Dying Embers

by B. E. Sanderson

  “We’re not supposed to speed.”

  Pushing the door to the building wide, she allowed a mutter to escape her. “We’re not supposed to drive like my grandmother either.” Which wasn’t exactly accurate, since her late grandmother drove like a bat out of Hell, even just going to the store for a gallon of milk.

  Seconds later, the gruff visage of Director Walter Graham greeted her. Six foot eight and as thin as one of the cattails at her lake, he looked like a stiff breeze would bend him in half, but somehow you knew when that cattail snapped back up again, he could take your eye out.

  “Nice of you to join us, Agent Douglas.”

  “You’re the one who made me go on vacation,” she grumbled under her breath. He already looked pissed enough without her witty repartee, but she couldn’t help herself.

  Motioning her into his office, he took a quick glance at his watch. “Your vacation ended at least an hour before you decided to catch a nap against the side of the building.”

  The wily old bastard had been spying on her the whole time she waited. She should’ve known better.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked to his desk and handed her a folder so new it hadn’t even been creased yet. “Read through that on your way to the airport. Finster will drive you out.”

  “Another one?” Even as she asked, she knew he wouldn’t have called her back from vacation if it wasn’t. She’d hoped they had more time, but with this freak, time was against them.

  “Looks like it, but the locals can’t be sure. That’s why I called you in. You know how I feel about your wild goose chase, but you convinced me these deaths were connected, so I’m letting you run with it.”

  “Which means, we can’t let even one of these go until we find a way to break this thing open.” Running one hand through her short hair, she groaned as the airport remark finally sunk in. She had a go bag in her trunk, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d unpacked it. Did I even leave any toothpaste in there? “Sir? I need…”

  “You’re on the next flight out,” he said, cutting her off as though he already knew the direction of her thoughts. “Shouldn’t be more than a day trip. If it runs longer, pick up what you need and submit your receipts.”

  Which meant she’d wear the same wrinkled clothes for days just to avoid the paperwork nightmare of putting anything on the S.C.I.U.’s tab. “Yes, sir.” She took the file from him and turned to leave. Pausing at the doorway, she asked, “Sir? Any new leads before I head out?”

  “Not unless you bring them back.” He didn’t bother looking up from a report splayed across his desk. “And Jace? Find something so we can catch this guy.”

  If there was anything out there to find, she’d find it, but after a quick glimpse into the folder she carried, she seriously doubted it would be added to her case. Too many things didn’t fit the mold she’d spent months making.

  And serials rarely deviated from their molds.

  Chapter Three

  The wind rustled through Jace’s short, brown hair. Below her in a dry riverbed lay the remains of a luxury car. The midday sun reflected back at her off its shiny paint job. Aside from the obvious—no stolen vehicle this expensive would be resting on its side in the middle of nowhere—the whole scene didn’t fit.

  “Give me the particulars,” she said to the uniform next to her.

  He took his cap off and scratched at a floppy mane of hair. The kid wasn’t her idea of a professional officer, but in the middle of nowhere in Southeast Colorado, he’d have to do. Clenching his notebook firmly in his sweaty grasp, he said, “Male, mid-40’s. Caucasian. We’re guessing five-ten, two hundred twenty pounds or so. Brown hair, blue eyes.”

  Truth be told, she didn’t give a damn what the poor man looked like. So far, none of the men fit any kind of physical mold—not that any of the victims in her case could be identified at the scene. They all looked like charred wood when first responders arrived. That this case didn’t fit that similarity probably meant she’d been called in on this for nothing. Of course, it didn’t help that the officer wasn’t telling her what she needed to know. “Cause of death?” she snapped.

  “Doc says he’s pretty smashed up from the drop, but a bullet to the abdomen did him in a couple hours before they found him.” He shook his head. “Helluva way to go.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, you know… Suffering like a gut shot deer. From what the crime scene guys said, he’s been bleeding out down there since the middle of last night.”

  Her patience was in tatters, but she only had herself to blame. The one question she needed to ask happened to concern her most difficult topic. Steeling herself, she bit the inside of her cheek and took the plunge. “But was there a fire?”

  He stared at her as if she thought the story he’d just told her hadn’t been grisly enough. “Not that we could find…”

  “And you called me in why?” She didn’t have time to chase down every car in every remote locale in the U.S. Her current case only included ones specially designed by one particular sick mind, and fire was a prerequisite.

  The young officer ran a hand through his dirty-blond mane and shrugged. “Don’t ask me. That’s up to the detective in charge, ma’am.”

  First the kid back in Dallas, and now this one. The closer she crept toward forty, the more often she heard the ma’am word. Resisting the urge to call him ‘son’ in return, she looked toward a small crowd gathered around the twisted metal. “Which one is he?”

  The cop pointed. “Detective… Uhhh…” To her surprise, he glanced at his notebook as if he couldn’t remember the guy’s name. “Oh yeah. You need to speak to Detective Yancy. White shirt, tan slacks. You can’t miss him.”

  Not only was the kid inefficient, he must also be new if he couldn’t keep track of the detectives in a town of just over six thousand people. With great effort not to roll her eyes, Jace scanned the tiny figures. At least three of them fit the officer’s scanty description. Resigning herself to figuring out his identity on her own, she began her slow descent over the rough ground. Along the way, she could make out the tell-tale signs of a car’s journey through the area—a broken branch here, a patch of disturbed earth there. The accident had happened at least twelve hours before, and not one of the passing motorists noticed a damn thing.

  Just like every other time.

  “This isn’t like the others,” she said aloud. It couldn’t be, because that would mean the death toll was growing faster than she could catch up.

  Six bodies in six months wasn’t breaking any killing-spree records, but this one grated on her nerves. It seemed like the longer this went on, the less she knew, and the more antsy she got.

  “You must be with the Feds,” a reedy voice said as she avoided a low-branch on a twisted tree.

  “Agent J. C. Douglas. Are you Yancy?”

  The skinny, little man shook his head and jerked a thumb toward the wreckage. “He’s over there. You can’t…”

  “Miss him. I know.”

  Hundreds of thousands of competent policemen in the country, and she had to encounter a force populated by Barney Fife clones.

  “Hey, Ben!” the skinny officer called. “The Fed chick is here.”

  Fed chick? She inhaled one long breath and slowly released it. If this amounted to a wild goose chase, a half-dozen people would get an earful, but she couldn’t say anything to alienate the locals until she knew for sure. Hurt feelings and stepped-on toes would only lose her their cooperation.

  “Ben Yancy,” said a tall man whose dark hair had begun to lean toward salt-and-pepper. “Sorry about the trek down by yourself. I should’ve waited for you on the roadbed, but they needed me here.”

  “I understand.” She didn’t require a babysitter, just a competent workforce to deal with. Looking into his deep blue eyes, she hoped she could trust the intellect she thought she saw there. “Has the coroner removed the body yet?”

  “Well, you see, you’ve hit on our main pr
oblem. And also the reason why you were called in.” He spoke like the idea hadn’t been his, and her involvement was the furthest thing from his desires. Understandable since she didn’t exactly want to be in the flat, scrubby high desert herself.

  Not seeing any reason to dance around the subject, she said, “With no visible evidence of the fire prevalent in my other cases, please, enlighten me.”

  “Epoxy.”

  Her next words shriveled in her throat. Every other crime scene had been scorched by fire, the lack of which led her to believe this didn’t belong to her case. The only other evidence tying the murders together had just dropped out of Yancy’s mouth. She wished he hadn’t said that one word.

  “Glued to the steering wheel?” she managed to ask.

  “And the seat. He wasn’t going anywhere but down, that’s for sure. Hell, the coroner’s fairly certain he’s going to stay down here until we can cut him out of the car.”

  The others had been easy enough to remove, but the fire did the job of releasing the adhesive for them.

  “Why no fire, though?” she asked herself aloud.

  “Gas tank’s empty. Wasn’t that part of your MO, too? Full gas tank? Looks like your killer slipped up this time.”

  Jace thought about what he’d just said, and the reasoning seemed simple. “Where’s the nearest gas station?”

  “Forty miles east, and too damn far west. If you ask me, he either forgot to fill up on his way out, or he thought he could make it before he ran out of gas.”

  Like every other person she’d had to bring up to speed, this guy made guesses that had little bearing on the case. And like every other time, she had to remind herself he didn’t know this like she did. “Or he wasn’t the one in charge.”

  The detective raised his eyebrows at her like she was crazy. They all did when she first talked to them—this case didn’t fill their every waking moment like it did for her. When you knew all the facts, the reasoning became clear. Still, she’d explained the facts to more people than she wanted to remember, and if she didn’t close this case soon, she’d be explaining until her head exploded. One more time wouldn’t light the fuse.

  “He was driving, but he didn’t glue his own hands to the wheel. Someone had to have trapped him in his car somewhere and then forced him to drive out here. Most likely at gunpoint. If the killer didn’t know the territory, it’s possible he didn’t know about the lack of gas stations and drove past the last one without thinking.” Considering how careful this killer had been so far, the scenario didn’t seem likely, but the possibility he’d made a mistake existed. “I’m guessing they ran out of gas on the road above and then the killer pushed the car down the embankment, counting on either the gunshot or the fall to kill his victim.”

  “You know something?” the detective said. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  Not the first time she’d heard the sentiment. She’d heard all the whispered jokes about her appearance. For some reason, this time, she smiled in spite of herself. Hints and whispers she could live without, but bluntness made for a welcome change. “So are you,” she replied with a half-smile.

  He held out one hand to her. “The name’s Ben, by the way. And if I heard correctly you’re Jacey?”

  “Just the initials: Jay. Cee. But everyone calls me Jace.” She nodded toward the cluster of men trying figure out a way to extricate the body before they succumbed to the growing midday heat. “Any timeframe on the equipment to get him out?”

  Covering his eyes with his hand, he glanced toward the roadbed. “Looks like they’re on their way down now. You want to take a look before they pull him out?”

  She nodded. “Any ID?”

  “If he still has his wallet, it’s staying where it’s at for now.” Ben nodded toward the interior. “And there’s nothing in the glove compartment to tell us who this guy is either.”

  “Son of a…” It was her case. Even a copycat wouldn’t know every detail, and from the sounds of it, this murder hit all the details. With the exception of fire, of course.

  “It’s your suspect, isn’t it?” the detective said.

  “I’ll need to send the adhesive back for comparison, but probably.” Ben made a face, and her shields rose. Every time, in every jurisdiction, she encountered locals who didn’t want to hand a case over. “You have my word I will do my best to insure we don’t step on any toes around here, but I’m sure you realize this is now a federal matter.”

  To her surprise, the man laughed. “You must have that written on a card like the Miranda.”

  “Sorry. I’ve just had to say it so much, it probably sounds scripted by now.”

  “Something like that. But don’t worry yourself about me. I could care less if you take the whole damn thing out of our hands. La Junta is nowhere near equipped to deal with this, and I’m nowhere near stupid enough to think they could.”

  Judging from the tension along his jaw from where his teeth clenched and unclenched, he didn’t look like a happy man. And she said so.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m mad as all get out, but not at you. I’d like a chance to catch this asshole myself, and you’re taking that away from me.” In his place, she’d feel the same way, but there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. “Just do me a favor, Jace.”

  “If I can.”

  “Catch him for one of the murders in a death penalty state.” He jerked a thumb toward the cadaver being cut from its tomb. “This bastard’s too sick to rot in jail.”

  #

  Emma’s binoculars fell against her chest, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Shifting her weight from one ass-cheek to another, she settled into a more comfortable position on her chosen tree branch. Far below her, the woman she had expected to see was talking to the sexy cop.

  She wished Agent Douglas had been on the scene after Will’s accident, but she’d been alone as she watched the local cops try to make sense of what seemed to be a senseless accident. As they winched his Mercedes out of the ravine, she lowered herself to the ground and went home. Hours passed before the bodies were identified—before the police arrived to give her the bad news—much needed hours to perfect her grieving widow routine.

  By the time the officers arrived at her door, she had the shocked look down, but in hindsight she felt she could’ve done a better job at weeping. Her old acting teacher would have told her “Louder and with more feeling.” In the end, she needed the shocked look more anyway.

  Especially considering the cop asked if she knew Mr. and Mrs. Sweet.

  To think, they’d actually mistaken that hussy for Will’s wife. Deep inside, she knew the officers were only doing what everyone did—relying on assumptions. After all, no one believed the perfect-husband Will Sweet would lower himself to cheat—not on his lovely wife. And the tramp had been burned beyond recognition. She’d been sorely tempted to let them believe she was dead. If she pretended to be someone else, she could’ve walked away and made a new life for herself.

  But if she did, then the tramp would’ve won. She would’ve been known as Mrs. Will Sweet for all of eternity.

  Instead, Emma played the shocked and wronged widow. She held her head high, while everyone told her how sorry they were. She never let on she knew, and she never allowed anyone to see how long Will’s infidelity had gone on, or how it had eaten at her.

  Now, she had a huge pile of money to use any way she wanted. If she’d let everyone believe she was dead, she never would’ve inherited her husband’s money, or his business, or gotten that lovely check from the insurance company. She would’ve been left without the resources to do what needed to be done.

  So many others deserved Will’s fate.

  Driving back to the site today hadn’t been her plan. After she hitched a ride back to La Junta the day before, she had expected Kyle to sit baking in the sun for days—maybe weeks. She overheard the police talking when she stopped for gas on her way out of town. Some dumb farmer checking his fences found the car she hoped w
ould remain hidden. When she heard about a federal agent on her way—parsed through the bitching about turf—she realized she had to go back. She had to see.

  Lifting the binoculars once more, she watched them cut Kyle from of his car. When the firemen chose to dismember the car rather than the body, her signature pout—the one she wore when she wanted something from Will—etched her mouth. If anyone deserved to be hacked to pieces, it was Kyle Delisky.

  Lying sack of shit that he was.

  The night before, when they neared a service station outside La Junta, Kyle assured her they had plenty of gas. Fine by her. She hadn’t been keen on stopping anyway. When the car chugged to a stop miles later, he laughed at the gun she pointed in his face, and said he’d never been so glad he was too lazy to fix the gas gauge.

  Now you can’t take me anywhere, you crazy bitch. Try lighting me up without gas.

  She never should’ve told him her plans. Then again, he never should’ve made fun of her—he might’ve died quicker.

  One shot stopped his laughter quick enough. Then she got to laugh while his moaning turned to weeping. When she doused his hands and legs with glue, he cried even harder. The scream as she pushed the car over the embankment sounded like music. Almost a year into her mission made pushing this Mercedes so much easier than the last one. Almost easier than the Jaguar she shoved off the road a couple weeks before.

  The fact all of the bastards from her past drove expensive cars just fueled her rage. Each of them so successful? After what they did? They should all be living in squalor. In the end, it didn’t matter, though. She took it all away.

  Money’s awfully hard to spend in Hell.

  The cops dragged her most recent success up the hillside in his own little black bag, and she packed up her things. By the time she walked a hundred yards, a giggle welled up in her throat. The mission had been necessary, but she never dreamed it would be so much fun. Finding the men who hurt her, making them pay, eluding authorities—she’d never felt so alive. And even better, they’d never catch her. Certainly not before she found her next victim, and then the next. Definitely not today. Another mile from the ravine sat her own car, tucked away on a forgotten, ranch road.