by Rita Herron
A threat if she’d ever heard one.
She lunged toward the door to run, but he attacked her with a vicious yank, and twisted her arm behind her. The scent of smoke and sweat assailed her.
She fought against him, screamed and pivoted, then kicked at his knees. But he yanked her hair and slammed his fist into her face. Her head snapped backward, and darkness swirled like a tunnel clawing her down into its abyss.
She fought it, pushed at him, tried to scratch his face, his eyes, but another blow to her temple sent her flying backward into the wall. A scream died in her throat as she sank onto the floor in a puddle. The room spun, pain and nausea rocketing through her.
Cursing, he dragged her up by the hair, then hauled her into one of the kitchen chairs, positioning it in the middle of the living room. Desperate, she tried to break free, but he hit her again. She tasted blood and nearly passed out. His rancid breath brushed her neck as he tied her arms behind her back, and secured her feet to the chair.
A sob wrenched from her throat as he pulled her robe apart, then traced a finger over her bare shoulder.
His fingers were scorching hot and burned her skin as if he’d lit a match and touched it to her. Tears clogged her throat.
She was going to die tonight, then she’d never get to see Bradford again….
BRADFORD WRESTLED with pingponging emotions as he left Tybee and drove to the precinct.
He shouldn’t have slept with a woman involved in his current investigation.
She had been an innocent. Had given him her virginity. He didn’t deserve to be any woman’s first.
Especially when he had nothing left inside him to give.
The best thing to do was to finish this interrogation, make certain they had their serial arsonist in custody. Then say goodbye to Rosanna.
So, why did that thought make his stomach knot?
Because he’d felt something shift inside his chest when he’d made love to her. And for the briefest of seconds, he’d imagined stupid things about love and having someone to come home to at night, things that no man like him had a right to even contemplate.
The sky looked ominous with gray clouds, and he wished it would rain and stifle the ungodly hot temperature as he parked at the precinct and strode inside.
Captain Black met him and they entered the interrogation room together. A stiff-necked, white-haired attorney with a bulbous nose introduced himself as Theo Palmer, while Whitlock sat with his hands clenched in his lap, his thick eyebrows pinched, his expression worried.
Captain Black slapped a file on the table. “All right. Let’s talk, gentlemen.”
The next few minutes dragged as they danced around the attorney’s protests. “You have nothing on my client,” Palmer said calmly.
“You’re wrong.” Bradford propped one hip on the table edge facing Whitlock. “Dr. Klondike survived and told us what happened.”
Whitlock’s face turned ashen, and he leaned sideways to talk low into his attorney’s ear.
Palmer folded his hands, appearing nonplussed. “What exactly did she tell you?”
Bradford narrowed his eyes at Whitlock. “That you attacked her and set her office on fire because you didn’t want your name released as part of that research study.” Any color remaining on Whitlock’s face drained.
“But you were too late,” Bradford snarled. “We already had a warrant and have that information, so you tried to commit murder for nothing.”
Whitlock bowed his head into his hands. “My career on the City Council, my future in politics, it’ll be over.”
Palmer stared at them deadpan. “My client was assured that his part in this study would remain in the strictest of confidences or he never would have agreed to participate.”
“We needed the name for an ongoing criminal investigation,” Bradford said. “We didn’t intend to print the list in the damn paper.” He shoved the file forward, then opened it and removed the photos of the dead victims.
“Natalie Gorman. Hans Bolton, the waiter. Both of them in their twenties—both died in the bar fire at the Pink Martini.”
Whitlock’s eyebrows scrunched together as he stared at the morbid pictures.
“And this is Terrance Shaver. As you can see, he suffered—”
Whitlock waved away the pictures, his voice choked, “Why are you showing me this?”
“Because you just tried to kill Dr. Klondike by setting fire to her office.”
Whitlock glanced at the pictures again and visibly shuddered.
“My patience is gone, Whitlock,” Bradford growled. “We have a serial arsonist in the city, and three of his victims, now four, counting Dr. Klondike, were part of the CIRP research experiment. We found you tonight at the scene of the last fire—”
Whitlock shot up from his seat, his face contorted with fear and anger. “Listen, here, you can’t pin all those fires on me.”
“We know you set the fire tonight, that you didn’t want anyone revealing who you were. Maybe these victims recognized you and you were afraid they would tell someone about your participation.”
Whitlock pounded the table. “That’s not true. I didn’t even know that girl and those two guys. I certainly didn’t set fire to those other places.”
Palmer pressed a hand to his client’s arm and tried to coax him to sit back down. “Mr. Whitlock, I advise you to calm down and let me handle things.”
“But I didn’t kill these people.” His voice rose with agitation. “I’m not a serial arsonist. For God’s sake, tonight was the first fire I’ve ever set, and I only did that because I was desperate.” He paced across the room, a fine sheen of perspiration dotting his forehead. “I saw you there earlier asking questions and recognized you from the paper, so I got nervous. I went to talk to the doctor and asked her what you wanted and she admitted that she had released files on the paranormal studies. I tried to convince her to delete my name from the file, into telling you that it was a mistake that it was on that list, but she wouldn’t listen. Then I lost my temper and pushed her.” His voice cracked as he heaved for air. “She fell and hit her head—it was an accident. I never meant to kill her.”
“But you set fire to her office and left her there to die.”
“When I saw the blood I panicked…I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”
“So you decided to cover up her death with a fire?”
“Yes, I…guess I thought you’d blame that arsonist, that you wouldn’t find me.”
Captain Black made a sound of disgust. “You’re a piece of work, Whitlock. You left an innocent woman to die, then you ran like a coward.”
The man stopped in his tracks, stared at them both as if he’d just realized he’d confessed to attempted murder. Finally his face fell with acceptance and remorse.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” He collapsed into the chair, then dropped his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking.
Palmer spread his hands on the table. “Let’s talk about a deal, gentlemen. My client has never been in trouble before. He told you the truth, that it was an accident—”
Bradford cut him off. “We’re not talking a deal until we know about the other fires.”
Whitlook looked so pale Bradford thought he was going to pass out. “I swear I had nothing to do with those,” he said raggedly. “I’m not a murderer or an arsonist…”
Bradford studied his expression, the pitiful whine of his voice, and the regret in his expression.
Dammit. He wanted this to be the UNSUB. Wanted to lock him up and end this case and the reign of terror this firestarter was wreaking on Savannah.
And on Rosanna.
But he believed Whitlock’s confession.
His pulse clamored. God, Rosanna. He’d left her alone. And the killer was still out there. What if he’d somehow found Rosanna?
A JACKHAMMER was smashing Rosanna’s skull.
No, it was the phone trilling. Slicing through the pain in her temple with its incessant shrill sou
nd.
She blinked, trying to open her eyes, but reality swam back, and she closed them again, a sob wrenching from her.
Suddenly her attacker yanked her head back, leaned over and whispered near her ear. “That’s Brad boy. I’m going to pick up the phone, and you’re going to talk to him.”
She shook her head, but he pressed a finger to her breasts, and her skin sizzled with pain as if a match was burning her.
“You’ll do exactly what I said,” he muttered. “Or you’ll suffer even more.”
The phone jangled again, and he shoved it to her ear.
“Tell him I’m here then we’ll wait on him to start the party.”
Choking on the hatred bubbling in her soul, she glared at him, then cleared her throat, praying her voice worked. She wanted to warn Bradford, but how?
If she let him know this man was here, he’d be walking into a trap. Even if he saved her, he might die.
She couldn’t bear to have another man’s death on her conscious. Especially the man she loved.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded, sucking back another sob.
“Rosanna, are you all right?” Bradford’s voice sounded strained. “What took you so long to answer?”
God, he sounded out of breath. Worried. Almost as if he cared what happened to her.
All the more reason she had to protect him.
“I’m fine. I…I just fell asleep.”
“Thank God.” He heaved a breath. “Listen. We finished questioning Whitlock, and he admitted to the fire at the research park, but not the others. I’m going to review that list I got from CIRP and see if I come up with anything.”
Tears blurred Rosanna’s vision. She bit down on her lower lip as her attacker ran his fingers along her neck, singeing her skin. “Okay. Bradford…thank you for the most wonderful night of my life.”
Silence stretched across the line for a heartbeat, then he said in a husky voice, “I’ll be there soon. Keep the door locked, and call me if you need me.”
The phone clicked into silence, and Rosanna’s hopes for a future shattered.
“You didn’t tell him to hurry, that I was here,” her attacker said with a menacing scowl.
She raised her chin defiantly. “I won’t play your game.”
He grabbed a kitchen knife, ripped off her robe and threw it on the floor at her feet and lit it. Then he pressed his hot finger to her breast and a fiery pain shot through her. “Sure you will. But we’ll have to start the torturing before he gets here.”
BRADFORD HUNG UP, anxiety bunching his muscles.
Rosanna’s words echoed in his ears. She’d claimed she didn’t want a commitment, but the emotions reverberating in her voice indicated otherwise.
He didn’t want to hurt her. But he couldn’t make promises…
“So what do you think about Whitlock?” Black asked.
Bradford rapped his knuckles on the desk. “I wish he was our UNSUB but I don’t think he is.”
Black sighed. “Yeah, I bought his story, too.”
“Let me look at this list from CIRP,” Bradford said. “Maybe something will stick out.”
Black nodded. “I’ll finish up with Whitlock and his lawyer.”
Bradford scrubbed a hand over his beard stubble, the smell of Rosanna’s skin lingering on his hand when he pulled it away. Ignoring the longing that made him want to ditch the paperwork, return to his cabin and take her back to bed, he began to skim the names.
To protect identities, the participants of the project had been assigned numbers, and the doctors had stipulated that in the group sessions, they use first names only.
Each participant had filled out forms detailing their health histories, along with questions on their personal backgrounds, jobs, relationships, likes and dislikes, hobbies and the special ability they professed to have, although the names hadn’t been included on the forms, but rather their assigned numbers.
He studied the list of abilities, shaking his head as he found psychics listed several times, along with mediums and practicing witches. One participant stated that he or she dreamed the future, another floated outside her body through space and time, and ten people insisted they had telekinetic powers.
But one listing drew his eye. The person claimed to have the power to start fires with his hands.
He paused, remembering Rosanna’s theory. The one he’d thought ridiculous.
There couldn’t be any truth to this person’s assertion.
Could there?
He flipped over to the profile and family history. The man who claimed to start fires had an unusually high body temperature. An odd magnetism to metal.
And he’d been struck by lightning as a child but he’d survived.
His pulse clamored. Rosanna had mentioned that she’d read about someone online claiming to be a firestarter who’d been electrocuted. And another struck by lightning.
He tensed, a ball of dread clenching his stomach.
His brother Johnny had been struck by lightning as a kid. But Johnny was in jail, in the hospital ward suffering from burns.
His heart pounded.
Although he hadn’t actually seen his brother in the hospital, and he was severely burned and now bandaged…
Chapter Eighteen
Bradford checked the participant’s number, then flipped through the files frantically searching for the person’s name and contact information.
The initials JRW stood out in bold printed letters. His heart stuttered—they should have been emblazoned in red because they were his brother’s initials.
The blood roared in his ears as he punched in the number for the Atlanta prison and asked to speak to the warden.
“Detective Walsh, I didn’t expect to hear from you. I’m afraid your brother is still sedated—”
“Listen to me, is there any possibility that the man burned in the fire isn’t my brother?”
“What? There’s no way Johnny escaped. We haven’t lost any prisoners.”
But his face had been burned and bandaged. And he was sedated, so there was no way his own mother could have known that the man in the bed wasn’t her son.
“How about transfers? Guards missing?”
A long pause. “Hold on.”
Bradford heard the clicking of computer keys, then the warden hissed. “Actually we did have a guard who didn’t show up the day after the fire. Called in and said he had to leave for a family emergency. He hasn’t been back.”
Hellfire and damnation. “The guy in the ward, can you check his fingerprints?”
Another sigh, filled with audible tension and the realization of what might have happened. “His fingers were burned, too.”
“Go wake him up, have him verify his identity, then call me back.” Bradford jumped up and ran for the door, punching in his home number as he ran toward his car.
If Johnny had escaped and had been here terrifying the people of Savannah, he’d done so to get revenge on him.
And if he’d targeted Rosanna, knew Bradford was protecting her and where he lived, she was in immediate danger.
Not that she hadn’t been before, but Johnny would like nothing more than to hurt someone Bradford cared for.
And he did care for Rosanna.
God help him, he hadn’t wanted to, but he did.
The phone rang once, twice, three times making his blood pressure soar. Finally someone answered.
“Rosanna?”
“No, bro, it’s me.”
His blood ran cold. He froze, one step away from his car, thunder rumbling above.
“Johnny, don’t you dare hurt her, man—”
“Shut up, Brad boy. I’m in charge now. In fact, your girlfriend and I are here having a party. So come on over.” A nasty chuckle rumbled over the line.
The insane ring to his brother’s voice sharpened the terror streaking through Bradford.
“I didn’t betray you, Johnny, and Rosanna has nothing to do with us.”
Johnny paused, the silence driving home the reality of his threat. Bradford’s throat thickened with emotion.
Johnny laughed, obviously realizing his taunt had upset Bradford. “And just think what her flaming red hair will look like charred and spread across the pillow her head rested on when you took her to bed earlier.”
Rosanna’s words rang in Bradford’s ears, taking on a new meaning. She had been telling him goodbye because his brother had been there.
And because she knew she was going to die.
ROSANNA BIT her tongue to keep from crying out in fear as Johnny Walsh hung up the phone. Bradford’s brother was a sick, twisted, sadistic animal.
No wonder Bradford had been forced to lock him up. He hadn’t had a choice.
She couldn’t help but compare him to Bradford. Even though he and this man shared the same genes, they were as different as night and day.
Just like her and her father.
Or were they?
She’d feared all her life that his rage lived within her. That that rage had given her the power to kill him.
She’d hoped she’d buried that rage so deeply beneath the surface that no storm could have unveiled it, but she felt it clawing its way upward, trying to surface.
But not for herself. For the injustice this man had done to Natalie and to the others. And to Bradford who still harbored guilt and hurt from the pain his brother had inflicted.
Bradford might not love her, but if she died, he would blame himself. Of that she was certain.
One reason she had to fight this monster. No matter what it took, she couldn’t let him kill her.
She had to stall, keep him talking.
Maybe if she could concentrate, she could summon her power, if she had one, and untie her hands.
For the first time in her life, she prayed that she had that ability.
Johnny began to stalk her, circling her with sinister laughter, his dark eyes trailing over her as if he was envisioning her on fire, her skin burning beneath his fingertips.