Nite Fire: Flash Point

by C. L. Schneider

  With his distracted, weight-of-the-world stare worse now than in his picture, I expected to see whatever trauma haunted him quite clearly. For the moment, though, his ghosts were quiet.

  “Dahlia Nite?” He extended his right hand. “I’m Alex Creed.”

  Confused, I glanced at his desk. The initial on his nameplate was ‘L’ not ‘A’. I made a note to ask about the discrepancy later and matched his formal tone. “Nice to meet you.” I took his hand. The man had a firm grip, but his gaze was fleeting. I wasn’t sure he’d looked at me long enough to actually see me.

  He offered a quick, “Same here, “with a follow up smile that was genuine, yet distant.

  Creed wasn’t unfriendly. His mind was simply too busy to commit to the gesture.

  The sleeves were rolled up on his white button down shirt. His blue and black patterned tie was slightly off kilter. With a glance at me, he shoved the knot up and straightened it, like it was something he’d been told to do.

  Meticulous with his desk but not his person.

  Work was his priority.

  “Is your partner coming?” I glanced around, trying to guess who it might be.

  Rolling down a sleeve, Creed shook his head. “I’m kind of between partners.”

  “Not anymore,” I smiled. “Not for this case, at least.”

  He paused, mid-roll. “I don’t do well with partners.”

  “Wow.” I blinked. “How very cliché of you.”

  “Not really,” he said, admitting to a preoccupied smirk as he finished with his other sleeve. “It’s a preventative measure. No partner means I have no one to worry about or argue with. No one to apologize to when things go wrong.”

  “Ah. The reckless loner cop. I’ll be sure to wear my seatbelt.”

  Creed grunted. My directness amused him.

  “I would have guessed your friend was the reckless one.” I gestured at the picture, and his demeanor changed. Discomfort stiffened his prominent jawline.

  I waited for Creed to glance at the photo. It would have been the natural, automatic response. Instead, he grabbed my eyes with his for the first time, and asked, “Do you believe everything you see, Miss Nite?”

  I stared into the man’s gaze, deep and blue like a tropical sea, and answered honestly, “Not half of it. But I think I know why your captain wished me good luck. Twice.”

  Detective Creed’s stare narrowed considerably, and I knew he’d sat across from Barnes like I had—feeling caught in the crosshairs—on many occasions.

  Sensing we were at a juncture, I smiled. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not big on partners, either. And I’m not here as a watchdog or a judge. I’m here to help you stop whoever did this.”

  “Stop or catch?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stopping and catching are two different things. ‘Stop them’ implies it’ll happen again. Like the killings weren’t one and done, like they were personal.”

  “Oh, they were personal. Intimate, even. They were also ritualistic and showy.”

  “Like a statement.”

  “Like opening night.”

  He was staring again, harder this time. I thought my opinion hadn’t gone over well. I wasn’t sure I liked it myself. The notion that the killings might continue and I was ill-equipped to stop them, that my fellow lyrriken had a pattern I had yet to see, wasn’t comforting.

  Bursting into my grim thoughts, Creed said, “We don’t have a single print or hair, or even a damn fiber to prove anyone but the Chandlers were in that house. It’s beyond clean, top to bottom. And not just the living room. Bedrooms. Kitchen. Bathrooms. Doorknobs. There’s no evidence anywhere. Outside of the crime scene, and maybe the basement, the place is practically hospital sanitary.”

  I stopped him. “The basement?”

  “First sweep turned up nothing. But it’s crammed full so it’ll need a closer look. What I want to know is…what kind of mess did our killer, or killers, make that required cleaning up? What were they hiding?”

  “It wasn’t about hiding. It was about flaunting. They wanted the carnage to stand out.”

  Nodding, his gaze drifting as he mulled over my words, Creed reached around me for his jacket. Our arms brushed, and he drew back with a hiss. Confusion tensed his forehead. “What the hell was that?”

  I shook my head, not understanding the question.

  Creed reached out. He touched me again. This time it wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t the light, tentative touch of someone you’d just met. His fingers caressed my skin with intimacy and purpose. “It’s…gone,” he said, rubbing and squeezing my arm.

  Pretending no one was watching, I cleared my throat. “What’s gone?”

  “The heat.” Puzzled, he released me.

  I hid my surprise with ignorance. “Heat…?”

  “Your arm.” Realizing he’d drawn attention, Creed pushed up his glasses and took a step back. “It was hot. Extremely hot.”

  Donning a smile, I tried to throw him off. “Nice one, Detective. But if you’re trying to pick me up, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  A streak of embarrassment ran beneath the five o’clock shadow on his face. I let him wonder a moment before I broke the tension with a laugh. He replied with a slight chuckle, accepting my comment as a joke. Yet, his stare was pensive. It lingered.

  Clearly, the man didn’t know what to make of me, which was better than letting him form an opinion—especially the right one. Because I did run hot. Yet it wasn’t something that should be noticeable in this form, especially by a human. And Creed was definitely human. Standing this close, I would have noticed if he were anything else.

  Going wide around me this time, he retrieved his jacket. “Dan Chandler is due to be released this morning. I want to catch him before he leaves. Maybe we can swing by the ME’s after. Have you read her report?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I’ll drive. You read. Unless…” Stopping to check his watch, Creed slipped on his jacket. “Do you need to be somewhere after? We can take two cars.”

  “Actually, I walked. It’s one of the things I like most about moving back to the city.”

  He was patting his jacket pockets, looking for something. “You lived here before?”

  “A long time ago.”

  Leaving off his search, he looked at me as if he could find the evidence to verify the statement on my face. “Were you born here?”

  I hesitated. It was a question I hated answering. Mostly for the images it conjured; the soaring mist-shrouded mountains, the lava falls and endless forests, the Citadel and the lairs of the elders, the City of Spires I once called home. “No,” I said. “I wasn’t born here.”

  “I don’t mean to pry. I can just usually tell.”

  “Where someone is born?”

  “I read people pretty well.” Breaking our gaze, Creed opened the top drawer of his desk. He grabbed his keys, his wallet, and his weapon. Sliding the latter away in the holster on his hip, he walked off. As I watched him leave without me, I understood why the man didn’t work well with others.

  I caught up to him at the exit to the parking garage. “Any thoughts on the case?”

  “Not here.” He pushed open the door.

  “You don’t want to discuss police work at the police station?”

  Creed tossed me a look. I was surprised when he held the door open for me. Less when he didn’t wait. No one was coming up so I matched his quick stride, stair for stair, and we jogged the rest of the way down with the strike of our shoes on the concrete steps the only sound.

  He shouldered open the heavy door. We stepped out onto the bottom floor of the garage, and city noise replaced the uncomfortable silence.

  Morning clouds had moved on while I was inside. Through breaks in the concrete, I caught glimpses of the outdoor lot, bathed in sun and decorated with rows of dark blue SCPD vehicles. Gas fumes and old cigarette smoke were sharp in the muggy air.

  Pressing the button on his keyring wi
th a chirp, Creed unlocked a tan sedan. I wasn’t surprised to see the interior of his car was as neat and orderly as his desk. It made the dreamcatcher hanging off his rearview mirror look frivolous and out of place. I didn’t ask him about it, though. He would either answer vaguely or make me work for it. And I had more important questions.

  Creed put the key in the ignition, but he didn’t start the car. He sat, with one hand on the wheel and his gaze locked straight ahead. After a moment, he turned in his seat and gave me a narrow meaningful stare. “You want my thoughts on the case, Ms. Nite?”

  His tone was a little intense. “Dahlia,” I said.

  Creed removed his glasses and tossed them on the dashboard. Starting the engine, he flipped on the air conditioner. As he backed out of the parking space, he said, “It’s fucked up.”

  I let out a snort. “I don’t think Barnes would appreciate that assessment.”

  “Barnes wants something that makes sense. He wants a normal cause of death and a normal suspect. I don’t have either. I have…”

  “Fucked up?”

  “Exactly.” He exited the garage and turned out onto the street. His glasses slid. I grabbed them before they went flying and dropped them in the cup holder between us.

  I studied him as he drove. There was an inordinate amount of irritation in the way his hands gripped the steering wheel. “This case makes you angry,” I said.

  Stopping at a light, Creed shot me a squint. “The way that woman and her kids were murdered doesn’t make you angry?”

  “Course it does. It also makes me sick and uneasy. Sad,” I said, as Carly’s face surfaced in my mind. “But you’re just angry. Not revenge-angry, or appalled-angry. It’s something else.” I crossed my arms, thinking. “Why did Captain Barnes put you on this case?”

  The light turned green. He went through the intersection and the next block before answering. “Maybe you should ask him.”

  I winced. “I’m not sure your captain likes me.”

  “Has he yelled at you? If he hasn’t yelled, he likes you. And even then it’s hard to tell. The way he chews you out with that polite smile on his face…” Creed shook his head.

  “It’s that Texas charm.”

  “Is it? I thought he was just a narrow-minded sadist.”

  I grinned. “Either way, I bet it keeps you on your toes. Though, I imagine you put yourself up there a lot.”

  “Formed an opinion of me already, Miss Nite? Don’t most science-types gather information before stating their conclusions?”

  “Science-type?”

  “It wasn’t meant as an insult.” He glanced away from the traffic to stress his innocence.

  “Relax, Detective. I’m flattered. But a lot of my work is gut instinct. At least, initially.”

  “You have a gut instinct about fires?

  “You read people. I read fires.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “You told the captain it was SHC, didn’t you? I mean, it’s a classic case. At least it would be if there weren’t so many inconsistencies that make the Chandlers’ combustion not so spontaneous. The mystery is: how. What did our suspects use to make it happen?”

  “Hold on,” I said, taken aback. Creed’s matter-of-fact acceptance of what most would dismiss as make-believe was worrisome and unexpected. “You know what a classic case of SHC looks like?”

  “I know what a lot of things look like. Doesn’t mean it’s what they are.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I didn’t. Creed turned his full attention on the road, and I took the opportunity to look at the file Barnes had given me. Curious after his colorful description of the medical examiner’s report, I opened the folder and scanned the top page. Most of it was what I expected. When I found something that wasn’t, the breath caught in my throat. “Engorged cells… Water in the airway…? But that means…”

  “They drowned. It’s not an official cause of death. Dr. Winters still has to—”

  “All of them?” I jumped in. “All three of them drowned?” Quickly, I checked the other reports. Closing the folder, I sat, gaping at the front. “Why didn’t I see this?”

  “Why would you? Most victims that are set on fire don’t drown at the same time.”

  Turning into the hospital parking lot, Creed stopped at the gate. I watched him press the button. I watched the gate go up and the cars go by as he hunted for a spot. But the neutral expression on my face as I did so was difficult to maintain.

  How do I cover this up?

  This is more than I thought. More than I wanted.

  If I do this, I’m putting myself under a Guild spotlight.

  If I don’t, Ronan is dead. And Carly’s killer goes unpunished.

  Dammit… Why am I wavering? What am I afraid of?

  It had been so long since I’d tangled with one of my own. Was I worried I couldn’t measure up? That I’ve become too human?

  “Miss Nite?”

  I looked over at Detective Creed. He was out of the car, waiting for me. Leaning back in to grab his glasses, he gave me a look that said he understood. The case was far from normal. Anyone would hesitate before getting involved. Yet, while he knew I was making a decision of weight, he just didn’t know how damn heavy it was.

  Glasses in hand, Creed moved back out of the car. Sun glinted off his half-open door as he lingered. He was still waiting for me as I stared into the glare, thinking,

  With a curse, I dropped the file in my bag and got out.

  We didn’t talk on the way in. Creed walked like he knew the place, so I let him lead while I concentrated on dodging the puddles of trauma drifting over the lobby floor. I was surprised an exit hadn’t opened here with all the death, grief, anger, and sorrow the hospital had absorbed over the years. Their formation, though, defied prediction. According to Guild teachings, sites of great battles and massacres, places with a high concentration of pain, were most likely to dissolve the barrier. Yet, I’d seen an exit develop at the site of a single death.

  The elevator arrived with a ding. We stepped aside. People emptied out, leaving their misery behind. It clung to the walls; a mix of new ghosts and old, shiny and pale. If I touched it, I’d be inviting it in, and that was something I tried not to do in public. There wasn’t always a visible physical reaction when my empathy kicked in, but sometimes my awareness would switch off or my body would seize. The idea of either happening in front of witnesses had driven me to build up a resistance to the unexpected onslaughts. It didn’t always work, but some control was better than none.

  We got in. I avoided the walls and stood in the middle of the elevator as the doors closed. Creed leaned over and pushed the button for the tenth floor.

  “This is what I do,” he said.

  I gave him an amused glance. “You moonlight as an elevator doorman?”

  “No,” he said patiently. “You asked why Barnes gave me this case. He gave it to me, because this is what I do. Odd, inexplicable, impossible…”

  “Fucked up?”

  He flashed a grim smile. “Exactly.”

  “So why you? Did you piss Barnes off that badly? Or is it a personal challenge, a thrill to solve the unsolvable?

  “It’s not any of that.” He pushed the stop button on the elevator and turned to face me. Calmly, like he hadn’t triggered the alarm, he said, “I hate it. I hate all of it. But I’m the last hope some of these cases have. And I’m good at it. Guess somebody has to be in this city.”

  “How good?”

  “Good enough that no one wants to hear the answers I find. They wouldn’t believe them anyway. So I give them ones they can believe. Most of the time the Captain’s satisfied.”

  “But not you?”

  “Closed and solved are not the same thing.”

  I stared at him, intrigued; far more than I should be. But I couldn’t help it. In a matter of seconds, Detective Creed had gone from inconvenient, to interesting.

  “Take that fire at the apartment building last night,” he said. �
�Twelve people dead. Four times that many injured. Witnesses said the flame burst out the door in a pillar of fire, like some goddamn blockbuster movie. Fire Department says gas leak, but…”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “No offense to your Fire Marshall friend, Miss Nite, but two incidents of strange fire fatalities back to back—and the second one is labeled and closed in a matter of hours? Gas leak is the easy answer because biblical smiting might have raised eyebrows.”

  “That’s quite an accusation.”

  “An accusation would be if I said it to Captain Barnes. This is conversation…” Creed tossed me a brief, purposeful look, “between partners.”

  “I see. So is there a written portion of the test, Detective? Or are we going straight to the secret handshake?”

  He cracked a grin and pushed the button. The alarm died and the elevator started again.

  “I’ve heard the stories,” I said. “Crime is up and weird is off the charts. That’s part of the reason I came back. To see if the Sentinel is really going to hell like everyone says.”

  “It’s not just here. Weird seems to be ‘up’ all over the damn place. And most people move out when violent crime goes up, Miss Nite, not in.”

  “And people who hate their job as much as you claim to, usually quit.”

  Creed said nothing, telling me it wasn’t an option he’d entertained.

  “So how did it start,” I asked, “your preoccupation with the strange? There had to be a first one, a case that kindled your interest. A reason you’re still here.”

  His eyes met mine. Pain muddied his gaze. Sorrow and wrath were there, too. And memory, I thought, expecting his ghost to flare to life. Whatever Creed was thinking about was far from pleasant. But as the elevator came to rest on our floor, his trauma remained hidden and my attention drifted to the odd sounds penetrating the steel; muffled shouts and alarms that turned instantly deafening as the doors parted.

  In the background of the sudden chaos was the tail-end of an eerie tortured scream.

  Pinpointing the location of the cry’s fading echo, Detective Creed emptied his holster, and we ran. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. The halls were a jam-packed web of chaos and noise. Emergency lights flashed on the wall, keeping time with the alarm. A single cloud of smoke drifted down the clogged hall as visitors and patients were being marshalled from their rooms and evacuated. Nurses squeezed by with clipboards and wheelchairs. Children cried as their parents hurried them past. Heat tainted the air. It was dwindling and far too sweet.