Nora seethed with rage.
Coffee spattered the room, then the cup smashed against the wall.
Nora threw a magazine. Jacqueline deflected it with her forearm. It ricocheted and hit a candle. Hot wax and flame spewed across the white shag carpet.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Eek, I can’t believe how stupid you are.”
Flames licking her ankles, Jacqueline scrambled behind the red chair. She glanced down and stomped on the fire, but it suddenly seemed to be everywhere.
Abruptly, the knife ripped into her right hand. Jacqueline grabbed the fur blanket and tried to throw it over Nora.
Nora laughed as she cut it to ribbons.
The room looked like it was rippling. She tried to wipe the tears and smoke from her eyes. A large teal pillow smacked her head. Jacqueline hit it away.
Nora turned her back and grabbed the fat ivory candle. She aimed at her face. Jacqueline ducked, but couldn’t miss all the hot wax.
Nora’s fury filled the room with curses. She snatched a purple throw pillow from the sofa. Jacqueline leaped over the chair and ripped it from her grasp. “Stop this. We have to put the fire out.”
“I hate you. Hate you. Eek. Hate you.” Nora lunged for her neck.
Jacqueline jumped out of her way. Her uninjured hand connected with the remaining mug. Grasping it, she threw it. It sailed past Nora’s face and crashed through the window.
Nora laughed.
Flames shot up from the magazines.
Jacqueline rolled to her right and scrambled to her feet. The knife was back in Nora’s hand. Jacqueline centered her attention on the insane blue eyes.
“What’s the matter, stupid? Don’t you wanna give me more advice? Huh? Come on; tell me the best way to kill you.” Was that a siren she heard in the distance? Jacqueline prayed it was.
“You aren’t going to hack me up.” She forced her dry mouth to form words. “This isn’t the way you should do things.” Demented laughter accompanied her opponent’s lunging form. Jacqueline leaped to safety and landed close to the door. “Fire is the way you do things.”
The wild look in Nora’s eyes intensified as her blue gaze went to the wave of flames spreading across the carpet. The blaze surged up the arm of the sofa. Six-foot-high-flames exploded from the tattered fake fur throw.
Jacqueline leaped backward, her spine slamming hard against Ray’s painting.
Nora began to sway and croon. “Fire. I love fire. So pure. So beautiful. Flames burn away filth and leave nice clean ashes.” Nora held her hand toward the licking flames, as a lover to her beau.
More lines of flame erupted between her and escape. They seemed to be living things as they leapt from place to place. Immobile with horror, Jacqueline stayed splayed against the wall and stared in frozen horror.
Nora turned from the blaze; madness filled her expression. The knife slashed toward her throat. Jacqueline fell to her left.
A shriek of fury erupted from Nora.
Jacqueline jumped behind the island counter. Nora slashed over the counter, and her high pitched, drawn out wail of defeat mirroring the approaching siren.
Jacqueline grabbed the blender and threw it. The base connected with Nora’s shoulder with a sickening sound. She fell. Jacqueline dashed past Nora, heading for the door.
Nora grabbed her ankle.
Jacqueline fell, kicking.
Nora let go.
She scrambled to her feet and lunged the rest of the way. The doorknob scorched her fingers. Not again! She gritted her teeth and yanked at it, again. The unmistakable stench of burning flesh made her gag. She twisted harder. Nora laughed with delight.
Jacqueline looked back. Nora stood up, spread her arms wide, and stepped into the flames. She twisted toward the door, but a jet of flames shot up the doorframe. She leaped backward. Flames were everywhere. Her lungs felt like they were on fire. Her eyes stung.
Nora laughed as the blaze danced over her clothing and leapt into her hair.
It was Jacqueline’s worst nightmare come to life, but Nora acted like she was enjoying it.
With superhuman strength, Nora picked up the armchair and threw it. Jacqueline jumped out of the way, but it hit her leg and she fell behind the counter.
The chair landed on her ankle, pinning it. A burning sensation ran up her leg. Nora’s laugh sounded like the hounds of hell baying.
Jacqueline twisted and yanked her foot free.
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You can’t get away.” Nora’s clothing and hair were engulfed in flames. She looked like a nightmare come to life.
“You’re on fire,” Jacqueline croaked.
Nora laughed and spun around in a dance step. “Fire. I’m on fire.” She twirled and fanned the flames. “I love, love, love fire.” Nora crowed with delight.
Jacqueline sucked in a lungful of poisonous black smoke. Frantically, she tried to crawl to where she thought the door was. Something thudded behind her. Nora’s demented laugh echoed. “Dear God, please don’t make my last vision of this life this glimpse of hell.”
33
The day Jacqueline vanished, Link flew back to Fairbanks, and discovered she’d not only taken all the printouts, she’d wiped out all of Phillip’s history files by reformatting his computer.
Phillip started with reprogramming, then tried to rebuild the data file, but it seemed impossible without her social security number.
Link phoned Mavis, but she scolded him about being overprotective and refused to help. Next, he phoned UCLA and got put on hold for half an hour. Finally, he presented his case to a syrupy-voiced woman. She hung up on him.
The third day, Link stood in his office’s doorway and watched Phillip, the only one who seemed able to do anything about the problem. It felt like his entire world had turned upside down. As St. Francis Memorial Hospital’s website materialized on the CRT, Link inched closer. Soon, he was reading over Phillip’s shoulder. Though the information about the facility was innocuous, a sense of impending doom chilled his soul.
Phillip swiveled around, his expression annoyed. “Do you mind not breathing down my neck?”
“Sorry.” Link started to tidy up his office. Phillip kept glancing back at him, malevolence in his glare. Link turned his back and kept clearing the clutter.
“Look, I know you’re worried,” Phillip said. “We all are, but I need to concentrate.”
Link went downstairs, sat on the sofa and stared at the blank television screen. Perhaps he should have gone with everyone else to see the pottery exhibit.
His sensation of approaching doom increased.
He turned on the television and tried to accept the fact that he’d driven Jacqueline away. Though their lives had only crossed for two weeks, he’d believed that destiny had brought them together for a permanent purpose.
As if to emphasize his guilt, the images on the screen turned to a laughing couple, holding hands as they walked along the beach, waves lapping at their bare toes while the announcer advertised perfect sex if he’d just chew gum. He changed the channel several times, and then tossed the remote onto the coffee table. If he hadn’t forbidden Jacqueline to go confront her imposter, maybe she’d have stayed with him.
Allowed him to help her, at least? Told him where she was going? She would probably have told him something, at least, if he hadn’t tried to dominate her.
How could he have been so foolish and overbearing?
An annoying signal brought his attention back to the television. A Special Bulletin announcement trailed across the screen. Then the car chase changed to a somber woman standing, microphone at the ready, on a desolate city street. In an effort to think of something else, Link tried to identify the block, but he didn’t recognize it. In the background, flames in front of the sunset made it look like the sun had set fire to the city. He squinted to read the ticker tape. It was a transmission from the lower forty-eight.
“Are we on? Good evening. A fire, which started earlier today in an apartment building on Randor Street, has now b
urned down an entire block of San Francisco. Due to winds, firefighters were only able to contain it within the last hour.”
A story like this would have terrified Jacqueline. Link grabbed the remote, intending to change channels, but inadvertently increased the volume. The newscaster gestured to someone off screen. “Jason Roberts, who lives on Randor Street, initially called 911.”
“Randor Street sounds familiar,” Phillip said. Link looked over his shoulder. Phillip was in the doorway, balancing a club sandwich on top of a sweaty glass.
“Why?” Link said.
“Something about the imposter. Seems like a credit card listed that street or something similar.”
Cold sweat bathed Link’s body and he knew Jacqueline had been in the building. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did. ‘Please God, let that address just be an awful coincidence.’ But it felt like he was being given a message.
“Course, I could be wrong. It could have been Pandor or Tandor or— ”
“But it was probably Randor.”
“Could be lots of variations of Randor, lots of different streets. Things like that mess up fire departments, ambulances, all sorts of stuff.”
Phillip shrugged, then took a big bite of his sandwich as he watched the television, for a moment. “Well, I won’t figure it out staring at the boob tube.” Still chewing, he sauntered toward the stairs.
A shy looking man clutching a large white Persian cat joined the newscaster. “Mr. Roberts, can you tell our audience what alerted you to the crisis?” She tilted the microphone toward him.
Link leaned toward the screen.
“The woman upstairs from me came home in the middle of the day. She had someone with her. I only heard her talking. She was real mad. Made a big commotion with lots’a threats bout about killing and such. I called the police because I figured someone was trying to do her harm, but then I saw the smoke, so I grabbed Goddess and ran.” He hugged his cat tighter.
“Thank you, Mr. Roberts.”
“And thank you, Sarah.” Another reporter joined her. This one had taken the time to comb his hair. “As you can see,” he gestured to the scene behind him, “fire broke out in a second floor apartment earlier today. Thus far we have confirmation that four people have died and many others were injured. Unconfirmed sources say that the fire hydrants in this once picturesque area had been sabotaged and arson is suspected.” The reporter paused for a beat to look at his notes, then added, “Here with me is Carla Hastings, who lived across the street.”
A rotund woman wearing gym clothes and a trench coat stepped next to the reporter. “Ms. Hastings,” the reporter said, “you phoned the fire department.”
The woman bobbed her head like a dashboard Madonna. “To begin with, I was gonna call the police, ’cause of all the caterwauling and such, then I smelled smoke an’ looked outside. When I saw flames up there, I phoned the fire department instead.”
Link stared at the screen. The lump in his chest expanded until it was suffocating.
“While I was talking to the dispatcher,” the woman continued, pleased to be the center of attention, “I heard someone laugh. Crazy-like, not ha-ha. Then I heard breaking glass and shards started pelting the street. I looked up and it looked like flames were beating the glass. It was hard to tell ’cause black smoke was everywhere. Then the whole windowpane sorta exploded out. For a minute it looked like the room was solid black and she was flame. I guess that’s because her clothes were on fire. She was screaming, but not like she was scared. More like a high-pitched laugh. She kinda did some dance steps and shouted, ‘I’m the fire goddess.’ And then she jumped out the window,” Hastings nodded sincerely at the camera.
“You saw a woman jump?” the reporter said.
“Sure did. She sure was somethin’. Black smoke was billowing out the window, it was somethin’ to see.” Hastings pointed to a distant spot behind the thick yellow barrier tape.
“Landed right there.”
“Thank you, Ms. Hastings.” The reporter tried to take the microphone back, but the woman grabbed his hand.
“The fall didn’t kill her. Just knocked the wind outta her. After a minute of lying there, burning, she got up and started dancing around and singing about being a fire goddess. It was an amazin’ sight. Just as the fire truck arrived, part of the roof caved in. It was like fourth of July.”
“Thank you for your vivid account, Ms. Hastings.” The scene switched back to the news desk. Link snapped the television off and slammed the remote onto the coffee table.
He knew there was no rational reason to believe the disaster had anything to do with Jacqueline. But Link knew she’d been there. He grabbed the phone to call Windy. Just as his hand touched the receiver, the phone rang. Link flinched.
The phone rang two more times. He took a deep breath, then picked it up. “Hello?”
“Link.” Mavis’ voice sounded tormented.
“Mavis?”
“Oh, Link, I got— I got a, a, a f-f-f-f-phone call. I hate phones,” she wailed.
“It was about Jacqueline, wasn’t it?”
“How did you know?”
“I just do.”
“Oh, Link, she’s dead.”
Tears burned his eyes. “She burned, didn’t she?”
“Did they call you, too?” Mavis sobbed. “Oh, what am I going to do? I need to go and claim her body after they’re done with the autopsy, but I can’t leave Valdez.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“They said it’d be a few days. This is all my fault. My pride brought my beautiful girl to this.”
“Don’t blame yourself. It’s my fault because I told her not to confront the woman.”
“It’s my fault.” Heartrending sobs echoed over the phone line. Link had never imagined his militaristic little office manager held such deep emotions. “I told him where you were going. Don’t you see? It’s my fault.”
“Take a deep breath and explain.”
After several moments of sniffling and a hearty blow of the nose, Mavis sounded calmer. “That man, Capolucho, came to my house the morning after you and Jacqueline left. He explained that he loved Jacqueline, but that they’d been fighting and he needed to put matters right.” Mavis sniffed. “He was scruffy, but seemed nice, and I had to go, so I told him you’d gone to Fairbanks and would be continuing out the next day.”
“You gave him the time of day?”
Mavis sobbed harder. “I haven’t dared take my hearing aid off.”
Link rubbed his temple and wished he understood.
“Oh, Link, my pride killed my dear baby.”
“Mavis— ”
“It did. If I’d been wearing my hearing aid, I wouldn’t have had that accident and if I hadn’t had that accident, I wouldn’t be spending my weekends doing community service and if I hadn’t wanted to hide my conviction, I wouldn’t have insisted that Jacqueline go with you and—” Sobs stopped the flow of words.
“Mavis, it was destiny.”
“I told him where to find Jacqueline and let her leave with him. Twice. He killed her, Link. I just know he did. I saw his hands— they’d been burned. What if that happened when the lab burned? What if he killed Adam so he could have— ” She couldn’t finish the thought.
“Mavis, Capolucho was a victim. I’m ninety percent certain the same person that tried to kill him, killed Adam, and now her. If anyone is to blame, it’s me. I should have been with her, helped her. Instead, even though I had no right, I ordered her.”
He swallowed. “And now...” Tears flowed in scalding trails down his cheeks.
34
The following day, Stone punched Link in the shoulder and told him to get his act together. When that didn’t produce a response, Carmen tried to smother him with sisterly concern and Ariel plied him with a casserole. After three days of noodle-laced sympathy, he was ready to spend eternity alone.
After a week, Tempest was the only one brave enough to deliver a casserole. When she slammed
it onto the counter, Link turned from the open refrigerator. She put her hands on her slim hips, jutted out her chin and took a deep breath. “You’re better off without the witch.” It was all Link could do not to spank the brat. “And you know what else, Uncle Link?”
“What?”
“You’re a raving lunatic for acting like this.” Tempest scooted out the kitchen door, slamming it behind her.
Link leapt to the door, and kicked it so hard the glass rattled. Then, he gripped the doorframe and leaned against the cool glass. As his anger faded, he straightened. His reflection in the glass showing unkempt hair and an unshaven face gave credence to Tempest’s remark. So did the sweatshirt and jeans, which he’d worn since Valdez. If he didn’t get a grip on his life, he would follow Capolucho’s pattern and lose years to misery.
He went up to the bathroom and shaved. As he lathered, he remembered the smooth strokes Jacqueline used to propel a canoe. Slicing off weeklong whiskers, Link recalled the sound of her laughter. And as he rinsed the sink, he knew he would carry Jacqueline’s memory in his heart until the day he died.
He showered and imagined that his heartache was going down the drain along with the suds, yet knew the bitter loss would always be with him, but somehow he had to learn to live with fate. When he applied his aftershave, the mirror reflected an older face.
It would have been nice to have a picture of Jacqueline; maybe he could ask Mavis if she had an extra.
After he dressed in clean clothes, Link wandered into his home office and tried to do some paperwork, but he couldn’t concentrate.
He began pacing.
The apartment became stifling. Oppressive.
He needed air.
Link went out to his truck, climbed into the cab and backed out onto the street, then drove toward the highway.
Hours later, he parked in front of Mavis’ small white clapboard house, amazed that he’d remembered exactly how to get here.
Link switched off the ignition and gazed at the dark green shutters. A curtain moved. With a sigh, he opened the door and walked toward the front porch.
Passion's Fire Page 27
