Fatal Burn

by Lisa Jackson

  “We don’t know, Shannon. I’ve told you everything I know, now I think I’d better talk to Detective Paterno.”

  “Wait a minute, Shea. Let’s discuss what you want to say, what kind of agreement you’ll need,” Pete said.

  Shannon stalked from the patio. She’d heard enough. Her head was thundering again and she couldn’t take one more second of her brothers’ sick pact or their lawyer’s desperate scramble to keep them from admitting their own guilt.

  She climbed in the rental car, pulled a quick U-turn in front of Aaron’s house, then headed out of town, past well-tended lawns and homes where people were just sitting down to dinner or watching TV or having reasonable discussions, where life was carrying on as it was normally supposed to.

  Normal.

  She doubted she’d ever feel normal again.

  Sitting at his desk at home, ice cubes melting in his drink, Paterno stared down at the autopsy report of Ryan Carlyle. He’d intended to compare what the ME had found on Carlyle to the reports on Blanche Johnson, Mary Beth Flannery and Oliver Flannery. He’d pulled some strings and the ME had performed Oliver’s autopsy ahead of schedule. A lot of the toxicology reports weren’t back yet, but the preliminary autopsy report was almost complete.

  “Good enough for government work,” he joked as the remains of his dinner—a man-sized TV dinner of chicken and French fries—sat on the counter, untouched. The dishes were piled in the sink, but he didn’t care. Not when his mind was somewhere else, and tonight, it was definitely far away.

  He laid copies of the reports on his desk and compared them. Two women and two men. Killed in very different manners.

  He took a sip of his whiskey, felt it warm his gut. Then he adjusted a pair of reading glasses onto the tip of his nose. Usually he didn’t bother, but some of the print was pretty fine these days and his eyes, well, shit, not just his eyes, but his knees and damned back were giving him trouble.

  Blanche Johnson had been butchered. She’d bled to death, her carotid artery severed with a serrated blade, probably a knife, the weapon as yet undiscovered. Mary Beth Flannery had been choked, bruises on her neck verified. Speculation was that her killer had been big and strong and had surprised her in the bath. She’d been submerged in the water after death and the fire had come later. Oliver Flannery had also died from having his oxygen supply cut off, the result of a slow hanging by a rope once used for the chapel bells. He hadn’t bled to death despite the cuts on his wrists, nor had he inhaled much smoke. On the other hand Ryan Carlyle had died of smoke inhalation, just before his body had been burned to a crisp.

  All different modes.

  Could they have been killed by the same person?

  Carlyle’s death had been staged to look like an accident, but it had been done clumsily, almost as if the killer had wanted the police to know that the man hadn’t just gotten trapped in a forest fire.

  Whoever the killer was, he wanted to show off.

  And he had a specific agenda. Otherwise Shannon Flannery would already be dead.

  So why the three-year gap?

  What had started it up again?

  You could have a different guy…You’re assuming the perp not only killed Carlyle but these people who were close to him.

  Two people were unaccounted for: Brendan Giles and Neville Flannery.

  It looked like Giles was, indeed, in Central America.

  That left Neville Flannery. The missing brother.

  But why return to take some kind of vengeance on his siblings? Had they done him dirt? Had he snapped? Could he be so twisted as to track down Shannon’s kid? Is that what took him three years? To find the girl and kidnap her?

  Something bit at the back of his mind. Like a gnat gnawing. He looked at the pictures of the Flannery family that he had on file. All the boys had the Black Irish good looks, like their father; family resemblance ran strong, and those twins…spooky how much they looked alike.

  He was crushing ice between his back teeth and stopped.

  Was it possible that Oliver and Neville had switched places? Is that what was bugging him?

  Paterno took a swallow of his drink, crunched more ice between his teeth as he considered. Why would the brothers trade places? It seemed far-fetched. Was the brother who had been hung indeed Oliver—the religious one, the soft-spoken one, the kind one?

  And why had someone kidnapped the kid? To what end, he wondered, the ice cracking between his molars while he thought. To what damned end?

  Who was the killer? And why such a long time between the first one, Ryan Carlyle, and the next one, Mary Beth Carlyle Flannery?

  He frowned as nothing came to him.

  Picking up the ME’s report on Ryan Carlyle again, he read each and every line. At the bottom he saw something that gave him pause. Stapled to the report was the identification form. He read it over. There had been a temporary ID made because a piece of a California driver’s license had been found at the scene, which had somehow escaped being completely destroyed. The license had belonged to Ryan Carlyle. His ID had later been confirmed by Patrick Flannery and Shea Flannery. Not his wife, Shannon. That was odd, Paterno thought, but then Shannon and Ryan had been separated at the time, she’d been in the process of filing for divorce. Still, she was next of kin. Identification would have been hard, the guy had been burned nearly beyond recognition. The pictures in the file were enough to make his stomach turn.

  Still, something was off. He knew it.

  And the only person who might be able to explain it was Shea Flannery.

  The Beast was driving. And he was hyped up. Excited.

  In the passenger seat Dani tried and failed to see much beneath the blindfold he’d pulled tight over her eyes. She was as frightened as she’d ever been in her life.

  Somehow she had to find a way to escape, to get away. And soon.

  The Beast had something major planned.

  Earlier he’d forced her to get dressed, then, taking no chances, had tied her hands behind her back and bound her ankles together. She’d managed to slide the nail into her pocket and he hadn’t bothered to check, but it wouldn’t do much good now. It was a pathetic weapon at best and with her hands tied there was no way she could use it.

  He was pissed at her.

  He’d told her as much.

  Because of her escape attempt, he’d had to alter his plans and he didn’t like it. She thought he might do something because he was so angry: hit her, or beat her or worse. So far, that hadn’t been the case.

  After he’d bound and blindfolded her, he’d gagged her, then left her on the porch and spent some time inside the cabin. She’d heard him moving furniture. Soon after he’d hauled her down the hill to his truck, stuck her inside and started driving. All the while, she’d smelled gas, the fumes seeping through her gag to burn her nose and mouth.

  The scent was everywhere, seeming to emanate from him and she felt cold as death when she thought what he might do with it.

  She could see only a sliver of light beneath the crack at the bottom of the blindfold. She could tell it was getting dark and she hated to think what he’d planned for her.

  Whatever it was, the gas was an essential ingredient.

  It scared her to death.

  Shannon spied Travis waiting for her and her stupid heart did a crazy little flip. “Idiot,” she told herself as she pulled the Mazda into her parking spot near the garage. What was it about that man that she couldn’t get enough of? There’s a phrase for that, Shannon. It’s called self-destruction. Emotional self-destruction.

  “Bring it on,” she muttered as she threw the key in her purse.

  Seated on the top step of her front porch, long legs stretched in front of him, Travis followed her with his eyes, scratching Khan behind his ears, watching Shannon pull to a stop. Damn, but he looked good.

  There was just something about his lanky build and easy smile that got to her. All of the tension seemed to ease from her shoulders as she climbed out of the car and
he pushed himself upright.

  “Traitor,” she said to the dog. “How’d he get out?”

  “Santana has a key.”

  “And he let you inside.”

  “He let the dog out,” Travis clarified, “but for the record, I think he trusts me.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “I doubt it. Nate doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “He’s in love with you.” His eyes were an intense laser blue.

  “So he’s said.”

  “And you?”

  She sighed, strolled up to him and said, “Oh, you know how it is, you can’t force your heart to do things it won’t. You see, I’ve got this other guy I’m interested in.”

  His surprised smile stretched wider as she reached him, his shadow stretching over her. “Are you?”

  “Hmmm. But he made me mad. Real mad. Lied to me.”

  His smile fell away. “I never lied to you. Never misrepresented myself.”

  “Just feigned interest in me to find out what made me tick, what I knew about Dani.”

  “Only partially right. I did want to know all those things, but I never ‘feigned’ interest in you. I didn’t have to. I was interested right from the get-go.” His arms surrounded her, then he pulled her close. She smelled the faint scent of some aftershave. He rested his forehead against hers, their eyes the barest of inches apart. She was lost in the intensity of his gaze, the blue fire burning. “I didn’t want to be interested in you. Hell, no. That wasn’t something I’d planned, but from the first time I saw you, in the window, leaning over the sink, and I was out in the field, sizing the place up before the fire, I knew I was in trouble.”

  She sighed. “I thought you were the last man, the very last man on earth I should get involved with.” She smiled up at him. “But here we are.”

  She touched the side of his face with one finger and he groaned.

  “Oh, hell,” he growled and pulled her tight, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that seemed to ricochet through her body, creating immediate and intense heat, bringing up vivid memories of making love to him.

  She wanted to tell him everything, spill out her heart. Tears filled her eyes.

  “What happened?” Travis asked, but she shook her head.

  Travis gazed down at her. He took her hand and pulled her into the unlocked house, purposely leaving Khan outside. He guided her upstairs and she willingly went.

  It was crazy, she knew, spending time in bed with him, but she wanted it, needed it so badly. The touch and feel of him was so real, so tangible, that it pushed the unreal, the horror, away from the front of her mind.

  Afterward, they had dinner. He’d bought steaks and champagne. She had one potato in the pantry and a few tomatoes clinging to the vines in pots on the back porch. He barbecued. She poured champagne and as the potato roasted and the steaks sizzled on the grill, they brought each other up to speed about what they’d been doing.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy,” she said as she chopped onions and the puppy, let out of the pen and allowed to roam around the kitchen, explored her new surroundings.

  “Who would I tell?”

  She looked at him. To hell with her sick, scheming brothers. Travis was the one who cared, the father worried sick about his daughter. Quickly she told him about her father and brothers and the Stealth Torcher. He just stared at her. When she finished, he shook his head.

  “So your father killed Dolores Galvez accidentally, and then gave up setting fires. The boys took up the sword, so to speak, and though they were appalled at what your father had done, they decided to take things one step further. They killed your husband, then let you go on trial for it.”

  “Essentially.”

  Travis turned back to the champagne. With a loud pop, the cork exploded out of the bottle and frothy champagne bubbled out. “You believe it all?” He poured them each a glass and handed one to her.

  “Most of it. There are still some holes. I’m not sure my brothers were being completely honest with me.” She clinked the rim of her glass to his, then took a sip of the cool, effervescent liquid. “But why should they start now?”

  “Those holes are as wide as the Grand Canyon.” He stared out the window to the night as it crept over the land. “It doesn’t fit. No matter how you push the pieces together, something’s not right.”

  “They’ll talk to Paterno and maybe he can get the truth out of them.”

  “But they’ve already lawyered-up.”

  “Mmm.” She took another swallow of her drink before tossing the onions and tomatoes together.

  “I think they’re just covering their collective asses.”

  She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. She’d had the same hit.

  “Something’s off.”

  Shannon nodded, then surprised at her hunger, she sprinkled olive oil, basil, salt and balsamic vinegar into the bowl as Travis walked outside to fork the steaks from the grill. She ate like she’d been starved. A psychologist would probably tell her she was feeding a need, a gaping hole. It was something she couldn’t sate.

  She finally pushed her plate away and later, when she and Travis lay in bed, nestled together, only a sheet over their naked bodies, a picture of Dani on the nightstand, Shannon wondered, Where the hell was their daughter?

  Chapter 32

  Something was wrong…so wrong…She wandered through the house, their mother’s house, searching for someone, for something.

  “Neville?” she called. “Oliver?”

  Where were the twins?

  She heard meat sizzling, smelled bacon frying, but there was no one in the kitchen, the stove wasn’t lit.

  “No bacon, Shannon! It’s Friday! Shame on you,” her mother said, but Maureen was nowhere nearby and when Shannon reached for the door to the basement, it was locked, wouldn’t budge. “You never did follow the rules, did you?” her mother was saying and the voice came from the den.

  “Mom?” Shannon yelled, but when she reached the room where her father smoked cigars, it was empty, just the odor of smoke lingering, as if her father had been there seconds before, puffing on his favorite type of cigar. The cigars were there, in a glass humidor on his desk, right next to a picture of Dani.

  Shannon’s heart froze.

  Where was her little girl?

  She heard a baby crying and headed up the stairs, her mother’s disembodied voice chasing after her. “The wages of sin is death…” But the baby was crying and there was smoke in the air.

  “Dani!” she cried, her legs feeling like lead as she trudged up stairs that went up and up and up. She held on to the rail and it felt slick. When she looked at her hand, she saw it was bloody, that rivers of blood were pouring down the handrail, down the stairs, and still there was smoke and a baby crying.

  Looking up, she gasped. At the top of the stairs she saw Oliver, hanging by his neck, smoke and flames surrounding him, a naked infant, her little girl, in his bloody hands.

  “No!” Shannon cried, taking the steps two at a time and getting no closer. “Don’t! Oliver!”

  His eyes flew open.

  He stared down at her, his face melting and morphing hideously.

  With a jolt, she realized he was Neville and he took the baby and threw her high into the air, above the flames, higher and higher into the smoke the crying infant flew.

  Panic tore through her. She screamed as she lost sight of her baby. “Nooooo!”

  Her eyes opened.

  It was night.

  Dark.

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered, shaken as she turned into Travis’s arms.

  “Shh.” He pulled her tight and kissed her crown. She quivered against him, feeling the heat of his body, smelling the pure male scent of him over the thin aroma of smoke lingering from the nightmare.

  A dream. A horrid, visceral, blood-chilling dream. That’s all it was. Nothing more.

  And yet…she still smelled smoke. She felt Travis’s arms tighten around her. She opened her eyes and found that he was awake, an orange
glow reflected in his eyes.

  It was dark…except for that sinister glow.

  Her heart slammed in her chest.

  Suddenly she smelled the smoke. Real smoke, no distant memory of burning cigars or bacon grease from her dream.

  And she knew. Oh, God, she knew.

  The Stealth Torcher was back.

  A shriek sliced the air, the prolonged squeal of the smoke detector.

  “No!”

  Travis was already on his feet, jerking on his jeans.

  Shannon rolled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the floor with a thud. Throwing on clothes, she raced down the stairs. “Call 9-1-1,” she yelled over her shoulder as she flew into the kitchen.

  Khan whined and the puppy, too, was agitated. Why hadn’t she heard the dogs? Exhaustion? The champagne? The lovemaking? She couldn’t think about it as she threw open the back door and crammed her boots onto her feet. Khan, barking madly, shot out of the door.

  “You stay,” she said to the pup and spied Travis, cell phone to his ear, shouting out orders to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “That’s right. Shannon Flannery’s house!”

  She rattled off the address and he relayed it into the mouthpiece as he pulled on his boots, then hung up.

  “I’ll let the dogs out,” Shannon said, grabbing a red fire extinguisher from the wall and slamming it into Travis’s hands. “Get the horses. I’ll get the hose.”

  She started across the parking lot, sick inside. There wasn’t one fire, but two! One in the stable, the other in the kennel.

  “You son of a bitch,” she growled under her breath, then yelled, “Nate! Santana! Wake up!” She couldn’t take the time to pound on his door, not with the flames already spreading through the buildings where the animals were penned, trapped. She saw Travis head into the stable as she flung open the door to the kennel.

  The dogs were wild. Barking, yipping, panic gripping them. But the fire was contained at the far end of the building. She grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and started spraying, releasing the dogs as she passed. “It’s all right,” she soothed, knowing in her heart she was lying. She unlatched Atlas’s gate and he tore past, shooting for the open door. At the next kennel, Cissy was quiet, patient. But the instant Shannon opened the door, the border collie took off for the open door just as an explosion rocked through the building and Shannon was flung to the floor, her head cracking against the cement.