Sizzle and Burn

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Then she caught the stench of gasoline.

  “Dear God,” she whispered. “He’s going to burn the house down with us inside. Just like he did to all the other witches.”

  “Move,” Zack ordered. Somehow he was on his feet.

  She grabbed the edge of the bedside table and staggered upright. Adrenaline made it possible to ignore the pain in her ankle. Somehow her purse had made it back into the bedroom along with her. It was lying on the floor. Age-old feminine instinct and reflex made her scoop it up.

  The sight of the painting on the wall stopped her. It was an ominously smiling mask. She reached up and took it down. There was a small safe set into the wall.

  Zack had the window open now. Cold air blew into the bedroom. “What the hell are you doing? Get over here.”

  “Just a second.”

  The safe was a simple, inexpensive one. She punched in the date of her own birth.

  “Leave it,” Zack said, throwing the emergency rope ladder over the windowsill. “Whatever is in there isn’t worth your life.”

  But she had the door to the safe open now. She pulled out the only object, a leather-bound volume, and stuffed it into her purse.

  There was a great, roaring whoosh of sound from the hallway.

  “Burn, witch!” Spicer screamed.

  Vella’s many smoke alarms began to shriek.

  She ran for the window. Zack practically shoved her through the opening. She got a foot on the first rung of the emergency ladder and started down. The ladder shook and trembled but it held.

  Zack followed swiftly.

  She reached the ground and scurried back.

  “This way.” Zack stumbled a little when he stepped off the ladder. He put one hand to his side where the crimson stain was growing.

  Together they half limped, half staggered toward the shelter of the small shed that had originally been built to hold firewood. Vella had used it to store garden tools. Raine gritted her teeth against the pain in her ankle, aware that Zack had to be in agony. If he could keep going, so could she.

  When they reached the back of the shed they stopped. Raine could see flames and black smoke surging up into the damp sky. The fire was roaring now, a huge tyrannosaurus rex come to life and busily devouring everything in sight.

  “Sit down,” Raine ordered. “Before you fall down.”

  Zack obeyed reluctantly, unclipping his phone while he sank onto the cold ground. He leaned forward slightly, watching the burning house, gun in hand, while he talked to the 911 operator.

  Raine reached inside his jacket and unfastened his blood-drenched shirt. His right side was a gory mess. It was difficult to tell exactly where the wound was. Using her fingers, she tracked a steady, welling stream of blood back to its source. When she found the raw edges of the wound that had ripped open his flesh she felt him suck in his breath.

  She jerked off the long scarf she wore and wrapped it snugly around his rib cage. By the time she finished they were both covered in blood.

  The house was fully engulfed now. The speed of the fire was terrifying. If it hadn’t been for the phobic fear that had led Vella to install emergency fire ladders in the upstairs rooms—

  No, Raine thought. Don’t go there. Thank you, Aunt Vella.

  “Spicer must have left,” she whispered.

  Zack shook his head once, never taking his attention off the house. “Don’t think so. He can’t leave. He has to be sure.”

  “He’s crazy.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  A few seconds later she heard Spicer’s voice again.

  “Die, witch. Die like she died.”

  “He just noticed the rope ladder,” Zack said quietly. “He’s going to come unglued now.”

  Spicer’s high, keening scream of rage rose above the thunder of the fire.

  “You can’t escape!” Spicer shouted. “You have to burn. It’s the only way.”

  “He’s just noticed the shed,” Zack said. “He’s coming this way.”

  She could hear sirens in the distance now. Spicer seemed oblivious, however.

  “The demon always wins!” he yelled. “The demon is more powerful than you, witch.”

  Zack rose slowly, back pressed to the wall of the shed.

  “Put the gun down, Spicer,” he called. “The cops are on the way. It’s over.”

  Spicer’s response was a flurry of shots followed by an abrupt pause. She didn’t know much about guns but she knew enough to realize that they occasionally needed to be reloaded.

  Zack leaned around the edge of the shed and fired once.

  Doug Spicer was still alive when Wayne Langdon and a deputy pulled into the drive. A fire truck followed by an aide car appeared next.

  Raine didn’t wait for the medics to do triage. She limped toward them, waving her arms to get their attention.

  “Take care of him first,” she said, pointing to Zack. She put every ounce of authority she possessed into the command. “He’s the good guy.”

  Fifty-seven

  Two hours later she sat in the reception area of the Shelbyville Community Hospital. Wayne Langdon was with her.

  She was still waiting for Zack. He had been in the emergency room for what seemed an eternity. A doctor had appeared briefly to assure her that the wound looked a lot worse than it was. He explained that the bullet had passed cleanly through skin and tissue, not striking any vital organs on the way.

  “A lot of stitches and some antibiotics and he’ll be fine. Mr. Jones will end up with an interesting scar but no permanent damage.”

  Easy for him to say, she thought. She would remember the moment that Zack took a bullet for her for the rest of her life. The terrible fear that had flashed through her when she knew he’d been hit would haunt her nightmares, just as the voices did.

  Someone had re-taped her ankle and provided her with a pair of crutches.

  “Got a full confession out of Spicer before they took him into surgery,” Langdon said. “Hard to shut him up, to tell you the truth. Kept babbling about how he had to burn the witches.”

  “Uh-huh.” Raine fiddled with her crutches, trying to get the hang of using them.

  Langdon grimaced. “I appreciate that you’re not saying I told you so.”

  “Hard to resist, though.”

  “I’ll bet.” Langdon whistled softly. “Got to say, Spicer’s confession couldn’t have come at a better time, and that’s a fact.”

  “Why is that?” Raine asked, glancing at her watch.

  “The case against Burton Rosser was starting to unravel pretty fast. Turns out he’s got an ironclad alibi for at least one of the Bonfire murders. He was doing time for burglary when the first girl was killed.”

  “I assume Spicer was the one who set him up?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Evidently you scared the, uh, crap out of him after you discovered the girl still alive in your aunt’s basement.” Langdon cleared his throat. “Got the feeling that something about you made him real nervous.”

  “I have that effect on people sometimes. It’s a gift.”

  Langdon looked as if he didn’t know how to take that. He turned a little red and then acted as if she hadn’t said anything. He cleared his throat again and hurried on with his story.

  “Spicer figured the best way to protect himself from becoming a suspect was to give us a solid perp. He left the belt in Burton Rosser’s house. Then he copied the photos of the victims off his own computer onto a flash storage device and loaded them onto Rosser’s computer. We found the same photos on Spicer’s computer a few minutes ago.”

  “How did he know that Rosser would make a likely-looking suspect?”

  “Spicer deliberately picked someone who was even newer in town than himself. Rosser also looked good because he was a loner and there were rumors that he’d done jail time.”

  Her phone rang. She reached into her purse and glanced at the incoming number. Blocked.

  “Hello,” she said warily.

  “Is thi
s Raine Tallentyre?”

  A man’s voice, or maybe the voice of a really irritable bear. It was hard to tell.

  “I think you have the wrong number,” she said.

  “Fallon Jones,” the bear rumbled, sounding even more annoyed because he’d had to identify himself. “Just tried to call Zack. His phone’s off. What the hell is going on?”

  She gave Langdon a brief, bright smile. “Excuse me, Chief. I have to take this call.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  She got to her feet, grabbed the crutches and limped through the sliding glass doors out onto the brick entranceway. It was cold outside, but she didn’t care. She was suddenly generating more than enough heat to keep herself warm. Leaning on one of the crutches, she managed to get the phone back to her ear.

  “How do you do, Mr. Jones,” she said, making her voice glassy smooth. “So you’re the head of the firm that ripped my family apart all those years ago.”

  “Huh?”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how pissed off I am by the sneaky, underhanded way your agent Wilder Jones conducted his so-called investigation.”

  “What the hell? Lady, I had nothing to do with that investigation. It went down long before my time here at J&J.”

  “I don’t want excuses, Jones, I want abject apologies. Wilder Jones broke my aunt’s heart.”

  “You’re mad because those two had an affair?” Fallon sounded bewildered. “Are you crazy?”

  “No, fortunately. No thanks to J&J or the Arcane Society.”

  “Now what are you talking about?”

  “According to the file you had on me, it was a known fact in certain quarters within J&J that there was a high statistical probability that I had inherited a type and degree of parasensitivity that is very difficult to handle out here in the real world. Did you know that when you tell folks you hear voices they tend to treat you like you’re crazy? And guess what? You often end up crazy.”

  “It’s not my fault that your file got buried. Every file concerning your family was classified.”

  “Got news for you, Mr. Jones, J&J may choose to conduct its operations as if it were a clandestine government agency, but it’s not. It’s just one more private investigation firm, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Damn it—”

  “What’s more, even if it was a legitimate agency of the federal government, I’d still be just as pissed.”

  “Calm down, Miss Tallentyre.”

  It was an order. She ignored it.

  “I am perfectly calm, thank you. Speaking of your cavalier disregard for other people’s personal privacy, I would like to add that I am not at all pleased to know that at the start of this case you had your analysts check out everything from my medical history to my personal shopping habits. Such things are supposed to be confidential, Mr. Jones.”

  “Put Zack on the line.”

  “Just so you know, I’m giving serious thought to taking J&J to court. Just imagine what a lawsuit would mean to your firm and the entire Arcane Society. Why, I’ll bet if I get myself a really good lawyer and the right judge, I can force you to open up all of your so-called classified files. Think of the headlines. ‘Psychic Detective Agency Maintains Secret Files on Private Citizens.’”

  “Put. Zack. On. The. Phone,” Fallon ordered. “Now.”

  “Sorry. He’s not available.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the emergency room.”

  “He’s been hurt? How? What’s going on there?”

  “Oh, right, I guess you don’t know about the latest little J&J screwup, do you? Turns out you were wrong when you confirmed that the Shelbyville cops had the serial killer in custody.”

  “I said the analysts estimated the probability of the cops having the right man to be ninety-six point three percent.”

  She made a tut-tutting sound. “Not good enough, Mr. Jones. Your analysts were one hundred percent wrong. The real killer took a couple of shots at us this afternoon. One of those shots hit Zack. That was before the guy tried to torch us, by the way.”

  “How bad?”

  He sounded genuinely worried. She relented slightly.

  “The doctor said he’ll be okay. I’m standing outside the emergency room as we speak, waiting to find out.”

  “Did they get the bastard?”

  “You mean, did they get the right bastard this time? The answer is yes, no thanks to J&J.”

  “I don’t know how we missed that one. Clearly we had insufficient or false data.”

  “Maybe you should rely a little less on your analysts’ psychic abilities and a little more on traditional methods of criminal investigation.”

  “It’s not like we had a lot of time to check out the reports,” Fallon shot back defensively. “We had other priorities, if you will recall.”

  She was about to fire back but she saw Zack on the other side of the sliding glass doors. He was on his feet and moving. That was a very good sign. The medics had cut off his shirt. He wore his leather jacket open over his bare chest. She could see the edge of a large white bandage on his side.

  “Zack just came out of the ER,” she said. “Got to go.”

  “Wait,” Fallon said quickly. “Don’t hang up. Put him on the line.”

  “Okay. But before I do, there’s something you and I should get clear.”

  “What?” he asked, very wary.

  “I understand that J&J answers only to the Governing Council and the Master of the Arcane Society.”

  “Yeah. So, what?”

  “As it happens, I will soon be the wife of the next Master.”

  “What?”

  “That position will give me a great deal of power, not to mention enormous influence.” She waved a crutch at Zack. “Better not piss me off any more, Mr. Jones.”

  “Give me Zack,” Fallon snarled.

  Zack was through the glass doors, coming toward her.

  “It’s Mr. Jones of J&J,” she said. “He wants to speak with you.”

  “Figured he’d be calling,” Zack said.

  “Better warn you, I just told him that you and I are going to get married.”

  Masculine satisfaction etched his hard face. His eyes got very, very blue.

  “Well, now,” he said softly. “Within the Society that pretty much amounts to a formal announcement. How’d he take it?”

  “In another era I believe he would have been described as apoplectic.”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll survive.”

  “Zack?” Fallon’s voice, emanating from the small phone, sounded faint and tinny. “Is that you?”

  Zack took the phone from Raine’s hand, leaned forward and kissed her very thoroughly. By the time he raised his head she was tingling from head to toe.

  “Zack?” Fallon was shouting now. “You there? Talk to me, damn it.”

  “Later,” Zack said somewhat absently into the phone. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  He ended the call, dropped the phone into a pocket and went back to kissing Raine.

  Fifty-eight

  They were gathered in her living room, drinking the first of the two bottles of Oregon pinot noir that Gordon had brought along. He and Andrew claimed they both needed the wine for medicinal purposes while they recovered from the shock of events. The pair occupied the sofa, the cats stretched out between them. Zack was in one of the two reading chairs. Raine took the other.

  “How did you figure out where she hid the journal?” Andrew asked. “Did you know about the wall safe?”

  “No.” Raine looked at the leather-bound book lying on the coffee table. “But this morning I suddenly remembered the painting on the wall of her bedroom. It was the first of her mask series. “In hindsight, I realized it must have been inspired by Wilder Jones.”

  Gordon glanced at the volume on the coffee table. “What did you find in that journal?”

  She fortified herself with a swallow of wine and set down the glass. “My father injected himself with h
is version of the formula.”

  “Damn.” Gordon’s silver-gray brows shot straight up. “That certainly explains a few things.”

  “I’ll say,” Andrew agreed.

  “I know what you’re all thinking,” she said. “Judson Tallentyre sounds like the original mad scientist.”

  “No,” Zack said. He drank some wine and lowered his glass. “Within the Arcane Society, that honor belongs to my ancestor Sylvester Jones.”

  Raine looked up, startled. “You’re calling the founder of the Arcane Society a mad scientist?”

  “Well, technically speaking, I guess you’d have to label him a mad alchemist, given that he lived in the late sixteen hundreds. Don’t think the word scientist was used in those days. It amounts to the same thing, though. Sylvester was unquestionably brilliant, and there’s no doubt but that he was a powerful sensitive. But it’s also no secret, at least in the Jones family, that he was obsessed, paranoid and probably delusional, at least toward the end.”

  “Interesting family history,” Andrew observed drily.

  “Family tree is riddled with what the Society euphemistically likes to call exotics,” Zack said. “But in Sylvester’s case, I think there’s a strong possibility that some of his quirks were exacerbated by the experiments he ran on himself.”

  Andrew frowned. “Sylvester Jones invented the original version of the formula?”

  “Along with what was supposed to be the antidote,” Zack said. “But in the Victorian era, the Society found out the hard way that the antidote doesn’t work. In the late sixteen hundreds Sylvester died alone in his laboratory, which became his tomb. No one knows for sure what killed him, but there’s a widely held theory in the family that he probably poisoned himself with his own formula and died because the antidote failed.”

  Gordon absently stroked Batman and looked at Raine. “I suppose your father took the risk with his version of the formula because he was convinced it would work.”

  “Yes.” She picked up her glass and swallowed some wine. She was going to need it to get through the rest of the story. “He also injected Aunt Vella with the drug.”

  There was a short, horrified silence while they all absorbed that news.