Fatal Burn

by Lisa Jackson

  And so he’d waited. Hidden behind a barrel of grain, the pitchfork close at hand, he’d counted the seconds, heard his own breathing, felt his pulse accelerate. Through the window he’d watched his work, felt the explosion that had shattered windows and rocked the ground. Seen the horses panic, pacing in their stalls, working into lathers. He’d stared at the rapidly spreading flames as they’d feasted on the old timbers, chewing hungrily through the dry roof, burning hot and wild.

  Oh, God, it had been perfect.

  Even now, he could feel that hot surge of excitement whispering through his bloodstream.

  The second explosion had put the already-frightened animals into a wild, unleashed frenzy. They’d squealed and kicked at their stalls, while the dogs in the kennels bayed and whined mournfully.

  Best yet, from his vantage point he’d been able to see the house, watched as the door had opened and she’d appeared with a pathetic little fire extinguisher. Just as he’d expected. Her auburn hair had been wild and free, her face without much makeup twisted in fear, her body thin and supple, small and athletic with high breasts and a tight, perfect little ass.

  Frightened, scared spitless, but still in control, she’d flown out of the house, across the gravel lot, toward the stable.

  Everything had begun to work perfectly.

  Except a man had shown up out of nowhere.

  Someone unexpected.

  Someone who’d been hiding nearby.

  The proverbial fly in the ointment.

  His smile disappeared as he remembered the interloper.

  Fortunately, Shannon had talked him into releasing the dogs while she’d dealt with the horses.

  As the stranger had taken off for the kennels, she’d thrown open the door of the stable and started running to the far end. Again, predictable. It gave him enough time to close the door to the parking lot and latch it, cutting off her escape, assuring him that they would be alone. That the stranger wouldn’t return and interrupt them.

  Now, he took a long swallow of Coke as the sun crested the eastern hills, a blazing ball of fire that gilded everything and pushed away the lingering vestiges of night.

  His tongue flicked to the edges of his lips as he remembered waiting to pounce. How his muscles had ached, his blood singing with anticipation, something akin to lust flowing through his body.

  It had taken all of his patience to wait as she’d unleashed the animals one at a time, working her way backward, toward him and the balking mare, the fidgety buckskin he’d already frightened by flicking a butane lighter in front of her face, close enough to singe the bristles on her nose. The horse had reared and screamed in terror, still smelling him as he’d waited, still sensing the lighter with its long, hot flame.

  So by the time Shannon reached her, the dun-colored mare was out of her mind with fear. In a lather. It had taken all of Shannon’s skills to get the horse out of the stall. Even then the animal had managed to wound her.

  And she hadn’t so much as let out a sound.

  So brave.

  So filled with a sense of righteousness.

  And so doomed.

  The pitchfork had been handy and thorough.

  He could have killed her if he’d wanted to; but that would ruin his plans. And much as he tasted the blood lust, he had to be patient.

  There were others who had to pay first. He drained his bottle and tossed it into the bracken, startling a nest of finches that fluttered and swooped at the disturbance.

  He wanted Shannon to survive until after the others died. If she couldn’t witness their deaths, then, at the very least, she would experience the pain of the loss, imagine their torment, know that she, too, would not survive.

  No one would.

  Chapter 9

  Shannon felt like hell.

  Her entire body ached.

  Her face pulsed with pain.

  The back of her head felt as if it might explode.

  And above it all, she had trouble waking up, her eyelids felt as if they were weighted down and when she licked her lips, her tongue was thick and awkward, her mouth tasting sour, her teeth scummy.

  She heard voices—hushed, muted voices—and felt fingertips upon her bare arm.

  Tentatively she squinted out of one bleary eye, only to slam her eyelid closed against the harsh rush of light.

  “She’s rousing,” a woman’s soft voice said.

  It took a second, then she realized she wasn’t home in her own bed, but that she was in a hospital. Fragments of her memory returned in sharp, painful shards. She remembered the panic of the fire in the shed, running outside barefoot, the stranger waiting for her, the frightened, frenzied horses, the crackling terror of the fire and then the attack, the vicious, excruciating assault.

  “Ms. Flannery’s coming around,” the woman’s soft voice said again. “See if Dr. Zollner is still here.”

  “I saw her about ten minutes ago in B wing,” a younger voice responded.

  “Good. Find her if you can. Let the doctor know that Ms. Flannery is rousing.”

  Shannon was still caught up in the memories that were returning. Who had been hiding in the stables? Who had tried to kill her?

  Her heart raced, she began to breathe unevenly as she recalled the pain, the fear, the sheer horror of it all. Had the man who attacked her set the fire? And the Good Samaritan who had just happened to show up after the explosions and fire—who was he? Friend or foe? Had he started the fire, then, when she’d come out of the house, pretended to want to help her, only to wait for her in the darkened stables ready to spring and attack? Had he told her his name?

  Her head pounded as she tried to think, to make sense of it.

  “Shannon?”

  The female voice—a nurse’s voice, Shannon guessed—was closer. “Shannon, can you hear me? Shannon?”

  “Yes,” she forced out, though her mouth tasted like soot and one cheek throbbed.

  “How’re you feeling? Can you open your eyes?”

  Wincing, Shannon blinked a few times before she was able to force her eyelids open and focus on the petite nurse with short, streaked hair, wire-rimmed glasses and dimples.

  “How’re you feeling?” she asked again, gentle fingers rimming Shannon’s wrist as she took her pulse.

  Horrible!

  In pain!

  Like I’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler that took one pass, only to come around for another.

  “Compared to what?” Shannon managed, her voice little more than a whisper.

  The corner of the nurse’s mouth twitched. “That bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “After the doctor examines you, we’ll up your pain med,” the nurse said, her dark gaze compassionate. “Do you know where you are?”

  “The hospital.”

  “Not just any hospital, mind you. You’re an official guest of Santa Lucia General, the best in the Bay area…Well, at least that’s what we’re supposed to tell you.”

  Shannon rotated her head slightly and saw she was in a private room with pale green walls, sterile medical equipment, a television mounted on the far wall and a short counter that was already laden with vases of cut flowers and potted plants.

  People had already sent gifts?

  That took time.

  She felt a moment’s panic.

  “How long have I been out?” she asked, spying the IV flowing into her arm.

  “You were brought in the night before last.”

  She looked out the window. It was twilight, the lights of the parking lot beginning to illuminate as dusk darkened.

  “What happened? What about my horses?” Adrenaline chased away whatever was making her feel so drowsy and thick in the head.

  “I’m sure they’re fine.” The nurse stuck a digital thermometer under Shannon’s tongue, took her temperature, then wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm.

  Shannon could barely wait while the nurse stuck the cold stethoscope inside her arm, then marked her chart.
/>   Trying to remain calm, Shannon said, “Is my purse here? My wallet? My cell phone?”

  “I don’t think so. You came by ambulance. Emergency. From a fire. You didn’t have any personal items with you other than your clothes and watch.”

  Shannon glanced at her wrist.

  “It’s in the closet.”

  “I need a phone,” Shannon said, beginning to panic. Surely her brothers would have seen to her livestock. They would have called Nate, or if unable to reach him, get hold of Lindy, who did the books and would be able to find someone to come in and make sure the horses and dogs were fed, watered and exercised. “And then I have to get out of here.”

  “There’s a phone on the bedside table,” the nurse said, “but you’ve had family members camping out in the waiting room. One of them, the tall policeman—”

  “Shea.”

  The nurse nodded. “He told the staff to let you know that your family is taking care of everything, including your home and business and animals. You’re not to worry and just get well.”

  “Not worry?” Fat chance.

  “Is he here?”

  “I don’t know, I think maybe one of them is, but your mother went home.”

  Shannon let out a long breath. The thought of her family camping out in the hospital, making certain that her place was secure, worrying about her, caused her headache to pound even more painfully. She imagined her mother praying, her arthritic fingers caressing the worn beads of her rosary as Oliver consoled her. Robert would be impatient: he had his own problems to deal with, chiefly with his family, and was trying to avoid any face-to-face confrontations with his wife, Mary Beth. Aaron would be angry, a hothead ready to go out, find whoever had done this to her and run him to the ground. Shea, as always, would be the voice of reason, calm, but quietly furious.

  “Hello, Shannon.” A tall woman in a white lab coat strode into the room and introduced herself as Dr. Ingrid Zollner. Her sun-streaked hair was clipped away from her face, her features were strong and the lines near the corners of her eyes and mouth suggested she’d spent a lot of time outdoors. Her smile was tired and forced.

  After asking a few of the same questions as the nurse did, Dr. Zollner examined Shannon, checking her peripheral vision, the amount of pain she was experiencing, then the bandages on her face, scalp and abdomen. She explained to Shannon the extent of her injuries.

  “You were brought in unconscious with a concussion from a blow to the back of your head and multiple contusions. Fortunately, and I don’t know how, but you have no broken bones. Your shoulder is strained and you have bruised ribs.”

  She examined the wound in the back of Shannon’s head again. “All in all, I’d say, you were pretty lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Shannon repeated as the nurse adjusted the IV drip. “You know, that’s not exactly how I feel.”

  “It could have been much worse.” The doctor was completely sober, her forced smile disappearing. “As I said, lucky, as in no brain damage. No surgery for facial reconstruction. Considering the savageness of the attack, yeah, lucky.”

  Shannon saw no reason to argue the point.

  Folding her arms over her chest, Dr. Zollner said, “The police would like to speak to you and I told them that if you agreed, they could have a few minutes, no more. They’ve been fairly insistent, but if you’re not feeling up to it, I’ll have them wait.”

  “No reason to put it off,” Shannon said. “And then, can you tell me when I can go home?”

  A blond eyebrow arched. “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  Zollner eyed Shannon speculatively as a pager went off. She pulled it from her pocket, saw the number, frowned, then dropped the pager into her deep pocket again. “You can probably be released tomorrow morning,” she said to Shannon. “I’d like you to get one more night’s rest here, where we can monitor you. Even though I said you were lucky, a concussion is serious.”

  “I know, but I have animals to take care of. I have—”

  “You have to heal,” the doctor said firmly as she started for the door. “I’m sure someone can take care of your pets.”

  “No, you don’t understand—”

  But Dr. Zollner was already gone, leaving Shannon alone with the nurse.

  “Great,” Shannon muttered.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the nurse said with a wink. “Dr. Zollner’s very busy. In the meantime talk to the detectives, and I’ll tell your family that you’re awake and they can see you soon. Maybe after you’ve had something to eat.”

  The mention of food caused immediate hunger pangs. “I’d like that,” Shannon said.

  “A good sign.” The nurse exited and the painkillers began to kick in.

  Within minutes two detectives, Cleo Janowitz and Ray Rossi, slipped through the partially opened door. Janowitz was model-thin and nearly as tall as her partner, somewhere close to six feet. Glossy, straight black hair fell to her shoulders and her gold, almond-shaped eyes were sharp and intense. She was pretty, but there was nothing soft or warm about her. The smile on her face was thin.

  Rossi could have been a young Kojak: large nose, big brown eyes, shaved head…His soul patch and apple cheeks took something away from the image.

  “Ms. Flannery,” Janowitz, obviously the lead detective, began, “I know that you’re not feeling all that great and so we’ll try to be brief, but we’d like to ask you a few questions about the other night.”

  “Go ahead.” Lying on the bed, with an IV drip pumping into her arm and her bandages restricting her, Shannon pushed the button to raise the head of the electric bed a little higher. It was a weird feeling to be interviewed here, in the hospital, with the door to the room ajar, the nurses’ station visible through the opening.

  “You know that arson is suspected in the fire?” Janowitz asked as she delved into a small black shoulder bag. She retrieved a pen and small tablet with a spiral binding and pages covered in a bold scrawl. Rossi pulled a recorder from his pocket and set it on a table near her bed.

  “I figured,” she said, her worst fears confirmed. Since she’d already found the burned birth certificate on her porch and been attacked in the horse barn, she’d known someone was out to do her harm. She just didn’t know who, or why.

  “The crime scene investigators are still evaluating the evidence, and, I think, so is the fire investigator for the department, Shea Flannery. He’s your brother, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s out in the waiting room, but we wanted to talk to you first.”

  She began to feel a bit of relief in knowing that at least one of her brothers was nearby. Though they often drove her crazy, she had to admit it was reassuring to have a family to rely on. “What do you want to know?”

  Janowitz was staring at her with those intense gold eyes. “We assume from your injuries that you were attacked by an assailant. We found a pitchfork with blood on the handle, boot prints, some with blood on them as well. And all the injuries you sustained can’t be explained by a horse striking or trampling you as we first suspected.”

  Shannon inhaled slowly. “Someone was waiting for me in the stable.” She remembered the overwhelming sense of panic as the flames snapped and glass shattered. The frenzy of the horses and the wild barking of the dogs. The fear that heightened as the man struck. “He jumped me.”

  “Can you describe him?” Janowitz asked.

  “A little, but it was dark and I thought, I had the sense that he had on a mask of some kind. I think he was around six feet tall and muscular—athletic, I’d say, but again, that’s more of an impression than anything. As I said, it was dark and it all happened so fast…”

  “Did you see what he was wearing?”

  “No…” She slowly shook her head. “Dark, maybe black clothes? I don’t know…”

  “Jeans?” Rossi asked, prodding her.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Rossi said, “Long-sleeved shirt? Jacket? Gloves?”

  “I…I
can’t say, not for certain.”

  “Did you have any other impressions of the assailant? Was he wearing cologne, or did he smell like gasoline?”

  “No—just sweat. He smelled of sweat, I think, maybe, but mostly what I smelled was smoke from the fire.”

  “Did he say anything? Call out to you? Would you be able to identify his voice?”

  “No. Didn’t say a word,” she said.

  “How did the attack start?”

  She swallowed. “As I said, I think he was waiting in the stables until I was the farthest from the door that I’d opened for the horses. Most of the animals were already out. One of the mares, Molly, balked at being released. She was frightened and wouldn’t budge. I had to grab her halter and physically pull her. She reared…struck me…” Shannon reached for her water glass. Rossi handed it to her.

  Clearing her throat Shannon explained everything she could remember, and as she did Janowitz asked more questions and took notes in her small spiral-bound pad while Rossi listened without so much as another comment.

  No, Shannon hadn’t seen any vehicles that she didn’t recognize.

  No, she hadn’t observed anyone on the premises who shouldn’t have been there.

  Yes, sometimes she did feel that she was being followed or watched. She couldn’t really explain the sensation.

  No, she had no idea who left her the burned piece of her daughter’s birth certificate, or who had called at exactly 12:07 on the thirteenth anniversary of that birth, but yes, she did think all the events, including the fire, were connected.

  Shannon yawned, suddenly tired. She moved her shoulders and felt a stab of pain in her ribs. She didn’t want to think about the fire any longer, couldn’t really concentrate.

  But Janowitz wasn’t quite finished. “There was a man, a stranger on the premises. The one you ran into as the fire broke out.”

  “Uh-huh.” Shannon nodded, remembering the tall man who’d appeared from the shadows, the one she’d sent to release the dogs from their kennels. It had been too dark to get a good look at his face, all she had were vague images of a tall, athletically built man with sharp features. “I didn’t get his name.”