Twin Offerings

by Ruth Parker

  Mullins looked as confused as any of them—perhaps more so. But he tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants and went to the kitchen. Fletcher had been right. Guys like Mullins craved a father figure, grew up wanting nothing more than to have a dad who could restore order to their chaotic home life. Guys like Mullins buckled under strong male authority.

  Mullins was busy in the kitchen, getting the teabags from the cabinet, rinsing out the kettle, and preparing the finger foods. Fletcher pointed at the grimy old dinner table that stood in the little dining area of the living room. “Sit down,” he told Laurel and the girls. Laurel took each of the girls’ hands and led them to go sit down.

  The kitchen was connected to the living room, separated by a waist-high counter top. Mullins was able to see them sitting at the table, so Fletcher didn’t want to risk turning his phone back on and texting Bowen.

  Fletcher followed them and sat at the table. In a whisper so low he wasn’t even sure that Laurel and the girls would be able to hear, he said, “Play along. Cops are coming.”

  Laurel and Madison nodded. Melissa was staring at the tabletop, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Do you have Earl Grey?” Fletcher called to Mullins in the kitchen. It was vital that he keep giving orders, no matter how small, to maintain his authority.

  “I think so,” Mullins said eagerly. “Let me double-check.”

  “If not, then I’ll take regular black or chamomile,” Fletcher said. In a low whisper, he told Laurel and the girls, “When I say so, run for the front door.” Laurel nodded.

  All they had to do was wait a few more minutes. When Fletcher heard the police cars arrive outside, he would tell Laurel and the girls to go and he would stay behind and deal with this asshole. But he couldn’t do that with Laurel and the girls in the house. It was too dangerous for them.

  Fletcher took a deep breath and tried to relax himself. And that was when he smelled it. The gas. The house was filling up with gas.

  Twenty-Eight

  Bowen waited at the side of the road, pacing wildly, checking her phone every six seconds. Fletcher’s rental car was here, but he was not. Where the hell was Underwood? She heard a car coming. Red and blue lights swirled in the distance and she relaxed a little bit. She saw Underwood behind the wheel and flagged him down. He parked his car horizontally, blocking the road.

  “Alright,” he said. “Where’s the house?”

  “It’s up there,” she said. “It’s the very next one on the right.”

  “Let’s go,” he said. He took his gun out of his concealed waistband holster. He’d taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves. It was cold out, but he had yellowing damp circles underneath his armpits. He’d also changed into a worn pair of running shoes.

  “Let’s wait for everyone else,” she said.

  “I am everyone else,” he said. “SWAT can’t get here for another forty-five minutes. Stella said if I waited forty-five minutes he’d stuff candy up my ass and string me up by the dick and give everyone in the department a billy club.”

  “There’s no other deputies?” she asked.

  “They’re all out or too inexperienced. We could get Ignacio or Baker, but again, they’re at least thirty minutes out. And I’d hate to see which body part Stella would use to string you up. So let’s go. We’ve both been doing this a long time, we’ve both arrested our fair share of assholes. This will be no different,” Underwood said.

  Bowen got the feeling that he was trying encourage himself just as much as he was trying to encourage her. They walked up the road, fast as they could. The old house came into view. There were plenty of houses like this out in the woods. Splintery, bare roof beams, paint long since worn away by the elements. Dented window frames with torn screens. Pine needles and rotting leaves mounded on the roof. Overgrown grass and weeds, varying shades of brown.

  Underwood motioned that he’d take the right side and Bowen would take the left. They would do a walk-around, trying to see or hear anything, find a way inside. All the curtains were drawn, except one window on the far side of the house. It was broken, all the glass cleared out of the frame. There was a drop of bright red blood on the window frame.

  Fletcher. He’d been twenty minutes ahead of them, inside this house for at least fifteen minutes.

  And he hadn’t come out.

  She tried to peek inside, but all she could see was a wall and the arm of a couch in a distant room. There were voices. Calm. More than one.

  It was hard, but she peeled herself away from the window and continued along the side of the house, looking for the best point of entry. She met Underwood in what was once a backyard. There were a few scattered fence posts and a few planks, but the rest of the fence had been blown or rotted away. Underwood had made a map on a scrap of paper, sketching out the rough floor plan of the house. He had pinpointed the voices; they were all located in what he thought was the kitchen, which he’d marked with a star. She told him about the broken window, the drops of blood on the window frame.

  “Alright,” Underwood said. “So we don’t have the element of surprise on our side.”

  “Fuck it,” Bowen said. “We’re both wearing our vests. Let’s bust down the front door. And go in through here.” She pointed on the map where they would go.

  “Fine by me,” Underwood said. “I never wanted to live forever anyway.”

  Mullins brought a plate of cookies and mini muffins to the dinner table. “No nibbling before tea is served,” he said. “Isn’t that the rule, girls?”

  “And no licking your fingers. Use a napkin,” Madison said. Fletcher saw a ghost of a smile touch Laurel’s mouth. That girl was sharp. But neither Laurel nor the girls had noticed the smell of the gas filling the room. Fletcher’s eyes were glued to the windows, waiting for the police to arrive. Standard procedure would have them surround the building, both looking for a way in and blocking any chance of escape from the suspect. He would notice their heads bobbing around outside through the threadbare curtains.

  The smell of gas was getting stronger now. That mildly putrid smell, like overripe fruit. It wasn’t the gas, Fletcher knew, but a malodorous compound they added to the natural gas for safety purposes. In case your furnace had a leak. Or in case you were held by an insanely delusional killer who was seconds away from blowing the whole house sky-high.

  Fletcher risked putting his hand in his pants pocket. His cell phone was in there, heavy and solid and completely useless. He’d selfishly turned it off, not wanting anyone from the Sheriff’s Department to be able to order him away from Mullins’s house. And now he couldn’t turn it back on without the loud startup chime getting Mullins’s attention. But Fletcher wasn’t trying to get his phone from his pocket. He was trying to get his Zippo.

  There might not even be enough fluid inside. The wick might be dried out and shriveled to a worthless blackened nub. When was the last time Fletcher used the lighter, besides just idly flipping the lid open and closed? Weeks? Months? This was his best idea—hell, it was his only idea—and he had to try something. He couldn’t just sit here at this table, his hands pressed neatly against the tacky surface, waiting for the stove igniter to tick on.

  He kicked Laurel’s leg underneath the table. She looked at him and wrinkled her nose, pantomiming a sniffing gesture. He gave her a tiny nod and her eyes went wide with fear. Fletcher risked a glance at the kitchen. Mullins was drying the bottom of the old fashioned metal kettle with a frayed dishtowel. He’d been stalling, carefully laying out the snacks, slowly washing and drying the tea set and kettle—he was waiting for enough gas to leak from the stove to fill the entire house like a bomb in search of a spark.

  Time was not on their side. Fletcher needed to do something now, while the gas was mostly still in the kitchen.

  Mullins was staring at the dinner table, blankly, with slack face and slumped shoulders. A madman might be reasoned with—Fletcher’d done it before. But a hopeless man? A man whose last desperate chance for happ
iness and satisfaction was snatched away from him? No. That sort of man could not be talked out of anything. That sort of man only wanted to take as many others with him as possible.

  Mullins inspected the shiny surface of the kettle and turned to the sink. “Just a few more minutes,” he said, his voice dull and emotionless. “I just need to put the water on the stove.”

  Fletcher locked eyes with Laurel. “Now,” he mouthed, then gave a curt nod to the front door. Laurel didn’t hesitate. She put one arm around each girl and sprang out of her chair. The three of them landed with a thud, Laurel pulling the girls close, covering their small bodies with her own. One of the girls grunted loudly, whoofing all the air out of her lungs. Distantly, Fletcher thought that probably hurt her a lot.

  “The hell?” Mullins said. He spun around, kettle still in hand.

  “Hell,” Fletcher said. He stood up and flicked the lighter. A long flame wavered at the tip of the lighter. “Is where you belong.”

  Fletcher threw it into the kitchen and waited while his whole world went white. Then orange. Then black.

  Underwood and Bowen each had a handle of the battering ram. It was a long, thick cylinder of pure iron, about the size of an exercise foam roller. It was about fifty pounds—not that heavy, but if it hit the door right next to the locks, it would blast everything out of place. It was meant to be wielded by one jacked twenty-four-year-old, not two middle-aged detectives who spend more time at their desks than at the gym. It was awkward for both of them to hold onto it, but they managed. It was a good thing that Underwood had one in his car, because both of their door-kicking-down days were behind them.

  “One,” Underwood said. They were swinging the ram, getting a little momentum. “Two… Three!”

  On three, they heaved it all the way back, then up as hard as they could, leaning into the thrust. Bowen tangled her feet together, but managed to catch herself before she fell on her face. The door cracked, the old, dry wood shattering under the weight of the battering ram. Underwood tossed the heavy chunk of metal onto the lawn. He pulled out his gun and racked a round into the chamber. Bowen did the same.

  “Ladies first,” he said, gesturing for her to enter. That was fine by Bowen. She was keyed up and ready to get in there and get this over with.

  She exhaled, readying herself to step inside. She’d been in a few sticky situations before—the worst were always the domestic disputes—but never anything like this. A serial killer. Hostages. She was definitely in over her head, but that didn’t really matter. It was her job to go in there and get those girls out.

  That was when she felt the rumble. It was deep, vibrating in her bones.

  Then she heard it. The whoosh. Then the screams.

  A wave of heat pushed against Bowen, making her take a small step backwards. She stepped forward, steadying herself. The smoke stung her eyes. She squinted, trying to see through the haze and the heat and the hot orange glow. There were screams. Horrible, soul-rending screams of pure agony. Screams glutted with pain and panic and fury. She couldn’t tell if they came from a man or woman, adult or child. Underwood pushed her a step farther inside. The smoke was getting thicker. In a few moments, they would be unable to breathe. She pulled her shirt up over her nose and mouth, but it did nothing to stop the burning in her lungs. Or the smell of hot, crackling flesh in her nose.

  “We gotta get them out now,” Underwood yelled. He was close enough that his lips brushed her ear, but she could barely hear him over the roar of the flames and that horrible screaming. She thought that she’d never get that sound out of her head.

  Just then, Bowen felt a hand clamp around her ankle. She screamed and instinctively kicked her foot, trying to shake off the desperate, clawing grasp. It did not let go. Bowen looked down, through the thick smoke, and saw it was Laurel holding onto her ankle. Laurel had the two girls with her. The girls were coughing and scrambling to get up. They were wearing navy blue dresses, but the fabric on the backs was singed off. The skin was red, and even through the smoke, Bowen could see blisters filling with fluid on their reddened skin. Laurel had gotten the worst of it. Her shirt was completely scorched off, and Bowen saw a molten lump of burnt nylon on her back—where her bra strap had melted into her skin. And the smell. All that burnt hair. Laurel’s thick mass of dark hair had been singed into a frizzy, melted mess.

  Bowen and Underwood helped the girls get to their feet. They were dazed, standing limply, unsure what to do. Bowen instinctively bent down to take the girls by their trembling little hands. Laurel was coughing, but getting to her feet. She was trying to tell them something, but between her coughing fits and the noise of the fire and that terrible screaming, Bowen couldn’t hear what Laurel was trying to say.

  “Let’s get them out of here,” Underwood shouted. They were only a few steps inside the house, but whatever fresh air they were getting from the open front door was quickly being replaced by the smoke.

  Those screams. Louder now. Was it her imagination? No. Closer.

  A figure burst forth from the smoke and the flame. His head was a melted lump of skin, pink and dripping from the bone. His clothes had burned away completely except for a thick belt around his waist. The buckle glowed white hot and seared into his flesh. Flames licked at his shoulders, his back, the tops of his feet.

  And he held a gun. He raised it and started shooting.

  Her throat hurt. Her chest felt swollen and bruised from the inside. Every breath was a labor of agony. Laurel had dropped to the floor just in time to avoid most of the explosive shockwave. The house had caught fast—all the old, dry wood providing the perfect fuel for the flames. She’d crawled along the floor, pulling the girls along with her. At first it was easy, but then the smoke filled her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She couldn’t see, could barely hear. Then the coughing started. When she saw the front door fly open and the sweet blue sky beyond, she thought she’d started hallucinating. She dragged the girls towards the door. They were losing strength, losing hope, but Laurel kept pulling them forward.

  When she realized it was Bowen and Underwood, she clawed her way to them.

  Then everything happened at once. Mullins staggered out from the flames, Fletcher’s gun in his hand. He pulled the trigger with a sickening scream.

  It was Underwood who saw it first, Underwood who realized that Mullins was aiming at the girls, Underwood who reacted the quickest. He pushed the girls out of the way, out the door. They stumbled over each other into a smoky, sooty heap on the porch.

  But Underwood did not get up.

  Mullins turned around and returned to the flames.

  “Fletcher,” Laurel screamed. He was still in there. She hadn’t seen if he’d taken the brunt of the explosion or not. But she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she fled a burning building knowing that she’d left him inside, dying to protect her. She would never let someone else sacrifice themselves for her ever again.

  Bowen grabbed onto Laurel’s arm, screaming for her to stay outside. But Laurel shook her arm off with strength that she didn’t know she had. Laurel rushed back inside, desperate to find Fletcher. The smoke was so thick she couldn’t breathe. How would Fletcher be able to survive in here?

  She couldn’t see anything through the thick smoke. “Fletcher!” she called out again. She saw movement from by the dinner table. It was him. He was still okay. Her heart leapt with a feeling of relief. He stood up and charged towards her.

  It wasn’t Fletcher. It was Mullins, engulfed in flame, skin crackling and bubbling and oozing off in thick molten sheaves. He was rushing towards her. She screamed, but her throat was so raw nothing came out but a hoarse gasp. Her head was getting foggy, and her limbs felt wobbly and weak. She was getting dizzy and it was harder to stand up. Her knees wanted to buckle, her eyes wanted to close. She tried to take a step back, but tripped over a chair. The burning wood seared into her leg, causing a blindingly white hot jolt of agony over her entire body.

  Just then, Fletcher ran across th
e room, towards the deranged and flaming Mullins. Even through the thick smoke, Laurel could see the silver glint of the large carving knife that Fletcher was holding. He tackled Mullins to the floor. Laurel heard the hiss as Fletcher’s own body extinguished the flames on Mullins’s skin. She saw the glint of the knife raise up. Then down.

  Before she could get her to her feet, Fletcher was at her side, scooping her up in his arms. “Are you okay?” he yelled.

  “I am now,” she said. She wrapped her hands around his arms, feeling his strength, his power, his determination to save her and the girls. Then the darkness claimed her.

  Twenty-Nine

  Laurel fought her way out of a fitful sleep. She had never been so thirsty in her life. Her tongue felt like it was coated with a putrid wax, like she could scrape off layers of hard, dry film with her fingernail. Her throat tickled, burned, deep down inside, like she’d swallowed a handful of thumbtacks. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were taped shut. She reached her hand up and felt a thick wad of gauze over each eye. She ripped off the bandage immediately. Oh god, her eyes, what had happened? There’d been the fire, she remembered that, but what had happened? She opened them and could see the lights, blurry and yellow. She could see the outline of someone in the chair, standing up. The smell of smoke was strong, like a campfire. Like a barbecue.

  “Relax,” he said. It was Fletcher. His voice, calm and sure. She felt his hand on her shoulder. She did relax. “They put some ointment in your eyes. They were all dried out from the smoke. But you’re fine. Madison and Melissa are in a room down the hall with their parents. Underwood is fine. I never would have pegged him as the type of guy who’d take a bullet for someone, but he took three bullets for those little girls. Good thing he was wearing his Kevlar vest. He’s bruised to high hell, but out there strutting around for the cameras. He’s giving an exclusive interview tonight on channel six. And Johnnie Mullins. The man who took your sister. He’s dead. They’re checking the records, but it turns out he was a freelance photographer for some of the schools up here. He took your school portraits when you were in first grade. That was when he first saw you and Leigh. Then just a month ago, he was taking the portraits in a middle school and saw Rebecca and Rachel. Seeing them after all these years must have brought it all back.”