Fatal Burn

  One ring.

  Two.

  “Carter,” the sheriff answered.

  “It’s Travis. Just wondering if there’s anything new.” God, he hated the sound of desperation in his voice.

  “Nothing yet,” Carter said, then cleared his throat.

  “No ransom call?”

  “Nope.”

  “No new evidence, no leads?” he persisted, wishing for just a glimmer of hope.

  There was a bit of hesitation before Carter said, “Not really, but we’re checking on something.”

  “What’s that?” Travis asked, his heart knocking in dread. Oh, God, please don’t let it be that they’d found the body of a girl, that even now the lab was trying to ID her. He squeezed his eyes shut and held the receiver in a death grip.

  “Earl Miller, who works over at Janssen’s Hardware store, thought he saw a white van with out-of-state plates on the day that Dani went missing. He can’t remember anything else about the van, just that the license plate was from Arizona and that he thought, but wasn’t sure, that the van was a Ford. He didn’t catch a glimpse of the driver, but another person, Madge Rickert, was walking her dog and saw a similar vehicle parked on a side street not far from the school earlier that same day, around eight-thirty. She remembers because she was trying to keep her Chihuahua from lifting his leg on the back tire.”

  “That’s about the time Dani got to school.”

  “He could have been looking for her.”

  “Jesus.” Travis’s lungs were so tight he could barely breathe. Even though he’d thought he’d prepared himself for the evidence that she’d been abducted, the news brought with it a soul-jarring, desperate fear.

  “Look, Travis, we don’t know anything yet. This might not lead to finding her, but right now, it’s all we’ve got. We’re checking with Blanche Johnson’s neighbors again, asking if anyone saw an unknown van with out-of-state plates.”

  Travis nodded. Neither of them believed it was coincidence that Dani had disappeared the day Blanche Johnson was murdered. “Keep me posted.”

  “I will and in the meantime, you’d better think about keeping your nose clean,” Carter advised. “I’ve been getting calls about you from the Santa Lucia PD.”

  Travis flicked a glance toward the window where the blinds were snapped tightly shut. He didn’t have to check. He knew the cop car was still parked near the curb on the other side of the street. “I figured.”

  “I had to tell them what’s going on up here and why I think you’re in their town. Sounds like you got yourself into some trouble.”

  “Some,” Travis allowed. “What did they say?”

  “A lot. About the fire. About the fact that you were found at the scene of an attack against the woman who’s the natural mother of your child.” Travis steeled himself. The news was only going to get worse; he was certain of it. “Look, I assured them you were a stand-up guy hell-bent to find his daughter, that you wouldn’t resort to any kind of violence.” He paused. “I didn’t lie, did I?”

  Travis picked up the remote, turned the television off. “I didn’t start the fire, if that’s what you mean, and I sure as hell didn’t beat the living tar out of Shannon Flannery. But someone did. And yeah, I was there.”

  “With a surveillance kit that included a hunting knife, night vision goggles and a loaded .45.”

  “I have a license to carry.”

  “I know, but the police are interested. More than interested. And there you were at the scene of the crime with your truck parked over a mile away. When they looked inside the pickup, with a warrant, by the way, they found a lot of stuff that didn’t look good including a file on Shannon Flannery complete with pictures, notes and articles from newspapers about her. It seems to them that you might have an obsession with the lady, that you had all the makings of a stalker.”

  Travis closed his eyes. He knew this, of course, but hated his nose being rubbed in it.

  “You know why.”

  “But they don’t.”

  “I told them.”

  “It’s their job to be suspicious.”

  Travis nodded to himself. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror mounted over a small, battered dresser. He appeared haggard. Tired and unshaven. His hair stuck up at odd ends from where he’d continually run his hands through it in frustration, and the lines around his mouth and eyes were deeper than usual. Sweat was beading around his hairline and he looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in days.

  He said, “I thought it would be best if I didn’t go up and beat on her door and make all sorts of accusations before I saw for myself if Dani was around. Thought I’d scope out the place first. Get my bearings.”

  “And Dani wasn’t there.”

  “Nope.” Travis rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. Conjured up his daughter’s face. Where the hell was she? Where? What sick pervert had her? What was he doing with her? Images of a dirty white van, a torture chamber on wheels, slid through his brain. Oh, God, was she tied up, was the guy hurting her? Torturing her? Forcing her into having sex with him?

  His insides shredded and he thought he might throw up. A white-hot fury stormed through his blood. If he ever caught one glimpse of the creep who kidnapped his daughter, Travis would kill him. No questions asked.

  “So you don’t think Shannon Flannery has anything to do with her kidnapping?”

  “No.” Travis’s voice was raw. “Not anymore.”

  “Then you’d better explain all that to the authorities and get your butt out of there. If they’ll let you.”

  He closed his eyes again, listened to the air conditioner rattle and wheeze. “Meaning?”

  “You’re a suspect, Travis. In the fire. In the assault. That’s the bottom line.”

  “For the record, I think this is a bad idea.” Shea was behind the wheel of his truck, driving out of the hospital parking lot.

  “You and the rest of the world.” From her position huddled against the passenger door of his truck, Shannon shot him a glare. “I got the message already, okay? You’re not backing out of your end of the deal.”

  “Fine.”

  She was strapped into her seat belt and tried to pretend that every lurch of the vehicle didn’t send a stab of pain ripping across her shoulder and rib cage. Clutched in her hand was a plastic bag with a bottle of Vicodin from the hospital pharmacy and two pages of instructions from a disgruntled Dr. Zollner. But Shannon didn’t want to take any of the pills until she’d had a talk with Travis Settler. She still had narcotic medications running through her bloodstream so she wasn’t as sharp as she’d like to be, and she didn’t want to add to the fog in her brain.

  “Do I look that bad?” she asked.

  He crooked an eyebrow. “Worse.”

  “I think you’re supposed to be more supportive.”

  “And I think you’re supposed to go home and rest.”

  She glanced in the mirror. She was beyond a wreck. Shea hadn’t been kidding. And though she didn’t want to waste a second, she needed to avoid looking like the maniac she saw in the reflection. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll pull myself together. Then I want to see this guy face-to-face.”

  “You got it.” Shea punched in the lighter and found his pack of Marlboros on the dash, shook out a cigarette with one hand, drove with the other. “Okay, Shannon, this probably isn’t the best time to bring this up, but I want to know why you didn’t come to me about the burned birth certificate and crank call you received last week.”

  “I told Detectives Janowitz and Rossi.”

  “Today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When you had no choice, but you didn’t bother calling me earlier.”

  “It wouldn’t have prevented the fire.”

  “Probably not.”

  The lighter clicked. Shea cracked the window on his side of the truck, lit his cigarette, then drove through the business section of town, heading past an old Spanish-styled hotel with its red-tiled roof, potted p
alms and high, arched ceilings cut into soft gold stucco. Lights blazed on the hotel grounds, splashing illumination up the walls and displaying the terra cotta tiles of the roof and lush vegetation near the entrance.

  “So why should I have called the police?” she asked, sensing that Shea was spoiling for a fight.

  “Because you were being harassed. You could have put the department and me on alert.”

  “I didn’t want to make a scene.”

  “You mean you didn’t want to make headlines,” he clarified, slowing for a red light near a mom-and-pop grocery, “again.” He brooded and smoked, waiting for the light to change as his big truck idled. Twice he checked his watch.

  A group of kids on skateboards—wearing knit caps despite the fact that the temperature was still near eighty, shouting and laughing—cut through the double lanes of stopped traffic, their slim, dark silhouettes thrown in sharp relief by the bright headlights of the vehicles.

  Shannon said deliberately, “I thought I’d have Aaron look into it first.”

  Shea cut her a glance and took another drag on his cigarette. “Why Aaron?” Smoke curled from his nostrils as the light changed and he stepped on the accelerator.

  “He’s a PI, to begin with, and he’s not affiliated with the police department like you are, or the fire department like Robert is, or the priesthood—”

  “Like Oliver, yeah, I get that. But Aaron is a PI only because he wouldn’t be able to cut it as a cop. He got his ass kicked out of the fire department and he’s no saint, so the church wouldn’t want him.”

  “Your point?” she asked as they pushed the speed limit toward the outskirts of town.

  “That he wasn’t exactly a prime choice.”

  “Apparently not,” she muttered, flipping down her visor to shade her eyes. “Because he obviously couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

  “Hey. For once he did the right thing. Besides, as you said, you already told Janowitz and Rossi.” He squashed the rest of his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray.

  Shea was right, of course, but that didn’t mean it didn’t rankle that Aaron had spilled his guts to her other brothers.

  They drove in silence through the suburbs and past a few small ranches until they passed the vacant acres earmarked as the new subdivision.

  The next driveway was hers. Shea eased on the brakes as he turned into the long lane. Shannon didn’t know which was worse, the jars to her body as the truck bounced along the uneven lane, or the assault on her emotions as she spied the blackened wreckage of the shed, the sooty exterior wall of the stable and her little home still standing, blessedly unharmed.

  The security lights were blazing, casting pools of blue light. Yellow plastic tape still warned that the area was a crime scene. And the place seemed empty. Still. Lifeless.

  “Where’s Nate?” she asked, searching the parking lot for his SUV. The Explorer wasn’t parked in its usual spot. Nor were any lights glowing from the windows of his apartment over the garage.

  Shea lifted a shoulder. “Beats me.”

  Shannon felt a whisper of dread slide through her. “I’d better check on the animals.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You go upstairs and change.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  With her scuffs pushing through the muck that still remained, she made her way to the front door. The house was locked and she had no key.

  “Wait. I’ll get it.” Shea used a key from his ring and opened the door, the key she’d given him when she was still married to Ryan. It seemed eons ago, now.

  As she opened the door, she expected Khan to hurl himself at her, but the cottage was empty. And silent. No clicking toenails on the stairs, no eager whines, no wiggling body begging for her to pet him. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the drip of the faucet in the kitchen. Shannon snapped on a light and stood in the foyer. Everything was as she’d left it, and yet it seemed different, almost surreal. As if she hadn’t been inside in years, rather than days.

  She walked into the kitchen, twisted hard on the faucet and spied her bananas and apples now rotting in a basket on the table. Her cell phone charger was in place and her purse, on the end of the counter, looked undisturbed.

  Shea was still standing in the doorway, on the other side of the threshold. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Except for Khan.”

  “Either Santana’s got him or he’s with the others,” Shea guessed.

  “Probably.” But it didn’t feel right. Everything looked the same, but the atmosphere in the cottage had lost its warmth, its coziness. She rubbed her arms as if chilled, though she was still sweating from the heat.

  “I’ll go look for him when I check the other animals, you…go on, get cleaned up.” He glanced at his watch again. “Can you handle the stairs by yourself?”

  She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “I think I’ll manage. Am I keeping you from something? A hot date?”

  “What?” He looked up sharply. Caught her expression and grinned. “No…Nothing. A habit.”

  She wasn’t sure he was telling the truth but wasn’t in the mood to argue. Not tonight.

  “I’ll leave the door open. Yell if you need me,” he advised and turned abruptly, heading toward the stable at a quick jog. He seemed jumpy. Out of sorts. But then so was she. No doubt her whole family was.

  She made her way upstairs, one painful step at a time and once in her bedroom, where the bed was still unmade, she made a stab at cleaning herself up. She washed her face, ran a wet cloth over her body, slapped on sheer lipstick and a bit of mascara, then, with some difficulty, pulled on a pair of jeans and a knit top. She couldn’t bend over without a lot of pain, so she stepped into a pair of flip-flops, then tried and failed to tame her hair. It was wild and curly and in the back, there was a large patch missing where her head had been shaved and a neat row of stitches held her scalp together. With gentle fingers she swept the hair over the delicate spot, secured the unruly curls into a ponytail and surveyed her reflection with a wry look.

  She looked marginally better, but she wasn’t out to win any beauty contests.

  Not that it mattered, she just wanted to square off with Travis Settler.

  She was on her way downstairs when she heard an engine barreling up the drive. Headlights cut through the night as she stepped outside. She expected to find Nate Santana returning with Kahn, nose poking out the window, in the passenger seat.

  Instead she spied her brother Robert’s new sports car, a BMW with a silver finish that looked nearly liquid in the lamplight. He’d bought the thing the weekend he’d moved out of the house that he’d shared with Mary Beth and their two kids. In Shannon’s estimation the flashy car was just one more symptom of his malaise known as midlife crisis.

  Robert wasn’t alone. Aaron was in the passenger seat and as they climbed out of the sleek vehicle, Shea appeared in the doorway of the kennel and half-ran to catch up with his siblings.

  “So what’s this?” Shannon asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “An ambush?” Eyeing the stern expressions on each of their faces, she added, “By the Brothers Grim? That’s with one m.”

  “Funny,” Robert muttered.

  “So where’s Oliver?” Shannon asked.

  “With Mom…or at the church,” Robert said. “You know how it is, the Lord’s work is never done.”

  “What’s up?” she asked, her accusatory gaze landing on Shea. “Don’t you guys gang up on me and try and talk me out of meeting Settler, cuz it’s not gonna work.”

  “We just want you to have all the facts,” Aaron said.

  “Like the fact that you told these two what was going on”—she wagged her finger at Robert and Shea—“even though we had an agreement?”

  “Because of the fire.”

  She was still irritated as all get-out. “So what’s on your minds?”

  “Let’s go inside and sit down,” Shea suggested and Shannon realized why he’d been checking his watch eve
ry two minutes. This had been a setup. He’d suggested she come home to change, just so they could all work her and try and get her to change her mind. Great. Just like when she was a kid, the youngest Flannery of six, and the only girl.

  “Make it quick,” she suggested as they filed in and sat stiffly at the kitchen table. Half a dozen tiny fruit flies hovered over the basket of apples and bananas.

  “The investigators found something odd in the fire,” Shea began. “At the point of origin, where obviously some kerosene had been poured there was a pattern in the burn path and it was placed upon a slab of concrete, something that wouldn’t burn.”

  “Meaning?” she asked, not liking the sound of this.

  “That whoever started the fire made this impression on purpose, knowing we’d find it.” Shea reached into his back pocket and extracted a small tablet. “The trail was in this shape, see…almost like a diamond, but part of it is cut off.”

  She stared at the design and shook her head. “So?”

  “So it’s the same kind of pattern that was on the birth certificate you found on your porch. The original’s with the lab, but here’s a copy and look, the charred edges are very similar to the burn pattern we found in the shed. I’m betting the paper was sprayed carefully with some kind of invisible retardant so that it wouldn’t burn completely and would retain this shape.” He pointed at the two images.

  Shannon’s throat went dry as she saw the copy of her baby’s birth certificate, now placed on the table near Shea’s drawing.

  “Not identical,” he said, “but similar.”

  Her heart knocked as she stared at the symbols. What kind of macabre prank was this?…No, not a prank. A warning. A statement. A bold, taunting statement. “But there’s something in the middle of the burn pattern,” she said, pointing to Shea’s tablet. “A number six…or nine.”

  “Definitely six,” Aaron said. “If we use the birth certificate as the template, and assume that the printing on it is upright, not upside down, then the burn pattern should have the same form, with the cutoff peak of the diamond at the top. Like this.”