Private Justice

by Terri Blackstock

  Mark turned the page and read on.

  “Remember the height from which you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first.”

  What were those things? For one, Mark had abstained from alcohol, not wanting to repeat his father’s mistakes. He had worshiped regularly. He had loved God and others. He had cherished his wife.

  He read on, each of the letters to the churches, both the praise and the reprimands. He read God’s warning that he would spit them out of his mouth, and he read that God rebukes and disciplines those he loves. Was the Fire Wife Killer God’s way of rebuking Mark? Had God raised up a murderer—snuffing out lives, taking mothers from their babies, wives from their husbands, daughters from their parents—just to punish Mark for straying from his walk with Christ?

  In his confusion, he cried out to God, and he felt the still, peaceful voice of his Savior whispering that the consequences Mark had created himself were discipline enough. Separation from God, the darkness of divorce, loneliness, regret, fear—those were disciplines that would teach him to follow Christ. But the evil wrought by a murderer’s bullets were not part of some avalanche of judgment by an angry God. The father had not sent hit men to torment the Prodigal Son. He had allowed him the suffering he’d brought on himself, but all the while, he’d been watching, waiting, hoping for his return.

  Wiping tears from his eyes to clear his vision, Mark read on, praying that God would show him his way back, that he would have the strength to get things right. There were things in his heart he had to pull out and hold under the light, things he had made into lies that had rubbed calluses on his heart.

  Issie. Allie had accused him, and he’d hidden behind his righteous indignation, telling himself and Allie and even God that he’d been falsely condemned. He’d comforted himself with that thought when she’d asked him to leave. It had been his self-acquittal, his excuse for not keeping his commitment to love and honor her.

  What had Allie ever really wanted from him? Fidelity. And he had sworn that he had been faithful to her.

  But she had known better.

  He wept harder as he closed his eyes and recalled the late-night talks with Issie, when they had bared their souls, even if their bodies had been clothed. He had shared intimacies with her in the form of conversation, had told her unflattering things about Allie, had told her just how unhappy he was in his marriage. He had enjoyed the attentions the pretty woman had shown him, had enjoyed the flutter of his heart when she had smiled at him or flirted with him, had appreciated that she wanted to spend time with him.

  For so long, he had told himself they were just friends. But now he realized how deeply he had wounded Allie with that friendship. What would he have felt if he had walked in on Allie in another man’s arms? Would he have listened if she’d told him it had been innocent? Would the fact that nothing more physical had happened really matter to him if she’d been unfaithful in her heart?

  Lord, show me what to do, he prayed through his tears. Help me get it right.

  And for the first time in his life, he read the Bible like a starving man, searching for words addressed to him, and answers that could restore him.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Even though it was only eight-thirty, Aggie had shut off all the lights and was upstairs in bed reading when she was startled by the sound of a door closing quietly. For a moment, she thought she had dreamed it, but then she heard something else: the sound of a drawer closing, the floor creaking as someone moved across it…

  She sat up in bed, listening, and didn’t hear anything for several moments. Maybe it had been her imagination. But she’d never imagined anyone in her house before.

  Quickly, she got up, grabbed the poker from the fireplace in her bedroom, and started down the stairs.

  She heard a sound again, the sound of the drawer closing in her study. Someone was in there, she thought as she waited halfway down the staircase. The killer? The thought made her heart flip into triple-time, and she reached out for the banister to steady herself.

  She heard another drawer close quietly; the sound of the rollers moving in and out on her file cabinet drawers was unmistakable. Summoning all of her courage and hoping her heart could stand it, she tiptoed toward the study, her poker raised, and saw that the door was closed.

  She never closed that door.

  She wanted to scream, wanted to run and call the police, wanted to burst into that room and catch whoever had had the gall to break into her home. But what if he had a gun aimed at the door, waiting for her? She would wind up the next victim, dead on the floor as he set fire to her house and burned it down around her.

  She froze, unwilling and unable to move. She heard papers rustling. What was he looking for? Then she heard the sound of the window being raised, then shut again.

  Silence followed, and she waited, still not moving. Had he gone out the window? Is that how he had come in?

  Of course he had. Anyone who drove by could see that her front windows were usually open an inch or two this time of year, before it got too muggy and she had to depend on air conditioning. What if he came back?

  Forcing herself, she slowly, carefully, pushed the study door open. The room was just as she had left it.

  The windows were slightly open, as usual—except for one, which was closed. Was that the one he had gone out?

  Quickly, she slammed all of the windows down, locked them, then rushed for the telephone. She dialed Stan and Celia’s house.

  “Hello?” It was Stan, wakened from sleep, but she made no apology.

  “Stan, he was here. Somebody—maybe the killer. He come in my house, and he went out a window, and I didn’t see him, but I heard him—”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Aunt Aggie, is that you?”

  “Yes! Stan, come over here. Maybe there’s fingerprints on the window or on my desk. I heard drawers openin’. Maybe the file cabinet. Maybe you could catch him now before he get too far.”

  “Aunt Aggie, I’ll be right over. Meanwhile, don’t let anyone in until I get there, okay? Don’t touch anything. And lock those windows.”

  “Already did. What he wants with me? He killin’ the wives of dead firemen, too?”

  “If it was the killer and he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

  Aggie shivered at the realization of how close she had come.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  By 9:30 Mark had managed to read all of First, Second, and Third John, as well as Jude, James, and First and Second Peter…when the lamp began to flicker.

  He checked the bulb to see if it was screwed in tightly, found that it was, then went back to his reading.

  The lamp flickered again, and this time went out. He got up and fumbled for the cord, followed it in the darkness to the plug, and found that it was still plugged in.

  Feeling his way to the bedroom door, he slid his hand across the wall until he found the light switch. He flicked it up, but there was still no light.

  Had they somehow tripped a breaker? He stood in the dark for a moment, wondering where the breaker box was. Maybe the kitchen. He began working his way toward it. He stubbed his toe on a table he didn’t remember being there, tripped on a cord, knocked over a plant. Finally, he made it to the kitchen and tried the switch there. Still no light. Was this entire apartment on a single breaker? He wished for a flashlight, but didn’t have a clue where Aunt Aggie might keep one.

  He was sliding his hand across the wall, feeling for the breaker box, when he heard a sound outside. Someone was at the door, scratching on the lock.

  He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and groped for the telephone he’d seen hanging on the wall. Miraculously, his hand closed over it, and he jerked it up.

  No dial tone.

  His heart jolted, and he thought of running to the bedroom, waking Allie up, putting her out through the window onto the fire escape. But there was no time. The doorknob was turning, the door was pushing open—

  He raised the gun, and in the darkness w
atched and waited for someone to come through. He smelled the faint scent of diesel as a shadowy form came into the room and bent over to set something down. A canister of some sort? A gas can?

  His hand trembled, his head ached, and he felt dizzy as he stood frozen, holding that gun on the man who seemed unaware that he stood there, watching him. The man straightened and, like a shadow in the dark, started to steal through the room.

  “Hold it right there, pal.” The words sounded alien, distant, but Mark knew he had uttered them. A strange peace fell over him—whether from God’s strength or from his own weakness he wasn’t sure—but as the man twisted quickly toward him, a dim ray of light from a street lamp outside partially illuminated him. A fire mask covered the man’s face. He was wearing bunker pants and boots, a bunker coat, and carrying oxygen on his back—all the things a firefighter would wear when fighting a fire.

  The sight was staggering, and he almost lowered the gun—until he saw the man go for his own. Mark had no time to think, only to react, and his finger closed over the trigger, smoothly, quickly, without hesitation.

  The gun went off, and the man fell backward.

  He heard Allie scream behind the closed bedroom door, and he yelled, “Go out the fire escape, Allie, and call the police!”

  If there was a response from Allie, Mark had no time to hear it. The man got to his feet and launched himself at Mark, knocking him to the floor. Mark’s head jarred slightly with the impact, but he managed to stay conscious and keep fighting. The man’s right arm was slick with blood, and he no longer held his gun. He lunged for Mark’s gun, an ironclad grip on his wrist cutting off his circulation, challenging him to let it go.

  Mark kicked him in the groin with his knee, making the bleeding man recoil. Still on the floor, Mark kicked him again in the right shoulder. The anguished groan that followed told Mark that his kick was aptly aimed, and the man loosened his grip on Mark’s wrist, allowing Mark to roll away from him. Mark fired the gun again, but he knew even as he pulled the trigger that his shot would miss.

  The man rolled away. Mark sat up and tried to shake the dizziness away. He heard a clattering. Something cold splashed against Mark’s legs. He recognized the smell of diesel fuel. Mark could hear it gurgling out of the can, soaking into the carpet, into his jeans. He fired again in the darkness, but the bullet smashed into the wall. He heard a match striking, saw the flame ignite, saw it being thrown his way—

  The carpet in front of him ignited, throwing him back. Flames erupted on his legs—

  He fired the gun at a shadow on the far side of the flames, then hit the ground again and rolled, trying to put out the fire on his skin. He grabbed an afghan draped over the couch and smothered the flames on his body. Scalding agony charged through his body, but he tried to find the man through the flames again, to aim the gun and finish the job he had started.

  He was gone.

  “Allie!” Mark screamed, staggering back to his feet and running into the bedroom as the fire raged behind him. If Allie had gone out the fire escape, as he’d told her, the killer might have caught her by now. “Allie!”

  The window was open, and she was gone.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The moment the gunshot woke her, Allie had heard Mark yelling for her to escape. Without hesitation, she had done what he’d said and gone to the window. After several tugs she managed to get it open, hurled herself out, and half-ran, half-tumbled down the steps of the fire escape to the ground. She tore around the building to the front doors and banged on the first one she saw with a light on. A couple of doors down, a man came out, and other neighbors emerged. She grabbed one of them and pleaded for their telephone.

  Even as she spoke to the 911 operators, she saw the killer running down the steps of Aunt Aggie’s apartment, dressed like a fireman answering the call. He headed up the sidewalk, blending into the shadows until she lost him. “He’s running up Bienville in a fireman’s hat and mask, and full bunkers like a fireman wears. Please—you’ve got to catch him. He’s the Fire Wife Killer from Newpointe. Please hurry!”

  “Ma’am, there’s smoke coming from your apartment,” the neighbor shouted. “I think there’s a fire up there. We have to wake everyone in the building!”

  Her heart raced as she told the operator to send a fire truck and ambulance, too, then took the fire extinguisher the neighbor thrust at her, and hurried up the stairs, praying that Mark was all right.

  The apartment door was open when she got there; flames engulfed the carpet. From somewhere, she heard Mark’s voice screaming for her. “Allie! Allie!”

  “Mark, I’m here!” she called as she pulled the pin on the fire extinguisher and began to spray the flames. “Are you all right?”

  “He got away!” Mark cried as he came out of the bedroom. “But I shot him. He’s wounded. Maybe there’s a blood trail.”

  He grabbed the extinguisher from her and quickly doused the flames. Dropping it, he stumbled back against the wall.

  “Mark, are you okay?” She touched his face with both hands, trying to examine his bandage in the darkness and smoke.

  He was weeping. “Thank God. Thank God he didn’t get you.”

  He pulled her against him and held her, sobbing, until the police arrived. They came up the steps with flashlights, several of them shining their beams on the charred carpet as firefighters pushed into the apartment to make sure the fire was completely extinguished.

  A paramedic stepped in front of them. “I need to look at those burns.”

  “Mark, you’re hurt!” Allie cried, seeing the burns for the first time.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “I put it out real quick.” Wiping the tears from his face, he raised his voice so the police could hear. “I shot him in the right arm or shoulder. There’s got to be a blood trail—enough for a DNA test. This is the guy who’s killing our wives.”

  The paramedics rolled in a gurney. “We need to take you to the hospital for these burns,” they told him.

  “No,” Mark said. “I’m not going back to the hospital. I just got out. Treat the burns here with whatever you’ve got, and I’ll be fine. I have to talk with Stan Shepherd. He’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Stan searched Aunt Aggie’s house for evidence of the burglar’s identity, but found none. There were no fingerprints, no footprints, and nothing taken—nothing except a few missing files from Aunt Aggie’s file cabinet. She had determined that the files were nothing more than paid bills for everything from credit cards to her utilities.

  He was looking for something, Stan thought, racking his brain for what that could be. A credit card number, or a bank account, or…an address.

  His heart began pounding. Could it be that he knew Mark and Allie were staying in Aunt Aggie’s apartment in New Orleans? If so, they were in serious trouble.

  “Aunt Aggie, what’s the number of your apartment in the Quarter?”

  She rattled off the number, and he quickly dialed it.

  “You think he was after that?” she asked. “You think he goin’ after them?”

  The phone began to ring, and he waited. “Was there anything in those files that would have that address?”

  “I don’t know. Well…yes. The records of them realtor fees. It would have the address. Oh, Stan!”

  The phone kept ringing, unanswered. “Why aren’t they answering?” he asked. “Is there a phone in the bedroom?”

  “Yes. You don’t think the line was cut—”

  He finally hung up and dialed the number for Blanc’s office at the Kenner Police Department. Blanc wasn’t in. Quickly he dialed the number for the New Orleans police. “This is Detective Stan Shepherd, Newpointe P.D. I need for you to get a patrol car to this address.” He gave them the address of the apartment, and explained his fears. They told him they’d check on Mark and Allie and get back to him.

  He took Aunt Aggie to stay with Celia at his own house. Celia had a gun and had been ins
tructed on how to use it. Then he headed back to the police station, a terrible sense of dread making him feel helpless and useless.

  His cellular phone rang, and he jerked it up. “Stan Shepherd.”

  “Stan, this is Mark. You’re not gonna believe what’s happened.”

  “Mark, are you all right? I tried to call. I think the killer may know where you are—”

  “You think right. I had a run-in with our man tonight, but he got away. Stan, he was wearing a complete bunker suit with a mask. I think you need to consider that this guy is a fireman.”

  “I already have,” Stan said. “Mark, what happened?”

  “I got him before he got me. Shot him through the arm or shoulder, and then he threw diesel fuel on the carpet and set fire to it. He got away, but the police are looking for blood evidence now. I’m at the station—Eighth District on Royal Street.”

  “Is Allie all right?”

  “Yes, thank the Lord. She’s fine.”

  “Were you burned?”

  “Yeah, but not bad. Stan, did you say you’d already considered that this guy is one of us?”

  “Yes. We have other witnesses who saw a guy dressed in Newpointe bunkers. Susan told me she saw the guy wearing a bunker coat and mask, and an airport employee saw a man in a gray fireman’s uniform.”

  There was a stunned silence. Finally, Mark said, “Stan, don’t you think that information might have been pertinent to those of us hiding for our lives?”

  “Of course it was pertinent, Mark, but I couldn’t start a scare. I didn’t want the press stringing up some poor innocent guy and keeping us from nailing it down to the real one.”

  “I’m not the press, Stan. I needed to know this!”

  “Mark, I’m doing the best I can. It was against my better judgment—”