Fatal Burn

by Lisa Jackson

  There had to be a way to win him back, she determined. She just had to think of it. In the past, sex had worked, but this time…Oh, hell, this time he acted as if he was in love. Love! With a twice-divorced lawyer who had no kids. It was all so wrong.

  Angry all over again, she wiggled out of her bra and what no one in her right mind would think of as “panties,” and filled the tub with hot water. Turning on the jets of the whirlpool, she decided to take advantage of the fact that the kids were out of the house. She sipped her wine and she doused the water with scented oil and bubble bath, then wrapped a short robe around herself and walked into RJ’s room, pulling open his dresser drawer to reach the stash of candy bars tucked inside. She would have preferred imported truffles, but the Snickers and Butterfinger would have to suffice. Peeling off the candy bars’ wrappers, she bit into the Snickers and let out a soft “Ooh,” for the indulgence she rarely allowed herself.

  In just the robe, she walked into her bedroom and found a favorite Dixie Chicks CD. Slipping it into the disc player, she cranked up the volume, then returned to the bathroom where mountains of suds were building into frothy white mounds. Quickly, she finished her first glass of wine, well, third, if you counted the two she’d had before calling Liam and accosting Robert. She poured herself another, nibbled at the chocolate, then hung her robe on a hook near the tub.

  Before sinking into the bath, she lit the candles that decorated the sill of the frosted-glass window as well as the tile ledge surrounding the Jacuzzi. Slapping at the wall switch cut off the glaring overhead lights. The candles flickered softly.

  The bath looked delicious.

  She slipped into the hot water, feeling its silk surround her, seeping into her tired bones. She grabbed some suds and blew them off her palm, smiling a little. Even though it was eighty degrees outside, she loved the heated liquid around her, easing her out of her stress.

  She sipped her wine more slowly now.

  A dozen little tea candles reflected in the mirror and window over the tub. Despite all her troubles, she felt a bit of hope.

  She’d get Robert back.

  She always did.

  This was just a slightly harder challenge than the last time.

  Sadly, she considered the undeniable fact that Robert would never quit cheating. If not on her, then on the next woman in his life.

  Shifting in the water, she felt the sweet buzz of the wine in her bloodstream. She’d heard the warnings often enough about not mixing booze with antidepressants. But she’d been taking them since Robert’s last affair and she’d never stopped drinking. And so far no problem.

  Come on, what could a glass or two of wine hurt?

  She sculpted the soap bubbles over her breasts, singing along to the ballad about heartache and sorrow. Soon, she knew, there would be the song about killing off an abusive husband.

  Just like Shannon had.

  Mary Beth, like everyone else in her family, was convinced Shannon had set up her cousin Ryan. There had been the restraining order and then, when Ryan broke it, pictures of Shannon bearing bruises he’d sworn could not have been made by him.

  Well, Ryan had been a piece of work, too.

  If Mary Beth had been married to him, yeah, maybe she would have found a way to get rid of him, too. He was an A1 bastard, even if he had been her first cousin.

  “Bad blood,” her mother had always said when referring to Ryan. But then, who knew how good or bad his blood was? He’d been adopted before Mary Beth had been born.

  And, at one time, Shannon had been her best friend. That’s why testifying against her during the trial had been so damned difficult. What would she have done if someone continually beat the crap out of her? Just take it? No way! And how about the fact that in one of the worst incidents, Shannon had miscarried?

  Mary Beth frowned. She didn’t want to think about Shannon and her problems. Let her deal with them. Mary Beth had her own. Tipping back her glass, she thought she heard a neighbor’s dog bark. She twirled the stem in her fingers and sang along as the next song started to play. Midway through the ballad, she sensed something, a breath of the hot summer breeze, slip through the room, shimmering the tower of bubbles over her breasts. She felt a second’s panic before remembering that she’d opened the windows to help cool the house.

  She was probably imagining the air disturbance. Or, more likely, she was reacting because of the wine. Chardonnay had a way of going straight to her head. That’s why she loved it so much. Lately she’d really craved the soothing magic that it brought to her, the way it calmed her nerves after her arguments and fights with her stupid husband. Sighing, she finished the second glass of wine and leaned back against the rim of the tub, closing her eyes, letting the hot water ease some of her tension.

  She’d get Robert back.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Hardly making a sound, he removed the screen from the bedroom window. The room was dark, just a slice of illumination slipping through the crack left by the slightly ajar bathroom door. Music pulsed through the house, which would mask any noises he might make.

  His blood was dancing through his veins, thrumming in his ears. With gloved hands he tied plastic bags over his shoes. The loud music was the perfect cover as he walked noiselessly across the carpet. Standing in the shadow of the bedroom, smelling the scent of her perfume mingle with the odors of soap and bath oil, he felt a thrill of anticipation. He peered through the crack. She was lying in the tub, eyes closed, unaware that he was near, not knowing that she was breathing her last. The water lapped at the fringe of dark hair at her nape and traces of mascara stained her cheeks. Her lipstick had faded, most of it smudged upon the rim of the empty wineglass sitting on the ledge of the tub.

  The jets of the Jacuzzi were rumbling, water pulsing around her, the pile of bubbles on the water’s surface beginning to diminish. He saw her breasts through the suds, large dark areolae only partially hidden, nipples puckering. She was wearing nothing but a necklace, a thin gold chain from which dangled a cross of tiny diamonds that glittered and winked in the flickering light.

  Her skin was slick and wet and he imagined running his hands over the most intimate parts of her. He licked his lips, feeling those nasty old sensations of lust rise in his blood. His cock even twitched a bit, anxious for the feel of wet skin against it. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself rubbing it against her glossy skin and could almost feel the bath oil begin to coat the entire length in warm droplets that she would smooth with her hands.

  At the thought he nearly groaned aloud.

  He was breathing hard, his blood running hot with want, but he forced the carnal thoughts from his mind.

  No!

  Not her.

  Not this one.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  He had work to do.

  Death to dispense.

  Mary Beth Carlyle Flannery was only the beginning.

  Sweat collecting over his brow, he carefully reached forward and pushed the door open just a little farther, enough that he could squeeze through.

  She didn’t move. Her eyelids didn’t so much as flutter. Dark lashes continued to rest against the tops of her cheeks in smooth, twin arcs. If she sensed a change in the atmosphere, she didn’t show it. Yet he was cautious. Wary. Hardly daring to expel a breath.

  He stepped closer to the tub.

  The floor creaked.

  “Robert?” she mumbled as her eyes drifted slowly open.

  He leaped forward, his hands instantly around her neck. Startled, her eyes flew wide. She flailed and started to scream. With all his power, using his body as a weight, he shoved her head beneath the water.

  She kicked and clawed at him. Her hands swiped his wet suit. Her legs churned the water, slammed against the sides of the tub. She was strong. Muscular. Bucked upward. With adrenaline pumping through her veins she had the strength of an athlete. She wrenched and writhed, gasped and coughed, grabbed at his wrists attempting to loosen his grip
, trying to wound him, desperately seeking to get away.

  He held on.

  Forced her downward, until the back of her head cracked against the bottom of the tub and her short black hair swirled and danced around her face.

  Mary Beth gurgled, churned and thrashed.

  Candles flew off the edge of the tub, sizzling into the water, clattering onto the floor, creating waxy pools. She tried to fling her entire body out of the tub, but he held her down, feeling her panic, watching her eyes bulge in desperation.

  Frantically, she twisted and turned, trying to squirm away, to wriggle from his grasp.

  It was no use.

  Water slopped over the edge of the tub, suds flew onto the walls and floor.

  She was stronger than he’d anticipated, but his hands held her firmly against the bottom of the tub, steadily cutting off her air.

  He could see the look of horror on her face beneath the water, suds floating and dissipating on the surface.

  He smiled.

  Under his hands he felt her strength ebb. Her movements became sluggish and weak. Still he held on, while the damned CD kept playing, loud, the singer’s voice echoing through his head.

  All struggling ceased.

  At last it was over.

  Mary Beth stared at him from beneath the water’s surface, big eyes glassy.

  He held her down for another three minutes, until he was certain that she was dead.

  Then he let out most of the water from the tub, so that her body was partially exposed. Satisfied that she was positioned just so, he draped a towel over the tub’s rim and into the water. Next, he took the belt of the robe that was hanging near the tub and pulled it so that it touched the water on one end, but was still secure in the belt loop of the pink wrapper.

  Working quickly, he poured bath oil over the water, and then, to make certain it would ignite, reached into his pack and found a bottle of his own mix of oils, ones that were certain to ignite quickly. He poured the entire contents into the water around Mary Beth.

  The CD stopped abruptly.

  Silence surrounded him.

  He froze.

  Had someone come in? Had he missed the sound of another person entering because of his absorption in his task and the damned music?

  Holding his breath, not moving a muscle, he waited. His heart thudded, sweat covered his body beneath his wet clothes.

  But there was nothing other than the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the gurgle of water still running down the pipes from the tub and outside, a few houses down, the sharp, staccato bark of a small dog. As if the damned mutt knew something was going on.

  Hurry, damn it. You don’t have any time to waste.

  Deciding he was alone, he finished his job quickly.

  Using a tube of Mary Beth’s lipstick that he found on the counter in a special little rack, he drew a figure on the mirror, then reached into his pouch again and found a special little package that he left in the sink.

  The rest was easy. With a final look at Mary Beth, he dropped a lit candle into the tub.

  Flames shot upward and crawled across the water’s surface, finding the towel and belt. Dark smoke, acrid and thin, rose upward, burning his nostrils and growing in intensity with the flames that fed eagerly, crackling and hissing as they met water.

  Mary Beth was ringed in fire, the room brightening to a shifting gold hue. He had to leave. Now. Away from the fascination of watching her hair singe or her skin start to burn.

  Moving quickly, he left the way he’d come in, slipping through the window and into the night, stealing along the shrubbery and fence rows, hiding behind a garage as a car passed, the predominant bass throbbing over the roar of a big engine as a pickup, jacked high over huge tires, commandeered by a teenaged boy, flew past.

  He flattened against a fence and the kid missed him by inches.

  Once the truck had passed he caught his breath, then took off at a sprint. He was down an alley at a dead run and four blocks away from the fire when he heard the first shriek of a siren cutting through the night.

  Too late, he thought, sliding into his truck and breathing hard. Too damned late.

  Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Fire!

  Shannon’s eyes opened and she trembled inside.

  Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Glancing at the clock she realized she hadn’t even been in bed for two hours, asleep for less. In the darkness she climbed to her feet and walked to the window to stare outside.

  It’s not your place. You’re safe.

  Drawing a breath, she headed downstairs, just to be sure. She heard Khan’s paws hit the hardwood floor. He trailed after her down the steps. As she walked out the front door the dog was beside her, sniffing the air and stretching.

  Nothing was burning.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  And yet she felt a chill, a quiver from the inside out. She stared at the rubble of the shed and told herself that she was jumping at shadows, that there were fires every day. She couldn’t start flipping out just because she heard a siren.

  And yet…

  Walking inside the house she went directly into the kitchen, picked up the telephone and dialed Shea’s cell phone. It rang four times before she was thrown into voice mail.

  “Give it up,” she told herself, but even as she did, she punched in the number of Aaron’s cell and on the third ring he answered.

  “Shannon,” he said, sounding wide awake and a little breathless. She could tell from the sounds other than his voice and the way the connection cut out that he was driving. Of course he knew who she was before she identified herself. He had caller ID on his cell as well as his personal phone. Aaron, the private investigator, had every gadget known to man. Including a police scanner.

  “I know this sounds crazy, but I heard sirens and I just had this weird feeling, almost a premonition that the fire might be…Oh, I don’t know, related to what happened here the other night.” She heard herself and shook her head, as if he could see her. “God, now I sound paranoid.”

  He hesitated.

  Long enough to cause Shannon’s heart to leap to her throat. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “Robert’s house.”

  “What!”

  “Calm down, I think they might be able to save it, or most of it. I already talked to Shea.”

  Shannon’s worst fears gelled. “But we just saw Robert and Mary Beth a few hours ago.”

  “I know.”

  “Was anyone home?” she asked, fear darting through her body. The kids had been taken to Margaret’s place earlier, and Mary Beth had called…from where? Maybe Robert and Mary Beth were somewhere else…

  “Don’t know.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “I’m on my way. You stay put and I’ll call you the minute I know anything.”

  “Like hell, Aaron.”

  “Don’t go to the fire.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Shannon, really. You know the last thing the fire department needs is more spectators.”

  “Robert’s my brother, too,” she said angrily. “Mary Beth and the kids are part of my family…” She silently prayed that they were safe, still with their aunt Margaret. With anyone. Not at home. That no one was at home. Shannon hung up while Aaron was still trying to talk her out of going to the fire.

  Hastily she pulled on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then tied back her hair with a rubber band. She left Khan behind and was in her truck and driving away within ten minutes. She considered alerting Nate but decided against disturbing him when she realized his Explorer was missing, not parked in its usual place.

  Had it been in front of the garage when she’d returned from town with her brothers? She thought so but couldn’t remember. And right now she couldn’t take the time to sort it all out.

  She punched the accelerator and the truck lurched forward.

  Another fire.

  At a member of her family’s hom
e.

  What were the chances of that happening? Fear spurred her on. She ignored the speed limit as she drove into town and down the familiar streets, smelling the smoke, seeing lights flashing before she turned onto the street where her brother and his wife had lived for years.

  Dread pulsed through her. All her thoughts centered around her brother and his family. Images flashed across her mind: Robert and Mary Beth’s wedding reception…Mary Beth still in her full-length beaded dress, long finished with the rites of cutting the cake, toasting their marriage. Their first dance together. Mary Beth’s tears of joy. The birth of their daughter, Elizabeth, and her christening down at St. Theresa’s church. She remembered the day Robert Junior was born a few years later. Shannon had waited outside the delivery room to welcome her nephew into the world. Her mind then flashed to the family get-togethers, sometimes on the Carlyle side, sometimes on the Flannery, where Robert and Mary Beth had either cuddled like newlyweds or not been speaking because of their most recent spat.

  She pulled around a final corner and faced what looked like utter chaos.

  At the block nearest Robert’s house the street had been cordoned off. One fire engine and two trucks were parked in front of Robert’s house and the nearest hydrant. Police cars, their lights a swirl of red and blue, were parked in the street. Dozens of neighbors and lookie-loos who had followed the big rigs stood by. Across the street was parked the inevitable news van, a reporter already positioned in front of the blaze.

  Shannon arrowed her truck into a spot too narrow for it, scrambled out, and ignoring protests from her ribs and shoulder, walked briskly down the street.

  Flames were shooting toward the sky, black smoke billowing into the heavens. Shannon’s stomach roiled. Please, God, let them be safe. Please, please, please.

  Firefighters had the situation in hand. Hoses snaked across the street and the lawn. Men and women in protective gear hosed down the roof and surrounding houses. A great hiss and steam rose over the roar and crackle of flames.