by J. S. Marlo
Against his better judgment, Oliver tossed the keys to his son. “Let’s make one thing clear, Hunt. There can only be one person in charge, and that person is me. I say something, you obey. No questioning. No hesitation. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
***
“What did the police chief say?”
Seated in the passenger seat, Oliver absent-mindedly stowed his cell phone into his shirt pocket. “He doesn’t want us to spook Thinner if he’s there.” An intersection loomed head. “Turn left. We’ll park on the dealership lot across the street from the mall.”
Late at night, the bold price stickers in the windshields looked like epitaphs chiseled on tombstones, and the lot resembled a car and truck cemetery.
Hunter parked between a blue truck and a white sedan before turning off the engine. “What’s next?”
The stadium lights mounted on the dealership lot illuminated the rectangular mall and its surrounding area. From the truck, Oliver had a good view of the front and right side of the mall and the empty front parking lot. “Two patrol cars are on their way. Until they arrive, we keep our eyes open and wait.”
Hunter unbuckled his seatbelt. “Where’s the dance studio again?”
“The last unit on the left side. Why?”
“A light flickered in the side window at the right end.”
The glimmer reflecting in the side window didn’t make sense, not when the sign on the front window said For Rent. To confuse the location, or to set an empty space on fire, didn’t fit Thinner’s profile. “Something is wrong. You stay here. I’m going to peek at the back.”
He grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment before exiting the truck.
The air was still. He sniffed for the pungent smell of paint thinner and listened for the sizzling sound of a new fire. None of his senses registered any threats. To avoid attracting attention, he crossed the street farther down the road before backtracking toward the mall. As he neared the building, he got a better view of the parking lot at the back. A lone station wagon—a station wagon he recognized—was parked beside a dumpster.
“It can’t be.”
Only six percent of arsonists were female, but the vehicle matched the one that had sent him off the road the same night the pawnshop burned to the ground. The young girl defied the statistics. Oliver now regretted not reporting the accident. Had the police arrested her, they might have found a connection between her and the fires before the bartender died.
He sprinted to the back corner of the mall where he bumped his hip on a gas meter. Gas and fire made a deadly combination, and he disliked natural gas with a passion. This was one instance he hoped his wife was wrong about Tap Your Feet Studio, or that he was wrong about the girl.
Adrenaline coursed through his system as he edged along the wall toward the flickering light in the window. A baby cried. It took a moment for Oliver to realize the cries came from inside the building. He stretched his neck and looked through the window. A candle burned on the ledge, and in the room, a woman cradled a baby.
This isn’t good, not good at all. With his flashlight, he signaled his son for help. The door of the truck opened, and Hunter raced across the street.
Without waiting for him, Oliver rushed to the front door and entered the premises. The woman with the baby recoiled against a wall. Around her, six or seven people slept on the bare floor, mostly children. It appeared he’d stumbled onto a homeless family.
“I’m a firefighter, ma’am. We need to get your family out of here.”
Hunter stepped in. “Are they in danger?”
“The girl who ran me into the ditch is parked at the back. You get them out and stay with them. I’ll look for her.”
Without hesitation, Hunter scooped two sleeping children under his arms. “Ma’am, you wake the other children.”
As the woman followed Hunter’s order, pride swelled inside Oliver’s chest. His son had also inherited Chad’s commanding presence. He’d make a fine firefighter.
Oliver dashed outside and ran to the opposite end of the mall where the dance studio used to be located. A sign on the last window welcomed female members to Curb Your Curves. The blinds were closed from the inside, but a faint light filtered around the window. Someone was inside.
Bracing himself for a fight, he pushed the door ajar. The room smelled of rotten eggs, the telltale sign of a gas leak.
The sight of a teenage girl crouched on a mat between a leg press and a biceps-triceps machine saddened him. Behind her, a gallon of paint thinner lay discarded on its side, and from the mat, he tracked a dark flammable trail on the floor. It stopped in the corner of the room where someone had installed a gas heater. A spark was all it would take to transform the gym into a crater the size of his barn.
An open matchbook rested in the girl’s hands.
Not wanting to startle her, he softly knocked on the door. “Hello? May I come in?”
Her head snapped up. “Who are you?”
“My name is Oliver Durham.” He took a step into the room but kept the door open behind him. “I’d like to talk to you.”
She sprang up, ripping out a match from the matchbook as she moved. “Don’t move, or I’ll light up the match.”
“What’s your name?” To give Hunter time to get the children to safety, he needed to keep her talking.
“Samantha, but everyone calls me Sam. Are you a cop?” The match waved in the air like a wand in the hand of an erratic sorcerer as she retreated toward the heater.
“No, Samantha. I’m a firefighter, and there’s a gas leak. I’m here to save you.”
“You are?” A mixture of wonder and dread shone in her eyes, and she grew less agitated. “But it’s not a leak. I opened the valve.”
“You did?” He didn’t want her to become defensive, so he refrained from accusing her. “But why? Gas is dangerous, Samantha.”
“You don’t understand.” A ghostly smile floated on her lips. “This is Tap Your Feet.”
The lack of emotion in her voice chilled Oliver’s bones. “We know, Samantha. We figured the pattern. Very clever.” She stood some fifteen feet away, too far from him to tackle her. His only chance to get out of there alive was to talk her into surrendering, and using her name as often as possible was supposed to help create a human connection. “I’m impressed, Samantha. The next one would start with Feet, right?”
“Feet First Massage, but I’m not going to go there now.”
His pulse accelerated as his mind searched for the hidden meaning behind the ambiguous reply. Not going to go there could imply she acknowledged being caught, but it could also suggest she intended to choose a different target than Feet First Massage for her next fire. Except, there wouldn’t be a next fire. “Would you like to go home, Samantha?”
“Why? Mother works on Tuesday night…and Friday’s.”
That explained why she struck on those two nights. Hoping to reach her emotionally, he switched the conversation to her mother. “Where does your mom work, Samantha? We could call her and ask her to pick you up.”
“She doesn’t care about me. She’d rather not have me.”
What did he tell a child who felt rejected by her mother? He was trained in safety and investigative techniques, not negotiations. Think. The girl had to care about someone, or something. “Samantha…do you have a dog or a cat waiting for you at home? A rabbit?”
A stony mask hardened her face. “He killed Pixie.”
The question elicited a reaction, a bad reaction, but it could also be seen as a cry for help, for justice. Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades. He was torn between asking about Pixie and changing the subject. “Samantha—who hurt Pixie, Samantha?”
“Mother’s boyfriend. He hates me. He threw Pixie in the fire pit at Easter. She meowed, and it smelled awful.”
The first fire she lit dated back to April sixth, the week after Easter. The death of her cat had acted as a trigger.
“You come with me, Samant
ha, and we’ll tell the police about Pixie.” His fear bottled up, he took a step forward, stretching out his arm. “Samantha, you want your mother’s boyfriend to pay for what he did to Pixie. You come with me.”
“No…I want to be with Pixie.”
The match struck against the matchbook. He dashed outside.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Last day of July, the start of my two-month vacation.
The concept of vacations depressed Blythe. He wanted to stay in bed and sleep until October, but he’d promised to take his nephews horseback riding before they started hockey camp tomorrow.
A quick shower and two cups of coffee later, he exited his lonely house, slipped behind the wheel of his car, and drove to his sister’s.
The boys played ball on the front lawn with a small dog. In the driveway, the minivan was conspicuously absent. His brother-in-law worked too hard. One of these days he intended to have a word with Todd about missed opportunities.
He parked in the street and got out of his car.
“Uncle B!” Barefoot and free of his crutches, Noah scampered toward him, followed by Adam. The dog joined them, a ball clamped in its jaws, as it ran circles around Blythe and the boys.
When Blythe tucked the rambunctious youngster under his right arm and his quieter brother under his left, the dog dropped its orange ball at his feet and barked.
“Coral! Here, girl!” Maurice, the friendly neighbor, waved at him from over the cedar hedge as Blythe walked toward the house. “She’s my grandson’s puppy. We’re babysitting her.”
“I’m sure the boys enjoy playing with her.” His nephews swayed their heads up and down like bobble-head dolls. “Have a great Saturday, Maurice.”
“You too, Blythe.”
On the porch, Adam wiggled out of his grip and slipped down along his leg. “Can we go horse riding now?”
“Pleeeeease?” Noah squealed.
“First, I need to talk to your mom.” They groaned in unison, two peas from the same pod. “Second, you can’t wear shorts.” He lowered Noah down. “Go put on pants, socks, and running shoes. Both of you.”
The twins threw the front door open and dashed into the house.
“No running,” Beth warned from somewhere inside.
He followed the sound of her voice to the kitchen.
“Hello, Blythe. Want breakfast? I have one waffle left.”
“I won’t say no.” The leftovers of the boys’ breakfast were still on the table. He sat in Noah’s chair and ate the piece of waffle left on his nephew’s plate. “Where’s Todd?”
“His mom called. The toilet overflowed.” Beth placed a golden waffle and a bottle of maple syrup in front of him. “He should be back shortly. I have lots of yard work lined up for him today.”
“Toilet or yard?” He poured a copious amount of syrup over the warm waffle. “Tough choice,” he teased before forking a big chunk into his mouth.
“It’s not funny. I swear she has Todd on all her speed dial buttons.”
From what he gathered, the sweet old lady had come to rely on her son for everything since her husband’s stroke. In a way, he was relieved to hear that family obligation, not work, had called his brother-in-law away on a Saturday.
“Want to trade mothers-in-law, sis?” Beth’s homemade waffles were delicious, and he took another huge bite.
“No. Mine may be high maintenance, but yours is a lunatic.” She emphasized each adjective with a wave of her spatula. “How’s the power struggle?”
A judge had issued a temporary injunction while he reviewed his in-laws’ petition to take her to Germany.
“Rupert is confident the judge will dismiss their request, but it may take weeks for him to reach that decision.”
In the meantime, Claire stayed in the extended care wing, attached to wires and tubes, like a human experiment gone horribly wrong.
Little feet scurrying down the stairs chased the ghastly image to the back of Blythe’s mind.
“Go back up and brush your teeth,” Beth yelled before the boys reached the last step, prompting them to drag their feet back upstairs. “What kind of horses do they have at that stable?”
“Four legs, a tail, a head—and a saddle.”
A cup of fresh coffee landed with a thud in front of him, spilling brown droplets on the linen mat. “For a guy who played a cowboy in his younger years, you’re hopeless.”
“Riley is the expert on horses, not me.” Had she been in town, he would have asked her to join him and the boys. “Dylan Stanko takes his kids there for riding lessons. He suggested the place.”
Standing with her back to the counter, Beth studied him. “Are you in touch with her?”
“No. I drove her to the airport two weeks ago, and I haven’t heard from her since.” Nor did he expect to hear from her for another eight weeks—eight long weeks. “She’s back home with her husband and son, recovering from a bullet injury. She has no reason to call me, and I have no reason to call her.”
“But you miss her, don’t you?” Her voice came out as a soft whisper.
Knowing his little sister read him like an open book, he shoved another piece of waffle into his mouth and didn’t bother with an answer.
***
In the past, the first weekend of August was spent hauling hay bales into the barn, not vegetating by the stream with his mare munching on leaves behind him.
His parents would have thrown a cold bucket of water at him if they’d seen him lying in the grass with his hands clasped behind his head and his hat tipped over his forehead. But his dad was dead, and with her injury, his mom couldn’t lift an empty bucket. At the end of the week, Hunter intended to ask the neighbors for help.
The hat shielded his eyes from the sun filtering around the white clouds. It was a gorgeous day for the blue jays to sing and the squirrels to chirp in nearby trees, but it didn’t bring him any comfort or peace. He couldn’t close his eyes without reliving that tragic evening.
Pebbles crunched under someone’s—or something’s—foot. As the noise grew louder, he looked downwind across the stream. In the distance, a horse neighed. He stood. “Someone there?” he shouted.
“Hunt?” No more than a hundred feet away, his sister’s shout rang loud and clear. “Where are you?”
“Mushroom Bowl.”
As children, they’d spent hours fishing where the water looped around a massive boulder shaped like a mushroom. He moved away from the bank to go sit in the shadow of a poplar, his back to the trunk.
Moments later, Rowan emerged from the woods. Alone. As she crossed to the other bank, her gelding stole a sip from the stream. Once on his side of the water, she dismounted Freckle and tied him to a branch near Sweetness.
“Where’s Bjorn?” For someone who’d never ridden a horse, the Icelandic boyfriend had logged a lot of practice during the week and showed remarkable progress. “Did you lose him?”
“He’s chopping wood for Mom.” She joined him and sat by his side. “I think he’s trying to sneak into her good graces.”
“Did you suggest he chop Medusa’s head instead?” Their dad’s mother had arrived the day of the funeral, and she refused to leave. “That would win Mom’s affection and my gratitude.”
“I wish.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed. “Why is she still here? We buried Dad a week ago. By blaming Mom for his death, she’s only making Mom’s life more miserable.”
His little sister was preaching to the choir. He slipped an arm behind her back and hugged her close. “Maybe once you and Bjorn return to Iceland, she’ll get the hint it’s time for her to depart.” And never return.
“I haven’t told Bjorn, but I’m thinking of opting out of the exchange program.”
“Why?” Love had flourished between his sister and the tall, foreign guy, and she’d already registered for a bunch of exciting classes on the northern island. “Dad is gone, Ro. He wouldn’t want you to change your future because of him. It won’t bring him back
.” Unlike him, Rowan could have done nothing to change the outcome of that night. “Fly back to Iceland, and live the life you’re meant to live.”
“What about Mom? She cries every night.” Tears pearled on her dark eyelashes as she looked up at him. “When is she going to stop?”
Feeling as helpless as his sister, he gently rubbed her arm. “I don’t know, but she survived once. She can do it again.”
“But back then, she had Dad to help her out. Now she’s alone. Who’s going to take care of her?”
He’d stay with their mother and be there for her. “I read somewhere that time heals all wounds.” But nowhere did it say how long it took or how much pain and suffering someone could sustain. “We need to give her time, and things will get back to normal. I promise.”
“I miss Dad, Hunt. I miss him so much.”
“I miss him too.” Alone in the woods with his little sister, Hunter stopped ignoring the pain ripping his heart apart and gave himself permission to cry.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On Monday morning, Blythe was surprised and wary of his in-laws’ presence in the corridor of the hospital near doctor Salinski’s office.
After Rutschi’s arrest outside his private clinic in Germany on Friday morning, the judge had dismissed their request, and Blythe hadn’t heard from them until now.
He stopped within feet of them and met their hard stares. “Good morning. What brings you here?”
Claire’s father squared his shoulders, and the tension between them increased. “You won this round, Blythe, but we’re not giving up.”
Win? What did I win? An empty house? An empty bed? An empty life? This wasn’t a game someone had to win. They had all lost something the night Claire was shot. “There’s no winner here.”
“Then why are you fighting us?” Claire’s mother frowned at him from behind a pair of thick glasses. “We’re trying to save our daughter.”