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Authors: Chelsea Cain
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into the main hospital. The doors were behind a formidable L-shaped counter. Two women sat behind it. One
was on the phone. The other one looked up at Susan with the bored forced smile endemic to medical receptionists everywhere.
“I’m here to see Gretchen Lowell,” Susan said.
CHAPTER
13
A rchie, in the course of his job, had gotten used to a lot of things. The smell of decomposing bodies didn’t
bother him anymore. He could watch a medical examiner use a bone saw to remove a brain from a corpse, the blade grinding into the bone, the blowback of fine white powder that looked like sawdust
but was actually pulverized skull. That, he could handle. But he had never gotten used to the smell of charred human flesh. It was stomach-turning and sweet, rank and meaty, putrid and metallic. It
was the smell of something wrong, something that should not have happened; something that was disturbing on a primal level.
Once you smelled it, you never forgot it.
The roof of the old White Stag building was wet, not from rain, but from water from the fire hoses. Some of the firefighters were still gathering up equipment, their heavy jackets peeled off,
their helmets set in a neat line near the stairwell access door. The morning sun was already warm, but there was a promising breeze coming off the river. The West Hills were lush and green to the
west, the mountains were crystal clear to the east, and from the roof of the White Stag building the city could not have looked prettier.
The body, or rather the charred husk of what remained of the body, lay in a dirty puddle in the shadow of the portland, oregon sign. The sign, more massive up close than it seemed from
below—the letters were as tall as Archie—was soaked with water from the fire hoses. But it appeared to have escaped the brunt of the fire damage.
The body had been the source of the fire. The sign had been collateral damage.
The corpse was still smoking. Thin wisps of gray rose from the cooked torso and then quickly dissipated into the clear heat of morning.
It was impossible for Archie to tell if they were looking at a male or a female. The hands and feet had crumbled to ash, leaving the corpse with jagged charcoal stumps at the elbows and knees.
The hair and facial features had melted away, leaving only an open maw of perfect bone-white teeth where the mouth had been. Any clothes were now ash. The body was curled on its side, shoulders
pinched forward, arms and legs horribly twisted. The flesh looked like tar, with something raw and red underneath, like undercooked steak, spotted with shiny tapioca patches of melted fat. The lily
lay a few feet away, soaked with water and then crushed, most likely flattened by the heel of a firefighter.
With the body in that position, fetal, mouth agape, anyone would think that the victim had died in agony. Archie had to remind himself that fire causes the muscles to contract like that and the
body to go fetal. It did not mean that the person had been in excruciating pain. Necessarily.
The breeze from the river had already started to erode the remains, lifting tiny particles of ash into the air. Everyone up there had probably breathed in a piece, some speck of a burned-up
hand, some bit of thumb. If a local news helicopter got too close, half the body would go up in a gritty dust storm and they’d all be brushing ash out of their teeth for days.
“Where’s Robbins?” Archie asked Henry.
“On his way,” Henry said, his aviator sunglasses reflecting the cerulean sky. “Calls started coming in about six. Early commuters saw the fire and thought the sign had gone up.
Firefighters responded. Fire burned fast and hot. They didn’t even know there was a body until they put it out. Must have used an accelerant.”
Archie stepped back and looked up at the portland, oregon sign.
“Could be suicide,” Henry said. “Self-immolation.”
“How about spontaneous combustion?” Archie said. “Could be
was on the phone. The other one looked up at Susan with the bored forced smile endemic to medical receptionists everywhere.
“I’m here to see Gretchen Lowell,” Susan said.
CHAPTER
13
A rchie, in the course of his job, had gotten used to a lot of things. The smell of decomposing bodies didn’t
bother him anymore. He could watch a medical examiner use a bone saw to remove a brain from a corpse, the blade grinding into the bone, the blowback of fine white powder that looked like sawdust
but was actually pulverized skull. That, he could handle. But he had never gotten used to the smell of charred human flesh. It was stomach-turning and sweet, rank and meaty, putrid and metallic. It
was the smell of something wrong, something that should not have happened; something that was disturbing on a primal level.
Once you smelled it, you never forgot it.
The roof of the old White Stag building was wet, not from rain, but from water from the fire hoses. Some of the firefighters were still gathering up equipment, their heavy jackets peeled off,
their helmets set in a neat line near the stairwell access door. The morning sun was already warm, but there was a promising breeze coming off the river. The West Hills were lush and green to the
west, the mountains were crystal clear to the east, and from the roof of the White Stag building the city could not have looked prettier.
The body, or rather the charred husk of what remained of the body, lay in a dirty puddle in the shadow of the portland, oregon sign. The sign, more massive up close than it seemed from
below—the letters were as tall as Archie—was soaked with water from the fire hoses. But it appeared to have escaped the brunt of the fire damage.
The body had been the source of the fire. The sign had been collateral damage.
The corpse was still smoking. Thin wisps of gray rose from the cooked torso and then quickly dissipated into the clear heat of morning.
It was impossible for Archie to tell if they were looking at a male or a female. The hands and feet had crumbled to ash, leaving the corpse with jagged charcoal stumps at the elbows and knees.
The hair and facial features had melted away, leaving only an open maw of perfect bone-white teeth where the mouth had been. Any clothes were now ash. The body was curled on its side, shoulders
pinched forward, arms and legs horribly twisted. The flesh looked like tar, with something raw and red underneath, like undercooked steak, spotted with shiny tapioca patches of melted fat. The lily
lay a few feet away, soaked with water and then crushed, most likely flattened by the heel of a firefighter.
With the body in that position, fetal, mouth agape, anyone would think that the victim had died in agony. Archie had to remind himself that fire causes the muscles to contract like that and the
body to go fetal. It did not mean that the person had been in excruciating pain. Necessarily.
The breeze from the river had already started to erode the remains, lifting tiny particles of ash into the air. Everyone up there had probably breathed in a piece, some speck of a burned-up
hand, some bit of thumb. If a local news helicopter got too close, half the body would go up in a gritty dust storm and they’d all be brushing ash out of their teeth for days.
“Where’s Robbins?” Archie asked Henry.
“On his way,” Henry said, his aviator sunglasses reflecting the cerulean sky. “Calls started coming in about six. Early commuters saw the fire and thought the sign had gone up.
Firefighters responded. Fire burned fast and hot. They didn’t even know there was a body until they put it out. Must have used an accelerant.”
Archie stepped back and looked up at the portland, oregon sign.
“Could be suicide,” Henry said. “Self-immolation.”
“How about spontaneous combustion?” Archie said. “Could be
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