Before the Dawn

by Gail Chianese

  Shawn stood outside the ICU room watching the man the fire department had saved yesterday. Tubes and wires ran from his body to various machines monitoring his breath and heartbeat, neither of which looked good. Seventy-five percent of his body appeared to be wrapped in bandages, starting at his feet and working their way up. Parts of his chest and face were bare, although extremely pale.

  An ICU nurse stopped next to him. “He’s in and out, Marshal Randall, not sure if he’ll be able to tell you much at this time. But then again, now might be your only chance. We almost lost him twice during the night.” She patted his arm and walked away.

  For a few minutes more, Shawn stood watching. These were the sad times, when you saved a man only to know he wasn’t going to make it. Knowing the last remaining hours you gave him would be ones filled with agonizing pain. Shawn almost wondered if it would have been better if they had arrived too late. It sounded wrong, but watching the poor guy lying there wrapped like a mummy didn’t make him feel like a hero. More like a sadistic bastard.

  As he entered the room, Shawn checked out the monitors. The green line made a steady spike in time with the beeping. Maybe the guy had more in him than the nurse gave credit for. She had told him the patient’s name was Samuel Oakheart from Danbury, Connecticut.

  “Who are you?” Oakheart’s raspy voice asked.

  “Fire Marshal Randall. Mr. Oakheart, can you tell me what you were doing at the old Millhouse Restaurant?”

  “Stopping . . .” Pain shot across his face when he tried to sit up. The sharp intake of breath cut deep into Shawn’s conscience. “Needed a nap, give the feet a break.”

  “A break?”

  “I was heading to Boston,” he closed his eyes and took a few moments, “for a job.”

  “You were walking from Danbury to Boston?” Shawn scratched his jaw. “That’s like a hundred and fifty miles. Why not take the train or bus?”

  “No money. Lost my job, car, house about a year ago.” Every word was a struggle, each pronounced slowly and with great care.

  Years on the job had taught Shawn the agony fire caused. It was difficult to watch as another shot of pain lanced through Oakheart and, from the look on his face, it was getting worse. Shawn honestly didn’t know how much longer the man would last. Oakheart shoved his head back into his pillow, breathing slowly through clenched teeth.

  “My cousin sent me a letter, mailed to my old neighbor since the postman won’t deliver to a park bench. Said if I could get to Boston, he had a place for me to stay. A job.”

  “Family’s good.”

  “Yeah. Don’t have much, but we look out for each other. Got a ride part of the way. Walking since Groton. My feet were killing me.” He huffed out a laugh. Shawn got the irony, but kept quiet. “Came across the old place. Saw a grassy area by the trees at the back of the lot. Figured no one would mind if I took a break there.”

  “How did you get inside?” The beeps and spikes stayed steady on the monitor, but Oakheart’s eye’s drifted shut every few minutes. The IV bag connected to his arm probably contained morphine.

  “Front door was ajar. Heard some guy talking inside. Thought, hey maybe they’re working on the place. Maybe I could get some day work, then I could afford to catch a bus the rest of the way.”

  Oakheart faded out for a minute and Shawn waited. If patience could net him any clues about his arsonist, he’d wait till the end of time.

  A few minutes later, eyes fluttered opened and Oakheart zeroed in on Shawn’s face. “Sorry, pain meds are kicking in.”

  “No problem. Can you tell me anything about the people inside? How many were there? Did you see what they looked like?”

  Oakheart’s eyes closed and Shawn thought slumber had claimed him again, until he spoke. “Only one guy, don’t remember what he looked like. Whiny voice. Weird accent. Rambled about creating a masterpiece until he saw me. Went ballistic. Started yelling. Then he came running at me.” He shook his head. “Everything’s a little messed up from there. I think he hit me or something. Next thing . . . it was hot, too hot. Woke up here.”

  “Hey, no worries, you’re doing great, Sam. Let it come back naturally. You think he was talking aloud to himself, then? Do you remember what color hair he had? Brown, black, blond, or maybe red?”

  “Maybe light brown or dark blond.”

  “That’s good, very good. Did you see how tall he was?”

  Samuel’s eyes stayed closed, a peaceful expression on his face. Shawn figured he’d slipped into a deep, drug-induced sleep. A steady be-e-e-e-p cut through the room, followed by a loud alarm. Nurses came running from all over the ward. One pointed a finger at him and simply said, “Out.”

  In the hallway, Shawn stood watching through the window at a life-size version of a TV drama. Except this time there’d be no miracle, the patient saved at the last minute. Time dragged as they worked. The doctor called out the time. The nurse noted it on the chart. Another pulled the sheet over Samuel Oakheart.

  Shawn didn’t leave. He dropped his head and did something he hadn’t in a long time. He prayed. He prayed for Samuel Oakheart, prayed that the man found peace in whatever came next because it was clear he’d earned it. Shawn prayed that what clues he’d been given would be enough, because he was genuinely afraid that now that the arsonist had a taste of death, he’d kill again.

  He didn’t know what motivated this arsonist. Some did it for fun, like juvenile delinquents tagging a building. Others to hide a crime, make a point, or make a profit. Some for revenge. But the scariest ones played with fire for the excitement. Most of those started out small, seizing moments of opportunity, hitting dumpsters or refuse piles, things that wouldn’t draw much attention. But for some, it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was. They needed bigger, higher stakes, and more glory.

  Those were the ones that scared Shawn the most, because they tended to be highly intelligent, sneaky bastards who knew the system, knew how to wait and when to strike. And they knew when to change things up to keep three steps ahead of the authorities.

  Right now, it was looking like that for their arsonist. But then, if that was the case, why hit the clinics? Unless it was a grudge, or somoene was paying him? Maybe a competitor? But why an abandoned restaurant?

  None of it added up and it pissed him off.

  He waved down the nurse he’d seen earlier. “Mr. Oakheart said he had a cousin up in Boston. Did he happen to give any contact information for that person?”

  The nurse hesitated, her gaze straying to the darkened room with the body, and nodded. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to give it to you.”

  “It’s in regard to my investigation,” he lied. “Plus, I want to make sure Mr. Oakheart’s family knows he didn’t die alone. I need them to know he won’t be forgotten, just some statistic. That someone other than family cared and that I’m going to do everything I can to catch the person who did this to him.”

  It was a big promise, especially with Shawn leaving soon. He didn’t care. He’d made it and he’d keep it, even if he had to bug Calabrese and Clark daily from Seattle. He’d fly back to Connecticut on his vacations and keep working the case if he had to. He’d make it his life mission to solve this one.

  The nurse must have sensed his sincerity or determination, because she punched a few keys on her tablet and showed Shawn the name and number. He thanked her for her help before she hustled off to the next patient. Hopefully, that one had a greater chance of surviving than her last. Oakheart should have survived. Hell, he never should have ended up homeless, jobless, and walking to another state. The man hadn’t been that old. Maybe ten years Shawn’s senior. He should have lived another forty or fifty years. And that pissed Shawn off even more. Not only had his arsonist destroyed multiple properties, but he’d stolen a life, one filled with hope.

  Striding out of the hospital, Shawn swore the man’s death would not be in vain. He would find the person responsible and make them pay.

  Across the hall, dressed in scrubs,
Peter St. Pierre gleefully watched the scene in the ICU room. Doctors. Nurses. Such fools, trying to play God, scrambling to save their patient who fought for his life but died anyway. He smiled. A sense of pride and power welled inside of him, reaching up from the dark pit of his stomach. Never before had he taken a life. Never played master of destiny, choosing who lived or who would be forever extinguished. Never felt the thrill, the energy, the sheer rush of supremacy flow through his veins. He breathed in. Ahh. Invigorating. No, intoxicating.

  Grief flooded the fire marshal’s face as sentimental tears ran down his cheeks. Weak bastard.

  Quickly, he dismissed the man as a real adversary. Then again, had there every really been anyone who matched his intelligence before? No, he’d proved that over and over through the years. The garden shed, his first attempt to tame the beast within, almost got him caught. So simple. Pour gasoline over the sides, toss a match, and let her burn. Wait a few minutes and yell for help. The fire captain thought he had nailed him, but he’d mowed the lawn just before, so explaining the smell of gasoline on his hands was easy. Over the years he’d learned to take precautions and to leave no clues, no trails pointing back to him.

  The beast inside liked to watch. To see how high the flames reached, licking the sky. Letting the oranges, reds, and blues mix and mingle and intertwine, lulling it back to sleep for a bit.

  An orderly pushing a cart walked past him and Peter shifted his stance. No one paid him any heed. He’d mastered the skill of blending long ago, of becoming invisible to those around him. When you could disappear, life held less pain, both physically and mentally.

  He took one last look across the hall before he turned and slipped out of the ward. He needed to go home and collect his thoughts. The derelict in the building had been a surprise. He’d been caught off guard while stopping to take a call, and let his temper rule. Something he’d never done before. Unfortunately, he’d been a bit careless, and the man had lived.

  Not that he was really worried the bum had told the marshal anything useful before he kicked the bucket. Peter knew what others thought of him, that he was nothing special to look at. Most people didn’t remember meeting him five minutes after talking to him. But someday they’d all remember him and his greatness. Someday he’d make them all pay and then they wouldn’t forget him so easily. Someday he’d go down in history, not them. They were the real ones who were worthless.

  While he’d enjoyed his latest work, it hadn’t allowed him the joy his next project would. He needed to work out every detail so that he could record the anguish on her face before the flames consumed her: his beautiful Katarina. A name as beautiful as the woman who held it, one that made his blood boil with creativity and passion.

  His benefactor had named his muse. The fire marshal would be quick and easy, not worthy of his time and art. But Katarina Jones, his sweet, lovely Katarina?

  She’d be his ultimate creation.

  Chapter 4

  Outside the school, Kat’s shoulders slumped, her steps heavy and missing her usual lively bounce. Like she’d received a big, fat, red F on a test. It wasn’t the walk of someone who had just been offered a job. It was the walk of shame. She’d done it, taken the job, taken the first step toward a new life. So why all the guilt? She wanted this—a normal life with set hours, no danger, decisions that didn’t endanger those she loved the most. Lexie would understand, would have her back on this and never tell her not to go for it. Even if it meant she was bailing on Lex and the pact they’d made all those years ago.

  Her steps stumbled when she reached the parking lot and looked up.

  His lean, lithe body leaned back against Kat’s little blue car in the school lot, eyes closed with his face soaking up the fall sunshine. Peaceful, or so she thought until she got a little closer and could see the taut muscles in his crossed arms and the little worry lines between his brows. Those sharp cheekbones looked more pronounced today, as if stress pulled the skin tighter.

  “Hi. What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Looking for you. Stopped by the office and your new assistant, Ashley, told me I could find you here. Didn’t know you had kids.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Nieces? Nephews?” He kept guessing while she shook her head. “Career day?”

  “Something like that.” She leaned against the car next to him, enjoying the warmth of the sun’s caress on her own skin. “Is everything okay? You look troubled.”

  “Come take a ride with me?”

  He stepped away from the car, his hand held out to her. A very tempting invitation. Too tempting. Worse than chocolate cream pie. There was something about this man that called to her deep in her soul. She didn’t know what it was that appealed, but considering how much she wanted to forget all her plans for the day and simply lose herself in his company, all sorts of warning bells were going off in her head.

  “I really should get back to the office. Ashley set up interviews with the clinic employees for this afternoon. I have to file a report with the insurance company and—”

  “Please?”

  That was it, one word said softly with so much emotion and meaning behind it. Kat unlocked her car, tossed in the school papers, and took his hand. Whatever had happened to put those worry lines between his brows was a doozy and he needed company. He opened the truck door for her, such an old-fashioned and sweet gesture it tugged at Kat’s heart strings.

  They pulled out of the parking lot and he drove, to where she had no clue, but right then it didn’t matter. Silence filled the cab as they headed out of town down Route 2. At first, she thought he intended to take her to the last burn site, but he zipped around the roundabout and headed in the opposite direction. Keeping quiet, she watched the scenery fly by. When he was ready to talk, he would let her know what was going on, she figured. They crossed the state line into Rhode Island and Kat’s heart did a little flip-flop.

  Six months had passed since the accident and she’d yet to cross back over the state line, to fully come face-to-face with what had happened. Thankfully, Shawn headed the opposite way and soon they were on their way toward Misquamicut Beach.

  All of the tourists were gone. The locals were at work. They had the place to themselves. Shawn reached behind the seat and pulled out a blanket before looking down at Kat’s skirt and high heels.

  “Give me a second,” she said.

  As soon as he stepped to the front of the truck, Kat slipped the shoes off, shimmied out of her hose, and stuffed them into her purse before hopping out. Together they crested the little hill leading down to the pristine beach. He took her hand as they walked and warmth from his body flooded her through his rough, callused palms. The nippy October wind brought the salty aroma of the Atlantic Ocean to swirl around them while little bits of sand bit into their skin. Waves ranging from one foot to three crashed and raced to the shore. Hungry seagulls screeched overhead, searching for goodies left behind by humans or tossed up from the sea.

  Shawn spread the blanket out and they took a seat. “I love the beach this time of year. Last weekend a couple of us from the firehouse came out here and did some body surfing.”

  “I don’t get out here much these days. Seems like growing up we spent all our time at this beach, practically lived here. Now when I get beach time I’m usually over at Lexie’s place, but it’s on the Long Island Sound side so the waves are smaller.”

  “Samuel Oakheart died today.”

  Reaching over, Kat held his hand while she listened intently to him talk about his morning. His voice shook when he told her about Samuel’s life and determination, a tale of a man she’d never met that broke her heart. Would never meet thanks to some sick bastard who held no value in property or life.

  She made a mental note to call the hospital later and make arrangements to pay for Mr. Oakheart’s burial.

  “Do you think the same person is responsible for the fires at the clinic?”

  “I do. He used the same accelerant—gasoline, w
hich anyone can get a hold of—but the burn pattern is the same. Plus, it’s very unlikely we have two arsonists working in this area at the same time.”

  “Okay, so we know the person we’re looking for has light-colored hair, either brown or blond, a whiny voice, and isn’t from around here based on his accent.” Absently, Kat rubbed her ear while she thought this through. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe when we reinterview the clinic employees they’ll remember a patient that fits the voice.”

  “Do you honestly think it’s a patient?”

  “I’m not sure. The comment Samuel overheard the arsonist say doesn’t make sense. ‘Creating a masterpiece.’ If he’s talking about the fire, then it sounds like we have a pyromaniac on our hands. But it doesn’t tell us why the clinics or why this last place. They’ve nothing in common that I can see.”

  “Me either.” Sand slipped through his closed fist into a little pile on the blanket in front of them. “What were you doing at the elementary school this morning? I stopped at the diner and the lady there said maybe I could stop you from doing something reckless.” He turned those soul-seeking hazel eyes on her. “Somehow, I can’t see talking about your job in front of a bunch of kids as a wild act of abandonment.”

  Staring out toward the restless ocean, Kat connected to both this man and the unpredictable sea. Just as Mother Nature understood the emotional tumult going on in her head and showed her empathy with the water’s action, she knew Shawn would not judge her for her career change.

  “I took a job as a substitute teacher. I start in two weeks.”

  “What grade?”

  “Second.”

  He looked at her, really looked deep, hard, and long. Then he glanced down to the design Kat had unknowingly drawn in the sand—a picture that looked like SpongeBob and Patrick—and smiled.

  “I think you’re going to make a great teacher.” He jumped up and held out a hand. “Come on, we’ve got work to do and only two weeks to solve this case.”