Chapter Two
"Can I get you anything?" said Henry to Barbara as they stood in the living room of his apartment. "Coffee? Tea? Ice water?"
"Just some ice water, please," said Barbara in reply. She looked around the room as Henry left to get the water. Henry Lazenby's living room was a shrine to all things firefighters and firefighting. A coffee table book containing photos of modern and antique fire engines lay on the coffee table to her right. A child's toy ladder truck sat on a nearby bookcase. Just below the ladder truck sat a child's plastic toy pumper truck. A four-foot-tall ceramic Dalmatian sat at the ready in a far corner of the room. Fire hydrants, Dalmatians, and fire trucks of every size and composition -- glass, tin, plastic, steel, and cast iron, et al. -- were displayed around the room. A black antique fire helmet hung from a coat tree standing near the door.
Henry walked into the room carrying a glass of ice water and a bundle of papers. "Here's your ice water," he said as he set the glass down upon the coffee table. "And here are the chapters," he said as he passed the papers to Barbara.
Henry settled into a nearby easy chair as Barbara began to read the manuscript:
See them running. See them running. Look at the people. See them running … screaming for dear life. There's no escape, though. No escaping the Goddess of Fire. The Goddess is hungry. Her demands are many. She must be fed constantly. No escape from the hungry, undulating flames.
Damn … the Fire Department's here. Have they no manners? Do they not know how to behave in the presence of royalty? Do they not know how rude it is to interrupt a Goddess when she is eating? Do they not know that the Goddess requires her blood sacrifice?
Heart pounding, pulse racing, Mickey gazed longingly into the flames. The sight of the flames -- those dancing, erotic, undulating flames -- sent him into throes of ecstasy.
"It's told from the point of view of the arsonist," said Henry.
"So I've noticed," said Barbara wryly. She set the manuscript on the coffee table and took a sip of water.
"How did you like it?" Henry inquired.
"You have a rather … unique … perspective," said Barbara. Changing the subject, she asked, "So … where are you from? What brings you to New Gotham?"
"I'm originally from Chicago," said Henry. "Grew up on the West Side."
"I see," said Barbara.
"I came mainly because of the money … and the excitement of living in the legendary New Gotham City."
Barbara's eye caught a small camcorder and a pile of micro-videocassettes resting on a nearby end table. She wheeled over and examined the stack. "What are these?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," said Henry. "Just research footage."
"Did YOU shoot these?"
"Yeah … why?"
"Just curious," Barbara replied.
At that moment, the phone rang from the kitchen. "Excuse me," said Henry as he got up and left to answer the phone. When Henry left the room, Barbara saw her chance to look at the tapes. She slid a tape into the camcorder and looked at the footage through the viewscreen: the footage was that of a raging fire in progress. Barbara took note of the name of the business going up in flames -- Bi-Rite Electronics -- and the time and date codes on the camcorder (August 8th, 5:33 p.m.). Note to Oracle, she thought. Cross-reference Bi-Rite Electronics with list of … mysterious … fires.
She studied the tape long enough to see the camera suddenly pan towards the wailing fire trucks that were rushing towards the scene. She fast-forwarded through four other fires -- a jewelry store, a furniture store, a fabric store, and a clothing store --making mental notes of the name of each business and of each fire's time and date code. They all fit the profile of our mystery arsonist, Barbara thought. Each fire occurs between the hours of five and eight p.m.
Each block of footage ended the same way -- with the coming of the fire department on the scene. Strange, Barbara thought. Henry always manages to arrive at each of these fires AHEAD of the fire department.
"See something you like?" said Henry as he entered the room.
Barbara quickly shut down the camcorder and set it down on the end table. "Forgive me," she said. "My curiosity got the better of me."
"I don't see why," said Henry. "There's nothing to see."
There's more there than you realize, Barbara thought.
"He's writing a novel about a guy who gets his rocks off starting fires," said Helena. "And he always manages to arrive at fires before the fire trucks do." Helena paused. "I think he's our guy."
"We don't have enough to make a bust," Barbara replied. "However suspicious his behavior may appear, videotaping fires and writing novels about serial arsonists are, unfortunately, not crimes at this time." Barbara paused. "We've gotta tie him directly to the fires."
"Meaning?"
"We're going to have to catch him in the act."
Great, Helena thought bitterly.
"What's more, I believe we're looking for a metahuman," Barbara continued.
"Sooooo … what now?"
"I … or rather, The Oracle … am going to probe his background."
