Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  “I’ll be outside the door. Don’t lock it.”

  She continued around the corner and into the kitchen—with Mac at her side holding a flashlight in front of them.

  “May I borrow the flashlight?”

  “No. You can figure it out in the dark.”

  “Thanks.”

  She was right about the draft coming in around the utility room door. She could only hope Mac wouldn’t put two and two together and realize that there might be a ready-made escape route. She quickly opened the door just enough to squeeze inside and then bang it shut.

  “Don’t take all day.”

  She didn’t answer. The gray light merely outlined the contents of the room, too dim to distinguish anything other than shapes. She immediately bumped into a table on her right but missed a packing crate on the floor in front of her. She was walking bent over with arms sweeping as detectors out in front. There had to be an easier way. She moved sideways until she found the granite counter. She could follow it along the wall and stand upright, checking windows.

  At first it didn’t register what she’d found resting on the edge of the counter until she’d examined it with both hands. A fish scaler, a knife used to scrape scales, serrated on one edge and sharp and smooth on the other. Only this tool was rusty, its tip dulled, and sharp edge pitted and split. Still, it was something. She quickly slipped it into the top of her right boot.

  She needed to concentrate and hurry. Find the broken window and get out. Each howl of wind outside the room’s split-log siding sent a gust of cold air across her face. The broken window was on the north at the back. She slipped and grabbed the counter. The floor was treacherous; tile, once slick from draining blood and guts, still had a coating of the industrial soap used to wash the offal down the drain. And now a dusting of snow covered everything. It was worse than walking on greased glass.

  The window was on the corner. Long icicles of broken glass caught in the frame moved with the wind. She would have to break the shards free before she could get out. And that would mean noise. There was no counter underneath this window. She would have to hoist herself up and over the sill and then jump or fall to the ground. She didn’t remember the deck extending around this corner. It was probably six feet to the ground. The snow would cushion the impact to some extent but not a lot. Not pretty. She was bound to cut herself going through the window frame. But she kept reminding herself of the alternative.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “Hey, give me a break. I just found the john.”

  She needed the packing crate that she almost fell over. If it would hold her weight, it would make getting out the window so much easier. She backtracked, working her way along the wall opposite the counter. Her toe hit it before she saw it. Quickly she grabbed the nearest slat and pulled. The scummy-slick floor made moving it easy and the howling wind muffled any sound. She had it in place in record time. But would it hold her? She was going to find out.

  She slipped off her heavy down coat, turned it around, thrust her arms in the sleeves and with the back protecting her front, the collar covering most of her face, she stepped onto the crate. She felt the slat under her right foot crack and she quickly moved her foot to the outside edge—an edge probably reinforced. That was better; it was holding. Standing on the crate put the bottom of the window at her waist. With both covered arms raised she struck at the glass and pushed outward, hearing rather than seeing the remnants of the pane break free. Glass pelted her head and her coat sleeve ripped. Behind her the door from the kitchen exploded and Mac leaped into the room, only to flip ass-over-teakettle when his boots hit the slippery tile.

  Go. Go. Go. It was now or never. In one arcing jump, she pushed off of the sill and tumbled free of the casement. She struck the ground, arms splayed, more of a belly-flop than a tuck-and-roll, but she was free. Gulping for air, she scrambled upright, silently taking inventory of moving parts. Everything seemed to work as she begged her legs to run. There would be bruises but the alternative … she had to remind herself of that … made a little black-and-blue amount to nothing.

  She started to her right, struggling to get her arms free of her backwards coat, when he struck. She hadn’t even heard him—only sensed, more than saw, his shadow at the last second. He’d lunged, knocking her flat. She pulled the scaler from her boot and twisted onto her back to face him, bringing the knife down with two hands on the handle. Surprise was on her side. The point of the knife gouged his eye and the serrated edge cut deeply across his cheek and along his jaw line. He screamed, sat back holding his face then blindly reached out to grab her but only got a handful of coat.

  Julie wiggled out of the coat and scooted backwards. She turned, hurriedly half-crawled on all fours, then stood and ran, plowing through the snow that was now more than a foot deep. She saw the smokehouse looming in front of her and, dodging a stack of alder, she ran for it. Would the door be open? Would it lock on the inside? Then she saw a better opportunity. The latticework skirting along the side of the deck nearest to her had a segment missing—just big enough for her to crawl into.

  Wouldn’t it be better to hide than stumble blindly on, waiting for Mac to overtake her? Her coat was gone and adrenalin was keeping her warm—but for how long? Wasn’t shelter of any kind better than the blowing snow of the open forest? She didn’t waste time, quickly dropped to the ground and wiggled between broken slats to pull herself under the deck. And then backward, inching away from the opening toward the foundation of the lodge. She put her hand on something furry but very stiff and swallowed a scream.

  Okay. She had to be realistic. She just might not be the only occupant under here—dead or alive. She could rule out spiders, thank God—wrong season and the altitude was too high for snakes … what did that leave? Rodents? No, most of them hibernated or she thought so anyway. Probably rabbits, and those she could handle. She willed herself to stop the mental babbling and concentrate.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  There was no talking—just one foot in front of the other—and progress was slow, at best. At the quarter mile mark, where the county road was met by the evergreen-lined lane to the lodge, Ben felt a burst of adrenaline. Close. They were close. He could only hope the choice to go the long way would pay off. Lieutenant Samuels paused until Ben was next to him to give a thumbs-up. Then both men stepped up their pace, made difficult because they were now directly facing the storm. But the moment the lodge came into sight, Ben sighed in relief.

  Fifty feet from the front door, approaching the lodge from the side, Lieutenant Samuels motioned Ben to move closer.

  “I think we need a plan. Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe the question should be, can you shoot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Here’s my boot gun. It’s not going to stop an elephant, but it could keep you from getting killed. You gonna be all right?”

  Ben nodded. The twenty-five was a lightweight and he hoped he wouldn’t be in a position to have to use it. The best scenario would be to find Julie taking a nap, just waiting for his return. But gut-level told him it was wishful thinking. He was straining to see any light in the lodge. Wouldn’t Julie have left the flashlight on? At least as a beacon of sorts? Maybe propped it in the window?

  “One of us needs to take the front, the other the back. Any preference?”

  “No.”

  “Too dark to toss a coin. I’ll go in the front and give a yell if it’s clear. Go around to the back. Don’t come in the house until you hear my shout. Got that?”

  “Roger.”

  Ben tucked the gun in his jacket pocket and started out. He’d stay close to the building and follow the driveway to the back. Snow was piling up on the north side of the lodge; the going would be slow. And what would he look for? Tracks were out of the question. Hearing anything would be a miracle.

  + + +

  Julie pulled her knees up to her body and willed her teeth not to chatter. The lack of a
coat was rapidly becoming a problem. And it had dawned on her that hiding under the deck was not the vantage point she’d need to warn Ben. How would she know if he were even near? And Mac … would he figure she hadn’t gone far? Figure she’d play it safe and stay close?

  Suddenly she froze. Someone walked across the deck, then turned and stepped off using the three steps just to the right of her hiding place. The person was probably two feet from the opening in the broken lattice. She stretched out full length and, on elbows, pulled herself toward a huge support post. It was two feet square and the indentation in the earth around its base might be deep enough to hide her. She kept her head down and held her breath. The beam of a flashlight rotated Klieg-like from one corner to another.

  Then it stopped. The owner was pulling back, standing, and walking back up the steps, turning toward the smokehouse. Mac. She’d just dodged a bullet—maybe literally. She slowly let her breath out and tried to calm the pounding of her heart. She was safe. He hadn’t found her. He would not look under the deck again. Now, it was a matter of waiting and hoping—

  “Juuuu-lie.” The first syllable was drawn out and carried on the wind, the second fading only to drop away in the storm. It was Ben. He was coming up the steps at the north end of the deck. She had to warn him. Mac was in the smokehouse but wouldn’t be for long. She wiggled forward, through the opening and raced up the steps nearest her.

  “Ben. Here.”

  The arm coming around her neck nearly pulled her off her feet.

  “Not so fast.”

  Mac snugged her against him and held the barrel of a gun to her forehead. Julie watched as Ben continued to come toward them, hands in front of him, palms up to show he wasn’t armed.

  “Let her go, Mac. All this can stop now. It doesn’t need to go any further—not with more bloodshed. There’s been enough.”

  “Stop right there. Don’t come any closer. I’ll decide what needs to happen.”

  “I wouldn’t think you’d want another murder on your hands.”

  “You can’t prove anything.”

  “All the more reason to let her go.”

  Then all hell broke loose. The back door flew outward, and as Mac loosened his grip to swing the gun in that direction, someone yelled for Julie to get down. She slumped, making Mac stumble, trying to keep her in front of him. But the blast blew him backward, his gun discharging harmlessly, as Julie sprawled on the deck. Ben picked her up, slipped his jacket around her, and told her everything would be all right. And just held her.

  Lieutenant Samuels was standing over Mac but there was no doubt—with most of his brain splattered over the smokehouse wall—he was permanently out of commission. Fast—it had happened so fast. But she was safe. She buried her face in Ben’s warmth and just held on.

  + + +

  It was almost midnight before a snowplow could reach them, clearing a path for emergency vehicles and two squad cars. The storm seemed spent. Wreak havoc and move on—wasn’t that New Mexico’s trademark? Snow like hell and all gone by noon the next day. Bad weather seldom stayed. Logs of alder burned brightly in the great room and Julie slept on the couch, too tired to mind the smell of mold. By two a.m., reports had been completed and Mac’s body placed in the emergency vehicle for the trip to the OMI.

  It was decided she and Ben would meet with Lieutenant Samuels at one o’clock the next day to notarize their statements. The only question left was Robby. Had he been killed with Wayne, his body carried out on the mesa? Maybe there simply hadn’t been time to do the same with Wayne. Or Mac, maybe Mac and Jonathan together had been interrupted. Only the interrogation of Jonathan could bring closure.

  By the time they got to Juan Tabo Boulevard, the sand trucks were out; major roads were snow-packed but passable. Lieutenant Samuels dropped them off at Ben’s truck and helped them scrape windows and brush away the foot of accumulated snow. The trip across town to the hotel took them more than an hour.

  Never had a bed looked so good. Julie began to strip the minute she stepped into the room.

  “Don’t you need music for that?”

  She hit him with a pillow. “Instead of being a smart ass, why don’t you check the phone messages?”

  Ben lifted the receiver, punched in the 2-digit code for voicemail, listened and sat down on the edge of the bed laughing. “Here, you’ve got to hear this.” He started the message over and held the receiver out.

  “Julie, it’s Mom, give me a call the minute you get in. We’re in a quandary here. Robby wants silver accents for your attendants’ dresses, but I distinctly remember the accenting trim on your dress is gold—am I right? I just think the dresses should match yours—in all but color, of course. I guess it’s not a big thing—we’re having a wonderful time. Your Dad and I are so thankful that Robby took a bus to come all this way to help. He is an absolute dear. Well, that’s all for now. Call as soon as you can. Oh, I almost forgot, could you call the florist in the morning? I still couldn’t get him to confirm fifty white poinsettias by the twenty-fourth. I hope the storm isn’t going to cause us problems.”

  + + +

  They slept in until eleven, ordered room service, showered, made love as if the world might end by evening and still got to Lieutenant Samuel’s office by one. Barely.

  “You know, when one partner’s dead, it’s easy to blame him for everything. According to Jonathan, it was Mac who killed Ms. CdeBaca, bombed her house, and killed Wayne. We couldn’t even get a straight answer as to why Wayne was killed. Somehow he got in the way. I don’t think he was supposed to have dropped Robby off at the bus station. I think Wayne suspected Robby might be a sitting duck if he took him up to the lodge. He lost his life because he saved one.”

  “Mac had nothing to gain by killing Wayne. I suppose no one really did unless Wayne knew some dirt—maybe knew Mac was alive and had killed Connie.” Julie was pensive. It bothered her that some things just weren’t making sense—nice and neat—no unraveled edges.

  “Mac thought he had a reason to kill Connie,” Ben added. “He was double-crossed—or maybe he felt she owed him more money and she refused to pay. He could have thought she’d set up Stan Devon to kill him. Bombing the house was more than likely done to cover up the killer’s tracks—if Mac was the killer. Yet, why would he kill the golden goose?”

  “My take is that the family hired Mac to do their dirty work. There was a lot of anger over Ms. CdeBaca’s giving up the family inheritance. I think bombing the house was done to destroy any documents concerning the will. But thanks to Julie, the pertinent information was saved and Ms. CdeBaca had already hired a different law firm and made her wishes known. Proving their involvement is going to be difficult.”

  “Have you talked with Cherie or Byron?” Julie was curious how the siblings would react.

  “They swear they don’t know anything. Byron passed it off as Jonathan’s hotheadedness—act first, think later. But he was quick to add that he knew his brother could never truly harm anyone. The sister’s one half-step from being a nut case. Seems obsessed with her business—something called Lavender and Lilacs—and with contesting the will. I don’t see her as a player in murder.”

  “What’s going to happen to Jonathan?” Julie wondered if blaming a dead man could exonerate him.

  “We’re a little low on proof. He may walk. He’s already hired a local hot-shot lawyer.”

  Did she care? Julie was probably a stickler for a person paying for his indiscretions … still there had already been so much sadness, so many irretrievable actions set in motion. But Connie had left her son a legacy—reunited him with his true heritage and family and guaranteed that his life would be easier than it had been to date. Connie would be pleased. Perhaps, it would be best to just dwell on the positive.

  Chapter Thirty

  The three weeks before the wedding flew by. And now she was down to her last four hours as a single person. Julie laughed. She couldn’t be more ready to give up that status. But it was nice to have some al
one time. A leisurely shower, time to do her hair. Her bridesmaid and maid of honor were picking her up. Bev and Robby had gone ahead to the church. They were consumed with details. Finally, someone to out-obsess her mother. But they worked well together, and everything had come together. It was hard to believe but dresses, flowers, a cake—all was ready. A knock at the door made her turn.

  “Door’s open. But it’s bad luck to see me before—” Julie caught her breath. Dark hair drawn back, sunglasses—the sunglasses she remembered—Connie’s leather jacket. But this woman was not about to save her life. Not this time—not if Julie could believe the .38 in her hand.

  “Cherie, I don’t understand.”

  “You stole my jewelry. I wouldn’t even have known if that lawyer, what’s-his-name Baxter, hadn’t included the set in his estate inventory. My father gave his bitch wife my grandmother’s diamonds and pearls on their wedding day. They were never supposed to leave my family. My grandmother promised them to me. ‘Cherie,’ she used to say, ‘these will be yours someday’.” She took a step toward Julie. “You have no right.”

  “I don’t expect you to believe me, but it was Connie’s gift. I didn’t just take them. They’re a wedding present. But I don’t think it requires a gun to ask for them back.”

  “Do you have any idea how much they’re worth? Nineteenth-century platinum, over fifty one- to two-carat diamonds in the necklace alone, nine- and ten-millimeter pearls. A French designer made those pieces for my grandmother. Over two hundred thousand dollars!—yes, that’s what they’re worth. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t know. They’re family heirlooms.”

  “Then they’re yours.” Julie walked to the bedside table, picked up the velvet bag containing necklace, earrings and bracelet and held it out. Cherie didn’t move.