Conflicting emotions rioting within him, Hunter pulled the Toyota into a parking spot a block from the large, rectangular redbrick building that housed Station 1 in Old Town. The bottom floor where the trucks, engines and vans were housed was dark. Some of the windows for offices and living quarters on the second and third floors glowed with golden warmth. At all times, a full duty crew occupied the building, composed of a deputy chief, three company officers, three firefighter paramedics and six firefighters. The crews were trained and certified in a gamut of technical rescue disciplines, including rescues from heights and depths, confined spaces, collapsed structures, and vehicle and machinery extraction. They could even perform dive rescues during amphibious emergencies. For now, all seemed quiet in the neighborhood this station served. That status could, and inevitably would, change in a heartbeat.
Living in the constantly alert tension between action and calm, the crew would be doing homey things like cooking and cleaning, maybe playing cards in raucous fellowship. A dull pain ached in Hunter’s chest. This had been his home away from home for many years. He’d been in line to eventually take a deputy chief slot, but unproven suspicion of negligence undid everything for which he’d worked and trained.
Every man and woman in there considered “safety first” a chief tenet and saving lives a prime directive. Their motto was Always Ready, Always There. Deliberately sabotaging safety was the lowest any crew member could go. Hunter couldn’t imagine any of his colleagues doing so, but he was going in there prepared to rip the mask off the culprit and, hopefully, that person could be induced to expose the murderous mastermind. God was going to have to orchestrate how this unmasking played out, because he had no time for subtlety or finesse, just a full-frontal charge and hope that the shock would shake something—no, someone—loose.
Hunter opened the door of the Toyota and stepped out into the muggy dark of a Portland summer night. His heavy hiking boots beat a steady tattoo on the pavement, carrying him stride by stride into a confrontation he dreaded as much as he welcomed this chance to know—really know—what had happened. He’d seen the way his crew looked at him after the tragedy. The suspicion and uneasiness that had replaced trust and comradery hurt him as much or more than his burns ever had, and in his shame, he had received their condemnation as his just due. Hunter had no reason to believe his former colleagues would view him any differently this night, but he was going to face them, look each one in the eyes and find the gaze that turned away.
Blood pumping hard enough to send faint throbs through his healing arm wound, he arrived at the station house door and mashed his thumb on the doorbell.
* * *
Karissa came to with a start. What had awakened her? No apparent reason presented itself. Maybe she’d simply gotten enough sleep. Her environment was dark and quiet and smelled soothingly of lavender. Where was she?
Then she remembered arriving at some rich guy’s house in Portland’s Arlington Heights district. She must have passed out and, judging by the softness of the mattress and pillow beneath her, been carried to bed. No doubt Hunter had done the carrying. The thought both comforted and repelled her. She should feel utter disgust, yet a piece of her wished he were nearby. Maybe he was somewhere in this house, or had he left her to go sleuthing as he’d proposed? Knowing Hunter, the answer was the latter. The guy did what he said he was going to do. A lot of people in this world could take lessons from his faithfulness. These traits flew in the face of his presumed negligence in the fire that took her sister and wounded Hunter, but what was she to think? What should she believe? Trusting Hunter now seemed like a betrayal of her sister, and yet, Hunter had wormed his way into her heart, and it was going to take more than willpower to dig him out again.
With great deliberation and effort, she shoved thoughts of the ex-firefighter away. He didn’t deserve her attention, and she didn’t have time to deal with the conflicting emotions thoughts of him aroused.
Karissa sat up cautiously, testing her brain’s reaction to the movement. Nothing. Not a twinge of pain. Maybe she would quit passing out at unexpected moments.
A digital clock on the bedside table told her it was nearing 10:00 p.m. She couldn’t have been sleeping more than a couple of hours. In the glow of the clock’s numbers, she made out the shape of a lamp. She reached over and flicked on the light. The bedroom she occupied was spacious, as was the ornate four-poster bed with ruffled canopy. Judging by the decor featuring ballerinas and princesses, this room was made for a young girl. An ornately framed photo next to the clock featured a sweet-faced child, probably still single digits of age, with sparkling blue eyes and blond pigtails. The owner of the space? Had Karissa displaced her? Or, more likely, the girl was traveling with the man who owned the house. Maybe the whole family was on the journey.
If Hunter wasn’t in the house, maybe the housekeeper had stayed behind, but if she had gone home, then Karissa could well be alone in this enormous place. Her heart rate sped up at the thought of her lonely vulnerability. Her only comfort was the belief that her enemies couldn’t possibly know her whereabouts.
Karissa swung her feet onto the floor, and her toes touched soft carpeting. She found herself looking straight into a mirror attached to a dainty dressing table. The reflection showed her bright hair tumbling in disarray around her shoulders. At least her cheeks had a little color, and her eyes looked alert. Wide-awake, in fact. She badly needed a shower, though. Possibly the open doorway next to the dressing table led to a bathroom. But if she grabbed a shower, what would she dress in afterward? This hospital gown needed to go.
She stepped to the doorway and flicked on the light. Yes, a bathroom. And better yet, fluffy towels were laid out on the marble vanity top, along with a set of clothing—leggings and a long-tailed shirt with accompanying undergarments, as well as a pair of flip-flops that look as if they would fit her. This housekeeper was nothing if not accommodating. Karissa didn’t waste another moment availing herself of the invitation to feel clean and decently dressed again.
* * *
In the moonlit dark of the massive first floor garage of Portland Fire Station 1, Hunter waited, inhaling familiar odors of diesel fuel and residual smoke that clung to the equipment. A half hour ago, he’d been chatting up his former firefighter friends in the living area upstairs, pretending like crazy that he wasn’t affected by the reserve of his ex-comrades or the stilted nature of the conversation. With casual care, he’d dropped hints that he was going to pressure the powers that be to look more closely into his case. He wasn’t satisfied with this inconclusive limbo. All of his former buddies had seemed uncomfortable with that idea, but one guy—Ethan Crenshaw, a rookie at the time of Anissa’s fatal house fire—went pale and stuck out his chin like he was angry, the kind of anger that was fed by the fear that lurked behind his eyes.
Then Hunter had left the station—or pretended to leave. A pair of his former comrades had escorted him to the door and let him out. He pretended to walk away, but as soon as he’d heard footsteps retreating from the doorway, he’d turned back quickly and grabbed the door in the nick of time before it could shut and latch, locking him out. Now, he waited between a hose-laden fire engine and a ladder truck. Soon, the lights in the stairwell leading up to the living quarters winked out. Sack time for the duty crew. In their line of work, sleep was a precious commodity.
Slightly less than ten minutes later, Hunter made out a shadowy figure creeping down the stairs. The man reached the bottom step and tiptoed past a small window, exposing his face in a stream of light from the street. Ethan, all right. Then the guy stepped deeper into the darkness. Hunter soft-footed closer then ducked behind an EMT truck as Ethan awakened his phone and tapped in a number. Hunter activated the record feature on his own cell in his pants pocket.
“Raines was here!” Hunter’s quarry whisper-rasped into the phone then paused to receive what must have been a sharp response, because the guy jerked as if struck.
“I don’t care if you told me not to call you. He showed up, and I’m telling you, he knows something’s hinky.” Then Crenshaw’s shoulders relaxed. “All right, you take care of it, then, because if I go down for this, you will, too.” More muffled but sharp words from the other end sent the guy’s free hand into the air in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not threatening you, man. Just stating a fact.”
Crenshaw ended the call and turned straight into Hunter’s chest as he stepped out from behind cover.
Quick as a cobra, Hunter snatched the phone from the other man’s hand and pocketed it. “Who were you talking to?”
For answer, Crenshaw backpedaled and grabbed up a tire iron lying on the bumper of nearby truck. The man took a vicious swipe at Hunter’s head. He ducked sideways barely in time for the attack to whistle past his ear. The iron hit the rear of the truck with a loud clang. Ethan pursued Hunter in a mad frenzy of blows that he avoided only by keeping his cool and bobbing and weaving. If his opponent started frothing at the mouth, Hunter wouldn’t be surprised. The guy was fighting on the adrenaline rush of sheer panic and creating a ruckus of dented metal and smashed glass.
Very soon alarmed shouts and running feet sounded overhead and then descended the stairs toward the combatants. Hunter kept his attention on that viciously swinging iron and at last spotted his chance when the tool buried itself in the side of a pumper truck. He rammed his shoulder into Crenshaw, breaking the man’s hold on his deadly weapon. Then he followed up with a jab into his assailant’s kidney that doubled him over. Hunter’s other fist delivered an uppercut to Crenshaw’s jaw, and the man collapsed and lay retching on the cement.
“What’s going on down here?” Deputy Chief James strode forward.
“Here’s the guy who sabotaged the equipment during the fatal fire where I was injured.” Hunter jabbed a finger toward his downed opponent.
“Don’t believe him,” Crenshaw wailed and followed up with curses.
“Shut up,” James barked. “You going after Hunter with a tire iron doesn’t look too great for you.” The captain returned his attention to Hunter. “What proof do you have?”
He pulled out his phone and played the conversation he’d recorded. Context and tone made the meaning abundantly clear. The eyes of Hunter’s former comrades that had so recently gazed at him with suspicion now glared daggers at the man cowering on the floor.
“Who paid you to betray your entire code of honor?” Hunter demanded.
“Not money.” Crenshaw denied and sat up, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth. “He threatened my family.”
“Who?” Hunter and James demanded simultaneously.
“I don’t know.” Crenshaw sniffled, utterly broken. “I only dealt with a go-between.”
A slow burn crept through every atom of Hunter’s body. Over the past two years, he had endured the torture of recovery from his injuries, as well as the panic attacks and torment of a conscience that never rested. He’d left his life’s work and buried himself in the backwoods as a form of defense against his shame. Shame that he now discovered had never been his to begin with. Even worse, the awful truth was confirmed: Karissa had lost her twin sister—not simply to a tragic, accidental fire—but to deliberate and diabolical murder.
Hunter pulled Crenshaw’s phone from his pocket and accessed the call log. The last number his traitorous colleague had called was unfamiliar to Hunter. He handed the phone to the deputy chief.
“I’ve got to go. I left someone alone who needs protecting, and I need to get back to her. I’m trusting you to contact law enforcement and find out whose number this is.”
“Consider it done.” James nodded.
“I’ll send you a copy of the recording, too.” Hunter turned on his heel and charged for the door.
“Go get ’em, Raines!” a former colleague’s cry chased him, followed by a raucous cheer from multiple voices.
If Hunter’s mind had been at ease about Karissa and Kyle, the moment would have been one of deep satisfaction. Later—if there was a later for him—he would let the healing balm in. Right now, he wanted—no, needed—to rejoin Karissa and give her the news that he was not to blame for her sister’s death.
Losing that beautiful, admirable woman’s respect and trust had felt like death to his soul. He was desperate for her to look at him again like he was a man she might consider more than a friend. Despite the dire circumstances, they’d been looking at each other like that for some time now, and he’d been resisting the attraction with everything in him because of the way he thought he’d failed her family. Now everything was different. Potent with possibilities. They just needed to find Kyle and put a stop to whoever was trying to kill Karissa. Tall orders, for sure, but at this moment he was feeling ten feet tall.
Thirty seconds flat found him gunning the Toyota as fast as he dared without attracting police attention. A stop for a speeding ticket was not an option. He whizzed toward a green light without slowing down. As he entered the intersection, a dump truck with darkened headlamps charged through the red light and bore down on him, going for the T-bone. A familiar tactic, but potentially deadly, and it was too late for evasive action.
TWELVE
Hair wet but brushed out, Karissa padded on bare feet, carrying the flip-flops, down an ornate, curved staircase and into a formal living room. Turning on lights as she went, she made her way deeper into the house until she reached a state-of-the-art kitchen. She’d done a sweep of the upstairs bedrooms to see if Hunter was sleeping in one of them, but all the rooms were empty. Thus far, she hadn’t run into a living soul. The housekeeper must have left for the day.
Karissa’s stomach growled at sight of a plate of chocolate chip cookies laid out invitingly on the counter next to a familiar object—her purse. Grabbing the bag with one hand and a cookie with the other, Karissa hopped onto a stool at the island counter. As she munched the cookie, she dug around in the purse for her cell phone, but it didn’t seem to be there. Frowning, she scanned the area and spotted the phone on a nearby counter, holding down a white sheet of paper folded in half. A note from Hunter, no doubt.
Licking cookie crumbs off her fingers, she tugged the note free of the phone and unfolded it. Ms. Landon, it began. Clearly not a communication from Hunter. Must be from the housekeeper.
Chills pebbled her flesh as she read the rest of the block-lettered message.
You want answers, and I have decided that your resourcefulness has earned them. Besides, this cat-and-mouse back-and-forth has gotten to be rather fun. Shall we begin a scavenger hunt? Continue to display such ingenuity, and your reward at the end shall be Kyle. I may even decide to let him live. However, I cannot extend you the same courtesy or my purpose would be utterly thwarted. You will find your first clue in the study, but you will need humility to find it. I’m sure you understand the ground rules include no law enforcement involvement.
PS: By the time you discover this note, it will already be too late for the firefighter.
Deep in her core, a soundless wail erupted. This horrible man couldn’t have gotten to Hunter. He couldn’t be gone. She wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t bear it. Yet, why did she care so much about the survival of a man who had so horribly failed her sister? She couldn’t entirely shake the niggling suspicion that he had deceived her into thinking he was an ally when he was actually an opportunist bent on helping her to assuage his guilt over her sister’s death? Yet, a still, small voice in her core rebelled at the assumption of his culpability. Was she that far gone in her unacknowledged feelings for Hunter that she’d choose him over loyalty to Anissa’s memory? She couldn’t afford to think like this.
As she pushed unfruitful speculations about Hunter away, another thought chilled her core. What if she wasn’t alone in the house after all? What if whoever left this note was lurking around, waiting to pounce and kill her? Goose bumps pebbled her skin. She sat sti
ll, straining her ears for sounds that could only be made by human presence, but only caught the tick-tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen. Releasing a pent-up breath, she shook her head. Imagination was running away with her. If the person who left the note had been sent to kill her, she’d be dead right now. He would have found her conveniently sound asleep, dispatched her, and that would have been the end of it. Apparently her enemy had decided to torment her further before ending her life.
Right now, her task was to find the study and locate the clue. She left the kitchen by another doorway and found herself in a long hall at the end of which appeared to be a massive front door, the one through which she’d entered the house. Padding up the hallway, she came to an open great room on one side. On the other side, a pair of French doors led into a spacious area furnished in masculine style with a large, leather-topped desk, an enormous fireplace, wall-to-wall shelves of books and office-type equipment. The study, for sure.
She began to step into the room when a noise at the front door froze her in place. Who was there? Pulse rate rocketing, she stared around wildly for some type of weapon to defend herself. There! The fireplace poker. She ran into the room and grabbed it. Hefting the object, she crept out of the study toward the front door. The knob rattled as someone strained to turn it, but the locking mechanism resisted. Apparently, the person on the doorstep wasn’t someone who had a key. An enemy? Far too likely. Standing to the side of the entry, Karissa lifted the poker high and waited.
A knock sounded, and then a voice called her name. The strength ebbed from her arm, and it fell limp to her side. The poker left nerveless fingers and clattered to the tile floor. As if the noise were a spur to the intruder, a heavy body rammed against the door panel. The whole frame shivered.
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