Fatal Burn by Lisa Jackson
Only then did she realize what was wrong. The smoke still lingered in her nose and throat because it was more than just a conjured image in her dream. It was real.
Her heart nearly stopped. She raced across the floor as Khan, body stiff, hackles on end, began to bark wildly.
Oh, God, what was it?
Fear crawled up her spine. She peered anxiously through the screen and saw nothing but the night. A sliver of moon was rising over the surrounding hills and beginning to lighten the five acres abutting her property, an expanse of arid, weed-infested fields that was about to be turned into a subdivision. A sudden gust of dry wind, bearing hard from the east, stole through the valley, shook the branches of the trees near the house and rustled the already dead and dying leaves.
Nothing seemed amiss.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Except for the smell.
Her fear deepened.
Khan growled again, his head low, eyes peering through the open window. Suddenly aware that her naked body was silhouetted against the lamp glow, she clicked off the light, then scrounged blindly in the drawer of the nightstand for her glasses. All the while her gaze moved over the shadowy, moon-dappled ground. She saw nothing…or was that a glow in the south pasture? Oh, Jesus. Her throat closed. She found her glasses, knocking over the bedside lamp as she yanked them from their case. In a second she had them perched over the bridge of her nose and was squinting into the darkness.
The glow was gone…there was no eerie light, no crackling flames…but the thin smell of smoke lingered. She could taste it on her tongue.
Could it be from inside the house?
Then why was the dog looking out the window?
She reached for the phone, intent upon calling Nate Santana, who lived above the garage, then remembered he was gone for the week, the first vacation he’d taken in years. “Damn.” She clenched her teeth. There was no one else she felt she could call about a possible emergency at midnight. Not even her brothers, who still, after three years, thought she was slightly off-kilter.
Every muscle tense, she hurried across the hardwood floor to the dormer that poked over the roof on the other side of the room. She cautiously peered through the window that gave a view over the front of the house, across the gravel lot to the barns, kennels and sheds. Squinting through the wash of eerie light from the security lamps, she saw nothing disturbed, nothing that warranted the dog being nervous.
Maybe Khan heard an owl or a bat.
Or sensed a deer or raccoon wandering across the back fields.
And you, you’re just edgy, reacting to the bad dream and weird phone call…
But it didn’t explain the slight hint of smoke still lingering in the air. “Come on,” she said to the dog. “Let’s investigate.” She headed down the steps without snapping on any lights and Khan flew past her, nearly knocking her over, his claws clicking noisily on the stairs as he led the way to the front door. Once in the small foyer he stood, nose to the door, muscles taut.
By now she wasn’t buying his act.
She stood on her tiptoes and peered through the small windows cut into the oak panels of the door. Outside the night was still, the wind having died quickly. Her truck was parked where she’d left it in front of the garage, the doors to the sheds and barns were closed, the parking lot empty. The windows in Nate’s apartment over the garage were dark.
See? Nothing more than your imagination working overtime again.
She tried to relax, but the knot of tension between her shoulder blades didn’t loosen. Her headache raged on—unfazed by the pain relievers she’d downed.
Shannon walked into the kitchen and looked through the larger window with its view of the parking lot and small paddocks, which she used as training grounds for the search and rescue dogs she worked with. The dogs in the kennels weren’t barking, no sound issuing from the barn where the horses Nate trained were stabled. No one was lurking in the shadows.
Khan, unmoving, whined near the door. “False alarm,” she told him and silently chided herself for being such a coward.
When had that happened? When had her sense of adventure dissolved? She, who had grown up with all those older brothers, who had never shown any fear and insisted upon doing everything they did, who had never been frightened of anything. When had she turned into a scaredy-cat?
Shannon had grown up around these parts. She’d been a tomboy. As a child, she’d been nearly fearless. She’d learned to ride a two-wheeler bicycle before her fourth birthday, and by the time she was eighteen, she’d driven her oldest brother’s Harley—south down Highway 101—along the entire length of the rugged California coastline. She’d ridden horses bareback as a child, even entered barrel-racing competitions at a local rodeo. At fifteen, behind her parents’ back she and two friends had hitchhiked to an outdoor concert at Red Rocks Amphitheatre outside of Denver. Later, she’d survived an accident where she’d been at the wheel of Robert’s new Mustang convertible. The car ended up in a deep ditch, nose and engine first, and had been totaled; she’d managed to get out of it with a broken collarbone, a sprained wrist, two black eyes and a battered ego. She suspected that to this day, Robert had never forgiven her.
It was no wonder that when she’d fallen in love, she’d fallen fast, hard, and hadn’t believed for a second that anything but wonderful things would come of it.
“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath when she thought of Brendan Giles, her first love. How foolish and head over heels she’d been, crushed when it had ended…
To dispel her dark thoughts, she opened the refrigerator and rummaged behind a six-pack of Diet Pepsi to find a chilled bottle of water. Snagging the water, she closed the refrigerator, once again plunging the kitchen into darkness. Resting her hips against the counter, she pressed the cold plastic bottle against her forehead as sweat continued to run down her back.
Air-conditioning. That’s what she needed. Air-conditioning and a way to keep idiots from calling her in the middle of the night.
Khan finally gave up his vigil, trotting by her and scratching at the back door. His hackles were no longer raised and he glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes pleading, as if he couldn’t wait to go out and lift his leg on the first available shrub.
“Sure, why not?” she muttered. “Knock yourself out.” Still holding the bottle to her head, she unlatched the back door. “Just don’t make a habit of this. It is the middle of the night.” Khan rocketed outside and she followed, hoping for some relief from the heat. Maybe a breeze would kick up.
No such luck.
The night was hot and still.
Breathless.
Shannon took one step onto the porch when her gaze caught something out of place, a piece of white paper tacked to one of the posts supporting the overhang from the roof. Goose bumps chased a quick path up her spine even though the paper might be nothing. Someone leaving a note.
At night? Why not just call…?
Her blood chilled. Maybe whoever had left the piece of paper had phoned.
She stepped backwards and leaned inside the kitchen, slapping at the wall until she hit the light switch and the porch was suddenly awash with incandescence from the two overhead lightbulbs.
She froze.
Her gaze riveted to the paper.
“Oh, God.”
Shannon’s insides turned to water as she stared at the scrap of white. It had been singed, the edges curling and black. And someone had tacked it to the post with a green pushpin.
Heart thundering in her ears, Shannon stepped closer. The charred paper was a form of some kind, she realized. Adjusting her glasses she read the smudged, partially burned words that were still visible in the middle of the document.
Mother’s name: Shannon Leah Flan—
Father’s name: Brendan Giles
She gasped.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
Date of Birth: September twenty-thr—
Time of Birth: 12:07 A.M.
“No!” she cried, dropping the water bottle and hearing it roll off the porch as if from a distance. September twenty-three! Her mind raced. Tomorrow. No, that was wrong. It was already after midnight, so today was the twenty-third of September and the call…Oh, God, the phone call had come in at precisely 12:07. Knees buckling, she leaned against the porch rail, her gaze scouring the darkness, searching for whoever had done this to her, whoever had wanted to bring back all the pain. “You son of a bitch,” she bit out through clenched teeth. Despite the hot night she was chilled to the core.
Thirteen years ago, on September twenty-third, at exactly seven minutes after twelve midnight, Shannon had given birth to a seven-pound baby girl.
She hadn’t seen the child since.
Chapter 2
He stood before the fire, feeling its heat, listening to the crackle of flames as they devoured the tinder-dry kindling. With all the shades drawn, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the crisp white cotton falling off his shoulders as moss ignited, hissing. Sparking.
Above the mantel was a mirror and he watched himself undress, looked at his perfectly honed body, muscles moving easily, flexing, and sliding beneath the taut skin of an athlete.
He glanced at his eyes. Blue. Icy. Described by one woman as “bedroom eyes,” by another as “cold eyes,” by yet another unsuspecting woman as “eyes that had seen too much.”
They’d all been right, he thought, and flashed a smile. A “killer smile,” he’d heard.
Bingo.
The women had no idea how close to the truth they’d all been.
He was handsome and he knew it. Not good-looking enough to turn heads on the street, but so interesting that women, once they noticed him, had trouble looking away.
There had been a time when he’d picked and chosen and rarely been denied.
He unbuckled his leather belt, let it fall to the hardwood floor. His slacks slid easily off his butt down his legs and pooled at his feet. He hadn’t bothered with boxers or jockeys. Who cared? It was all about outward appearances.
Always.
His smile fell away as he walked closer to the mantel, feeling the heat already radiating from the old bricks. Pictures in frames stood at attention upon the smooth wood. Images he’d caught when his subject didn’t realize he or she was on camera. People who knew him. Or of him. People who had to pay. The kid, the old lady, the brothers. All caught on film without their knowledge.
Fools!
Behind the pictures was his hunting knife. Bone-handled with a thin steel blade that could cut easily, slice through any living thing. Fur, skin, hide, muscle, bone, sinew—all cleaved easily with the right amount of exertion.
The knife was his second choice for a weapon.
His first was gasoline and a match…but sometimes that just wasn’t enough.
He tested the blade against his palm and sure enough, though he barely touched his skin, a thin trail of blood emerged, drops of red that formed the shallowest of slits that ran parallel to his lifeline.
He saw an irony in that and ignored the other tiny scars on his palm, evidence of his fascination with the blade. He watched the red trail widen and ooze and when there was enough blood to form a thick drop, he held his palm over the fire. Feeling its heat, nearly burning his skin, he stared as the red droplet plunged downward to sizzle and burn as it met the eager flames.
“Tonight it starts,” he vowed, having completed the first phase of his plan, the hint warning her that he was afoot. Within the hour he’d start the next phase by traveling steadily north. And by evening the next step would be accomplished. He’d start with the old woman—what did she call herself? Blanche Johnson? Yeah, right. He snorted at her ridiculous attempt at anonymity. He knew who she really was, disguised as that silly old piano teacher in her knit scarves. And she would pay, just as Shannon Flannery would. Just as the rest of them would.
He fingered the knife. He’d start with Blanche; and then, once he’d lured the girl away, it would be Shannon’s turn. Shannon and the others. He let his gaze wander over the pictures until they came to the slightly larger, framed shot of Shannon. Jaw tight, he stared at her gorgeous face.
Innocent and sexy, sweet yet seductive.
And guilty as hell.
He traced a finger along her hairline, his guts churning as he noticed her green eyes, slightly freckled nose, thick waves of unruly auburn curls. Her skin was pale, her eyes lively, her smile tenuous, as if she’d sensed him hiding in the shadowy trees, his lens poised at her heart-shaped face.
The dog, some kind of scraggly mutt, had appeared from the other side of the woods, lifted his nose in the air as he’d reached her, trembled, growled, and nearly given him away. Shannon had given the cur a short command and peered into the woods.
By that time he’d been slipping away. Silently moving through the dark trees and brush, putting distance between them, heading upwind. He’d gotten his snapshots. He’d needed nothing more.
Then.
Because the timing hadn’t been right.
But now…
The fire glowed bright, seemed to pulse with life as it grew, giving the bare room a warm, rosy glow. He stared again at his image. So perfect in the mirror.
He turned, facing away from the reflection.
Looking over his shoulder, he gritted those perfect white teeth, gnashing them together as he saw the mirror’s cruel image of his back, the skin scarred and shiny, looking as if it had melted from his body.
He remembered the fire.
The agony of his flesh being burned from his bones.
He’d never forget.
Not for as long as he drew a breath on this godforsaken planet.
And those who had done this to him would pay.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the picture of Shannon again. Beautiful and wary, as if she knew her life was about to change forever.
But first, he needed bait.
To get the woman to do his bidding.
He smiled to himself. How fortunate the daughter was living in Falls Crossing, a small town in Oregon on the banks of the Columbia River. He knew it well. Had visited. Had waited. Had watched.
It was fate that the girl and the old woman calling herself Blanche knew each other, that they were in the same place, that he could kill two birds with one stone…or maybe with two matches.
The flames in the grate crackled and spit.
How foolish they all were.
The girl.
The old lady.
And Shannon.
All feeling secure with their lives, their secrets, their lies.
Didn’t they know that no one was safe? Not ever?
If they were foolish enough to believe otherwise, then they were all in for a very big, very ugly surprise.
He sheathed his knife and felt anticipation thrum through his veins. He’d waited long for this. Suffered. But now it was his turn. Tonight he’d set the wheels in motion.
But it was just the beginning.
He had a few little details to take care of and then he’d be on his way.
Look out, he thought, smiling evilly, glancing down at the knife blade to see the reflection of the fire in the long, thin blade. I’m coming, Shannon, oh, yes, I’m coming. And this time I’ll have more than a camera and an old birth certificate with me.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Aaron demanded, jabbing a finger at the burned scrap of paper lying on Shannon’s kitchen table. It, along with the pushpin, was protected in a plastic Baggie on the scarred oak surface, lying next to the newspaper and matching ceramic salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Dalmatian dogs.
It was sweltering in the kitchen even with the oscillating fan droning loudly as it shuffled the hot air from one side of the room to the other. Khan was lying near the back door, positioned on a small rag rug, watching Shannon closely, as if he expected her to miraculously come up with some kind of table scrap.
Shannon snapped the dishwasher closed and pushed
“For three damned days.”
“Yeah. That’s right. For three days.”
The other night, after finding the note and once she’d gotten her wits about her, she’d donned a pair of latex gloves that she used when she cleaned the dog kennels, removed the partial birth certificate from the post and dropped it, along with the pushpin into a Ziploc bag.
“Why didn’t you call me when it happened?”
“Look, Aaron, I didn’t know what to do, okay?” she admitted, wiping her hands on a worn kitchen towel. “It…it was a shock.”
“I’ll bet.” Aaron shoved a hand through his thick hair, paced to the refrigerator, opened the door and yanked out a beer. Seeing that the can was marked Lite he scowled, then popped the top anyway and pushed himself up onto the counter, where his long khaki-clad legs swung in front of the loudly thrumming dishwasher. Droplets of sweat were visible on his forehead and temples.
Shannon’s oldest brother was the spitting image of their father. Same square jaw. Same intense, don’t-bullshit-me blue eyes. Same straight nose—his nostrils flaring over his trimmed moustache when he was irritated. Exactly the same red-hot rage that could flash at any given moment. Aaron’s quick temper had gotten him kicked out of the army, out of the fire department and into anger-management therapy with a local psychologist, whom he’d stopped seeing over a year ago.
Currently he was flying solo, as he called it, running his own private detective agency, which was a one-man operation tied into a secretarial service.
Now, his gaze never leaving his sister, he took a long swallow from the can, then asked, “So does anyone else know about this?”
“Just whoever left it.”
“And you think he called.”
“He or she. Yeah. It was all intentional. Someone wanted to freak me out and they did—man, did they ever. So that’s why I called you—”
“Eventually.”
“Look, I could have called Shea, but I didn’t want the police involved, at least not yet, not until I know what’s going on. And I could have called Robert, but I didn’t think this was something the fire department would be interested in. Nothing was burned or damaged.”