Dead Burn

by Jennifer Chase

  Emily went to try to open the door.

  “Stop!” Rick stressed.

  Emily halted.

  Her instincts fully kicked into overdrive as that familiar tingly sensation waved a red flag deep within her core. She turned slowly with eyes fixed on Rick.

  She stood in anxious silence.

  He gestured to the frame of the door.

  There were a couple of unusual wires attached to a tiny blinking plastic box.

  “It’s rigged to…” He gingerly followed the wires, which led to a small odd-looking device.

  Emily stood quiet, very still, grounded firmly to the hardwood floors as she watched Rick take careful steps to follow the two wires.

  He turned and looked at her, face stern, before he said. “The windows and doors are rigged to explode.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Tuesday 0430 Hours

  Detective Duncan sat at his desk at the department lost deep in thought. Most of the other detectives were already gone. It was quiet with few interruptions.

  His cell phone rang.

  It interrupted his mental process, which tried desperately to link the forensic evidence to one of the computer programmers, or at least to the copyrighters from the security website. Once on an investigation, his thoughts rarely ever wandered away from the case.

  He fumbled for the cell from his inside jacket pocket, still feeling weak from not eating anything all day.

  “Duncan.” He listened with a growing glimmer of hope that he might get a lucky break. “Thanks.” Hanging up the phone, he slipped the device back into his pocket.

  He jotted down on his small notepad: 139 Whitewater Road

  Food would have to wait a little longer.

  A strange 9-1-1 text message came in from an unidentified source about a possible break in, located at Assistant District Attorney Richard’s house. Duncan had already checked out the house, but kept the local PD on speed dial. If there was anything unusual, they were to notify him immediately.

  The detective stood up from his desk and a slight dizziness washed over him. He steadied himself until his vision cleared. Making a mental note, he would grab a sandwich on the drive up to the attorney’s house.

  This serial arson case wore an unrelenting groove on him. Something had to break soon.

  As he drove north, he called in to the local dispatch to find out if patrol had reached the house yet and if there was anything to report. As usual, there had been a violent disturbance that took precedence, and patrol was more than forty minutes away.

  Weaving through traffic at a cruising speed of eighty-five miles per hour, the detective blared the sirens when he deemed necessary. He easily sped through any congestion of traffic.

  Most cars scattered, braked, moved to the slow lanes, but the looks upon the faces of the motorists were comical, startled, and often uncertain. A cop car speeding with sirens flashing provoked all types of emotions with the general public.

  The dull unrelenting headache ensued. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips and felt a slight perspiration that had covered his face and scalp.

  He chomped on a turkey and Jack cheese sandwich, loaded with mustard, mayonnaise, and pickles on dark rye bread. With some relief, the blood sugar level in his body balanced out, but his sweaty outbreak persisted.

  He blared the sirens again in quick bursts as he drove past a cluster of SUVs trying to jockey for the lead.

  The detective had made great time as he took the cutoff to the northern bluff areas. It was where the rich and entitled people had their second or even third homes. The road became windy after a few minutes, which caused Duncan to hit the brakes frequently. He stabbed the gas pedal at every opportunity, sliding a bit into the vacant oncoming lane.

  The left and right sharp corners of the road made him nauseous, especially around the exceptionally tight curves. He thought for a moment that he would have to pull over and throw up, but he fought the urge and figured the upset stomach would pass. Suddenly his sandwich didn’t sit well.

  Glancing at his GPS, he knew that there were several cross back roads before he hit Whitewater Road. The detective pushed the speed harder as the Ford hugged the corners to the best of the automobile’s engineering. He never saw any traffic in front of him as the countryside turned more rural, allowing for more decadent homes all competing for the picture-perfect ocean view.

  The sedan cranked a tight left corner on Cobblestone Avenue; he continued to speed along the deserted road as the engine roared into high gear.

  His chest felt heavy and strange as his arms buzzed with a peculiar energy.

  The unmarked police car took the next right too fast and all tires squealed in unison. The detective hit the gas pedal with continued force.

  From his peripheral, two local patrol cars approached from an adjacent street. He knew that they had been dispatched to the estate. His mind spun with many questions about the curious call.

  Pain shocked him from his left shoulder, down his arm, and crushed his chest with a horrendous force. He gasped for air as his vision blurred to a narrow tunnel focus. The tremendous agony overrode everything in his body as he made one last effort to gulp fresh air.

  He passed out.

  Never releasing his foot from the accelerator, Duncan plowed into a power pole with a deafening crash.

  The cop car came to an abrupt stop. The lines broke in half, bucked, crackled, and forced a spattering display on the road and into the heavy brush.

  The roadside quickly ignited in a fire.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Tuesday 0445 Hours

  Emily’s whole body went numb. The strange feeling travelled out her fingers and down her arms. She stood absolutely still, staring at the wires fixed around the windows and doors. Her mind came to an abrupt stop. She could not respond immediately to what Rick had said to her.

  “Em?” He asked with urgency in his voice.

  She did not respond right away. They had ventured into a killer’s snare. It was her worst nightmare, caught in an unknown territory without any means of escape.

  She finally spoke. “What do we do now?”

  Rick replied calmly. “We need to find another way out.” She could see the deep concern in his eyes.

  She bent down and retrieved her Beretta. It felt good in her hand to have something that she could defend herself with in an emergency.

  “No…” Rick motioned to her to put the gun away. “If you have to shoot, it could set off one of these trip wires.”

  Emily holstered her weapon with displeasure, but she knew he was right. Before she moved from her position, she looked at everything in the living room, at every piece of furniture, from top to bottom, and around the edges of the rugs to make sure that there weren’t more traps.

  “C’mon, we can find a way out of here.” Rick interrupted the silence with optimism. He gently touched her arm.

  “Okay…” Emily hated the unfamiliar surroundings, not just being inside someone else’s house, but also not knowing what could happen.

  Rick took immediate control, strong, capable, and with a determined diligence. He searched the room systematically.

  Emily watched him methodically investigate areas around the walls, floor, and furniture. Her eye caught sight of something shiny. She saw a small pair of silver sewing scissors sticking out from underneath a couch cushion. Stepping carefully toward the couch, she pulled them out and slipped it into her pocket.

  “It’s clear in this room.” Rick stated. “I’m so glad that my buddy Randy from bomb squad taught me a lot about bombs and tripwires when I was on patrol.” His voice had a tone of relief.

  “Do you think that anyone is here?” Emily looked to the next room and down the hallway.

  “We heard voices, but my guess is that it was a recording of some kind.” His face turned suspicious.

  “Someone is here.” Emily stated with confidence. That tingly feeling surfaced again throughout her body. It reminded her that the Jac
k-in-the-Box would pop up at any moment.

  The couple slowly walked down the hallway, pausing only to take a brief stance if someone were to burst through a door. The training they both had received as cops instinctively kicked into high gear on their approach.

  A small winding staircase, which led to the bedrooms below was at the end of the long hallway. They headed in that direction.

  Emily felt a chill, gooseflesh prickled on the back of her forearms and neck as she inched forward. The familiar paint smell permeated the air once again, this time it was the freshly painted white walls along the hallway. The paint was recent; there were no pieces of art hanging on the walls yet.

  Four small black boxes about two inches square placed in each corner of the long corridor made Emily remember the hardware store.

  “Wait.” Emily stopped. She spoke softly. “A painting or maintenance crew has been here recently. So when were the wires installed?”

  Rick didn’t immediately answer.

  Emily could tell that he thought the same thing. The trip wires were newly installed and maybe the perp was still inside.

  “If this is recent…” She began.

  “The She-Warrior has found me.” A voice stated.

  The clear, unknown voice interrupted Emily and Rick’s search. They stopped, stood motionless for a moment, and looked for the person that belonged to the unnerving tone.

  The man’s voice came from above.

  “What is your name?” The voice asked. There was a juvenile quality to the timbre.

  “Who are you?” Emily probed.

  “You don’t have the right to ask anything of me.” The voice had an almost computerized sound to it, but she knew that it came from the killer’s own undistorted voice.

  “I like to know who I’m talking with before I introduce myself.” It sounded lame in Emily’s mind, but she wanted to communicate calmly and conversationally.

  Silence.

  Rick gave her a subtle nod to let her know that she was doing the right thing.

  “May I know your name?” She asked as she put her hands on her hips trying not to show how helpless she felt. As she rested her fingers near her pockets, she pressed the tips of her nails into her hips to steady them.

  “I’ve had many names, good and bad, mostly bad.”

  The answer perplexed Emily.

  “Well, what do you like to be called?” She tried to smile and relax because she knew that the man watched them. It reminded her of some of the nightmares she had in the past, where the killer was always just out of reach. She couldn’t see them, but they still continually pursued her.

  Emily and Rick waited for an answer.

  * * * * *

  The emergency vehicles parked a safe distance from the accident scene. It resembled the aftermath of a hurricane and fire all rolled into one horrifying incident. Additional police officers evacuated close neighbors as the firefighters blasted the trees and shrubs with gallons of water.

  One of the patrol cars had already radioed into the power plant to shut off the electricity within the necessary grid area, so that they could clear the accident and render first aid to the man inside.

  Radios blared from both the fire and police dispatchers.

  More emergency personnel arrived at the scene.

  Chatter among professionals was that a police detective was still trapped inside the car.

  No car or any type of vehicle could get through to the other streets, even in a dire emergency.

  * * * * *

  Emily couldn’t just wait for an answer, she had to do something. Wrestling with every possible scenario that her mind could conjure, she took a carefully placed step forward.

  “Stop!” The voice ordered.

  For some reason, it reminded Emily of a kid’s game, Red Light Green Light, as she stood still, but wanting to continue in order to win the game.

  “Okay, but can we meet in person?” She didn’t know what else to say.

  In Emily’s peripheral, she saw Rick trying to deduce everything in the hallway for some type of escape route, or possibly, where the killer might be hiding.

  “You are a warrior…” He stated.

  The question struck Emily deeply. The word warrior made her feel that her mission in life had made a difference. To hear this description from a killer disturbed her.

  She decided to try to reach him in some way – in any way. “You are a warrior too. What’s your mission?”

  Silence.

  She continued, “It’s a tough job to do it alone, and people can’t understand why you do it.”

  Emily felt her heart beat faster as she turned to observe Rick. She knew that he wanted to kick down all the doors to get to the killer. His hard stare, strained lips, and unsettling shift of his body weight gave it away.

  “I know people say this a lot, but I know how you feel. I’ve been there and I’ve chosen to hunt bad people …” She let her sentiment sink into the mind of the killer.

  The couple waited.

  “People spread sin… it’s like a cancer… it eats and eats…it’s never satisfied.” The arsonist replied. His voice slowed in speech, almost in a juvenile-like stutter.

  “Yes, yes they do. I’ve seen it firsthand.” Emily took a breath and said. “Please, can we meet you in person?”

  “He’s not one of us.” The robotic tempo of the killer’s voice returned.

  Emily gestured to Rick. “Yes he is. I couldn’t do what I do without him. He understands more than you think.” A deep pang hit the pit of her stomach as she thought about all the cases that Rick was there for support.

  “Go down the stairs. Enter the room on your right.” There was an ominous quality to the simple instructions.

  The couple took a step in the direction of the stairs.

  “Stop!” The man ordered. “Just you…”

  Rick began to object, but Emily stopped him. She gently laid her hand on his arm. She gave him the knowing look and glanced down where her ankle holster rested. His eyes darkened and a stubborn tenseness filled his character. He understood.

  Emily took another moment to study Rick. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry for getting angry about Leo Brown. She knew that he would never do anything to hurt or deceive her. A small smile washed across her face as she turned to head down the staircase. She tried to ignore the tension in Rick’s arms and fists; she knew he wanted to switch places with her.

  She descended the staircase. Each step felt strangely spongy beneath her feet. Emily concentrated on her steps in order to not stumble or take a header down the stairs. The staircase narrowed and twisted, leading downward to another living area of the house. The architect was mindful to squeeze every inch of the fantastic view into the design at all levels.

  Waves crashed outside, from down below and against the jagged rocks. The late afternoon sun struggled to shine in between the fast approaching storm clouds.

  For the first time since they had entered the house, she heard a low rumble of thunder.

  Reaching the bottom, Emily scanned the room that seemed to be a study or family room. The old uneven hardwood floors gave away the age of the original portion of the home. A few rugs adorned the center of the room revealing the different shades of wood.

  One door was open and revealed a small bathroom with white and yellow towels, while another door remained closed. She searched the usual spots to make sure that there weren’t any wires or booby traps before moving forward.

  Looking back at the living area, she calculated in her mind that they could escape through one of the small windows.

  Emily stood at the door. She rested her hand on the silver doorknob. Her mind flashed back to the remains of the crime scenes and the aftermath of the fires.

  Would she be next?

  Tensing her right arm, she pressed her hand on the knob and opened the door.

  * * * * *

  With the official okay from the police that there was not the threat of live electricity, p
aramedics and additional firefighters rushed to the Crown Victoria and attempted to open the passenger door.

  All four doors were smashed in like a crumpled piece of foil. The roof and windshield had pushed back into the vehicle with an inside out twisted metal display.

  One of the firefighters smashed the side windows. It took about sixty seconds of maneuvering and teamwork, but the crew pulled out the limp body of the detective. They swiftly laid him on the ground and paramedics began CPR procedures. Three professionals hovered over the heavy man as they pumped air into his lungs and compressed his chest in proper sequence.

  After a daunting fifteen minutes, one of the men shook his head. They officially called the time of death with sorrowful expressions of losing one of their own.

  Detective Bobby Duncan was pronounced dead at the scene.

  * * * * *

  As Emily pushed open the door, she saw that it was the master bedroom decorated in the typical beach style of all whites and light blues.

  The room sat unoccupied.

  The bed was made and the comforter carefully smoothed out with perfect edges. The room wasn’t as large as she thought it should be for the master bedroom.

  The eerie quietness spooked her. She was about to turn and leave when one of the full-length mirrors shifted. She immediately stood in a defensive stance expecting the worst.

  Sliding just wide enough for a person to fit through, a thin young man appeared, dressed in dark clothing with a sweatshirt hood pulled up over his head. He stood at the opening in partial darkness and looked no more than sixteen years old by his stature and choice of clothing.

  Emily changed her stance, remained silent, and caught her breath because the appearance of the young man surprised her. She contemplated her case profile, and mentally assessed him as he stood barely six feet from her – many aspects of the crime scenes and various clues now made even less sense to her.

  He moved slowly into the bedroom from the safety of the cleverly disguised panic room. The dwindling light cast a partial shadow across the side of his face, the other cheek covered by his sweatshirt. It was clear that he was in his mid to late twenties.