Nite Fire: Flash Point

by C. L. Schneider

  Evans opened the gate. He stood aside to let me through, and the smell hit me.

  It wasn’t smoke.

  Pondering its source, my gaze landed on the muddy soccer ball inside the gate. It slid then to the two empty tricycles parked on the grass along the front walk, one blue and one pink.

  Evans was staring at them, too. “You have any kids, Miss Nite?”

  “Me?” His question turned my thoughts instantly to the monstrosities my kind reproduced. The same fearsome creatures that had plagued my slumber for years were in reality our own mutated offspring: the savage nageun. The risk of mutation was near a hundred percent. Yet many lyrriken gambled with the odds to satisfy their libidos. I wasn’t one of them. “Kids are not an option for me,” I said. “Bad genes. What about you?”

  “I have a niece and a nephew. Clara is just a baby. My nephew, Caleb, turned four last month. He wants to be an astronaut. But I guess all little boys want to be astronauts at some point.” His eyes found the tricycles again. Subtle tension gripped his shoulders.

  It can’t be that bad. He’s new, inexperienced. He hasn’t seen death like I have.

  I put my assumption to the test. “How long have you been on the force?”

  “A few years. I signed up for the academy after college.”

  “Then this isn’t your first crime scene?”

  “No.” His tone darkened. “Just my first horror show.”

  “Aren’t they’re all horror shows?”

  “You say that like someone who knows.”

  “I was a cop down south for a while.”

  Surprised, he glanced at me. “And…?”

  “And now I’m not.” Leaving him with that, I jogged up the porch steps. The swing to my right swayed in the morning breeze. A muddy welcome mat sat beside the front door. Positioned nearly in its center was a pair of small sneakers with bright pink laces.

  I looked up from the sneakers to the officer guarding the front door. Middle-aged and impressively muscular, his uniform stretched across his chest as he put a hand out to block me. “Evans,” he growled. “If you’ve brought a reporter in here…”

  I opened my mouth to defend him, but Evans did fine on his own. “Does she look like a reporter?” he sneered, gesturing at my coveralls. “This is the arson consultant the Chief called in. We’re supposed to give her whatever she needs.”

  The man stepped aside. Eyes on me, he jerked his thumb at the front door. “Bathroom is on the right.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t need—”

  “You will.”

  Three

  Burned to ash from the waist down, their half-bodies were positioned in a circle; empty charred torsos stark against the white carpet. Packing tape covered their mouths. Railroad spikes impaled hands and shoulders, nailing the victims—a woman and two children—to the living room floor. Their ruined skin, ringing the protruding rust-coated shafts, had been cauterized to staunch the flow of blood. To keep them restrained but alive. To make them feel vulnerable and powerless, to steal their hope—and the hope of all who entered the room.

  It wasn’t merely the tang of death we were breathing in, it was desperation and despair. It was sorrow and pain. So thick, I didn’t need to be an empath to feel it. All I had to do was look at the face of the officer beside me to know; every soul who had entered the door had left sickened and angry, precisely as they were meant to.

  This wasn’t murder or torture. It was theatrics.

  The burning had been carefully done. The point of severance was clean and straight. There was no hurry. They’d likely been combusted one at a time, while they were still alive. What bones remained had been crushed with a heavy weight. Among the charred bits were the spikes that had penetrated their feet; still buried in the floor. A hint of smoke damage scarred the ceiling above each of the bodies, but the remaining ceiling and all four walls were clean.

  From the hall behind me, Evans said quietly, “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  Yes. “No,” I said, steady and convincing. “This is a new one.”

  I looked down at the boy. He was no more than eight with shaggy yellow-haired bangs and frog pajamas. The girl (clearly his sister by the similar features) was younger; five, maybe. White-blonde hair curled like a wisp of cloud around her face. A necklace ringed her small throat. Dangling from the chain was a tiny, silver, blood-splattered ballerina.

  She’s so small, I thought, persuading my mind to concentrate not on her, but on the trinket; letting it fill my vision. I wanted the girl to become as inanimate as the faceless dancer. Instead, my breath sped up—then the room. Time wound backwards with a rush of bitter wind and noise, and I became the ghost.

  The ballerina, yet unspoiled, lifted away from her neck as she spun; dancing in her room by the dim glow of a butterfly nightlight. Her smile was wide, without care. She was happy. Yet, I couldn’t feel it. My empathy recognized only the guilt resting in the back of her mind, and the child-like fear of discovery.

  Her mom would be angry if she found her awake.

  But all she ever wanted to do was dance.

  The ruffled hem of her nightgown swirled about her legs as she twirled, unknowing of the unhuman shape darkening the shadows outside her door.

  The moment left me with a jolt. The images faded to apparition as my own shape solidified. Time reset to the present, and I swayed slightly. Planting my feet, I squatted beside the last victim. In addition to suffering the same injuries as the children, the woman’s eyelids had been carefully seared off. She was made to watch. She’d also been made to bleed, based on the dry, crispy stains on the carpet around her lower half. The flow had saturated the matting well beyond what the other victims had lost. Though, whatever torture she’d endured, it wasn’t on the part of her body that remained.

  Standing, I went to work. I spent a few minutes categorizing the damage, studying blood spatter direction and wound degradation. Lost fluids had dried the carpet stiff. Rigor mortis had come and gone.

  As I was making notes, Evans cleared his throat.

  I looked up. “Something on your mind, Officer?”

  Stepping inside the threshold of the living room, his gaze wandered. It wasn’t a careless stroll. He was scanning a section at a time, looking for something odd or out of place. I kept quiet and gave him the time. Though it was unlikely Evans would find anything forensics hadn’t, it was his effort I liked, his instinct to try harder and look deeper.

  His gaze finally settling on the bodies, Evans shrugged. “I know but it looks like, but that can’t be it.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Well, the greasy residue around the bodies…there’s a sweet smell to it.”

  There always is. “Go on.”

  “I’ve read about things like this. The localized burning with no clear source, the residue...” Evans glanced away with a nervous laugh. But he couldn’t help himself. “I love the movies,” he said, with more than a hint of enthusiasm. “I like this city, the wild stories they tell, the urban legends and spooky stuff. It freaks people out. We get a lot of crazy calls, but I thought it was all hoaxes and drugs. I didn’t think…”

  “It happened in real life?”

  “I always wished it would. Not like this,” he added soberly with wide eyes. “I never wanted anything like this. But I’ve seen enough tabloids and late night TV to recognize the signs of…” Evans ran a hand over his face. “Forget it.”

  His conscious was at war with his excitement, so I let him off the hook. “I know what you’re referring to, and maybe you’re right. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The residue could be what’s left of an accelerant. I’ll know more after I run some tests.” I gestured at the bodies. “This happened last night, late evening. No one heard anything?”

  “It was quiet until the husband came home around 1:00 AM.”

  “Why so late?”

  “He was away on business. The calendar in the kitchen says he was due back today
. He must have changed his mind and drove home last night. Today is—was,” Evans corrected, “his son’s birthday. Guess he didn’t want to miss a minute of it.” Face grim, he took a few more cautious steps. His eyes were drawn back to the bodies, and I watched his stare travel as he studied the thin line of scorched carpet around their missing halves. “How do you burn someone with such precision?”

  “The easy answer? With a lot of motivation and ingenuity.”

  His eyes snapped back to mine. Revulsion held his mouth in a hard line. “I heard the forensics guys talking outside. They were arguing about what could burn this hot, yet be so closely controlled in an open room.”

  “What did they come up with?”

  “Nothing they could agree on.”

  “Give them some time.”

  “What about you, Miss Nite? Any first impressions?”

  “None I’m ready to share.” Evans was a smart one. I didn’t need him pondering things he shouldn’t. And I certainly wasn’t about to tell I already had a profile and a suspect who fit that profile perfectly. Me. I was more than capable of burning a body with such intense heat and precision. Many lyrriken were. We just didn’t advertise it.

  Not here, at least. Not in this world.

  The front door opened and closed. An older man in a dark blue SCPD jacket came down the hall toward the living room. Tucking his red plaid shirt into his jeans as he walked, he offered me a fleeting, apologetic smile. His pin-straight dark hair, sprinkled with gray, hadn’t met a comb in some time. A woodsy scented aftershave clung to his bristly face in an effort to make amends for his lack of a shower and shave.

  I wasn’t the only one who’d gotten dressed in a hurry.

  With a nod of acknowledgment for Evans, the man came straight for me. Of average height and build, his form was slim, except for the slight bulge of too much desk work starting in his stomach. His kind face balanced out a heavy, no-nonsense chin that made it easy to tell the smile he was giving me was forced. He tried harder to make the expression genuine, and laugh lines ringed his mouth. They were the only obvious tracks on his firm skin. Yet, my initial guess of his age was wrong. I’d put him at forty-eight. His eyes, the wise blue-gray of an experienced man, added at least a decade.

  He extended a hand. “Captain Gattlin Barnes.”

  I reached out. Barnes gave me a single solid shake. Catching my eye, he put his other hand on top of mine. But both the follow-up squeeze and his brief stare were full of authority, not warmth. It was a polite warning, letting me know up front that he was in charge. He wasn’t the paper-pushing, close-the-case-and-move-on kind of captain. In that one move alone, I knew Gattlin Barnes was the kind that would ride your ass until someone was behind bars.

  He had my respect already. Still, my usual methods of swooping in, finding the creature responsible and burying the truth, were going to be a little difficult under his watch.

  “Dahlia Nite,” I said, as he let me go.

  “Excuse my dress, Miss Nite. Saturday is supposed to be my day off. Then this damn mess…” he said in disgust.

  “No problem.” But ‘problem’ was exactly what Gattlin Barnes was going to give me if I didn’t soften him up. “Texan, right?”

  Suspicion narrowed his gaze. “Not many pick up on the accent anymore. After twenty years in the east I thought I’d about lost it.”

  “Almost.” My friendly attempt had backfired, but I wasn’t giving up. I glanced at his feet. “The cowboy boots were a good clue.”

  “Ah,” he smiled. “Christmas present from the wife.” Barnes gestured back toward the doorway, and we moved a few steps away from the bodies. “So let’s get to it,” he said, with a single clap of his hands. “The Chief wants some outside help on this one. Someone with a background in arson investigations who might have a different perspective than your average lab coat. The Fire Marshall thinks that’s you.” Barnes didn’t look convinced. “He’s a poker buddy of mine. Oren Parish?” He paused, waiting for my reaction.

  “I’ve always told Oren he would have made a great riverboat gambler, with those vests he wears and those steely eyes. I never could find his tell.”

  “Me neither. But I keep trying.” Barnes chuckled, and I knew I’d passed his first test. “Oren said he worked a case with you a while back out west. Said you have a knack for unusual fire-related cases. He even went so far as to claim you have some kind of instinct or sixth sense.” He’d voiced it like a question, so I nodded. “He also said you’re the best there is, but… I’m wondering how one gets to be the best at such a young age.” I said nothing, and Barnes took a moment to study my face. “I don’t mean to be rude and quiz a lady about her age, but I’m not sure you’re even tippin’ thirty yet, Miss Nite. Which has me wondering if the Marshall has you mixed up with someone else.”

  “Call me Dahlia, please. And Marshall Parrish knows exactly who I am. He’s an old family friend.” I dropped in a grain of truth. “I became a fire fighter because of him.”

  “You were a fire fighter?” Evans blurted. “And a cop?”

  The captain threw Evans a frown. He wasn’t happy with the interruption, but the officer’s words had sunk in. “This enthusiastic young man has a point. It does seem like an awful lot of turns on the hamster wheel to cram into one short life.”

  I smiled. At least his suspicion was endearing. “I promise, Captain, neither my age nor my lifespan is an issue. The point Officer Evans has inadvertently made, is that my background is unique and perfectly suited for your needs.”

  Barnes considered my bold words. I half expected him to show me the door. But there was a glimmer of approval in his eyes. He liked that I didn’t bend when he pushed me.

  For now.

  “Well, then…” Barnes said. “You best get to it. We’re keeping a tight lid on this until we can’t anymore. But those piranhas outside will be swarming soon. I’m counting on you to give me something to tell them even sooner.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I expect you will. I also expect a report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. I know it’s the weekend, so my apologies if you had plans. But there are no weekends, and no days off, until we know what walking freak show killed this family.”

  “Understood.”

  “You’ll be working with Detective Creed. I’m too damn old for this creepy shit, but he gravitates to it like a bear to honey.” Eying the victims one last time, Barnes turned away. He pulled Evans out into the hall with him. As they spoke, I set my bag down and took out my camera.

  I had an audience, so I walked the perimeter of the room in a standard spiral search pattern. I took my time, photographing everything.

  When Barnes left the house, Evans ventured closer.

  I glanced at him. “What can you tell me about the victims?”

  Removing a notebook from his pocket, he flipped it open and read aloud. “Woman is Ella Chandler, thirty-two, works in a hair salon. Her children are Carly, age five, and Scott, age seven. No—eight,” he added, throwing an apologetic glance at the boy. “Wife volunteered at a couple of places downtown. Soup kitchens, community outreach, homeless shelters. Things like that. The husband, Dan, plays golf. Neighbors called them friendly, but quiet. Husband was away a lot on business. Wife played tennis. Consensus is they were a nice, normal family.”

  To go with their nice, normal house. “How long have they lived here?”

  “The old lady down the block said Ella grew up in the house. Her parents died young, and she inherited the property. Husband’s parents are deceased, no siblings. Dan went to school in the city. Met and married Ella twelve years ago in a private ceremony. Been at the same job since he left college. No arrests, no violations, or parking tickets.”

  “Ordinary as they come. Has the husband given a statement?”

  “Not sure you can call it that. He was outside in the street, hysterical, when we got here. He went crazy when we tried to enter the house. EMTs had to restrain him. The hospital admitted him
for observation, but Mr. Chandler might be there a while if he’s still babbling when he wakes up.”

  “Babbling about what?”

  “Umm…” Evans tried hard not to laugh. “Dragons.”

  Refusing to encourage the dash of delight in his voice, I asked, deadpan, “Our witness saw a dragon?”

  “He claims he heard something strange after he left the house. Said he looked up and they were flying off above the trees.”

  “They? He saw more than one?”

  “Three,” Evans nodded.

  “Three dragons flew over the house and no one else noticed?”

  “Witness said they weren’t much bigger than man-sized. Which is small…for dragons,” he added uncomfortably.

  “Great,” I sighed. “Any idea if he touched anything? Was there any blood or ash on his clothes?”

  “He was clean. I think when he came in and saw this…he lost it and ran.”

  “Point of entry?”

  “Patio door off the dining room. The lock was melted. Not sure how the dragons fit through the door.” He flashed a sheepish grin.

  I said nothing. Evans fell quiet. He assumed I was thinking. I was trying not to.

  “I’m sorry,” I said at last. “Is there any way I can get some coffee?

  Reluctance came with his words. “I shouldn’t leave. The captain—”

  “Wants this done quickly,” I cut in. “I can do that a lot better with caffeine. Besides, you don’t need to stay for this. Go get some air. I’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” he caved. “Anything else?”

  “Just the coffee. One sugar and a splash of almond milk, if you don’t mind.” I hated almond milk, but I needed something to take him farther than the nearest gas station. “And could you ask the officer outside to keep everyone out? I work better when it’s quiet.”

  “Sure.” Evans wavered a moment before he left. When I heard him pass by the man on the porch, I put my camera back. I shed my coveralls and prepared to do the same with my human form. I couldn’t let go of it completely. Though the spandex top would stretch to accommodate my scales, I wasn’t interested in ripping another pair of jeans beyond repair. More importantly: there wasn’t a door on the room. Even if I managed to tuck my physical hybrid form away fast enough, the rush of adrenaline and aggression that came with a full change sometimes lingered. Anyone with an observant eye, especially a trained police officer, might notice the sudden anomalies in my personality.