Trial By Fire

by DiAnn Mills

  He nodded. “One of the firefighters found a note nailed to a tree at the far corner of the property.”

  She startled.

  “Figured that would get your attention. It read, ‘Run, run as fast as you can. Can’t catch me. I’m the firebug man.’”

  Savannah stared out the passenger window before jotting down her response. He’s getting bolder. Someone’s going to get hurt.

  “Someone already has. What are you going to tell the kids?”

  I had an accident.

  “That’s rich. I’m cooking tonight. I can take care of the kids and get them to bed.”

  They’ll need baths.

  “Prime can handle Cloud, and I’ll take care of Mac.”

  * * *

  “Savvy, what happened?” Prime’s eyes widened.

  Savannah stood outside her church’s day care with Paul and the children. How could she protect these children from the harsh realities of her job? “I got too close to a fire,” she whispered.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Her throat hurts to talk,” Paul said. “I think she needs love.”

  She refused to mention the pain in her chest or her blistered arms. “I’ll be fine.”

  Cloud hugged her and Mac stared. He looked so much like Travis that it was a sweet glimpse of history.

  “Kids, I’m cooking tonight so Savvy can rest,” Paul said.

  “I’ll help take care of her,” Prime said.

  Savannah felt guilt from the soles of her feet. “If I could sleep a little, I know I’ll be fine.”

  Paul shook his head. “You have a guest room, right?”

  “Yes, but the kids like to sleep with me.”

  Prime rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Savvy. We can handle this.”

  “Are you saying you’ll sleep in my bed without me?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll leave the bathroom light on. You should think about staying home tomorrow. Cloud and Mac can do the day care thing, and I’ll take care of you.”

  How did she respond to that?

  “Go take a nap, Savvy.” Cloud slipped a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll change Mac and play with him. You know how he is.”

  Mac showed his muscles. “I’ll feed Byte. Just a cupful of dog food. Water too.”

  Savvy hid a laugh. With all the newness of the relationship, her grandchildren were loyal . . . the beginnings of their love. But how do I feel? Are they only a responsibility to me, another engine additive for my perfectionism? Am I giving up the next fifteen to twenty years of my life because of my poor mothering skills? I was too busy for Travis. I drove him away with my rants of how important my role was as an FBI special agent.

  She ruffled Mac’s hair. Did I play superhero instead of making my first priority a wife and mother?

  Could I learn to love these children unconditionally? Tear down the wall I’ve built to keep my emotions intact?

  Who am I? An FBI agent with two years left in my career and no thoughts of what to do then? Or a tender grandmother who thinks of Prime, Cloud, and Mac as the most important part of her life?

  And where does Paul fit?

  Chapter 7

  On Saturday morning, Savannah woke far too early. Too many things pelted her brain. The children’s beds had not arrived, and she had no more handle on things at home than she did in ending the arson investigation. Control, her lifeblood, had dissipated. Nothing was organized or even had a place.

  Eight hours of sleep would be incredible.

  She should plan something fun for the kids today, but what? In the dining room lay boxes containing clothes, toys, and whatever else the Realtor had packed. But no beds. Why weren’t they all on the same truck?

  “Savvy, I’m hungry.” Mac turned to face her. His rump had been spooned against her stomach.

  Just when she was about to drift off to sleep again, the urine smell assaulted her nose. She needed to tackle potty-training instead of hinting at it.

  She forced her eyes open and considered breakfast options. “Would you like chocolate chip pancakes?”

  He touched her cheek, no doubt finding wrinkles. His pacifier brushed against her nose. “Sure. What’s that?”

  “Pancakes with chocolate chips.”

  He nodded. “Do you have sausage?”

  She did a quick recap of what Paul had brought from the grocery. “I think so.”

  “Can I look in the boxes for my toys?”

  She could only imagine the mess. It had to be barely six thirty, and the girls were still asleep. An arm was wrapped around her waist and a foot rested dangerously close to her face. She’d become a pretzel. If she didn’t move quietly, they’d waken.

  “Savvy?” Mac whispered.

  “Let’s be very quiet and move downstairs to the kitchen. We can go through the boxes after breakfast.”

  “Okay. I poo-pooed in my diaper.”

  That’s what had assaulted her nose. Her sense of smell had left the building. “We need to get serious about using the potty.”

  “I’m hungry. I want my toys.”

  Lack of sleep and patience stirred a muddy brew. “Mac, you’re too old to be in diapers.”

  He burst into tears, his howling waking Prime and Cloud. “I’m not ready. Mommy said I wasn’t ready.”

  “Yuck.” Cloud held her nose and rolled over.

  “Mac, you smell,” Prime said. “Mommy said you weren’t ready, but Daddy said you needed to use the potty.”

  He howled louder.

  Byte joined him.

  Savannah’s head pounded.

  Cloud cried about missing her mommy and daddy.

  Prime attempted to quiet her brother and sister.

  Savannah bolted from the bed. “Enough!” She hurried from the room and down the stairs.

  Grace.

  Grace.

  I need grace and help.

  * * *

  Monday morning at work was like stepping off a battlefield into a world that made sense. Bad guys did bad things, and they were eventually caught. The good news was all churches were standing.

  The weekend had been horrible, one catastrophe, then another. After Saturday’s pancake and sausage breakfast, they tackled the boxes. It didn’t matter they were labeled Clothes, Books, Toys, and Personal because Mac and Cloud couldn’t read. Items were slung everywhere. Byte chewed an arm off Cloud’s favorite doll. Mac had diarrhea, and Prime couldn’t find a photo of her parents. At bedtime, the furniture arrived, too late to assemble anything.

  Sunday morning she overslept, after promising Pastor Reynolds she’d have her family in church and small group. The rest of the day was spent putting together beds. Twice, she nearly called Paul. But she couldn’t depend on him for everything. More than once, she scraped her burned arm while screwing bolts into beds.

  She’d never reach retirement because her body wouldn’t last that long.

  At her desk, Savannah shoved the weekend into “lessons learned” and clicked on e-mail. The FIG, Field Intelligence Group, had sent the results of visitors who’d left their names at the burned churches. Two matches captured their attention. Of course not all visitors left their contact information. She phoned both names. One was an elderly couple from Mississippi looking for a new church home. The second was a pediatrician who’d just become Christian and did she know Jesus?

  She pored over crime scene reports, psychological workups, and interviews she’d read previously. What if the arsonist had access to patrol car schedules? Perhaps church schedules too, which would explain why the pastor in the last church was not injured. What if the motivation was about getting away with the crime and not mental instability or an act of revenge?

  She sensed Paul at the door of her cubicle and explained her angle. “I also have an idea.”

  “Bring it on, Savvy.”

  She frowned.

  “It fits.” He chuckled. “Wish I’d thought of it. Okay, tell me your thoughts.”

  “I’d like to dangle a carrot for our fire
bug. See if our media coordinator will make a public announcement that offers a reward to the community for information that could lead to his arrest. It could coax him out of hiding. Ask him to leave us another nursery rhyme. Play up his clever touch. I’d like for us to be there, visible, so our firebug will have faces.”

  “He might interpret her speech as a signal to burn another church.”

  “Or persuade him to gloat over his work and give us time to find him.”

  He studied her. “It might work to our advantage if we gave him a name . . . the Rhyming Arsonist.”

  “He only left us one note.” Her mind whirled. “If writing poetry is not his gift, he’d need time to compose another one.”

  “Let’s go for it. The SAC can only say yes or no. You can present it.”

  “Coward. My idea is a stroke of brilliance.”

  “Or the arsonist will get a good look at our faces, get scared, and go into hiding.”

  * * *

  By the time they learned their idea had merit, noon had rolled around. Savannah’s stomach growled, reminding her breakfast had been coffee on the way to work.

  “How about lunch?”

  “Can’t,” Savannah said. “Have an errand to run.”

  “If it’s about the case, I need to come along.”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “A new boyfriend?”

  Whoa. “I don’t have an old one.”

  He feigned his hurt. “Who made scrambled eggs for dinner after your near-death encounter with a fire? Cleaned up the kitchen, washed two loads of clothes, and made sure the kids watched an educational show on TV?”

  “Duck Dynasty?”

  “It has morals.”

  She laughed, and it felt good. “I’m going to a costume store.”

  “Kind of early for Halloween.”

  “This is for the kids and me. Just a fun day.”

  “Without sounding too nosy, can I ask what you’re planning?”

  “Mac loves Spider-Man. So I’m getting him a new costume and the rest of us superhero outfits for Saturday. Thought we’d all have a good time and make him feel special. Maybe I can persuade him to break free of the diapers and wear Spider-Man undies.”

  His eyes softened. “You’re doing a great job.”

  She knew better. “This weekend was very hard. Being honest here, I had a rough time with Travis. Ignored him too much. Always busy working. Now I have three little ones to think about. Sometimes I want to scream with the chaos.”

  “That’s normal.”

  “Not for me. Everything in my life is north of normal.” She glanced up from her computer. “I want this to work so badly, but I feel like a miserable failure.”

  He tilted his head as though he understood. “I’ve never been married and certainly don’t have much experience with kids except for volunteer work. But I think learning to parent is like anything else. We have to make a few mistakes and then forgive ourselves.”

  She hoped he was right.

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, frustration seeped into Savannah’s every cell—lack of a schedule with the kids, the array of emotions at home, a firebug who hadn’t been apprehended . . . and her dependence on Paul. Which one should she tackle first? Her perfectionism wanted every matter resolved, stuffed into a little box, and set on a shelf.

  That wouldn’t happen. This evening, the kids had their first counseling appointment. The psychologist was a woman who specialized in Christian methods to help children through traumatic events. Savannah feared the sessions would last until the kids were thirty.

  I’m selfish. God, help me. I want to be what the kids need, but I’m exhausted. How can I turn chaos into a home filled with love? I’m afraid I don’t love them . . . and afraid of being hurt if I do. Balance. She craved balance. That would help her put life in perspective.

  Shaking her head, she snatched an envelope with her name on it, sent to the FBI. No return address, but it passed screening. She broke the seal with a letter opener and took out a typewritten piece of paper:

  Little Miss Barrett met a fire

  And burned both of her arms.

  But what she lacked,

  While searching for facts,

  Was Prime, Cloud, and Mac.

  Fear shackled her. Trembling, she stood with the note in her hand and made her way to Paul’s cubicle.

  “Is the press conference still on for this afternoon?” she said, her voice ragged.

  He squinted at the computer screen, then gave her his attention. “Yes, at two. What’s wrong? You look awful.”

  She handed him the note. “Get this analyzed. Whoever’s been torching churches not only knows my business but has threatened my kids.”

  Paul’s face reddened as he read the note. “This means he’s following you. Are the kids at day care?”

  She nodded. “Security measures are in place for all the children. They wouldn’t let anyone take them.”

  “Not knowingly.” He snatched his keys. “Let’s pay the day care a visit. I want to know if anything’s unusual been going on.”

  Moments later, Paul swung his SUV into the church parking lot. Behind a ten-foot fence, children laughed and played on superior equipment. Inside, Savannah requested a meeting with the director, who was a retired school principal, and Pastor Reynolds, who’d been with the church for eighteen years. The four sat in the pastor’s office, a warm room with deep earth colors.

  “Savannah, is something wrong?” Pastor Reynolds said. “Is there a problem with the children or the care they’re receiving?”

  Savannah had every right to be upset, but it wasn’t the pastor’s or the day-care director’s fault. “The children’s care is perfect. Prime loves it and the other two are adjusting.” She gathered her composure. Having Paul beside her helped. “Today I received a note threatening the children. I know they’re safe here, but Paul and I need to find out if anything unusual has been going on.”

  “Nothing I can report. No one has been seen loitering.” Pastor Reynolds glanced at the director for her input. She shook her head.

  “Has anyone inquired about the children?”

  “The director would be the best to answer that.”

  “If someone attempted to pick the children up, you’d be the first person we’d contact,” she said.

  “I’m looking into hiring a bodyguard until we find out who’s responsible,” Paul said. “Get that into place quickly.”

  Savannah agreed. “Arrangements will be made today.” Paul hadn’t mentioned extra protection for the children, but she’d thought about it on the way to the church. Any other time, she’d be annoyed with his interference. But this was different. “Can I still bring the children here?”

  “Of course,” the pastor said.

  “The other matter we’re concerned about is the one who threatened the children does not like the FBI’s investigation.” Paul pulled out his phone to take notes.

  Pastor Reynolds stiffened. “Do you think our church could be the next target for a fire?”

  “We have no idea, but you do have security around the clock.”

  “Right. But our measures are not foolproof.”

  “By any chance have you changed lawn services?”

  “We’ve used the same company ever since I’ve been here.”

  “Would you check to see if there’s a new employee?”

  “I’ll do so this afternoon.”

  “Anyone annoyed with you or your staff?”

  Pastor Reynolds thought for a moment. “Not to my knowledge, but I’ll talk to my staff and get back to you.”

  The director’s cell phone buzzed. She glanced at the caller ID. “This is my secretary. I should take it.”

  “By all means,” the pastor said.

  The woman responded. She listened, then frowned. “What did you tell him?” Her gaze flew to the pastor.

  Savannah’s attention was riveted on the woman. Something was wrong.

  The director e
nded the call. “A call came through regarding the Barrett children. A man claimed to be representing their parents’ life insurance company. He wanted to verify the children were enrolled so they could receive the amount due them.”

  Savannah sensed her blood pressure rising above the tilt stage. “What did the worker tell him?”

  “She is forbidden to give any information about the children enrolled within our facility.”

  Paul took her hand and Savannah relaxed. “We can find his phone number by tracing your calls.”

  “Then do it,” Pastor Reynolds said. “Would it help to notify the media?”

  Paul squeezed her hand and she silently deferred to his wisdom. Her rationale vanished when the caller attempted to gain information about her children.

  Her children.

  “Informing the public accomplishes a few purposes,” Paul said. “It allows the parents of the children attending here to be assured of security measures. It shows the caller we’re onto his tactics, and we’re inviting the community to help solve a crime.”

  Paul called the FBI with the findings so those in control could take appropriate steps. The two thanked Pastor Reynolds and the director and walked into the hall.

  “The kids are going with me until a bodyguard is found,” Savannah said. “I wouldn’t be worth anything at the office.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  She shrugged. “I can think of some good people, but that person must like kids.”

  He chuckled, and she joined him.

  “I realize I love those grandchildren of mine. Earlier I was afraid it wouldn’t happen.”

  “Oh, I knew that when you met them.”

  “I still need someone who’d die for my Prime, Cloud, and Mac.” She smiled. “Other than me.”

  “And me.”

  “What about a retired agent? One who has a CHL?”

  “On it, Special Agent Barrett. My old partner fits the bill. Has grandkids of his own.”

  They entered the day care and Savannah signed out her charges.

  “Savvy, are we going home?” Prime said.

  “Yes.”

  “What are we going to do?” Cloud took Savannah’s hand.

  “Play,” Mac said. “Maybe go to the park.”