Carefully she reached out with the poker, hooked the case containing the dagger, and pulled it toward her, which caused the cases in front of it to fall off the mantel like dominoes. She winced as one of them flew open, sending a pair of dueling pistols tumbling out. Dropping the poker, she took the flat case, sat on the edge of the bed, and opened it.
She lifted the sheathed dagger and immediately flinched and dropped it. Flames filled her vision, leaping up all around her, searing her flesh.
Gasping, she stared at the weapon on the floor by her feet. It looked as it always had, with its carved horn hilt and velvet scabbard ornately mounted with steel. Leaning down, she gingerly touched it again, reminding herself that the flames weren’t real; they couldn’t hurt her.
She saw them again, leaping and dancing all around her. She felt their heat—and something else. A presence, a human presence, but one devoid of human warmth. She sensed a profoundly arrogant man, one who felt himself to be the center of all things—a higher life-form unfettered by the rules that applied to everyone else.
Aside from Jamie, the only person who had touched this dagger within the last few months was Alden. He told her he’d used it to open letters.
Summoning all her mental strength—the flames aren’t real, the flames aren’t real—she picked up the dagger and unsheathed it, wrapping her hand around the slender, gold-inlaid blade as she closed her eyes.
The flames subsided, and now she shivered as the icily arrogant presence settled around her. Her ears were filled with a sinister humming, like a thousand wasps droning inside a nest. The sound took form, coalescing into words, as if someone were hissing in to her ear...
My matchbook is whispering to me.
“Alden?” she murmured in bewilderment.
She heard his quiet laughter... private laughter, as if at some wonderful joke only he deserved to enjoy.
Something burns this week. And the next... and the next...
No. It was impossible. This was just some stress-induced delusion, not a true psychic reading, Alden wasn’t the Firefly. He couldn’t be. What possible reason would he have for burning down buildings in Mansfield?
An image took shape in her mind’s eye—an old brick building. It was night, and she could barely make it out, but she knew with absolute certainty that it was the Lorillard Press warehouse. Even before the darkened windows erupted in flame, even before the fire swept through the building, consuming it in a hellish inferno, she knew that this was to be the final, devastating blaze that all the others had merely been leading up to. This was the one that would light up the night sky, the one they’d see in outer space.
The last fire. The one that would solve all his problems, the one that would free him of the financial albatross of Lorillard Press and enable him to retire in style... as long as he didn’t get caught. Any loose ends would have to be eliminated. Any incriminating evidence could be consumed in the final fire... as could any potential witnesses, anyone who might be able to point the finger at him. Just get them to the warehouse, tie them up...
“Oh, God,” India moaned. Alden had tried to lure her to the warehouse tonight. Her powers made her a threat to him, and he meant to... to eliminate her. To let her burn up in the warehouse. Tonight.
But Jamie had gone in her place.
“Jamie,” she whispered. He was in danger, terrible danger. Alden meant to incinerate the warehouse tonight, she was sure—and any “loose ends” along with it.
The phone was out of reach on the other side of the bed. Taking up the poker again, she found she could barely touch it to the handset cord, dangling off the side of the night table. With a grunt, she stretched forward just enough to snag the cord with the hook. “Gotcha!” She pulled, and the receiver tumbled out of its cradle and fell onto the bed.
She furiously punched out 911, drawing a shaky breath as a female voice asked her what her emergency was.
“There’s a... a police officer who’s in trouble. Please. You’ve got to help him. Send someone—”
“Are you with this police officer now, ma’am?”
“No. No, I’m—”
“Then how do you know he’s in trouble?”
“I’m a psychic,” India blurted out. From the ensuing silence, she gathered this revelation had been a serious error. “Please. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Ma’am...”
“Please. I know it sounds crazy, but—”
“This number exists for genuine emergencies, ma’am.”
“This is not a crank call!” India insisted. “Please!”
“If a police officer needed assistance, he’d radio the department,” the woman scolded. “Please don’t use this number in the future, except in the case of an emergency.”
Click.
India aimed the receiver to throw it, then thought better of it and dialed information for Sam Garrett’s number.
“That number is unlisted,” announced a voice that sounded eerily like the 911 woman.
“Bitch,” India snapped.
“What?”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, and hurled the receiver across the room. As she stared at it, lying in the corner, the idea came to her that she could call the police department directly. She grabbed the poker again, but was unable to retrieve the phone from where she’d thrown it. “Brilliant,” she muttered. “Just freakin’ brilliant.”
She yanked ineffectually at the handcuff for a while, then took the dagger and jammed its tip into the little keyhole, knowing even as she did it how futile it was to try to use such a crude instrument for such a delicate job.
“Please...” she moaned as she frantically wriggled the blade in the lock. “Oh, please...”
Chapter Ten
* * *
JAMIE STOOD IN the darkened parking lot of Lorillard Press and knocked on the door of the windowless brick warehouse. “Alden?” He knocked again. No answer. Turning the knob, he found the door unlocked. He opened it slowly; the interior was pitch-black and eerily silent. It had that smell old buildings acquire over the years, that faint, deeply ingrained mustiness. A wave of apprehension crawled over him.
Something’s wrong.
He felt on the wall until he found a light switch, which he flipped, igniting dozens of bulbs dangling by wires from the exposed beams that crisscrossed the high ceiling. The warehouse was all one cavernous room filled with row after row of tall steel bookcases stacked with shrink-wrapped volumes and cardboard boxes. “Alden?” Still no answer.
Yes, something definitely felt wrong here. Maybe he should listen to his mental warnings and call for backup.
He shook his head. Yeah, right. Mental warnings... as in blue sense? There was no such thing. Nothing was wrong; he was just keyed up. Nevertheless, he unbuttoned his trench coat and jacket to give him better access to his gun, should he need it.
He stepped inside, stopping in his tracks at a sound from somewhere at the rear of the huge room. Holding his breath, he listened for a few more seconds. There it was again, a faint shuffling sound. Drawing his weapon, he silently negotiated his way through the maze of steel shelving, flattening his back to it when he reached the end of a long row perpendicular to the back wall. Whatever was making that noise was right around the corner.
Jamie took a deep breath and let it out. Now.
He swung around the corner, aiming low at the dark form on the wooden floor. A person. Tommy Finn.
Bound and gagged.
“What the hell...”
Tommy struggled against the ropes lashing him to the shelving, straining to talk despite the swath of electrical tape over his mouth. He emitted muffled sounds of distress, his eyes wild.
“Easy,” Jamie said. Reholstering his gun, he squatted down and reached for the tape, but the young man shook his head frantically. “Take it easy.”
Tommy’s eyes, wide with alarm, shifted to look over Jamie’s shoulder.
Keegan, you idiot! Jamie reached for his gun, knowing even before the blow cam
e from behind, filling his skull with blinding pain, that he’d blown it. Bad.
His last thought as he slipped into unconsciousness, facedown on the floor, was that India had been right all along. He should always listen to his blue sense.
* * *
INDIA SCREAMED IN frustration as she hurled the useless dagger across the room. With a helpless sob, she yanked again on the handcuff, hard, this time drawing blood. Grabbing the spindle it was shackled to, she pulled on it, but it didn’t budge. She hammered the headboard with her fists, then collapsed against it, tears stinging her eyes.
No. No crying. Think. Think!
Opening her eyes, she examined the headboard, studying the way the spindles were set into the wood at the top and bottom. If only she had a crowbar....
Grabbing the poker and holding it steady with both hands, she jammed its pointed, curved tip into the little gap between the bottom of the spindle she was handcuffed to and the bedframe. She twisted, and heard a faint creak. She twisted again; the gap widened, and she forced the tip in farther. For long minutes she worked this way, prying away at the loosening juncture, until at long last she heard the blessed crack of splitting wood.
* * *
SENSATION CREPT BACK into James Keegan’s consciousness in the form of a smell—the distinctive, all-too-familiar smell of kerosene.
He opened his eyes and found himself lying on his side on the floor of the warehouse, staring at two large metal cans set against the back wall, about ten feet away. One of them had a smear of blood on the bottom edge. From somewhere in the labyrinth of shelves he heard splashing, accompanied by whistling—The 1812 overture. He tried to rise, which made the back of his head pulse with pain, and called his attention to the fact that he was tied up.
Congratulations, Keegan. You really aced it this time.
He took a moment to assess his situation. His hands were bound behind him. When he tried to move them, he found that they’d been secured to the corner strut of the bookcase in back of him. His ankles were tied together, too, but apparently his ankle holster hadn’t been detected; he could sense the weight of his snub-nosed Colt .38 against his leg. His shoulder holster felt empty, though.
With considerable effort, he hauled himself into a sitting position, leaning against the strut. The back of his head throbbed, and he felt warm rivulets of blood trickling from the open wound there. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the pain to fade, then turned and looked around the corner. Tommy was still there, bound and gagged. “Hi,” he said lamely.
Tommy nodded.
Jamie indicated the bloodstained kerosene can with a tilt of his head. “Is that what I got coldcocked with?”
Tommy nodded again.
Jamie wriggled his hands, testing the ropes that held him; they were very tight. He inspected the shelving. Each strut was bolted securely to the wooden floor.
He turned toward Tommy again. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”
Tommy shook his head.
Jamie said, “Guess I had it all wrong about you, huh?”
Tommy rolled his eyes.
“Sorry, man. India told me. She knew. She... she senses things.” He shook his head. “I had my reasons for not believing her,” he murmured, more to himself than to Tommy. “I guess they weren’t very good ones.”
Tommy gave him a thoughtful look and nodded.
“Oh, I’m so glad you two have patched things up.” Jamie turned to see Alden Lorillard setting down an empty kerosene can. “A pity it’s going to be such a brief friendship.” He wore a tweed sport coat over a tan cashmere turtleneck, and Jamie was struck by the idiotic thought that this was what the well-dressed businessman wore to burn down his warehouse.
And the people inside it.
Alden opened the sport coat and withdrew Jamie’s 9 mm Sig-Sauer from the waistband of his pleated charcoal trousers. “A most impressive weapon, Lieutenant. I should get one of these for target shooting.” A wave of shame engulfed Jamie. Not once in his entire career had he let his weapon fall into the hands of a perpetrator—until now.
The perpetrator in question racked the slide on the big blue steel auto, squatted down, and placed the barrel firmly against Jamie’s temple. “I’ve never been very patient with uninvited guests, so I suggest you answer my questions quickly and with a minimum of prevarication. Should you do otherwise, I think you’d find the consequences most distressing. Can I speak plainly?”
“I doubt it.”
Alden smiled slowly, his thin lips pressing together into something that looked like a really bad paper cut. Transferring the gun to his other hand, he whipped the steel grip across Jamie’s forehead with surprising strength.
Blinding pain detonated behind his eyes. His vision filled with bursts of light, and his senses whirled drunkenly. He felt his hair being grabbed and his head being yanked up. Opening his eyes, he found Alden’s face about six inches from his.
“Where’s India?” Alden demanded grimly.
Jamie forced a smile. “Just a stone’s throw from Sri Lanka. You can’t miss it.”
Alden raised the pistol and brought it down on Jamie’s head with savage force. His head exploded with red-hot pain. A second blow caught him in the nose; he heard the crunch of cartilage, and his head lolled forward. He felt the gun barrel beneath his chin, lifting it up and digging into his throat.
Jamie opened his eyes to find that one was swollen almost shut. Grimacing, Alden jammed the barrel hard into his windpipe. “Where the hell is she?”
“Piss off,” Jamie rasped, bracing himself for a few more cracks with the pistol grip.
Instead, Alden studied him at length, his expression transforming from furious to knowing. “She’s at the house, isn’t she? How did you keep her from coming here?”
I handcuffed her to her bed. She’ll be completely at your mercy when you walk in and aim my gun at her. His expression carefully neutral, Jamie said, “She doesn’t know anything about your involvement in the fires, Alden. She’s no threat to you.”
That humorless smile sliced across Alden’s face again. Rising, he tucked the Sig-Sauer back into his trousers. “I don’t leave loose ends, Lieutenant. I’ll have to take care of her as soon as I’m done here. Should be a simple matter to make it look like young Tommy’s handiwork.”
Stall him, Jamie ordered himself as Alden unscrewed a fresh can of kerosene and began pouring it onto the floor between the rows of shelving. Don’t let him get to India! “I take it this is an insurance scam.” He flexed his hands in a desperate attempt to loosen the ropes.
Alden smirked. “Brilliant deduction, Lieutenant.”
“And the other fires were a setup. So that when your own business got torched, the insurance company would think it was just the Firefly’s latest escapade, and pay up.”
“Oh, you are bright,” Alden drawled as he spilled the kerosene in neat, intersecting paths. “You would have made a splendid replacement for Captain Garrett, if only you could have lived that long.”
“Did you kill Darrell Finn?”
“You’re the one with all the clever answers. What do you think?”
“I think you did. Mind telling me why?”
From behind some shelving, Alden said, “This is beginning to sound rather tiresomely like an interrogation, Lieutenant. I don’t think you quite appreciate your position here.”
“It can hardly have escaped me. I just thought you might be gentleman enough to satisfy my curiosity before you light the match.” Jamie thought he saw a flash of movement in the stacks off to his right. Or was that just his overstressed mind playing tricks on him? “Did Darrell find out that you set those fires? Is that why you killed him?”
“Ah. So you’re not so clever, after all.” Alden chuckled. “It was Darrell who set those fires—for twenty thousand dollars. Or rather, the promise of twenty thousand dollars. As it turns out, all he cost me was the price of two bullets. Does that answer your question?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jam
ie saw it again—a flutter of movement, something—someone—ducking behind the row of shelves to which he was bound. There was the glimmer of metal—handcuffs dangling from a wrist.
India! She got free! He closed his eyes for a moment—No. Please, India... Get out! Now!—then forced his gaze back to Alden. Keep him talking. Act normal. Normal? What was normal about this situation? “Did you send the notes, or did Darrell?”
“Are you kidding? Every member of that family is functionally illiterate. I could never have trusted Darrell with that side of things.” Clearly warming to the subject, Alden shook the last of the kerosene out of that can and traded it for a full one. “Which is not to say he didn’t possess a certain measure of native cleverness. It was his idea to point the finger at Tommy by planting misleading evidence—his wallet and those magazines. Of course, his motivation was rather petty. I gather he was jealous over Tommy’s interest in that trampy little wife of his.”
Jamie heard thumping and turned to see Tommy thrashing against his bonds, his eyes glittering with fury. “Easy,” Jamie murmured.
Alden snickered at Tommy’s impotent outburst. “So reassuring to know that chivalry’s alive and well in Mansfield... although perhaps not for long.” He continued methodically dousing the floor.
Jamie felt cool fingers wrap around his, and he sucked in his breath. India was right behind him, reaching between the cartons on the bottom shelf to touch him. He wanted to scream at her, to order her away. Don’t you see what this madman is planning? This place will go up like a bomb when he lights that kerosene. Get out of here! Forget about me!
India couldn’t see Jamie’s hands, but she could feel them, through the gap between the cartons that shielded her from Alden’s view. His fingers tightened around hers as his desperate pleas bombarded her mind.
Bodyguards Boxed Set Page 126
