She stiffened, and the feeling of trust evaporated. She did not answer.

Ogden nodded as if he had expected that reaction. "Without wishing to appear overly dramatic," he said, "you should understand that your fate, your future, rests entirely in my hands." He showed her two envelopes. "This one contains the orders for your court-martial on charges of second degree arson, wanton destruction of government property, and half a dozen other infractions. If you go to trial, I can personally guarantee you a guilty verdict and a heavy sentence."

"I cracked," she said softly. "The strain."

He brushed that aside, and tapped the second envelope. "This one contains your honorable discharge from the United States Army. Clean record, no charges brought, now or ever."

She stared at him.

"Before I leave here today, I am going to destroy one of these envelopes. Which one depends on you, and how honestly you answer my questions. Is that understood?"

She nodded.

"I'll repeat the question. When was the first time you ever felt like setting a fire?"

"The night it happened, here at Binh Thuy."

"Never before?"

"Never. Look, I know it sounds like a lie, but I never had that feeling before. You know, that I wanted to burn something."

"Wanted to, or had to?"

"It's the same thing, isn't it?"

"It could be. Never before?" She nodded. "All right, it happens that way sometimes. What do you remember about that night?"

"Everything."

"Clearly?"

"Clear as a bell. I know that I could make a better case for myself if I said that I had a blackout or maybe that things were fuzzy, but I'm trying to be straight with you. I remember everything."

Ogden said softly, "Tell me about it."

She told him about the cans of gas from the motor pool, swishing them around the base of the building until they were empty. She told him about the gas in the empty beer bottle, the rag for a wick, the match, the whoosh as it caught. She told him how she stood and watched as the flames crept up, burst through the roof, and stretched to the sky. She told him how she knew that she should run, but how she couldn't. How she had to stay and watch, no matter what.

"You knew that you'd be caught?" he asked.

"It didn't seem important at the time. I know that sounds crazy, but that's the way it was. I had to watch."

"Yes, I understand that. Now, I want you to tell me what happened while you watched. Will you tell me that?"

She did not answer.

"I'm asking you to trust me, and to tell me." He held up the two envelopes. "Remember, it's your choice."

In a small voice, she said, "I wet my pants."

"Yes, that often happens. And something else happened, didn't it?"

"Yes," in that same small voice.

"Tell me."

"Do I have to?" He nodded. She looked away from him. "I had an orgasm."

"Yes, that also happens."

"More than one." She laughed jerkily. "I don't know how many times… those flames, I never had anything like it." She put her hands over her face.

"Bingo," murmured Ogden. He moved to sit beside her on the bed. In a comforting tone, he said, "Relax, it's all over now. No more questions."

She still would not look at him. From behind her fingers, she said, "I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be. It's happened to other people."

She lowered her hands. He gave her one of the envelopes. "You're out of the army, you're a civilian. Do you want to watch me tear up the other one?"

"No, I trust you." She meant it. "What happens to me now?"

"You can go wherever you wish, do whatever you please. I can have you stateside in a matter of days, if that's what you want. But you have to consider one thing. I dislike the word 'normal,' but what you did the other night could never be considered normal behavior, not by anyone. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm not crazy."

He shrugged. "You're a pyromaniac, you show the symptoms. Do you know what a pyromaniac is?"

"Someone who likes to set fires?"

"Someone who is obsessed with setting fires. Someone who gets pleasure out of it. Enormous pleasure."

"But I never did it before."

"Some people start late. Believe me, you're a torch, a natural."

"I promise, I won't do it again."

"Do you mind if I say that I don't believe you? Torches don't quit. It's not something you have any control over. Look, the way I see it, you have three courses of action open to you. Do you want to hear them?"

She nodded dumbly.

"You can do nothing about it, and try to lead a normal life. Frankly, I don't think that will work. Somewhere down the line you'll set another fire, and another, and one day you'll get caught. You won't walk away from that one. Is that what you want?"

"Obviously not."

"An alternative is to go into psychotherapy. The condition is treatable. Perhaps not curable, but treatable."

"I told you, I'm not a nut."

"And you don't want to lose what you just found, do you."

She smiled for the first time. "Hell no, it's too good."

"Then I suggest that you come to work for me. You'll make a good deal more than you did as an army nurse, and you'll report only to me."

"Doing what?"

"Setting fires. Only when I tell you to, and only under strictly controlled conditions, but that will be your job. To set huge, blazing fires."

"What if I get caught?"

"You won't, not if you're working for me."

"I really don't know much about setting fires."

"You'll be trained. If you want the job, you'll leave this evening for a place called Quon Trac. We have a training camp there that specializes in… in the sort of work I have in mind for you. After a month at Quon Trac, you'll be ready for your first assignment."

"Fires? Just fires?"

"Just fires." He saw the look on her face, and he smiled. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing at all."

"You were getting excited, weren't you?"

Again the jerky laugh. "Yeah, I guess I was."

"Well, how does it sound to you?"

"It sounds like heaven."

And it was, she thought as she lay beside the pool, her eyes closed against the Florida sun. Years and years of heavenly fires, and now he wants one more. One last fire tomorrow for the only man who ever truly understood me. All the others were for me, David, but this one is for you, and I'm going to make it a beaut.

"They had a chance and they blew it. It could have been a diplomatic coup," said Mike Teague. He pronounced it coop. The old man propped up in bed, a stained and wrinkled pajama top showing over the covers. He had a three-day growth of stubble on his face, and his wispy white hair stuck out in all directions. "It coulda solved the whole Cuban business in one stroke of the pen. You know how?"

"How?" Julio asked politely.

"Baseball, that's how. Cuban people are crazy about baseball, right?"

"Right," Julio agreed, conjuring up childhood memories.

"So here you got the National League, they add two more expansion teams, which is stupid in the first place because you got too many teams already, not enough major-league talent to go around, but that's something else. So they add two more teams, and who do they pick? Miami and Denver, that's who. Okay, nothing wrong with that, but can you imagine what happens if they pick Havana instead of Miami?"

"Havana?" Julio started to grin.

"Don't laugh. You put Havana into the National League and you got Cuba back on our side again. I mean, what's stronger, communism or baseball?"

"Baseball, of course."

"See what I mean? It brings the countries together."

"It's a thought," Julio admitted.

"A thought? It's a natural. You know, Castro was a ballplayer once, a good one."

Julio nodded. The story of the Maximum Leader's tryout with the old New York Giants was a part of Cuban folklore. Havana in the National League? It was a crazy idea, but like most of Teague's ideas there was a germ of sense in it. That was why he enjoyed spending time in the old man's room. He was a cranky old goat, but he had a never-ending fund of sports stories, and the walls of his room were covered with photographs. There were boxers with names like Tiger Arroyo, Battling Benny, the Williamsburg Kid, the Chocolate Kid, and Kid Kelly. There was a photo of the Brooklyn Dodgers, with Mike Teague the assistant trainer. There were team photos of the colleges at which he had worked: the Bowdoin lacrosse team, the Hamilton football team, the Van Buren basketball squad. There were photos of track men breasting tapes, a discus thrower at the moment of release, a vaulter caught in midfight. Every photo was signed; Mike wouldn't have any other kind. Julio was the old man's favorite audience. He had heard the stories so many times that he knew most of them by heart, but he always listened politely.