by Rita Herron
The café fire was only the beginning of the festivities he had planned.
But he had cut short his fun in watching the flames die down at the café because of this woman. He wanted that lost time back, those lost moments of joy, of seeing the final embers dwindle to ashes. That part usually satisfied and fed him for hours. Sometimes days. But not tonight.
She had robbed him of that pleasure.
And she would suffer.
In fact, he just might set her afire and watch her skin erupt into flames like kindling.
Chapter Two
Bradford spent the next two hours interviewing the witnesses from the café fire.
Frustration gnawed at him. No one stuck out as a possible arsonist. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious.
Of course, the holiday crowds and tourist season made it easy for a culprit to hide. Restaurants and bars overflowed, catering to the party scene. A ship of sailors had docked and they were combing the streets on their furlough.
If the guy was among them or the tourists, he could disappear tomorrow.
Families had gathered in the squares for picnics and special booths had been set up for the holiday offering cotton candy, sno cones, frozen lemonade and other treats. Face-painting, tarot card readers, clowns, balloon artists and mimes entertained in the square, and a vendor sold voodoo dolls to passersby. The ever-present ghost tours strolled along the graveyards and historic district adding to the atmosphere.
Still, excitement sizzled in the balmy summer air, the sound of children and partiers filling the streets growing louder in anticipation of the upcoming fireworks show.
Hazel’s son Robby had arrived and tried to console his mother while Parker interviewed her.
Bradford listened, then cornered Chief Jackson as the last of the flames died down. Now the ruins, soaked with water, looked like a sludgy mess of charred wood and plastic.
“What do you think?” Bradford asked.
“It’s too early to tell,” Chief Jackson said. “We’ll have to sift through the debris, take samples, run tests…” The tall African-American man shifted, restless himself. “Did you learn anything from the interviews?”
“Afraid not. But three fires in three weeks. Not all accidental.”
“I’ll review the other two scenes,” Jackson said. “See if my men missed anything. Look for a connection.”
Bradford nodded. He’d already talked to the officers himself. In the first two instances, the sites had been vacant. At this one there were people inside. Which meant, if the incidents were related, their perpetrator was taking more chances, growing more confident, more aggressive.
And that he’d just begun his reign of terror. Next time, there might be casualties.
They had to stop him before that happened.
SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her.
Rosanna pivoted in the dark corner of the bar, searching the faces, hunting for someone familiar, or maybe a stranger staring at her. But no one stood out.
Shivering in spite of the heat, she tried to convince herself that the fire and then walking by the graveyard had made her paranoid. After all, for years after her father’s death, she’d had nightmares that he might claw his way from his coffin and try to drag her into hell with him. The fire tonight had reminded her of that nightmare.
The image of that cop helping the café owner to safety returned. He’d been kind and gentle and had consoled the older woman as if he cared.
But when he’d looked at her, she’d seen a coldness that chilled her to the bone.
Determined to put him out of her mind, she studied the dance floor. White lights glittered and popped intermittently across the room, an indoor fireworks show and hopping singles scene. Not one she was accustomed to being a part of.
She sipped a Lemon Drop martini while she watched the hump-and-grind show on the dance floor. Bodies gyrated, sliding against other bodies, men wrapped around women, skin to skin, a game of foreplay in public that made her body tighten with need.
And resurrected images of that detective again.
For a brief second, she pictured the two of them swaying to the music, his big, muscled arms holding her tight, his thigh slipping between her heat, his thick lips skating over hers. Desire shot through her.
A good-looking, blond architect paired up with Natalie and they headed to the dance floor. During the next half hour, Rosanna fended off unwanted advances.
Now she remembered the reason she avoided the clubbing scene.
She’d been alone all her life. And she didn’t mind it. No one to worry about. No one to pry into her secrets.
No one to find out about her past.
And no one pawing at her.
A balding guy wearing a skeleton T-shirt and holey jeans sauntered toward her with a beer in hand. “Wanna dance, baby?”
She gritted her teeth, wondering why she attracted the weirdos. Maybe because she was eccentric herself?
“No, thanks.”
He frowned and cut his eyes over her as if she’d angered him. Uncomfortable with his reaction, she slid off the stool and headed to the ladies’ room. She sensed him following, but refused to turn around.
Near the ladies’ room, another man at the bar made eye contact with her. He was tall, wore a black silk shirt and black dress pants. But instead of approaching her, he removed a lighter, flicked it open and pressed the starter until a small golden flame shot up. Then a slow smile crept over his face.
A smile that did not quite reach his eyes, one that sent a ripple of tension through her.
Anxious to escape his scrutiny, she ducked into the ladies’ room. The line snaked through the cramped bathroom, and it took several minutes to reach a stall. Just as she closed the door, a loud explosion rocked through the room.
Screams filled the air, the sound of panicked scuffling following. She tried to jerk open the door but it was stuck, so she dropped to her knees to look under the stall. Smoke curled through the room and another explosion rocked the floor. Splintered wood crashed from the ceiling, pelting her, and the smoke thickened. She scrambled beneath the opening, pushed to her feet and ran for the door, but when she opened it, a wooden beam crashed down and flames exploded, blocking her exit.
In the bar, chaos had broken out. Flames shot upward, eating the wood and hissing as it danced through the room. People screamed and stampeded to the exit, debris rained down, and bar glasses shattered and spewed glass in all directions. She spotted a couple of people on the floor, blood flowing from one man’s head. Then she saw Natalie trapped beneath a gigantic light fixture.
Oh God, no…she wasn’t moving. She had to get to her friend, save her.
But heat seared her and crackling wood popped near her feet. There was no other way to get out of the bathroom. No window. No back exit.
She was trapped with the flames growing higher all around her.
THE SCENT OF SMOKE and singed fabric permeated Bradford’s clothes as he and Parker left the Savannah square and maneuvered through the crowded streets.
The fireworks were in full swing, but he wanted to go back to the little house he’d rented on Tybee Island, wolf down a pizza and crash.
Parker leaned back in the seat, whistling a blues tune beneath his breath, looking relaxed now that the café excitement had ended. But Bradford’s body felt wired, jittery, as if he was waiting on the other ball to drop. He’d had these same antsy feelings in the military on missions, on missing persons cases in Atlanta. The night his father had died.
The night he’d discovered the extent of his brother’s problems.
The traffic came to a congested halt, and he veered down a side street where two restaurants and a new bar had opened up, then cursed.
Ahead he spotted trouble. More smoke curling toward the sky. Flames shooting from the roof of the Pink Martini.
“Hell, do you see that?” Parker pointed to the nightclub.
“Yeah, call it in.” While Parker called dispatch, Bradford flipped on the siren
, gunned the engine and screeched around an illegally parked car. In seconds, both he and Parker jumped out and ran toward the building.
“Fire trucks are on their way!” Parker shouted.
Bradford scanned the street where a panicked mob poured onto the sidewalks. People raced toward cars, the downtown area, some running as if the flames might chase them down, others huddling in shock and hysteria.
“Let’s see if everyone got out!” Bradford shouted over the confusion.
As soon as they entered the bar, Bradford assessed the situation. This fire was ten times worse than the one at the café, and already engulfed half the room. Although the emergency sprinklers had kicked in, the thin jets of water weren’t enough to douse the overpowering blaze, which was feeding greedily on the alcohol. Wood, glass, tables, drinks, lighting equipment—everything lay in shambles.
What the hell had happened here? How had the fire spread so rapidly?
He cut his eyes through the haze, searching for victims, someone trapped, hurt, needing assistance. The fire was a monster, the gray smoke so thick he could barely see, so he removed a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Somewhere amidst the crackling timber and the haze of shattering glass he heard a scream.
“My God,” Parker muttered. “There’s a woman trapped over there. I’m going after her!”
“I heard someone else in the back,” Bradford yelled. “I’m going to check.”
Without waiting for a response, he darted through the patches of flames, coughing into the handkerchief, searching through the thick plumes of smoke.
A curly haired young man wearing an apron who must have been a server lay facedown on the floor, arms and legs sprawled at awkward angles. Bradford knelt and checked for a pulse, but he couldn’t find one. Dammit.
Then he saw the blood pooling beneath the man’s face and neck. Bradford lifted his head slightly, and grimaced. A huge chunk of glass had pierced the man’s throat. Another was embedded in one eyeball.
It was too late for the poor guy. He was already dead.
A terrified scream pierced the air again, faint and hoarse, barely discernible over the roar of the flames.
Heat seared his back, face and hands, but he forged on toward the back.
“Help me!”
His lungs and throat burned as he spotted the caller. A woman lay on the floor, trapped by a wooden beam. She was using her bare hand to beat away the flames crawling toward her skirt. Another burning beam lay behind her.
He raced to her, jerked off his shirt and swatted the flames.
“Help me!” she cried again. “I have to save my friend.”
He glanced at her face and recognized her immediately. The redhead he’d seen in the crowd outside Cozy’s.
“Please,” she whispered. “I have to find Natalie.”
She broke into a coughing fit, and he handed her his handkerchief, then stood and dragged the beam off her legs. She tried to stand, but stumbled, so he swooped her up in his arms and ran toward the front door, praying they made it out in time before the monster eating the building swallowed them completely.
Chapter Three
Rosanna coughed, clinging to her rescuer as he hauled her into his arms. The last few terrifying minutes rushed back, fear tightening her lungs.
She’d been trapped in the bathroom. No way out. But she refused to give up. She had to get to Natalie.
She’d splashed water from the bathroom sink on her clothes hoping they wouldn’t catch fire when she ran through the spiking flames in the doorway. But another beam had fallen and she’d collapsed as it slammed down onto her legs.
Her ankle throbbed, her throat ached and she felt dizzy. She squinted through the smoke, though, desperately searching for her friend. Maybe she’d escaped. Maybe she was huddled in the mob pouring onto the streets.
A siren wailed. Then another. Police cars, ambulances and two fire trucks screeched through the mass, all arriving at once and jumping into motion.
“Miss, are you all right?” a gruff voice asked.
She tried to answer, but her voice squeaked out, low and pain-filled. Disoriented, she blinked through the darkness, but the raging fire illuminated her rescuer’s face, and her stomach tightened. He was the detective she’d seen questioning spectators at Cozy’s earlier. He had saved Hazel, and now her.
She clutched his open shirt in a death grip as he dodged the flames and falling debris. Outside, she dragged in gulping breaths of fresh air, then swallowed against the dryness in her throat, aware of his masculinity and the power of his body as he carried her toward the ambulance.
Her body glided downward, scraping over the detective’s massive thighs as he lowered her onto the stretcher. For a brief second, he pushed errant strands of her hair from her forehead. The gesture was so tender and gentle that tears pricked her eyes.
“Miss, are you okay?”
She nodded. “My friend…” she whispered. “Natalie Gorman, she fell. Find her, see if she’s all right.”
He nodded and squeezed her arm. “I will. What does she look like? What’s she wearing?”
“Brown hair, a green dress!”
An EMT met them and shoved an oxygen mask toward her.
“Check her out!” The detective shouted, then he raced back toward the burning building.
The EMT examined her hands and arms for burns. They tingled from the heat, but she’d survived without any major injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
Rosanna tried to tell him that she was okay, but again she broke out in a coughing fit.
The weighty pull of the smoke and exhaustion pulled her under, and she drifted into unconsciousness.
BRADFORD DARTED back toward the blazing building searching for his partner, but he didn’t see him anywhere.
Two pairs of officers had arrived on the scene, and were trying to manage traffic and contain the crowd. He quickly explained what had happened and asked them to canvas the people who’d been inside, as well as the spectators on the street for information.
“See if you can find a Natalie Gorman, too,” he said. “Her friend was asking about her. Brown hair. Green dress.”
He pushed his way back through the mob, but didn’t see a brown-haired woman in a green dress. And no Parker. He radioed him, but Parker didn’t respond, and panic seized Bradford.
He headed to the front door to go back inside, but a fireman grabbed him. “You can’t go in. Too dangerous.”
“Detective Walsh, SPD.” He flashed his badge. “My partner may still be inside. And another woman.”
The burly man’s expression clearly looked doubtful that they’d find anyone still alive. But he turned to one of the other rescue workers. “Search for survivors.”
Bradford paced the sidewalk feeling helpless and angry. He should be questioning people, hunting for clues as to how the fire started, but fear kept him watching the doorway, listening.
Finally one of the rescue workers appeared, sweating and cursing. “We have a live one, trapped. Need equipment.” He grabbed an ax from the truck.
“Let me help,” Bradford pleaded.
The burly man put a hand to Bradford’s chest as his coworker ran back inside. “No, stay put. You do your job, we’ll do ours.”
Bradford scraped sweaty hair from his forehead as another firefighter grabbed an ax and followed his coworker inside the blaze.
Heat scalded Bradford’s face and a wave of anger crashed over him a second later when one of the men carried an unconscious woman outside. He ran to check on her, but the firefighter shook his head. “She’s dead,” he said. “Looks like she took a blow to the head.”
Bradford saw her blood-soaked hair, the green dress, and grimaced. Then he noticed the tiny purse with the strap still wrapped around her wrist. He unsnapped the bag, checked her ID, then muttered a curse.
Natalie Gorman. The redhead’s friend.
God, he’d have to tell her.
“Your buddy tried to save her, but a wall crashed on him,�
� the firemen said. “We’ll have him out in a minute.”
Suddenly two rescue workers rushed out, yelling for the paramedics who met them with a stretcher. “He’s alive, but we’ve got injuries. Multiple contusions to the body, second-and third-degree burns, his leg needs to be set…”
Bradford shouldered his way to the ambulance, his chest clenching when he saw Parker’s limp body. He was unconscious; nasty blisters were already forming on his charred arms and hands. His leg looked twisted and mangled below the knee, his color ashen.
The EMT’s secured his head and neck, started oxygen and an IV drip, and quickly loaded him in the ambulance.
“Is he going to make it?” Bradford asked.
The EMT shrugged. “We can’t say yet. We need to get him to the hospital ASAP. What’s his name?”
“Parker Kilpatrick,” Bradford said. “He’s a detective with the SPD.”
“Is he allergic to anything?” one of the EMT’s asked. “No.”
A frown marred the second EMT’s face. “If you know his family, contact them.”
“He doesn’t have any family,” Bradford said grimly.
The medic closed the doors, the siren began to screech, and the ambulance rolled away, the lights twirling.
NIGHTMARES OF FIRE, death, hell and eternal damnation consumed Rosanna. She struggled against the exhaustion, but lost the battle and closed her eyes. She was suffocating, couldn’t breathe. The fire engulfed her hair and body, and her skin sizzled. Then her father’s nasty smile found her as he climbed from the grave and grabbed her.
Then she was in the bar. Beside her, a man lay on the floor, his eyes wide pools of nothing, blood floating around his head like a red river. Her friend was sprawled facedown with fire shooting sparks around her, chewing at her hair and fingers. Rosanna’s own skin burned, was frying, sliding off bone until black, sooty ashes fell like brittle, dead leaves onto the sodden floor.
She jerked awake for the hundredth time, and searched the sterile hospital room, wishing she were home in her own bed, wishing she’d talked Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini. Wishing she had someone to talk to, someone who cared that she was lying here alone, dirty and scared.
