couldn’t hear what Frye and the other men were saying, but he chose to stay where he stood in the driveway instead of walking closer to where they were gathered in the street. Eventually the firefighter he’d spoken with inside the house looked up at Winston and gave him a wave.
“We’re heading out, Sheriff,” he said. “You need anything else from us?”
“Nothing right now,” Winston said. “I may give y’all a call tomorrow if you don’t mind putting together something about what you found when you got out here tonight.”
“You got it, Sheriff,” the man said.
Winston watched him climb into the fire engine as the other three men returned to their trucks. Bradley Frye stood on the edge of the yard, looking from the house to Winston. Winston watched him, not moving or saying a word until Frye set out across the yard toward the house.
“No, no, no,” Winston said. He clicked off his flashlight and slid it through the loop on his belt, and then he stepped into the yard to intercept Frye before he could walk any farther.
“What do you mean ‘no, no, no’？” Frye said. “That’s my damn house right there.”
“It’s a crime scene now,” Winston said. “I don’t want anybody tampering with it.”
“Tampering with it?” Frye said. “Tampering?” He turned and pointed to his left at the forest that separated the development from the Grove, which, this close to the water, was at least a mile away. “You need to talk to those thugs about tampering,” he said. “We’ve lost tools, had homes and vehicles damaged, four-wheelers coming through and tearing up sod. And you’re going to warn me, the owner, about tampering when you won’t do nothing to stop them?”
“Maybe they’ll stay out of your neighborhood if you stay out of theirs,” Winston said. He walked past Frye without waiting for him to respond. He reached for his flashlight and clicked it on again, raised its beam once he was close enough to Frye’s truck.
“What are you talking about?” Frye asked.
“Why are you even out here this time of night?” Winston asked. “You been out trick-or-treating?”
“Checking on my property,” Frye said. “Somebody’s got to keep it safe. Y’all ain’t going to do it.”
Winston shone the flashlight on Frye’s truck, peered in its windows. “Where do you put them?” he asked.
“Put what?” Frye said, then, “Stay away from my truck. You don’t have the right to look at it.”
Winston laughed. “Oh, Brad, you’ve got a lot to learn about the law before they swear you in. You’d better start studying.” He tapped the toolbox in the bed of Frye’s truck with the end of his flashlight, heard the echo inside. “Is this where you keep your battle flags when you’re not flying them?” Winston looked back at Frye, and then he continued moving the flashlight’s beam around Frye’s truck until he found what he was looking for: a bracket made to hold a flag had been fastened to the back of the truck’s cab just below the back windshield. Winston looked at Frye where he still stood in the yard, his light steady on the bracket. “Is this where you put it?”
“Put what?”
“Your little rebel flag. The one you fly when you’re trying to scare Black folks into believing you’re a tough guy.”
“Get away from my truck,” Frye said, pounding down through the yard toward Winston. He grabbed Winston’s arm that held the flashlight, causing it to clatter to the asphalt.