A text arrives.
I pull the phone from the interior pocket of my coat.
How did the video go, Bestseller?
I reply, It’s ready, and it should go viral at the appointed hour.
Gee, thanks for complying. I hope we’re still BWFF (Best Writing Friends Forever). Not to get technical, but if the video doesn’t show up, our family broils. Are you going to take my advice and blow your brains out now? You might want to videotape that too. Could be useful when it comes to selling books posthumously. A violent suicide caught on YouTube vid is sure to go mad viral. One must always think about marketing.
Bourenhem is able to text so rapidly I can only assume he’s using the voice recording option on his iPhone.
You’re right, I type in as a reply. Time for me to die. Just like when Brennen pours gasoline all over himself and lights the final match.
Oh yes, Bourenhem types. I know it by heart . . .
“Sliding the matchbook cover up, Brennen found one final match inside. It would be this match or nothing. He pulled the match from the cardboard and struck it. The flame sparked to life.
“ ‘Father,’” he said, ‘into thy filthy hands I commend my spirit to the damned.’
“A single tear fell from his eye as he dropped the lit match onto his head.”
Reading the final lines transcribed for me, I can’t help but grow teary-eyed. I lived with Drew Brennen, the hopeless pyromaniac, for a long time before handing the manuscript in to my agent. The fictional Brennen wasn’t a bad guy so much as he was sad, misunderstood. A man who suffered the death of his family when he was just a boy. And he was my friend, even if I did make him up.
I thumb “End” and slip the cell phone back into the interior pocket of my leather coat. Slipping on Dad’s leather gloves, I grab the satchel and the keys to the Escape and I exit the house by way of the front door.
The next time I come back through that door, David Bourenhem will occupy a place of honor in hell.
Chapter 65
I don’t park in the Reynoldses’ driveway but instead pull off onto the soft shoulder maybe a quarter of a mile down the road. I pull the snubby from my coat pocket and tuck it into the waistband of my pants, easy access. Then, reaching back inside, I grab my writing satchel and pull the strap over my head and neck so it won’t slip off my shoulder during my raid on the property.
Closing the Escape door, I pull out my cell phone and switch the volume to vibrate mode. That done, I make my way around to the hatchback and pull out the empty beer bottles from the satchel, fill each one with gasoline from the can in the back of the car. Tearing long, wide strips of rag, I stuff them three-quarters of the way into each of the bottle necks, sealing them up.
When I’ve prepared all three bottles to my satisfaction, I place them carefully back inside the satchel so that they’re standing upright inside one of the interior pockets. I then begin power-walking my way along the dark road toward the Reynoldses’ estate.
The Reynoldses’ property is just up ahead. The five-acre estate is accessed by a long driveway that, surprisingly, is not gated. The woods horseshoe the property on three sides, minus the large front lawn that faces the road. It’s the back lawn that is secured with the black iron, deer-impaling fence, which was constructed along the interior of the wood line. The purpose of the fence is not only security, but also to keep little kids from wandering onto the expansive property and accidentally drowning in the swimming pool. The only access into and out of the iron fence is through a single gate that is located at the very end of the driveway, and maybe twenty-five feet away from a back door off the kitchen. My guess is that the gate has been padlocked.
As I make my way up the long curved driveway, I can see that just about every light is on in the mansion. With the acres of woodland surrounding the back and sides of the property, Bourenhem might as well strike up a full orchestra while he’s at it.
Moving at a crouch, I make my way to the back gate. I can see now that for certain, the gate entry is secured with the padlock. Bourenhem must have simply walked in the front door using Lisa’s keys, then disengaged the alarm using the code penned on the supermarket membership card.
But I’ve come prepared, like a good pyromaniac should.
Reaching into my satchel, I take hold of the can of Raid, then find the butane barbecue lighter with the special extended flame nozzle. Take it from one who knows: Raid, when ignited, will produce a flame hot enough to melt most metals. Placing the can’s nozzle about three inches from the U-shaped padlock shackle, I depress the nozzle, releasing the toxic propellant. With my other hand, I position the business end of the elongated lighter directly into the spray and, using both my thumb and index finger, depress the child safety trigger. Instantly, the spray ignites in a puff of white, red, and orange flame. The initial explosive cloud comes dangerously close to my face before settling into a concentrated stream of flame that goes to work melting the metal.
Within a few seconds, the metal is bubbling, and within a few more seconds after that, I’ve burnt a hole through it the width of my index finger. Dropping the can and returning the lighter to my black satchel, I remove the lock from the gate by lifting it from the still cool bottom. Then, lifting the latch on the gate, I swing it open and step inside.
That’s when I feel my cell phone vibrating in my coat pocket.
Chapter 66
Standing inside the now-open gate on the brick paver pathway, I pull the phone from my pocket. Three texts from Blood have piled up without me noticing. This last one just reads Answer.
I want to answer him, but first I check my watch. It’s straight-up eleven o’clock. If everything went as it should, the video has just gone viral.
As I shift my attention back to my cell phone, I’m startled by a voice that breaks the silence of the night. A man’s shrieking voice.
Bourenhem’s voice.
“Heretic!” he shouts. “Backstabbing heretic. He’s betrayed me again. Betrayed you and me again.”
The voice is coming from the house, but very close by. Not from the upstairs. The kitchen, maybe, just yards away. The voice travels through the plate-glass picture window. It’s accompanied by a second voice.
“Calm down, David. What did you expect? Reece Johnston destroying his literary career just because you ask him to? You don’t know him like I do. He’d gladly deliver his firstborn to the devil if it would guarantee him a best-selling novel.”
The voice is most definitely female, and even though muffled and distorted through the kitchen window, it’s somewhat familiar. My heart sinks into my stomach and my pulse beats in my temples. Could the voice be Rachael’s? Is the voice the final proof I need to know that my ex-girlfriend has conspired with David to fuck up my life?
Or is the voice Lisa’s? Now that I’m actually analyzing it, Lisa’s and Rachael’s voices...their manner of speaking...aren’t all that different. Could Bourenhem and Lisa be working on this horrible plan not only to set me up for crimes I did not commit, including murder, but to ruin my writing career? But the last I saw of Lisa, she was bound with duct tape on her bed. However, maybe the whole scene was playacted for the purposes of luring me into a trap.
Blood boils while the heart pounds.
Pocketing my cell phone, I reach into my satchel, pull out one of the Molotov cocktails, then retrieve the long-necked butane lighter. Why in the world would I set the house ablaze with my family still inside? Why do the very same thing Bourenhem has threatened to do?
The answer has to do with control.
I wrote the book on the subject, not him. I can only assume that he does not want to suffer the agony of burning alive and that he will have no choice but to try to put the fire out once I start it. Soon as that happens, his guard will be down and I will pounce on his ugly head like a hungry lion on raw meat. By tossing the Molotov cocktail through the plate g
lass window of my out-laws’ house, I am fighting fire with fire.
I fire up the lighter, bring the flame to the gasoline-soaked rag. It ignites in a waft of torch-like flame. Then, bending at the knees, I pull up a brick paver from out of the soft soil. Taking a few steps toward the big glass window, I cock back my throwing arm and heave the brick through the plate-glass, shattering it all to hell. I immediately toss in the Molotov cocktail. The explosion of fire that results robs me of my breath.
Reece Johnston, 1.
David Bourenhem, 0.
Chapter 67
A woman screams. Like her life is in danger.
“He’s coming after us with fire!” Bourenhem shouts. “It’s exactly what I expected.”
Pulling another brick from out of the soil, I stand up straight, step back into the darkness.
“Call the fire department,” the woman shouts.
“Let’s call the police while we’re at it,” Bourenhem answers sarcastically. Then, “Get me a blanket. We need water. Pots and pans. Big pots. Fill them.”
Bourenhem isn’t panicking. He’s going to attempt to put out the fire, like I knew he would. It means Lisa and Anna will be safe upstairs, that is, if Lisa isn’t the woman who is working with him. Shoving the brick into my coat pocket, I begin making my way around to the front of the house. I pull the second Molotov cocktail from the satchel as I go. Standing outside the big floor-to-ceiling glass window wall, I light the rag. As the gas-soaked rag ignites, I pull out the brick, heave it against the center of the glass wall. The brick causes the glass to shatter on contact. Next comes the Molotov cocktail. The big, theater-like drapes behind the shattered glass immediately catch fire as the homemade bomb explodes.
I make a mad dash across the front yard to the home’s north side, where the garages are located. It’s possible the security-minded Alex changed the code sequence that will open the three overhead garage doors upon my split with his daughter, but it’s just as likely it slipped his aging mind. Sliding open the narrow protective steel panel over the keypad embedded into the red brick wall, I punch in 3-18-41. Alex’s birthday. The house trembles as all three overhead doors begin to roll up in unison.
That’s my cue to pull the third and final gasoline bomb from my satchel.
Lighting it up, I toss it into the center garage bay, listen for the shattering of glass and the explosive spray of ignited liquid. The heat from the explosion slaps me in the face when Victoria’s Volvo ignites in the white-hot fire. There’s a Mercedes convertible to the left of it and to its right, a red pickup truck. If memory serves me correctly, there will be several cans of gasoline stored inside the garage, plus paint cans, paint thinner, and a dozen cans of aerosol insecticides. It will only be a matter of a few precious minutes before the entire garage explodes.
Punching in the code to lower the overhead doors, I then make my way the few feet to the end of the driveway and back through the open fence gate to the sounds of screams.
Chapter 68
Maybe the last thing Bourenhem wants right now is for the police and the fire department to show up. But their sudden appearance is a distinct possibility. I can only guess that he somehow disengaged the alarm once he had Alex tied and bound. He would have threatened to hurt Anna, Lisa, or even Victoria if Alex didn’t provide the code. What I can’t be sure of, however, is if the fire department will be alerted to the fire no matter what security channels have been disconnected or disengaged.
All I want to do now is free all three girls and get them to safety—and Alex, too, if he’s still alive. Once that mission is accomplished, I’m going to finally have my come-to-Jesus with Bourenhem.
But again it strikes me like a roundhouse to the head, staggers me: What if Lisa has joined up with her former lover?
What if she’s the source of the female voice I heard coming from the kitchen? What if I walk into that house through the flame and find the two of them together? Do I steal Anna away along with Victoria and Alex and let Lisa and Bourenhem fend for themselves? Or do I save them all and allow the cops to sort it all out later?
But what the hell am I saying?
Bourenhem himself spoke of Rachael. The two lived within a few yards of one another. I saw the shadow of a slim woman up in his apartment window. A small, well-built woman whose proportions would match Rachael’s. The woman has got to be her.
The entire house is going up, the heat from the ever-intensifying flames slapping at my face. Maybe starting the place on fire wasn’t the smartest of moves. But it was the only move for me.
I know fire.
Fire is my revenge and my weapon of choice. I feel the heat of the flames as it spreads, as it grows, as it feeds on the oxygen. I see the colors change as the materials and chemicals it comes into contact with burn, sizzle, and evaporate. I smell the fumes and I choke, but somehow I feel at peace and in total control. All along I’ve known precisely where Anna, Lisa, and Vickie are, holed up inside Lisa’s second-floor bedroom. By lighting fire to the areas I have chosen on the first floor of the mansion, the flames are unlikely to creep up to their position. At least, not right away.
But then, fire has a nasty habit of getting away from you if you allow it to.
My daughter is inside that burning house and no matter how calculated my moves, it’s only a matter of time until things become too dangerous for her. I’m a child of fire, and because I’ve lived with fire my entire life, I also know this: there isn’t a whole lot of time left before a first-floor flash point is achieved and the entire house goes up in flame.
Pulling the .38 from my waist, I ascend the short flight of steps to the kitchen door, throw it open, step into the inferno.
Chapter 69
Half the kitchen area to my right is already consumed with fire, and only a few feet beyond it is the wood door that accesses the garage. I know that at any minute, the gas tanks on the vehicles and the portable gas cans will ignite, setting that portion of the structure ablaze. I make my way through the kitchen and into the attached dining room.
That’s when I see Alex.
Bourenhem wasn’t bluffing after all. The old man is duct-taped to the far chair at the head of the table, the usual place he occupies as the head of the family during the holiday and family dinners. His entire head and face are burned away, leaving only charred flesh and patches of hair. The lower half of his facial skeleton is exposed, his jaw clamped so tightly his visible white teeth appear to be crushing one another. In the place of eyes are now dark, empty holes.
I try to turn away from him, but I feel sick and my knees go weak. Dizziness sets in and I fear I might faint. The fog of toxic smoke doesn’t help. But I have to move. I must get to my family before the garage explodes and my plan backfires and no one makes it out of here alive.
I turn and, covering my eyes with my forearms, sprint out of the dining room, through the burning living room to the vestibule and the wraparound staircase that leads to the second floor. As I take my first step up the stairs, my boot sole never touches the tread before I feel the explosion against the back of my head, and the burning world that surrounds me goes black.
Chapter 70
I awake to smoke and fire.
My world has gone black. I’m certain of the fire that surrounds me only because of the heat and the noise. The roar and the hiss.
My immediate reaction is to reach out with both hands, as if it’s possible to clutch fresh air in my grip. Instead I feel nothing but empty space. But then, that’s not right, either. My arms can’t extend themselves without my hands crashing into something. They crash into wood. No matter how or where I thrust out my hands, they hit wood.
I try to turn myself around, but I can’t.
I’m surrounded on all sides by wood.
Then it dawns on me. I’m trapped inside a wood coffin. Bourenhem’s coffin.
“Remind you of anything?” comes a
voice from outside the box. “It’s straight out of The Damned. I remember writing the scene. You know, the one where Drew Brennen traps each member of that poor abducted family inside their own personal pine box before setting them ablaze. You remember their names. The Grahams. He stood there and listened to the screams of the Grahams as the boxes went up in glorious flame. Sick scene, even I have to admit, but a fun one to write . . . if I do say so myself.”
“David,” I shout. “Please. Open this thing up and let’s talk this out like men.”
“We are talking like men, bro. Talking amidst a house fire that’s growing quite bad. Dangerously bad. Poor Lisa and Anna.”
Something is being poured onto the casket. A liquid. It seeps into the casket through the slim spaces where the wood panels are joined together. It drips onto my face, into my eyes, burning them.
Gasoline.
“Now doesn’t this just burn you up, bro?” Bourenhem says with a laugh.
I can barely hear his voice coming through the wood over the roar of the fire, getting louder by the second. Louder and hotter. But I can somehow make out the unmistakable flick of a switch. It’s the starter on a lighter. I hear the poof sound that accompanies gasoline being ignited with open flame and, quite suddenly, the interior of the casket takes on an eerie red-orange glow.
I’m on fire.
“Catch me by surprise?” Bourenhem shouts. “Let me tell you something. I knew you’d come. And I’m ready for you. Me and the casket from The Damned.”
I make out the sound of his footsteps. They are moving away from me, ascending the big vestibule staircase. The fire is beginning to consume the pine casket as if it were dry kindling. The heat the casket fire is giving off is almost unbearable. I have maybe a minute before the fire penetrates the interior and starts cooking me like a piece of meat in a broiler.
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