A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  "I'm inclined to agree he was trying to warn you that it was dangerous to follow his instructions. So what do you think we should do?"

  "I'm going anyway," she said. "What difference would it make now? They want me again; if I don't go to them, they'll come after me, probably stopping only long enough to arrange an accident for Danny."

  "You're not going alone."

  "I was hoping I wouldn't have to. But it has to be done carefully; I won't endanger Danny any further."

  "When do you want to leave?"

  "This afternoon if I can get off work, but he knows I might not be able to get there until tomorrow morning."

  "All right. Get off work if you can, but give me time to make arrangements."

  She sought out Ray and found him in his office, drinking coffee with fierce concentration. As usual, he snapped out of it when he saw her waiting.

  "Listen, something big is about to break in my murder case. Can I get off for the rest of the day?"

  Ray sighed, looked at a chart on the wall, then sharply at her. "The schedule isn't heavy. But, Catherine, if you have any more 'accidents', I'm going to chain you to your desk and make you copy-edit every last word of this paper for the next six months."

  "I'll try not to. I promise."

  "Okay. Good luck."

  She called Peter, but he'd already left, so she went home herself and packed an overnight bag. It was five-thirty when he showed up in person. He was dressed in his version of casual, similar to the outfit he'd worn Saturday morning only the shirt was blue and had a different animal over the pocket. Cathy still wore her work clothes, a white cotton skirt and a short-sleeved, summer-weight blue sweater.

  "I think it's all arranged," Peter said. "Tom Dunning has gone ahead and will check into the Hargrove Inn as soon as he can get there. I've explained as much as I could in half an hour and he's willing to help. I tried to get Randy, too—he's the large muscular friend—but he's got work commitments.

  "At any rate, Tom and I thought it would be best if he had a couple of hours head start. He's going as a road-weary insurance salesman. I've rented a car, since they apparently know mine. I'll follow you to the Inn, but I'll circle around the block a couple of times, then join Tom in his room."

  He rubbed his temple; he looked tired. "Some of it we'll have to play by ear since we don't know the layout at the Inn or what rooms we'll have. But we'll find out where your room is, and one of us will keep watch on it all the time.

  "I'm guessing that they'll either have a welcoming committee waiting for you or will be notified when you arrive. We'll have to hope they take you to wherever they've holed Danny. We'll follow, but from there we'll have to grab whatever opportunity arises."

  Lines of worry and tension strained his face as he watched her. "Cathy, are you sure you want to do this? Tom and I could still go on our own and tell them you couldn't make it. This was never your problem, there's no reason why you should put yourself in this kind of danger."

  "It is my problem. I told you at the very beginning I wanted to find Bobby's killer. I still do; and this may be the best opportunity we'll have to get close. Besides..." She stopped a moment, struggling for the words to express her feelings. "I owe it to Danny. What he did was stupid, but it was brave, and he did it out of... concern, I suppose, and a sense of responsibility. Whatever the reason, he made an incredible sacrifice to try to insure my safety. How can I abandon him now?" She let out her breath on a long sigh and sagged a little. "But, Peter, I'm scared half to death."

  His arms went around her and she clung to him.

  "I am, too," he muttered into her hair. "I am, too."

  When they finally disentangled themselves, and Cathy finished putting her things in the car, he asked, "Where is that seafood place you like?"

  "On Chatway Place. Do you know it?"

  "No. Lead the way, I'll follow."

  "The condemned woman gets a last meal?"

  "Cathy!"

  "Sorry. You said before I had a weird sense of humor. You're right. When things get heavy, I joke; it helps if I can laugh."

  "It's probably a healthy way to deal with life," he admitted. "I'm sorry if I find it jarring. I expect I'll get used to it."

  That sounded encouraging; he planned to stay around long enough to get used to her offbeat humor. How long would it take? Five years, ten? Maybe she could stretch it out to twenty with a little effort.

  Dinner wasn't nearly as dreary as it might have been. They started with salad and argued good-naturedly over the best dressing. Cathy voted for Ranch, Peter maintained that vinegar and oil (light on the oil) was the only decent way to eat lettuce. She ordered the combination platter of fried trout, shrimp, and oysters; he winced when she drowned it all in tartar sauce and quietly squeezed a lemon over his broiled flounder. But he saved most of his acerbity for the Hush Puppies, which she thought delicious: the corn meal was slightly sweetened and the proportion of onion just perfect. He didn't appreciate the finer points of Hush Puppies; he didn't think they had any points at all.

  She enjoyed teasing him about his one culinary vice, a passion for coffee. It was a vice she shared, but then she made no pretense to gastronomic purity. He admitted to a caffeine addiction, but claimed it was a deliberately cultivated weakness. "Perfection intimidates people, you know," he explained with a nearly straight face.

  "Actually, I wouldn't know," she returned.

  “Give it a try, it’s an interesting exercise.”

  When they'd paid for dinner, they went outside and stood between their two parked cars, talking. Peter leaned on the rental car, a dark blue Oldsmobile, elegant and streamlined.

  "You know," she said, "this is more like the kind of car I expected you to be driving. The Datsun was a shock; it didn't seem to fit."

  "What do you mean 'fit'?"

  "Your image, I guess. I don't know exactly; everything else about you—your house, your clothes, even your bearing—is attractive, elegant, expensive, tasteful... and sort of, well, cool, almost soulless. But not the car; the car has warmth and character, and I think it's the only thing you own that you really care about."

  "You're right about that last bit," he admitted. "But for the rest... Is that how you see me? Soulless?" It might have been the low angled rays of the setting sun that made his eyes look accusing, but she doubted it.

  "No," she answered. "But whether you know it or not, I think that's how you want the world to see you. You've built a wall around yourself, so you can be invincible and invulnerable. You're not soulless, but you've got it well-protected; no one can get near it. No one female at any rate."

  "Is that what this is all about?" he asked sharply. "Is that what the hint earlier about the way to a man's heart was about? What is it you're after? Some kind of commitment? Do you want me to declare my undying love for you? Eternal devotion? Or are we holding out for marriage?"

  The pain was as sharp and physical as a knife-thrust. She winced away from it and tried not to let the hurt show. "Is that how you see me?" she repeated, more quietly than she felt. "Another designing female so desperate for a man she'll resort to any kind of trickery? Dear God, I thought you knew me better. No, Mr. Lowell, I was making an observation. In my usual honest, tactless fashion. It wasn't meant as either a dig or a hint." Pride made her lift her head and look him in the eye.

  "I don't want a damn thing from you," she continued, "except what I originally asked for: your help in finding Bobby Stark's murderer. No, there is one more thing. I want Danny Stark alive and free. Once those are accomplished, I'll get out of your life and stay out of it." She turned and opened her car door. "I think it's time we left."

  Cathy got into the car without looking at him again. She put on her seat belt and started the engine, then noticed he still stood there, leaning on the car, staring, not at her, but somewhere off into space. He straightened and glanced at her painfully-controlled profile. She refused to turn back toward him. He started to say something, then changed his mind and got
into the Olds without further comment.

  Twilight was fading into darkness, and she was still fighting tears as she guided her car onto the highway. She'd already cried enough today, and hadn't she warned herself something like this would happen? She turned on the car radio, cranked it up to drown out her own thoughts, and hummed along with Tom Petty.

  The paper with the directions sat on the passenger seat, and she periodically turned on the overhead light to consult it. She'd exaggerated only slightly when she said it was a three-hour drive; it took just over two and a half. The directions were accurate, and Cathy found the Hargrove Inn without a single wrong turn.

  It was misnamed, however. The Hargrove Inn was a small strip motel, early fifties vintage, rundown and dispirited. It was doubtful it had ever had better days; more prosperity, possibly, but even that was questionable. The building featured poor design and worse construction; still, it had some claim to dignity by the sheer persistence and hardiness of its endurance. A vivid coat of paint had recently been applied by a painter whose heart hadn't been in his work. Out front a neon sign proclaimed "Hargrove Inn" in lurid pink letters, and underneath flashed the word, "Vacancy".

  The proprietor matched the place almost too perfectly. When she walked in, Cathy found him asleep at the desk, feet propped up, mouth wide open, snoring loudly. A cap advertising a trucking firm slid off the little bit of curly gray hair still clinging to his skull. She coughed loudly; then, when that produced no discernible result, rang the bell. He woke up with a jerk.

  "Hello, honey," he greeted her with no apparent embarrassment. "What can I do for you?"

  The way he looked her up and down made her uncomfortable; she had to fight a sudden urge to turn around and walk out. Self-discipline carried the evening. "I need a room for the night."

  "Sure thing, honey. Got a credit card? Sign the book."

  She signed, pulled the card from her purse and handed it to him. He swiped it, returned it to her, selected a key and gave it to her. "What brings you here from the city?" he asked.

  "Business," she said in a tone meant to discourage further questions..

  "Number three," he said. "Out that way and it's the third door on your right. Ice machine's around the corner. Coke machine, too."

  Cathy nodded and left, parked her car in front of room three, and sat a moment, hesitating.

  She couldn't see any sign of Tom Dunning or Peter. She devoutly hoped they were here and keeping watch as promised. She got out of the car, pulled her bag from the back, and, summoning her courage, unlocked the door to the room.

  -26-

  Monday

  The room was quiet and dark; Cathy reached inside and turned on the light. The space held a bed, a chair, a desk with a series of drawers, suitcase stand, television, and a rack for hanging clothes. A door on the right led, presumably, to the bathroom. She walked in and pushed the door shut behind her, made sure it was locked, and put her case on the bed. The cubicle smelled of disinfectant and dust.

  She crossed to the bathroom and flipped the switch. A shower stall filled most of one wall, the sink and toilet were on the other. The fixtures were old, chipped and stained, but clean.

  Peter had been wrong about the welcoming committee. Cathy released some of her tension on a long sigh. Her hammering pulse slowed down. The easy chair in the corner wasn't, and ten minutes of sitting in it was all she could take. She moved her case off the bed and stretched out. The mattress had once been pleasantly firm, but it now sagged toward the middle. Her watch said eleven-fifteen. Would anyone get in touch with her, and if so, would they do it this late, or wait until morning?

  She dropped into an uneasy doze from which she was awakened, not much later, by a knock at the door. "Who is it?" she yelled.

  "Miss Bennett? I have a message for you."

  She didn't recognize the voice. She got up and moved to stand behind the door, but didn't attempt to open it. "What kind of message?"

  "A message from Danny."

  "Push it under the door."

  "Ain't that kinda message."

  "Just a moment." Reluctantly, with her heart pounding and palms sweating, she unlocked the door, praying to God Peter was watching.

  The man standing outside was a stranger. "Miss Bennett?" he asked.

  "Yes. You have a message for me?"

  "You'd better come with us."

  "Us?" She took half a step forward and saw a second man was pressed against the wall. Even in the shadows, she recognized the bland features of Joe Townsend and wasn't particularly surprised to see he was holding a gun.

  "What do you want?" she asked, sounding braver than she felt. She stepped back into the room. The first man stuck a foot into the door so she couldn't close it on them.

  "There's somebody wants to talk to you; you're gonna come take a little ride with us." The expression on Townsend's face wasn't pleasant, and Cathy backed up another step. He waved the gun at her.

  "Now you just behave," the other, taller man advised, "and nobody'll get hurt. You understand?"

  She nodded. "Where are we going?"

  "Right now, we're just going to this truck over here. We're gonna take a ride, and you're gonna come with us, nice and quiet."

  "Can I get my purse?"

  He looked at her suspiciously. "Where is it?"

  She pointed to where it sat on the desk. He went and got her purse, opened it, and sorted through the contents. Satisfied, he handed it to her. Townsend signaled her to move toward the truck, and she let the room door close with a slam. The tall man frowned, but didn't make any comment. Townsend looked into Cathy's face, then down at her feet. "Take your shoes off," he ordered. The taller man shot a look at him.

  "The 'lady' packs quite a kick with those shoes," Townsend sneered. "Just ask Rayburn." And to her, he said, "You'd better watch out for him, doll; he's got a score to settle with you." He sounded like he hoped he'd get the chance to watch.

  "Fat chance Rayburn'll be settling anything," the other man said, "except his rear end into a chair. He was starting on another six-pack when we left."

  "Goddamn," Townsend said. "I told him to stay sober. You-know-who'll be pissed for sure. Well, hell, it's his funeral. But I ain't taking no chances with her." Townsend pointed the gun at Cathy's head. "Shoes, lady."

  His tone suggested it would be wise to do as he said. She kicked off her shoes and pushed them against the wall near the door. It was a nice try, but it didn't work. The tall man picked them up and tossed them into a bush on the other side of the parking lot.

  He jumped into the driver's seat; Townsend signaled her to get in the passenger door, then climbed in so she was sandwiched between them.

  As they moved out onto the street, she thought she heard the sound of another car starting, but half-feared it was only the desperate wish of her imagination. The trip wasn't pleasant. The truck's seat had been built for two and she was squeezed tight between the two men. Neither of them believed in deodorant, and the driver was chewing tobacco. Periodically, he'd lean out the window to spit.

  She was also nearly paralyzed with terror. Speeding into darkness in the middle of the night with this unpleasant pair, her life was no longer in her own hands, and the ones that held control were dirty.

  If they were being followed, the driver seemed unaware of the fact. After ten minutes that seemed more like an hour, the truck turned off the paved road, and they bounced heavily along a rutted, winding dirt lane. If they drove through here very often, it was no wonder the truck didn't have any suspension left. Another agonizing five minutes later, the truck stopped in front of a cabin. Although it must have been near midnight, dim light shone through curtains at several windows.

  They got out of the truck, and Townsend nudged her toward the cabin door. She picked her way carefully along the walk, grunting once when she stepped on a rock. Although the moon was bright, the trees cast shadows that left most of the walkway in darkness. The night breeze blew cool and pleasant, wafting the smell of honeysu
ckle across her nose. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted. Townsend got impatient with her slow, careful steps and pushed her up the walk and through the door.

  Two steps into the room, she stopped, looking over the situation. The cabin was meant to be a simple vacation retreat. They stood in an L-shaped room that occupied most of the ground floor and functioned as living room, dining room, and kitchen. A series of steps in the corner led to a loft; presumably the bedrooms were up there. Illumination came from a single lamp not far from the door, in the sitting area of the room. To the right there was a rough table, flanked by ladder-backed chairs, and beyond that, the large kitchen appliances were tucked into the far corner.

  Five people occupied the room other than herself; two were her escorts from the motel. A short, disheveled man snored loudly on the couch—their entrance hadn't even disturbed the rhythm of his breathing. Rayburn, she decided; a half-full bottle of beer sat on the coffee table in front of the couch and three empties littered the floor nearby.

  A fourth man stood up from the chair in which he lounged and watched her entrance with no change of expression. Ed Hammond was still one of the most beautiful human beings, male or female, she'd ever seen, but the expression in his pale aquamarine eyes and coolly perfect features was just plain dangerous. She had nothing to say to him. She felt his presence as a physical shock that was, nevertheless, not surprising.

  The fifth person in the room was Danny, and he sat on one of the ladder-backed chairs, arms wound uncomfortably around the chair and tied behind him. He looked up when she came in with her escort, but then let his head sag forward so his face was hidden. She couldn't see much of him in the shadowy light except that he still wore the awful tee shirt and threadbare jeans he'd had on Saturday. There were new tears and stains in both.

  Ignoring the rest of the company, she walked over to Danny, pulled another chair up beside him, and sat. He still didn't look up, so she reached out and lifted his face with a hand under his chin. His mouth twisted with bitter pain as his eyes met hers. He flinched away from her touch. "I didn't want you to come," he growled in a voice just above a whisper. "Didn't you know? I was sure you'd figure it out and understand."