Ashes, Ashes, They All Fall Dead

by LENA DIAZ,

  He took her hand in his, but she tugged it away, frowning at him.

  In spite of that frown, the way her face flushed the moment he’d touched her was telling. Ever since she’d seen him at the construction site yesterday without his shirt on, she flustered easily around him. It was as if seeing his bare chest had finally made her notice that he was a man instead of the boy she’d once accused him of being. Maybe he should have taken off his shirt in front of her years ago.

  It was nice to have the tables turned and have her just as affected by him as he was by her. And if he ruthlessly took advantage of their mutual attraction to throw her off-kilter, well, he wouldn’t lose any sleep over that either.

  “We’ll go get your car, but there’s something else I want to take care of before we leave. If you don’t mind.” He started down the long hallway.

  Tessa hurried to follow him. “Where are we going?”

  “My office. Do you have that list of names and postmarks we printed back at the studio?”

  She pulled her purse off her shoulder and dug inside. “Your office, huh? I thought you worked out of your house.” She handed him the printout.

  “I said I prefer to work from home, not that I always work from home.”

  They entered his office, and while he scanned the list into his computer, Tessa studied the paintings on the wall. She paused in front of his favorite painting, and the way her eyes lit up told him she liked it. He decided not to tell her that Madison had given it to him.

  He started the special search algorithm on his computer and then uploaded a picture he’d taken at his studio of the little curlicue that appeared on the bottom of each letter. He initiated an image search even though he doubted it would yield anything useful.

  “This will take a while, probably won’t be ready until morning. The program will e-mail me when it’s done. Are you hungry? I’ll take you to dinner. My treat.”

  “I could eat. What will take a while?”

  “The search I initiated. I grouped the data into five geographical areas. The program will search for crimes or deaths of anyone with names matching our list within each area. The program will crawl across the Internet looking for data, load that into a database, then perform the search. It could take hours or days, depending on the amount of data it has to load. It’s a long shot, and this is the first time I’ve used this particular program on a case, so it’s not proven yet. But it’s worth a try.”

  “Why do you think your search will yield better results than mine did?”

  “The FBI doesn’t use the same search methodology I use. The program I wrote doesn’t search law-enforcement databases. Mine scans local online data stores of newspapers and television station Web sites based on a target geographical range. Anyone within that area who puts their news online will have the information indexed and added to my database. While that’s being loaded, the name will be compared to each article, each story, looking for a match, all within a specific date range governed by the postmarks on the letters.”

  “You’re hoping the news would have reported a crime but we wouldn’t have found it by talking to law-enforcement agencies? That seems unlikely.”

  “Again, you’re assuming wherever the deaths occurred that those police have the equipment and hookup to make the data searchable by the FBI. That’s only true in larger urban areas and some of the larger rural incorporated areas. Many towns don’t have that kind of sophisticated network, even in this day and age. You’re also assuming the deaths were labeled as suspicious. If the killer masks the deaths as accidents, they’d never be reported by the cops in response to an FBI inquiry.”

  “Maybe,” she allowed.

  “One thing you can always count on,” he continued, “is that reporters are eager to blast stories about anything bad. So if someone died in any way that was out of the norm, you can count on the press to make a story out of it. Here in the South that’s especially true. Because everybody’s business is, well, everybody’s business.”

  Tessa uncrossed her arms. “Sounds reasonable.”

  “There’s one more advantage to my search algorithm. While it searches first within the geographical areas, pairing victim names to postmarks, if that doesn’t yield anything it will search across boundaries.”

  “Like if he killed someone in one state but mailed the letter with their name on it from a different state?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds like that kind of search could take a long time.”

  “It all depends on how many stories the computer has to load and process. I keyed in a two-hundred-mile radius around each city on the postmarks and used a plus or minus six-month time frame. Unless we’re lucky enough to hit on something in one of the first few online sites the program searches, yeah, it could take a long time.”

  He crossed to the door. “While I’m here, I’m going to check in with the lab administrator and see if she needs anything. When I get back, let me know where you want to eat.”

  Tessa had wandered over behind his desk as he spoke. “Okay.” She plopped down in his chair and propped her chin on her palm. “What does it mean if a red balloon pops up?”

  “Red balloon?”

  She pointed to the screen. “A red circle is blinking on a map.”

  Excitement pulsed through him. “That means we got a hit already. Click on the circle to see what name pops up.” He hurried toward the desk just as Tessa clicked the mouse.

  Her eyes widened and she cursed. Without a word of explanation, she ran around him and out the door.

  Matt looked at the name blinking on the screen. He cursed an equally foul word and ran after her, back toward the lab. The name the search engine had found, the only link they had to the killer, was the name written on the one letter his scientist was destroying right now.

  Sharon Johnson.

  ALL THESE YEARS he’d been so careful never to come back, never to risk that someone from his past would recognize him. But time was running out. He couldn’t wait any longer for his revenge.

  Now that he was here, walking down the same cracked sidewalk where she had walked, breathing the same clover-scented air she had breathed, he wished he’d come back sooner. The fog of time, and betrayal, that had clouded his mind lifted. The memories were clear and fresh again—bittersweet—but mostly sweet.

  There, across narrow, potholed Dogwood Street, just a block off Main, was the split-level ranch where she’d go after school to wait with her best friend’s family until her parents came home from work. Then she’d skip away, smiling and waving to her friend as she left. And to him. He knew she meant that smile for him, and that wave.

  She just didn’t know it at the time.

  Farther down, the playground. The bushes where he’d hidden, watching her and her friends. He couldn’t help but smile as he remembered how beautiful his girl was, the delicate little red-haired dancer who loved to whirl around, singing with the voice of an angel.

  Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, they all fall down.

  His smile faded. But she hadn’t sung for him. Never. No matter what kind of punishment she forced him to give her, she never sang.

  Not for him.

  He shuffled to a halt when he saw the corner up ahead. The drugstore was gone now, replaced by a modern gas station that squatted fat and ugly between the older buildings. But he could see the old store just as clearly as if it was still standing, with its faded red and yellow sign—Crawford’s Grocery & Drugs.

  Every Sunday after church her mother took her inside that store to pick up a gallon of ice cream. Rocky Road. He’d tried it once, but he didn’t like all those gooey marshmallows. He liked mint chocolate chip, so he’d taught her to love it too. Later. Much later.

  Yes, coming here brought back good memories, all those times he’d watched her, wanted her, when the future was rich and full of promise. He’d dedicated his life to her, had given her everything she could possibly want or need. He’d taught her how
to dress, how to talk, how to keep him happy, and what had she done in return?

  She’d betrayed him, by leaving him.

  His hand fisted around the box of matches in his pocket. His lungs suddenly seized with the urge to cough. He drew a shaky breath, trying to hold back, but he was helpless to stop it. His shoulders shook as he gave in to the coughing fit, the fiery burn lancing through his lungs. When he was finally able to draw a normal breath again, he wiped his handkerchief across his mouth, smearing fresh red blood onto the stained cloth. He shoved the reminder of how little time he had left back into his pocket just as a man turned the corner by the gas station, walking up the sidewalk, heading his way. It was him.

  His prey.

  His reason for coming back.

  John Crawford, her best friend’s father, the owner of the drugstore. Recognition stole his breath, closed his throat. Crawford had never liked him, had warned her daddy, had said terrible things, things his father had heard about. And because of those things—those lies—his father had kicked him out of the house, turned his back on his only son. All because of Crawford.

  His pulse leaped in his throat. He hunched his shoulders and bent his head. He forced his feet to move forward, slowly, instead of running like he wanted. The sharp corners of the box of matches dug into his palm. His fingers curled, like talons. He’d never cut anyone before. His weapons were gas and kerosene. But suddenly he wanted to dig his fingers into the other man’s throat. He wanted to rip, and tear, and—

  “Morning,” Crawford said as he walked by.

  “Morning,” he replied, his voice the tight, guttural rasp he had come to hate.

  His breath left him in a rush and he swallowed hard. He recognized the feelings inside him, the rage that was always there . . . and something he hadn’t felt in years.

  Fear.

  He hated the fear most of all. He ruthlessly shoved it back, locked it away. There was nothing to be afraid of. No one here could hurt him, not like before. He was invincible. He’d proven that over, and over, and over. He’d survived a betrayal no one else could have survived. He was strong. In control. No one hurt him anymore without paying a price.

  “Don’t let your little girl anywhere near him, Tom,” Crawford had said. “There’s something wrong with that young man.”

  Lies.

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at her. It’s not normal.”

  He loved her! There was nothing wrong with that.

  “He’s dangerous.”

  That part was true. He was dangerous, but only to people who hurt him, who mocked him, people who treated him unfairly. People who didn’t understand.

  Like Crawford.

  His lies had almost ruined everything.

  Almost.

  The familiar, hungry ache exploded deep inside him.

  No! It wasn’t time yet. He wanted to explore the town, relive more memories, have a few more hours thinking about her before he punished him.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets again, stroking the box of matches. Deep breaths. Calm down. Breathe. Breathe. That’s what she used to tell him, when his anger clouded his mind, when he couldn’t focus. Sometimes it worked. Other times . . . her eyes would fill with fear, and he’d have to punish her.

  She told him she loved him, and then she ran away.

  Ashes, ashes . . .

  He rubbed his thumb across the gritty edge of the box that had the power to bring each match to life.

  The power to burn. The power to destroy. The power to punish.

  The hunger roared.

  Ashes, ashes . . .

  The beast inside him was strong. He couldn’t resist its lure. He stopped, turned. Crawford had just reached the next corner.

  He shuddered in anticipation and started after his prey.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  Day Two

  BITTER REGRET SWEPT through Tessa as she stood at the edge of Sharon Johnson’s lawn, in a suburb of Charleston, South Carolina—not Brunswick, Georgia, the postmark on the envelope—staring at the burned-out skeleton of what once was a majestic home. In one weak moment, Tessa had compromised her principles, her convictions, her work ethic, by agreeing to Matt’s foolish plan. Now the one letter that could have tied Sharon’s murder to the killer had been destroyed and, along with it, quite possibly, Tessa’s career.

  Her only hope was to figure out the killer’s identity and find some concrete evidence to tie him to Sharon’s death—before Casey discovered the letter had been switched. Because once he made that discovery, she’d be off the case, probably out of a job. And she’d never be able to bring Sharon’s killer to justice. If that happened, she’d never forgive herself—or Matt.

  She drew in a deep breath, then coughed at the lingering scent of smoke that still clung to the oak trees and shrubs, even though the fire had occurred two days ago. A woman had died, and Tessa wanted to take a moment to reflect on that. She wanted to focus on the victim rather than her own troubles and regrets before she tromped across the property, examined what was left of the structure, and boiled down a woman’s life into fingerprints, fibers, and sooty tracks.

  The home’s blackened chimney rose to the sky, strong and true. The charred rafters stuck up like the legs of a dying spider from the decimated second floor. The firemen had saved most of the first floor from the flames, but no one would ever live in this house again. It had been utterly destroyed, just like the life of its owner, who’d been found inside, dead.

  Matt stood ten feet away from Tessa, staring at the same burned-out shell. But the distance might as well have been miles instead of feet. Tessa had lost her temper at the lab yesterday evening, yelling at him for convincing her to destroy the letter. Matt hadn’t apologized. Instead, he’d calmly waited until she ran out of things to say. Then he’d quietly suggested they fly to South Carolina the next morning to investigate the crime scene.

  She’d agreed, but only because she didn’t have a better alternative. She needed his help, per the agreement she’d signed with Casey. Like it or not, she was stuck with Matt for now. With him, she had very little chance of saving her career. Without him, she had no chance.

  When they’d arrived at the Charleston airport, she’d called and arranged a meeting with Charleston PD’s chief of police. But the meeting wasn’t due to start for another hour. The chief had a heavy caseload and had to rearrange his schedule to speak to them. So after they rented a car and drove into town, they’d filled the awkward silence between them by going straight to the crime scene.

  Without bothering to look her way, Matt started toward the house. But instead of stopping at the front porch steps as Tessa expected, he lifted the yellow caution tape the fire marshal had tied around the railings and ducked underneath.

  Outrage boiled up inside Tessa. “Matt, don’t!”

  He didn’t acknowledge her. He broke the paper seal on the front door and went inside.

  Tessa stood frozen, shocked at what he’d just done. She stared at the dark, gaping entryway, and the same resentment she’d felt during the Simon Says Die case slammed into her. Then, like now, his youthful arrogance had him running roughshod over an investigation, second-guessing those in charge, ignoring the opinions of others far more experienced than him. And now, like yesterday when he’d switched the original letter for a copy, he was dragging her down with him.

  She flexed her right hand over the holster on her hip and started after him.

  MATT WALKED THE perimeter of the family room. Everything was coated with a fine layer of soot and ash, clumped and bleeding down the walls because of the water that had been pumped inside to douse the fire. Pictures either hung haphazardly on the wall or lay on the floor, a soggy, warped mess.

  It was easy to figure out which woman in the pictures was Sharon Johnson, since she appeared in most of them. Medium height, shoulder-length brown hair with light-gray streaks, faded blue eyes. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she had a friendly, easy smile.

>   The police chief had told them over the phone that Sharon had lived alone. But Matt wasn’t sure he agreed with that. He studied one of the pictures before moving to the next, and the next. His suspicion grew with each new picture he examined. Time to verify his theory. If Sharon was anything like him, he’d find the evidence he needed in her kitchen. He turned around.

  Tessa stood just inside the front door, her green eyes practically flashing sparks at him. One of her hands tightened into a fist at her side. The other was perilously close to the gun in the holster on her hip.

  “Get out.” Her voice was tight and angry. “We were supposed to walk the property, not go inside and muck up the crime scene.”

  He pointed to the open sky above them. “I hardly think we can be accused of contaminating the scene.”

  Her gun hand twitched. He decided a retreat might be in order, and since it went along with what he wanted to do anyway, he moved past her through the archway into the next room. An old-fashioned china hutch sat in the corner and a table that could easily seat twelve occupied the middle of the room. He scanned the contents of the hutch before heading into the kitchen.

  There, on the floor beside the soot-blackened refrigerator, was proof of his theory.

  “What are you doing?” Tessa’s voice sounded from behind him. “We need to get out of here and let the police chief know he needs to reseal the door.”

  Her trigger hand was no longer hovering near her gun, so Matt figured she’d gotten over her initial burst of outrage.

  He gave her his most charming smile, but she continued to glower at him.

  He sighed and moved past her back into the dining room. She followed behind him, cursing beneath her breath.

  “Do you know anything about dishes?” He tried to head off the impending storm.

  Her brow crinkled. “What? Dishes?”

  He suppressed a smile, enjoying the war of emotions playing across her face. Part of her still wanted to shoot him, but the other part, the part that was winning, was her insatiable curiosity. That curiosity was probably what made her such a good agent. He’d heard so many glowing stories about her exploits over the years from his brother Pierce that he already knew her far better than she knew him. That gave him the advantage of knowing what buttons he could push to get a reaction out of her. Sneaky, not exactly fair, but useful.