“I’ve got to go,” the firefighter told her, already racing up her lawn.
She sat, actually collapsed onto the curb. She could feel the heat of the flames even from back here. She buried her face in her hands and tried to drown out the tromping of boots, the yells of the rescue crews, more sirens.
She had been worried about shadows following her in the parking garage and all the while the bastard was here. Right here at her house, setting it on fire.
She felt the hand on her shoulder at the same time a wet muzzle pressed under her chin.
“I couldn’t save the front. But I sprayed the hell out of the back.”
She looked up to see Patrick, his face smeared with soot, his white T-shirt torn and gray, his eyes watery and red. Both Harvey and Jake were with him.
Maggie stood on wobbly knees. “It’s just a house,” she said and hugged him. “The most important things I have are right here.”
CHAPTER 76
QUANTICO
Maggie and Tully sat on opposite sides of the conference table. Assistant Director Kunze sat at the head.
“There seems to be no evidence to support Samantha Ramirez’s claim that Jeffery Cole is a serial arsonist,” he told them.
Maggie couldn’t believe that no one was taking the woman seriously. She was in intensive care, barely able to speak, and yet she was insistent that Jeffery Cole had lit the fire that almost killed her. That he had admitted setting all the other fires.
“What about the fact that he used to teach high school chemistry? We now know the chemicals used were potassium permanganate and glycerin. Ms. Ramirez said she saw a jug of swimming pool cleaner in his SUV. She saw him pour something on purple crystals. Potassium permanganate is a crystal-like chemical found in swimming pool cleaners.”
“This is your evidence?”
“Okay, what about Cornell Stamoran? He recognized Jeffery Cole as the guy he saw pouring gasoline in the alley right before the warehouse fires.”
“You said yourself, Agent Tully, that the man appears to be an alcoholic schizophrenic.”
“Why not let us question him?” Tully persisted.
“Cole’s on assignment in the Middle East.”
It was useless. Maggie sat back and let out a sigh of frustration. The man had almost killed her brother, and Kunze was tying their hands. Several days ago he had pushed her and Tully to catch him an arsonist. He was in political hot water if they didn’t do so. She worried that now suddenly it wasn’t politically correct for that arsonist to be Jeffery Cole. She wanted to tell Kunze that he couldn’t pick and choose his madmen.
“How about the fact that the arsons have stopped?”
“Agent O’Dell,” he said while he avoided eye contact and shook his head. “We all know that doesn’t necessarily mean a thing.”
“We have sufficient reason to question him. Even on foreign soil,” Tully said.
Again Kunze shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. The Justice Department won’t allow it.”
So he had checked, was Maggie’s first thought. Someone was shutting him down again. And Kunze was shutting them down. He stood and picked up a pile of file folders from a credenza behind him. He dropped the foot-high stack on the table between Maggie and Tully.
“This is where I want your focus to be.”
“What is this?”
“Both of you, along with Keith Ganza, have told me that Gloria Dobson and Zach Lester were not murdered by the same person who set fire to the warehouses. Isn’t that correct?”
“There’s not a way to connect them, that’s correct,” Tully admitted. “Neither of us believes Jeffery Cole committed those murders.”
And neither one of them believed that he had followed Maggie down a manhole or sneaked around behind her house. Cornell Stamoran said a man had been following him, too. He thought he was the same man who dumped the body in his cardboard box, the man who killed Dobson and Lester.
Kunze ignored the mention of Cole and continued, “Ganza’s found three similar murders at other rest areas. Different parts of the country. One of the bodies was just found about a mile off the interstate in a roadside culvert. We think this guy has killed more—many more. You both have heard of the Highway Serial Killings Initiative?”
Maggie and Tully nodded. She remembered Ganza’s mentioning it when he talked about prostitutes and truck drivers.
“More than five hundred unsolved murders near interstate rest areas in the last ten years. And that’s only the ones we’ve entered into our initiative’s data bank. I think you two may have stumbled onto one of the murderers.”
Kunze’s phone interrupted them. He looked at the ID and answered immediately.
“This is Director Raymond Kunze.”
He was quiet and listening, his face expressionless, and Maggie found herself thinking the man would be excellent at poker. After several nods Kunze said, “I understand.” Then he ended the call.
“It appears CNN has just announced they’ll be airing an interview with Jeffery Cole.”
“About what?” Maggie asked.
“He’s confessing to eight counts of arson. He’s giving them the exclusive.”
CHAPTER 77
He pulled down the bill of his ball cap and walked against the wind. He was glad to have gloves today. Back here along the stream it felt colder. The weather was changing again and he’d be glad to get back on the road. He’d stayed too long as it was, reluctant to leave her behind.
Over the top of the privacy fence he could see parts of the two beautiful houses ravaged by fire. It was a shame the way things turned out. He found a trail in between the two properties. No one was around today. The houses looked abandoned but he knew she came back every day to recover what the fire or the water hadn’t damaged.
He actually hated leaving her. He was convinced they were kindred spirits. But he needed to get back home. This magpie was definitely an omen, but not a bad one. Now that her life had been turned upside down he figured she would need something—or someone—to keep her mind off her own troubles.
He made his way up to the front door, or what was left of it. He climbed over the yellow DO NOT ENTER tape and took a look around. There was a good spot—on what used to be a kitchen counter. He set down the torn piece of a map with a red circle in the middle. Then he anchored it with a rock from the stream back behind her house. The map would help her find the garbage bag he’d left there for her.
And when she did find it, he knew he’d see her again.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Fireproof is my twelfth novel and the tenth in the Maggie O’Dell series. Quite a milestone considering I never intended to write a series. But sometimes being a writer is as much about listening as it is about writing. You might say Maggie prevailed because you readers demanded to see more and more of her. I must confess that I needed to be pushed and prodded in the beginning. I had never read a series and hadn’t a clue how to write one. I wasn’t thrilled about being saddled with a character I hardly knew. For those of you who have stuck with Maggie and me from the very start, I am forever grateful. You’ve made an incredible difference in my life. I hope Maggie and I can continue to repay the favor.
Research is one of my favorite parts about writing novels, and although I take pride in combining facts with my fiction, I do allow for creative license. The District does, in fact, have an elaborate underground sewer and water system, though I’ve taken great liberty in giving my characters unprecedented access to these tunnels. However, much of the homeless situation depicted in the novel is drawn from factual accounts, including the District’s separate Metro bus system and the fact that many of the sleep shelters are located five-plus miles away from the city’s food kitchens.
As with each of my novels, I have a bunch of people to thank. The experts continue to amaze and astonish me with their generosity in sharing their experiences. I want to emphasize, any mistakes are solely mine.
First, a humble thank-you to the firefi
ghters in my life: Lee Dixon (Pensacola Fire Chief, retired), Terry Hummel (District of Columbia Fire Department, retired), Carl Kava (Omaha Fire Department, RIP), David Kava (Omaha Fire Department, retired), Rich Kava (Omaha Fire Department, retired), and Larry Wilbanks (NAS Whiting Field, Milton, Florida).
My publishing teams: Phyllis Grann, Alison Callahan, Stephanie Bowen, Judy Jacoby, and Kristen Gastler at Doubleday; Andrea Robinson at Anchor; David Shelley, Catherine Burke, and Jade Chandler at Little, Brown UK.
The new guy on my team, Scott Miller at Trident Media Group, and his colleague, Claire Roberts.
Dr. Liz Szeliga for answering all my questions about teeth and fire.
Annie Belatti and Sandy Powers for sharing their experiences with burn victims and all the gut-wrenching details of what fire does to a body.
Cornell Stamoran for his generous donation to Save the Libraries.
Partners in crime and fellow authors Patricia Bremmer, Erica Spindler, and J. T. Ellison.
Ray Kunze, once again, for lending his name to Maggie’s boss.
My friends and family put up with my long absences and my inappropriate trivia. They keep me sane and grounded. Special thanks to Marlene Haney and Sandy Rockwood, Patricia Kava, Sharon Car, Patricia Sierra, Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Maricela Barajas, Martin Bremmer, Cari Conine, Lisa Munk, Sharon Kator, Luann Causey, and Andrea McDaniel.
A personal thank-you to Dr. Nicole Smee and the amazing crew at Kansas State University Veterinary Hospital for taking such good care of my Miss Molly and giving me five extra and priceless months with her.
Last, but never least, to Deb Carlin. I could never do any of this without you.
Read an excerpt from
Stranded
By Alex Kava
Available from Doubleday
July 2013
CHAPTER 1
------------------------
OUTSIDE MANHATTAN, KANSAS
OFF INTERSTATE 70
MONDAY, MARCH 18
He was still alive.
That was all he needed to think about. That, and to keep on running.
Noah could smell his own sweat, pungent and sour … and urine. He still couldn’t believe he’d pissed himself.
Stop thinking. Just run. Run!
And vomit. He’d thrown up, splattering the front of his shirt. He had the taste in his mouth. His stomach threatened more but he couldn’t afford to slow down. How could he slow down with Ethan’s screams echoing inside his head?
Stop screaming. Please stop.
“I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.”
Noah’s lips were moving even as he ran. Without realizing it, he was chanting the words in rhythm with the pounding of his feet.
“Won’t tell, won’t tell. I promise.”
Pathetic. So very pathetic.
How could he just run away and leave his friend? He was such a coward. But that admission didn’t slow him down. Nor did it make him glimpse over his shoulder. Right this minute he was too scared to care how pathetic he was.
Suddenly his forehead slammed into a branch. A whop and thump.
Noah staggered but stayed on his feet. His vision blurred. His head pulsed with pain.
Don’t fall down, damn it! Keep moving. Run, just run.
His feet obeyed despite the dizzy spiral swimming inside his head threatening to throw him off balance. It was so dark, too dark to see anything other than shades of gray and black. Moonlight flickered patches of light. It only contributed to the feeling of vertigo. This time he ran with his hands and arms thrashing in front of him, trying to clear the path. He used them as battering rams, making sure he didn’t slam into another low-hanging branch.
Twigs continued to whip and slash at him. Noah felt new trickles down his face and elbows and knew it was blood. It mixed with sweat and stung his eyes. His tongue could taste it on his lips. And his stomach lurched again because he knew some of the blood was not his own.
Oh God, oh God. Ethan, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.
Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Can’t help Ethan. It’s too late. Just run.
But still, his mind replayed the events in short choppy fragments. They should never have rolled down the car window. Too much beer. Too cocky.
Too frickin’ stupid!
They’d spent the first weekend of spring break partying before they went home. They hadn’t been on the road long and Ethan had to take a piss. Now Ethan was dead. If he wasn’t dead, he’d soon be wishing he was.
Noah’s lungs burned. His legs ached. He had no clue what direction he was running. Nothing mattered except to run away as far and as fast as he could. But the woods were thick with knee-high brush. The canopy above swallowed the sky, except for those rare streaks of moonlight showing him glimpses of the rocky ground beneath his feet, jagged mounds that threatened to make him stumble.
And then he did trip.
Can’t fall, can’t fall. Please don’t let me fall.
He tried to catch himself, arms flailing like an out of control windmill. He went down hard. His knees thudded against a rock. Elbows were next. Skin scraping. Pain shot through his limbs and still his mind was screaming at him to get up. But his legs wouldn’t obey this time. And suddenly he heard a snap and rustle, soft and subtle.
No, it wasn’t possible. It was just his imagination.
Now footsteps. Someone coming behind him. The crunch of leaves. More twigs and branches snapped and crackled.
No. Not possible.
He had told Noah that if he didn’t tell, he’d let him go. Noah had promised. And so had the madman.
Footsteps. Close now. Too close to be his imagination.
Why isn’t he letting me go? He promised.
And why in the world did he ever believe a madman?
But he seemed so ordinary when he knocked on their car window.
Somehow Noah picked himself up. Wobbled and ignored the pain. Demanded his legs move. He limped at first. Then started to jog. Pushed harder. A chuff-chuff exploded from his mouth. His lungs were on fire.
Faster.
Tears streaked down his face. A high-pitched whine pierced his ears. It echoed through the trees. A wounded animal or one ready to attack? It didn’t matter. Nothing could hurt him as much as the animal chasing him.
Should never have rolled down the car window. Damn it, Ethan!
“Who’s going first?” the madman had asked with a smile that looked almost gentle and insane at the same time. So calm but with eyes of a wolf.
Oh God, and then he cut Ethan. So much blood.
“I promise I won’t tell.”
“Run. Go on now. Run.” The man had made it sound so natural, almost soothing.
“Go on now,” he’d repeated when Noah stared like a paralyzed deer caught in the headlights.
And now he realized the high-pitched scream was coming from his own throat. He could feel it more than hear it. It came from somewhere deep and vibrated along his ribs before escaping up and out his mouth.
He had to shut up. He’d hear him. Know exactly where he was.
Run. Faster.
Mud sucked at his bare feet. Shirt, jeans, shoes, and socks—all a cheap exchange for freedom. He knew his bruised and battered soles were cut open and bleeding, scraped raw by the sharp rocks. He blinked hot tears.
Don’t think about the pain. This is nothing compared to what’s happened to Ethan.
He needed to concentrate on running, not the pain. Not his skin that was slashed and bruised.
How far did these woods go?
There had to be a clearing. He had run away from the interstate, away from the rest area, but there had to be something more than trees. Maybe a farmhouse? Another road?
He didn’t hear the footfalls behind him anymore. No branches cracking or leaves crunching. His chest heaved and his heart jack-hammered. He slowed just a fraction and held his breath.
Nothing.
Just a breeze. Even the birds had quieted. Had the madman tu
rned back? Given up? Decided to honor his promise?
Maybe one was enough for him tonight?
Noah chanced a look back over his shoulder. That’s when his foot caught on a fallen log and sent him sprawling. His elbows slammed into the rock and mud. The impact rattled his teeth. White stars flashed as his skin ripped on the palms of his hands.
He tried to stand. Fell back to his knees. The foot that had caused the fall burned with pain. He looked back at it and grimaced. His ankle was twisted and his left foot was at an unnatural angle. But it wasn’t the pain that sent panic throughout his body. It was the fact that he couldn’t move it.
He stopped himself. Held his breath again as best he could. Waited. Listened.
So quiet.
No sounds of traffic. No birds. No rustle of leaves. Even the breeze had been frightened to silence.
He was alone.
Relief swept over him. The madman hadn’t followed after all. The last wave of adrenaline slipped away and he dropped back onto the ground. He sat up with his legs outstretched, too weak to even touch his swelling ankle. In the moonlight he didn’t recognize his own foot. It was already ballooning, the bruised skin split open. His breathing still came in gasps, but his heartbeat had slowed to a steady drum.
He wiped a hand over his face before he realized he was only smearing blood with more blood. He brought down his hand in front of his eyes and saw that the skin on his palm had been peeled away.
Don’t think about it. It’s a small price to pay for freedom. Don’t even look at it.
He glanced around. Maybe he could find a branch. A long one. He’d use it under his arm like a crutch. Take the weight off his battered foot. He could do this. He just needed to concentrate. Forget the pain. Focus.
Pain was better than dead, right?
A twig snapped.
Noah jerked in the direction of the sound.
Without warning the man stepped out from behind a tree and into the moonlight. Calm and steady like he had been standing there all night. No sign of being out of breath. No hint that he had traveled through the same thick and dark woods that Noah had just run through.