Chapter 8

It took a little convincing, but I finally agreed to sit in the back of a paramedic’s truck and breathe oxygen through a clear, plastic mask. Natty sat with me for a while but decided to look important by stepping up to one of the paramedics and suggesting he help in the search of the building. I was glad. I didn’t feel like talking to him anymore.

Alicia was obviously upset that her apartment had been utterly destroyed. Thank God she had no pets. Someone from the sheriff’s office ran her over to her father’s apartment so she could rest and break the news to him carefully.

My friend from the sheriff’s office, Timmy Jones, came walking from the building toward me. Timmy knew me well enough to know my first question.

He said, “The super is going to be okay. He really owes you one. I don’t even know how you carried him. The son of a gun must be six foot six.”

“Do you have any idea what happened?”

“The super had a complaint about someone smelling gas. He figured out it was coming from Alicia’s apartment, knocked on the door, and when he got no answer, he used his master key. It was just about then that the gas leak ignited and blew the shit out of anything near her stove. The door protected the super from the blast. And he was lucky a big moose like you happened to be the guy who found him and was able to carry him.”

I asked, “Did anybody see anything suspicious?”

“Buddy Wilson, from the gas company, said it was a nick in the pipe.”

My eyes popped open at that comment. I said a little more harshly than I meant to, “Butt-crack Buddy? What else is he going to say? What about the state police?”

“They’re busy with the shooting in Poughkeepsie. My boss told them to never mind.” Then Timmy looked at me. “Mitchum, it was just a freak accident. Let it go.”

“Or is that what someone wanted us to think?” I could tell by his sigh that not only did he not agree with a theory like that, he didn’t want to discuss it.

“C’mon, Mitchum, don’t start with the crazy conspiracy theories.”

“I just think it’s a coincidence, a weird coincidence, that my mom is a victim of a hit-and-run and then my…” I thought about the term carefully. “Sort-of girlfriend is almost blown to bits. What are the odds of something like that?”