The Turner House by Angela Flournoy

Author:Angela Flournoy
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

WEEK FOUR

SPRING 2008

The Lucky Boy

When Troy and his partner, Higgins, first arrived at the house—a two-story brick bungalow near the corner of McNichols and Livernois—it had looked salvageable. Sure, the garage was up in flames, but since even halfway decent houses usually had a thick fire-resistant wall separating the garage from the living areas, he thought it would be a short ordeal, over before noon. He watched the firefighters spray the roof with water, and slate smoke columns lick the sky. He and Higgins helped keep onlookers at a safe distance. Higgins was better at this; he was shorter than Troy but older at forty-nine, and fatter. He used his belly like a flare, directing people away from the house and fire engine. Troy used a more apologetic approach. While Higgins said, “Stay back, I’m not gonna tell you again,” Troy offered, “Do me a favor and keep off this side of the street, okay?” When he’d first joined the police force he realized he was just a little too light-skinned, too young-looking—too pretty, really—to pull off being the bad cop, especially next to Higgins. It just made people giggle. The mother and two little girls who lived in the house were fine, but a relative drove them to the hospital anyway, much to the disappointment of the EMT guys in the ambulance. They’d wanted something to show for having arrived on time.

Troy had stood witness to at least one hundred fires during his two and a half years as an officer. Accidental fires like this one appeared to be, fires in which the arsonist was caught, fires in which no arsonist was sought because the property had already been condemned and there weren’t enough investigators to spare. He had never gone out on Devil’s Night, the eve of Halloween, when mayhem and flames used to engulf certain parts of the city. Francis Turner was no great disciplinarian, but he prohibited anyone from leaving the Yarrow house on October 30. He’d sit in the armchair facing the door with a seldom used hunting rifle across his lap and a protective scowl on his face that remained even after he dozed off. Troy might have found ways to sneak out if he really wanted to, but the sight of Francis putting forth so much effort had made him feel loved.

The wind suddenly kicked up and the fire spread. All of the house’s windows seemed to blow at once. There had been only one truck on the scene, eight firefighters in total. In less than twenty minutes the house was gone.

No sooner had the last hose been shut off than a big black pickup truck, an F150 with DENNING & SON GENERAL CONTRACTORS lettered in yellow on the side, came speeding up the street. A skinny old man driving, with a younger skinny guy—the son, Troy presumed—riding shotgun. They wanted to talk to the owners about rebuilding, give them an estimate. They’d heard about the fire on their police scanner. Troy told them to get lost.

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