Good.
The blood droplets continue. I could just let him bleed out, but then Sarah and her family might never get answers for why Mason betrayed them. I rush forward, my shoulder hitting against trees and my feet stumbling over roots and fallen branches.
I see his dark frame with the red shirt, leaning against a tree. I raise my gun and point it at his back.
“Don’t move, Mason,” I command. “I will shoot you.”
He raises his arms and slowly turns around. He stares straight at the barrel of my gun.
“Do you have any weapons on you?” I ask.
“No.” It looks like the blood from his nose is drying, but there’s no emotion in his expression. He doesn’t seem fazed that he could die any second or that he’s going to prison for a long time.
“Get on the ground,” I say. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Pete Rodinger and Kenny Sevak, kidnapping, and who the hell knows what else.”
“I’m also responsible for your family’s murders,” he says, his face still impassive.
A muscle jerks in my jaw. “They were killed by the Bradwell boys.”
“The Bradwell boys were a couple of punks whose worst crime was putting graffiti on walls,” he sneers. “You really think they graduated to arson and murder that quickly? No, they had a…little push.”
I storm up to him until my gun is pressed against his forehead. He doesn’t even flinch, but a small smirk appears.
“You’re lying.” I snarl.
“They were both found dead in the garage. The accelerant was gasoline. What else wasn’t in the public record? I used those plastic handcuffs that were in your garage to handcuff the boys to a metal hose hanger. I wonder if I could have just locked Casey into that locker you had in there. Do you think so?”
My finger twitches near the trigger. “Why?” I growl. “What did Becky or Lisa ever do to you?”
“Nothing.” He smirks. “It was you that I wanted to get revenge on.”
“Me? What did I ever do to you?” I hiss.
“Of course you wouldn’t remember. What do you care if you ruin people’s lives over a little marijuana?”
“What? You killed my family because I arrested you on possession charges?” I shout. The gun trembles in my hand. “Are you shitting me? How fucking crazy are you?”
“You cut off my one chance at freedom. All you had to do was look the other way and you didn’t. So, yeah. I killed them. I couldn’t care less that they burned—”
I slam the gun against the side of his face. His head whips back and he crashes onto the ground. I step over him and point the gun at his head.
“Shoot me.” He snarls. “Kill me. Take the damn shot already.”
Every thought in my head demands that I do it. I know I could put a bullet in him right now and the town would justify it. He was crazy. He was a killer. The forest was on fire—it was a high intensity situation. The one thing that stops me is his voice—the urgent, earnest tone of it. He truly wants me to kill him. And I understand why. If he thought he was trapped in Alaska, a prison cell would be the worst possible place in the world to him.
“Mason Latham, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent—”
“No!” He growls, launching himself off the ground and grabbing for my gun.
I lurch back, trying to avoid him. I stumble and fall on my ass.
My gun slips out of my hands and lands a few feet away from me. Mason scrambles to get it. I grab onto the back of his sweater, jerking him backward. He whirls around and his fist hits me across the face. As I step back, reeling from the hit, he lurches for the gun again.
He manages to grasp it as I recover. He turns around and points it at me.
“You should have shot me,” he says. “It looks like we now know that humanity is weakness.”
“Trust me, when I didn't shoot you, that wasn't humanity,” I say.
“Aaron!” Teresa’s voice yells through the woods.
Mason glances up, as surprised as I am to see her.
I clench my fist and hit him as hard as I can in the throat. He staggers back, his face turning bright red as he gasps for air. I grab my gun by the barrel as his hand barely holds onto it as his whole body struggles to breathe.
As I spin the gun around in my hand, he manages to recover enough—he runs. His footsteps are clumsy for a second, but he quickly gathers speed. I get back onto my feet and aim. I feel the kickback as I pull the trigger and then I see Mason collapse onto the ground. He doesn’t move again.
I look over at Teresa, who is slowly lowering her gun.
“Good timing!” I yell at her.
She shrugs. “Not quite. I could have been here five minutes earlier. Nice shot.”
“Not quite. I could have aimed for the head.”
She runs over to me and we both walk over to Mason. The bullet entered in the very center of his back, along his spine. His fingers are clenching and unclenching.
“Mason?” I ask.
“I can’t move my legs.” His voice full of horror for the first time. “What did you do to me? What the hell did you do to me?”
“We have to get out of the woods,” Teresa says. “The fire is almost here.”
I nod. I can already see smoldering ash floating through the treetops and, like Mason said, all it takes to cause destruction is a little push—or in this case, a breeze. But I can't move. I can only stare at this man at my feet and imagine my family—my wife who volunteered at food banks during the winter and my daughter who wasn't old enough to do anything remotely wrong—burning inside my house.
I tighten my grip around the butt of my gun.
“Aaron,” Teresa cautions. “We need to take him into custody.”
“Why?” I ask. “He's done nothing but cause pain and he’s only going to be deadweight while we try to get out of here.”
“We are not judge, jury, and executioner. You are a man of the law and it’s illegal to kill someone who is not an immediate threat to you,” she says.
“He killed my family!” I yell at her.
She stares at me. “Your family died in a fire,” she measures her words carefully, “that was set by the Bradwell boys.”
“He admitted it.” I stare down at the bullet wound in his back. “He convinced the Bradwell boys to set the fire, and then he locked them in my garage.”
I can feel her still looking at me, but I can only keep my eyes on Mason. If I had time, I would kill him slowly. Burning him alive seems like it would be perfect justice.
“Okay, then,” she says. “Make it quick, though.”
My head shoots up and I look at her, shocked. I never expected her to agree with me—to be a witness to an illegal murder. I wouldn't expect any FBI agent to allow it, but especially not Teresa.
“You’re not going to fight me on this?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Just make sure it’s something you can live with.”
“I can.” I raise the gun and press it against the back of Mason’s head, snuggling it against his dark hair. My finger rests against the trigger. I can feel Teresa’s eyes on me. Mason lies perfectly still, resigned to his fate or still preferring death to imprisonment.
A memory of Lisa’s voice interjects into my head, Of course everyone is still upset about the deaths of Debbie and Jacklyn. But isn’t it possible to honor their lives by reinstating the group? If we don’t reinstate it…we’re letting the tragedy define the school. That doesn’t make sense to me.
The memory comes back from when she was trying to convince the school board to reinstate the Green Fire Dance Team—the night that she died.
Am I letting my tragedy define me? Am I allowing Mason’s actions to corrupt me, change me from a man who believed mercy was always a better option than justice?
I lower the gun and turn to Teresa. “You knew I was never going to pull the trigger, didn’t you?”
She raises her eyebrow. “No, I thought you deserved to be the one who served ju
stice. I was ready for you to shoot.”
I shake my head. “He’ll be tortured more by serving his time in prison. Let’s get out of here.”
She pulls her shirt over her mouth and nose to avoid inhaling the smoke and I do the same. I jerk Mason’s arms behind his back and handcuff them. When I pull Mason up, Mason’s legs dangle underneath him as if he were a marionette. Mason moans, but he seems mostly incoherent about what is happening around him.
“He’s paralyzed. This is going to be difficult. I have half a mind to leave him here, so be my conscience, and convince me not to.”
“You have to bring him back,” Teresa says. “Sarah will want to know why she went through all of this hell.”
“Where is Sarah?” I ask. “You didn’t just ditch here somewhere, did you?”
“Of course not,” she says. “Agent Donovan was driving by when I got back to the road. He was trying to get out of Wyatt because he didn’t want to be stuck there, but I got Sarah into his car and he went back.”
“Does he drive an SUV, too?”
“Shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Let’s get going.”
I heave Mason over my shoulder and gesture for her to lead the way. She takes small strides, making sure to not trip over anything. As I follow her, Mason’s head bounces against my back. I would pray that he suffers some brain damage, but I also know that nothing would torture him more than being in his right mind inside the small confines of a prison.
As Teresa climbs up the incline that leads to the road, I can see the flames approaching. Teresa slips and I use my free hand to grab hers as she slides past me. I pull her up the rest of the way, then rest beside her SUV.
Teresa opens her door and we pull Mason into the backseat. As she slams the door, a red-hot piece of ash lands on her hair. I take her braid into my hand and pick it out.
She grabs my hand. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
I smile. As she turns away, I lean forward. My lips brush against her cheek. Her skin is warm and smoother than rose petals. She looks at me, her brow furrowed.
“I’m sorry. I guess it’s just…you know, life or death situations, and I—”
She cups my face and when her lips touch mine, I feel as if every cell in my body feels it. If I had thought my rage toward Mason was intense, it was nothing compared to this. I feel like the fire around us, growing, burning, making everything around it obsolete.
She releases my face and steps back.
“I know.” She walks around the SUV to the driver’s side.
I shake my head. I have no idea what I’m going to do with this woman.
Well, maybe I have a few ideas.
44
Teresa, 2015 (Late Monday night)
AARON AND I FIND a hotel called The Silver Stallion in Anchorage after handing Mason over to a couple of policemen at the Alaska Regional Hospital. When we walk inside, there’s two families and a couple standing in line at the front desk.
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Nelson,” Aaron says to the couple in front of us. The woman—a petite blonde—and the man—a large man with an impressive beard—smile at him. “Getting away from the fire?”
“I trust the fire department,” Mr. Nelson says. “But you can’t be too cautious. Do they know what caused it yet?”
“No. They probably won’t until the fire has run its course,” Aaron says.
Mr. Nelson turns to me and extends his hand. “I’m sorry, Detective Grant is being rude. I’m Lyle Nelson,” he says. “Gym teacher at Wyatt High School.”
“Special Agent Teresa Daniels,” I say, shaking his hand.
He raises his eyebrow, turning to Aaron. “Are you fraternizing with the enemy?” he jokes.
Aaron shrugs. “She’s not the enemy.”
He smiles at me, the gesture both teasing and genuine. The Nelsons step up to the front desk and get their room key. They say good-bye to Aaron and me. Aaron steps up to the desk.
“A room for two?” the clerk asks. “We have one left. People have been coming from Wyatt like crazy.”
“Uh, no, we should probably have separate rooms,” Aaron says. “We work together.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, but the only thing we have left is a deluxe king room,” she says. “We have cots that one of you could use.”
He turns to me. “I can sleep on the cot.”
I shrug and nod my head.
He turns back to the receptionist. “We’ll take the room, then.” He signs documents and pays for the room.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say, as he slides his credit card over to the woman.
“You saved my life. Let’s call it even.”
“Your room is one twenty-eight,” the clerk says. “The cot will come up to your room in a few minutes, and if you need anything else, you can call down here. Just press zero on the phone.”
“Thank you,” we say in unison.
Aaron leads the way down the hall. He stops in front of Room 128 and unlocks the door. When we step in, I’m surprised to see that the room isn’t silver like the entrance. The carpet is tan with a swirling pattern in it, the shades are a crimson red, there’s a brown leather chair, and nearly everything else is white, including the bed’s large white comforter.
“I guess this is how the upper class lives,” he says.
“I don’t think Mr. Nelson is upper class,” I tell him.
“His wife is a psychologist. One of the best. Both prosecutors and defense lawyers use her all the time to make their cases and she is paid a hefty amount for it. Trust me, they’re upper class,” he says. He sits down on the chair and takes off his shoes and socks.
“If you want to get some clothes to change into, there was a gift shop across from the front desk,” he says.
“Right now I just want to decompress,” I tell him. “I’m going to take a shower and then just fall asleep in my dirty clothes.”
I slip into the bathroom and close the door behind me. I strip out of my smoky clothes, happy to get them away from me. When I get into the shower, the warm water washes down on me. It feels like it’s peeling away all of the stress and strangeness of the day. I wish it were that easy for Sarah, but I know it will be decades of therapy before she’s okay.
When I step out of the shower, the mirror is covered with steam. I wipe it away with the palm of my hand until all I see is my blurry reflection.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door.
“Yeah?” I ask, wrapping a towel around me.
“I went to the gift shop and got you some clothes because I thought you might be able to decompress easier in clean clothes. Can I just crack open the door and hand it to you?”
I open the bathroom door. His eyes widen for a second before he holds out a pair of sweatpants and a tie-dyed T-shirt.
“Sorry, they didn’t have many choices.” He avoids looking straight at me. “It was either sweatpants or swimming trunks.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the clothes in my hands. “Does that mean you bought the swimming trunks for yourself?”
“Uh, no,” he says. “I got sweatpants, too.”
“Weren’t you making fun of me for being an FBI clone when we first met, and now we’re going to be wearing matching sweatpants?”
“It’s for one day. Maybe less than one day. You have an SUV like all of the other FBI agents and that’s at least a three-year commitment. And I wasn’t making fun of you. I was giving constructive criticism.”
“What was constructive about telling me I was a clone?”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, you’re not a clone. I admit it. You are a very, very special FBI agent.”
“You’re making fun of me again.”
“I’m not.” He takes a step closer to me. “I do think you’re special.”
When he leans down to kiss me, I’m not prepared. When he kissed me before, it had been a moment of chaos and stress. It had been a rushed action, but now, when his lips touch mine, it’s slow, thoughtful, and relaxed. He ste
ps back, a sheepish smile on his face.
“I had to do that one more time,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what? Why did I have to do it one more?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
“No, why only once more?” I ask. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips against his. We stumble out of the bathroom, my towel falling to the floor. Aaron nearly backs into the cot, which must have arrived when I was in the shower, but that doesn’t stop either of us.
He lowers me down onto the bed. He unbuttons his shirt, every button carefully pushed out of its hole. I sit up and reach for his khaki pants. He takes my wrists and pushes me back toward the bed.
“Patience,” he says.
“That has never been my virtue,” I tell him. “My virtues tend to be persistence and generosity. I can show you how generous I am if you speed it up a bit.”
He throws his shirt toward the dresser, but I’m too busy taking in his bare chest to notice where it lands. I would have thought that a couple of years of alcoholism would have caused his body to go soft and for a small belly to grow, but his body could perfectly fit in with a summer calendar filled with firefighters and policemen. His chest—only slightly less tan than his arms—looks firmer than any body part of mine and his abdomen is divided into a perfect six-pack. I reach forward and run my finger in between his muscles. He shivers.
The moment seems to trigger something in him. He unbuttons his khakis and pulls them down along with his boxer briefs in one movement.
I take in a sharp breath and he smirks.
“Apparently, you have virtues, too,” I murmur. I had slept with a fair amount of men—it comes with traveling so much—but his body is something I could barely believe is real and his cock is almost intimidating.
“You haven’t seen my virtues, yet.”
He steps out of his clothes. I pull myself higher onto the bed. He gets onto the bed and climbs over me. We kiss. I can feel the heat of his cock between my legs. I press my body against his as he wraps his arms around my back. He kisses me with so much need that I can easily imagine that he hasn’t slept with anyone in two years.
Midnight Sun: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 1) Page 14
