Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  “Me? Her mother?” An exhilarating thought.

  “Isn’t that what your friend Kenny and Chance tried to tell you? That children are a gift that belong to the ones who love them?”

  Kissme gave an impatient nudge. It was past our bedtime.

  A smile danced across my heart. Hope rose and blossomed, as fragrant and sweet as the tea in my cup.

  Oh, my.

  “Good night, Travis.”

  “Sweet dreams, babe.”

  —End—

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  “Be the difference.”

  Dawn

  The river is rising and time ticking down . . .

  As the waters rise, only one woman will risk it all for justice…

  Sunny McLane's new job is a daily challenge. Working with the homicidal, suicidal, and mentally dependent pushes her to the brink each day. But when homeless clients complain about missing organs, the only one who takes them seriously is Sunny…

  As she fights for custody with her ex, the former legal advocate dives deep into a terrifying organ trafficking ring. To take down the black market and give her baby a chance to survive, she must rush across a raging river and traverse the Sierras once more to save the day. But with the river rising and time ticking down, Sunny Lane's quest for justice may once and for all come to a deadly end…

  WATCH ME BURN

  CHAPTER 1

  In January I killed four people.

  In February I killed my husband.

  It was only the fifth of March, and this morning, I killed my dog.

  She was more than a dog. Kissme had been my best friend. How does one kill a best friend?

  “It’s time, Sunny,” said Craig, the local veterinarian. His eyes were kind and his features soft. “Are you ready?”

  The cold wind rustled through the ancient black oak, rattling branches that seemed to stretch out and cradle the old wooden picnic table that rests outdoors, not far from the cold sterility of the veterinary clinic. Sunlight filtered through torn clouds, casting patterns that danced across the same pink baby blanket that had once delivered a wriggly puppy into my arms. The sound of panting rose fast and strained from within the bundle as Kissme waited to be conveyed into the heart of God.

  No. Never!

  Weakly . . . I nodded my consent.

  Everything dies; I tried to reassure myself. But not so quickly. Not like this. Dr. Lance, my personal physician, knows all about the cloud of deaths that shadow my days and haunt my nights. He understood me when I told him that Kissme had been the tipping point.

  “Heaving grieving,” said Dr. Lance, who worked me into his busy schedule and identified my symptoms with his usual care and concern. “It’s a medical term—a level of grief that only humans experience, and then, only when suffering great traumatic loss.” He looked at me kindly. “And you have lost so much,” he added softly.

  Afternoon found me shifting back and forth on anxious feet in the Oroville Walmart pharmacy, not caring what the next person in line thought as I dried my eyes and wiped my nose on the back of my shirtsleeve, wringing the new prescription like a soiled tissue.

  Xanax. I thought I was past the need. But there I was, fidgeting, breath coming too fast, or maybe that rattle in my chest was the crumbling remnants of a broken heart. I found it impossible to live up to the dubious reputation as “the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” that Pastor Mac had so graciously bestowed.

  “Next in line, please.”

  “Hey, lady, move your butt!” A raspy voice croaked from behind.

  Jolted, I spun around to face a scruffy, obese man who had intentionally bumped me with his power chair. The grungy stranger unwittingly filled my prescription as anger surged like a shot of steroids, giving me the courage I needed in lieu of Xanax. I targeted him with a red-dot glare and a “Thanks. Jerk!” Then stalked away empty-handed.

  Three months had passed since the decision to move into a little apartment in Oakland and the return home to Yankee Hill. My heart had engaged in a daily tug-of-war, torn between the need for change and a quiet longing to return home to the house I had shared with my husband in Yankee Hill, and the cabin in Feather Falls where I grew up; both nestled in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

  I’d set out in hopes of finding the Promised Land: a new job, new relationship, complete with a new baby. Not exactly my baby, although she carries my last name, McLane. A child of many mysteries, little Quincy’s bio-mom was my former intern, Paige, and she had no shortage of men who claimed they were her Daddy. It could have been Chance, my husband at the time, or possibly Travis, Paige’s ex. Awkward for sure, but we (excluding her scum-bag grandfather) no longer want title to her, like a pink slip to a car. We only want custody so we can raise her and shower her with love.

  My friend Ashley had cautioned me when I left, “When you are standing under the blessing stream, don’t move.” But I hadn’t felt blessed. I’ve been lost at sea ever since the “blessing stream” swept me into an ocean of mourning.

  The key slid into the front door. I’d left my home in the mountains with tears in my eyes, and it seems they have waited for my return. My eyes moistened as I stepped through the door, recalling how I had said goodbye to each member of my now-deceased family before the move to Oakland. Now their spirits seemed to welcome me back from the city.

  Kissme was waiting. It was time to consign her body to the earth. I quickly changed my clothes, squared my shoulders, and set about the task at hand.

  Reflected how spring, with all of its promise, was also a season of deceit. The coldest days were not the gray days with looming storms and heavy cloud cover, but the bright blue-sky days that lure you into the promise and leave you shivering in its breath, feeling exposed and stupid because you fell for it again.

  Shovel in hand, pink bundle clutched to my breast, I trudged across the yard and through the muddy orchard to the sound of sucking and squishing of mud pulling at my rubber boots.

  I paused to tilt my head, on the ragged edge of grasping lyrics to nature’s forgotten song. Could it be? A slow, hopeful smile budded as I scanned the sky. There—a white-feathered arrow of snow geese arcing through the heavens, embracing their journey north with joyous cries as they winged their way home. Going home!

  Kissme was on her next Great Journey, and, apparently, I was on mine. I stopped beneath the shadows of the ancient oaks and scented pines and wondered briefly if my reputation as a killer would precede me to tomorrow’s job interview.

  Heaving a sigh, I plunged the shovel into the mud, each pan heavier than the last. Laying the treasure in the bottom of the hole and watering it liberally with tears, I said goodbye to my best friend. Whispered words seemed to rise on wings to the author of migrations. “If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.”

  Another day, another goodbye to one I loved. And the day was not over.

  “What do you mean, she’s dead, and you’re not coming back?”

  Travis was a blown tire careening on the road. I pulled the phone away from my ear and tried to focus on the sunset, dripping a trail of liquid fire as it eased behind the Coastal Range Mountains across the Central Valley from where I live.

  “When I woke up this morning, Kissme couldn’t stand. She wasn’t moving . . . so I took her home to her doctor.” It was hard dealing with Travis’s frustrations when I had yet to face my own.

  “She’s been sick for what . . . three days? There must be a thousand veterinarians in the Bay Area. When I stopped by your apartment, the manager said you weren’t coming back. How long have you been planning this? Help me understand. Why would you just walk out on me . . . us? It can’t be the dog. She was just a dog.”

  The drive home replayed in my mind. “We're going home, baby,” I had murmured softly and stroked her silky head. Her trusting, unwavering gaze fixed
on mine.

  Silence.

  “If she was just a dog—that would make you just a friend.” I let the teeth of my remark sink in.

  “Look, I didn’t mean—”

  “Travis, stop. Not now. This is where I belong,” I said, rising and pacing around the living room to release some tension.

  How could I make Travis understand when I didn’t fully understand myself? Like the wild geese, I had merely followed the instinct that led me back up the two-lane road to my beloved mountains, home to the Feather River Canyon that opens to the Sierras like a suggestive slit in a pretty woman’s skirt. I doubted that Travis would understand my homing instinct—in spite of his own recent retreat to his sanctuary city of Oakland.

  Travis sounded strained. “Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of walking away from my job. I’ll go in tomorrow and see about taking a couple of days off.” I let him do the talking. “Babe, we can work this out. And I am sorry about your dog.”

  Silence.

  “Kissme.”

  “What?”

  “Her name was Kissme.”

  Pause.

  “I’m sorry about Kissme. Honest. I am sorry. I love you.”

  I rubbed my eyes that were raw from fatigue and grief. “I love you too, Travis. I do. I’ll be here. Good night.”

  Could this empty house have felt any more desolate? Yes, I nodded, as I wandered around the living room, pausing to caress our wedding picture. Chance was so ruggedly handsome with his unruly wind-ruffled hair and sparkling blue eyes, his grin pushing up his then-trendy Fu Manchu.

  My fingers lovingly trailed along his strong jaw, lingering long enough to feel a kind of warmth radiating through the cold glass. I missed my husband. Just his memory made my heart beat faster, but he had gone home to the Lord, and there was a new flavor to the blood in my veins. A strain of longing that could no longer be satisfied. A pinch of anger never to be assuaged. There had been a time when nothing could have killed our passion, but all that remained now was sad and lonely.

  “Hello, honey,” I murmured. “I’m home.”

  Travis didn’t waste any time. He arrived silently, his Lexus running in stealth mode as he slid into the driveway just before dark. There were no dogs to announce his arrival. Chance’s Search and Rescue dog, Mercy, had gone to live with Sheriff Mark Anderson, one of his closest friends, and Kissme had crossed the rainbow bridge. I opened the door to a tired and anxious-looking Travis, who wiped his feet and held out a bag from the Outback Steakhouse, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

  “You brought dinner. What a nice surprise.”

  “It’s getting cold.” Travis’s green eyes snapped. He was moderately larger than me, but his presence filled the doorway reminding me of a pipe bomb, tightly packed and potentially lethal.

  Apparently, dinner wasn’t the only thing getting cold. Travis knew his way around the house and had no trouble making himself at home. We had been both coworkers and lovers at one time. That was before my reconciliation with Chance.

  Travis set the table in stony silence while I poured the wine.

  “Travis . . . ” I said, as the chairs tapped their way back from the table. I took my seat across from him and dished out for both of us. “I tried to be Quincy’s advocate I really did.”

  Travis shoved his plate aside without a look or a bite. “Four months,” he said. “When has the justice system ever done anything in four months? It takes time to build a case. You know that.” He flipped his napkin on top of the plate.

  So much for dinner, I thought, putting my fork down. “Forget the criminal case. Where’s the justice in Family Court? It didn’t take long for Perry to get custody of Quincy, did it? All it took was a pallet of his funny-money paid to the law firm of Ima Shyster and Frieda Convict and now he has her.”

  A shot of frustration twisted what began as a smile into a grimace, darkening his handsome features. Quincy had ridden the custody merry-go-round; in my care after her birth, then living with her presumed father, Travis after Chance died and she had been recovered from being abducted. Now Paige’s father had been awarded custody, and it was nothing more to him than a power play; revenge for our part in his being charged with murder, counterfeiting, and child abduction.

  We had been through it dozens of times. Paige had been steadfast in refusing paternity tests. After her death, Chance and Travis had shaken hands, both agreeing that fatherhood was about love and sacrifice, not DNA. Both swore not to have a paternity test taken, although now, it seemed ridiculous. I rolled my eyes at men and their handshakes.

  Travis leaned forward. “That’s not your fault or mine. She’s not legally ours. Perry is Quincy’s biological grandfather. Criminal charges have been filed, but until there is a conviction, he has all the power.”

  “But you and Paige were married. That should count for something, even if Quincy isn’t yours.”

  Travis sighed. “That would be true,” he said, “except our divorce was finalized before Quincy’s birth. That’s a deal breaker now that Paige is dead.” Travis’s hand stretched across the table, reaching out. “It’s not over.”

  “No. It’s not,” I agreed. Not the custody battle, not the emotional fallout from taking lives, or the final determination of our relationship.

  Travis’s attorney had called about a week ago to say that Quincy was scheduled for a “simple skin graft” where her arm and hand had been seared as we escaped from a burning cabin.

  Travis placed a reassuring hand on mine. “You worry too much. She has the best doctor that money can buy.”

  I wasn’t worried. A series of snapshots spooled through my mind as I recalled Paige’s death and the subsequent pursuit across the snow-laden Sierra Nevada’s with a newly born Quincy. I could almost feel the blistering flames as our refuge dissolved into the night.

  I used to feel guilty. Used to feel responsible. A better person would still feel that way.

  My eyes dropped to my open-toed sky-blue slipper, sans toes, peeking from the left one. Instead of guilt, I smiled as I pictured my precious baby girl with the tips of her tiny toes missing too. It was wrong to take pleasure in someone else’s pain, although no one was watching. In the secret places of my heart, Quincy and I shared an inseparable bond. Our wounds were evidence of the horror we survived. Like my dad, our injuries were our medals—proof that we had survived against all the odds and could do it again if necessary.

  A soft sigh escaped as the pictures faded. “I wish we could see her.”

  “Me too, babe. Me too,” said Travis. My hand rested beneath his for a few more heartbeats before drawing back. I was always pulling away. Only an idiot would live on the edge of a cliff.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not very hungry,” I said, pushing back from the table and taking my glass of wine into the living room. I heard a chair scoot and Travis’s footsteps as he followed. “Would you mind putting a log on the fire?” I asked as I curled up on the sofa.

  Travis shoved a chunk of oak into the beautifully carved soapstone masonry heater, frowning as soot smudged the cuff on his shirt.

  “I can wash that for you. If you try to brush it off, you’ll just make it worse.”

  “I can handle my own laundry,” came the terse reply as he eased into the leather recliner.

  “No problem.” Handling his laundry probably meant dropping it off at the dry cleaners.

  Travis’s eyes swept the room as though it were a crime scene, pausing for a couple of beats on Chance’s portrait. The two may not have been friends, but they had shared a deep respect for each other in spite of each man’s affinity for the other one’s wife. Go figure.

  “You haven’t even told me that you’re sorry about Kissme.”

  Travis sighed, looking like a tired balloon as he leaned back and unwound.

  “Yes, I did,” he said. “Just last night on the phone.”

  My face clenched, forgetting that Travis wasn’t a huge animal lover. More than companions, Kissme and Frito, the one-eyed
Chihuahua my dad claimed was “part gopher,” had been grounding rods that helped me weather the storms of life. With Chance, the dogs had been like surrogate children—until Paige’s pregnancy gave birth to the notion of fatherhood in both Chance and Travis.

  Travis got up and crossed the room, sat next to me, and drew me close. He buried his nose in my hair and whispered, “Babe, I am sorry that you lost Kissme. I know how much you loved her. She was more than a good dog . . . she was your friend. It’s just . . . everything with Quincy. It still doesn’t seem real.”

  His fingers absently toyed with my hair. “Perry was my father-in-law, my friend . . . and mentor. And if losing custody of Quincy isn’t bad enough . . . now I feel like I’m losing you.”

  I don’t know . . .

  Travis drew back and studied me in much the same way he had examined the room. Then untangled his fingers from my hair and pulled back, shaking away the moment and flashing a steely smile as he drew his sword. “Except—you can’t lose what you don’t have. Right?” he thrust.

  I took the jab to heart but maintained my defense. “Travis, it’s only been four months.”

  “Not for me. For me, it’s been a year and four months.”

  I called a truce and burrowed into his shoulder. I didn’t want to fight. He was right, of courseif you ignored the fact that we had both been married, the difference being that he and Paige had been in the process of divorce, while Chance and I were still in the throes of accusations over his affair with Paige.

  “I have a job interview.” I dropped the bomb, and Travis tightened his hold.

  “A job interview?” He mulled this over. “What about our job? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  I took a slow sip of wine and rolled it around my tongue to let it mellow before swallowing.

  “Like you said, it’s been four months, and we haven’t a prayer that anyone will testify against ATF’s godfather. Perry’s like a crime lord on paid vacation instead of a felon behind bars. Eating caviar and wearing his Rolex instead of suffering baloney sandwiches and handcuffs.”