by Lisa Jackson
Hell.
He reread the passage. The stranger was a man named Calvin Gilbert who lived outside of Seaside and made a living selling firewood from an old pickup. He traversed Highway 26 from Astoria, Seaside, Cannon Beach, and a string of smaller coastal cities through the Coast Range and nearly to North Plains and Laurelton. He happened to catch a news report about Jessie on his television and he called the Laurelton police and was connected to Mac.
Re-examining his notes, Mac could almost hear the guy’s voice again. “I picked ’er up outside of the cutoff to Jewell and Mist, y’know? It was black as hell’s furnace and rain sheetin’ somethin’ fierce. This little girl is just trompin’ along, so I rolls down the window and says, ‘I could be one of them psychos, or I could be a guy just offerin’ you a lift,’ and she says back, ‘You’re not a psycho—probably a nicer guy than people think,’ and she jumps in and asks me to take her to this school. Saint Teresa’s, I guess.” Mac had interjected at that point, “St. Elizabeth’s,” and the fellow had said, “Could be. So I drives her there, and it’s still black as hell’s furnace, so I try to talk her outta gettin’ outta the truck, but she gets a little stubborn and says it’s where she wants to go. To change the subject, she asks if I cut my firewood off Highway 53. And I says, ‘Yeah, missy. How’d you know?’ And she gives me this sexy little smile and says, ‘I know things,’ as she gets out of the truck. Kinda eerie, like out of one of them damned Stephen King movies. Anyways, she slams the door and doesn’t look back. Not once. Which was okay with me, cuz I’m thinkin’ she might have snake eyes or somethin’, you know—that she wasn’t quite human. I watch her go, till she was out of the glare from the headlights, you know, and she kinda disappears into the darkness. Then I leave, though I didn’t want to, fire up the truck again and take off. Then I saw ’er face on the news, so I called you.”
“I appreciate it,” Mac had told him, though it didn’t mean much.
“You know what’s weird, son? My pickup was empty that trip. I’d dropped my load and swept the truck bed. How’d she know about the firewood?”
Mac hadn’t offered any explanation, expecting there was more evidence of Calvin Gilbert’s pursuits in his vehicle than he’d believed—sawdust, a chainsaw, bits of bark. Now he thought about that odd bit of information and wondered what Jessie Brentwood had been doing hitchhiking in the dead of night and why she’d asked to be taken to St. Elizabeth’s.
Not home.
Not to a friend’s house.
To the campus.
Where she probably died.
Shit.
The guy, Calvin Gilbert, it had turned out, spent a lot of time at a local watering hole and he’d been drunk more often than not, picked up for a DUI twice since that report. He hadn’t been specific about the date he’d found Jessie in the mountains with her thumb out. Had it been the day of her disappearance? Three days prior? Mac had tried to piece together the last days of Jessie’s known existence at the time, but Gilbert’s call had been almost considered a crank. A guy getting his jollies by acting as if he knew something.
But maybe he’d been straight with them.
Maybe Calvin Gilbert had been the last person known to see her alive.
Rolling the small bit of oyster shell between his thumb and forefinger, Mac considered Jessie Brentwood. She was secretive, had run away from home several times before her final disappearance, was somewhat psychic, by all accounts, and there was something about the beach that seemed to run like a thread through the fabric of her life. Why he thought that, he couldn’t quite say. It was more than just this bit of oyster shell, more than the fact that she was found halfway from the coast to Laurelton. But if she was hitchhiking—well, more accurately, just walking, apparently—along the highway that led straight west to the coast, where had she been? What or who had she seen? What was she looking for?
Hudson had said she felt trouble was after her. What kind of trouble? Did it have anything to do with her pregnancy? Hudson didn’t seem to know about that, or else he was a consummate actor worthy of an Oscar as he hadn’t even lifted a hair when Gretchen asked if he thought she was pregnant.
And Rebecca…Mac wished he could have talked to her more. She struck him as another person with secrets, though he couldn’t begin to guess what they were at this point.
He sat at his desk and thought, stretching minutes to hours. The department went into night mode, with only a skeleton crew at the station. He sat and thought, and thought and sat, and when he finally surfaced it was after midnight and all he’d learned from his ruminations was that this cold case—which had warmed right up with the discovery of the remains at St. Elizabeth’s—was cooling off again. Even when he got the DNA evidence, what did he have to compare it with? Just twenty-year-old hair with, he hoped, enough of the root attached to pull the DNA. But if not, how would he prove the body was Jessie’s?
“And it might not be,” he said aloud, accepting that fact for the first time, listening to his own voice finally entertain the possibility. As he left the station he heard the janitor warming up on “Blue Hawaii.”
Glenn Stafford was dead drunk. Drunken. Drunked…
He eyed the liquid at the bottom of the bottle and could not believe—simply—could—not—believe—that it was gone except for a swallow or two. He’d done that? Drank down the whole dang thing?
Vaguely he remembered the cooks going home and the wait staff closing up. Several people had stuck their heads inside his office and given him updates on the ending of the evening, but they were gone now, the restaurant closed. Scott had cruised through again and given Glenn the old evil eye.
Screw you, buddy. I’ll get goddamn good and wasted if I want. It’s my booze, too!
Now he staggered to the door, steadying himself on the jamb. The place was quiet. Unearthly quiet, he thought. Unearthly. Kind of like he felt. He could see his feet moving one in front of the other as he navigated his way toward the front entrance. Outside, the parking lot lights made little bluish moons on the pavement. Inside, the ambient lighting around the floor sent a diffused yellow glow to sections of carpet.
Glenn turned back toward the kitchen and bar area. What the hell? He deserved another bottle. He thought of Gia. Man, would she be pissed. Probably lying naked on the bed waiting, hoping he’d come in and screw her just to make a damned baby. Talk about taking the fun out of things. She’d called twice—or had it been three times?—but he’d told the hostess to tell his wife he was busy, and he’d let his cell phone go straight to voicemail.
Now he squinted at the rows of bottles of booze and caught sight of himself in the mirrored wall behind the hedge of liqueurs and spirits. Damn, Stafford. You’re…too…stocky.
“Stocky,” he said aloud, then grinned at his reflection like an idiot. Fuck ’em. It was time for another drink.
He rooted around and found an unopened bottle of Bushmills.
Clink.
He cocked his head toward the sound, his hand hovering over a bottle. He was alone, right? Hadn’t Luis said, “Good night, I’ll lock up, Mr. Stafford,” a little while ago?
The noise had come from the kitchen.
Or had it?
Maybe he’d tipped one bottle into another himself as he was checking labels. He was a little wasted. He could have thought he’d heard something from the kitchen. Yeah, that was probably it. He strained to listen, but could hear nothing but that irritating smooth jazz that Luis hadn’t turned off. Still…
“Hey,” he called, swaying on his feet, his fingers around the neck of his next bottle. Geez, maybe he didn’t need another drink.
He sniffed and froze. Wait a minute. Was that smoke? Was someone in the kitchen smoking?
“Goddammit,” he muttered. Holding the bottle by its neck, he weaved his way into the kitchen. Under-cabinet fluorescents showed him the gleaming stainless steel surfaces and he felt a moment of pure pride. Why wasn’t the restaurant making it? Why…
Glenn’s nostrils flared. The
smell of smoke was much stronger here. “Who’s there?” he yelled.
Bang!
Something hit the floor. Hard.
“Jesus!” His heart began to thud. “Hey,” he said, more cautiously, stepping forward, a sense of panic overtaking him.
Whoosh!
The sound was as loud as wind through a tunnel.
“What the fuck?”
SLAM!
The back door?
The skin on Glenn’s nape crinkled. Fear congealed his blood. Something was wrong here, but he was too drunk to figure it out.
He blinked as he realized smoke was billowing from a back closet, the one behind the stove. He tried to step back, but slipped and smacked on his ass just as molten gold flames suddenly shot upward. Glass broke, the Irish whiskey splashing over the floor. The stainless steel changed to a blinding mirror of flame.
“Oh, God!” He tried to backpedal, crawl away, but it was too late.
Glenn’s eyes popped open as a wall of fire rushed at him. He opened his mouth to scream.
Ka-BOOM!
An explosion rocked the restaurant. Glenn was tossed against the wall.
Trapped.
Crackling, wild flames shot outward. Heat seared his skin. His lungs burned hot as hellfire.
“Gia!” he shrieked, knowing he was about to die.
His mouth was an “O” of horror as he cowered and coughed, black smoke filling his lungs, his skin curdling.
He was screaming and screaming and the last thing he remembered was the roar of the inferno burning through his ears.
Burn. Burn in hell, you bastard.
I stand in the shadows, watching as the flames climb through the roof and burst against the night sky. Golden. Glorious. Rich. Like shimmering hands reaching for the heavens, as if in supplication, consuming everything in sight, black smoke clogging the air.
The fire is perfect.
And protection.
Far in the distance sirens scream and a few cars even now are slowing, people shouting. Panic ensuing.
I want to stay but I can’t be this close. Perhaps I can slip into the crowd, watch the spectacle unnoticed.
I must melt back into the shadows.
For now.
The phone rang loudly on Becca’s nightstand and she shot into a sitting position, her pulse leaping. She fumbled for the receiver and glanced at the clock as Ringo growled from the foot of the bed. One thirty-six? Who would be calling? Oh, God…
“Becca, it’s Hudson,” she heard as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Sorry to wake you. I thought you should hear it from me. Scott and Glenn’s restaurant is on fire.”
“What?”
“Scott just called. He thinks Glenn was still inside.”
“What? What?” Becca snapped on a light, panic running through her. Ringo was now on all fours on the bed, the fur at his neck standing on end. “No…we were just there a couple of weeks ago.” An image of Glenn with his short brown hair and thick build came to her. “There must be some mistake.”
“Something exploded in the kitchen, apparently. Or that’s what they think. Neighbors heard the explosion, saw a tower of fire shoot through the roof. It happened less than a half hour ago.”
“And Scott called you?” Becca felt sick inside.
“He’s panicked. Hoped that Glenn might have been at my house. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she said, climbing from the bed, her senses returning.
“No, you don’t have to come. I just wanted to keep you informed.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to come. See you soon.”
“Be careful,” he said, then hung up.
Be careful…
The same warning Renee had issued at Java Man, as if she’d known something terrible might happen.
The words followed her around as she stumbled into her clothes, brushed her hair into a quick ponytail, then ran out the door. She was in her car and driving to the scene of the fire before she’d really thought through what might have happened. The kitchen exploded? How did that happen? Faulty gas line, or a stove left on unattended, unwittingly? Or arson?
Becca shook that thought aside. Certainly until the ashes had cooled and the fire investigators had done their job, no one would know. And maybe Scott was wrong. Maybe Glenn wasn’t inside. She sent up a silent prayer as she pushed the speed limit down the dark, deserted streets.
Only when she was nearing Blue Note did the traffic snarl. She arrived to a blast of red and white flashing strobes from several fire trucks, their hoses arcing cascades of water on a brilliant orange and yellow fire that lit up the black night and sent choking smoke and heat at ever-growing clusters of bystanders, forcing them to wrap more fully in their jackets and robes and turn protective shoulders to the scene. The police force had barricades erected and the crowd was forced back several blocks.
Becca parked in the empty lot of a bank nearly five blocks away, then walked quickly toward the inferno. Television crews had arrived, vans parked near the barricade, helicopters circling overhead, reporters with microphones and cameramen in tow.
The noise was deafening. Over the roar of fire and hiss from the water spouting over the flames, firemen shouted and people stood talking. She found Hudson with one of the firemen who stood near a ladder truck, his eyes on the scene.
Narrowing her own eyes against the dense smoke, she headed their way, only to be stopped by a policeman and told to wait. Hudson, too, was pushed behind the barricade and he found Becca waiting. His jaw was set, his eyes dark, and Becca knew as he approached that the worst had happened, their fear for Glenn was realized.
She felt ill. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
Hudson nodded and ran a protective arm around Becca’s shoulders, tucking her to his side, which made her want to bury her face into his chest. The warmth of him brought memories circling just beneath her conscious thought, memories of making love to him. It felt ghoulish to be so intent upon her own internal thoughts with such a spectacle around them. A wall of heat burned over her right shoulder.
“What about Glenn?” she asked.
“They found someone inside. It was too late. No ID yet, but…”
“Dear God,” she whispered.
He told her he’d gotten the information from one of the firemen—Dave. They knew each other slightly, she learned later, so Hudson was offered up some information that he might not have otherwise gleaned.
Dave remained at the fire truck staring at the still-raging flames.
Hudson pulled Becca away from the barrier, deeper into the crowd, and she could feel the relief from the searing heat almost instantly, her hot cheeks cooling in the frigid night air.
“How could this have happened?” she asked, her throat dry and tasting of the soot that filled the air.
Through the crowd she saw Scott, who had spotted Hudson. He walked briskly toward them, his bald head shining in the fire’s hot light. He looked haggard and wild-eyed. Shocked. “The whole place,” he said. “The whole place. Jesus, all gone…and…Glenn…he was drunk.”
“You saw him?” Hudson asked.
“Earlier. Drinking in his office. He must have gone home…he must have…” He looked around himself. “But Gia…she’s hysterical.”
“Is she here?” Becca asked.
He put a hand to his head. “Oh, my God.”
They followed his look. Gia Stafford was being held up by a fireman who’d just caught her as she started to fall. She was crying, pulling at her hair, a down jacket covering her shoulders and torso while the hem of her nightgown dragged in the water from the fire hoses.
“They found a body, Scott,” Hudson said. “Dead.”
“No…” He shook his head, unable to take it in.
The crowd had edged closer, and one of the other firemen barked at them to get back. Hudson and Becca stood near a neighboring building and watched in silence for a while as Scott staggered away. They stayed long minutes, immobilized, mesmerized. Becca�
��s eyes strayed often to Gia, who softly blubbered and clung to anyone who came within reach of her arms.
It seemed to take forever before the flames came under control and the building became a smoking, stinking hulk with areas that glowed inside like yellow eyes in a twisted, blackened mess.
“You people need to leave,” one of the firemen stated grimly to the group as a whole. “Right now.”
Hudson suddenly inhaled a sharp breath.
“What?” Becca looked up at him.
“I think they’re bringing a body out. That’s why they want the crowd to disperse.”
Becca glanced past him to a stretcher being carried by two grimy firemen. A black tarp covered the contents but a charred appendage slipped out. A blackened arm.
She turned away in horror as the odor of seared human flesh made her gag.
“Come on,” Hudson said, “I’ll take you home.”
“No—I’ve got my car—”
Gia’s cries became shrieking wails and two of the firemen hustled her away from the scene though she clawed at them, desperately trying to stay.
“Mr. Walker?”
They both turned to see Detective McNally approaching them, his face grim. Not now. For God’s sake, not now! Couldn’t the damned cop just leave them alone? Becca looked away, aching inside. She wanted to make love to Hudson. She wanted to fuse her body with his and push all this away. She felt like shrieking and crying but she had no energy. Instead emotions churned inside her stomach and chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Beyond her cocoon she could hear Hudson talking to Mac about the fire, could feel his voice in his chest as her face was pressed close to his torso. It was an exchange of information between the two men. The body was still unidentified but from the wristwatch on its arm, recognized by Scott, it appeared to be Glenn’s. No one moved to tell Gia, who was being kept away from the grisly view. Becca felt her stomach heave and she kept its contents intact by pure force of will.
And then a wave came over her. That same inundating sensation that preceded a vision. She clung to Hudson for all she was worth.