by Dean Covin
Vicki knew it had to be bad. Firefighters were frantically drawing more hoses into the side doors of the gymnasium. Thick smoke pushed through every opening, racing for the sky, but Vicki couldn’t see any flames.
There was a third fire engine across the street with firefighters smashing through the storefront window. She watched a dwarf column of smoke stretch the building’s height. And then a fourth fire truck was pulling up to the small playground in front of the civic center, where an old pump house was smoking.
“Holy shit,” Hank said. “We’ve got an arsonist.”
“Give me your phone.” Vicki pulled up the image. “Oh, no—look!”
Hank scanned his map of the catacombs. Rising plumes marked the nearest catacomb exits to Ivy’s crime scene.
A forensics van was pulled into the trees, away from the fire engines. Hank rushed over to the person sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Terry, was anyone in there?”
“No, we just arrived ten minutes ago. We called it in. We opened the side door and were hit by smoke.”
“The crime scene?”
He nodded. “I think so. I don’t want to bother the firefighters to ask. Sheriff Roscoe just took off to round up more help.” Terry was the team’s newest member but had been with the FBI for over a year. He looked distressed. “Hank, we didn’t get around to pulling out the barrels yesterday—I’m sure that’s what’s burning.”
Shit! Hank nodded, “Okay, I’m more concerned with what you were able to get out of it.”
“We pulled overtime last night, but Jerry insisted we clear the hidden chamber first. We got a lot from Turner’s scene, but not everything.”
Hank failed to hide his frustration. He returned to Vicki.
She hung up his phone and held it out to him. “The oil drums?”
He nodded.
“How’d they do?” she asked, fearing the answer.
“Got most of the POE stuff. Not all of Ivy’s.”
Vicki’s nails bit into her palms. “Damn it! Somebody set this, Hank. Who was on watch?”
“Probably someone local.”
“I’ll ask Roscoe,” she said. “My car’s been towed there. It’s intact and nothing’s missing, but I need to report my weapon stolen.”
“Keys?”
“Apparently the new key fob for my Vette is ready and Rose is sending her guy over to change the locks on my house.” This was something she couldn’t be more thankful for.
“Well, let’s go then,” he said.
Vicki shook her head. “You mind sticking around? I need to know this doesn’t get any more fucked up than it already is.” She countered when he moved to argue. “I’m a big girl. Just, please, I need you to make sure I have something reasonable to come back to. Can you do that for me, Hank?” She glanced over at the smoldering carnage that she feared was her only lifeline.
† † †
Roscoe wasn’t there, but Deputy Parsons sat mortified. The sheriff had put her in charge of securing the crime scene, and she had doubled it—forgetting that the killer had knowledge of all access points. Securing the school was like only locking one door.
Parsons did pull it together enough to tell Vicki where she could find Roscoe.
In front of the station, Vicki squeezed her steering wheel, knowing the fire would be a huge loss—ten steps backward. The Corvette’s quiet offered too much to contemplate, and the terrors took advantage, leaking again into the forefront of her mind.
† † †
“And what happens when you die in a dream?” Vicki was eight and snuggled up beneath her big brother’s covers after a particularly scary nightmare.
“You die for real,” Michael admitted to her horror. “But don’t worry, sis,” he promised, answering her whimper. “That never happens.”
“Really?”
He drew his little sister in tighter. “It’s why, when you fall in a dream, you never hit the ground. Your mind always protects itself, even when it tries to scare you. It’s protecting you … keeping you from doing scary things. That’s why, no matter how scary it gets, you’ll never hit the ground.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Vicki rubbed at the ebony symbol marking her arm—it didn’t so much as smudge. Michael was dead and—true or not—Vicki knew the ground was coming at her fast.
† † †
After nearly ten minutes, Vicki found Roscoe’s car parked in front of the Hoods’ hangout on Main Street. She hoped he had answers. The store’s thick air reeked of ink, liquor and boys, as the thrashing black-metal music tore through the store. Racks of profane T-shirts towered between shelves of prank and drug paraphernalia. A glass cabinet filled with vicious blades, long and short, but all deadly, hung behind the counter next to a grim carnival poster—the clown’s eyes stopped her heart.
She stepped up to the shop counter, with no weapon at her side. “Where’s Roscoe?”
Boys circled her. “Donno, beautiful. He left his car out front.”
The one calling himself Joe Blood added, “I’m gonna start charging that asshole for parking.” The boys laughed around her. She knew already that coming in alone, and unarmed, had been a mistake.
Joe hopped over the counter. “But let me guess the real reason you’re here.” He stood too close. “I’m sure it’s a sex crime, and you’re here to investigate.” The boys behind him snickered as leering jeers encircled her.
Naked without her gun, her newfound exposure felt open like a wet wound.
Joe’s twin brother, Ben, grinned. “I bet you need a sperm sample.” He unzipped his fly.
“Best keep the samples warm,” Lee Blood added behind her.
Ben nodded. “Where you want to carry it, sweetheart? Your choice, but if I had a preference, it’d be behind those beautiful teeth of yours.”
“Fuck you,” she said, masking her terror.
“If you prefer.”
“Whoa, fellas. Let’s be reasonable,” Joe said. “She’s gotta carry samples from every one of us—that’s just good police work.” He leaned toward her, smiling, as she tensed against his tobacco breath. “We’ll need to spread it around her holes a bit.”
Wanting to scream back at them—threaten them—Vicki’s overtaxed body tried restraining her heart’s rapid pounding as her fight response quickly gave way to flight. While her training taught her to ignore malicious and offensive taunts, these felt more like a chilling promise. She fought to conceal her fear, but the growing grins across their faces warned that she was failing. “I have to go.”
“What? So soon? You haven’t even got what you come for.”
The circle tightened.
“Please, let me go.”
“Please. Aah, that’s so sweet. I like polite girls. They tend to be so much cleaner between their legs.”
“Umm hmm, yummy.”
The pack’s howls were cut short by the buzz of the opening door.
“Open a hole,” Roscoe yelled.
“Sure thing, Sheriff.” Two boys opened a narrow gap forcing her to slide between them as they humped their pelvises at her.
“Your beater out there’s in good shape, Sheriff. Made sure no one touched it for you.”
Roscoe ignored him and escorted his trembling companion out the door.
Joe called after the sheriff, his threat slithering between his teeth. “Next time, leave your keys, John. I’ll check on those leaky brakes for ya—they can be dangerous.”
“You know better than to go in there by yourself,” Roscoe whispered. “Especially looking the way you do. They’re like fuckin’ wolves.”
† † †
Vicki had hoped Roscoe would have more answers for her but he was at a loss. He had harshly defended
Deputy Parsons when he didn’t have to. By his reactions, she could tell he felt justified to be just as upset as Vicki. He has no idea.
Moving through this town without her partner felt odd. Originally unhappy about the arrangement, she had grown accustomed to Dashel’s presence. Without her gun felt worse. Roscoe promised her a loaner by suppertime.
God, I have to pee, she thought. She scanned the Main Street storefronts looking for the most likely rest spot.
Vicki didn’t see the muscular man on the corner—his gray hoodie hung low over his face and his hands pushed into its deep pockets—quietly watching her.
She hurried to Becker’s Bakery, its bell announcing her escape from the hot sun. The man behind the counter appeared to be locking his cash box when he said, “Sorry, I’m about to close up for an hour.” Mr. Becker turned to see Vicki. “Oh.” He looked her up and down, but the older man flushed at his own audacity. “Sorry, my dear, I have to run out for supplies. Do you mind coming back in an hour?”
“Actually, may I use your restroom?”
He paused for a moment, flashing a blend of panic and annoyance. “I need to go before my supplier closes. I’ll lock up behind me. You just need to turn the lock when you let yourself out, and it’ll lock behind you.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I saw you at the town hall, Agent Starr. I know who you are. Besides, you’re not going to retire to Fiji by stealing a few loaves of my fabulous marble rye.”
“Thanks.”
He motioned to the back as he left. She found the restroom just past the set of three small tables with matching chairs. A cute spot for a quick coffee and a muffin. The tiny ladies’ room had a single stall and small counter with a sink.
She was surprised to find such a low window in a public restroom; she could easily see into the back lane and any passersby would be able to see who was washing her hands. Small towns. She dropped her jeans and panties, and settled into the stall, both impressed and grateful at how clean the restroom was.
She relaxed and contemplated her smoldering crime scene. The familiar tingle suddenly cinched tight and stopped along with her breath.
The door to the restroom whined slightly as she heard the creak of a heavy footstep. Mr. Becker said he would be gone for at least an hour. Her heart hammered. “Hello?”
A water balloon struck the wall above her head dousing her in fluid. Gasoline!
Fifty-three
Horror ripped through her mind, slashing her thoughts back to her kidnapping: The smell of gasoline, the choke of smoke and the screams of the little girl on fire.
Feeling naked, her gun would have been useless—the muzzle flash would end her.
A boot stepped into view just outside the stall. Constrained by the tight jeans around her ankles, she immediately raised both feet, thrusting them forward hard while screaming, smashing the door open the wrong way, splitting the hinges as it slammed into somebody approaching on the other side.
She leaped to her feet and hopped from the stall toward the window. Her denim-bound feet slipped on the gasoline. She caught her weight on the counter when a hand seized her arm and yanked her backward. As she fell into her attacker’s body, she managed to spring herself upward catching him under the chin with the top of her skull.
Starved for breath, she inhaled a deep draw of fumes and drizzling fluid, causing her to instantly lose any air gained to retching coughs. Sharp fingers clamped the back of her thigh. She hopped away from the grip and toward the counter again, desperately trying in vain to kick her feet free. He came up from behind again but she managed to drive a hard elbow into his solar plexus. Terror filled her as she caught a glimpse of the lighter in his hand. “No!” she cried.
With tight, gas-soaked jeans bound around her ankles, she launched herself with a panicked dive through the low-hung glass. She stretched out her hands but still hit the gravel of the empty back lane hard as her leather belt caught on a sharp edge of the window, suspending her feet in the air.
She twisted onto one side to see hands grabbing for her kicking ankles and finally making firm purchase on the crumpled waist of her jeans. She screamed at the top of her lungs, spitting past the deadly fuel in her mouth. He lifted the lighter in his other hand, thumbing to strike it. In one desperate move, she pressed her elbow into the broken glass around her, raising the lower half of her body into the air, and then thrashed outward, knocking the lighter from his fingers and back into the restroom.
He disappeared for a moment, tugging the jeans around her ankles harder. He pulled on her again, harder and harder, trying to extend his reach and then relented, releasing her feet to retrieve the lighter.
She stole those seconds to kick wildly enough to free herself from her snagged jeans. The flesh of her exposed behind fell down hard, scraping against an old wooden pallet as she hit the glass-covered ground. Her rabid kicks quickly launched into a sprint as she screamed for help. The blinding sunlight and dripping gasoline blurred her vision but she saw her pursuer scramble out the window after her.
She only made it a few awkward steps; her shoes remained caught in her jeans dangling from the window. One of her pursuer’s hands on her hair ripped her head backward, and another hand grabbed her arm, and she spun. She was able to unleash three painful, targeted blows to his throat and torso before the barrage shifted to his advantage, and she was forced into defensive mode.
Fending off most of his well-trained strikes, a few broke through—connecting hard. Momentarily blinded by a stinging blow to the face—her mouth exploded with the taste of copper pennies—her left dropped its guard. He drove a solid fist into her stomach, buckling her to her knees.
He moved in with the lighter as she keeled over. Oh, no. She smashed upward with a hard blow against his wrist sending the lighter soaring again. The noxious fumes lined her lungs as she panted hard. They clashed in an even onslaught, blow for blow. Her vision burned and blurred as the gasoline continued to drip from her hair. He pounded his massive fists against her arms and elbows, her training repeatedly saving her body from the worst of it. One blow slipped though. His powerful punch caught her in the stomach again, lifting her momentarily off her feet and sending her crashing to the ground; her forearm blocking his hard boot flying at her face.
† † †
“Freeze!” Roscoe yelled. The attacker launched left and around the corner, Roscoe rounded immediately behind him. The powerful gasoline fumes momentarily distracted the sheriff, his mind quickly computing the likelihood of a fired bullet igniting the scene.
The attacker had stopped just around the corner expecting to be chased. The man rushed back at the sheriff with a sharp, surprise blow to the stomach—Roscoe’s breath exploding from his lungs. The sheriff fought to hold the grip on his gun as his knees crashed into the hard concrete. The powerful blindside was the most painful punch to the gut he’d had ever received in his life, and there had been many.
Winded, he realized Vicki’s screams had changed. Was she calling his name? His head was swimming. The fumes? The sturdy brick walls around him tilted as she cried his name again. Was she warning him? He was sure he could still hear the heavy footfalls of Vicki’s attacker getting farther away. His ears were burning now, could he trust them? Gasping for breath, he tried to focus his attention behind him in case another blow was coming. That tipped him over, careening forward as his head came down hard against the solid asphalt.
Another scream, “Roscoe!” Weaker this time. His breath wasn’t returning from the punch, but he could still smell the powerful poisonous fumes of gasoline wafting from her fallen body. She was hurt. He needed to focus. Call for help. His vision dazzled before him. He raised his fingers to his face to confirm that he could still count. His world went black just as he caught sight of his blood-soaked hand.
† † †
Vicki pulled herself t
o her knees and crawled to him, watching for her assailant’s return. “Roscoe.” She balanced her hands on his shoulder, lowering her ear to his mouth. Tiny breaths. “Help!” she screamed through gagging coughs into the hot afternoon sun.
She foraged for his radio. “Stay with me, John.” She repeated aloud, this time into his mic, “Help! Help! Officer down!” Her eyes shot to the dark shadow of the attacker’s escape, certain she had seen movement. She straddled herself over Roscoe in an unconscious attempt to protect him—her hands and knees burning on the pavement. Knowing she was doused in gasoline, not to mention naked from the waist down, it wasn’t the smartest idea. But her head was still reeling from the sudden brutal attack and the hard repeated blows.
Vicki forced herself to remain conscious as she reiterated her plea to the squelch and response from the station. She could already hear the speeding sirens approaching. Keeping an eye to the shadows, she took a quick, fumbling moment to pull off her jacket and wrap it around her waist.
She placed a tender hand on the side of the sheriff’s face, trembling uncontrollably—and not just from the cold, evaporating gasoline. Speaking tentatively, tears couldn’t flush the fuel from her eyes. “John, you stay with me, you hear?”
Fifty-four
Fully scrubbed and in fresh clothes, Vicki was still haunted by the scent of gasoline for a second time in New Brighton. Her body throbbed as she leaned against the doorway, too sore to sit from the bruising and the stitches in her left thigh and buttock. She watched Sheriff Roscoe recovering peacefully.
Deputy Parsons had just left with a description of the large hooded assailant with military-level combat skills. “He couldn’t have been a townie,” the deputy had admitted, “because he had a knife, not a gun. Everyone in town knows you’re FBI and that you were armed. Not that you could have used it,” she added, smelling the lingering hint of gasoline.
Vicki agreed. Only Roscoe, Hank and the pervert in the bushes knew that Vicki didn’t have her gun. Then there was the intimate nature of the attack. The balloon wasn’t conventional latex, which wouldn’t have held the fuel for long. Care was taken to plan an attack that took Vicki’s hypersensitivity to gasoline into account.
