Combustion

by Martin J. Smith

  Starke crept toward the corner of the house. He saw three more windows between where he stood and the door, and if he remembered correctly, the one farthest from him looked into the house’s sprawling foyer. He dropped to his hands and knees and started to crawl behind shrubs that clawed him as he moved.

  The silence from inside was almost a presence, a chasm of questions.

  One answer came in a shocking rush the moment he peeked over the sill at the window nearest the front door. Shelby Dwyer was curled into a fetal ball next to an overstuffed duffel bag on the floor of the home’s cavernous entryway, the only figure anywhere in sight. He saw a small smear of blood across the light-colored tile, but there was no mistaking the shuddering throes of a gutshot human body. She was facing away from him, pressing her knees to her chest, one hand clutching at her chest. The other hand, stained a deep, rich red, fluttered into the air like a moth, an incomprehensible reflex, helpless and unthinking, desperately grasping for a handhold in a life slipping away.

  Shelby Dwyer was dying alone just thirty feet from where Starke crouched in the dirt.

  He reached for the cell phone clipped to his belt, but stopped before his fingers could find it. A 911 call was pointless. Every paramedic and fire crew in the city and surrounding counties was busy with the evacuation and ongoing rescue efforts. Los Colmas PD? If Kerrigan had followed the plan he’d helped write, every upright body in the department already was deployed throughout the city to help with the evacuation and to prevent looting.

  Even if he’d had options, there was no time. Starke sprang to his feet, climbed onto the carved stone apron outside the Dwyers’ front door, and stepped unarmed into a situation that couldn’t possibly end well.

  58

  Shelby’s white shirt was a deep, damp red by the time Starke scanned the foyer, realized they were alone, and quietly entered. He knelt beside her and slipped his hand behind her thin neck, the neck he’d nuzzled as a young man, the neck whose softness and scent he remembered even now whenever he thought of Shelby. Her eyes were open wide, desperate, knowing, helpless. She felt boneless, her skin cool to his touch.

  One bullet had caught her in the right shoulder, tearing muscle and shattering bone. It was still inside her, since he saw only an entry wound and that was practically bloodless. The real damage was three inches to the left. The other shot had pierced the soft skin above her clavicle, probably as she turned or fell. It exited the side of her neck, nicking the carotid artery as it did. He could see Shelby’s still-strong heart pumping the blood from her body in weakening pulses. It coursed down the center of her chest. Her silk shirt was absorbing a lot of it, but there was so much that it already was pooling around Starke’s knee.

  “I’m here, Shel.”

  She clutched his arm, her fingers digging into the flesh of his bicep with startling strength.

  “Chlo—” she rasped.

  Closer? Starke leaned down until his face was inches from hers. Their eyes locked.

  “Chloe,” she whispered.

  The daughter. “She’s here?”

  Shelby nodded. The effort seemed to wrack her with pain, and she coughed fresh blood from her flooded lungs. The bullet from her shoulder wound had apparently done most of its damage inside. She tightened her grip on his arm as she tried to choke the blood back down. There was nothing he could do. Starke rolled her onto her side, hoping he could at least ease the sensation of drowning. He leaned down again so they were face to face.

  “Who did this, Shel?”

  She coughed again, caught a quick breath.

  “I watched Chief Kerrigan come in, Shel. Did she do this?”

  She nodded. “Him.”

  Him? “Help me understand, Shel.”

  Another nod. “She’s—”

  Her words were coming in gasps now, and her grip on his arm was flagging. Starke quickly scanned the room again to make sure they were still alone. He could see Shelby marshaling her strength for one more try. He pulled a blood-matted strand of blond hair away from her mouth.

  “She’s… him.”

  Starke rolled Shelby’s head so he could look directly into her eyes. “Shel, what does that mean?”

  Her eyes were dulling now, a curtain being drawn. Blood was pooling around him on the floor, and the pulsing flow from her neck had stopped. She released her grip on his hand, and Starke thought for a moment she was gone. But when he looked down, her other arm was raised, a finger pointing across the foyer to a small table that stood beside the front door.

  Starke bent down to Shelby’s face. Her mouth moved, but all that came out was a thick, pink bubble. He touched his fingertips to the side of her neck, a gesture that felt achingly familiar, and searched for a pulse just beneath her ear. He felt nothing beneath her cold skin.

  Starke laid her head gently on the floor and slipped his hand free. He stood up, wishing the sound of his crackling joints wasn’t echoing through the cavernous entryway. Kerrigan was still here, somewhere.

  He tiptoed to the table by the door and quietly slid open the small, single drawer at its center. A cold steel .45 was the only thing inside.

  59

  The stairway was wide at the bottom and tapered as it curved up to the house’s second floor. Starke moved quickly to its bottom step, already in that narrow-focus survival mode where nothing mattered but the moment. He led with the short barrel of the Dwyers’ Smith & Wesson. The chamber had been empty when he’d pulled the matte slide, but there were seven single-stack rounds in the magazine. The chamber wasn’t empty anymore.

  He’d decided to search the top floor first. If Kerrigan had gone upstairs looking for Chloe, he could search room by room and maybe catch her unaware. If she was somewhere else on the property, there was a better chance he could spot her from one of the second-floor windows. The stairway was the only way down. He could watch it as he moved in and out of the rooms.

  Polished marble amplified his footsteps as he moved along the curving handrail, aware of his breathing and the pistol’s unfamiliar grip against his palm. Halfway up, he looked back. Shelby had died with her knees drawn to her chest, her blonde hair spread like kelp in the blood around her.

  The stairs ended perpendicular to a wide hallway that ran the length of the second floor. Starke counted a dozen doors along the corridor, some open, some not. To his right, the hallway dead-ended into double doors that opened into a bright master suite—the bedroom of Shelby and Paul Dwyer. Light poured through what he imagined were wide windows or doors that offered views of the rear, front, and one side of the property. He’d start there.

  A minimalist-modern bed stood atop a one-step platform in the center of the room. Without either a headboard or a footboard, it looked like a stage, or maybe an altar, covered by a cream-colored down comforter. At the far end, a mountain of pillows indicated which direction the Dwyers had slept. The setup had a feng shui vibe Starke couldn’t pretend to decipher. He was grateful, though. At least no one could hide under or behind the bed.

  He stepped into the room, then around the corner so he couldn’t be seen from the hall. Shelby’s design taste was an advantage. The room’s lines were clean and simple, the furnishings spare and well chosen. There were only two possible places in the master suite where someone might be—the his-and-hers walk-in closets on the left, or the marbled bath that opened to Starke’s right. His immediate concern, though, was what he could see through the French doors that opened onto a small deck overlooking the backyard.

  Smoke rose in toxic eddies from an adjacent home, and one of the tall palms at the rear of the Dwyers’ property was lit up like a tiki torch. Its crown was ablaze. As he watched, the wind tore loose a flaming frond and sent it helicoptering down. It snagged on a utility pole and hung from the wire just feet from a gray transformer.

  He checked the closets first. Shelby’s was the size of the spare bedroom in most homes. It smelled of cedar and perfume, and had custom-made shoe shelves and clothes arranged along the hang bars by c
olor. He raked the gun barrel through some of the clothes, satisfied that there was no chance someone could hide behind them. A dressing island stood in the middle, but it was layered with small drawers—again, nowhere to hide. He circled it, then moved gun first into Paul Dwyer’s closet.

  It was empty, just bare hang bars and shelves without shoes. Shelby had wasted no time in purging the house of her dead husband’s clothes.

  The bathroom was palatial, and in its marble embrace he again was aware of the subtle tick and slide of his footsteps and the raggedness of his breathing. He glimpsed his reflection in the wall of mirrors behind the double-sink vanity. He looked like a man emerging from a cage fight. His climb over the spiked gate not only shredded his sports jacket, but also left a gaping tear in the sleeve of his denim work shirt and a nasty-looking scrape in the skin of his upper arm. His eyes had the darting dread of something feral and hunted.

  The shower was enclosed in clear glass, and no one was inside. He yanked open the door of a small linen closet, relieved that it, too, was empty. The door to the toilet was open, and that small room was clear as well.

  It suddenly occurred to Starke that, unless Kerrigan knew he was in the house, she’d have no reason to hide. There was still a good chance he’d catch her by surprise.

  Back in the upstairs hallway he moved quietly along the wall, keeping his distance from the top of the stairs so he couldn’t be seen from the foyer. He tested each closed door along the corridor. At least two of the open doors were bathrooms, both empty. A linen closet. A utility closet dominated by an enormous water heater. A furnace enclosure. He searched two guest bedrooms, each with its own bath, and a room he guessed was Shelby’s home office. The hinges of its door creaked as he pushed it open, and he tensed until the noise stopped and he was sure no one had heard. His eyes fixed on her desk, where he saw the personal computer a panicked Shelby had bought to replace her poisoned Apple. Its screen was blank and inscrutable.

  In the window frame just behind the desk, the wildfire smoke was as thick as coastal fog. His eyes were watering, even in the airtight chamber of the climate-controlled house.

  By the time he reached the other end of the hall, Starke knew the only remaining bedroom had to be the daughter’s. Chloe’s door was closed. He twisted the knob, tightened his grip on the gun and entered what looked like the aftermath of an Abercrombie & Fitch explosion. Every piece of furniture in the room was covered with jeans, T-shirts, sports uniforms, underwear. Bedclothes were piled in the center of a four-post bed, as if stripped and gathered for laundry service. A plush Guernsey cow the size of a Labrador retriever lay limply atop the wadded comforter and pile of sheets. The floor was a minefield of unmatched shoes, boots, and sandals. Band and concert posters covered the walls—Ramones, Sex Pistols, Kanye, Snoop.

  Starke’s first thought was that the room had been ransacked.

  The bathroom door was open, and from where he stood he could see it was small and empty, just a toilet, a shower, and a small vanity. Every inch of the vanity’s surface was covered with products—hair gels, brushes, straightening irons, a blow dryer, moisturizers, cosmetics, contact lens solution. He realized then that the room had not been trashed, just lived in by a teenage girl. Even if someone wanted to hide in here, where would they find the space?

  So the upstairs was clear.

  Starke picked his way through the scattered shoes, moving toward the window on the far wall. From there, he could get a quick look at the approaching fire and this end of the backyard. It was slow going. Halfway across the room, he felt his skin tighten. Had he heard something behind him? Felt a shift in the air?

  It was an instinct more than a feeling, but he’d always trusted his instincts.

  He took two more steps, navigating for room to move. He carefully angled his leading foot to land between an upended Ugg boot and an orange flip-flop. He spotted open floor space just beyond that and aimed his trailing foot for it, hoping his move would be quick and uneventful.

  In a fast pirouette, Starke spun and crouched. His eyes fixed immediately on the dark, shivering figure on the hidden side of the open bedroom room. Chloe was cowering, eyes wide. She flinched at the sight of the gun. Her lips began to move, but no sound came out.

  He’d walked right past her.

  Starke lowered the gun, but otherwise didn’t move. He raised his index finger to his lips, silently urging her not to scream.

  He needn’t have worried. The girl had the vacant, thousand-yard stare of someone slipping into shock.

  60

  Starke approached Chloe as he might a wounded animal—careful, uncertain, ready to react. If she was in shock, she might lash out, or worse, cry out. If Kerrigan realized they were in the house, the game would change. Any advantage he had would be gone.

  He whispered, “I’m your mother’s friend, Ron Starke. Do you remember me?”

  Same vacant stare.

  Starke spotted a half-empty bottle of Arrowhead water on its side amid the rubble on the bedroom floor. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and held it out to her, hoping the sensation of cool water on her lips might bring her around. She didn’t move, or even look at the bottle. He inched closer, picked up her limp hand, and placed the open bottle in her palm. Her fingers closed around it, a reflex.

  “Take a sip, Chloe,” he said. “It might help you feel better.”

  The girl blinked for the first time and looked down, her eyes locking on the plastic bottle. She took it and raised it to her mouth, then seemed to notice him for the first time. She pressed herself backward into the wall.

  “The cop,” she said.

  “That’s right, Chloe. Ron Starke. An old friend of your mom’s.”

  Still the girl recoiled. Her eyes dropped to the gun still in Starke’s right hand. Very deliberately, he engaged the safety and tucked the gun beneath his belt at the small of his back, and brought both hands back to where she could see them.

  “You’re with her,” Chloe said, her voice rising with fear.

  Kerrigan?

  “The lady cop. You work with her.”

  “No!” Starke waved his hands, then pressed an index finger to his lips. “Well, yes, but—Chloe, I was outside and heard a gun go off. So I came in and—”

  Starke willed away the image of Shelby in the downstairs foyer, curled like a dead flower in a wide pool of her blood. Did Chloe know? Had she seen it too? The look that suddenly crossed the girl’s face answered both questions. When she closed her eyes, tears spilled from both and ran down her cheeks.

  “What happened, Chloe? Tell me fast.”

  “She shot my mom, I think.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Chloe shook her head. “She just showed up. We were trying to leave.”

  At once, they both turned to the bedroom’s window. One of the tall palms in the yard was fully ablaze now. They could see its fiery crown just feet from a transformer atop a nearby utility pole. The entire hilltop was enveloped in dirty white smoke.

  “Did you see her shoot your mom?”

  Chloe shook her head again. “I came up here to get something before we left, and Mom let her in. They were talking.”

  “Did you hear anything? Like what they were talking about?”

  “I was up here. But I heard my mom’s voice, yelling. Right before—”

  Chloe winced.

  Starke waited as long as he could. “Before?”

  “I heard the gun. Twice. So I snuck down the hall to see what was going on.”

  “But what was your mom saying, Chloe?”

  “‘You’re him!’” she said. “That’s it. Just: ‘You’re him!’”

  Shelby’s last words rushed back into Starke’s head.

  Kerrigan.

  Him?

  Jesus.

  He said it out loud: “LoveSick.”

  Chloe just stared.

  Starke gently removed the water bottle from the girl’s hand and took a sip. “Chloe, this is important. Do you know
where she went? The other cop?”

  “I heard the back door slide open.”

  “So she might still be out there, by the pool?”

  “Maybe.”

  Starke patted the girl’s forearm. “Stay right here, OK?”

  He was about to turn toward the bedroom window when he suddenly was rocked forward into the wall behind Chloe. He came to rest on top of the girl. His ears were ringing and a rain of double-pane glass was showering them both.

  “What the hell?” the girl screamed.

  Starke covered her mouth, probably harder than he intended. She glared up at him over the back of his hand. When the last of the debris settled, Starke turned toward the window. All that was left of it was an empty frame. Both the blazing palm tree and the utility pole were gone, and an odd calm was settling over the scene. Down the hill, in the distance, he heard the sound of desperate firefighters and heavy equipment on the move.

  “There was an electrical transformer,” he whispered. “The fire got too close. It must have exploded. You OK?”

  Chloe nodded.

  He removed his hand. “I really need you to wait here.”

  Chloe gasped as soon as he turned toward the window frame. “Wait,” she said. “There’s glass. In your back.”

  Only then did Starke notice the sharp pain between his shoulder blades. Before he could object, the girl reached out and tugged something from the same place where it hurt. He felt something long and sharp slide from his flesh. She tossed it aside, and it landed in one of her shoes— a blade of glass the size and shape of a kitchen knife. His blood covered the bottom two inches of it.

  “The rest is small stuff,” she said.