COUNT TO TEN excerpts #2 and #3 . . .
Chapter One (continued)
Sunday, November 26, 2:20 a.m.
His heart still pounded, hard and fast. It had all gone just as he’d planned.
Well, not just as he’d planned. She’d been a surprise he hadn’t expected. Miss Caitlin Burnette. He pulled her driver’s license from the purse he’d taken. A little souvenir of the night. She wasn’t supposed to be there, she’d said. Let her go, she’d begged. She wouldn’t tell anyone, she’d promised. She was lying, of course. Women were full of lies. This he knew.
Quickly he moved the dirt away from his hiding place and lifted the lid of the plastic tub. Shiny baubles and keys struck his eye. He’d buried this the first day he’d come here and hadn’t opened it since. Hadn’t had cause to. Hadn’t had anything to put inside. Tonight he did. He tossed Caitlin’s purse on top of his other trinkets, replaced the lid and carefully arranged the dirt on top. There. It was done. He could sleep now.
He walked away licking his lips. He could still taste her. Sweet perfume, soft curves. She’d practically been dropped in his lap. Like Christmas come early. And she’d fought him. He laughed softly. She’d fought and cried and begged. She’d tried to tell him no. It just made him harder. She’d tried to scratch his face. He’d easily held her down. He shuddered, the memory still so fresh. He’d nearly forgotten how good it could feel when they said no. He was getting excited again, just thinking about it. They always thought they could fight back. They always thought they could say no.
But he was bigger. Stronger. And no one would ever tell him no again.
***
From a window above the boy watched, his heart pounding. Tell someone. But who? He’ll find out I told. He’d be so angry and the boy knew what happened when he became angry. Sick with terror the boy went back to bed, pulled the covers over his head and cried.
***
Sunday, November 26, 2:15 a.m.
It had been a nice house, Reed thought as he walked through what was now a ruined shell. He stopped and turned to the firefighter who’d manned the inside line. “Where was it burning when you got here?”
Brian Mahoney shook his head. “There were flames in the kitchen, the garage, the upstairs bedroom, and the living room. We got as far as the living room when the ceiling started to crumble and I got my guys out. Just in time, too. Kitchen ceiling caved.”
They could have multiple points of origin. Some bastard wanted to be sure this place burned. “Nobody hurt?”
“Minor burns on the probie, but he’ll be okay. Listen, Reed, I came back in to look for the girl, but there was still too much smoke. If she was here …”
“I know,” Reed said grimly. He started moving again. “I know.”
“Reed!” It was Larry Fletcher, standing in the kitchen next to the far wall.
Immediately Reed noted the stove pulled away from the wall. “You guys pull that stove out?”
“Not us,” Brian answered. “You’re thinking he used the gas to start this thing?”
“It would explain the first big explosion.”
Larry continued to stare down at his feet. “She’s here.”
Reed gritted his teeth and moved to Larry’s side. He shone his light down, dreading what he’d see. And drew a breath. “Goddammit,” he hissed.
The body was charred beyond recognition.
“Dammit,” Brian echoed, tightly furious. “Do you know who she was?”
Reed schooled his mind to be detached, not to think about the way she’d died. “Not yet. I got the number of the old owner of this place from the ladies across the street. Joe Dougherty, Senior. His son, Joe Jr., lives here now. Supposedly the girl they’d hired was the daughter of one of the wife’s officemates. A college kid.” He sighed when Larry continued to stare at the body. “You didn’t know she was here, Larry.”
“My daughter’s in college,” Larry returned, his voice rough.
And mine will be soon enough, Reed thought, then banished the thought from his mind. Thoughts like that would drive a man crazy. “I’ll get the medical examiner out here,” he said. “Along with my team. You look like shit, Larry. Both of you do. Let’s go outside so I can debrief your crew, then go back to the station and get some rest.”
Larry nodded dully. “You forgot to say ‘sir.’ ” It was an attempt at levity that fell miserably flat. “You never said ‘sir,’ not in all the years you rode with me.”
They’d been good years. Larry was one of the best captains he’d ever had. “Sir,” Reed corrected himself, gently. He pulled Larry’s arm, making his old friend move away from the charred obscenity that had once housed a young woman’s soul. “Let’s go.”
Sunday, November 26, 2:55 a.m
“I’ve got the lights set up, Reed.”
Ben Trammell was the newest member of his team and had been a firefighter for years before joining the fire marshal’s office. This was, however, Ben’s first death as an investigator and the strain was already visible in his eyes.
Reed gestured to his photographer. Foster got out, his camera in his hands and a camcorder hanging around his neck.
“Let’s go,” Reed said briskly. He led them into the kitchen. The room was destroyed. But most riveting was the victim who lay where Larry Fletcher had first discovered her.
For a long moment all three men stood motionless, forcing their minds to process what was more horrific in the light than it had been in the dark. Reed finally pushed himself into action, pulling his tape recorder from his pocket. “This is Lieutenant Reed Solliday, accompanied by Marshals Ben Trammell and Foster Richards.”
He drew a breath. “A single victim has been found in the kitchen. The skin is charred. Facial detail has been destroyed. Gender is not immediately apparent. Small stature indicates a female which is consistent with witness accounts.”
Reed crouched next to the body and pulled the sniffer from the bag he wore slung over one shoulder. Carefully he passed the instrument over the body, the sniffer’s tone instantly switching to a high pitched whine. He wasn’t surprised. He could make it a trainable moment at least. “Ben?”
“High concentrations of hydrocarbons,” Ben said tightly. “Indicates presence of accelerants. Which suggests the victim was doused in gasoline before being lit.”
“Gasoline, or something.” Reed focused, not allowing the stench to cloud his senses or the image of the dead young girl to tear at his heart. The first was nearly impossible, the second completely so. Still, he had a job to do. “The ME will be able to tell us exactly what was used on her. Good, Ben.”
Reed moved to the wall. “What the hell?”
“Narrow V,” Ben noted, steadier now. “The fire started down at the baseboard then moved up the wall fast. Like with a fuse?”
“Yeah.” Reed ran the sniffer across the wall and once again they heard its high pitched whine. “Accelerant up the wall. A chemical fuse.” Unsettled, he studied the wall. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that before.”
“He used gas from the stove,” Foster commented. “The bolt’s been removed. Had to have been deliberate.”
“I thought so,” Reed murmured. “The gas was flowing into the room, rising to the ceiling. The fire was ignited low to the floor, then traveled up this line of accelerant. But what about this?” He stepped back and took in the pock-marks that mottled the width of the wall.
“Something exploded,” Ben said.
“You’re right.” Reed ran the sniffer along the wall. Short screeching bursts emerged. “It’s like napalm, the way it sticks to the wall.”
“Look.” Ben was crouching near the door. “Plastic pieces. They’re blue.”
Reed’s eyes took in more pieces scattered across the floor and a picture formed in his mind. It was a photo in an arson investigation manual. “Plastic eggs.”
Ben blinked. “Eggs?”
“I’ve seen this before. I bet if we can get enough pieces, the lab will be able to put them together like a plastic egg, like kids hunt at Easter. The arsonist fills it with accelerant, either solid or a viscous liquid like polyurethane, runs a fuse through a hole in one end. He lights the fuse and the pressure from the blast blows the egg apart, spewing the accelerant all over. Maybe there’s a piece big enough for Latent to get a print.”
“You optimist, you,” Foster said. “You know if that girl’s a homicide, they’re going to yank this case right out from under you.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll have to share, but there’s plenty enough arson here for us to keep our hands in the pot. For now, we’re here. We’ve got the ball. So move it into field goal territory, okay?”
Foster rolled his eyes. He wasn’t a sports fan. “Fine.”
***
Sunday, November 26, 2:55 p.m
His thoughts had cleared after a good night’s sleep and now he could consider exactly what he had accomplished. And what he had not. He’d take it point by point. Keeping it in order. It was the best way.
The first point was the explosion. His mouth curved. His little firebomb worked perfectly, the design easy to implement. Elegant in its simplicity.
And very successful. He grimaced a little as he tested his sore knee. Maybe a little too successful, he thought, remembering the force of the blast. It had knocked him off his feet, throwing him to his hands and knees as he’d run down the Doughertys’ front walk. He guessed he’d cut that fuse a little too close. He’d wanted ten seconds to get out of the house and down to the street. Mentally he counted it out. It had been more like seven seconds. He needed ten. Ten was very important.
The next time, he’d cut the fuse a little longer.
Everything else had gone just as he’d planned. Well, not entirely.
Which brought him to the second point. The girl. His smile widened to a grin, wicked and … powerful. Just thinking about her made his body tighten.
When she begged, when she tried to fight, something inside him had snapped and he’d used her. Completely. Savagely. Until she lay on the floor quivering, unable to say a word. That’s the way it should be. The way they all should be. Quiet. If not voluntarily, then by force. His grin faded. But he’d used her without a condom, which was incredibly stupid. He hadn’t considered it then, he’d been too wrapped up in the moment. Once again, he’d been lucky. The fire would take care of any evidence. At least he’d had the presence of mind to douse her with gasoline before he ran. She’d be destroyed, along with anything of his own he’d left behind when he’d run.
Which left point three. His escape. He hadn’t been seen running to his own car. Lucky, lucky. Next time he couldn’t count on that kind of luck. He’d have to come up with a better means of escape. One that, even were he spotted, would do the police no good. He smiled. He knew just what to do there.
He considered his plan. It was good. But, he had to admit, it was the sex that had made the evening complete. He’d killed before. He’d taken sex before. But now, having experienced murder and sex together, he couldn’t imagine one without the other.
Of all the weapons he’d ever wielded, sex was the finest. The most basic. Of all the ways to put a woman in her place, it was the very best. Young, old … it didn’t really matter. The enjoyment, the release, was in the taking – and knowing they would never go a day without remembering that they were weak. And he was strong.
His biggest problem was that he’d let them live. It was almost what had gotten him caught before. It was almost what had earned him a punishment far greater than he’d experienced in the laughable juvenile detention system. He’d learned from that, too, as evidenced by Caitlin Burnette. If one planned to rape a woman, make sure she didn’t live to tell the tale.
But he had to be completely honest. Technically, the night had gone off much better than he’d dared hope. Realistically, he’d failed. He’d missed his target. In the light of day, the fire, even taking Caitlin paled. This couldn’t be about fire. The fire could only be the tool. This was about payment. Retribution. Old lady Dougherty had escaped her fate. She was out of town. For Thanksgiving. He’d gotten that much from the girl. But she’d come back and when she did, he’d be waiting.
Until then, he had more to do. Miss Penny Hill was next on his mental list of offenders. Penny Hill had believed Dougherty’s lies. So did I, in the beginning. In the beginning, Dougherty had promised them safety. His lips twisted. Hope. But in the end her promise of safety was mercilessly broken. She kicked them out on the street and Hill had shipped them away, like cattle. It’s for the best, Hill had said as she’d driven them away, straight into hell on earth. You’ll see. But it hadn’t been for the best.
She’d lied, just like all the others. He and Shane had been helpless, homeless. Vulnerable. Old lady Dougherty was homeless. Soon enough she’d be helpless. And then dead. Now it was Penny Hill’s turn to become helpless and homeless. And dead. It was only fair. To use her own words, it was for the best. She’d see.
© Karen Rose, 2007
Karen Rose bestselling author