by Andrew Grant
“Take a breath, Albert.” Devereaux kept his voice quiet and even. “Get a hold of yourself. We don’t know what Billy’s done yet. He may have done nothing. That’s why we have to talk to him. But it’s important we do that quickly. So I need you to think. Have you got any idea where else he could be?”
“Have you tried his home?”
“Do you know the address?”
“Sure. Give me some paper. I’ll write it down. He lives with his mom, I think. And his kid brother. I met them once. She came to give Billy a ride home one time when his car was in the shop. It was in there a few days, ’cause it’s a diesel and they had to get special parts sent from Japan. Anyway, Billy wasn’t ready when his mom showed up and the kid got bored, I remember, and his mom yelled at me when I let him hold a beautiful Westley Richards 10 Gauge. I told her, it’s an antique. It doesn’t fire anymore. But would she listen?”
Saturday. Early evening.
It would have taken the detectives ten minutes to drive from Lucas Paltrow’s workshop to Billy Flynn’s house—if they’d gone there directly. As it was, the diversion via the Double Aught had cost them almost two hours. The only positive thing to come out of the detour—other than benefiting from the wisdom of the bar owner’s observations—was the opportunity to call Dispatch and request Flynn’s full pedigree, now that they’d learned his address.
Billy Flynn, it turned out, had a record. Only it was sealed, because Flynn had been a juvenile when he’d done whatever it was he’d been caught doing. Devereaux banged the steering wheel in frustration when the duty officer called back with the information. As someone with more than his fair share of youthful skeletons to keep buried, Devereaux would normally have been sympathetic to someone who’d strayed from the path as a kid but subsequently straightened out his life. If Flynn had indeed straightened out his life. All they knew for sure was that he hadn’t been arrested or questioned for any reason as an adult. But that might be because he’d gotten better at planning his crimes. Or controlling his most reckless impulses. It drove Devereaux crazy to know that information, which could help him catch the guy he was hunting was right there in the department’s computers, but he wasn’t permitted to see it. Especially since he wasn’t hunting any ordinary criminal. How many more innocent women’s lives would be lost if the killer was allowed to slip through his and Garretty’s fingers? Devereaux scowled and pressed harder on the gas, leaving it to Garretty to call Lieutenant Hale and ask her to try to find them a cooperative judge. They had to give it a shot, but experience left neither detective with much hope of getting Flynn’s juvie jacket unsealed.
Flynn lived midway down a wide street that was lined on both sides with mature trees. They were planted close enough together for some of their branches to intertwine and they’d grown tall—most were at least twice the height of the rows of single-floor homes they shaded. The pavement between them was cracked, and its surface was bleached almost white after years of baking in the hot Alabama sun.
The horizontal boards of Flynn’s house were painted cream, with pale blue trim. The roof shingles had faded to a washed-out gray. The patchy grass surrounding the house was brown and parched, but on either side of a paved path that led to the doorway was a line of dark green shrubs that looked newly planted.
Devereaux pulled up just short of the house to avoid blocking a fire hydrant, still mulling over how best to encourage Flynn to reveal the details of his previous misdemeanor. Garretty was more focused on seeing whether Flynn was even there, so he was out of the car and already on the sidewalk by the time Devereaux had opened his door.
“Look.” Garretty pointed at the driveway, where it curved around the side of the house. “Flynn’s van’s here. We might be in luck.”
Devereaux took a step forward to get a better view past the trees, but his attention was instantly diverted by a blinding flash of orange light. It tore across the whole width of Flynn’s house, where the wall joined the roof. Sharp tongues of flame ripped through the structure, dancing and rippling in midair for a moment. Devereaux was thumped in the gut by a solid wave of sound—a deep, bass woomf—and then he watched openmouthed as the entire surface of the roof lifted off the building. It rose four feet in the air. Eight feet. Ten. It remained perfectly horizontal at first, but a second later the central section continued to climb while the edges flopped back down, folding in on themselves and rapidly disintegrating. Plumes of debris shot up all around the roof’s fragmenting remains like flaming confetti. Within seconds burning remnants, large at first but soon decreasing in size, were landing all over the front yard and sidewalk, and clouds of silver-gray smoke were billowing out of the gaps left between the smoldering roof joists.
“Better hope Flynn’s not here.” Devereaux batted a clump of charred shingles off the hood of his Porsche and turned to Garretty. Or where Garretty had been standing. Now there was no sign of him. “Tommy? Where are you?”
Devereaux rushed around the car and saw Garretty sprawled on his back on the sidewalk next to the twisted remains of a satellite dish. His left cheek was badly gashed and a dark stain was spreading across his white linen shirt, just above his belt line.
“Damn, Cooper.” Garretty tried in vain to smile. “Poleaxed by goddamn DIRECTV. Payback for me saying their channel lineup sucks, I guess.”
“Don’t try to talk.” Devereaux shifted his notebook to his pants’ pocket then whipped off his jacket, rolled it up, and pressed it hard into his partner’s abdomen. “Just tell me if you’re hurt anywhere else.”
Garretty groaned and tried to wriggle away.
“Hold still.” Devereaux ran his free hand over Garretty’s torso, neck, and legs, searching for further injuries. He didn’t find any, so he pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial key for Dispatch. “Ten zero zero. Repeat, ten zero zero. Officer needs assistance. Get me an ambulance, like yesterday. Notify Lieutenant Hale. And also send the fire department. Put a rush on it. There’s been an explosion. A house is on fire. Further casualties are a possibility.”
“Don’t worry, Tommy.” Devereaux slid his phone back into his pocket, took Garretty’s hands, and pressed them against the rolled-up jacket. “You’re not in such bad shape. Hell, I’ve seen you worse in Five Points South on many a Friday night. So listen. Just keep the pressure on, right here. A bus is on the way. The medics will have you patched up in no time at all.”
“Wait.” The pain was evident in Garretty’s voice. “Where are you going?”
“Flynn could have been in the house.” Devereaux eased his hands free from his partner’s grip. “He could be hurt.”
“No way.” Garretty tried to grab hold of Devereaux’s wrist. “It’s too dangerous. Wait for the fire crew. Screw Flynn. The odds are he’s a murdering asshole.”
“Maybe.” Devereaux gently disentangled himself and got to his feet. “Maybe not. But either way, we need to know.”
—
Devereaux paused at the end of the path. Every instinct told him to put as much distance between himself and the wreckage of the house as possible. It looked like it was on the verge of complete collapse. Sections of its walls were bent out from the ground at crazy angles like the sides of a broken fruit basket. Inside, the flames were growing brighter and stronger, and crawling their way out along the remaining roof joists. The smoke was becoming thicker and darker. Its taste, more bitter. The windows had all been blown out. The front door had completely disappeared but its frame was still there, unscathed. And so was Flynn’s van. It was sitting on the driveway like an obedient dog, ignoring the mayhem swirling incessantly all around it.
Devereaux forced himself forward. He went through the doorway into what would have been a corridor. The heat inside was vicious. He could feel it on his face and hands, searing the exposed skin. The air was so hot it hurt to breathe. The smoke choked him. And it stung his eyes, filling them with tears. He could hardly see. Crouched over, he took another step. And another. He stumbled on until he reached a room at the r
ear of the house. The kitchen? There seemed to be the warped remains of a modest range and a refrigerator, but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t focus on anything. His ears were filled with the roaring of the flames. Smoldering fragments of wood and paper were being sucked upwards by the heat. Some of them fluttered against his arms. His face. One caught in his hair. He brushed it loose, battling the urge to turn and run out. But which way was out? He was suddenly disoriented. His heart was racing. This whole idea was a mistake. Garretty had been right. He was going to die in this house. And for what? To save a guy who’d probably murdered two women? To save him, just so the state could kill him later? And what about Nicole? His daughter? He pictured a pair of officers knocking on Alexandra’s door, coming to notify her of his death. Just as he’d been notified of his father’s. He still had nightmares about the night he’d been told. Was that what he wanted for his little girl?
Devereaux eased his way back into the corridor, then stopped again and sank to his knees. He was gasping for breath. And another flurry of doubts was crowding into his head. What if Flynn wasn’t the killer? What if he was trapped somewhere nearby, defenseless against the flames? What if Devereaux left an innocent man to burn to death? Was that something he could live with? And if Flynn was innocent, they needed to know. Women’s lives could depend on it.
There was no option, Devereaux knew. He had to keep on trying. He attempted to call Flynn’s name, thinking that might be an easier way to locate him, but his throat was too dry to make much sound. The flames were too loud anyway, he realized, so he crawled forward and poked his head into the next room on his right. It seemed like it had been a bedroom. There was splintered wooden furniture strewn everywhere, some in flames. Heaps of scorched, ragged clothes. A smoldering tangle of wire and fabric near the far wall that might have once been a mattress. But no sign of Flynn.
The temptation to scuttle past the final room and make a break for the outside world was immense, but Devereaux fought it off. He crept through the doorway into what he guessed had been the living room. He could make out the remnants of a couch and a La-Z-Boy-style recliner. Glass from a dozen shattered picture flames was heaped up at the base of the walls, gleaming like shards of amber in the reflected firelight. A giant set of shelves had collapsed, spilling maybe a hundred DVD cases in jumbled cascades across the floor. And in the center of the wreckage, sticking out from beneath an overturned flat-screen TV, Devereaux spotted a pair of legs.
Devereaux crawled closer and shoved the TV aside. Then he struggled to his feet and heaved the shelves up until they were clear of the body’s torso. Devereaux blinked to clear his eyes a little and peered down, trying to get a decent look at the guy’s face. It was Flynn, Devereaux decided, based on Lucas Paltrow’s description. But despite being freed from the shelves, he didn’t move. Devereaux kicked him in the knee, and he still didn’t respond. Gasping with the effort and choking on the foul air, Devereaux lowered the shelves back down as gently as he could manage. He looked around the room, his eyes still streaming, until he spotted something he could use. A side table, lying upside down under the window. He righted it, slid it across to the shelves, lifted them high enough to rest their top edge on his bent knee, and shoved the table underneath to take their weight. Then he took hold of Flynn’s ankles and desperately slowly, retching from the smoke he’d inhaled and light-headed from the lack of oxygen, he hauled the inert body inch by inch to the center of the room. He reached down. Found the side of Flynn’s neck. And felt for a pulse.
He found one. It was weak. It was way too fast. But it was there.
—
Devereaux staggered back to the window. He leaned out, taking care not to put much weight on the frame for fear of bringing the whole wall down on top of him. He breathed deeply, greedily sucking down great lungfuls of air that was only a little less thick with smoke, but which tasted to Devereaux as pure and sweet as if it had been piped in from a spring meadow. He wiped his eyes and blinked repeatedly, desperate to clear his vision. Then he turned back. Took hold of Flynn’s hands. Heaved him up, taking the unconscious man’s full weight on his right shoulder. He staggered to the hallway. Turned toward the front door. Safety was within reach, he told himself. He took a step toward it. And another, trying to gain some momentum. Then he heard an eerie, groaning sound, even above the roar of the flames. It grew louder, then crack! A flurry of burning joists rained down in front of him. A dense shower of angry red sparks was blasted back up from the ground, twisting and dancing around his face like demented fireflies. A plume of dark smoke enveloped him. And when it cleared a little a few moments later, he realized the exit was barred. Gravity had knitted the fallen joists into an impenetrable, flaming barrier.
He could no longer see out.
He could no longer get out.
He was trapped.
Saturday. Early evening.
Alexandra felt as if her life had been moving on two separate tracks since the previous afternoon.
On the first track—the sensible one—she had no intention of showing up at Gianmarco’s to meet Dr. Jensen that evening. It was a crazy idea. She hadn’t seen him for years. She didn’t really know him. She wanted his help, sure, but how much serious academic discussion could she realistically expect in a candlelit restaurant? And she had Devereaux to consider. Their relationship had gotten a little ragged around the edges over the last week or so. It wasn’t the first time that had happened. But was she really ready to throw it away? Over something that may not even be his fault?
To Alexandra’s surprise, she realized that the part of her on the other, wilder track was already making arrangements for the evening. She’d texted the babysitter—the only one she trusted with Nicole, who was hardly ever available these days but just happened to be free that night. She’d prepared enough activities to keep Nicole occupied when her friend Trixie popped by to blow her hair out. She was even mulling over combinations of dresses, shoes, and bags. It had been years since she’d been out anywhere formal. She’d loved it when she’d worked at the law firm. But consulting, which she’d switched to so she could homeschool Nicole, offered far fewer opportunities. She hadn’t dated much between her two spells with Devereaux, so she’d had no reason to visit many fancy places recently. And she hadn’t even been to many restaurants since she’d been back together with Devereaux. He was strange. He could afford to go anywhere. He had the contacts to get in anywhere. But he was happier at home, eating something simple they’d whipped up together. Or getting carry-out ’cue. Just as long as it wasn’t chicken. He was very traditional, that way.
Without planning to, Alexandra found herself delving into the back of the storage closet at the end of the landing. She pulled out her old cassette tape player. She’d had it since college, and had hung on to it after Nicole was born because she thought it would be fun to show her one day. Modern kids only know about MP3s and downloads, she figured. So what would her daughter make of the ancient machine and the box of cassettes that went with it? Alexandra ran her finger along the edge of their cases, all cloudy and cracked with age. She settled on one in the middle of the box. It was one she’d recorded herself. A mix tape of eighties hits. She popped open the tape deck, slipped the tape into place, and went back to her bedroom. Plugged the machine in. Hit Play. And was greeted by Cindi Lauper’s manic voice, reminding her that girls just wanna have fun…
Damn right, Alexandra thought. Why shouldn’t she have fun? She worked hard. She deserved it. And maybe it would be fun to have a night out with someone who didn’t get called away every time another grisly discovery was made somewhere in the city.
Saturday. Evening.
Devereaux fought the urge to dump Flynn’s body and flee the flames that had engulfed the jumble of fallen wooden beams and blocked his escape route to the front doorway. He forced himself to take a breath, despite the agony the smoke caused as it grated against the red-raw tissue of his throat, and think. He’d moved around most of the house. There had to be anot
her way out. But where? There was no access to a deck. No way through to a garage. What about the kitchen? Could there be a door from there to the backyard? He hadn’t seen one. But the room had been full of smoke, and his eyes had been streaming. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one. It had to be worth a try. Anything was better than standing there, waiting to burn to death.
Devereaux turned. He started to move. Then he changed his plan. He swerved back into the living room, still weighed down by Flynn. He made for the window, stumbling and slithering over the DVD cases and fragments of broken ornaments. He went down on one knee, then struggled upright again and forced himself to keep going. He was moving by memory now, pushing on through the impenetrable smoke. It was growing thicker by the second. His eyes were streaming and sore. He was worried about slamming into the unstable wall and bringing another ton of flaming timber crashing down around his head. He slowed to a snail’s pace, inching forward, one arm held out in front. His hand found one side of the window frame. He shifted to his right, then gathered the last of his strength, aiming to pitch Flynn’s body through the center of the gap and throw himself out after it. He leaned forward, muscles tense, ready for this one last crucial effort. Then he felt the weight disappear from his shoulder. Hands were suddenly reaching in. Grabbing him. Lifting him out.
—
The deep ridges in the gnarled surface of the bark dug into Devereaux’s skin as he sank back against the ancient tree in Flynn’s front yard, but he couldn’t have cared less. He was in the open. He could breathe. The water the fire crew guy had given him—after yelling at him for going inside the burning building—was soothing his throat. A little bit, at least. His vision had cleared enough to see Flynn being driven away—still alive, although still unconscious. And he’d watched Garretty being lifted into a second ambulance, a temporary bandage on his cheek and a thick wad of absorbent gauze taped tightly to his gut in place of the blood-soaked jacket. Because the hours Devereaux thought he’d spent in the house had turned out to be only minutes.