Charlie was just closing her eyes when her phone buzzed. She reached over, picking it up. Scott’s name flashed on the screen. She ignored the sinking feeling in her stomach and swiped to answer. “Hey, Scott. What’s up?”
At the mention of the name, Shane pushed himself up to sitting, his gaze locked on hers. Scott’s voice was even, but Charlie could detect a slight tightness to it. The pebble of worry in her stomach grew into a boulder. “Charlie, are you home at the moment?”
“Yeah. Scott, what’s going on?”
A pause. Then a breath. Then he finally spoke again. “I need to see you about something. Okay if I come around?”
She frowned. “You can’t tell me over the phone?”
Another breath. “I’d really rather not. See you in ten?”
She hung up and relayed Scott’s message, expecting Shane to be cranky—both from their interrupted time and whatever the hell was so important Scott wouldn’t talk about it on the phone. Instead he stood, pulling on his jeans. Despite the nerves taking great swoops through her belly, she had to laugh at the sight of him hopping around her room, trying to put his pants on one-handed. She walked over, pushing him back onto the bed and threading his leg through the jeans. “Let me help you, before you fall over.” He grinned, the smile turning to a groan as she trailed her hands over his thighs, brushing his length, and she did up the zipper.
“God, Woman. Don’t do that when I have to go.”
She frowned, confused. “Go? You’re not staying to hear what Scott has to say?”
He stood, pulling on his shirt, and added his sling. Damn him. Now he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “There’s something I need to do. You’ll be okay with Scott on his way. Call me if he’s done before I’m back, okay?”
Charlie grabbed his hip, turning him toward her. “Shane? You’re not going off to do anything stupid, are you?”
One side of his mouth tipped up, and he raised his sling-clad arm. “Of course not. Besides, I’d be pretty ineffectual right now.”
She smiled back, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. “Promise?”
Shane leaned down, kissing her and starting the tingle inside her all over again. “I promise,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Charlie nodded and trailed after him to the door, closing it behind him. After he left, she slid the lock into place but didn’t move. Instead, she slid down the back of the door and sat, her mind racing. She trusted Shane, and he’d promised he wouldn’t do anything stupid, but then where had he disappeared to in such a hurry? That, combined with whatever Scott wanted, had her gut churning.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long before there was a knock on the other side of her apartment door. After checking through the peephole, she opened it to let Scott inside. She hoped that whatever it was, they could get it over with quickly. Maybe he’d even give her a lift to meet Shane, wherever he’d run off to.
Scott walked into her apartment, holding a manila folder under his arm. Charlie really didn’t like the look on his face. His eyebrows were pinched, his hair disheveled, as if he’d run his hand through it one too many times, and his face was covered with a day’s worth of stubble. Normally she’d find that sexy on a guy, but right now it just told her he hadn’t been able to take the time to shave. Or possibly sleep. “Scott? Why are you here?”
He gestured to her couch. “I’d feel better if you were sitting down for this one.”
Okay. She walked over to her couch, resisting the urge to either get the hell out of there or punch him one—both were equally likely, the way his look was making her feel. She sat and Scott dropped into an armchair opposite her, opening the folder and laying out a series of reports and a mug shot in front of her. “We got a match from fingerprints we found on the flashlight and your car. But they don’t match anyone called Herman Langley.”
Charlie scanned the papers in front of her. When she got to the mug shot, her blood ran cold. The face was younger, missing the beard that had covered Langley’s face. But those eyes. There was no mistaking those eyes. They’d haunted her for years in her nightmares. She clutched her arms around her waist, and sweat formed on the back of her neck.
Scott’s gaze was sharp. He hadn’t missed a thing. “So I was right? You know this guy?”
Charlie pushed her hand out to pick up the photo, ignoring the tremble that was bad enough to make the entire photo shake. “Yes, I know who he is.” She forced her eyes away from the photo, but it still burned in her memory. It always would. “His name is Daryl Scranton. He’s a serial killer, and he tried to kill me.”
19
Shane
Shane stood in the entrance to his apartment, staring at the blackened walls. He’d hated not being upfront with Charlie as to where he was going, but he couldn’t lay this on her after everything else. Scott coming over gave him the opportunity to get it done while she was still safe.
Everything was covered in a fine layer of ash. The paint bubbled along the walls, and whatever was left of his curtains hung in tattered strings. He’d been lucky, he supposed. One of his neighbors had noticed the smoke and called it in, getting the guys there in time to save the structure. He was going to have to buy new, well, new everything, but at least the walls would stay up.
He leaned down and picked up a book that had fallen near the door. The scorched cover slid off when he touched it, dropping yet more ash on his hand and clothing. He was going to have to tell Charlie what was going on when he got back. There’s no way she’d believe he just randomly happened across a fire scene while out on his mystery errand. He only hoped that it didn’t worry her more than she already was. He leaned down and wiped his fingers along his jeans. They were already past saving, and this way, at least he could avoid leaving black fingerprints everywhere he went.
Mason appeared behind him, holding out a hard hat. “You can go in, if you want to. Just wear this.” He smiled, but his face was full of sympathy. “Don’t need you any more injured than you already are.”
Shane took the hat and stepped forward into the room. Something crunched beneath his foot, and he ignored it. Well, tried to, anyway. If he thought about everything that had been destroyed, and all the work that would be needed before he could move back in—he wasn’t ready for that yet.
Despite everything, he smiled. Charlie. At least he had her. The fire at his place totally sucked; there was no way around that, but it did mean that he could hold her while she slept every night. For at least the next few weeks, probably more like a month or more, he’d be taking advantage of her good graces and staying with her. It was either that or crash at Matt’s, and the guy snored like a Mack truck.
“I gotta get back,” Mason said. “But stay as long as you like.”
Shane tossed another unidentifiable fried belonging aside. “It’s not as if someone’s going to break in.”
Mason walked over, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I am really sorry, Man. All of us are hoping to see you back on shift soon. Both of you.”
“As soon as I’m able.”
Mason grinned. “As soon as the doctor clears you. I know you, Shane. No signing off on anything yourself.”
Shane smiled back, holding up his uninjured hand. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
“And I’ll be watching,” Mason said, still smiling. “Call me after shift and the boys will come around, help you clean this mess up.”
Shane nodded. “Appreciate it.”
Mason shrugged. “It’s what we do. Besides, I’m sure we could talk Meg and Maya into making lunch. That’d make just about anything worth it.”
Shane’s stomach rumbled at the thought of Meg’s buttermilk chicken and coleslaw. And then Maya, who could make any dessert taste like it was melting into a cloud of soft, squishy heaven in your mouth. The burrito had long worn off, and he realized how hungry he was. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Mason tipped his hard hat and then waved, walking back to his truck. Shane watched
him drive away and then went back to the debris inside his apartment. It looked like a few things were salvageable, but for the most part, he’d be starting over again entirely. Thank God he’d digitized most of his photos the last few years. Everything else—his movies, books—was already up in the cloud, wherever the hell that was, and so he’d taken the time to scan in his photos. They were the only thing he would have really missed. Everything else was just stuff. It could be replaced. For the second time in just a few days, he found himself offering up a small thanks that he and Charlie had been out of the house, sighing even as he had the thought. What she’d been through must have been terrifying, but it was better than being dead. He’d like to think that one of them would have smelled the smoke, felt the heat, anything, but he’d also attended too many fires where people had died in circumstances that should have been entirely avoidable.
He stood, his eyes scanning the apartment. What had caused this fire? He couldn’t see anything and he hadn’t thought to ask Mason, too overwhelmed by his first look inside the damaged room. He walked further into his apartment. Damn it. The main window in the room was cracked. He was going to have to get someone out to replace or at least cover it before any rain came. Not that it really mattered; the furniture, in this room at least, was literally toast. This room had definitely been hit the hardest. He bent down, starting to sift through the bits of furniture dotted with burnt belongings. Maybe if he uncovered a bit more of the floor, he’d be able to find the point of origin. He was sure he hadn’t left anything switched on. Faulty wiring? Shane didn’t really want to think of the alternative.
Arson. Just as the thought crossed his mind, suddenly it was all that he could think about. Especially when something hit him over the head.
Shane’s knees buckled and he lost his footing, half groaning, half yelling when he hit the ground injured shoulder first. A hand reached around and tried to roll him over. When Shane dug his feet into the debris and held on fast, two hands went around his neck instead. Fucking hell! He grabbed again, but this time all he managed to do was rip off a glove. The world started to gray around the edges and so before it disappeared entirely, he reached out his other hand, grabbing desperately at the leg of his destroyed coffee table. The movement gave his attacker the leverage he needed to swing Shane around, but blessedly, the momentum helped carry the coffee table leg with him. Shane hit out—hard—and the hands fell away from his neck as the other man fell away, landing with a muted thud on the ashes behind him.
Shane forced himself to scrabble up to his knees. He heaved in great lungfuls of air as he watched the man on the floor first lie prone, then twitch, then start to move. The man’s face was hidden, a large hoodie and bandanna hiding his identity, and Shane’s eyes flew to the only part of skin he could see—the hand that had lost the glove. As he realized what he was seeing, he nearly fell backward again. A large scar covered the man’s hand.
Herman Langley.
Shane scrambled for the table leg, but he was hampered by the damn sling. Before he could push himself to his feet, Langley was standing—barely. His gaze was pinned on Shane as Langley wobbled on his feet. Langley pulled off the bandanna, holding it against a wound almost gushing blood on the side of his head. Shane moved to stand again, but he was almost as useless. His shoulder was screaming at him, and the haze hadn’t entirely left his vision. It took nearly everything he had to push himself to his feet again and grab the table leg. By the time he’d gotten upright and steadied himself, Langley was gone.
20
Charlie
Scott’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away at first. “Charlie?” Her stare stayed glued to the photo in her hand. It was an old shot, but she wouldn’t ever forget that face. Even just yesterday, she’d recognized those eyes, burning through as if they were searing down to her soul. She’d known then. Her mind just hadn’t wanted to admit it, trying to protect her. But the evil had been obvious in those eyes—just as present as it had been ten years back.
A hand reached across and rested on her upper arm, shaking her slightly. “Charlie? What do you mean he tried to kill you?”
She turned to face Scott, frowning at the concern on his face. His brow was furrowed and his mouth set in a thin line. “It was back home. Oklahoma. A town almost the same as Monroe. People looked out for each other.” Charlie matched Scott’s frown as the details raced through her mind. She’d spent the last decade trying to forget any of it had ever happened, but now it seemed like she’d never be able to turn off the barrage. Image after image pounded through her mind.
The dark night, lights in the alley, following the path to the woods behind the diner, calling out. Had she imagined seeing the waitress that had served her in the diner? She’d been leaving as Charlie was heading to her car, and she wanted to slip her an extra tip. She knew Mary had been going through a rough time lately, even if she would never admit it. She stood on her own two feet and would never accept “charity,” as she called it. Charlie respected that and wouldn’t do anything to draw attention to her in public. But she knew what Mary was going through.
She’d been on the call the previous month when Mary had collapsed at home, unable to even make it off the floor by herself. Breast cancer, she’d told Charlie, but had sworn her to secrecy. It hadn’t been long enough since starting chemo for her hair to fall out, but the infection from her compromised immune system had struck anyway.
Mary had been back at work as soon as she could stand, and although she’d refused Charlie’s offer of help, she could at least sit at a table in Mary’s section every night after shift and leave a generous tip. Mary had caught on after a while, and she’d handed it back to Charlie with her receipt and a smile that night. Hence the impromptu parking-lot meeting. The only problem was, somewhere between the door of the diner and her car, when Charlie was digging around in her bag for whatever notes she could grab, Mary had vanished.
It was when she heard the scream that Charlie knew she hadn’t imagined Mary’s appearance. She hurried back to the diner and saw the purse lying on the ground near the Dumpster. She wasn’t imagining that, either. Any more than she’d imagined the blood-curdling scream coming from the woods behind the diner.
Charlie’s legs moved before her brain engaged, pumping with energy she didn’t know she had after working for a full twenty-four-hour shift. Gravel gave way to leaves underfoot as she powered into the forest, small tree branches slapping at her legs as she ran. She had no idea where she was going or what she was running toward, just that she’d heard the scream and she could help. Afterward, she’d spent hours analyzing why the hell she’d done it. What exactly had she thought she could do when she got there? If there had been a gun . . . a shudder went through her. If Daryl Scranton had had a thing for guns, then she’d probably be dead right now.
“You still with me, Charlie?”
Scott. She’d forgotten he was there again. “It’s the serial-killer capital of the USA, you know? Oklahoma. And that’s not even counting McVeigh.” Another shudder. “That was before my time, but guys at my station there still talked about it. How they’d deal if something like that ever happened in our town. Then 9/11 changed the way we all thought about domestic terror forever.”
She shook her head, forcing her focus back to the present. To Scott. She was letting her thoughts run away with her, imagining every terrible thing she’d ever encountered, and then every horror story she’d heard from EMT and paramedic colleagues. She didn’t have any such grand tales. It had just been her, Mary, and Scranton, standing there in the forest on that cold, blustery night, a knife glinting in his hand.
Thank God he didn’t have a gun.
Charlie hadn’t had one, either, had never carried one. But one look at Mary lying on the ground, bleeding heavily from a wound in her chest—maybe more than one—and Charlie hadn’t needed one.
“I ran at him,” she said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “He didn’t see me coming. It was dark, and I think h
e was . . . he was too . . .” she hiccupped and swiped the back of her hand across her itchy cheek. It came away wet. When had that happened? The hand still resting on her arm squeezed gently. “He was too focused on the blood seeping from Mary’s body. He was almost transfixed by it.”
She looked up at Scott. He face was passive, but the tight lines around his eyes told another story. “I rushed at him, tackled him, I suppose you’d call it. It didn’t do much except make him lose his footing, but it was enough. We both went down and when we came back up, I had the knife.”
It had felt cool in her hands, the handle bone white while the blade dripped with red. “He must have tried to grab at it in the struggle, because now his hand was bleeding, too.”
She’d stared at it that night. Transfixed. She’d had no idea what to do next and so they’d circled each other, her holding the knife out in front like some kind of desperate protection while Mary bled out slowly at their feet. Charlie didn’t need to imagine what a knife like that could do to someone. She’d already seen it firsthand, more times than she wanted to think about, just a few years into her career.
Could she do that to someone else? Slide the knife into their body. How much force would she have to put behind it? Would it be fast or slow? She knew anatomy. If she positioned it just right, she’d miss every rib and hit an artery. He’d drown in his own blood, maybe even before he hit the forest floor. Maybe she should go for his back instead and take out a lung. Her stomach revolted suddenly at the calm choices her mind was making on how to fatally stab someone, and she lurched forward, swallowing heavily to avoid vomiting all over Mary.
Mary.
She really should move closer. Try to protect her while checking how much she was bleeding. Could she risk a look down?
Line of Fire (Southern Heat Book 5) Page 11