Burning for Autumn

by Freya Barker

  “Keith.” I put my hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him, but that only seems to aggravate him.

  “I knew I was stepping into dangerous territory when I invited you into my house—into my life. I knew it, but thought maybe you could be my future. I shared things with you I’ve never shared with another woman. I let you in deep. Fuck, I let you in my heart, and all this time you had your foot already out the door.”

  “Please, Keith, listen to me. I haven’t had—”

  “Save it.” He cuts me off again and turns on his heel, walking out of the kitchen without letting me explain.

  I’m about to go after him when there’s a knock at the front door, and Tony walks in. He stops in his tracks when he sees me.

  “Are you okay?”

  Immediately I plaster a smile on my face that feels almost painful. “I’m fine. Keith is in his office.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup.” I nod my head, and even though I can tell he doesn’t buy into it for a second, he has no choice when I turn my back and turn the tap back on.

  I listen as his footsteps go down the hall, and I hear the door slamming shut.

  My knees feel weak and I lean over the sink to stay upright.

  You know that sensation when the bottom drops from your life, leaving a large gaping hole, and all you can feel is it swallowing you whole?

  Chapter 26

  Keith

  She’s beautiful.

  Even with red blotches marring her skin and swollen eyes, the tears still clinging to her eyelashes. Even with the dull throb of betrayal still fresh in the middle of my chest.

  She takes my breath away.

  It takes every ounce of restraint not to crawl under the covers with her, but I can’t resist stroking the back of my fingers over her soft cheek.

  I never came to bed, never actually left my office, other than to take a piss and pay for the pizza we had delivered around eight o’clock. There had been no sign of Autumn, and the bedroom door was closed. With a pang of guilt I remember glaring, still angry, at the door, but I didn’t bother to check on her even once. Yet after spending the night sitting out on my deck, staring into the dark canyon, a lot of the anger has dissipated, leaving a heavy ache behind. Seeing the evidence she must’ve had a rough night herself, fills me with regret.

  I know I should’ve given her a chance to explain. Tony gave me shit about it last night when he came marching into my office and read me the riot act. I wasn’t ready to hear it then, and this morning I just want to get this crazy bastard caught, get this looming threat taken care of, so we can maybe focus on what is—or is not—going on with us.

  The license plate came back to a seventy-nine-year-old woman by the name of Amabel Jones. Her address is in a rural area just outside of Hesperus, which falls under Durango PD jurisdiction. It’s where Tony and I are heading first thing this morning.

  We did talk to Luna last night, who was able to send us an enhanced image of the ball cap—or trucker hat, whatever it’s called—and despite the still less than ideal resolution, the green and yellow John Deere logo stood out clear against the white cap. The same logo Tony saw on the back of the Jimmy.

  It could well be coincidence—I imagine there are lots of people with either a sticker or a hat—but I don’t put much stock in coincidences. Still, it wasn’t enough to justify getting warrants of any kind. It’ll take more than that to convince a judge a little old lady may have something to do with the wave of arsons.

  Luna volunteered to keep an eye on Autumn while Ramirez and I go check out Ms. Jones and got here five minutes ago.

  I slip the note I wrote her under her glasses—so she’ll see it first thing when she wakes up—and sneak out of the bedroom.

  “Appreciate you doing this,” I tell Luna, who is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in her hands.

  “She knows I’m here, right?”

  “I left her a note.” Luna frowns, so I quickly add, defensively. “She was sleeping last night so I didn’t have a chance to talk to her, and I don’t want to wake her up. Yesterday was a tough day and she planned to work half a day this morning, she needs all the rest she can get.”

  “Do you think work is a good idea?”

  I shrug. “The hospital is as safe a place as any. It’s public, crowded, and has security monitoring the cameras twenty-four seven. Besides, you’ll be there and depending on what we find in Hesperus, I’m hoping I can pick her up around noon to bring her home.”

  Of course, I don’t even know at this point whether she’ll want to come home with me. I behaved like an ass, butthurt and lashing out before I shut her down. If Ramirez weren’t waiting for me at the station, I’d head right back into that bedroom, and hash this out.

  “I have to go,” I announce. “Call me if anything comes up.”

  “I’ve got her.” Luna waves me off before turning back to the coffeepot for a refill.

  When I walk into the station fifteen minutes later, Ramirez is talking to the desk sergeant.

  “Boss,” Mike greets me, but Tony just lifts his chin. “We had a bit of excitement early this morning.”

  “How so?”

  “Conley was on a traffic stop. Pulled over a cube van with a taillight out, and the moment he walked up to the driver’s side door, the thing beelined it. He went off in pursuit, up Junction Creek, and the idiot took the turn onto the 205 too sharp. Ended upside down in the creek on the opposite side of the road. He’s in the hospital with a broken clavicle and a possible concussion.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  “Yup,” Mike confirms. “We’re gonna have to reshuffle the schedule. I’ve got Grand at the hospital with Conley. Jellicek and Boulton on patrol, and Maisano and Howell coming in to cover, but it fucks up the afternoon shift. We’re already thin because of vacations, so gonna have to do a bit of juggling.”

  I spend the next hour or so trying to sort that goddamn mess out. By the time I walk out of my office, the schedule for the next seven days is covered, to the great chagrin of some of my officers. They can damn well suck it up like the rest of us. Jesus, I’ll be glad when I can hand this shit over to Benedetti. About three more weeks, and I can pass it all on to him. I’m celebrating and getting hammered that day. I’m due.

  Ramirez follows me out and gets into the passenger seat without a word. He stays quiet until I’ve hit the McDonald’s drive-thru for a couple of coffees, but I know it’s coming.

  “Sleep well?” he asks, after taking a sip. Asshole.

  “Peachy,” I grumble, causing him to chuckle.

  “I’m guessing from your sunny disposition this morning, you didn’t fix it.”

  “Butt out, Ramirez,” I warn him, not in the mood for another lecture.

  “Figured you for a smarter guy, Blackfoot. Letting circumstances fuck up what may well be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “I said butt out.”

  “Fine,” he says, way too cheerfully as he sits back, planting a dirty boot on my dashboard. “Guess I’m free to offer that pretty redhead temporary refuge in my spare bedroom. Maybe a shoulder to cry on, she’ll need a friend. One man’s loss is another’s gain, right?”

  I know he’s egging me on, but still, my fingers clutch the steering wheel so hard to keep from planting a fist in his smug face. I’m afraid it’ll snap in my grip.

  “Off-limits,” I growl. He blissfully shuts up the rest of the way to Hesperus.

  It’s already nine thirty when we pull into the long drive of a farmhouse, set back a ways from the road.

  “Are those the remains of a burned down barn?”

  “Looks like,” Tony answers, sitting up in his seat to get a better look as we pass it.

  The house is in some disrepair, shingles missing from the roof, the porch listing slightly and weeds growing tall along the stone path leading to it.

  Its rough condition a perfect match for the burgundy Jimmy parked out in front.

  Autumnr />
  Light is streaming into the bedroom when I peel my gritty eyes open.

  Falling asleep while crying is not recommended, and I almost start again when the full impact of what transpired last night hits me. Determined not to go down that path, I swing my legs over the side of bed and grab for my glasses. There’s a piece of paper tucked underneath so I pick it up and fold it open.

  Morning,

  I’m running down a good lead this morning. Cats are fed.

  Asked Luna to keep an eye out. Catch up with you later.

  K.

  ps. We need to talk.

  Crumpling up the note in my hand, I pelt it at the wall with minimal impact, and therefore highly unsatisfactory. I’m tempted to pick up the alarm clock and haul it after, but I’m afraid once I start, I won’t be able to stop. Shaking it off, I pad out of the bedroom, aiming for the kitchen where I hope to find some leftover coffee.

  What I did not expect was Luna, at the stove, frying eggs.

  “Morning. Hope you don’t mind I started on breakfast. I’m starving and you’ll need to eat something before heading to work.”

  “Uh…sure,” I mumble, trying not to feel self-conscious as I shuffle to the coffeepot.

  “Made fresh.”

  “Thanks.”

  It’s crazy how territorial I feel having Luna in my kitchen. Keith’s kitchen. Fuck, I can feel the waterworks threatening and I quickly pour myself a cup.

  “Need a quick shower.”

  “I’ll keep yours warm,” Luna says, throwing me a smile, one I can’t quite bring myself to return.

  Why does she have to be so goddamn nice? Makes me feel like a grumpy ogre.

  When I resurface twenty minutes later, moderately refreshed, and dressed for work, Luna is sitting at the dining room table, working on a laptop with an empty plate beside it.

  “Yours is in the oven,” she indicates without turning around.

  I eat breakfast and drink a second cup of coffee, sitting across from her at the table. She seems deeply engrossed in whatever it is she’s doing on the computer, so I let my eyes travel around the house. I’ll miss this place. Jack saunters over and I lift him on my lap for some TLC. Gizmo is nowhere to be seen, but I’m sure she’s sleeping somewhere.

  “I should head out,” I announce, not quite sure what the protocol is, but Luna clears that up right away.

  “Sure thing. We should probably take my vehicle.” She shuts her laptop, gets up, and shoves it into a worn leather backpack.

  I drop the dishes in the sink, those are for later worry, snag my purse, make sure my phone is in there, and follow her outside. Once in the car, I steel a sideways peek at the other woman.

  “Yours is an unusual name.”

  She glances over before refocusing on the road. “It’s Dutch. Well, at least the Roosberg part is. Luna was just my mom and her fascination with astrology. She was planning to name me Cassiopeia, but my dad put a nix on that.”

  “Were you born there?”

  “I was, actually. I came to the U.S. on a student visa when I was eighteen.”

  “That was adventurous,” I note. “So your parents still live there?”

  “My father, yes. Mom died the year before I left. My father remarried shortly thereafter.”

  I get the sense from her curt tone there is a lot more to that story, but I don’t know her well enough to pry, so I let it be. The rest of the drive is quiet.

  The hospital parking lot is already pretty full, the closest parking spot at the back, near the rear entrance by the waterfall garden. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee from the cafeteria hits right away when we walk through the doors.

  “Do you need anything?” she asks, tilting her head in that direction.

  “No thanks. I’ll grab some water in a bit. You go ahead.”

  “Won’t be long. Wait for me here where I can see you?”

  “Sure.”

  I lean my back against the wall and take in the sounds and smells of the hospital. Remarkable how quickly new surroundings become as familiar as a comfy slipper. Similar to Keith’s home.

  Before my thoughts have a chance to slide in that direction, Luna walks up carrying a large coffee cup.

  “I just want to check in at the burn unit before we head up,” I tell her. I never really had a chance to thank Jen yesterday for being at the cemetery. Never thanked Luna properly either, come to think of it. I put a hand on her arm as we head up to the next floor. “Thanks, by the way. For coming to the cemetery yesterday,” I clarify when she looks at me puzzled.

  “No worries.” She brushes me off with a wave of her hand.

  The burn unit is quiet. I’ve only seen the woman at the nurses’ station a couple of times, but she looks up with a kind smile.

  “Hi, I was wondering if Jen is in today?”

  “Not until tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, I’ll catch her then.”

  I start to walk away when she calls out. “Good to have you back, Autumn.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m feeling a little lighter when I lead the way up the stairs to the burn center. Sandy is behind her desk, her eyes glued to her computer screen, but she shoots up when she sees me coming in. Unexpectedly she folds me in a bone-crushing hug.

  “It’s so good to have you back. I’ve been going nuts.”

  I gently untangle myself from her hold, grinning. “It hasn’t even been two weeks.”

  “Felt more like two years. If I have to deal with one more grumpy patient, complaining about my cold hands, I’m gonna scream.”

  “Wash with warm instead of cold water before you touch the patients,” I share my secret. Often times the burn scars are numb, but the area around them can be highly sensitized.

  “Gotcha. By the way, talking about grumpy patients—you’ve got one coming in shortly. He just called not five minutes ago to confirm. That man has been the biggest pain in my ass.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Jeff Youngman.”

  Just then the loud peal of the fire alarm sounds through the building.

  “What the hell? Is this a drill?”

  “Not that I know of,” Sandy says, peeking out into the hallway, but Luna pulls her back inside.

  “You two stay here. Keep the door closed. I’m going to check it out.”

  “Who is that?” Sandy wants to know when the door closes behind Luna.

  It’s a little awkward since I don’t want to draw attention. “She’s a friend. She’s just keeping an eye out for me. Making sure I don’t overdo it on my first day back.”

  The door swings open and I fully expect Luna to walk in.

  But it’s not her.

  Chapter 27

  Keith

  “Check this out.”

  I stop on my way up the steps to knock at the front door and turn to see Tony peering in the rear window of the run-down vehicle.

  “What’ve you got?”

  He steps aside for me and I shield my eyes from the glare as I take a look inside. Half hidden by an old tarp and a battered jerrican, a compact pesticide sprayer is visible.

  “Bingo,” he says when I straighten up. “Although, I still can’t see an old woman…”

  “Who else lives here?” I ask sharply, looking up at the windows of the house. “Does she have children? Find out.”

  Ramirez opens the driver side door of my Tahoe and pulls out the radio while I march up the steps. My knocks go unanswered, as does the banging on the door that follows. Nothing.

  “Mike Bolter is contacting the local post office. They might know. I also told him to check the local fire department about the burned-out shed. He’ll call when he has something.”

  “Good. In the meantime, let’s take a look around.”

  “There was definitely another vehicle here not too long ago,” Tony says, brushing the toe of his boot over the dirt. “Tracks, wide ones, I’m guessing a pickup truck.”

  “I’m gonna check around back.”

  I
spot the strange high mound of piled wood as soon as I turn the second corner. A stepladder sits on the grass beside it. When I get closer to investigate, I notice a faint odor of decay coming from the pile. Making sure the ladder is stable, I climb up a few steps until I can see over the edge and am greeted by the death grimace of a corpse. About two weeks, I’m guessing. Left out to bake in the sun. Amabel Jones, would be my guess, judging by the gray hair and floral blouse.

  “Ramirez! I found her!”

  Carefully I make my way back down, without disturbing the rather precarious structure, realizing as I go; I’m looking at a rudimentary funeral pyre.

  “Jesus,” he says when he rounds the corner. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Her body is laid out on top.”

  I watch as he clambers up the steps to see for himself.

  “I’m calling this probable cause, I’m going in. Radio Bolter, see what the fuck is taking him so damn long!”

  The lock on the back door is flimsy and it only takes a single well-aimed kick to open. The wave of hot putrid air coming from inside is almost worse than the stench of decomposition. Dead flies litter what is visible of the kitchen counter and table, the rest is covered with dirty dishes and rotting food. I quickly walk through and into what looks to be the living room.

  An old TV cabinet against the wall beside the window, across from a couch that dates back to the mid-seventies; it looks like the home of a hoarder, with junk covering almost every surface. Except for the coffee table. It looks clean and my attention is immediately drawn to three labeled white jars, lined up precisely in the center. I pick one up and the first thing that jumps out at me is the hospital name—Mercy Regional Medical Center—and by the time I read the patient’s name, Jeffrey Youngman, cold fear is already crawling up my neck. I’ve seen that name.