by Rita Herron
Another wave of guilt washed over her. She wished she could have done something to prevent Natalie’s death. If she had a gift why couldn’t she have been psychic, had a premonition that a fire was going to destroy the place…
He was studying her again when she looked up. “Did you happen to remember anything else? Anyone suspicious at the bar or at Cozy’s Café earlier?”
She contemplated confessing that she thought someone had been following her lately, and about the waste bin fire at CIRP but bit her tongue. She had no concrete reason to believe that the incident was related to last night, or to her. He would think she was crazy if she started talking about legendary firestarters. “No.”
He shifted, jammed his hands into his pockets. “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at the funeral.”
Surprised, she had to swallow before she spoke. “You’re coming to Natalie’s memorial service?”
He nodded, his expression grave. “Sometimes criminals attend the funeral of their victim.”
The realization that the person responsible for Natalie’s death might actually show up to watch her friend be buried sent a shiver through Rosanna. “That’s creepy.”
He nodded. “But true. I want to watch the crowd, talk to her parents, see if anyone looks out of place or suspicious. If the killer is there, maybe we’ll get lucky and catch the bastard.”
HE STOOD OUTSIDE Mystique, rolling the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, his senses tuned as he watched Detective Bradford Walsh leave the store. The tobacco popped and ignited between the heat of his fingers. He watched the tip light up, then brought the cigarette to his lips. The smell of smoke engulfed him, heating his body with an unquenchable lust.
He itched to set another fire, to watch it take more property with it, to watch the fear in victim’s faces, to hear their screams of terror and pain.
And death.
Oh, the sweetness of it…
Only Walsh—Brad boy—was determined to stop him. He wouldn’t succeed, though. The detective didn’t have a clue who he was up against.
A drop of perspiration beaded on his face, and he swiped at it, angry that one little redhead and a geek who called himself a mind reader could make him sweat. He would not be discovered.
He would show all those bullies from school, all those pigs who’d arrested him when he was younger, and Brad boy that he was smart, a force to be reckoned with. Now he’d fine-tuned his special ability, he could not be stopped,
Ever.
He was too talented, too smart, too good at disguising himself and not leaving evidence.
Those doctors at CIRP had helped him immensely. More than they knew.
She had been there, too. Rosanna Redhill. Room 313. A part of the project.
So, what was her story?
Tension thrummed through his muscles. He flexed his fingers, then extended them, focusing on the napkin in the trash until it sparked and erupted. Laughter bubbled in his throat as it turned to ashes.
He’d find out more about Rosanna, what she was up to.
And that mind reader, Terrance. The man had nailed his coffin shut when he’d invaded his mind.
Chapter Seven
ROSANNA TOSSED AND turned all night, more nightmares of the fire that had killed her friend alternating with images of Detective Walsh exposing her as the devil child who had caused her father’s death.
After her trip to CIRP, she’d spent hours researching paranormal abilities and activities on the Internet. She’d located a Web site where individuals had posted interesting stories of unusual events and noted entries of shapeshifters being spotted, of hauntings, raising the dead, magic spells, body possessions, psychics, telekinesis, orbing and firestarters.
She understood Bradford Walsh’s skepticism. As she’d read some of the more outlandish entries, she wondered how many were legitimate and how many might be bogus.
She spent the morning at the shop, but left Honey to watch the store while she attended Natalie’s memorial service.
Mr. and Mrs. Gorman sat somber and teary-eyed as she stood to the right of Natalie’s casket and began the first verse of “Amazing Grace.”
Nerves knotted her stomach as she stared at the small gathering. Natalie hadn’t lived in Savannah long enough to have formed a large network of friends, but two college girlfriends had driven down from Atlanta, and a former boyfriend sat beside them.
Detective Walsh slid into a pew near the back, and her voice faltered slightly. She had to block out his presence before she could continue for fear he would hear her voice shaking and realize how strongly he affected her.
Finally ending the song, she headed to the pew behind Natalie’s parents, but the detective’s comment about the arsonist attending the service made her skim the crowd. Was the person who’d killed her friend here now?
Had he known Natalie, or had she been a random victim of his sick, twisted mind?
BRADFORD STUDIED the mourners gathered at the church with an eagle’s eye, hoping someone would stand out, but he’d been in law enforcement long enough to realize the killer would not announce his presence.
Unless he decided to leave a calling card of some kind. So far, he hadn’t. No evidence or clues. No accelerant.
But if he were truly a serial arsonist, he would strike again. Eventually he might become cocky enough to screw up.
Then Bradford would catch him.
His gut had tightened as he’d listened to Rosanna’s sultry voice, and his body had flamed with heat as her eyes met his. Her voice had sounded angelic, and now she appeared to be listening intently to the preacher’s eulogy. Natalie’s parents huddled together, their grief a palpable force in the room.
He half listened to the reverend’s words, distracted by Rosanna wiping tears from her cheeks. He had the insane urge to join her, to place his hand over hers and comfort her.
The service ended with a prayer, and the pallbearers carried the coffin down the aisle. Bradford waited until the room emptied, then followed the caravan of vehicles to the cemetery outside of Savannah.
The afternoon sun beat down on the brittle grass, blades crunching between his boots as he crossed the grounds. More words from the pastor, sniffles and condolences as Natalie’s friends spoke to her parents. He glanced around the graveyard, memorizing faces, searching the perimeter and woods beyond. He thought he noticed a shadow move between the oaks but couldn’t be sure, so he moved slightly to the left, ready to give chase if needed.
Rosanna placed a rose on Natalie’s grave, hugged Natalie’s parents, then waded through the rows of graves to the edge of the crowd.
Unable to help himself, he inched near her.
“Did you see anyone suspicious?” she asked softly.
He shook his head, once again darting a glance toward the thick, tall oaks and pines.
Suddenly a shriek rent the air, followed by another. People scurried away from the grave. As the group parted, Bradford’s eyes widened.
A thin streak of fire sprang up out of nowhere, then rippled in a circle around Natalie’s grave, flames dancing wildly as they caught the dry grass.
ROSANNA HAD NEVER seen anything so bizarre. A wind suddenly rattled the trees and sent twigs and leaves fluttering. She quickly scanned the panicked faces, shock and hysteria evident as everyone scattered.
“It’s the spirits,” someone shouted.
“The devil,” an elderly woman whispered.
“Black magic,” another woman muttered. “There must be a witch here.”
“Or a voodoo priestess,” someone else interjected.
“They’re right,” Rosanna said to Bradford. “The way the fire is encircling the grave looks like some kind of ritualistic ceremony…”
“That’s ridiculous,” Bradford snapped. “There is nothing paranormal going on here. We’ll find a match or evidence of a lighter somewhere.”
Rosanna pointed to the burning blades of grass. Even more disconcerting, she saw Dr. Klondike, Dr. Salvadore and
Louis standing at the edge of the gathering, watching with avid interest. “But how did the person who set this make the fire spread in that circle?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe the arsonist came here before the service and spread lighter fluid on the ground or some kind of accelerant.”
She frowned, contemplating his theory, while he held up his hands. “Police. No one leave the area.”
Unfortunately some people had already reached their cars and were fleeing. Rosanna doubted the firestarter was still around; he’d probably taken off immediately. Two funeral attendants began shoveling dirt on the flames to extinguish them. Bradford quickly questioned the guests and examined the contents of their pockets and purses.
Several protests and complaints rippled through the group, and Natalie’s parents shot him a look of disapproval, as if his tactic was somehow desecrating the sanctity of their daughter’s memorial service. But whoever had started the fire had done that, and he told them so.
When he explained that he was looking for an arsonist who had caused the fire, the same one who might have killed their daughter, their attitudes changed.
Heat scalded Rosanna’s face as she watched him interrogate the attendees. He found several people with matches and lighters and confiscated them for further testing, then jotted down contact information. The CSI team arrived, and he conferred with them before they began to take samples of the grass, ground and surrounding area.
She huddled beside Natalie’s parents, uncertain how to comfort them.
“Detective Walsh really believes that someone set fire to that club intentionally, doesn’t he?” Mrs. Gorman asked.
Rosanna nodded. “They’re investigating that theory.”
Tears glittered in the woman’s grief-stricken eyes, making Rosanna’s heart clench with sympathy. “Detective Walsh is a good cop, Mrs. Gorman. He’ll find the answers.”
Although he certainly didn’t seem open to the possibility of a supernatural explanation.
Could she really blame him?
He was a man of the law, a man who dealt in cold, hard facts, a man who had to have proof to present to a court. Not legends of firestarters or spirits or people with superhuman abilities or powers.
Natalie’s father swiped a handkerchief across his face, distraught. Emotion thickened Rosanna’s throat. Natalie deserved some answers, and so did her parents.
Regardless of what the detective thought of her, she had to make him listen to her. Maybe it was time to tell him about the incident at CIRP and their experiments with the paranormal. But then she’d have to explain the reason she had joined the study.
And she wasn’t sure she was ready to bring him into her confidence.
BRADFORD SCOWLED as the crime scene techs finished gathering samples. He’d ordered them to dig around the graves and check the woods, but so far they’d found nothing.
There had to be some logical explanation here, some chemical the arsonist had sprinkled on the lawn that would explain the circular fire.
The hoopla about the devil and black magic was crazy.
Natalie’s parents had finally left, thanks to Rosanna’s encouragement, and he had dismissed the other attendees, knowing in his gut that the firestarter had slipped away before he’d started interrogating the guests.
Rosanna still stood in the shadow of the funeral tent, her arms hugging herself as she stared at the mound of freshly turned earth covering her friend’s coffin. A quiet tension settled over the graveyard as the sun waned, and a gray cloud the color of the granite markers floated across the sky.
He needed to leave, but felt compelled to comfort her. She seemed so lonely, like an exotic animal that didn’t quite fit into the pack. That loneliness drew him, reminded him of the solitary nights he’d spent belaboring the reason his brother had turned to criminal activities, and his mother hated him.
She reminded him of the reason he continued to do what he did—hunt down criminals, psychos and perps.
She looked so damned innocent.
Feeling the pain radiating from her as if it were a knife pricking his own skin, he approached her, but with caution. “Rosanna?”
She inhaled deeply, making him well aware of her chest rising and falling, and the emotions warring within her.
He pressed a hand to her back to guide her away from the scene, but she turned to face him, eyes dark with pain and sadness. “Why did she die instead of me?”
Understanding caused his chest to clench. He’d been in the accident when his father had died. He’d wondered the same thing.
He should offer some comforting words about it not being her time, but old platitudes, especially religious ones, failed him and seemed callous anyway. “I can’t answer that. But what you’re feeling is normal. The psychologists refer to it as survivor’s guilt. It’s not uncommon, especially for victims of major crises like plane crashes, hurricanes…” He forced himself to shut up, knowing he sounded like a walking catalog of police knowledge. But subtlety had never been his strong suit.
As his mother had pointed out when he’d slapped the cuffs on his brother.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound like a psychology lecture.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It was the first time he’d seen her come close to a smile, and it altered her appearance drastically, made her eyes light up and her even more beautiful. He wondered what she’d look like if she were truly happy. Excited.
Aroused.
Dammit. Why the hell was he thinking things like that about a victim, especially in the middle of a freaking graveyard? Maybe he’d lost all perspective…
“Thank you for trying,” she said. “I must admit, I had no idea how to comfort Natalie’s parents. What can you say when someone so young passes? Hopefully their faith will help them through the grieving process.”
“You got your faith from your grandmother?”
“Yes.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners with a frown. “Why do you mention my grandmother?”
He shrugged, a million reasons flitting through his mind. She might look like an angel and sing like one, but that body and those eyes were bewitching. Seductive.
Made him want to forget the graveyard, the case, his logic, everything and take her to bed.
Which would not happen.
“Your shop, the fact that your grandmother practiced as a witch doctor.” He paused. “She had Native American blood in her, and so do you. And you moved in with her after your father died, didn’t you?”
Fear glittered in her eyes, and she retreated a step away from him as if she wanted to run. Too late, he realized he’d pushed too soon.
“You checked up on me?” she asked in a strangled voice.
His heart hammered with the realization that he’d hurt her. But he was a cop, and he had to explore every angle, treat everyone as a suspect.
He’d do the same if he had to do it over again.
“It’s my job. I have to investigate everyone. Clear suspects. Study situations. Learn the truth.”
Distrust and a deep fear darkened her eyes. “So I’m a suspect?”
“Everyone is a suspect until they’re proven otherwise.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “You really think I had something to do with my friend’s death? That I’m capable of trying to kill those innocent people?”
“It’s not personal, Rosanna,” he said. “I’m trying to find Natalie’s killer.”
“I want that, too,” she whispered. “More than you’ll ever know.”
He wanted to believe her, but he sensed she was keeping something from him. Maybe a detail that might lead to the killer.
DISAPPOINTMENT stabbed at Rosanna, and she braced herself for another onslaught of skepticism. But she had to speak up, try to convince the detective to at least consider her ideas.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.
She sighed. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
His eyes darkened.
“No, I don’t. What about you? After seeing your father murdered as a young child, you must have trust issues yourself.”
Oh God, he was investigating her.
“I don’t want to talk about my father.” Suddenly feeling as if she was suffocating, she ran toward her car. She had to leave, get away. Go home alone and forget this insane attraction to him. He was a cop, and if he dug deep enough, he might learn the truth about her.
A truth she wanted to remain buried forever.
BRADFORD WATCHED Rosanna retreat with a dull ache mounting in his chest. She was scared, running from something. But what?
Pain had flickered in her eyes when he’d mentioned her father’s murder, and he felt like a bastard for putting it there. She’d been just a kid when she’d lost her dad.
Maybe he had been cruel to mention the murder. But he wanted to know more about her. And the only way he could do that was to push because she certainly wasn’t offering information freely.
He headed toward his car, climbed in and was driving back to the precinct when his cell phone rang. His captain. “Walsh.”
“It’s Black. There’s another fire. This time it’s a car.”
“It wasn’t an accident?” Bradford asked.
“I don’t think so. Come and see for yourself.” Black recited the address.
“I’ll be right there.” Bradford spun around and raced into town, wondering if this fire was related to the others.
If so, he hoped to hell they caught a break this time and found the bastard.
Chapter Eight
Bradford watched the firemen extinguishing the blaze with a mixture of frustration and anger.
They’d been too late. The man in the car had died.
“His name is Terrance Shaver,” one of the rescue workers said as he handed Bradford the man’s ID. “The woman who called it in said that the car just burst into flames. Apparently the guy tried to get out, but the car exploded before he could make it.”
Bradford surveyed the street, noting a handful of spectators watching in intrigued horror. His captain already had uniforms questioning them.
