Nocturne In Ashes: A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller, Book One

by Chase, Joslyn

  Together they ran. His father’s horror lifted him like a wave, carried him along in its wake. As they reached the edge of the camp, his father stopped dead, as if hitting a barrier. Side by side, they stood on the fringe of the future, staring at the spitting fire, guttering and nearly gone, at the gray tent, utterly still in the clearing. His father snatched the cap off his head, clutched it to his chest, and fell to his knees, sounds escaping his throat like those of a mournful coyote. And he—no longer a dragon, but only a boy—had stood in the frigid air, listening, and understood that his mother was gone.

  He’d been afraid to enter the tent, afraid to leave that fluttering edge of forest, wanting to cling to things as they were. But he’d done it, walking stiffly, lifting the flap, seeing the surprise and hurt frozen into her face, recognizing the betrayal she’d felt in those last moments. October had always been her friend.

  He’d tasted salt and knew that he was crying.

  As he was crying now. The tears dripped onto the leaves beneath him and he brushed them off his face with an impatient swipe of his hands. He rose from the ground and began to dress. There was more yet to do and he needed to be ready.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE SHOES PUZZLED HER. RILEY watched Nate’s feet as he climbed down the ladder and dumped the cleaning bucket down the storm drain. They were nice shoes, good quality leather, sturdy soles, black, understated, and three or four notches above the serviceable suit he wore. They were the shoes of a man who needed to be sure on his feet. This guy was a cop. As he squatted to tap the last of the spent plums from the bucket, she glimpsed a peek of shoulder holster, clinching it.

  She took in his long, lean build, dark hair and dimples. The dimples would do her in if she wasn’t careful. He handed her the bucket and took the ladder off her hands, manhandling it into the garage, returning it to its place in the corner.

  “What brings you to the neighborhood, officer?”

  “Well, aren’t you the bright one? I’m just looking to protect and serve.”

  “A cop that does windows. My lucky day.”

  He shrugged and smiled, looking away, his eyes scanning the road above the slope of the driveway. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water? I’ve got a long drive ahead.”

  “Of course. Come on up to the patio.”

  They climbed the steps that led from the lower level of the driveway to the yard and small hexagonal patio above. Riley invited Nate to sit and went into the kitchen for drinks, returning with a tray of bottled water, cans of soda, and a plate of Scottish shortbread. Nate thanked her and screwed the top off a bottle of water, draining half of it in one long swallow.

  “That hit the spot.” His eyes roved over the rhododendrons, past the plum tree, up and down the street, always moving. He turned them next on her, a quick survey which lingered for a moment on the gold wedding band. “Anything else I can do for you before I go, Mrs…?”

  “It’s Riley, remember? Riley Forte.”

  “Well, Mrs. Forte, I couldn’t help but notice your piano through the windows and with a name like Forte, you must be in music. Am I right?”

  Riley laughed. “It’s the first thing about my husband that I fell in love with. Although it’s pronounced for-te, with the emphasis on the second syllable and the music term stresses the first, as in for-te.”

  “What do you do, then, Mrs. For-te?”

  Riley felt the misery begin to settle over her again. He asked a good question. Was she now a former concert pianist? On hiatus, or finished for good? She didn’t know how to answer.

  “I’m a classical pianist. I rehearse mostly, do a little teaching.”

  Her throat ached around the unsaid words. She felt her face flush and an awkward silence grew, stretching and filling the space between them.

  Nate broke it. “And with a name like Forte, what does your husband do, Riley?”

  She pulled her water bottle into her lap and sat twisting the cap. “He was a firefighter. He died in a fire.”

  “I’m sorry. How long ago?”

  “Just over two years now.”

  “That must have been tough. Is it any comfort to you that he died in the line of duty?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Riley felt the emergence of the two hot patches that always bloomed on her cheeks when she was upset. People trying to be nice, fumbling for something consoling to say, often seized upon this question. She’d formed an armored shell, but this one still got through the chinks. She swallowed, and straightened in the chair.

  “He died while he slept, in a house fire. With our son.”

  Nate looked stricken. “Oh, Riley. I’m so sorry.”

  Before she could think how to respond, Mrs. Newcombe from next door ran across the lawn, dressed in tennis whites. She gripped Riley’s hands, clearly distressed.

  “Riley, dear, it’s happened. Rainier is erupting. Please come over.”

  She pulled Riley along and beckoned to Nate. As they approached the open front door, they were joined by a couple rushing over from across the street. Mr. Newcombe waited for them inside, in the large glass-walled room designed for gatherings. Groupings of sofas and chairs were scattered throughout, a wet bar occupied one corner and a smallish screen above it held the image of Mt. Rainier, wreathed in smoke and cloud. It was the other end of the room, with its massive, flat screen TV that dominated the space, overwhelming Riley with the spectacle. No one sat, they were all too dumbfounded at the footage passing over the screen.

  Mt. Rainier wore a cap of clouds, masking its summit. Far above the cloud cover, a black plume rose, a dark and ominous column, and below the white clouds is where the real horror unfolded. The mountain had exploded, its western flank bursting in a vast horizontal spurt, spewing gas, ash, and hot rock for miles, setting off forest fires and sending a wave of destruction into the valleys below.

  The pyroclastic eruption produced temperatures more than a thousand degrees Fahrenheit and the many square miles of ice and snow resting atop Mt. Rainier began to melt, mixing with dirt, rock, and all manner of debris, bulking up as it rushed down the mountain, creating deadly lahars, torrents of mud the consistency of wet concrete, thirty feet high and traveling at forty miles per hour.

  Riley stood transfixed, unable to grasp that what her eyes were seeing was reality, not special effects from an action film. Many of the scenes were overhead shots, from helicopters or from high ground. In some instances, it seemed doubtful the cameraman had survived, that she could be seeing what she was actually seeing. It was utter pandemonium and she felt her own problems shrink into insignificance. She experienced a wave of horror, tinged with relief, followed by pangs of guilt. This event would virtually expunge her fiasco from media attention, granting her respite. She looked at Nate standing next to her, his face a picture of grief.

  The disaster was so close and yet, at eighty-seven and a half miles, distant enough. They were safe here, untouched and unaware, never suspecting how far Rainier’s ripples would yet travel, and how violently they would be rocked by it here, beyond the shadow of the mountain.

  CHAPTER 20

  NATE RAN TO THE EXPLORER, cop mode in full swing. While he wanted nothing more than to reach Sammi and Marilyn and make sure they were safe, his responsibility was to the men under his command. The radio was spitting static as he opened the door and Rick’s voice came through in bits and pieces.

  “…copy? We’re a code four phhht phht your status?”

  “Rick, I copy. I’m a code four at Mountain Vista, heading back to you now.”

  “Bad idea phht phhhhhht pht stay put. I’m coming phht you. Phhht phhhhhht partial print, got an ID phhht phhht resident. Do you copy?”

  “Negative. Did you say you’ve identified the suspect?”

  “Affirmative on a suspect phhhhhhht Nate, I’ve got a name. Mountain phhhhht phht phhhhhhht…”

  The radio whined and popped, reverting to a steady stream of white noise. Nate dug his cell phone from his pocket and saw the
“no service” icon flickering at the top of his screen. He tossed the phone onto the seat, slumping against the steering wheel, staring into the distance, his brain racing inside his skull.

  Rick’s code four indicated that things were okay at the station, for the moment at least. He’d said there was a positive ID on the suspect and he might have indicated a Mountain Vista resident. He’d said to stay put, that he was on his way. If he’d heard right, that bloody golf jacket might be their biggest lead.

  Nate returned to the Newcombe house, where the crowd had grown considerably. He saw a telephone mounted in the kitchen but had no luck connecting any calls. Outside the living room, he hung back against the wall, just outside the door, and observed the people in the room as they clung in groups, broke apart, and formed new groups. Clearly, this was a neighborhood meeting place. The furniture had filled and most of the stools at the wet bar were occupied. A few free-floating groups formed near the television and the fireplace. He noticed Cappy Johanson, from the pro shop, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a pot at the wet bar before pulling up a chair next to a couple seated together on a sofa. The couple looked like the young, upwardly mobile type, taut, tanned, well-groomed. He had sandy hair and wire-rimmed glasses, smooth-faced and good looking, with a small, perpetual smile. Her hair was dark, forming perfect wings down each side of her exquisite head. Her complexion was olive-toned, her eyebrows beautifully shaped and perched over dark eyes, shot with sparks. There was tension in her posture, but everyone was feeling the stress of catastrophe.

  A male social butterfly circled the room, slightly effeminate in a lavender button-up shirt and loafers, but distinctly interested in the women present. Nate caught several of his comments, flirtatious even against the backdrop of disaster, and watched as the man fluttered around Riley, settling down beside her with a coy look and a hand on her knee.

  Nate detected movement from the dark end of the hall and watched a figure materialize, like a gossamer moth. She was silvery, her long white-blond hair brushing against bare shoulders, the boatline neck of her pale peach sweater pulled south to hug her upper arms. Her eyes were colorless, like pools with gray-speckled rocks lining the depths, and her voice was rich and smooth when she spoke, rustling his earlobe.

  “Excuse me, mind if I squeeze past you?”

  She made the four foot passage seem like an airless tunnel, her hips brushing his as she passed, leaving a trace of throaty laughter and perfume. She breezed into the room, drawing the eye of everyone inside, accepting it as a given. She hugged Mrs. Newcombe and stood, one hand cupped over Mr. Newcombe’s shoulder, exclaiming and commiserating over Mt. Rainier. Nate sensed changes in the ambient temperature of the room, heat emanating from some directions, a decided chill from others. The butterfly’s antennae were quivering. The purple-shirted man flitted off the couch and flew into the silver dome. The smooth-faced husband had shifted, turning away from his wife, and the wife’s tense posture had progressed to ramrod. Cappy Johanson’s voice grew loud and bantering as he turned to speak with an elderly woman in a wingback chair.

  Mr. Newcombe stepped away from the silver moth woman and turned up the volume on the television.

  “…in danger from lahars are being evacuated. Officials are warning people outside the evacuation zones to stay in their homes and off the roads. Do not park cars along evacuation routes.”

  “Thank you, Don, for that update. Viewers should be aware that power outages are imminent, many roads and ferries are out of service, and channels of communication are being knocked out by the effects of the volcano. If you watched our series on Preparing for Emergencies, you should be equipped with a battery-powered radio, a week’s supply of food and drinking water, and first aid materials. Above all, do not panic. We will make it through this, Seattle.”

  The newscaster’s bright smile didn’t play well against the scenes of destruction rolling behind her and the ribbon of disaster updates which streamed along at the bottom of the screen. Nate watched the neighborhood gathering from his post at the doorway, noting expressions and behaviors, reading faces and body language.

  Miles away, on another plane, the volcano raged. But here, in this time and space, he was hunting another sort of killer. Was the man he sought in the confines of this room?

  CHAPTER 21

  RICK HEARD THE NEWS ON the emergency radio and a dull, heavy thudding began in his chest. A wall of mud was headed down the mountain. Estimated at 40 miles per hour and showing no signs of slowing, it would hit I-5 in approximately 63 minutes, destroying everything in its path, wreaking havoc with transportation and communication routes. Rick knew he had to move fast, getting to Nate before the deadly wave hit.

  He grabbed his car keys and realized they weren’t his. Oh hell. The station was nearly empty. Personnel and vehicles had been dispatched to deal with the crisis. He had to high-tail it to Mason County and he’d have to do it in Nate’s gimpy car.

  He ran to the lot, started the engine, and was relieved to see the fuel indicator pointing to three-quarters of a tank. He gunned it and moved quickly out of the lot, joining traffic on the main road. As he approached the freeway, the tangle of vehicles jockeying for position increased and Rick saw that the entrance ramp was clogged. He thought about trying to cross through town, but envisioned the grid of red lights and bumper to bumper traffic. He needed to get around the Point of Tacoma, and fast.

  He racked his brain for an alternate route that might bypass the worst of the traffic, but when you’re surrounded by water, options are limited. Travel on the ferry seemed like a bad idea when a tidal wave of mud is imminent. It had to be passage by road, and that meant I-5 and the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. There were other ways, but none of them promised to be any better than this, and some of them would take him initially closer to Rainier. He had no wish to rush to his death. His best choice was to press forward, watching for opportunities to move.

  It took seven minutes to enter the freeway and he’d inched along for another six minutes when the coolant indicator lit up. A gap opened in the traffic and he took it, looking for another and again moving a few feet forward. Slow as it was, it was momentum and he hated to give it up. He cranked on the heater and turned the fans on high to draw heat off the engine, pushing the car ahead by degrees, but when smoke started to pour out from under the hood, he was forced to pull onto the shoulder. He’d have to wait for the engine to cool down some before he could open the radiator reservoir and add fluid. He flipped on the hazards, leaving the key in the on position with the fans blowing, and got out. In the trunk he found a pair of gloves. He put them on and opened the hood to get more air circulating around the engine.

  It was maddening to wait around under these circumstances. He understood what it was to be a sitting duck. Ten minutes ticked by and he told himself he could afford to wait only three more before he’d risk a faceful of scalding radiator fluid. When the alternative was a mud flush into the Sound, cranking the cap off a hot radiator seemed a minor risk. Due to the leak, the fluid level was low and he thought his chances were better than even. He wrapped his jacket around his head and covered his hands and arms as best he could, turning the radiator cap a quarter inch, waiting for the pressure to release, and then a quarter inch more. In this way, he removed the cap, sustaining only a minor burn on one forearm.

  He added coolant and water to the tank, sending up a silent prayer that he wasn’t cracking the engine block. As he finished, he noticed that traffic was thinning and felt relief wash over him, a relief that faded quickly when a patrol car passed by, issuing a warning from a mounted loudspeaker.

  “You are in a flow zone. A deadly mudslide is headed in this direction. Turn around and leave now. Do not delay. You are in a flow zone. A deadly…”

  The message repeated. Cars were turning around and driving north in the southbound lanes of I-5. Rick closed the hood. The car was ready to roll. He looked toward the Point of Tacoma and saw the big dome in the distance. He was so close and the road, n
ow, was mostly clear. He checked his watch. If he put the pedal to the metal, he could be on the other side before the mud came through.

  The patrol car stopped about twenty yards north. A uniformed arm extended from the window and the policeman inside gestured to Rick, an emphatic wave that said to clear out.

  Rick started the engine and belted up, his mind racing, weighing, deciding. He pointed the car toward the dome and pressed his foot to the floor.

  CHAPTER 22

  MARIE STRAUSS FLIPPED THROUGH A magazine off the coffee table, pretending interest, but her attention was focused on her husband. She watched him, through the curtain of hair that swept down as she leaned forward over the glossy pages. She watched Tim watching Jess.

  His eyes followed her around the room with hunger and longing, lingering on her bare, tanned shoulders, the restless silvery hair. Marie felt like she was shrinking, like she didn’t matter. A spark rose within her and she fed it a little, felt the smoldering anger build. She turned a page.

  The good-looking man who’d been leaning in the hallway entered the room, began walking the perimeter. Jess slinked up to him, offering her hand, maintaining the contact for an inordinately long moment. Marie watched Tim watching Jess, whose eyes were locked onto the man in the suit. Jealousy flickered in Tim’s face and the flame in Marie seared.

  She wondered how far it had gone between them, Tim and Jess. And for how long. She wished she and Tim had never come to Mountain Vista. Jess was a widow who wielded her frank interest in sex and her beautiful body like a flaming two-edged sword and posed a greater danger to the happy families of the neighborhood than the twisted stretch of Highway 3 that claimed lives every winter.

  Tim used to do his internet surfing at the kitchen table, but now he took his laptop to the den after dinner and often stayed up late into the night, tapping away, ignoring her when he finally crept into bed. Over the last three or four months, his work schedule had grown ever more demanding and he’d spent many nights “working late.” Last night he hadn’t arrived home until after ten, but she’d been around to the office and gotten no response to her repeated knocks at the door and at his window. And when she’d called him this afternoon, he’d been out of the office.