Consumed

by J. R. Ward

  An old guy with Albert Einstein hair and a robe that looked like it had come out of Archie Bunker’s closet stopped in front of Danny.

  “I told her that kid was going to kill her. Be careful—I don’t know if he’s got a gun.”

  “Who?”

  “Her grandson. Bad news. Been with her for the last three weeks. Has someone called the cops?”

  “You better get moving.” Danny nodded to the slow-up the guy was causing. “We’ll handle everything.”

  “Righto.”

  As the man kept going, Danny hit his communicator. “Two-fiver-eight-seven, over.” When he was acknowledged, he said, “We may have domestic situation. Confirm NBPD arrival, over.”

  Captain Baker replied, “ETA three to four minutes. Over.”

  “Two-fiver-eight-seven, over and out.”

  He and Moose hit the second-floor landing and peeled off from the traffic on the stairs. One look to the far end, and Danny’s warning bells went off: There were eight doors down the hall, four on each side, and all but one were open or cracked, the residents in a rush to get out—or adhering to a not-uncommon building protocol requiring that everything be accessible during evacs.

  The lone standout? The only one that was closed? Was where the smoke was.

  “I think we should wait for the badges to get here,” Danny said. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Are you kidding me? Don’t be paranoid.”

  They started down the well-trod carpet, the chemical sting in the air irritating the nose and back of the throat. The smoke curling out of the affected apartment, both from around the door and on the outside of the building, made Danny run through the critical analysis quick: volume, velocity, density, and color.

  Volume was sizable, suggesting a hot fire in a limited, poorly ventilated area: There was a layer of smoke up along the ceiling in the corridor that was thickening, and through the window at the end of the hall, he could see great dark clouds billowing from the apartment into the open air. Velocity was bad news, the smoke choppy and spastic, another sign of poor ventilation and a warning that an autoignition flashover was likely. Density was trouble as well; the smoke was like a solid, laden with airborne fuel solids, aerosols, and gases, all of which were ready to party. Finally, the color was the worst. Black meant high toxicity, and so the likelihood anyone was alive in there was very low.

  A few breaths of that kind of “air” and a person loses consciousness, with death to follow in a matter of minutes.

  Danny hit his communicator. “Two-fiver-eight-seven, over.” When the acknowledgement came, he stated, “We have black smoke in a chop on the second floor. Closed door. We need this vented and cooled right fucking now or this corner of the building is going to go H-bomb. Over.”

  Captain Baker responded. “Can you open the door?”

  “Not advisable—”

  “Yup,” Moose interrupted on the line. “I’m doing it now.”

  Danny grabbed the sleeve of the guy’s turnout. “Anybody in there is already dead.”

  “Maybe not. We have to try.”

  Captain Baker’s voice came over the connection. “Get in there. The ladder is in position and we are venting.”

  There was a distant crash of glass, and instantly the volume of smoke dropped, the pressure released.

  “We need to wait for that temp to cool,” Danny said.

  “Don’t be a pussy.”

  Moose marched over to the door, positioning himself off to one side. Taking the heel of the axe, he banged on the thing. “Fire and Rescue. Open your door.” When there was no response, Moose pulled a repeat. “Open up or we’re coming in.”

  Through the window at the hall’s terminal, Danny saw the ladder shift position. They were breaking more windows, giving the fire a chance to lose heat and stabilize.

  Moose tried the knob and, finding it locked, yelled, “We’re coming in!”

  He swung his axe in a fat circle, and Danny had to look away from that sharp blade biting into the smooth surface of the door. A couple of good hits and Moose punched his fist in, feeling for the release.

  “Sonofabitch. Deadbolt with no key.”

  Danny put his mask on. “I’ll shoulder.”

  Moose stepped back to secure his own air source as Danny threw his weight into the panels. The wood, weakened by incineration, splintered, and a wave of heat and smoke knocked him back. Crouching down, he triggered his head lamp and entered. Daylight didn’t mean shit with the air so thick with soot and contaminants, and he proceeded in a crab-walk through the interior, visualizing burned furniture, blackened walls, rugs that were nothing but stains on the floor. Everything was still combusting, even the lowered temperature still hot enough to consume all manner of wood, plastic, and metal.

  He found the first body in the hall.

  It was lying with the arms and legs outstretched, as if the person had been running for the door when an explosion or other force knocked them off their feet. Impossible to tell whether they were face-up or facedown, male or female, clothed or naked. All the hair and any clothing had been burned off, and the charring of the skin and meat over the skeleton was so extensive, there were no discernible features.

  “Two-fiver-eight-seven. We have one deceased in the hall off living room. Proceeding further, over.”

  “Two-fiver-eight-seven, prepare for water.”

  “Roger. Over.”

  The hoses were opened from the ladders, gallons and gallons of H2O arching in through the windows that had been broken. Smoke flared, white now from evaporation.

  The first charred door he opened revealed a crappy bathroom that had been spared some of the damage, the plastic shower curtain melted like modern art on the edge of the tub, the walls glazed and sweating, the color scheme of pale blue and yellow dulled but extant.

  The next door was probably going to be a bedroom—

  As Danny opened the way in, he couldn’t process what he was looking at. Walls were stained with something, the pink-flowered paper marked with . . . brown handprints? That was when he saw, through the haze, a body spread-eagled on the bed. The wrists and ankles had been tied to the posts and there was a red gag in the mouth.

  No movement.

  Then again, the older woman appeared to have been gutted like a deer. Very recently.

  Danny spoke into his communicator. “Second victim, bedroom. This is a murder scene.”

  He forgot to ID himself, but he didn’t care. He went over. The old woman was staring through sightless eyes in terror at the ceiling overhead. Her loose skin was like folds of pale felt pooling under her arm pits, at her neck, on either side of her bony thighs.

  He wanted to cover her up. Find a sheet or a blanket and give her some dignity. He couldn’t risk compromising any evidence, however.

  “What the fuck.” Moose came in and stood next to him. “So that’s what was cooking when the fire started.”

  chapter

  29

  You know, I like unusual women.”

  As Charles Ripkin spoke, his eyes focused on Anne’s prosthesis. “Tell me, how did you lose your arm?”

  He already knew the answer, she thought. He had to have researched her.

  “I think we need to stay on topic. Let’s talk about those fires in your warehouses.”

  “Did it hurt?” The man smiled. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be deformed.”

  “I understand these buildings are all held by various LLCs. I’m curious why you didn’t put them in the name of Ripkin Development.”

  “Do you feel ugly now? You know, as a woman. Now that you’re not whole anymore.”

  “I’m also curious why they’re insured by different companies. If it’s to spread the risk, I guess you were smart, given those fires.”

  “Not to get too personal, but when you’re with a lover, do you hide the stump? Keep it under a pillow, a sleeve, a fold of sheet? So they don’t see it. Get distracted. Lose the mood.”

 
; “Because it’s quite a concentration of arson in that area. Six fires in just a few years.”

  His left eyebrow twitched. “Are you ashamed now? Of yourself. Do you miss who you used to be?”

  “Yet no one has been charged. I realize that an argument could be made that it’s just been derelicts, but if that were true, that area of the city has been run-down for decades. Why in the last two years is all of this happening?”

  “Once a firefighter. Now a pencil pusher. You are your own cliché, you realize.”

  “Do you have any explanation?”

  “Of course I do. It’s a bit obvious to have to paint a picture to a smart girl like you, but since you asked—you lose your arm, and now you’re an also-ran with an unsatisfied yearning to get back to work. The problem is, you can’t do the work you want anymore because you can’t pass the physical tests you used to ace. You’re stir-crazy, searching for purpose, and this itch that cannot be scratched no matter how many forms you fill out or investigations you do is driving you insane. So your brain is finding connections that do not exist, which is what women do, and all of that mental storm got you in your little gray municipal sedan and drove you all the way up to the big city.” The man sat forward. “I permitted you this one get-together because I feel sorry for you. I have a daughter for whom I care very much, and she, too, had a fire ruin her. She was once very pretty. Now she looks like a monster. But you people saved her life and that’s why I gave you that new stationhouse. I am very pro-firefighter, very supportive of your previous profession.”

  “So you have no comment.”

  “I just gave you plenty.”

  “You didn’t explain anything, but I’m not going to argue with you.”

  “Good.” The man stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go on about my day. As I said, I have indulged you with this visit because I feel sorry for you, but anything past this I will regard as harassment. There are consequences to things, as you have learned firsthand. Let’s both make sure you don’t lose anything else, shall we?”

  Anne got to her feet. “I’m going to do my job, Mr. Ripkin. If you’re hiding anything, it’s going to come out. You need to be prepared.”

  “I always think it’s wise to take our own advice.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “We’ll see about that. Oh, before you go, how’s your mother?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nancy Janice. She lives alone, doesn’t she? In that house on Crandall Avenue. A tree fell on it from the storms, didn’t it.”

  Anne froze and her stomach knotted up. She thought about Bob Burlington, the arson investigator whose body had washed ashore in the bay, and also her boss’s warning. But she was not going to be bullied.

  “Mr. Ripkin, I am very sure this act of yours works with most of the people you come in contact with, and I congratulate you on the cultivation of such a successful intimidation tool.” She put her hand up. “Wait, before you tell me that I need to take you seriously, I’d like to show you something.”

  She took her cell phone out and turned the screen around to him. “I’ve recorded this entire conversation and every two minutes this handy app has sent a file to my boss, Don Marshall.”

  “That is not admissible as evidence,” Ripkin said in a bored tone.

  “You’re right. But Don believes you had Bob Burlington murdered because he investigated the fire at your mansion. So if anything happens to me, my family, or anyone close to me, I’ve got that little comment of yours about my mother’s house on lock—” As her phone vibrated, she smiled and pointed at the screen. “Oh, look. It’s just sent another file—watch what happens next.” A text notification came through. “And here’s Don, confirming receipt.”

  “No one can do anything with it. You gave me no notice you were recording this.”

  She pointed to the chair she’d been in. “Don’t pretend you don’t have your own monitoring here. Guess we’re even.”

  The double doors opened and the animatron with the great legs waited in between the jambs like a Doberman pinscher.

  Anne walked across and then looked over her shoulder. “One more thing. I’d rather have a plastic hand and a clear conscience than be an OCD-ridden Cialis candidate with hair plugs and murder in his background. I can change jobs and enjoy the satisfaction of helping to put sociopathic criminals like you behind bars. Your future, on the other hand, is going to involve more male pattern baldness as well as the joy of sharing a communal shower with all kinds of people who you will view as beneath you. Oh, and as for the erectile dysfunction, I’m just guessing at that because only a guy who can’t get it up would try to play the ‘you’re lesser as a woman’ bullshit with someone like me—hey, look.” She indicated her phone’s screen again. “Another file got sent. I think I’ll make a best-of CD and send it to the local CBS affiliate—no, wait, you’re so excited about being in the big city, CNN is even better ’cuz it’s national. Have a good day, Mr. Ripkin.”

  Anne left the office and did not look back. As she went down the corridor, her legs were like rubber and she wanted to wipe the sheen of sweat off her forehead—but she resisted the latter because she didn’t want to seem weak.

  Behind her, the executive assistant’s footfalls were sharp as curses.

  As Anne came up to the glass wall that fronted the reception area, she was glad when she could push it open and get the hell out of there.

  At the elevators, she used her prosthetic hand to push the down button.

  Her real one was shaking too badly.

  By the time she re-emerged into the parking garage, she was light-headed from adrenaline and fear, and as she went over to her car, she looked up. Pods containing security cameras were set into the ceiling at regular intervals, and she was willing to bet every property that Ripkin owned was the same.

  A man who watched everything like this? No accidents happened on his land without his knowledge.

  Approaching her municipal sedan, she half expected her tires to be slashed, and she gave into paranoia, covering her hand with the sleeve of her jacket as she touched the handle to open her door. She didn’t take a deep breath until she was driving out onto the street and merging into traffic. When she was back on I-93 and heading for New Brunswick, she called her boss.

  Don picked up on the first ring. “That sonofabitch.”

  “You’re right. He’s capable of anything.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Did you like my speech at the end?”

  “Outstanding, I couldn’t have said it better myself. The recording was a great idea of yours. Good job, Anne.”

  A bloom of professional pride warmed up her chest. “Thanks, boss.”

  “Drive safe. And watch out for anyone suspicious around you.”

  “Will do. How’s my dog?”

  “He’s in my office. I told him we’d have lunch at the deli—you’re coming with us.”

  “Great. I should be back in about an hour.”

  “Just be careful.”

  As she ended the call, she took a deep breath and felt echoes of what it had been like to battle a fire, the rush of fight-or-flight as she faced off at a blaze with a charged hose in her hand, the mental and physical challenge, the conquering of fear, the triumph at the end.

  The smile that hit her face came from a very deep part of her, a part that she had resigned to leave behind.

  It was affirming to find purpose—and, to use Danny’s monster analogy, something to slay.

  On that note, she tried to remember what had happened to Ripkin’s daughter.

  The young woman had been at Ripkin’s shore house by the New Brunie yacht club when the fire had broken out. It had been off-season, October, and she’d been there alone. She had been found badly burned on the third floor, having run upstairs, as opposed to outside, to get away from the fire that had started in the first-floor parlor. At the time, the blaze had been ascribed to a faulty gas line that fed the hear
th in question, with a resulting explosion ripping through the old home. No internal sprinkler system—the mansion had been updated to include a car wash and a movie theater, but for fire safety, all it had had was the most basic of alarms.

  Anne remembered what the daughter had looked like, being taken out on a stretcher, sheets of skin melting off her as she was put in the back of an ambulance. It was callous, but once the crew had returned to the stationhouse, Anne hadn’t thought about it again.

  Just one more in a long series of alarms that had gone off that night. That week. That month.

  Why had Constance Ripkin gone up instead of out?

  * * *

  When Danny had first come in as a probie fresh out of the academy, Allen Gould, a since-retired lieutenant, had taken him aside and told him that, sooner or later, every fireman went on a dead-baby run.

  Horrible way of putting it, but an accurate enough description for the phenomenon.

  As Danny sat rear-facing in the engine on the way back to the stationhouse, he remembered the morbid curiosity and shameful excitement he’d felt at the prospect. He couldn’t wait to get into the grit and the grime, see the underbelly, lift up the rock of inhuman ugliness and check out the twisted, gnawing worms beneath.

  The dead-baby run was the incident that stained your brain, like the first glimpse, out of the corner of your eye, of a woman who had been sexually tortured, doused in lighter fluid, and lit like charcoal for a grill with a match.

  He could still remember how she’d smelled like barbequed meat.

  And after six years, he still didn’t order ribs in restaurants because of her.

  Veterans of the fire service usually had only one. That was because if you had more than one that stuck with you, followed you around like a ghost, became the nightmare your subconscious fed you when you were stressed, you got out of the job.

  You either learned to process and let go of what you saw, or you were not cut out for a long-term career.

  Danny had always prided himself on his ability to triumph over all manner of gore and depravity. He had held people as they’d bled out, pulled the bodies of children out of crawl spaces and out from under beds, done CPR and lost that fight . . . hell, he’d broken down the door to a messy room just as a seventeen-year-old kid on the bed had put a shotgun to his own face and blown his brains out all over the Shaun White poster above his headboard.