Fatal Burn

by Lisa Jackson

  “Kind of far-fetched, if ya ask me,” Rossi said, scratching at his soul patch.

  “Got anything better?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly! And if it doesn’t make much sense, remember, we’re not dealing with a sane guy here.” Paterno straightened and surveyed his handiwork, the picture of the star with the names scrawled across it. “It might take a while to figure out, but I swear, there’s a method to this guy’s madness.”

  “If you say so,” Rossi said skeptically.

  “I do. And the kicker is that the sheriff in Lewis County, Oregon, called with the news that the woman who was butchered up there the day Dani Settler was abducted, turns out to be Ryan Carlyle’s birth mother.”

  “Isn’t that out of left field?” Rossi asked, tracing the star with one thick finger.

  “What it is, is another connection to Shannon Flannery.”

  “But what does it have to do with the kid being abducted?”

  “That’s something we’ve got to figure out.” Paterno looked at his rudimentary drawings. What was the killer trying to tell them? All he could make out of it was that Shannon Flannery was at the center of it all.

  The phone rang and, still staring at the drawings, he lifted the receiver to his ear. “Paterno.”

  It was Jack Kim, the tech wizard in the lab. “I think we’ve got something down here you might want to hear,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Something interesting on that tape of the girl that you brought in. Come down and listen for yourself.”

  He wasted no time. Heading out of his office, he told Rossi, “The lab’s got something on the tape of the Settler kid.”

  “Wait up.”

  They wended their way through glassed-in cubicles that did little to mute the sound of clacking keyboards, jangling phones, buzzing conversation and the wheeze of the old air-conditioning system. Rather than wait for the elevator, they took the stairs, hurrying down three flights of steps, the soles of their shoes ringing on the scarred wood as they descended into the lab where, if nothing else, it was several degrees cooler.

  Paterno walked unerringly to the windowless, soundproof audio room where the technician, Jack Kim, was waiting for him. “What have you got?” the detective asked.

  “Listen to this.” He played the tape and they heard Dani Settler’s pleas over the crackle of flames for her mother to help her. Kim stopped the tape and rewound it. “Okay, now listen again. We’ve isolated the sounds and listen to what you hear when I mute her voice and the fire.” He adjusted several levers and knobs, then played the tape again.

  Paterno braced himself. He was certain he was going to hear the abductor whisper something, but instead he heard the faint rumbling sound that he’d thought was part of the fire.

  “What is that?” he asked, but his mind was racing ahead. It was a familiar noise.

  “A train,” Rossi said. “He’s got her near a railroad stop or tracks.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re right. Play it again.” They listened again. “Okay. Let’s keep this quiet,” Paterno said. “No leaks. Not even to the family. We don’t want any chance of the jerk-off learning we’re getting close. Thanks,” he said to Kim, clapping him on the back. “I owe ya a beer.”

  “You owe me a half case, but who’s counting?”

  “I guess you are.”

  Kim flashed a smile. “Always.”

  “Does the FBI know about this?”

  “I’ll call the field office, but they’ve got a copy of the tape. My guess is they’re all over this.”

  Rossi and Paterno left the basement and headed upstairs where Paterno sat down at his computer and pulled up maps of the area. “Well, this really narrows it down,” he muttered sarcastically. “Damn trains run through every town up and down the valley and then head out through the hills.”

  “We have to assume that he’s got her somewhere isolated, because we hear the sound of the train, but no traffic,” Rossi pointed out. “Nothing else. Since we can hear a train, shouldn’t we also be able to hear a car passing or a neighbor’s dog, that kind of thing?”

  “If a car were passing at the time of the recording. If a dog decided to bark just then.”

  “Well, what we do know is that when that tape was recorded, she wasn’t hidden in some soundproof bunker or basement. Wherever she was, either outside by a campfire, or inside in a place that isn’t all that insulated for sound, we can hear the train and nothing else.”

  “You got yourself a point,” Paterno said as he gazed at the computer screen and all of the railroad tracks that surrounded the city. Not so many, really, but miles and miles of it. “It’s a start. A piss-poor one, but a start.” He reached for the phone. Figured it was time to talk to the FBI himself.

  Shannon grabbed her purse and keys. She’d double-checked on all the animals, not really trusting Nate—though, to be honest, he’d never once neglected the animals.

  So that was one point in his favor.

  But he was a liar. And a user. And God knew what else.

  She’d taken the time to call Alexi and arrange for security systems to be set up at both her places by the end of the week, and she’d called her brothers, leaving messages with both Aaron and Robert, but finally tracking down Shea, who was at their mother’s and promised to stop by.

  But first things first.

  She needed wheels. Her truck was still impounded so she asked Travis to drive her into town so she could find a rental.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Travis said as they headed into town. “I’m happy to drive you.”

  “I want my own car.” With Nate’s confession and theories, she’d decided not to trust anyone. Including Travis. Besides, she didn’t want him tagging along wherever she went; she wasn’t one of those women who needed a man with her every second of the day…especially a man to whom she was sexually attracted and who had his own agenda.

  “You’re letting Santana get to you,” he said, braking for a corner as they reached the outskirts of town.

  “I just need some space, okay?”

  He lifted a hand off the wheel. “Don’t shut me out, okay?”

  “Why? Because we slept together?” she asked, hating the bite to her words.

  “No. Because we share a daughter.”

  “Do we?” she threw back at him as he slowed for a light and traffic converged around his truck. “I think you’ve got that wrong. We share nothing. I gave up my rights to her a long time ago.” Bristling, she flung her arms over her chest as if to protect herself. What had she been thinking? Buying into the “our daughter” trap. Dani belonged to Travis. Period. Though Shannon would do anything she could to find the girl, and wanted desperately to meet the baby she’d brought into this world, she knew her hidden little fantasy—that somehow they would all be a family together, that Travis would be the father, she the mother, and Dani the loving, darling daughter—was a pipe dream that would never work. Never. Not even if all parties were willing to try.

  “There it is,” she said, pointing to a small business, located between a strip mall and a donut stand, which advertised that they rented wrecks, older cars not in prime condition. He pulled into the pockmarked lot and she was out of the cab before the truck came to a complete stop. “Thanks,” she said coolly, then heard herself and decided to own up to the fact that she cared about this man, cared more than she should have. “Really. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “I could—”

  She held up a hand. “You’ve done enough. Really. I’ll…I’ll call you later, or you call me if you find out anything about Dani.”

  “Shannon—”

  “Not now. Please. Neither one of us has time. Let’s just find Dani and go from there, okay?” she asked, staring at the lines on his face. Damn, it was a good-looking face. But he, like all the men in her life, was untrustworthy.

  She slid out of his truck, slammed the door and stood in the dusty parking lot. The late afternoo
n sun caused ripples of heat to rise on the street, distorting her view of the traffic, neon signs and storefronts. Forcing a smile, she used her hand as a visor, watching as Travis threw the truck into reverse and pulled out of the lot.

  Stupidly, she felt a tug on her heart. As if she really loved the guy. “Fool,” she muttered, kicking at a pebble in frustration. She walked into the glass-fronted building and noticed the fleet of cars parked behind a wall of chain-link. Some of the cars were dented and showed wear, but others seemed right as the proverbial rain.

  Within half an hour, she was at the wheel of a five-year-old Mazda in great condition and nosing it toward her mother’s house.

  He was irritated. Edgy. Mad at the kid. At himself. Because of the time he’d lost, he had to give up some of his plans. There were others who had to pay, but they would have to wait. Until after.

  Now, because of the damned kid, he’d have to move up his timeline.

  Though it was near ninety, he lit a fire, stripped off his clothes and felt the burning heat searing his skin, bringing back the horror that he replayed over and over in his mind, reminding himself that he had vengeance to wreak.

  The flames on the wood in the cabin’s fireplace grew hotter and he began to sweat, pulling off his clothes, feeling the heat even more.

  Flames…all the flames…he remembered them, remembered watching them consume his victim…how they’d swirled and grown, snapping through the forest. The man had been unconscious as the fire had crawled up and around him, smoke roiling in angry black clouds to the sky.

  In a whoosh, the wind had come up and the fire had turned, starting to cut off his escape. He couldn’t wait any longer. He ran, upward along the trail, feeling the searing heat, noticing, in the corner of his eye, the flames arc and then, quickly, without notice sparks rained from the sky. In his hair, on his neck, igniting his clothes.

  Pain seared across his back and he stopped in the trail, dropped to the ground and rolled, back and forth, trying to extinguish the fire, feeling the heat as the forest crackled and burned around him.

  He’d been foolish.

  Waited too long.

  He would die with his victim. Ryan Carlyle and an unidentified man…though it wouldn’t take them long to figure it out.

  He forced himself to his feet and plunged forward, his shirt burned away, his skin blistered raw and throbbing. One foot in front of the other, upward, to the spot where he’d parked his car. For a second he worried that the car would be encircled in flames or catch fire, that the gas tank would explode and he’d have no way out but on foot.

  But as he crested the hill, his lungs burning, he saw the vehicle and knew he could escape.

  His back raged with pain and would no doubt be scarred.

  But he would survive.

  And he had.

  To wreak his vengeance.

  His lips curled into a cold smile at the memory.

  Straightening, he slowly extinguished the flames with his own piss. He liked the feel of it, the power he had over the fire. He liked to hear the angry hiss as he shot his stream over the coals. He thrummed with energy.

  Now was the time.

  Now.

  As he finished, he walked naked to the door of the room where he held her. Pounding with a fist, he yelled, “Okay, it’s show time.” Using the claw end of his hammer he pulled off the two-by-two he’d used to imprison her. The long nails creaked as they pulled out. The board clattered to the floor.

  He found her clothes and shoes, then tossed them into the dark room, not even trying to locate her. She couldn’t have escaped and now, at last, she would serve her purpose. “Hurry up,” he said.

  Though nightfall was still hours away, he had a lot to accomplish.

  Shannon drove in the little Mazda without the benefit of air-conditioning. With the windows rolled down she guided the little car through familiar streets. Nate’s insinuations rang through her head: That her father had been the Stealth Torcher, that one of her brothers was following in dear old Dad’s footsteps as the new and improved version of a twisted, murdering arsonist.

  Did that make sense?

  Was it even possible?

  She knew the date Dani Settler had been abducted. Had double-checked. All of her brothers were accounted for, though their alibis were for each other. All of them, it seemed, had had the opportunity. Shea had taken two vacation days that he had tacked on to a weekend and he’d gone fishing. Alone. Robert had time off because of his schedule. Aaron worked for himself.

  And now Oliver was dead.

  Some of the shock and pain was wearing away and, as the hot September wind tangled her hair, she was angry as hell. She didn’t believe for a minute her brothers were capable of the things Nate had suggested, and she was angry with him for his crazy ideas, angry that he’d lied and used her, and was feeling the same way about Travis. Hadn’t he gotten close to her only because he was looking for his daughter? Hadn’t he initially suspected her of abducting Dani? She’d seen his face this morning, the guilt when Nate had accused him of using her. So she was simmering at him as well as at her brothers for keeping secrets from her.

  Worse yet, she was furious with herself.

  For being so damned trusting.

  Her fingers tightened around the hot steering wheel of the Mazda, and she took a corner a little too quickly, nearly gliding into the oncoming lane where a teenager wearing earphones blasted her with his horn.

  Shannon barely noticed. Her thoughts were miles away to her dead father, a gruff man with Santa Claus white hair, a ruddy face and the perpetual scent of Irish whiskey and cigars. He’d been quick with a smile, quicker to anger, and had used a thin black belt on her brothers to keep them in line. Never had he even hinted at whipping her, but when one of the boys screwed up, he’d slowly walk upstairs to his room where the belt hung in his closet, return downstairs, his heavy tread creaking each step, then, without a sound, nod toward the back porch and the offending son, either shaking and crying or stiff with rebellion, would march outside.

  Patrick had been a firm believer in “spare the rod and spoil the child,” just as his father had been. But it seemed unbelievable that he might have been a criminal. An arsonist. A murderer.

  Could she believe that Patrick Flannery had been the Stealth Torcher? No…No…

  So what about the anagram of the first letter of your names?

  Had he named his kids with a cryptic anagram as some kind of sick, ironic joke? Who was this man who had sired her?

  She slowed for a red light, nervously tapped a tattoo with her fingers on the steering wheel, tried to stem her rage. The fact of the matter was she was pissed off at just about everyone she knew, living or dead. How about Brendan Giles, the coward who had left her at the first whiff of learning she was pregnant? Or Ryan, whose only form of communication had ended up being his fists? Or her twin brothers, the ones she felt were closest to her, both of them now deserting her, whether intentional or not.

  “Damn it all to hell,” she growled, tromping so hard on the accelerator as the light changed that the Mazda’s tires screeched.

  She passed St. Theresa’s school and wouldn’t let her mind wander down those hallowed, dark halls. A few seconds later she pulled up to a spot in front of her mother’s house. It looked so much the same as it had when she’d grown up here she started to wonder whether it, too, was a lie. As she extracted the key to the Mazda and dropped it into her purse, she began to think that nothing she’d trusted, nothing she’d believed in had been what it seemed.

  She stormed up the sidewalk. She was in no mood for excuses, no mood for platitudes, no mood for anything but the truth.

  She took the porch steps two at a time. At the front door, she placed her hands on the thick oak panels and took a deep breath. Knocking twice, she yanked open the unlocked door and stepped inside.

  The smells of her youth assailed her: the lingering odors of burning candles and cigarettes; a faint scent of fish cooked, no doubt, on Frida
y, though no one but her mother seemed to observe that old tradition.

  For the first time since she could remember, she didn’t feel a wistful bit of nostalgia when she spied the family portrait, taken when she was seven, which hung over the mantel in the living room. It was framed in gold-painted wood, a picture taken when all the siblings had lived under this roof. In the portrait, her brothers stood around a bench where she was seated with their father and mother. The boys wore matching sport coats and nervous, toothy smiles. Some had acne, others a bit of facial hair, all carbon copies of their father with their blue eyes, black hair and strong Irish chins. The twins stood on either end, looking so much alike that she knew that Oliver was the one on the left end of the photo standing next to Aaron only because it had been discussed over Thanksgiving turkey year after year, when the dining room table had been lengthened and stretched through the entry hall and into the living room to accommodate all the members of the once-growing Flannery family.

  But no longer.

  Because of some madman.

  Neville was missing.

  Oliver and Mary Beth dead.

  “Shannon?” Shea appeared, looking over the half wall to the entry hall. His eyes were shadowed and pained, his skin tight over his face. “Glad you could make it,” he said with a trace of sarcasm.

  She ignored his dig and hurried up the worn carpet of the stairs. She wasn’t going to have any guilt tossed on her. She’d called twice, explained when she’d show up. “How is she?”

  “How would you expect?”

  “Not good.”

  “She’s taking this pretty hard. Oliver and she were…”

  “Close.”

  He nodded. Stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his pants and looked as if he’d been pacing a hole in the carpet outside the bedroom door. The monotonous tick of the grandfather’s clock in the entry broke the silence. “I called her doctor this morning and ran by the pharmacy for some tranquilizers,” he said. “She’s taken a few, so she’s a little out of it.”

  “Where’s everyone else?” She’d half-expected the house to be filled with her brothers, Shea’s wife, maybe even Cynthia or Robert’s kids. As it was, the dark old home seemed tomb-like.