the walls. A trailer of oiled cotton rope had gone between each of the plants - Hannah had found an uncharred piece near the window where the torch had entered. The plants themselves were a potpourri of whatever the arsonist could find in the basement: votive candles, paper, cardboard boxes, all soaked in the same accelerant as had been in the sink. Hannah could guess at what had occurred: the firesetter had quickly heaped together the plants, linked them together with the rope, then soaked them all in the jet fuel. One end of the rope had been placed in the sink. Finally, he'd dumped the rest of the fuel in the sink, turned on the water, and placed his fuse on the side of the sink. He would have had ample time to leave the basement before the fuse set off the rising fuel in the sink, and the sound of the small initial explosion had been covered by the singing above.
Ten, fifteen minutes' work. By the time the odor of the jet fuel had wafted upward, the fire would have been raging.
Hannah and Pete Harris were outside, to the rear of the church. The drizzle had stopped and the clouds had broken. The lowering sun touched the steeple, still standing over the roofless edifice, and threw a block of light on the wall in front of the two. A swirling path of darker black showed against the charred wood of the door, like a graffiti-scrawled name on a building: the arsonist, after setting the basement on fire, had gone to each of the entrances of the church and sprayed them with accelerant, also. When the fire climbed the walls, it found more fuel waiting for it.
What made Hannah sick was that he'd also blocked the doors. Here, on the rear sacristy door, a metal bar ran through the ornate curved handle, across the door, and behind the mounting for a lamp. Similar bars had been used on both side entrances and on the main doors in front, though they'd been broken or burnt through eventually. As with the basement plants, no attempt had been made to even pretend this might be accidental. It was almost as if the torch were daring her to catch him.
Whoever he was, he'd wanted those inside to die. This wasn't just a pyro, someone setting a fire just so he could watch the building burn. It wasn't one of the repeat psychos who set a fire and then scurried around trying to help the smoke-eaters put it out.
This was someone who wanted to kill.
"Son of a bitch," she said. "No one saw anything?"
"We've talked to all the witnesses," Harris said. "No one's admitting it if they did. But then they're all jokers. They protect their own kind."
"If a joker did this, I don't think they'd protect him, no matter what."
"You don't know them, do you?" Harris answered. "I've had to do business in Jokertown before." His grimace told Hannah his opinion of the area and jokers in general. Hannah decided not to pursue it. Frankly, she didn't like what she'd seen of Jokertown herself.
"This was planned," she said. "Did you see the bar that he put on the front door? It was sleeved, so it could be expanded to fit yet not be too bulky to carry. Our guy had this all worked out, down to the last detail. Sick."
"This is the place for sick, if you haven't figured that out yet."
"Yeah. So I've been told." Hannah shook her head, staring at the door. Ugly. "I'll get the photos of this. Check the other entrances again; I'll bet we'll have the same pattern under the ash."
"You're the boss," Harris answered. Hannah decided that the tone was more tired than sarcastic.
As Harris walked away, Hannah took her char probe from her belt, jabbed the end of the stainless steel rule into the wood, and recorded the depth of the burn. She did the same to the bottom of the door, then stepped back. She pulled her miniature tape recorder from her pocket and spoke into it. "Rear sacristy entrance. Same situation here - a plant in the basement beneath the door, accelerant sprayed on the door and surrounding structure afterward. Spray pattern on wall. Burn on door consistent with a