CHAPTER Two
Lora curled her fingers around her offering, glanced to the left, the right, then crept down the long, white hallway.
Hate this place. She could already smell the death hanging in the air. Every step she took just brought her closer and closer to the dead, and she didn’t want to be there.
But sometimes a girl had to pony up.
The coroner’s office waited for her, just a few feet away. She could too easily remember the last time she’d been in that office. A little over six months ago. But then, she’d been numb. No pain. No fear.
That sweet numbness hadn’t lasted nearly long enough.
Just past the funeral, then the agony had hit.
“What do you mean, the guy didn’t die from smoke inhalation? He was in a burning building, for Christ’s sake.”
Ah, wait. She knew that voice. Lora paused outside the door, a door that Heather had conveniently left partially open.
“There was no smoke in the victim’s lungs.”
Lora’s fingers snaked inside the box. Curled around the delicious gift.
“No smoke—that means he—”
“Died before the fire began. See, if you look here…”
Lora pulled out her treat. Took a few fast bites.
Don’t need the bribe anymore. Not when the people inside were shouting out the information she needed.
“You can see that the victim suffered cerebral damage. The damage was extensive enough that he would have died shortly after the attack—”
“The killer hits him, tosses the body into a closet, then what? Sets the fire to cover his tracks?”
My cue. Lora pushed open the door. “Sounds like it.”
GQ didn’t look particularly surprised to see her. Those gunmetal-gray eyes didn’t widen a bit, but that hard, square jaw clenched.
He was perfect today. Fancy suit that probably cost way too much money. He’d clipped his ID on his left lapel. His hair—brutally short and jet black—framed a face that was handsome, with those tough, rugged looks some women went for.
Me, dammit. She’d always been a sucker for a rugged guy.
That jaw… those eyes… that deep brown tan…
“Uh, Lora? What are you doing here?” Heather asked, crossing her arms.
Heather Jennings. The no-nonsense ME with the weakness for…
Lora held up her box. “I was in the area. I picked up doughnuts. I thought you might like some.”
GQ snorted. “Who the hell has doughnuts in a morgue?”
But Heather had already snatched them away and—“Oh, why are there just eleven?”
Because someone had skipped lunch.
Lora forced a smile and kept her eyes away from the cold lockers in the back of the room. Her knees were knocking together, and to the right—oh, jeez, that was a body beneath that sheet.
Like before… “Lora, I’m so sorry…”
“Lora? Lora, are you all right?”
She’d stumbled back. Weakness, in front of the Bureau boy. Lora sucked in a sharp breath and tasted chlorine, disinfectant, and death.
Damn.
“Why are you really here, Lora Spade?” The drawl came from GQ.
Her brows lifted, and she fought to keep her control steady. “Heather and I are friends—a girl can visit her friend whenever she wants.”
But she never visited Heather here, never.
And Heather’s eyes said she knew it.
After a moment, Heather put down the doughnuts. “I, uh, was in the middle of briefing Agent Lake regarding the victim’s COD from that fire on LeRoy…”
“Oh, really?” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a casual shrug. Her knees kept knocking. “I was curious about him… I thought I—when I came in, I thought I heard you say he’d been attacked.” She let her eyes widen.
“Uh-huh.” Heather’s light blue eyes never left Lora’s face. Heather knew her too well to be fooled by the bribe. “Your guy was attacked, Lora. He was dead, long before the fire.”
The tension in her body eased a bit.
Not him.
“Right. Well, I’ll… ah, let you get back to work.” She’d gotten the info she needed.
Didn’t fit the pattern.
“Lora, will I see you tonight at Mickey’s?”
Lora gave a quick nod. Where else would she go? No way was she staying at home again with the memories. Besides, Mickey’s was the best bar in town, if you were a cop, a firefighter, or an ME. Mickey knew how to cater to his clientele.
Heather turned away and reached for the sheet. “If you look here, Agent Lake—”
No, she wasn’t going to look. Lora grabbed for the door, heading out quickly into the hallway. A few more steps and she’d be able to breathe again without tasting—
“Do you always follow up on the victims like this?” His voice froze her in the middle of the hallway.
Lora glanced back. He shut the door behind him, crossed his arms, and watched her with eyes that seemed too focused, too knowing.
She swiped her tongue over her lips and tried to pretend that her hands weren’t sweating. “I like to be thorough.” Wasn’t he supposed to be in there, looking at the body? And not looking at her?
His eyebrows rose. “I couldn’t help but notice that you looked relieved when the M.E. said the vic didn’t die in the fire.”
“It’s not my fault he’s dead.” She shoved her hands into her back pockets. She’d been up nearly all night, thinking about that guy, wondering, worrying, seeing him, over and over. “Now I know. Even if we’d realized he was there, it would have been too late for him.”
“That why you’re here, Lora Spade? The guilt got to you?”
Her face heated. She didn’t have to explain herself to GQ. Not today, not any day. “Why are you here, Special Agent?” Though she had a suspicion, and it was enough to make her stomach clench. “Why’s the FBI getting involved in a local murder? I wouldn’t think the big boys would be interested in that.”
Slowly, he uncrossed his arms and stalked toward her. Yeah, stalked, that was a pretty good description. “I’m always interested in murder.”
He stopped a foot away. She smelled him now, a crisp cologne, the hint of soap, man.
She turned her head toward the left. The police department was stationed in the building next door. “We’ve got a whole building full of cops who’d be happy to investigate a Charlottesville murder. Don’t really see why they’d need you.” Her gaze slid to him.
His lips started to curl. “You might be surprised.”
Or she might not be.
“You’re kind of a smartass, aren’t you?” he asked.
She blinked. “And you’re a real charmer, aren’t you?” Lora fired right back.
He smiled then. A flash of his perfect white teeth and—
Dimples.
Figured.
Heaving out a frustrated breath, Lora turned away.
He caught her arm, his fingers closing tight just beneath the sleeve of her T-shirt. “Not so fast.”
His breath blew against her ear, and her heart raced, thrumming way too fast right then. No, no, this could not be happening. Not with him.
“I need to talk with you about some… cases in the county.”
Okay, she hadn’t expected that line, and her flush deepened because she had expected him to hit on her.
Guess not.
She glanced back at him. “What cases?” Suspicion was heavy in her voice.
“Jennifer Langley.”
She tried real hard not to flinch.
“Tom Hatchen. Charlie Skofield.”
Holding his stare, she waited for the next words to come, and she knew he was gonna say—
“And Carter Creed. Creed—he was one of your fellow firefighters at—”
Lora knocked his hand away. “I damn well know who he was.” Can’t do this.
“I have some questions about those deaths. I need to know—”
“You’re SSD.” She nearly spat the words at him. How? How had this happened? “You’re the one they sent?”
The guy wasn’t perfect at schooling his expression. She was watching, closely, and didn’t miss the slight rising of his eyelids.
The SSD. One of the—supposedly—most elite divisions in the FBI. Newly formed, the Serial Services Division was the only unit in the Bureau specifically formed to track and apprehend serials. Serial killers, rapists, arsonists…
Like the serial fire freak that she was sure hunted in her city.
“You’re the one who called Hyde.” Certainty in that voice. Underscored with some shock.
“And you’re the superagent they sent.” Wonderful. Lora shook her head. “At least they sent someone,” she said, voice tight, “and didn’t just—”
“Something you should know, sweetheart.” Ah, some heat there. Okay, not just heat. The edge of fury. “I’m damn good at my job.” Steel backed his words.
Her eyebrows rose. “Guess we’ll see about that.” Time for full disclosure. “And, yeah, for the record, I’m the one who called Keith Hyde.” A real long shot, but she’d had to take it.
She knew when a hunter was playing with fire.
Lora was tired of finding the dead in the ashes of her fires.
So she’d used her connection and gotten the direct line for Keith Hyde, the man who was, for all intents and purposes, the SSD. He’d started the team. Handpicked every agent. And he chose the cases they covered.
“So you think you’ve got a serial arsonist in Charlottesville?”
Think? “I know we do. When you start investigating, you’ll see the same thing.” But the lead county arson investigator refused to see what was right in front of his face. The guy didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t handle the investigation on his own, that it was bigger than his office could handle.
Too bad. She was tired of seeing the bodies. So she’d gone over Seth’s head. Or rather, all the way around him to pull in the SSD.
But she hadn’t gone without backup. The chief had been the one to give her Hyde’s number. Garrison knew the score, and he’d recognized they were being outgunned by a killer.
A door opened down the hallway. A uniformed cop poked his head inside, his hazel eyes serious. “Sir, the suspect is waiting for you…”
“Suspect?” Her brows rose and, yeah, that was hope hitting her in the chest like a fist.
But Kenton’s lips thinned. “The junkie from last night. There’s a Detective Peter Malone—”
Yeah, she knew him. Too well.
“—he thinks Old Larry might have had something to do with the vic’s death.” One shoulder lifted. “I’m sitting in on the interrogation.”
“Well, um…” Her left foot eased back. “Good luck with that.” Lora turned away.
“I’ll be right there,” Kenton called out.
“Yes, sir.” The door slammed shut.
She kept walking. Another door waited for her, just a few feet away.
“You don’t think this death is related to the others, do you, Ms. Spade?”
If she did, Lora wouldn’t be walking away. She’d have been running to that interrogation room.
“Why not?” he asked, voice rising. “Doesn’t this one fit your pattern?”
Had the guy done any homework? Her fingers curled around the doorknob, and she glanced back at him. “No, it doesn’t.” His gaze seemed so watchful. “The fire junkie we’re after—” And, sure, she thought of guys like this as junkies. The fire was just as addictive as drugs. Lora swallowed over the lump that rose in her throat and managed, “H-he doesn’t kill the victims. He lets the fire do the killing for him.”
“This is personal for you.” He shook his head. “You can’t let the cases get personal. You can’t—”
A broken laugh rattled her chest. “It’s been personal for me… for months.” Her lips twisted. “Far too late to worry about distance now.”
It had been too late from the moment that she’d pulled Carter’s body out of that inferno.
“I ain’t killed nobody!” Kenton didn’t wince at the yell, and neither did the detective in the chair to his right.
But Detective Peter Malone did lean forward and lock his bright blue gaze on their twitching subject. “He was locked in, Larry. Sealed in that closet and left to die. You were the only other person in that building…”
Larry lifted his hands, and there was no way to miss their shaking. “I didn’t—I didn’t know anybody was there! Thought it was—was just me!”
“Did you start the fire to cover the murder?” Peter demanded, not letting up. From what Kenton could tell, the cop liked to drill hard and fast in interrogation. Some cops worked that way. Others were slower, sneakier.
One of the agents he worked with at the SSD, Monica Davenport, now she was one fine interrogator. She could make any monster spill his guts in five minutes or less.
The lady had a talent—one that worked particularly well with serial killers.
The guy in front of him was not a serial, and Kenton didn’t think he was an arsonist either.
Just a man who’d let drugs eat his soul away.
“You set the fire,” Peter said, “because you’d knocked the guy’s head in, and you were covering your tracks.” He shook his own head. “But then you got caught by the flames. The fire messed up your exit, huh?”
“What? No, man, no! I was just—just…” He inhaled, hard. “I had some—some drugs.” Whispered.
Not a big surprise. The guy’s body language screamed user, and one look into the man’s eyes had shown the pinprick-sized pupils and the bloodshot gaze.
“I swear, I didn’t s-start no fire! I didn’t kill nobody!”
Larry’s rap sheet backed that up. Drug charges stretching for pages, but no assaults, nothing even hinting at violence.
“Maybe you got high, and you got mean.” Peter stood and strolled around the table. “And the poor vic just got in your way.”
“Nah, nah, it wasn’t—”
“Tell us his name, Larry. He’s probably got a family out there, someone waiting for him to come home. Give us a name, help us out. And we’ll help you.”
The cop was pretty good.
Kenton watched the scene and waited.
Larry’s head fell. “Don’t know,” he mumbled. “D-didn’t do it.”
Same story, same verse—the one they’d gotten for the last hour. Larry had to be jonesing. His sweat soaked his clothes, and those twitches were just getting worse. But his story hadn’t changed.
Because it was the truth. Kenton had seen more than his share of liars since joining the Bureau. When perps told lies, their stories always changed. They’d swap up details and forget the original facts. It was just harder to remember a lie, especially when you were riding high on drugs.
Kenton stood, the chair legs screeching as he shoved his chair back. Larry’s head snapped up, and those bloodshot eyes widened. “Larry, what did you see last night?”
The thick lines on Larry’s forehead deepened.
The cop cut him a hard look, and Peter’s blue eyes narrowed. So? Kenton wasn’t in the mood for a pissing match. The cop had gotten his turn.
Larry swiped sweat out of his eyes. “D-don’t know what—”
“Before the fire started, did you see anyone else in the building? Hear anything?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Was… sleepin’…”
More like passed out.
“Woke up… s-smelled the smoke…” He sniffed. “Ran to the window…”
Kenton didn’t tense. “And what did you see outside?”
“You.”
Great.
Kenton turned away. This wasn’t their guy.
“Other… b-bastard didn’t help, but you—you c-came in…”
Kenton glanced back. “What other bastard?”
“Th-the one in the baseball cap… running… running down the street.”
Not many joggers in that part of town.
“Did you see the man’s face?” Peter asked.
Ah, now that would be the big question.
Larry gave a sad shake of his head.
Fuck.
The music blared, the drinks flowed, and the come-ons, well, came, but Lora sat in the back, cradling her beer and knowing that she really didn’t fit in at Mickey’s.
She couldn’t laugh with the others anymore. Couldn’t flirt. Couldn’t tease. Because she always felt like she had to be on her guard.
So tired of feeling eyes on me.
Either she was going crazy—yeah, a possibility…
Or somebody was screwing with her.
Lifting the beer, she took a long swallow. Heather wouldn’t be showing up tonight. She’d gotten the text just moments ago, and Lora knew she’d be cutting out soon, too. Can’t be here alone.
The band blared louder, voices laughed and cheered, and when she lowered the beer, he was there.
GQ.
She raised her brows and let her voice mock. “Well, if it isn’t the special agent man.”
He shook his head. “Don’t mess with me, Lora.”
Lora. She shouldn’t like the way he said her name. But with his deep voice, the name rolled on his tongue, and yes, okay, she could easily imagine him saying her name in that same way when they were alone.
And naked.
Too long without a lover.
Her fingers curled around the chilled beer bottle. “What are you doing here?”
He sat down beside her. Uninvited. It figured he’d do something like that. “You said you’d be here.” A pause. “And I needed to talk to you.”
The guy still smelled good. Looked good. “So talk.” They were getting stares already. Lora caught the eye of Tony Long, one of the firefighters on her crew. He raised his beer bottle toward her.
Ah, the night couldn’t get any better.
The news about their little meeting would spread like wildfire. Because with cops and smoke eaters filling the room, the gossip vine would run fast.
“I want your help.”
She blinked and all semblance of bitch faded. “Uh, run that by me again?” Bitch was her defense mechanism, so what now?
Those gray eyes were steady, and he seemed to inch closer. No, maybe he was just so big that he took up a lot of space. Her space. “I’m not leaving, not until I’m sure the area’s clear.”
The tension in her shoulders eased. “Good.” Because Lora didn’t think the fires were going to stop, not until they stopped the pyro out there.
“I want you to help me,” he said again. “I need a contact at the station. Someone to walk me through the crime scenes. Someone to tell me what the hell I’m looking at in the fire.” His arm stretched behind her, almost caging her. “I need you.”
Her breath came, real slow. “You have to—you’ll have to get approval from my chief.” But the chief knew the score. He’d been the one to send her to Hyde.
“Already got it.”
So the agent worked fast.
“Like I said… I need your help.”
She hesitated because there was something there in his eyes. This wasn’t just about the cases. There was a dark awareness lurking in his gaze. A hunger, a need she understood.
One that she shouldn’t be feeling.
But one that stirred in her gut anyway. One that had her thighs tensing, her heart beating a little too fast, and hell, had her wanting.
“Do you want to catch this guy?”
“More than anything.” I can still hear the screams.
“Then I guess for the time being…” He offered her his right hand. “We’ll be partners.”
Her eyes held his. Slowly, she reached for that hand. His fingers curled around hers, warm and strong.
A lick of heat shot right through her.
His mouth hitched into a half smile. “I think I’m gonna like working with you, Lora Spade.”
She pulled her hand back. “Working only, Kent.” The shortened version of his name rolled easily off her tongue. “Not screwing.”
Just to be clear.
He blinked. “Didn’t say anything about screwing.”
“You didn’t have to.” A woman knew signals. His weren’t easy to miss. Even if he did a good job of keeping those eyes up and off her chest. “I’m not looking for a lover.”
Just a killer.
“Seems a shame…” That smile faded. “But I’m not asking you to work with me so we can fuck.”
Ah, blunt. She could like that.
Like him.
But she wouldn’t.
She didn’t want any more pain. Special Agent Kenton Lake was the kind of man who could hurt a woman. Because he was the kind who’d walk away when the job was done, and leave her in the ashes.
Been there, not doing it again. No matter how sexy the package.
“Then I guess you have yourself a partner.” Her smile was a little mean, and she knew it. “We will bring the guy down.”
Some habits were hard to break.
He watched the man stumble down the street. The guy flashed cash at some punk kid and got a small bag in exchange.
The kid vanished. His prey didn’t.
He’d started to think about the man last night. Wonder about him. The guy had been pulled from the second story of that hell on LeRoy.
How long had he been up there? What all had he seen? Heard?
The flickers of fear had come then, and he wasn’t one given to fear.
Larry Powell. Finding out the guy’s name had taken two minutes. Picking apart the guy’s life—five.
Larry had made him change his plans. He wouldn’t have chosen tonight for the flames, but he couldn’t afford to wait. Not with Larry talking to the cops and that asshole agent.
No time to waste.
Larry scurried down the street, slinking and hiding like a rat in the dark.
This rat wasn’t gettin’ away. Not this time.
The fingers of his right hand rolled the match he carried.
“I read the case files.” Kenton leaned back and heard the vinyl booth cushion groan as he motioned for the waitress. “Different accelerants were used in all the crimes, different points of origin for the fires—hell, even different structures.” The woman might not believe it, but he actually did his homework.
On all of his cases.
Because Kenton took one thing in this world very seriously, and that was his job with the Serial Services Division. When his boss, Keith Hyde, told him to jump, well, he touched the freaking sky. So when Keith had given him a stack of files and told him to hit the road—he’d hit it.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked, offering a broad smile.
He pointed to Lora’s disappearing beer. “Same thing. Thanks.” Kenton waited for the woman to ease away, then he leaned in toward Lora. “Arsonists are like serial killers—”
“Uh, come again?”
“They like patterns.” So he’d been told by Monica Davenport, the SSD’s profiler extraordinaire. “They set their fires in a certain way, follow a kind of ceremony with them. This guy…” His fingers tapped on the tabletop. “He’s all over the place. There is no pattern.” If they were even looking at the same guy.
“The victims are the pattern.” Her voice came, slow, certain, and with a smoky, husky edge that ran right over his flesh.
Focus.
But focus wasn’t that easy when she sat there, wearing a too-tight black tank top—really great breasts—and probably those hip-hugging jeans she’d had on at the morgue.
And yeah, the woman had one fine body. Long, lean, but curvy in just the right places. Curvy in perfect places.
Kenton cleared his throat and realized that by bringing her on as his partner of sorts, he’d set himself up for some suffering and long nights. “What about the vics? They were all different: a woman, an older guy, a firefighter—”
He caught the slight wince on the last one. Of course, she would have known the guy. Probably worked with him. “Ah, Lora, sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter that the vics were different.” She shoved the beer away and tried to scoot away from him, too. Tried but failed. There wasn’t much room in the booth, and with that music blaring, he had to stay close to hear her. “That’s what Seth said. He thought the arsonist wasn’t the same at first because of every reason you’ve just given.”
Ah, that’d be Seth MacIntyre, the lead county arson investigator. The guy was already on Kenton’s list of folks to contact ASAP.
“I was there,” she said, “I saw what he did. And I know we’re looking at the same guy.”
He stared down at her bent head. “Just what did he do?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “He trapped them, and then he let the fire kill them.”
Another run-down building. Another drug hole for his prey to hide inside.
But this time, he’d be careful. He’d do a sweep of the building and make absolutely sure no one else was lurking around.
He pulled his ball cap low and tucked his match behind his left ear. He had some gasoline in his truck. Just waiting.
He’d planned for Larry Powell. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his gloves and took his time putting them on. A guy couldn’t be too careful.
Slowly, not making any sound, he crept toward the door. Just one story this time.
And really, half his work was already done. The windows of the ramshackle drug house were boarded up, all of them sealed with wood except the one on the far right. The one his prey had used to sneak inside.
The one he’d use, too.
Bending, he eased through the opening and smiled. Oh, this place would burn so well.
It was small inside, a tight, cramped space. The floor was littered with trash. A mattress had been shoved against the back wall and—ah, there was Larry. His prey rocked back and forth on the mattress, muttering.
He crept toward Larry and whispered his name.
Larry spun around, eyes wide, hands up.
He eased back, narrowly missing a swipe from those flying hands. “Easy…”
Larry blinked. “D-do I—do I know you, man?” It was dark inside, with thin strips of light coming in that one window. If the streetlights hadn’t been there, he could have worked in total darkness.
He’d always liked the dark.
His fingers curled into a fist. The leather stretched over his knuckles. “Maybe.” It didn’t really matter now if Larry had seen him at the last fire. The thrill of the hunt heated his blood. Power pumped through him. Rage. Hunger.
Larry’s eyes widened. Bulged. “Wait! I—I saw you b-before… you—you’re the one—”
He slammed his fist into Larry’s face.
“For some arsonists, it’s all about the fire.” Lora’s beer was empty. She didn’t order another. “They like to watch the flames, like to see the burn.”
“This guy doesn’t?” Kenton asked.
“People are in the buildings he burns. He knows that; it’s why he picks the places.” Her palm flattened on the tabletop. “The first victim, Jennifer Langley, was in a second-story apartment. He jimmied her sprinklers so they wouldn’t work. Nailed her windows and her door shut. We had to beat our way inside with an ax.”
Jennifer Langley. The Critical Care Unit nurse. Twenty-nine. He’d read the report on her, no criminal record, a woman who seemed to be well-liked by her neighbors, if not her coworkers. Apparently, they hadn’t thought the woman had the best bedside manner.
Yeah, he’d read the facts, and seen what was left after the fire…
Not much.
“She was alive when the fire started. Her neighbors heard her calling for help.”
Hell.
“She tried to break her windows out—there was glass all over the scene, but on the second floor—” Lora shook her head. “She would have fallen right to concrete, not that she ever had the chance.”
“The fire burned too fast.”
“It came right for her. We hauled ass to get there, Kent, knocked down that door…”
But they’d been too late.
Her gaze dropped to the table.
“You know about the fire triangle?”
He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see the movement of his head. “For fires to burn, they need air, fuel, and heat.”
“This guy manipulates the triangle, and he’s damn good at that manipulation. He punched holes in her roof so that more air would get in—and so the flames would burn faster.”
And so that Jennifer Langley would have less chance of surviving.
“For the fuel, well, he’d poured turpentine in three of the rooms in her place.” She bit her lip.
“Turpentine?” It’d been in the report, but… “How’d you know that?”
“We could tell he’d used an accelerant because of the way the floor was charred.” She exhaled slowly. “We ripped up some of the floorboards and baseboards, and we found a sample of the liquid. Seth sent it for analysis.”
Right. Turpentine. “And the second victim?”
“Tom.” She shook her head. “Tom Hatchen. He owned a garage here in town.” Lora glanced around the bar, then back at him. “Hatchen was working alone one night, late. Somehow,” her lips quirked, but there was no humor in her eyes, “the equipment he was using malfunctioned and an engine fell on his legs, breaking them. Pinning him.”
Shit. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
“The killer did that. He set up the whole fucking scene.” Her voice heated. “He left the guy caught like a rat in a trap, then used Hatchen’s own supplies—motor oil and gas—to soak the joint.” Her fingers drummed on the table. “But before he lit the match, the sick fuck called 911.”
Kenton stilled. He knew this, but hearing the fury boiling in Lora’s husky voice froze him.
“He told us that we had ten minutes or Tom would burn.” She licked her lips. “We were there in eight but the fire was already burning strong.”
And a man was dying.
He snapped the handcuff onto Larry’s wrist. Larry would wake up soon enough. He closed the other cuff around a pipe connected to an old radiator.
Perfect.
Time for a quick trip to the truck.
As he hurried out, he glanced at his watch. How long would he give them this time? The fire station was close by, but he planned to make this fire burn fast.
His gaze swept the street. Deserted.
He grabbed the container that he’d carefully prepared and loped back toward the building.
He poured some lighter fluid just inside the doorway. This line would ignite later. He’d start the fire in the center. Give Larry a nice show.
The fire was so beautiful, especially up close.
“Wh-what the hell?” Larry’s scream.
He glanced up and smiled.
“What are y-you doin’?” Larry wrenched at the handcuff. “Why the fuck you got m-me cuffed? What the fuck—”
He threw a stream of lighter fluid onto him.
Larry choked and sputtered.
Now he hefted the red container he’d retrieved from the truck. He lifted the container higher, and the gasoline spilled out in fat waves.
“Stop! Please, f-fuck, stop! Let me go, man, let me g-go—”
Some people couldn’t die fast enough. He kept a tight hold on his container—he’d be taking that with him—and yanked out the disposable cell he’d purchased.
Nine. One. One.
No.
“Charlie Skofield.” Her shoulders tensed a bit when she said his name. “He’d been in a car accident about four months back. Christ, it was one of the worst ones I’ve seen.”
He hadn’t realized that she’d been there.
“The driver—she never had a chance. When I got there, she was already bleeding out, slipping away even as she asked for her kids.” Lora’s breath was ragged. “We had to use the jaws of life to pry out Skofield. Some people didn’t think it was fair that he survived.”
Kenton’s eyes narrowed. “Not fair? Why?”
“There was no official ruling but…” Her lips tightened. “I know an alcohol-related crash when I see one.”
Yeah, he bet she did.
“He survived and a mother of two died, but Skofield… he was paralyzed from the waist down.”
The crowd had begun to thin. Final rounds were being called as more folks headed for the door.
“When we broke the door in at Charlie’s place, the first thing I saw was his wheelchair, just sitting right there.”
Kenton bet poor Charlie had been somewhere else. Somewhere much closer to the fire.
“We searched and finally found him. Charlie was on the floor. He wasn’t moving, but the flames hadn’t touched him yet. He’d poured a line of accelerant to circle Charlie.” Her eyes glinted. “This guy knows how to work the fire. He lets those flames rage, and he sets up his victims so that the smoke doesn’t kill them.”
Kenton knew smoke inhalation was often the cause of death at a fire scene.
“He sets up a burn line with his accelerants. He controls the fire and makes it burn just where he wants.”
The better to make his victims suffer.
“With Skofield, the fire—orange gold and so hot—was rolling near the ceiling above him. I knew that roof was gonna fall. We didn’t have much time to pull him out of that room.”
He knew how the story ended. Charlie hadn’t made it out alive.
Neither had Carter Creed. “You went in anyway.”
Her tongue swiped over her lips, a quick move that had his body tightening when he shouldn’t be thinking about sex. About fire and death, yeah, but not sex. Not now.
“Carter went in.” Pain there. “Carter was lead; he ran in first.” He heard the hard click of her swallow. “Then the roof fell in.”
She stared right at him, but Kenton didn’t think she saw him. Not at all. “Lora.” There was more there. It was personal.
“We got them both out.” One shoulder lifted, then fell. “But it was too late.” He saw her blink, real fast.
Aw, hell, he’d never been good with a woman’s tears.
But Lora wasn’t crying. She was shoving that pointed chin up, narrowing those incredible eyes. Glaring at him. “I don’t like losing victims to the fire, and I sure as shit don’t like burying members of my team.”
“No.” He’d almost lost an agent on his last big case, so he damn well knew the pain that could come from a hit like that.
Kenton touched her because he wanted to. A quick press of his hand against hers.
When the woman didn’t jerk right back, he was surprised.
And glad.
“I buried Creed. I stood over his grave. I put flowers down, and I cried, like everybody else.” Her hand knotted into a fist beneath his. “All because some sick freak out there likes to get off playing with fire.”
“Tell Chief Garrison a fire’s burning on Byron.”
“Sir?” the female voice said. “Are you at the scene? I need a direct address, I need—”
“Garrison can follow the smoke.” The fire would light up the sky. He’d see to it.
“Sir?” Hesitant with fear. Good. She should be afraid. They should all be afraid.
“The victim’s still alive—”
“Let m-me go!” Larry’s broken scream.
“But not for long,” he murmured. “Garrison’s men had better hurry.”
The men… and lovely Lora.
But she wasn’t on duty tonight. Pity. But there was no choice. Powell had to die tonight.
He disconnected the call.
“Please, m-man, I-I’ll do anything…”
He tucked the phone back into his pocket, shook his head, and walked out without saying a word.
“Don’t leave me! Don’t l-leave—”
The night air was thick and hot when he went outside. He glanced around, scanning the streets. He couldn’t take any chances. When he was sure the area was clear, he hurried back to his truck.
He knew better than to leave any evidence behind. The container went into the bed of his pickup. He ditched his gloves and changed into a fresh shirt.
When he went back inside, Larry’s sobs filled the air. Loud. Wet. Desperate.
He pulled out his match and lit it with a quick swipe against the wall. The flame flickered in front of him. So small.
He grabbed the brown bag he’d brought from his truck. Smiling, he ignited the top of the bag.
Fire could grow so fast.
As fast as Larry’s hope faded.
“Don’t, p-please…”
He bent toward the line of pooled fluid. “Maybe they’ll save you.” He tossed down the burning bag and stepped away as the flames grew.
“Don’t! Fuck, n-no!”
“And maybe they won’t.” He hurried back as the flames flared fast and raced across the trail of accelerant. Soon enough, the flames would drown out Larry’s screams.
He’d have to hurry so he could get to his hiding spot and enjoy a nice, clear view of the show.
Because it was gonna be good.
“So that’s his game,” Lora said, easing back. “He traps the victims, lights the fires, lets them watch death come—”
“And he calls in the firefighters.” Why? Because he wanted them to save the victims? That didn’t make sense. Kenton shook his head. He’d need Monica on this. She could work up a profile and help him figure out what the hell was driving the guy.
“You don’t get it.” Bitterness coated her words. “He sets it up as a race, but there’s no chance for us to win. Even if we get the vic, he won’t let everyone survive. In his fires, someone dies. Someone always has to die—that’s just the way he plays.”
A death game.
Sick fuck.