Close To The Fire

by Suzanne Ferrell

  “Chief Reynolds,” Kent said, extending his hand. “Heard you’re helping the sheriff with the football team this year. How are things coming along?”

  Of course he had. The man’s son was the star quarterback.

  He shook the other man’s hand. “Sort of got roped into it, but the team seems to be finding its mark.”

  “Good. Think we’ll take the state title this year?” the man said with a slight narrowing of his eyes.

  In other words, do you think my son will get a scholarship and offers from major universities this year?

  “You never know. We’re planning to give it our all.”

  In other words, I’m not making you any promises.

  “Good. I’ll be looking for the first game.”

  My son better be the starting quarterback again this year.

  “Looking forward to it.”

  He will if he earns it.

  They stared at each other a moment longer than necessary, then the other man, realizing Deke wasn’t the least bit intimidated, broke eye contact, turning back to Libby. “You’ll have your deposition next week, then?”

  She nodded, glancing at Ashley a moment. “We’ll get with your office to set that up.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ashley said, quickly focusing on her computer.

  “Good. I’ll see you then.”

  And with that, the room seemed cooler. Probably because all the hot air had left with the district attorney. Deke glanced at Libby’s face, her lips pressed together in a thin line and her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Maybe the temperature drop had something to do with the pissed-off woman and not the loss of the other man.

  “Did you need something, Chief Reynolds?” she asked.

  Ouch. Cool and uber-professional. Not a good sign.

  “I wanted to talk with you,” he said, glancing at Ashley, who seemed to be paying acute attention to the two of them, despite her fingers flying over the keyboard. “It’s about one of your clients.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She blinked, her face softening in confusion. Obviously she’d thought he’d come to continue their conversation from last night.

  He meant to do just that, but later, in a more private venue.

  “Can we go in your office?” he asked when she hadn’t made a move.

  “Of course.” She opened the door, then looked at her secretary. “Ashley, hold any calls for a while, okay?”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Libby rolled her eyes and shook her head at the casual comment as she walked into her office. He followed her inside. It wasn’t your typical county office. Unlike the outer office that held hard, plastic, uncomfortable-looking chairs, there was an overstuffed loveseat near the window. Bookshelves lined one wall, and the filing cabinet had several small, very-healthy-looking plants—obviously Ashley’s green thumb had trickled into Libby’s space. On the walls hung pictures of children, some with Libby in them. Probably some of her happier clients. The office chair behind the desk was leather and plush. The large desk had a neat stack of files, a computer and a jar of colorful hard-shelled candies. He took one of the two large, cotton-covered wingback chairs that faced her desk.

  “I suppose this is about Kyle again,” she said, already thumbing through her files and pulling out the thinnest one. “I told you last night that everything in here, what there is, is confidential. I’m really not at liberty to discuss it with you.”

  He sat back and lifted one leg to rest his ankle on his knee. “After an incident that happened during this morning’s practice, I thought I might have some information for you to add to your file, or what’s in there could confirm my suspicions.”

  “Really?” She tilted her head like she always did when something had her curiosity. “What happened?”

  He relayed the incident in the locker room to her. “Which made me think somewhere along the line the kid’s been abused…” Uncomfortable with the subject, he paused to swallow. “Um, possibly sexually.”

  Her shoulders had gone rigid and her mouth pinched. She was as angry as he’d been when he first comprehended what the exchange between him and the teen had meant. She opened the file and studied it a moment.

  “Quite honestly, there’s not a whole lot of background on Kyle in this file. What the state sent to me and to Colbert House was sketchy, his records sealed.”

  “Like a juvenile delinquent? I thought that would only happen with a kid who had committed some heinous act as a kid.”

  “That’s the most common reason to seal someone’s records. Sometimes, it’s to protect them from unfair prejudice.”

  He thought about it a moment. “Could it be done to protect them from an abusive parent finding them?”

  She nodded. “It could, but not in this case.”

  It was his turn to be surprised. “Why not?”

  She exhaled slowly. “I can’t tell you details, but it will be common knowledge as soon as the first day of school anyway. Kyle is an orphan, a ward of the state. Has been since he was seven.”

  Slightly stunned, Deke leaned back in the chair, idly rubbing his jaw. “Poor kid. There was no family to step up and take him?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me how his parents died?”

  “That’s one of the odd parts of his case.”

  “What is? How his parents died?”

  “Not exactly.” She hesitated as if deliberating on how much she could share with him. “The cause of his parents’ deaths is part of what’s sealed.”

  And didn’t that open up a whole can of what-ifs?

  “I can’t believe Kyle had anything to do with it.” He’d like to think he could read people, especially the kids on his team. And between the conversations he’d had with Kyle before today and the frank fear he’d seen in the kid this morning, he was even more positive he wasn’t behind what had happened to his folks.

  “I can’t, either.” She tapped a finger on the file.

  He’d seen her do this many times over the years when she was weighing a decision. This time she seemed to be thinking about how much she could tell him. One thing he’d always loved about Libby, she’d follow the rules as long as they made sense to her.

  Waiting patiently to give her time to come to her decision he studied the woman she’d become over the past ten years. Her hair was the same pale shade of blonde, but around her eyes there was one or two fine lines near the corners. She’d lost weight. Nothing shocking to indicate an illness or depression to the average observer, but to someone who’d know her body as intimately as he had, the small signs were visible. Her fingers, while always long, had a more delicate look. The line of her jaw a bit more sculpted. The hollow of her neck slightly more pronounced—just enough to allow him to watch the bouncing of her pulse just to the left.

  Memories of kissing down that long column of her creamy neck to that exact spot hit him hard. She’d always arched her neck, pressing her breasts up into his chest, moaning softly as he suckled on her skin and traced her pulse with his tongue. Usually he’d be buried deep inside her at the time.

  “If you believe Kyle has a history of being sexually assaulted it would explain one thing,” she said, her voice drawing him out of his erotic memory.

  Clearing his throat, he adjusted his seat against the sudden tightness of his jeans. “I’m no expert, but I can’t figure out any better explanation for the kid’s sudden fight-or-flight response to my actions, which I can assure you were in no way threatening.”

  “Oh, I believe you, Deacon,” she said with a hint of her smile. “You would never take advantage of someone under your protection like one of the boys on your football team. No, what I meant was, it sheds light on one of the mysteries about Kyle.”

  “Mystery?”

  “Yes, the reason given for him being moved around so much. While the details of his past have been sealed, the chronology of his life since coming into the system is rather lengthy.” She took a sheet of paper from Kyle�
��s file and handed it to him. “As you can see, since being placed in the state’s custody, he’s traveled around quite extensively, never staying in any one home more than a year. Some no more than a few months.”

  She was right. According to the paper she’d given him, in the nine years since Kyle had been a ward of the state, he’d been in no less than twelve homes, including his new lodgings at Colbert House.

  “Why would the state move him around so much?” he asked, handing her back the paper. “It makes no sense. Do they give any reason for placing him in so many foster homes? Is he a troublemaker?”

  She lifted another page of the file. “All that is stated here is that he has a tendency to run away from every place they tried to house him.”

  “Why didn’t they do anything about the people abusing him?” Anger for the young child placed in such peril ate at him.

  “The state takes complaints of abuse and neglect in the foster homes very seriously. It’s one of the things I have to look for every time I visit one of my kids.” With a sigh, she closed the file. “If he was molested at a young age, he might’ve been too frightened to say anything.”

  He nodded. “Afraid that the punishment might be worse.”

  “Exactly. He might’ve even been threatened with worse if he told anyone. His natural instinct to protect himself would be to flee any situation that felt menacing. And thus the pattern of running to save himself is reinforced each time.”

  “He certainly had that look on his face this morning when I told him to change clothes, his eyes measuring the distance between me and the door.” His stomach churned once more with anger that a young man should feel that threatened by a simple act of kindness. An idea hit him. “Do you suppose he could’ve been assaulted by one of his parents? Could that be why his past and all mention of his parents’ deaths have been sealed?”

  She shrugged, frustration apparent in her eyes. “I have no idea and I’m bound by my job and the courts not to try and have them opened.”

  “Where was his first foster home?”

  She looked in the file once more. “Near Massillon. Why?”

  “You’re under obligation to pursue no further investigation, but I’m not.”

  “How will you get around the court order to keep his past hidden?” she asked, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward, her eyes alight with such curiosity she reminded him of the young woman he’d once called his.

  “There are lots of sources open to someone doing a discreet inquiry these days. The internet, for one. Plus, I still have a few contacts in the area who might be able to look up some records for us.” Massillon was a moderate-sized city almost an hour and a half due north of Westen, which butted up next to Canton, where one of his old station mates ran his own fire division.

  “Yes, other firefighters.” The light in her eyes dimmed as the specter of Bill entered the room between them once more.

  “Libby,” he said softly, laying his hand over hers where it lay on Kyle’s file. Their eyes met, hers bright with unshed tears, and he felt the urge to take her in his arms once more. “About Bill—”

  “Don’t,” she said, cutting him off before he could start. Slowly, she slipped her hand out from beneath his. “This isn’t the time or place for that discussion. If you really want to talk, then come by the house tonight.”

  “I have a meeting with Gage and the State arson investigator after football practice. I don’t know how late it will run.”

  “If it’s important to you, then you’ll come by.” She stood and walked to the door.

  He had no choice but to follow her, but he held her hand on the knob, staring into her beautiful blue eyes. “I’ll be there,” he said, before claiming her lips in a hot, fast kiss, sliding his tongue into her startled lips to taste her once more, her lemony scent filling his senses. As abruptly as he’d started it, he pulled away.

  Opening the door, he stalked out, almost smiling at how breathless he’d left her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “So what’s your take on this fire?” Gage leaned back in his office chair, looking at the others gathered around to listen to what Mike Feeney and Deke had to say. All his deputies had been called into the sheriff’s office for this meeting and Bobby sat perched on the corner of his desk, her favorite place these days. Normally that would bring a bit of a smile to his face. Not tonight. The last time Mike had come to town, they’d thought they had a possible firebug on the loose, only to find out it was a crazy psycho determined to own the town or destroy it.

  “Definitely arson,” Mike said sipping on his coffee-to-go cup from the Peaches ’N Cream Café. “Like I told Deke at the site today, an accelerant was used, along with a delay timer.”

  “What kind of accelerant?” Wes Strong, one of his deputies, asked. One of the things Gage had learned to count on since taking over as sheriff was Wes cataloguing and focusing on details. He didn’t know a lot about the guy’s background, other than he’d been in Army Special Forces for a number of years before coming to Westen. A fact his dad had whispered to him on his deathbed.

  Mike took another long drink of the coffee. “Definitely kerosene. Some firebugs like to use it because they say they like to watch the way the flames dance across the scene before bursting into higher flames.”

  “That sounds rather perverted,” Bobby said.

  Gage reached over and squeezed her hand. A former teacher and now a licensed detective, Bobby was still learning the intricacies of police work, part of which was that there were a lot of sick people in the world.

  “You don’t know the half of it, ma’am,” Mike said. “Some of these guys really get off just talking about the fire. I won’t tell you what they do while watching them.”

  “Please don’t. I don’t even want the mental image.” Bobby made a face and gave a shudder, which sent a low rumble of male chuckles and groans through the room.

  Gage relaxed a little and gave his fiancé a half smile. She winked in response. Despite the seriousness, it was good to have some of the tension relieved in the room. Bobby was good at that. It was one of the things he loved about her.

  “You said there was a timer?” Wes asked. The guy was like a bloodhound with his nose to the trail.

  Mike handed him the plastic bag full of burnt electronic bits. “Found this at the edge of the field. Probably the only reason there was anything left of it. Which tells me two things.”

  “What?” Deke asked.

  “That he’s not a professional at this.”

  “Using kerosene and a fancy timer suggests pro to me,” Daniel Löwe, another deputy asked, taking the bag of parts from Wes and looking at them.

  “A pro would’ve put the timer in the center of the field where the fire would’ve obliterated any evidence or it,” Mike said, then drained the last of his coffee.

  “What’s the second thing it tells you?” Deke asked.

  “Given that he started the fire from the edge of the burn, but very close to the trees and creek bed, I think he was afraid he might get trapped. He wanted to be sure he had an escape, especially into the water source.” Mike pointed to the plaster casting of footprints on Gage’s desk. “That’s from where he stood and watched the fire and the Amish farmers trying to fight it. Put all that together and I’d say he’s a novice.”

  “You think this was his first fire?” Cleetus asked from his desk in the center of the room.

  Mike nodded. “If it’s not his first, I’d say it was no more than his second.”

  “If it was his first fire, how did he learn about timers?” Bobby asked, now holding the bag. “Isn’t this a little on the sophisticated side?”

  “Yeah,” Daniel asked. “Why not just light a match?”

  “A match would put him too close to the flash point,” Deke said.

  Mike nodded. “Right. A timer lets him move back out of the way. Less likely to get injured.”

  “So how’d he learn about timers?” Cleetus asked.


  “More than likely reading on the internet.”

  Mike’s comment sent another low rumble through the room, this time one of disgust at the availability of dangerous information at the fingertips of any psycho that wanted to experiment.

  “So, this would be his signature?” Bobby asked, watching Mike for confirmation.

  “I can’t answer that. If this is his first fire, he may be experimenting. Trying to figure out what gives him the biggest rush. Learning how the fire reacts. He may not have liked the results or might tweak his timer and placement next time.”

  “You think there will be a next time?” Gage already knew the answer from the knot in his gut.

  “We didn’t catch him. He’ll do it again.” Deke said, his face almost as still as solid stone.

  Angry enough to kill. Gage had only seen him look like this once in his life—the one time he visited him in the burn unit. He’d asked him to send Mike to see him. He was going to hunt down the SOB who’d set the warehouse fire and killed Bill.

  Mike exchanged a look with Deke. “Right. These guys are like drug addicts. They’ll always try to repeat the rush they got from their first fire. Often escalating their efforts. If I were you, I’d be planning on getting another call. Then we’ll have more evidence to start seeing a real signature.”

  Gage ran his hand over his short-cropped hair and let out a long breath. “Any idea what time frame we’ll have before he gets the urge to burn something else?”

  Mike shook his head. “Not after one fire. It’s going to depend on his own psyche and the depth of his need to experience the rush of the burn again. Anywhere from a day to a week or two would be my guess.”

  “Any idea what set him off?” Deke asked.

  Again, Mike shook his head. “Who knows? It could be a hate against the Amish since it was started on one of their farms. It could be something else. Again, the second fire will tell us more. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but until I know more and have more evidence, there’s no other answer.”