The Burning Man

by Christa Faust

  Kieran always joked that she was Sherlock Holmes, and he was her loyal Watson. He wanted to be a writer and she wanted to be an FBI agent. She would solve crimes, he said, and he would write about them.

  “Wow, that’s awesome,” Rachel said. “But you know what, I’d better...”

  She made a wordless gesture toward the dorm room door, then swiftly made herself scarce, flashing a conspiratorial wink on the way out.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. Ever since Thanksgiving, Rachel was endlessly scheming to get Olivia and Kieran together—even though Olivia had told her sister a hundred times that they were just friends. Then, when Kieran’s girlfriend had dumped him right before winter break, Rachel had redoubled her efforts.

  True, Olivia really liked Kieran. Trusted him and enjoyed hanging out with him, but she just didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Rachel had a new crush every other week and seemed to think life wasn’t worth living if you weren’t in love. But Olivia had her studies to worry about—maintaining her grade point average, organizing meets for her shooting team and, of course, keeping an eye on her little sister.

  There just wasn’t room in her head for romance.

  But she was starting to get the feeling that Kieran had other ideas. She saw it in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. She was pretty sure that was part of the reason his previous girlfriend had dumped him. Because she didn’t want to share him with another girl.

  She set the books on her desk. She could still see the corner of Randall’s card sticking out from under the history book. Without thinking, she scowled.

  “What’s wrong?” Kieran asked, a concerned frown creasing his pale forehead.

  Damn him for being able to read her so easily. She steeled herself, deliberately smoothing her face to a calm, blank mask.

  “Nothing,” she replied, picking up the cupcake. “Want some of this? It’s delicious.”

  “Okay,” he said with a funny little half-smile, obviously not buying her dodge, but graciously allowing her to change the subject.

  She broke off a piece of the cupcake and held it out to him. To her surprise, he bent down and ate the cake out of her hand, his lips brushing against her fingers.

  “It’s good,” he said, knuckling some stray crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

  For a long, awkward moment, neither of them said anything. Olivia was still holding the last sticky chunk of cake in her other hand. She didn’t really want to eat it, but didn’t know what else to do with it. All she could think about was how close Kieran was standing to her, and how there was hardly anyone else in the entire deserted dorm.

  “Do you want more?” she asked, because she couldn’t come up with anything else to say. She must have been blushing, because her face felt like a frying pan. “Cake, I mean.”

  This was getting way out of control, way too fast.

  He took a clumsy half step closer to her, big feet shuffling in his battered Chuck Taylors. He was blushing, too, green eyes like hers overflowing with something raw, intense, and unnamable. She looked away, heart racing.

  “Listen, I...” he began.

  There was a sudden sharp pop, like a small caliber gunshot, and the light on Olivia’s desk blew out in a shower of sparks, throwing the room into darkness. Without even realizing she’d done it, she dropped the rest of the cupcake and shoved Kieran protectively behind her, even though he was four inches taller than her, and thirty pounds heavier.

  “Jeez, Liv,” he said. “It’s just a lamp.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Stand down, soldier.”

  She turned to face him in the dark. They were even closer now, almost touching, and she could feel the heat of his body burning through that scant inch of space between them. His hand was still on her shoulder, but it had started sliding tentatively up under her hair to cup the back of her neck.

  Oh my god, she thought. He’s gonna kiss me.

  I want him to kiss me.

  “Olivia? Is everything all right?”

  Light from the hallway spilled into the room as Mrs. Gilbert picked that moment to push the door open. From the moment Olivia had arrived, Mrs. Gilbert had taken her under her wing, and while Olivia had been suspicious of the older woman at first, she had quickly warmed up to her.

  Now she was the closest thing Olivia had to a mother—even more so than her own fragile and helpless mother had been when she was still alive.

  Mrs. Gilbert reached in and switched on the overhead light, then frowned dramatically.

  “You,” she said to Kieran. “Out! Olivia, you know male visitors are not allowed in dorm rooms.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. G,” Kieran said, backing away from Olivia and showing his palms. “I just came by to give Olivia her birthday present.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Gilbert said, blue eyes sparkling with barely suppressed mirth. “It’s a good thing I arrived before you had a chance to deliver. Now get the hell out of here, before I kick your scrawny ass into next week.”

  Kieran nodded quickly and moved to obey.

  “See you later, Liv,” he said, lingering for a minute in the doorway before turning to go.

  Once he had gone, Mrs. Gilbert turned to look at her, a concerned expression on her face.

  “What happened, honey?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Olivia said, crouching down to clean the dropped cupcake off the floor beside her desk. “We’re just friends.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know,” the older woman said. “I’ve got three grown kids and a pretty good idea where they came from—but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about that firecracker sound—like a little explosion in here.” She waved a ringladen hand in front of her face. “Do you smell that weird metallic odor? Sort of like... ozone.”

  “My desk light blew out,” Olivia told her. “Must have been a short or something.”

  Mrs. Gilbert frowned, looking from the burnt-out lamp to Olivia and back again.

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” she said, sounding very serious.

  “I don’t know,” Olivia said, feeling inexplicably defensive all of a sudden. “It just... blew up.”

  “What happened right before that?” Mrs. Gilbert pressed.

  “Nothing,” Olivia said warily. “I opened my birthday present, and we had some cake, and then...” She shrugged. “How should I know what caused the light to blow up? I’m not an electrician.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mrs. Gilbert said, unplugging the lamp and winding the cord around the base. “I’ll get you a new one. And I don’t want to see that boy in your room again, or you’ll get Saturday detention.”

  “Don’t worry,” Olivia said. “It won’t happen again.”

  * * *

  Lorna Gilbert sat in her office with the phone receiver stuck between her shoulder and cheek. She had wrapped the broken lamp in newspaper and was carefully placing it in a box filled with packing peanuts.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sending the lamp over to the lab right now. She’s unwilling to admit it, but I suspect sexual activity of some kind was occurring in the minutes leading up to the event.” She paused, sealing the box and applying a pre-paid sticker addressed to the New York offices of Massive Dynamic. “I understand. Of course. Will do.”

  She hung up the phone.

  * * *

  Rachel didn’t know what her sister’s problem was. She loved Olivia more than anyone else in the world, but sometimes she wished that she would just lighten up.

  Olivia had always seemed different than other girls, but Rachel could never put her finger on the difference. When she was young, she used to pretend that she and Olivia were actually magical elves who had been left with human parents by accident. But as boring and ordinary as Rachel really was, there had always been something a little otherworldly about her sister. Something in her eyes, in the way strange, inexplicable things sometimes happened when she was around.

  Rachel always thought that their stepfather had been able to sense that other
ness in Olivia, too. He sensed it, and he hated her for it. He’d been mean and violent toward Rachel, of course, but Olivia had been like a magnet for his wrath, and always got punished twice as hard.

  They’d been through so much together, Rachel and Olivia, but that was over now. Things were better— perfect, really. Rachel had never really liked school before, but she actually looked forward to going to classes now. Especially art class, which was her favorite. Her art teacher, Ms. Dandine, was really cool. She had a tattoo and swore a lot and drove a vintage purple Karmann Ghia. She let the kids draw comic books and taught them how to make monster masks. Plus there was a really cute boy in her art class named Nathaniel who was from England and had this fantastic accent. Which she probably shouldn’t be noticing, since she’d been casually, sort-of-but-not-really seeing Brandon Ardmore since last Tuesday.

  But whatever, he knew it wasn’t serious.

  Rachel walked down the path to the junior girls’ dorm with her chilly hands stuck deep in her pockets, wondering what was going on back in Olivia’s room. She didn’t like being in her own building when it was nearly deserted, which was why she spent so much time in Olivia’s room. But Mrs. Lamquist was there, and she was okay, although she was kind of fussy and got really wigged out if anything got moved around or left in a mess.

  She figured maybe she’d get Mrs. L. to let her watch a movie or something while she gave her sister time alone with Kieran.

  Rachel just didn’t understand why Olivia was so reluctant to admit that she was into Kieran. He was so obviously into her, and she could deny it all she wanted, but Rachel knew that Olivia liked him back.

  It seemed like a no brainer.

  But Olivia had never had a boyfriend. Never had any friends at all really, except for this one kid named Nick who went to the daycare center with her when she was younger. But that was like a million years ago. Which was why Rachel was so bound and determined to get Kieran and Olivia together. It didn’t seem healthy or normal to be sixteen and not have a boyfriend. What was she so afraid of anyway?

  Afraid she might like it?

  10

  It was 5:30 a.m., still dark and quiet. Tony watched his target from across the street as the man loaded a pair of suitcases into the trunk of an old white Datsun.

  The man was a cop, a detective. His name was Jimmy Obejas, age thirty-six, Cuban-American, divorced father of three, and reformed alcoholic. He had dark hair and eyes, like Tony. He had the same complexion, same height, and same build—give or take an arm. A little younger than Tony might have wanted, but everything else about him was ideal. Especially the reformed alcoholic part.

  Jimmy was on his way to pick up his son and daughter for a visit to Disney World. He didn’t know it, but he was about to fall off the wagon again. His ex-wife and kids wouldn’t be at all surprised when he failed to show up for the promised trip. He’d taken a week off work for this family vacation, so no one in the department would wonder where he was, until long after Tony had gotten what he needed.

  But the guy kept screwing around, forgetting things and double-checking things and making Tony crazy. The longer he waited, the lighter the sky would get. There was already a delicate flush of pink along the violet bellies of the clouds crowding the eastern sky. But finally, after the third trip back into his first-floor apartment, Jimmy came back out again with a bag from the toy store and an insulated thermos cup, and locked his front door. He put the toy bag on the passenger seat, took a swig from the cup, checked his watch, and then got in behind the wheel.

  Tony let him get a block-and-a-half head start before keying the big sedan he’d stolen and following the smaller white Datsun. He’d been tailing his target for weeks, learning his routine and watching his every move, so he already knew what route Jimmy usually took to pick up his kids at his ex’s house just outside of Haines City. There was a perfect spot along Old Polk City Road where he and his target would meet for the first and last time. It was a ballsy move, taking the target out in the morning, early though it may be. But the circumstances were just too ideal.

  He’d known from the beginning that he had divine forces on his side, and finally getting a lucky break like this just proved him right.

  He hummed softly to himself along the way, feeling the subdued heat of Olivia’s power throbbing gently in the remaining bones of his right arm. It was almost a weird kind of comfort, that heat. A reminder of his destiny. Ahead of him, the white car turned onto Old Polk, and he was close behind.

  He was ready.

  Pulling a rumpled map out of the glove box, he held it against the wheel and pretended to be trying to read it while driving. A lost, absent-minded tourist, trying to find his way to the ocean. When they reached the long, empty stretch of road that Tony had selected, he sped up until he was beside his quarry. He pushed the button to roll down the passenger window and gripped the wheel with his hook, using his good hand to make a window rolling motion at Jimmy and flashing his most disarming smile.

  He could feel Olivia inside him, flowing sinuously like smoke through the convolutions of his brain.

  Jimmy rolled his own window down and returned the smile.

  “You lost?” he called out across the purr of the wind.

  “Nope,” Tony said, raising his gun and pulling the trigger.

  * * *

  Olivia pulled the car over to the side of a deserted stretch of road and got out. She could taste the swampy humid air of her home state, and hear the familiar soporific buzz of cicadas in the low, scrubby trees. It was dawn, and still cool, the lazy red sun just raising its head to peer through the eastern clouds.

  She walked purposefully back along the empty road, toward a crumpled break in the tree line about a hundred yards away. When she got closer, she noticed the tail end of a white automobile sticking out of the brush. The smell of crushed leaves, sweet bay, and strangler fig mingling uneasily with the harsh odor of burnt brakes and leaking gasoline.

  She pushed her way through the broken branches to reach the driver’s side door. The window was open and the man behind the wheel was almost unrecognizable behind a mask of blood.

  But he wasn’t dead.

  He was slumped against his seatbelt and barely breathing, but when he saw Olivia, his eyes went wide. He held out a shaking hand in desperate, wordless supplication.

  She felt nothing for the dying man. No pity. No remorse. He was merely an obstacle to be overcome in the pursuit of a sacred mission.

  There was a gun in Olivia’s hand. Her left hand.

  She raised the gun and pressed it to the man’s forehead, right between his pleading eyes.

  She pulled the trigger.

  Blood and brains showered the car’s neat, well-maintained interior, pooling in the concave top of a thermos sitting in the cup holder. The man’s head rocked back on his neck and bounced off the headrest, and then he slid down sideways and over the gear shift until his leaking forehead came to rest against a colorful bag in the passenger seat.

  Olivia watched him die like she was waiting for a bus. It took a little longer than she was expecting, but soon enough he stopped breathing. Still she felt nothing.

  She woke with a swallowed gasp, sitting up in her bed with the vivid horror of that dream clinging to her mind like an oil slick suffocating a sea bird. It was the most awful, most inexplicable dream she’d ever had.

  She’d often talked with Kieran about how important it was in law enforcement to be able to see into minds of killers. She had read dozens of books on the subject of psychopathology and psychological profiling, but she’d never imagined anything even remotely like the kind of casual, careless boredom she’d felt in that dream.

  What did it say about her own mind, that she was able to dredge something like that up from the depths of her subconscious? Or had she just been reading too much Thomas Harris?

  Olivia pulled her blanket around her shoulders, shivering. Already, the details of the dream were unraveling, slipping away. She looked at her clock r
adio. It would be going off in two minutes, to wake her for her first period German class. There was a test that day, a minor quiz, but Olivia took every test very seriously and had stayed up late the night before studying.

  She concentrated, and before long thoughts of German conjugation filled her head, washing away the last clinging fragments of her terrible, murderous dream.

  * * *

  The seductive whisper of Olivia’s presence inside Tony’s brain dissipated like fog as he pulled Jimmy’s body upright in the driver’s seat. He shook his head to clear it, and then went through the target’s pockets, removing his wallet and badge. He also removed the keys from the ignition and used them to open the trunk. He took the larger of the two suitcases and set it to one side, then closed the trunk and set about meticulously covering the back end of the car with branches, making it virtually invisible from the road.

  He had a bad moment when he heard a car coming down the road, but if the driver noticed anything odd, they didn’t bother to stop and check it out. Tony held his breath as they passed, heart thumping, and tried to blend into the greenery as the sound of the car’s engine faded into the distance.

  He was in the clear, for now, but he’d ditch his own car at the earliest opportunity, just to be on the safe side.

  * * *

  That opportunity came at a rest stop east of Tampa, where he was able to score a green minivan. He ditched the gun in an overflowing dumpster, took only a brief detour to a neighborhood liquor store, and then drove the new vehicle back to Jimmy’s apartment. He parked across the street and headed up the walkway, all ready to be confronted by nosy neighbors. He’d prepared an explanation about how he’d promised to water Jimmy’s plants while he was at Disney World.

  Turned out that nobody really cared about anyone else in the crummy little complex. Which was just the way Tony liked it.

  Carrying a clinking bag from the liquor store, he let himself into the stuffy apartment and quickly discovered that his excuse wouldn’t have worked, anyhow. There were no plants. In fact, there were hardly any decorations of any kind. The fire-sale sofa, a dull, unappealing plaid, was shoved up against the far wall like the homely girl no one wants to dance with. A second-hand recliner that looked like it got way more mileage than the sofa. Generic table, cluttered with mail and magazines and unwashed coffee mugs. Clearly the house of a recently divorced male who had been used to letting his wife handle things around the house.