“Shouldn’t we just immerse him in the lake?” she asked.
“That will cool him down faster.”
“True, but the shock could result in convulsions. A gentle application of warm water is best.”
“Warm water?”
“To keep him as comfortable as possible. Besides, it’s not the temperature of the water that will cool him. It’s the evaporation of the liquid off his skin. That’s why I didn’t immerse him, clothes and all. The material would act like a blanket and interfere with the evaporation process.”
He gently applied water to Justin’s chest, arms, and legs. Despite his efforts to warm the water, he heard the little boy suck in his breath, but otherwise Justin didn’t respond. He remained as limp as a stuffed toy monkey.
Cassandra watched Turner, biting her lip in concern.
Justin began to shiver, but Turner could still feel the heat radiating from him. Concurrent fever and chills always seemed like a medical oxymoron.
He applied more water to Justin’s chest. The large surface areas were where evaporation would occur the most rapidly.
As he worked, he continually glanced around, expecting Brad to appear at any minute. There was no question that Brad was still in the area. He had not retrieved what he had come for, and Turner knew Brad was desperate. And desperation was a powerful motivator. On several occasions in the dying seconds of a high school football game, Brad had rallied his teammates and pulled off a victory. His compulsion to win bordered on obsessive. And the fact that Turner had given him a taste of defeat by escaping with Cassandra and Justin had to be particularly galling. There was no way Brad would ever admit defeat and skulk away with his tail tucked between his legs.
At length Cassandra said, “Justin’s not feeling as hot to the touch.”
“Good. We can put his pants and shirt back on him now.”
But it was easier said than done. It took their combined efforts to dress Justin because it was like trying to put clothes on a rag doll. When they finished, Turner glanced toward the trail that led to the cabin. “Ready?”
She nodded.
Taking Justin from her, he started up the trail and she followed.
As they approached the clearing, Turner called out, “Brad, it’s me! I need to talk to you.”
He applied the same rule as when hiking in bear territory: Make lots of noise and let any beast in the area know you’re around. He didn’t want to catch Brad by surprise and have him start shooting. Brad would naturally be caught off guard by their sudden arrival.
He wished he could sneak into the Explorer and drive away, but he knew Brad wasn’t careless enough to leave the keys in the ignition. And since Turner didn’t know how to hotwire a car, neither the Explorer or the Mercedes were available for service. He was going to have to convince Brad to cooperate and prove that this was not a trick. No wasps, no lies, nothing up his sleeve.
They entered the clearing.
“Brad!” he called again. “It’s Turner. We need to talk.”
Brad appeared on the front porch. His face and arms still bore traces of the wasps’ attack, and Turner could tell that Brad had spent a sleepless night. Brad folded his arms and glared at them with bloodshot eyes. The gun, which he had somehow retrieved, was tucked in his belt and clearly visible. Turner could almost hear the wheels turning in Brad’s brain, deciding how best to deal with them. It was payback time.
“Justin’s sick,” Turner said. “We need to get him to a doctor.”
Brad lowered his gaze to the unconscious figure in Turner’s arms.
Cassandra wet her lips and addressed her husband. “I’ll tell you where the documents are, Brad. Just get Justin to a doctor.
He’s our son.”
Brad didn’t move.
“He’s sick,” Turner repeated anxiously. “He has a high fever, and we need to get him to the hospital.”
Brad eyed them suspiciously. “First, tell me where the documents are.”
Turner stepped toward him. “As soon as you drop Cassandra and Justin off at the hospital, I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you to them.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that, Pancake?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Brad considered Turner’s response. “You’ll take me to them?”
“Yes.”
Mocking Turner’s earnestness, Brad said, “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Look, they’re in a locker at the bus depot,” Turner said earnestly.
“And the key?”
Turner shook his head. “Drop Cassandra and Justin off at the hospital first, and I’ll take you to get it. Then the documents are yours.”
Brad looked at him coldly, and Turner feared they had arrived at the die part. Brad drew the gun and fired into the ground beside Cassandra. She gasped and jumped backward.
“The next time it’s her foot,” Brad said. “Then her leg.”
As he prepared to fire, Turner stepped in front of Cassandra.
“The key is in the handle of the dustpan in my broom closet.”
“Turner, no,” Cassandra said, taking Justin from him and cradling him protectively.
“We have no choice,” Turner replied, hoping he just hadn’t made the biggest miscalculation of his life. Armed with the information he had just provided, Brad could dispose of him, retrieve the key, and try it in every locker door at the bus depot until he found the right one. Perhaps he—Turner—had just outlived his usefulness.
Brad descended the steps of the porch and slowly approached, keeping his eyes trained on Turner. “In the handle of the dustpan in your broom closet, huh?” He looked at Cassandra. “Only you could think up something like that.”
Without warning, he lashed out and sucker-punched Turner in the face. Turner fell to the ground and blinked to refocus his eyes, fighting to remain conscious. Through blurred vision he saw Cassandra move anxiously toward him but Brad stopped her.
“Put Justin in the Explorer,” Brad said coldly. When she hesitated, he barked, “Do it!”
She strapped Justin in the back seat and then looked at Turner. “We can’t just leave Turner lying here.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t.”
Turner felt himself being dragged by the ankles into the cabin and dumped unceremoniously on the floor.
“At least put him on the couch,” Cassandra protested.
Turner attempted to sit up, but Brad kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Turner struggled to catch his breath as Cassandra cried in alarm and attempted to reach him, but Brad caught her by the arm and motioned toward a dining room chair. “Bring it here into the kitchen and sit down!” he ordered.
“There isn’t time,” Cassandra replied. “We have to get Justin to a doctor.”
“Do it!” Brad shouted.
Cassandra dutifully carried one of the chairs into the kitchen. Brad then grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to sit down on it.
Turner struggled to recover his breath and watched helplessly as Brad uncoiled the rope from the backpack that was lying near the closet—the rope Turner had used earlier to haul the backpack up the embankment.
“Brad, you don’t need to tie Turner up. He’s not going to—”
She stopped midsentence as he looped the rope around her and yanked hard. Gasping in pain, she tried to get off the chair, but he held her down and wrapped several coils around her.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “We’ve got to leave right now.”
“Not we, dear.”
She fought against the rope. “Brad, I’m coming with you.
You’re not taking Justin without me. That was the deal.”
“I never made any deal.” He wrapped more coils around her, pulling so hard that she grunted in pain. She tried vainly to free herself.
Turner attempted to get up to intervene, but he was still too winded.
“You don’t have to do this,” Cassandra said, grimacing as the rope c
ut into her arms. “I won’t go to the police. I swear.”
Brad grinned ominously. “I know you won’t.”
Although he was still struggling for air, dread crept over Turner at the implication in Brad’s voice.
“Untie me,” she pleaded. “Please.” Her last word was spoken as though it was a petition in a prayer.
Brad wrapped a final coil around her and knotted the rope securely.
“Just drop Justin and me off at the hospital and go get the documents,” she said imploringly. “You’ll have what you came for.”
He looked at her and shook his head as if to say silly girl.
After checking the rope, he placed a roll of paper towel on the stove and unrolled it the length of the counter.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He placed several dishtowels and cereal boxes on top of the paper towel. “Shooting you is too easy. You and your boyfriend are going to be the victims of a tragic accident.”
“What?”
“You deserve to go together, seeing how you’ve betrayed me. Only your ashes will be left to tell the sad tale of lust and death.”
Cassandra’s mouth gaped open in horror. “Brad, you can’t mean it.”
He turned on the burners, and a blue flame hissed into life.
She struggled to free herself. “Turner! Turner!”
“Call to the loser all you want,” Brad taunted. “Like he’s going to be any help.”
The paper towel on the burners turned brown and began to smoke.
Cassandra spoke rapidly. “I gave a letter to a friend that’s to be sent to the police in case anything happens to me. It tells everything, Brad!” She quoted several details from the letter. “You’ll go to jail . . . if your business associates don’t get to you first.”
He grabbed her roughly by the throat. “Who did you give it to?”
“Untie me and let us go. I’ll see that you get the letter back, unopened. I promise.”
“You promise,” he hissed in her face. “Like you promised to keep our wedding vows.” He lingered long enough to make sure the paper towel caught fire. “Justin and I will think about you from the Grand Caymans. Maybe South America. Good-bye, sweetheart.” He grinned as the flames quickly spread. The cereal boxes and dishtowels ignited, raising a hungry flame that licked the wooden cupboards above. It wasn’t long until they too were on fire.
It hurt Turner to breathe and his head pounded like a drumbeat, but he felt his strength returning. He remained still, however, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
Brad wiggled his fingers at Cassandra in a gesture of farewell. She struggled to get free and called Turner’s name repeatedly.
Turner smelled smoke and could feel heat radiate from the cupboards. Steeling himself, he waited for Brad to walk by and then lunged forward and tripped him. Brad fell to the floor but rolled over with catlike quickness, lashing out with a vicious kick, which only grazed Turner’s shoulder. The cupboard door took the brunt of the force and collapsed inward.
Brad aimed another vicious kick at him. Turner twisted sideways and staggered to his feet, missing the blow, which shattered another cupboard door.
As Brad reached for his gun, Turner grabbed a flaming dishtowel from the counter and threw it at him. Brad dropped the weapon in an effort to cover his face.
Turner picked up the gun and backed toward Cassandra.
“Think you can shoot me in cold blood, Pancake?” Brad sneered, wiping the sparks and ashes from his clothing and hair.
“In a heartbeat,” Turner replied, with as much bravado as he could muster. He had let the nettles, the trees, and the mudslide serve him to this point. But he was certain he could stare Brad in the eyes and blast him into eternity with the mere twitch of a finger if he had to.
Brad took a step toward him menacingly.
“Don’t make me to do it,” Turner warned.
“You haven’t got the guts, Pancake.”
“But I’ve got the reasons. Two of them.”
“Oh, that’s touching,” Brad said sarcastically, advancing another step.
Turner saw Brad’s muscles tense. He pulled the trigger at the same instant Brad sprang for him. The sound of the blast mingled with the hiss of the fire, and Brad dropped to the floor and clutched his side.
The fire had reached the window curtains. They exploded in a frenzy of red and yellow, and the flames climbed toward the beadboard ceiling, filling the living room with smoke.
“Turner, help!” Cassandra called.
Turner pocketed the gun and began frantically working on the knots, the number of which demonstrated Brad’s anger. He saw a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and turned too late to dodge the attack. Brad crashed into him, and they fell heavily to the floor, tipping Cassandra’s chair over in the process. The three of them became a tangle of legs, both human and lathed wood.
A red splotch stained Brad’s shirt on his right side. Ignoring the wound, he swung wildly, knocking Turner into what remained of the blackened curtains. Smoke clogged Turner’s lungs and impaired his vision, adding to the disorientation. Coughing violently, he staggered sideways in anticipation of another onslaught of fists and feet.
Cassandra screamed as the side cupboards caught fire and flames snaked toward her. Brad stood between them, however, and Turner couldn’t reach her without going through him. Nor could he shoot again for fear of hitting her.
He threw himself at Brad in an attempt to bulldog his way past him. But in this desperate game of mano a mano, Brad had the physical advantage. He threw Turner to the ground and attempted to stomp on him. Turner rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet. Fortunately his momentum had carried him closer to Cassandra, and he hurried toward her.
As Brad moved in to attack, the cupboards above the stove toppled in a flaming crash, forcing him back. This gave Turner a chance to sit Cassandra upright but no time to undo the knots. Instead, he began dragging her, chair and all, toward the front door.
Snatching up a kitchen stool, Brad raised it overhead and rushed forward, leaping through the flames.
“Look out, Turner!” Cassandra shouted in warning.
Turner darted out of the way as the stool shattered against the floor. Grabbing a piece of the broken leg, Turner smashed it across Brad’s left shin. Brad yelled in pain and went down on one knee.
“Hurry, Turner!” she cried.
As Turner pulled her closer to the front door, Brad got to his feet and limped toward them, coughing and growling in rage. Turner fumbled to draw the gun, and Brad caught him by the arm and pulled upward, causing the shot to pass harmlessly into the ceiling. The two men struggled for possession, and Turner could feel the gun slipping from his hand. He prayed for strength to hang on, realizing that if he lost control of the gun, he was a dead man.
As the gun inched out of his grasp, Turner suddenly released his grip and dropped to the floor, placing a well-aimed kick at the tender spot on Brad’s left shin. Brad howled in pain and fell backward, clutching his injured leg. The gun flew out of his hand and slid across the kitchen floor toward the dining room. Crawling like a wounded crab, Brad scrambled to retrieve it.
The ceiling groaned and chunks of beadboard fell, hissing like flaming meteorites. Ignoring the danger, Brad snatched up the gun and took aim.
More of the ceiling fell.
Turner pulled Cassandra down behind the counter as the bullet sailed overhead. He knew the cupboard’s wood paneling would offer little protection from the bullets, and so he kept low and dragged Cassandra into the front entrance.
Brad appeared through a gap in the fire and took aim again. A section of the ceiling fell in a clatter of sparks, igniting the front of his shirt and causing the second shot to miss. The bullet shattered the light fixture in the front entrance as Turner dragged Cassandra outside. A tongue of flame followed them, crossing the porch and greedily licking the Explorer.
“We’ve got to get Justin!” she cried, as Tur
ner pulled her behind the vehicle and fumbled with the rope.
Seconds later a scream issued from the cabin as the roof collapsed, sending up a tower of sparks and flame, exposing the overhanging branches to the fire. Cassandra flinched as the death cry rose in pitch and then ended abruptly.
Turner worked on the knots, which had become tighter in her struggles to get free. One of the walls collapsed, sending sparks mushrooming into the air. They covered their heads as a swarm of sparks descended, each ember burning with the intensity of a wasp’s sting.
“The Explorer’s going to catch fire, Turner!” she shouted, above the sounds of engorged flames and groaning wood.
“We’ve got to get Justin.”
The last knot finally submitted, and Turner uncoiled the rope from around her. “Stay here!” he replied. “I’ll get him.”
But Cassandra was already ahead of him, crawling to the side door of the vehicle. He rushed to help her.
Several tall pine trees surrounding the cabin exploded into flames. The sap hissed like bacon frying on the griddle.
Cassandra wrenched the back door open and climbed in beside Justin, who was still not responsive. The front porch collapsed, and the odor of heated tin and melting plastic almost overpowered her as she undid Justin’s seatbelt. The Explorer was on fire!
Turner took Justin from her and led the way to the back of the vehicle as a wave of heat seared the air overhead. “We’ve got to get down to the lake!” he shouted.
Attempting to reach the main road on foot would be suicide. The fire would overtake them before they made it halfway. Coniferous trees, like pine and spruce, burn five to ten times faster than deciduous trees because of the resin in the bark and needles. And he and Cassandra and Justin were in the heart of a coniferous forest!
They scrambled to their feet and headed for the lake.
The cabin was now a funeral pyre. Only one wall remained, a flaming tombstone to its solitary occupant. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
They raced down the trail to the lake as quickly as Cassandra’s ankle would allow, keeping just ahead of the flames.
The Return of Cassandra Todd Page 21