“Let’s get a hose on those flames pronto, fellas,” he said as Rick brought the truck to a stop.
“Roger that, Boss,” Tim said as he dropped out of the jump seat. Chris and Rick quickly followed, Chris looking up at building 1095 and the windows that belonged to Kara’s—Ronnie’s—apartment. The blinds were drawn, he noted, and he prayed that meant that she was simply shielding Jessica from further trauma by not making her face another fire.
Shaking off the irrational panic that had gripped him the moment he had heard the address over the speakers, Chris turned to Rick and Tim, who were readying one of the hard line reels. He reached into one of the storage compartments and pulled out a fire extinguisher, saying, “Tim, you got that line?”
“Got it,” Tim replied as Rick flipped the valve to start the water flowing. Tim then moved toward the front end of the car, directing the flow to hit the engine block, where the flames seemed to burn higher. Rick grabbed a second fire extinguisher and he and Chris hurried to stand on each side of the car, opening up their canisters simultaneously.
It took about 20 minutes for their three-pronged attack to put the fire down, and even when there was nary a single flicker of flame to be seen, Chris directed Tim to saturate the entire wreck for another ten. He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the other man for a moment, then joined Rick in putting away his extinguisher. He’d panicked for nothing, he knew, but even though the fire was out now the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t go away, and he glanced up at the windows of apartment H a second time.
“Chris, if you want to make sure they’re okay, go ahead. We got this,” Rick said.
Turning to him, Chris nodded his thanks and headed for the building. As he was stepping onto the sidewalk, he was surprised by the appearance of Kara and Sam at the edge of the barricade set up by the police.
“Chris!” Karalyn called out, waving her hand in the air.
The cops standing guard turned to him. “Let ‘em through,” he said, and waited as the cop nodded, then held up the yellow crime scene tape for the two EMTs to duck under it. As they jogged toward him, splashing through the water still flowing across the asphalt, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Kara insisted,” Sam said. “We heard about the fire on the radio, and seeing as she was driving the rig today, I could hardly argue.”
“I had to come,” Kara said. “I technically lived here up until this morning. Have you checked on Ronnie and Jessica?”
Chris grinned. “I was just about to do that. Why don’t you join me?”
She nodded and he led the way up the stairs to her old apartment. He stopped short, dread returning in full force at the sight that greeted them: The door to apartment H was ajar, standing open about an inch, and there were dark droplets on the threshold that even he could identify.
“Ronnie!” Kara cried, starting toward the door.
Sam grabbed her. “Kara, no!” he said. “We can’t go in there. This is a potential crime scene. We gotta call the cops.”
“There are plenty of cops down on the ground, call one of them, then!” she insisted. “There’s a young mother and a little girl that could be injured in there!”
As her partner nodded and moved to the railing to call one of the police officers up to them, the shock that had held him frozen suddenly released Chris, and he glanced at Kara. “Ronnie doesn’t have a car. We had to drive them here, remember?”
Kara nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”
He moved to the railing. “So whose car was on fire? Something tells me this isn’t a coincidence.”
A uniformed police officer came up the stairs then. “What’s the problem?” she asked, her tone crisp and businesslike.
Chris turned and pointed to the door of apartment H. “Look at the door—it shouldn’t be open like that and there’s what looks like blood on the threshold.”
The officer studied the partially open door, then stepped closer and crouched down to look at the dark droplets on the steel strip underneath it. A moment later she stood and asked, “Do you know who lives here?”
“Yes, we just came to check on them. Ronnie Thompson and her daughter Jessica,” Kara replied.
“They’re victims of the Breckon Apartments fire from last week,” Chris added. “Kara used to live here, but she offered the apartment to them because she’s moving back into her dad’s house. Lt. Liotta of the Bureau of Fire Safety believes that Ms. Thompson and/or her daughter were targeted by the arsonist behind the Breckon fire.”
The officer nodded and unsnapped the strap of her holster as she turned back toward the apartment, placing a hand on her gun as she used an elbow to push the door open. “Stay out here,” she said over her shoulder as she stepped through, maneuvering around the droplets on the ground.
From what he could see from his position outside the door, Chris noted there was more blood on the carpet just inside it. Concern for Ronnie and Jessica settled into his already churning stomach as he watched the officer walk through the apartment. She disappeared for a moment into one of the bedrooms, then appeared briefly before vanishing again into the other. When she came out of the second bedroom, she poked her head into the bathroom, then turned to them and said, “There’s no one here. If you want you can come inside, but don’t touch anything, and don’t step on that blood.”
They stepped inside as she turned her head, reaching up to key the mike on her radio. Chris absently noted she was calling for a detective as he looked around. Kara had just asked for permission to look in the closets for Jessica, because that’s where she liked to hide when she was afraid, when he spotted something that sent rivers of ice flooding through his veins:
There was a digital recorder sitting on the dining table.
He stepped closer and reached for it, stopping just short of picking it up when the cop yelled at him, “Don’t touch that!”
He stopped, his hand hovering over the device, his mind whirling. The only person he knew that carried digital recorders around was Martie. To him, this was proof that she’d been here…and realizing that caused the ice water in his blood to form a block around his heart.
Martie drove a Kia Sorento. A Sorento was a mid-size SUV.
Spinning, he hurried out of the apartment and flew down the stairs. Tim was winding the hard line back on its reel as he walked up to the back end of the burned-out wreck and crouched down, furiously wiping at the partially melted, blackened license plate. He could no longer read the state name on it, but it didn’t matter. He knew.
Fighting the panic that was clawing its way up his throat, he fished for his cell phone as Rick stepped up to him. “What’s wrong?”
Chris said nothing as he dialed Martie’s number. “Pick up. Pick up, pick up…baby please pick up,” he muttered as the ringer sounded in his ear.
One ring. Two. As the third started its trill, he began to pray she wasn’t ignoring him. Could he be mistaken about the car? Was Martie simply screening her calls because she wanted nothing to do with him?
No. Martie was too outspoken for that. She might have snuck behind his back and looked into his past without telling him, but she’d been open about it when they’d argued. She hadn’t denied it or offered flimsy excuses for her behavior. If she no longer wanted to speak to him, she’d pick up the phone long enough to say so.
After the fourth ring her voicemail picked up. Chris growled as he hit the end button. “Boss, what is it?” Rick asked as Tim joined them.
It was an effort to force the words from lungs that no longer enabled him to breathe. “The car is Martie’s. She’s missing.”
***
“You know, Lawrence,” said a voice, “when you said there was a problem, I was ready to have your head. But now that I see what you’ve brought me, I might just let you live. Of course, you did damage her, so you must be punished for that.”
A sound that could be nothing other than flesh striking flesh accompanied a cry and the heaving of her stomach
as Martie slowly regained consciousness. She tried not to move as she did so—not that she really wanted to, given how much her head was hurting. Keeping her eyes closed for the moment, she merely concentrated on breathing and tried to get a sense of her surroundings.
She was tied to a chair, her hands bound behind her. Her feet were loose, she noted, which might come in handy. But without opening her eyes, she couldn’t really tell where she was, save for a dank, smoky scent in the air. She knew there were at least two other people in the room, both of whom were male, based on the voice of the speaker and the name that was used.
Lawrence. Larry? Ronnie had said the name Larry as she was blacking out. And where was Ronnie? Where was Jessica? Were these the men who’d started the Breckon Apartments fire? Was the man who’d spoken the mysterious Kenny Stillman? His voice was familiar but she couldn’t place it just yet, having heard it as though headphones muffled the sound as she was coming to. She needed to hear him speak again.
“Kenny, please,” came Ronnie’s voice, confirming her suspicion that she’d been taken as well. The other woman was frightened. Martie could tell she’d been crying.
“Please what?” came the harsh reply, and she felt her heart stop.
It was Graham. Dear God, Jessica’s father was Graham.
“Why are you doing this? It’s been more than ten years—I haven’t asked for one thing from you. Never tried to look you up, never asked for your help with Jessica. How could you still want to hurt us?” Ronnie asked.
Graham snorted derisively. “I don’t want to hurt you, you stupid cunt. I want you dead. You’re a blight on my otherwise spotless record, one that I have no choice but to wipe out. I’ve got plans for the future, big plans, and if anybody discovered I had a bastard child out there it could ruin everything.”
“But no one will find out,” Ronnie insisted. “I don’t see how anybody would find out about us. Everything was in my name when we were together—the apartment, the utilities, the car. You said you paid for everything else in cash.”
She paused and took a breath. “Kenny, no one will know—I swear. I’ll take Jessica and leave the state if that’s what you want, just please let me go. Let me go find her and we’ll leave. It’ll be like you never found us.”
Go find her? Martie wondered. That meant Jessica wasn’t here. Whoever Larry or Lawrence was hadn’t grabbed her as well.
“That reminds me. Lawrence, where is that fucking brat? You managed to grab the lovely Martie but not a ten-year-old girl?”
“I…I didn’t see the kid,” Larry said haltingly. “I wasn’t expecting the other woman, and when she opened the door I panicked.”
“Well then get your fucking ass back to the apartment and find her!” Graham yelled. “A stupid, retarded kid can’t be too hard to find.”
“There will be cops everywhere! I set that woman’s car on fire.”
“You what?!” Graham roared, and Martie could hear him hitting Larry again. Several punches were thrown; Larry pleaded with him to stop and she could hear Ronnie sobbing across the room.
“You fucking idiot! Starting a fucking fire means not only the police are involved, but the fire department too! That fucking Indian will be looking for her now!” Graham yelled, hitting Larry one more time.
“Fuck!” he said again. “I can’t believe this shit! Why the fuck couldn’t you just do a simple job, hmm? Asking you to cozy up to my little whore was a simple enough task because neither of you is that bright. And she fell for it hook, line, and sinker—didn’t you, Veronica? Thought he was just a nice guy working a simple job, ‘cause you’re too fucking stupid to realize he was just getting to know you for me. To tell me about your routine so I’d know best when to send in the expert…though some expert he turned out to be. Thank goodness I’ve already taken care of that problem.”
So Larry hadn’t started the fire and neither had Graham, Martie mused. There was a third culprit involved who, judging by Graham’s words, was already dead. He’d hired someone to kill Ronnie and Jessica, but he had killed his would-be assassin himself.
“Go,” he snapped then. “I don’t care how you do it, but you find that fucking kid and you bring her here.”
Larry left without saying a word, opening and shutting a door somewhere to Martie’s right.
“So… What to do while I wait?” Graham said, and Martie could hear him pacing now. “I suppose I could kill you now. I was thinking of letting you live, maybe even taking you back as a side piece. You were a good lay, Veronica, I’ll give you that. But then, a gold-digging little whore usually is.”
“Kenny please. Please don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt Jessica,” Ronnie begged.
“I know what we could do while Larry’s gone. With Martie still out over there, we could have a little fun. If you please me—and I mean really rock my world—I’ll consider your request.”
Oh no. Was he serious? Martie wondered. Was he really going to force Ronnie to beg for her life, for her child’s life, by having sex with him?
This was not Graham, she told herself. Not the Graham she knew, the Graham she liked and respected. This man was a completely different person—one that he had very cleverly hidden behind the mask of the man she thought she knew.
“You want sex?” Ronnie asked, her tone as incredulous as Martie’s thoughts.
“I don’t see why you’re so surprised. It’s what brought us together, isn’t it?” Graham countered. “You wanted to fuck a rich man, I wanted an easy piece of ass. How was I to know you’d be such a good little whore? Or that you’d actually have the nerve to defy me when I told you to get rid of that fucking kid? There’s really not much else for us to do until either Larry returns or Martie wakes up. Something else I have to figure out how to handle now that Larry’s fucked that up too, but I’ll think of something. I always do.”
Martie heard him move over to where Ronnie’s voice came from, and she chanced opening her eyes a crack. Ronnie had been bound to a chair as she was, but now Graham was untying her. When her hands were free he jerked her to her feet and pulled her roughly to him.
“You either give it to me willingly or I take it from you, Veronica. It’s your choice,” Graham told her. Then he chuckled. “Maybe I should just take it. Had to do that to the wife the other night, and you know what I realized? I like it that way. I like taking what belongs to me whether the bitch wants to give it or not.”
Through her lashes she watched as Graham forced a kiss on Ronnie, who stiffened at first and then struggled to get away from him. Graham reared back and slapped her, hard enough to cause her nose to bleed, then grabbed her t-shirt and began to tear it. Martie could bear no more—no way could she just sit there and let a woman be raped.
Feigning a moan, she slowly rolled her head as though she were just now coming back to herself. She moaned again as she slowly opened her eyes and looked at the two figures before her.
“Graham?” she said, feeding confusion into her voice—not a difficult task as she had no clue as to what had made the man snap. She noted as she glanced around that they could only be in one place: the Breckon Apartments, though it was hard telling which one. Whichever apartment he’d holed them up in, they were in a bedroom.
“Graham, what is this? What is going on?” she asked.
He had turned to her when she first said his name, but looked back at Ronnie and said, “You’re saved—for now. I’ll still have you later.”
Graham pushed her back into her chair and retied the rope around her. Ronnie was crying freely, tears pouring from her eyes and mixing with the blood that dripped from her nose. He then turned and stepped over to Martie, crouching in front of her as he reached a hand up and brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. His fingertips lightly touched the place where Larry had hit her with his pistol and she winced.
“I’m so sorry, my love,” he told her softly. “Larry should never have hit you.”
“Who is Larry to you? What is going on?” she asked.
/> Graham sighed. “Larry is my little brother—half brother, actually. A bastard son of my father’s who does what I tell him to do. I thought you’d be on your way back to Billings by the time I got here; if I’d known you were going to be at the apartment, I would never have allowed him to hurt you. You mean too much to me.”
She blinked as if disoriented. “I don’t understand,” Martie told him, hoping to glean more information. “Why are you here?”
Graham shook his head, a placating smile on his lips. “Martie, my dear, surely you can figure that one out.”
“You’re… Are you Jessica’s father?” she asked, pretending to just come to the conclusion.
He nodded. “Sadly, yes. Veronica was never supposed to get pregnant, and when she did I ordered her to have an abortion. She refused, and then she disappeared. You may find it hard to believe, but it’s taken me almost eleven years to find them. Can you believe a man of my skill and intellect lost track of one stupid whore for that long?”
Martie slowly shook her head. “But why did you want to find them? Why not just let them be? I mean, if she didn’t demand you admit you’re the father, what difference did it make if she had the baby?”
Graham sighed as he stood. “Because I have plans,” he said, echoing his earlier statement. “I’ve always wanted to get into politics, because making the laws is where the real power is at. It’s taken me a while, but I’m finally ready to make my move: I’m going to run for Governor next year, and the press—those nosy little bastards—they’d have a field day with this. Can you imagine the hell that would rain down on my head if word got out that I’d had an affair, let alone with a gold-digging whore who intended to trap me with a bastard child?”
Fire Born (Firehouse 343) Page 18