“Why do you hate me? I never laid a hand on you.”
Is he serious? “You tortured my mother. Scarred her back, left her to fend for herself with a six-year-old. That’s more than enough reason to hate you.”
“I see your mother has been telling you some tall tales. That scar was an unfortunate accident. We were passionate lovers and that led to some passionate fights. We used to argue a lot. One day she came at me with a frying pan and I threw a coffeepot at her. It still had coffee in it and she got a little burned, that’s all. Married couples fight; it’s happens.”
“You are certifiable!” I shouted, wishing I had a frying pan in my hand. No, the coffeemaker in the corner would be better. It would be symbolic and very satisfying to hit him with his son’s own deathtrap. But there was still one question still unanswered. “What’s your excuse for murdering my stepdad?” I asked, and chuckling, added, “I can’t believe it was because he beat the snot out of you in that bar.”
“He was trying to take you away from me. You have to understand, kitten, when he paid me to give him parental rights, I was high and didn’t understand that it meant I couldn’t be your father anymore.”
“How could you not? Hello? Parental rights, legal adoption, they’re pretty self-explanatory.”
“I know that,” he retorted. “Don’t be so patronizing.”
“You make it easy for me,” I rebounded, feeling cheeky. If I was forced to die alone with him, I was going to make his last few hours a living hell. Maybe I’m more like him than I thought?
“Like I said, I was high. I had just smoked crack and didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You make it sound like it was Jerry’s fault you were stoned. We’re going to die soon and I want to know, were you also high when you killed him with that elaborate trap? Did you know that Henry would be with him?”
“Yes to both questions. You see, when I’m high, I’m a thousand times smarter, or so I used to believe. For the record, I don’t believe that anymore. I’ve been clean and sober for a while now. Anyway, I knew if I put that smiley face down after the first fire, Jerry would be too stupid to figure it out on his own. And who else would he call but his old buddy, Henry. The guy who wanted to be your godfather. The guy who ganged up with him to try and kill me at that bar.”
“The way I heard it, you attacked Jerry and he was just defending himself.”
“Yes, well, they’d tell you that, wouldn’t they? Sounds so much better than they attacked and nearly beat me to death.”
“Oh, Mom told me you were pretty banged up, but she also said Henry intervened and stopped the fight.”
“That’s not the way it happened,” he argued.
“Listen, save your breath. I will never believe anything you say, over my mother. So just forget it.”
“You’re probably right. Just remember that there’s two sides to every story.”
“I know two sides of you, Patrick. The loving father who played with me as a child, bouncing me on his knee. I still remember that, but you killed that man long ago. That’s what you do. You murder the good inside of people, and when that isn’t enough to satisfy your lust for vengeance, you murder good people like my stepdad.”
“And you use emotion to justify your lies. We’re more alike than not, you and me.” I heard him inhale as if making a decision. “Tell me that you trust me. That you forgive me for leaving you, and we’ll make a fresh start.”
“You are as crazy as your son!” I screamed, my hands curling into fists. If only I could reach him.
“Paul isn’t crazy. Misguided, perhaps, but not crazy.”
“Paul?” A chill ran down my spine as my mouth went dry. My stomach churned as I asked, “Paul Mason, the probie at the fire station?”
“Yes, but his name is really Patrick Sanders, Junior. He’s something, isn’t he? The way he fooled all of you.”
“Yeah, the way he lured you in here and cracked open your head. That was something all right.”
The young probie so eager to have me sign his book. What a fool I was. He’d been there all along, plotting and manipulating. Getting close to me, getting close to Jordy.
“I admit, that was a surprise. But after he torches the Stringfellow Firehouse, he’ll come back for me.”
My breath unexpectedly retreated back inside my lungs, and I gasped for air. “He’s going to set fire to the station?”
“Yep, just as soon as Jordy returns.”
“No! All those people.” Oh, God, Jordy!
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jordyn Stringfellow
My skin crawled in such a way that I felt almost disembodied, as if I were standing outside myself and watching the panic well up from the very depth of my being. Blood? It had to be Robbie’s because no one else had worn my helmet. “Oh, my, God, Robbie!” I pulled my cell phone out and called her, cursing when she didn’t answer it. I left a message begging her to call me back, realizing after I hung up that I probably sounded like a desperate jilted lover. “Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe!” I shouted, running back into the station carrying my helmet.
“Jordy!” he shouted, running toward me. “There’s another video on the news.”
“I don’t care, I think Robbie’s been—”
“It’s about Robbie. She’s been abducted.”
I stared at him, not quite comprehending his words, yet knowing in my gut that it was true. “Show me,” I said without waiting for him to lead me back to his office. The television was on and several people were gathered around it. Luckily, most of them were out at a grass fire or I probably wouldn’t have been able to get through.
“Make a hole!” Uncle Joe demanded.
I didn’t wait, I elbowed my way through them and stood in front of the television mounted on the wall. Everyone was mumbling and I couldn’t hear what the newscaster was saying. “Turn it up, damn it,” I demanded, gasping when I saw Robbie’s tear-stained face.
“This video may be disturbing to watch,” the reporter warned just before they cut to Robbie.
“Um, okay. Dear Fire Station 61, aka the Stringfellow Firehouse.” Jump cut. “The brilliant artist who created the Homeless on the Range fire has asked me to inform you that I will be dead in…” Robbie put her fingers to her lips, her eyes blurred with tears. “Um, I, um… I will be dead in forty-eight hours and there’s nothing you can do about it.” The camera cut to a white plastic bottle. Robbie’s voice continued, “What you see being placed on the floor is chlorine. As any good arson investigator would know, chlorine and brake fluid make an…” The video followed the kidnapper as he walked in a circle around Robbie and knelt every few steps, pouring the chlorine on the floor. A mechanical, obviously altered voice said, “Explosive combination.” The camera followed a gloved hand as it reached into a bag and pulled out a coffeemaker and then a bottle of brake fluid and a timer. There were some jerky movements, then the camera came back to Robbie’s terrified face.
“Do not risk sending anyone in here, it’s a death trap,” Robbie continued. “So, this is it for me. Jordy,” she said, her voice cracking. “Tell my mother that I love her and… No, damn it! I won’t finish this, you heartless bastard! I won’t hurt her like that.”
More jerky movements and suddenly a gloved hand struck Robbie across the face. I balled my fist up, ready to hit that son of a bitch, but then I winced as a trickle of blood oozed out of her split lip. The camera cut again, this time panning down her body to her legs chained to concrete blocks. “Oh, shit,” I stated, trying to do the math on how heavy four concrete blocks would be. The video ended with a close-up of the timer counting down.
“Where is she? Could you see where she was?” Uncle Joe asked.
“I couldn’t tell, the video is too grainy,” I replied, yanking my cell phone from my pocket and tapping on Rosie’s number. “Rosie, new video from the arsonist. He’s kidnapped Robbie and she has less than forty-eight hours. This is top priority, Rosie. Yes, I’ll be here at the station. Hurry, please.”
&nb
sp; “Maybe I should call in some help on this one?” Uncle Joe asked uncertainly.
“Call in whoever you want, especially the FBI. We can use all the help we can get. But I’m not waiting around on them, Uncle Joe. I am fucking pissed and can’t sit around doing nothing,” I replied, already halfway out the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked, picking up his desk phone.
“I’m going to Rosie’s office so that I’m there the second she has something.”
“What about your mother?” Uncle Joe asked, still holding the phone handset.
“Damn it,” I barked, and turned back to him. “I forgot about her. I’ll call her on the way to Rosa’s office.”
“Listen, don’t worry about it. Station 43 is taking our calls at ten and will handle things until after the funeral. I’ll go pick up your mother, plus I’ll find someone else to fill in as pallbearer.”
The three people standing in the office with us shot their hands up.
“I’ll do it, Chief.”
“Me, too.”
“Happy to fill in for her, Chief.”
“Thanks, guys,” I said, and dashed out the door.
Rosa’s office was across town at the main police headquarters. The police had several techs who could do what Rosa did, but Rosa was the best, and I wouldn’t use anyone else. Not only could she scrub a video and find what someone didn’t want found, but she could pull the audio and isolate sounds and trace ghosts back to specific computers, like my laptop. I met Rosa when I was interning, and we hit it off instantly. Even had a fling for a couple of weeks that not only provided some stimulating sex, but introduced me to her clique of computer geek friends. Most of their conversations were over my head, but they were a lively bunch. They hooked up my entertainment system for me at my house. Surround in every room, even the bathroom. Can’t beat that.
Even with my siren blaring and the lights flashing, it took me twenty minutes to get through traffic. Parking illegally in front of the building, I put my placard with my credentials on the dashboard so that I wouldn’t be ticketed. Then I ran up the steps and into the police station. Rosa’s cubical was on the third floor with several other computer forensic specialists. I bypassed the elevator and ran up the stairs three at a time. I hadn’t been back to her cubical since my intern days and was surprised by how everything had changed. I had to ask someone where I could find her. They said she was in the computer lab and pointed toward a glass-encased room with monitors hanging from the walls. Black chrome drafting stools sat in front of computer stations. Robbie’s terrified face was on one of the monitors hanging from the wall, and I knew exactly where Rosa was at.
“Hey, I thought you said you’d be at the station,” Rosa said.
“I got antsy,” I replied, staring up at the monitor.
She chuckled. “Why am I not surprised by that?”
“I see you found the video. Anything you can show me?”
“I’m still decompressing the raw footage, but I can show you what I’ve got so far.” Rosa switched to another monitor and clicked on a video icon in a folder. “This won’t be easy to watch, Jordy,” she warned as the video started playing.
There was a lot of jerky camera movement, as if someone was busy doing other things. It finally settled on Robbie’s face and my eyes welled up at the terror I saw there.
“Like the last video, this one was shot on an iPhone using 4k quality,” Rosa explained technically, but I was only half listening.
“Oh. My. God. You’re crazy,” Robbie said.
Suddenly the camera jerked forward and then to the left and dipped as a gloved hand hit her across the face.
“Bastard!” I screamed at the monitor, drawing the attention of others in the room. Firefighter gloves were thick and durable, made to withstand heat and fire. Even with an open hand slap like that, Robbie would be scratched and bruised.
“Now, as I was saying, you are my sister,” the voice off screen said.
“No, you’re wrong. I know for a fact that I am my mother’s only child,” Robbie muttered, rubbing her cheek.
“Yeah, Daddy said that you would say that.”
“And Momma said there’d be days like this.” Robbie covered her head as if he were about to hit her again and I gritted my teeth. “No, don’t, please.”
“You need to understand something from the start, big sister. You may be my father’s daughter, and my half-sister, but you don’t mean Jack shit to me, got it?”
“Robbie and this guy share the same father?” I asked, glancing at Rosa as if she had all the answers. She didn’t and only shrugged at my question.
“So, are you my half-brother or sister?” Robbie asked, the camera swaying slightly.
“Nice try, Sis, but I didn’t go to all this trouble to make it easy for you. Besides, you are a means to an end, well, actually, two ends. Our father and my revenge.”
“His revenge? Against who, Robbie?” I voiced my thoughts, trying to unravel the mystery. It wasn’t working.
“Are you talking about my biological father, Patrick? Patrick Sanders?”
“Yeah, our biological father.”
“So, is your last name Sanders, too?”
“No, it’s not and I’m not going to tell you my life story so it can end up in your book. I’m not some dumb cop looking for his fifteen minutes of fame.”
“I’m writing a new book about firefighters this time. I would love to feature you in it.”
“Very good, Robbie, appeal to his vanity, keep him talking,” I said, watching her eyes, willing my strength into her.
“No, thanks. I won’t be here that long,” he said and the camera moved forward, closer to Robbie. “Smile for the camera, Sis.”
“And if I don’t feel like it?”
Suddenly the camera jerked and I heard Robbie gasp. When it settled on her face again, there was a trickle of blood on her lip and her hand visibly shook as she felt the cut, grimacing at the pain. My own hands trembled with rage and I gritted my teeth even harder to keep from hitting something. I had never felt so completely ineffectual in my life and it was breaking my heart not to be able to protect her. What if I couldn’t get to her in time? What if I never had another chance to speak to her, listen to her laugh or call me a jerk? What if I never had the chance to admit to her that I loved it when she called me a jerk? What if I was never able to touch her again?
The video stopped and Robbie’s tortured face froze on the screen, as Rosa paused the video.
I jerked around and looked at Rosa. “Why did you stop the video?”
“That’s all that’s been converted so far. Give me a few more minutes to decrypt the rest.”
“God, this is agony,” I exclaimed, pacing in front of the monitor. “Okay, what we saw on the news was out of context,” I said, comparing the two videos. “We know it was edited, but how fast can someone edit something like this?” I was asking myself, but Rosa answered.
“Fifteen, twenty minutes, probably if he’s good at it. He trimmed off the parts he didn’t want, using the iPhone, then downloaded it to his desktop and probably used any one of a thousand video editing programs available.”
“You can tell that it was edited on the phone? That’s really cool,” I said, trying to be patient and distract myself.
“Yes, and if I had his computer, I could impress you with even more technobabble,” she chuckled, tapping on a few keys on her keyboard. “Okay, the section of what he uploaded is ready to view without the editing. I haven’t seen this part yet, Jordy, so, um, I don’t know what to expect.”
I nodded, not taking my eyes off the screen. A part of me didn’t want to watch the torture anymore, but I knew I had to. I had to bear witness so that I could be there for her, emotionally and spiritually. Yeah, I knew that probably didn’t make much sense, but since I couldn’t trade places with her, this was the only way I could be with her.
Robbie’s face appeared on the monitor again and I found comfort in that. Her eyes were
darting up and down, as if she were being instructed on what to do. Then the camera tilted and showed that she was holding a piece of paper.
“Um, okay. Dear Fire Station 61, aka the Stringfellow Firehouse…” She paused and looked behind the camera, I assumed at her captor. “Jordy never told me the station was named for her father.”
I honestly didn’t think of it. As proud as I am of my father and that station, I don’t go around bragging about it.
“Maybe she’s ashamed of the fact that the station is named for a coward.”
“That’s bullshit!” I yelled at the monitor.
“He was not a coward. How can you say that?”
“That bastard and his friends ganged up on our father, almost killing him.”
Robbie pursed her lips and her eyes blinked, as if to talk herself out of saying something. “Is that why you’re doing this? Are you the one who killed my stepfather?”
“I wish, but no, and I’m through answering your questions. Get back to reading,” the voice demanded off camera.
“The brilliant artist who created the Homeless on the Range fire has asked me to inform you that I will be dead in…”
“Ah, now you’re starting to understand. Keep reading.”
Robbie was trembling, her eyes filling with tears. The camera moved closer and she recoiled. I balled my hands into fists, my fingernails digging into my palms.
“Um, I, um… I will be dead in forty-eight hours and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Robbie was watching something in front of her, and the camera swayed around as if the person was preoccupied with something else.
“Keep reading,” the kidnapper said, as the camera pointed at the floor.
“What you see being place on the floor is chlorine. As any good arson investigator would know, chlorine and brake fluid make an…”
“An explosion,” I said halfheartedly, moving closer to the monitor.
The camera walked in a circle around Robbie, and I could see a close-up of the concrete blocks on Robbie’s legs. My stomach twisted in a knot. There was no way that petite woman, as in shape and athletic as she was, could drag four blocks by herself. She was not meant to survive.
Cause to Burn Page 23
