Burned Too Hot: A Thriller (Val Ryker series Book 2)

by Ann Voss Peterson

  A man was dead.

  A child was lost.

  Val couldn’t change the past, but she’d damn well track down the killer, and she would find that little boy.

  Emily

  Emily Lang didn’t want to run away, not even once in the four times she’d done it. But that’s what happened to girls who were bad like her. They ran away. It was either that or stay and get hit.

  Emily might be bad, but she didn’t like to get hit.

  It hadn’t always been like that at her house. Her dad used to get mad sometimes, but he was hardly ever home. Now he had no job, no money for anything except beer, no time for her. Now he sat around the house and cleaned his guns and got mad.

  So Em left. Only this time she’d found help, a place to stay, a job to do.

  She grinned down at her little charge, dozing off in her lap. His long lashes fluttered gold against plump cheeks. The little fingers of one hand held a curl of her hair, the other balled in a fist, thumb in his mouth.

  The scream of a siren came from outside.

  The little boy’s eyes sprang open. “Mommy? Mommy?”

  “She’s not here, Ethan. Just me.”

  His forehead bunched up, his face becoming kind of square and tears welling in his eyes.

  Uh, oh.

  “Do you want another cracker?” She took one out of the box and held it in the air over his head.

  “Mine! Mine!”

  “Say my name.”

  “Cacker! Mine! Mine!”

  “Not until you say my name.”

  “Emmeemee.”

  “Yes! That’s right!” She handed him the cracker. As he ate, she resumed rocking, his warm little body relaxing and nestling into her lap.

  This might be the fourth time she’d been forced to run away, but this time was different. She had a place to stay. She had a job to do. She had a little boy who smelled like graham crackers to play with and sing to and rock so he didn’t miss his mommy like she missed hers.

  And if she did it right and made enough money, maybe she’d never have to go home.

  Maybe she’d never have to get hit again.

  Chapter

  Six

  Lund

  Lund picked his way through the ruins of the Tiedemann house, the remnants of a family’s life crunching under his boots. The preliminary part of the investigation into the fire was complete, but it wasn’t unusual for questions to hang in the back of his mind. This time only one face appeared, only one name. And he wasn’t sure if his concerns were legitimate or if he was obsessed.

  But whichever it was, he didn’t believe in making the mistake of not acting.

  Lund found Johnson talking to Chief Fruehauf out at Engine One, the only truck remaining at the scene besides the smaller Unit One. “Can I have a word?”

  Fruehauf was already walking away. “Go ahead. We’re going to turn the scene over, get ready to leave in ten.”

  Lund gave the chief a nod and focused on Bix Johnson.

  Orange hair askew, Bix always looked young enough to be a teenager, all freckles and gangly limbs. No casual observer would ever guess he was in his mid-thirties, and a damn experienced firefighter. “What is it, Lund?” Johnson asked.

  “You think Tracy would do me a favor?”

  “I don’t know anything where Tracy is involved. Not anymore.”

  The bitterness in his voice took Lund aback. Dempsey had told Lund that Johnson was having a hard time since being laid off his day job. But that didn’t mean Lund wanted details. In most circumstances, this kind of reaction would be his cue to let the question go. Only problem was, Lund needed Tracy, or at least what information she could provide. “You guys fighting?”

  “No.”

  “Then…”

  “We aren’t anything. She left me. Says there’s no other guy, but everyone knows that’s bullshit.” Johnson eyed Lund as if he suspected Lund was that other guy.

  “I just need to ask her a question.”

  “Ask away. Nothing I can do about it.”

  “It’s about her job.”

  Johnson said nothing, just gave Lund another look, wary and resentful as hell.

  Lund really didn’t need this. But he did need answers to his questions, so Johnson would just have to back off. “Great,” he said, then walked away.

  Without a phone number, it took him three times as long to track Johnson’s wife, or former wife or whatever, down at the jail where she worked as a corrections officer. And since she was now going by her maiden name, Tracy Sharp, it appeared Johnson hadn’t been exaggerating about their difficulties. Not the type to ask personal questions, Lund got to the point. “Tracy, I need a favor.”

  “Sure thing, Lund.”

  “A few minutes with Dixon Hess.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Then it isn’t such a sure thing. In fact, I can’t help you.”

  “He’s not taking visitors?”

  “He hasn’t accepted a visitor since the trial ended, even from his attorney.”

  “Not one?”

  “Nope.”

  “What if we ask? He might want to see me.”

  “His visitor list is restricted to approved law enforcement and his lawyer. Last I checked, you’re neither.”

  Lund was afraid this might happen. “How many visitors did he have before the verdict?”

  “Just his lawyer.”

  Same as the last time he’d been incarcerated. But Hess had reached the outside world anyway. “Sure I can’t do anything to change your mind?”

  “It’s not my mind that needs to be changed. But there’s no chance, Lund. The most I can tell you is what books he checked out from the public library’s jail outreach program.”

  He couldn’t see how that helped, but he was desperate. “What books?”

  “I was kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okay… hold on.”

  Lund held. It wasn’t worth the time.

  “Feng Shui Your Life, Aromatherapy for Every Day, Learn Rock Climbing in a Weekend…”

  “Never mind. Thanks, Tracy.”

  “Lund?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’s Bix holding up?”

  “Hard to say, Trace.”

  “Is he still going to Dr. Pender’s therapy group?”

  Interesting. Lund hadn’t known Bix was talking to the shrink. Seemed Lund was the only one who wasn’t. Of course, he’d been through that charade before. “You know us macho firefighters, we don’t talk much about stuff like that.”

  “That’s sure the truth. Well, take care of yourself.”

  “You, too.” Lund ended the call and walked back toward the vehicles.

  Johnson caught him before he reached the others. “Listen Lund, forget what I said. I know you wouldn’t go behind my back with Trace. I just feel so, I don’t know, fucking helpless where she’s concerned.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Been there.”

  Johnson nodded. “Get what you need?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then before we pull out of here, I want you to come see this.” Bix led Lund back into the Tiedemann house, picking through rubble. Near the rear, just to the other side of the spot where the fire had originated and under a section of collapsed roof, Johnson pointed to a gun safe about the size of your average high school locker.

  “Open and empty,” Johnson pointed out. “So you still think whoever set this fire is the same guy who set the others?”

  “You think someone set this to steal the firearms?”

  “Stranger things.”

  “Did the fire marshal see this? The police?”

  “Sergeant Olson was the one who pointed it out to me.”

  So Lund wouldn’t be telling Val anything she didn’t already know. But it might just provide an in anyway. A little ice breaker so he could bring the conversation around to what he really wanted.

  Grace


  Grace leaned on the manure fork and listened to the rhythmic grinding of Banshee’s teeth as the mare ate the flake of hay Grace always gave her when she got home from school. The guy who’d come to the house had really freaked Grace out, but this afternoon she felt better. Almost normal. Even so, she couldn’t help wondering if Aunt Val had been able to track the license number. With the fire and all, she might not have had a chance.

  Grace had caught the news on the barn radio when she’d first walked in. Tuned to the public station to keep the horses company when they were in their stalls, the radio had been broadcasting the story of a house fire in Lake Loyal. A man had died and a little kid was missing, and Grace felt horrible that she’d added to Aunt Val’s problems this morning when she was dealing with all of that.

  Now the host was going on and on in a zombie voice about living an authentic life. Grace didn’t have a clue how anyone could have a life that wasn’t authentic, but someone had written a whole book about it, so the problem must exist.

  Better get back to work. She had three stalls to clean. At least it wasn’t four, since they’d sold Freddie, but it was still a lot of work.

  It was easier to muck stalls after she’d turned the horses out into one of the paddocks, but since the grass was still brown, they’d just tear it all up before it had a chance to grow. So planting her shoulder against Banshee’s hip, Grace shoved her mare’s hindquarters until she was standing on the side of the stall that was already clean. Then she dug into the shavings with the fork, picked out the horse apples and wet spots, and tossed the dirty bedding into the wheelbarrow blocking the open stall door.

  Banshee continued to chew.

  “Hello?”

  At first, Grace thought the voice came from the radio, one of those callers who went on and on with hellos and I love your shows and how are yous before they finally got to the point.

  “Ah, Grace?”

  She dropped the fork full of manure and spun around.

  A man peered at her over the wheelbarrow. He wore a polo shirt, forest green, the collar clashing with his red jacket, but the rest was the same as she’d noted at dawn; dark hair, tense posture, a harmless appearance.

  If Grace had learned anything from Dixon Hess, it was that harmless looking men weren’t always harmless.

  She reached for her pocket. Empty. Her cell phone was still charging in the house. She held the fork in front of her, tines out. “Who are you?”

  At first, the man looked confused, as if he didn’t know how to answer the question. Then he held up his hands.

  “Who are you?” Grace repeated. “My aunt is the police chief. She’s supposed to be home any minute.”

  The man let out a breath and dropped his hands to his sides. “Good.”

  “Good?” Grace stared at him. “She’s not going to like you coming in here, threatening me.”

  “Threatening you?” He nodded to the plastic tines. “Who has the weapon?”

  For a second, the heat of embarrassment flooded Grace’s cheeks, and she almost lowered the fork. Wait. It could be a trick. “You’re trespassing. I’m protecting myself.”

  “You’re right. Good girl.”

  “And when Aunt Val gets here, she’s going to arrest you.” Grace said. And Aunt Val would, if she was actually on her way home. With the fire, Grace had no idea when she’d be back. “Get out of here. Now.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. That’s the last thing I wanted.”

  “Then get out of here.”

  “I need to talk to your aunt.”

  Grace’s heart doubled its pace, pounding like she was running the hurdles at school. What happened when he realized her aunt wasn’t on her way home? Would he get mad? Would he do something?

  “I can tell my being here is upsetting you. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “Then leave.” She didn’t mean for her voice to rise, to sound like she was begging, but that’s just what happened. She couldn’t help it.

  “How about if I go outside and wait in my car?”

  She nodded, and to her horror, her bottom lip trembled. Turning away, she hoped he hadn’t seen. When she turned back, he was walking out the barn door.

  Grace squeezed past the wheelbarrow and peered out into the aisle. The car she’d seen last night sat in the middle of the driveway. If she ran for the house, for her phone, he would see her for sure.

  She eyed Banshee, still eating as if her mistress’s angst didn’t bother her at all. In the adjacent stalls, Bo and Max shuffled and pawed, much more sensitive to human emotion than her bomb-proof mare.

  Grace supposed she could always saddle Banshee, ride to the closest neighbor, and ask to use the phone. The farm next door belonged to David Lund, but he didn’t live there. The next closest was owned by some crazy gun guy, and the house had burned to the ground. She wasn’t sure who owned the next closest farm, but no matter what direction she rode, help was miles away.

  How did this guy know Aunt Val?

  How did he know Grace? After all, he’d called her by her name.

  “Ah, Grace?” he said from the mouth of the barn.

  Tightening her grip on the fork, she pointed it toward him. “What?”

  “Do you have a phone? Could you call your aunt?”

  Grace stared at him. A second ago, she’d been desperate to reach her phone and make that call. Now it seemed like a trick. Had he been hoping to manipulate her the whole time?

  “Not until you tell me who you are.”

  “Please, just call her. Val will explain better than I can.”

  Grace’s cheeks heated again. Last night. This morning. This whole time she’d only thought about herself. Never once had it occurred to her that Aunt Val was the one this guy was after. “Why do you want to see her? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to do anything.”

  “Why don’t I believe that?”

  He took several steps toward her.

  “Stop.” She gestured with the fork.

  “I’m not going to say your aunt will be happy to see me. She won’t be. But this is important. More important than you know. I have to talk to her before I do anything. I owe her that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  He chuckled. Not a happy sound, but something low and a little bitter that made Grace feel as if he was deriding himself. “Please just call her.”

  “Not until you tell me who you are.”

  “Grace…”

  “How do you know my name? And why won’t you tell me yours?”

  He stood stock still in the center of the barn aisle, then his shoulders drooped, and he stared at the floor. “My name is Mark. Mark Sheridan.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “Because I’m…” He took a long breath then let it out. “Because Grace, I’m your father.”

  Chapter

  Seven

  Lund

  Lund hated investigations. And if there was one place he should hate more than anything, it was the Lake Loyal police station.

  Of course, this place looked nothing like the Lake Loyal police station he knew.

  Oneida Perkins buzzed the door open for him, and he stepped inside the old, brick building on the end of Walnut Street. The ceiling soared two stories overhead. The floor was rough concrete, the kind poured with a texture to prevent slipping. And while a series of cubicles huddled in the center of the room, much like they had in the old station, three stainless steel mash tuns still lined one wall, waiting to be sold off and removed from the structure that used to house a small, local brewery.

  “First time you been in here since you burned the old station down?” Oneida asked.

  “Yeah.” He inhaled the lingering scents of malt and sanitizer. He’d visited Val when the police station had been jammed into the corner of city hall. But last fall, for a brief time, he’d been involved with another woman, and things had become more strained between Val and him. This place was new to him. “It’s ho
mey.”

  “Only if you happen to live in a brewery.” She raised her penciled-in brows.

  He wasn’t sure if the hefty blonde was teasing or just disliked him, and he no longer cared. “Can I see Val?” he asked, trying to read the woman’s impenetrable stare.

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.

  “Oneida, why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “I just don’t trust you.”

  “Why?”

  She pursed her lips.

  “I know I was a murder suspect when we first met, but I turned out to be innocent, remember?”

  “We first met in high school.”

  Huh, the way she’d always acted, as if she had no idea who he was, made him assume she didn’t remember. “And what did I do back in high school to piss you off?”

  “You didn’t do anything… to me.”

  There was only one other Perkins that Lund knew. “Your sister.”

  “Cheyenne had the biggest crush on you. And you were an ass.”

  “All high school boys are asses.”

  Oneida didn’t crack a smile.

  “I always liked your sister. If I was a jerk, I apologize. I just can’t believe you’ve distrusted me all this time because of high school.”

  “I don’t care about high school.”

  “You just said—”

  “I care about Val. And you don’t have a very good track record with being sensitive to people I care about.”

  “I’m not going to hurt Val.”

  She snorted in response.

  Of course, she was right. He had hurt Val in his one disastrous attempt to move on with his life. But to be fair, he hadn’t wanted to move on in the first place. Val was the one who’d pushed him away. It was more likely that she would be the one to hurt him in the end.

  He’d share that with Oneida, but the dispatcher would probably enjoy the idea a bit too much. “Val has nothing to worry about with me.”