by Burton, Mary
Coughing, she hurried into the kitchen and turned on the cold tap. Grabbing a dish towel, she soaked it with water and draped it over her head before she dropped to her knees and crawled to the utility cabinet. She grabbed the fire ladder Gideon had showed her in the closet and dragged it back toward the window.
Her lungs and eyes burned with acrid smoke. It was nearly impossible to see as she pried open the side of the box and yanked out the ladder. She forced herself to her feet and flipped the lock on the window. The window sash, however, was stuck in place from a recent paint job.
She grabbed one of the stools at the counter and rammed it into the window. A couple of the panes broke, but the wood frame did not give way. Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip and hit the window again. More glass shattered, but it was still not a big enough opening for her to fit through.
The cool air rushed in, and even as she greedily breathed in the fresh air, the fire behind her bellowed and pulled as it consumed the oxygen. She struck the window again, and this time the frame gave way and fell to the ground below.
Her head spinning, she reached for the end of the ladder, hooked it onto the ledge, and tossed it over the side. The rungs rolled down and caught halfway as the heat behind her scorched her back.
As she climbed onto the ledge, she saw someone near the corner of the big house.
A sudden explosion sounded behind her, blasting hot embers across the room and against her back. The damp cloth was helping, but she would be lucky to have another few seconds.
As she gripped the sill, shattered glass cut into the palms of her hands. She felt nothing as the blood poured over her fingers and she slung herself over the sill. With her foot, she desperately searched for the first rung of the ladder, which shifted and swayed against the house.
Looking back into the apartment, she glared at the fire, an angry red beast that snarled back, almost grinning as if it knew she’d been seconds away from dying. She froze, unable to shift her attention away from the formidable creature that was almost mesmerizing.
The ladder shifted under her feet as the ceiling beams in the apartment began to collapse. The spell broke, and she skipped the next rung down to get away as fast as she could.
Blood made her palms slick, and gripping the ladder became difficult. Her hands slipped twice as she struggled to keep her feet on the twisting rungs swaying in the wind. Heat from above rained over her as glowing debris tumbled down.
When she was five feet from the ground, the window ledge above gave way, and the right hook disengaged. Her grip tightened, but the chain ladder twisted violently, knocking her against the side of the garage. The siding cut into her ribs, knocking the air from her. Her fingers slipped, and she lost her grip completely and fell to the ground.
She landed on her feet hard. Her ankle rolled, but she did not go down. The fire howled and glowed above her as the structure began to collapse in on itself.
Joan pushed up to her feet, teetering as she struggled to put distance between her and the fire. Her legs wobbled, and pain from her ribs knifed her from within. Still, she stumbled back several steps. She was not going to let this damn fire kill her.
As she took another step and then another, she felt hope that she would survive this. Her gaze on her feet, she never saw the blow that came at her from behind. She took a strike to her lower back that dropped her to her knees.
“Fucking bitch!” a deep voice growled. “What’s it going to take to kill you?”
She tried to rise, but a heavy boot kicked her forward. Her face hit the ground, dirt and blood filling her mouth.
“You’re going to burn alive if it’s the last thing I do.”
She looked up into Clarke’s lifeless eyes, which mirrored the growing flames behind him. “You gutless shit,” she spat out.
“Yeah, aren’t you the smart one?” he hissed. “You were in my house.”
She winced as she pushed farther back from him and the burning structure.
Clarke stepped toward her. “I have tiny bits of paper stuck in the doors and windows. I always know if anyone has disturbed them.”
She pushed back a few more inches, gritting her teeth as her body screamed in pain. “You set the fires, didn’t you? All of them.”
He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to her feet. Twisting it behind her back, he shoved her toward the fully engulfed building. “Maybe not all, but nearly all. It was going so well. And then you came back.”
Her gaze locked on the raging fire as its heat scorched her skin.
“In case you’re wondering, I set the College Fire. It was all me, baby. I showed Ann how much she needed me, and I taught you a lesson about meddling. But you forgot that lesson and now are back and hell-bent on taking Ann away again.” He dragged her closer to the fire that loomed over them both. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And she’s all mine.”
He whirled her around and wrapped his fingers around her neck and started to squeeze. She coughed, knowing the building could come down on them at any second. But Clarke was in a blind rage. She knew he would rather die killing her than survive.
Joan kicked her feet hard, her foot connecting with his shin, but he seemed to enjoy the fight she had in her. She could feel herself passing out and her knees buckling. Her vision narrowed as her fingers fell free of his hands.
When she collapsed to the ground, she was dimly aware he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her faceup toward the flames. She somehow sensed Clarke did not want her to die at his hands, but wanted the smoke and flames to take her.
As her fingers dug into the ground, she clawed at the dirt, grabbing a handful, and threw it in his face. Her wild aim was off, and the dirt only caught the side of his left eye. But the strike forced him to blink and turn his head away. His grip on her ankle slackened, and she tried to kick free.
His fingernails dug into her skin as he swiped the debris from his eyes. “I can’t wait to see you burn.”
A gunshot rang out from behind her. Through her hazy vision, she saw Clarke stumble. For a moment, he dug his fingers deeper into her flesh, as if killing her was all that mattered now. But in the next second, blood bloomed on his shirt, and he reeled backward. His fingers slackened, and he released her. He looked past her, staring a moment, and then staggered toward the inferno and vanished into the flames.
The fire roared louder as it consumed the building, and flaming pieces fell to the ground around her. She turned onto her belly and started to crawl away from the heat consuming her.
Strong hands banded around her, hauled her up, and tossed her over a wide set of shoulders. She lay limp like a rag doll and struggled to catch her breath.
She watched the ground move under her and felt distance grow between her and the flames. When they were at least a hundred feet from the blaze, her savior laid her gently on the front porch. The building garage cracked and broke, and the structure collapsed.
“Joan.” Gideon’s sharp tone cut through her mind’s haze. “Joan.”
She coughed and tried to sit up. Through her blurred vision, she stared into Gideon’s intense gaze. Her throat was raw, and the scent of burned hair filled her nostrils. Her voice was barely a whisper. “It was Clarke.”
“I know.”
“He wanted to burn me alive.”
Gideon gathered her up in his arms and held her close. She raised her hand to his arm and gripped his shoulder. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “I thought I was going to lose you.”
“Me too.” Her voice was rough with smoke inhalation and emotion.
“This time we figure it out together.”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Missoula, Montana
Friday, September 11, 2020
5:00 a.m.
Gideon had ridden in the ambulance to the hospital with Joan and had been at her side as the doctors examined her and treated her for burns and bruising. When she’d finally fallen into a deep sleep, he had called Ann
and told her about the fire and his trip to the emergency room with Joan.
When Ann pushed through the emergency room doors, her face was flushed and her eyes bright with panic. She spotted Gideon and rushed toward him. “Gideon. I dropped the boys off with Tim’s mother like you asked.”
He crossed to her, searching for the right words. Finding none, he said, “Clarke is dead.”
“What?”
He watched the play of shock and disbelief on her face as she searched his gaze. He thought back to the moment when he had told Kyle his mother had died. Delivering the news had gutted him. And now he had to tell his sister that he had shot and killed her husband. He would have done anything to spare his sister this kind of pain. But the truth had to be told, and he wanted her to hear this from him and no one else. “I shot him.”
“I don’t understand.” Her eyes darkened with questions and confusion.
Gideon shifted his stance but kept his focus on Ann. “Clarke was trying to kill Joan. He set fire to the garage apartment.”
“Clarke?” She shook her head and hesitated, as if she expected some kind of punch line. When none came, she said, “No, he wouldn’t do that.”
“I promise you, he did.”
She raised a trembling hand to her forehead. “I don’t understand why he would do something like that.”
“I don’t understand it all yet, either. But I’m headed out to get a search warrant so I can go through his house.”
“It’s my house, too. You don’t need a warrant. You have my permission.”
“I’m still getting a search warrant. I don’t want any confusion later.”
A female uniformed officer approached them, and he motioned for her to come closer.
Tears welled in Ann’s eyes. He kissed her on the forehead. “This is Officer Wilson. She’s going to take care of you.”
“I don’t need taking care of.”
“Yes, you do, and I can’t do it right now. When I have more answers, you’ll be the first person I call.”
Ann looked at him a long moment and then slowly nodded. She fished her keys from her purse. “Take my keys.”
“Thanks.”
Gideon left Ann with the uniformed officer. It took another hour to get his warrant and arrive at Clarke’s residence with Becca and a forensic tech. The keys Ann had given him did not work in the door. It was not a surprise that Clarke had changed the locks. A half hour later, he had a locksmith on scene.
Becca shook her head as she regarded the house. “I was just here last year for a cookout that Ann and Clarke had for the Fourth of July. Clarke seemed so in love with Ann.”
“Love or obsession?”
“Clearly the latter,” she said.
A car pulled up, and Gideon turned to see Ann get out. He cursed. “I told her to stay at the hospital.”
“She has a right to be here,” Becca said. “This is her life imploding.”
Ann rushed toward him, her face pale and her features tight with anger. “Joan is still unconscious, and I cannot just sit and wait. What is going on?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping the answers are inside.”
“Have you gone in yet?” she asked.
“About to. We’re working on the lock.”
“Why aren’t you using my keys to get into the house?”
“The lock’s been changed,” Gideon said.
“Why would he do that? He kept saying he wanted me to move home. Why would he change the locks?”
The locksmith worked his implements into the lock, and it clicked open. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open. “There you go.”
“I want to be there,” Ann said.
“No,” Gideon said as he blocked her path.
“This house was my home for so many years,” she protested.
“Right now, it is a crime scene investigation. So you will stand on the curb and wait. I don’t want you anywhere near this investigation.”
“He is . . . was my husband.”
“I know, Ann. I know he was a good father and he loved you. But I’m not sure if we ever really knew him.”
“I knew him,” she said, frowning. “Or at least I thought I did.”
“We were all fooled.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Now, I need to ask you to step back. This is a criminal investigation, Ann.”
She wrapped her arms around her chest. “It can’t be happening. I’m going to wake up and this nightmare will be over.”
“Ann, have you spoken to Nate?”
“Not yet. I will soon. I just need to get my head around all this.”
“You should be with him. You two need to talk. Let me take care of this.”
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Call me when you know something.”
“I will. You should go and see Nate.”
“This is all too much. I still can’t process it,” Ann said. “How’s Joan ever going to forgive me?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Ann. Don’t take any responsibility for what Clarke did.”
She shook her head. “I should have listened to her years ago. I should have left and moved east.”
“Don’t do that. No good will come of it. Go home to Nate. Let me figure this out.”
Ann drew in a breath and squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Gideon.”
He watched as she got in her car and drove off.
“I got it,” the locksmith said. “Have a look at this.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
Gideon followed the locksmith’s finger to a small piece of tape secured to the door and jamb. It was unbroken. He pulled on protective gloves and summoned the tech over. She collected the piece of tape and bagged it.
“Check it for fingerprints.”
“Will do, boss.”
Gideon stepped over the threshold. He moved into the kitchen, opening the pantry. There were no empty milk jugs or rags as Joan had said.
He looked around the kitchen, searching the corners and the vents for any sign of a camera. But security could have been as low-tech as a piece of tape on the front door or a back window to have alerted Clarke.
He moved to the bedroom overlooking the patio and tried the window. On the dresser was a framed picture of Clarke, Ann, and Nate. Beside it was a picture of Ann that had been taken the same day the other image of Joan, Ann, and Gideon had. If Clarke had taken these pictures, he was likely the source of the picture Lana had had in her suitcase.
As he searched Clarke’s face in the first picture, he wanted to see signs of the evil in the man. But there was nothing that appeared to lurk behind the smiling eyes.
He turned to the window and studied the lock. On the top sash was a clear piece of tape that had been dislodged. If this was how Joan had accessed the house, Clarke would have discovered it. “You were made in seconds, Joan.”
He looked around the bedroom, taking in the unmade bed and the scattered clothes. He moved to the closet, where Clarke had lined up a collection of books next to a small cabinet secured with a combination lock.
Given that Clarke had been caught trying to commit murder, Gideon’s search warrant allowed him access to every corner and drawer in this house. He spoke to the forensic tech, who retrieved a pair of bolt cutters. Wrapping the sharp ends around the lock, Gideon shoved the handles together. The lock snapped open.
As the tech filmed the process, Gideon opened the cabinet door. Inside was a collection of DVDs, and each was marked in Clarke’s neat, bold handwriting. Gideon selected the first recording, identified with the description “Practice fire #1.”
When Joan woke up in a hospital bed, she was aware of the beep of a monitor, the IV in her arm, and the bright sunshine. When she raised her hand to shield her eyes, she noted that both her palms were bandaged.
As she shoved through the haze in her brain, she struggled to remember the day and then the year. Her throat was raw, and her skin felt tender, as if she had a bad sunburn.
“Welco
me back.”
She turned to see Elijah sitting in the corner of her room. He carefully closed a large textbook already filled with multicolored tabs.
He set the book aside, rose, and walked gingerly up to her bed. As she had done for him yesterday, he held up a cup of water and a straw so she could drink. The water scraped against her raw throat, but her body was greedy for the hydration. She drank the entire glass.
“Aren’t you the good little patient,” he said.
“I aim to please.” Her voice sounded ragged, as if she were recovering from a cold. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“A few hours,” he said. “The good detective was here for a while, but duty called. Ann was also here for a time. When they both left, I decided to visit.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long.” He grinned. “And for the record, you don’t drool or snore when you’re asleep.”
“Good to know,” she said.
“I owe you my thanks.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Clarke.”
“He’s dead?”
“Very. From what I’m hearing from the nurses, Detective Bailey shot him, but that was before he burned up.”
Memories of last night emerged from the fog. “Yep, I was there, unfortunately. You said Gideon got called away.”
“My sources tell me he and his team are searching Clarke’s house.”
She remembered her own search of the house. Nothing she had found would have been admissible, and Gideon could never have legally acted on her discoveries if Clarke had not attacked her. And even still, Gideon was a stickler for the rules.
“It’s been a productive twenty-four hours for you. Dan and now Clarke are dead,” Elijah said.
“Pretty busy for a small town.”
Joan understood why Clarke had come after her, but why would he go after Dan? If anything, Dan would have been the perfect fall guy for eliminating Elijah. “Where were you when Dan died?”
“Always the cop,” he said carefully.