The Burning Girl (Haunted Collection Series Book 5)
Page 9
As Bontoc had said, there was a ring nestled in the container. Tom managed to remove it and finagled it onto his middle finger.
“Hello, Tom Daniels,” a voice said from behind him. “Does it fit well?”
Tom turned around slowly and saw the ghost of Bontoc standing in the doorway.
The dead man looked horrific. Blood stain his clothes, and his shirt had been cut to ribbons, as had the flesh beneath.
“I am a sight, I am sure,” Bontoc said with a wry smile. “But that is not the point, is it? No, the point here is the ring.”
Tom licked his lips, held up his hand and said, “Fits well.”
“Excellent,” the dead man said, clapping his hands with pleasure.
“Um,” Tom said, trying to think of a polite way to phrase his question, “did Korzh do this to you?”
Bontoc frowned and nodded. “Yes, he did this to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said.
Bontoc shrugged. “Do not fear, Tom Daniels, death does not mean that I will not finish my task. I will see Stefan Korzh dead, and I will see his head laid at the feet of his father.”
Tom gave the dead man a small smile, examined the ring again and asked, “Why aluminum?”
“That, my young protector,” Bontoc said, gliding into the room, “is a long story. It is a tale from my youth, of a ghost and a plane, and the remnants of war.”
Tom shook his head, let out a surprised laugh and sat down.
“What the hell,” Tom said, “we’ve got a lot of time. You might as well tell me.”
The gruesome remains of Bontoc settled down on the floor across from Tom. “You are right, of course. Now listen, Tom Daniels. I will speak to you of my home in the Philippines, of the foul beast who was my father, and the vengeance I wrought upon him for the blinding of my mother.”
“I’m all ears,” Tom said.
Bontoc chuckled, and he began to speak.
Chapter 28: A Fire in Her Heart
Molly peered into Kate's face and realized the woman had either died or had passed the point of caring.
“Well,” Molly said, sniffing angrily, “you’re just boring. I thought you would have lasted a lot longer.”
She glanced at the clock, which was something Kate had done for the first hour or so of the torture and saw it was a few minutes past 1 in the afternoon. Before Molly had cut the woman’s tongue out, Kate had babbled incessantly about her children. Molly had come to understand the kids would be home from school at three or so, and while it would be interesting to play a little more, she also knew Daryl’s body needed to be in his own house.
The boy’s parents would come home and find him sick in bed, which was how they had left him. If Molly didn’t keep the charade up with them, then she would have to find a new playmate.
And she didn’t want to do that.
I’m just getting used to him, she thought. Finishing the last of the scotch, Molly walked over to the sink and opened up the cabinet. She rooted around for a few minutes, pulling out the various cleansers and setting them on the floor. One of her favorite books had been, The Anarchist’s Cookbook. She had learned a great deal about improvised weapons and explosives, and she had retained a significant amount of the knowledge.
Gathering up the cleansers, Molly went to the dining table, pushed aside the bloody knives and charred clothing that had once clad Kate, and set about preparing a small bomb. She did it carefully, even though Daryl’s fingers were surprisingly nimble.
When she had finished, Molly brought the device over to Kate and slid it beneath the woman’s seat. Blood dripped onto the floor in a steady, soothing rhythm. Smiling, Molly walked around to the back of Kate, and blew into the palm of her own hand. Fire sprang up along the flesh of her palm and fingers, and Molly brought them together to form a single, twisting pillar of smokeless flame. She held it close to the woman’s head and sighed with satisfaction as Kate’s hair caught fire. The fire ate greedily, devouring the strands singly and in whole locks, filling the air with the relaxing stench of immolation.
Molly whistled as she left the woman and the flames. She opened the door that led into the breezeway between the house and the one car garage she had discovered earlier. Grinning, Molly snapped her fingers and set fire to the exposed insulation between the support beams of the walls.
She put her hands on her hips, turned around, and went out through the garage’s side door. Molly took a deep breath, and then she sprinted for the woods. Hurtling past the tree line, she dove behind a large, downed elm she had spotted earlier.
And no sooner had she landed, than the chemicals in the kitchen ignited.
The windows of the house blew outward, launching shards of glass into the forest. A few car alarms went off, and the sharp, heartening crack of flames encouraged Molly to look at Kate's house.
The roof of the kitchen was gone, the remnants of it scattered around the yard and burning. Beside the breezeway, the garage was fully engulfed in flames.
Molly watched for a few more moments, then she forced herself to crawl away.
The fire department would show up in a matter of minutes, as would the police and at least one ambulance. Too many people who would be looking for survivors.
Molly knew they weren’t fools. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out everything had been set, and then they wouldn’t be looking only for survivors, but the arsonist as well.
Molly smiled, crawled a little farther, then stood up when she felt she was far enough away.
In the distance, she heard the fire engines, and desperately wished she could have stayed.
You never know when a firefighter might die, she sighed, and forced herself to bring Daryl’s body home.
***
“Hello, Jonathan.”
He let out a scream of surprise that left him dismayed. His heart thundered in his chest, and he peered around the narrow confines beneath the table, looking for the dead girl. Jonathan cleared his throat and said, “Hello.”
“Tell me,” she said, her voice coming from the tunnel that led back to the hall, “do you like fire?”
“No,” he answered with a shudder. “I would lose everything in a fire. All of it. All of my things. My family.”
“And the body in the kitchen?”
Jonathan could hear the smirk in her voice.
“I don’t want to lose him either,” Jonathan snapped. “He came to visit.”
“Sure he did,” Molly said with a snicker.
“Why do you ask about fire?” Jonathan asked.
“Did you hear the sirens a little while ago?” she asked.
Frowning, Jonathan tried to remember if he had or not. Then he shook his head and said, “I don’t recall.”
“I started a fire,” the dead girl said in a soft voice. “I like fire. A lot. I even got to play before I started it.”
“Play?” Jonathan asked, his own curiosity forcing the question out.
“I met a very nice woman,” Molly said with a laugh. “Her name was Kate, and I tortured her for hours and hours. I even put sharpened matches under her nails and lit the heads. It was glorious. Better than I had imagined, really.”
Jonathan shook as he whispered, “You tortured her?”
“Of course I did.” Molly sighed. “I’ve been locked up for a long time, Jonathan. And I’ve been wanting to play. You can’t discard any opportunity. You need to live life for the moment.”
“Carpe diem,” he whispered.
“Exactly,” she said cheerfully. “Isn’t it time for your lunch?”
“What? Oh, yes,” he murmured, “it is.”
“Go in the kitchen,” Molly said. “Eat your disgusting food. But I’ll make it better.”
Jonathan froze, terrified. “How?”
“I know you don’t go out,” she said, “I’ll tell you all about how Kate died. It’s too bad, really.”
“Why?” he asked, hardly able to get the question out.
“She made good brownies.�
�
Chapter 29: More of the Same
Victor had just tightened his gas cap when a third fire truck raced past the station. In the distance, he heard a fourth, and he watched as a pair of police SUVs barreled along the road. From the small market annexed to the gas station a small, overweight man appeared. Sweat glistened on his pale forehead, and he mopped at the back of his neck with a dirty, blue handkerchief. He glanced at Victor and asked, “How many was that?”
Victor answered, and the man shook his head and said, “There’s a fire over on Caltrap Road. Chatter on the scanner says they might upgrade it to a four-alarmer in a minute or two.”
“How far away is Caltrap?” Victor asked.
The man gestured with the handkerchief. “About half a mile over headed, west. It’s near the street that had the fire the other day. A second fire like this, well, people will talk. Seems like there’s a firebug around.”
“Fire’s a terrible thing,” Victor said, with far more venom than he had intended.
The man only nodded. “Yup. I live in mortal fear of it myself. Can’t stand the thought of fire. It’s why I don’t miss a Sunday meeting either. Don’t want to end up burning until the second coming.”
“No,” Victor agreed, “I don’t suppose so.”
The man smiled and said, “Well, have a nice day. Keep your eyes on the road. If they do bump it to another alarm, they’ll be sending trucks in on just about every route into the area.”
“Thank you,” Victor said, and he went to his car.
Instead of heading home, he drove to the street he had been on earlier. The one where he had seen the boy at the burnt house.
When he arrived in the neighborhood again, Victor parked at the beginning of the street, got out. Dark black, billowing smoke went racing up to the sky on the next street over, and the air was filled with the acrid scent of fire. A few people had gathered on the sidewalk and stared at the smoke. Victor walked to them and stood at the fringe of the group.
He didn't listen to their conversation. Instead, he focused on what he could see through the trees. Streams of water battled flames, lights flickered against trees, and the sound of the firefighters’ radios filled the air.
A cold, depressed feeling settled into his stomach, and Victor knew the fire had been set.
And he knew someone had been killed. He could sense it.
“Are you alright?” a woman asked.
It took him a moment to realize she had been addressing him. “Oh, yes. Thank you. I’m fine.”
The woman looked over her glasses at him, her gray hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
“You don’t live around here,” she said.
“No,” Victor said. “I don’t.”
Some of the other people in the group turned their heads towards him.
“What are you doing here then?” his inquisitor asked.
He looked at the woman and understood she must have served as the de facto leader of the street. A person who knew everyone’s business, sometimes before they did. She wore a dull blue housecoat and bright pink crocs. From what he could see of her calves, they were riddled with varicose veins. But despite her odd attire and her age, Victor knew she was the true power in the neighborhood.
“I was here to write an article about the fire from the other day,” Victor said, lying smoothly. “I came earlier in the day.”
“I saw you,” the woman said. “I didn’t see you take any notes.”
“I didn't,” Victor agreed. “My own home burned down. And my wife died. The sight of this one here hit a little too close to home. I went into town, had a bite to eat, and was about to leave when this happened. I feel like I have to write the article now. It seems like someone's starting fires.”
His inquisitor gave a sharp nod of agreement, and the other residents relaxed.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” the woman said. “And you’re right. Someone is setting fires. I swear I saw a boy out here this morning. Should have been in school, too. I thought I saw a child the night of the fire, too. Can’t see onto Caltrap Road from my house, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if someone over there had seen a kid, too.”
“Did they ask you, Gwen?” someone in the crowd inquired.
“I told them, even though they didn’t ask,” Gwen answered. “Don’t think they took the information kindly though.”
Gwen looked at Victor. “Artie's the detective in town, and he's never too happy to hear what I have to say. Caught that boy stealing some of my undergarments when he was younger and gave him a whooping he hasn't forgotten and isn't likely to have either.”
Victor nodded. The woman was built like a professional rugby player, and Victor felt certain she could hit like one too.
“Well, as you probably figured, my name’s Gwen,” she said, offering her hand.
He shook it and was pleased she didn’t try to crush him. “Victor. Victor Daniels.”
“If you need anything,” she said, letting go of him, “I live at 42. Come on up and knock. More than likely I’ll see you coming and have the door open by the time you hit the walkway.”
“Thank you,” Victor said. “I appreciate it.”
The wind shifted and drove the black smoke from the burning house down onto the street. As one, the group began to cough, and they all scattered. Victor bent his head down, covered his mouth with the neck of his shirt, and returned to his car. By the time he reached it, his eyes were watering, and a police officer had pulled over onto the street.
Still coughing, Victor climbed into his car, started it, and happily followed the officer’s directions to vacate the street.
Once he was upwind from the smoke, Victor rolled the windows down and glanced at the fire from his rearview mirror. Through the trees, he could still see the firemen fighting the blaze, and he hoped all of them would make it out alive.
Chapter 30: Another Subtle Twist
The oxycodone the doctor had prescribed rattled in their containers, and Stefan was forced to turn his whole head to look at them on the seat. He snarled, furious that he was reduced to the need for such items, the bandage over his empty eye-socket itching his skin.
Stefan pulled the truck into the warehouse, parked it, and closed the garage door behind him. The fact that the hunter was dead didn’t grant him any peace of mind. Stefan understood there was always a possibility his dead father and his half-sister might try again.
Shaking the pills into his hand, Stefan stalked back to his protected quarters, put the pills in the small kitchen and stared at them. The urge to take one was strong, but he fought it. There was still one more task he needed to complete.
If he didn’t, he wouldn’t sleep well, if at all.
Instead of the oxycodone, Stefan popped a couple of aspirin into his mouth and chewed the bitter pills as he took a long, dark blue tarp out of the storage lockers. From a battered, cardboard box, he removed a pair of latex gloves, tugging them on as he left the warehouse. He walked at a steady, if awkward pace. His remaining eye was struggling with his depth perception, and if he didn't walk carefully, he would end up falling.
Doctor Delk had recommended physical therapy and possibly seeing a counselor.
He scoffed at the idea of either one and tripped over a small stone. Stefan swore as he caught himself, then kicked the offensive rock across the parking lot.
Soon he was beyond the protection of the fence, and in the woods. He followed the path that led to the remains of the hunter. A thick cloud of blowflies rose up, angry at being disturbed during their meal. Stefan ignored them, stepping close to the corpse, and coming to a stop.
He stifled his surprise and his dismay at the sight of the body.
The clothing had been removed, cut away and piled neatly to the left. Large sections of the man’s thighs and buttocks had been excised, leaving clean marks where the flesh had been removed.
Stefan stared at the body for several minutes, long enough for the flies to return to their feasting.
No one should be this much trouble, either alive or dead, he thought bitterly. Ever.
Struggling, Stefan regained his composure, squatted down and rolled out the tarp. He picked up the clothes, tossed them onto the center of the plastic, then focused his attention on the corpse. The flies rose up, swirling around him, landing on him with their small legs dancing across his exposed flesh.
Stefan ignored them as he rolled the body onto the tarp. The body was no longer in rigor mortis, which made the task more difficult. By the time he was finished, Stefan was breathing hard, and his empty eye socket was throbbing.
Stupid, stupid bastard, he thought. Stefan had forgotten the duct tape. He would have to be careful dragging the body out of the woods on an open tarp.
Par for the course today. Taking hold of the tarp, Stefan pulled the tarp along behind him. The ground was hard with exposed roots and packed earth, and for the first time, Stefan wondered if the tarp would survive the trip across the wide parking lot.
I hope so, he thought angrily. I sure as hell don’t want to be picking meat out of the asphalt for the next week.
Chapter 31: Recollections
The chessboard was set up, the problem an old one, and simple as well. Victor had never been a good player. Not even when he was playing daily during high school.
But he loved the game, and he loved the way it forced him to think.
Something I’ve been doing extremely little of lately, he reminded himself, studying the board in front of him.
Victor had discovered the chess set in a thrift store on Main Street in Fox Cat Hollow, and the book had been in a second-hand bookstore he had stopped in on the way back from the fire. His father had purchased the same book for him when he started high school, and when he had shown a real interest in the game.
And I was much better then, too, he reminded himself.