Fatal Burn

  “What?”

  “Go in there and strip. Throw out your clothes and your shoes.”

  “No, please, don’t!”

  “Do it!” His face was a mask of grim determination. He pointed the gun right between her breasts. “I’d like nothing more than to kill you right now, but I’m giving you a reprieve. Be a fucking good girl, go into that room and toss me your clothes. And don’t empty the pockets. I know you have my things and I want them back.” She glared up at him mutinously and he pushed her with the rifle. “Now!”

  She did as she was bid, stripping down to her underwear and balling up her clothes. Her fingers closed around something hard. The nail. She held it tightly, counting her heartbeats, drawing strength. She then tossed her clothes through the crack in the door.

  “Shoes,” he reminded her.

  Angrily she flung her favorite sneakers through the open space and heard them clunk somewhere near the front door.

  “Underwear.”

  “No…Wait.”

  “Underwear!”

  “But I—”

  She heard his rifle cock.

  “Take off everything or I’ll come in there and do it for you.”

  Sick pervert.

  Humiliated, silently swearing she’d kill him if she ever got the chance, she stripped from her bra and panties and hurled them through the small space between the door and its jamb.

  A second later, she retreated to the relative safety of her cot and pulled the dirty blanket over her.

  The door slammed shut.

  The latch clicked.

  Locked in again, but she still had the nail.

  She heard him in the other room, moving about. Probably getting ready for his sick ritual, but she didn’t dare look at him through the crack today, didn’t want him to catch her watching, felt awkward and mortified that he might see her nakedness. So she lay in the bed, exhaustion taking its toll. She started to fall asleep.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  The entire building shook.

  For a second she didn’t know what he was doing and then it hit her. He was hammering. Against her door. No doubt nailing a crosspiece between the walls and door.

  Making certain she was sealed inside this hot, airless jail.

  Chapter 28

  Travis opened an eye.

  Sunlight was streaming into the room.

  Shannon was nestled against him, her naked body cupped by his, her gorgeous rump pressed firmly against the juncture of his legs. He remembered making love to her, the desperation of the act, the release, the rapture of it. Sex had been what they’d both needed. He wrapped an arm over her and kissed her nape. She smiled and let out a soft, contented sigh.

  The smell of her was all around and though he knew he should get up, that he had to face the day, the sight of her beside him, sunlight playing in the fiery strands of her hair, her breasts full and unbound, was more than he could resist. He traced the edge of one areola with his finger and she sighed, the nipple puckering expectantly.

  His damned cock was already hard at the sight of her; the pressure of her buttocks so near, made it ache for want of release. He toyed with her nipple and she smiled.

  “Watch it, cowboy. Don’t start what you can’t finish,” she said groggily and he was undone.

  He leaned over, found her lips and kissed her with a heat he hadn’t felt since he was a horny teenager.

  Slowly her eyelids raised, exposing intelligent, verdant irises that dared him to keep at it. “Feelin’ randy?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  One reddish eyebrow arched and he gently squeezed her nipple, watching as her pupil sharpened. “Do you always wake up this way?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled and she laughed, flung her arms around his neck and kissed him as if he were the last man on earth. His body responded and they wrestled on the rumpled bedclothes, arms and legs entwined, breathing labored, lips exploring and tasting, pressure building. When he could stand the teasing no longer, he entered her with a long, hard thrust.

  Her body was moist and hot, muscles contracting around him. He moved, and she found his rhythm, keeping up with him, staring at him, fingers digging into his arms, gaze locked with his.

  He felt her body start to quiver, saw her catch her breath and he could hold back no longer. In a rush, he came into her and rather than falling atop her, crushing her already-bruised ribs, he landed on his elbows, gently pulling her atop him. She turned her head, snuggling at his shoulder. Her heartbeat was an echo of his own as they slowly descended, her breath mingling with his. Only when she’d finally let out a long sigh did he roll her to her side.

  She gazed up at him. Her eyes sparkled impishly and one side of her mouth twitched upward. “Dibs on first shower,” she said, kissing his forehead and before he could grab her, slid from the bed.

  Naked, she hurried into the bathroom and he was left lying on her bed, wondering what the hell he was doing. As he heard her twist on the faucets and water begin to run, he thought for a fleeting second that he was falling in love with her. Immediately he banished that wayward idea. He’d sworn off women after his failed attempt at hooking up with Jenna Hughes. It was just as well that had never happened, but this…Shannon Flannery…the birth mother of his daughter. Worse yet.

  And yet he heard her singing off-key in the shower and it was all he could do not to walk into the bathroom, slip into the small enclosure, and with their bodies lathered and slick, lift her from her feet and make love to her with the hot water cascading over them.

  The idea was so appealing, Travis had already rolled off the bed when he noticed the picture of Dani, the one he’d given Shannon at El Ranchito, the flyer announcing that Dani Settler had gone missing.

  The old pain resurfaced. Instantly he sobered and the last few hours suddenly seemed to be frivolous.

  With all the fear and dying and pain, he’d lost sight of his mission, if only for a few hours. Now, however, it was back with a vengeance.

  He grabbed his Levi’s. The old pipes moaned as the water was turned off. Travis looked up to find Shannon, a towel wrapped around her, her hair wet and dripping, step into the room.

  God, she was beautiful.

  Even without a bit of makeup, her face still lightly bruised, she was still incredible. “Your turn if you want.”

  “I think I should have joined you. Then we’d both be done.”

  “Nuh-uh,” she shook her head. “We’d have stayed in there until we ran out of hot water. It’s better this way. Besides, while you’re cleaning up, I need to see to the animals. Khan’s nose is definitely going to be out of joint, Marilyn needs to be fed and taken outside, and then I’ve got a lot of horses and dogs who are waiting for me.”

  “Doesn’t Santana take care of them?”

  “Yes, but lately…”

  “I know, he’s been acting ‘funny.’”

  Some of her lightheartedness faded. “Come on,” she said. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll make you coffee and breakfast.”

  “I think I already did ‘get lucky.’”

  A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Me, too.”

  Shannon hurried down the stairs, started the coffee, took care of the two dogs inside the house, then headed to the kennels. Khan dashed ahead, knowing the routine. Nate’s truck wasn’t in its usual spot, but the horses were outside.

  She fed the dogs and took them outside to run their legs off. “Feeling neglected?” she asked Atlas. The big dog nudged at her leg while Khan was busy barking at a squirrel who scolded from the branches of an oak tree. She scratched Atlas behind his ears and he groaned. “You like that, don’t you? I know…tonight, it’s your turn. And yours, too,” she said to Cissy, who, as usual was lying in wait, body pressed to the dry grass, unmoving as she stared at the larger dog, ready to stalk the German shepherd if he ever gave her the time of day.

  “Come on,” she said, finding the dogs’ toys. She played catch and fetch and generally enjo
yed being with them. They filled a need in her that now—because she knew about Dani—had shifted. For years she’d believed she would never have children, never know what it was like to care for a child. In some ways, the dogs and horses had taken up the emotional slack.

  Now, things had changed and though she loved these animals fervently, and she couldn’t wait to move them to the bigger, better surroundings, she realized they would never take the place of her child.

  She threw the ball with her good arm, until she’d run out of steam, then accepted the fact that she couldn’t put off the inevitable forever. She needed to phone her mother, visit and console her, then square off with Nate if she could find him.

  As for Travis…Shannon cast a look over her shoulder to the house and sighed. Last night they’d become lovers, but it didn’t mean anything other than that they were two lonely people caught up in a horrific tragedy together.

  It was odd but pleasant. She’d never been one to jump into bed with a man at the drop of a hat; in fact, after her experience with Brendan Giles, it had taken a long time for her to trust again. And then, unfortunately, she’d again chosen the wrong man in Ryan Carlyle.

  The two men she’d seen since had been disasters. Especially Reggie Maxwell, the man who had neglected to mention his wife and kids. No wonder she’d given up on men.

  Until last night. And then, it seemed, she’d thrown away all of her rules. Because of Travis? Or because everything she believed in was being tested and destroyed?

  She watched the horses in the paddock for a minute and as she did, her mind spun with the conversation between her brothers she’d heard less than twenty-four hours earlier. All those whispers about “birth order” and “Dad’s fault.” She’d convinced herself that Oliver had meant to confide in her.

  She stared at the buckskin, but in her mind she thought, again, about the order in which her siblings had come into the world: Aaron, Robert, Shea, Oliver, Neville. She thought about the spacing between them, wondered about the miscarriages her mother had endured, but couldn’t think of anything…Nothing made any sense.

  She needed to talk to one of her brothers about it, most likely Aaron. She wondered how he’d taken the news of Oliver’s death. It was telling, she thought, that in the face of Oliver’s death, rather than wanting to run to her family, to be a part of the grief and consolation, she wanted instead to run the other way.

  Without any answers, Shannon slapped the rail, then walked through the stable. The stalls were clean, fresh straw strewn on the floor. Nate had definitely been around. How did he figure into all of this? Maybe their unspoken agreement not to pry into each other’s lives wasn’t such a hot idea.

  The door at the far end of the building opened and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Half-expecting Travis, she was surprised when Nate himself appeared, his silhouette dark, his body thrown in relief by the sunlight behind him.

  She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard his truck roll in.

  “Jumpy this morning?” he asked.

  He was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt that had once been red and Levi’s with tattered pockets, almost the height of fashion, though he didn’t know it.

  “Do you blame me?”

  “No.” He was serious as he walked toward her. “I just heard about Oliver on the news.” His eyes were shadowed and red, as if he’d been up all night. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  The image of Oliver’s bloodied body, swinging from a crossbeam, leaped from the safe place in her mind where she’d stored it. Her throat clogged.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head and blinked hard. “No. I know I have to go and see my family and…discuss it, and I’ll probably have to talk to the police again, and try to avoid talking about it with the press, so for now, I’d rather pass.” She felt a hollowness inside, an empty place that she knew could never be filled.

  “Fair enough.”

  “And don’t start in on me about a security system. I plan on calling a company today,” she said, then cringed. “Right after I talk to Mom.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Shannon said, with more than a bit of guilt. “I haven’t talked to her yet. Shea was going over last night. I’m sure she’s devastated.”

  “So are you,” he said so gently she nearly broke down.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she said what was on her mind. “So where have you been, Nate? And don’t give me any cock-and-bull story about being ‘in and out,’ I know that much. You’ve kept taking care of the animals. Like this morning. You weren’t here when I got in, which was really late, nearly three, I think, but somehow you came back, saw to the stock, then left again. What’s that all about?”

  “I thought we agreed not to pry into each other’s lives.”

  “That was before people started being killed! Come on, Nate! Before I was attacked, before Molly was tortured.” She pointed through the open door at the far end of the barn to the paddock where the buckskin was restlessly grazing.

  “You think I had something to do with what’s going on?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know! That’s the problem!”

  “I’m no killer,” he said evenly.

  “Well, good,” she said, unable to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “But there’s something going on, Nate.” She pointed a finger at his chest. “Something you’ve been hiding.”

  His jaw slid to one side. “I said, I’m not a murderer.”

  “So then you won’t mind telling me where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing, and why the hell you’re in and out of here like a damned ghost.”

  He looked at the ground.

  “You know, you’re almost acting as if you’re involved with a woman and don’t want to tell me about it.”

  His lips compressed and he frowned at the floor.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked on a note of discovery. “I think that’s great! But you don’t have to sneak around, for God’s sake.”

  He reached out suddenly, one hand circling her wrist. “Remember when I told you things aren’t always what they seem?” he asked, then, as if he realized what he was doing, released her. “Well, this is one of those times. Yes, there’s another woman, but it’s not what you think.” He rubbed a hand around his neck. “Maybe it’s time I leveled with you.”

  “Past time. You’re the one man I thought I could really and truly rely on in this world. Even more than my brothers.”

  A tic had started to develop under one eye.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said, his gaze skipping from her to the floor to the open doorway where sunlight blazed and the horses grazed.

  The morning had seemed calm and safe. But a sense of foreboding came over her and she knew that feeling was going to change.

  He started for the open door. “Settler should hear this, too.”

  Paterno sat at his desk. He’d studied the crime scene at the church and was convinced by the scuff marks that Oliver had been caught in the nave, probably praying, and dragged to the basement. His fingers were raw from struggling with the rope at his neck. His wrists had been slit at impossible angles for him to have done it himself. No doubt he was murdered by the same perp who seemingly had made a half-assed attempt to have the death appear like a suicide. But no, Paterno wasn’t buying that. The killer was smart enough to know that no one would be fooled, he was just reminding everyone that his victim had once tried to kill himself by slitting his wrists.

  At least that was Paterno’s take on what had happened. “Nutcase,” he muttered, then turned his eyes back to his cluttered desk. He’d been studying the information they’d collected on the recent murders as well as Ryan Carlyle’s death. He went back to it, sifting through the damned information again while he waited for the lab reports, ducked calls from the press and doodled on a notepad. He wrote down whatever thoughts came into his head
about the case, drawing stars, one after the other.

  Rossi walked into the room with two paper cups of coffee. It was late morning, Paterno had slept only three hours the night before, and even the sludge that passed as Java down here smelled good. He’d already downed three cups, two at home and one here. “The son of a bitch is trying to give us a clue,” Paterno muttered, pointing at the figures that had been found at each of the fires, including the most recent one, where the number four had replaced the long triangular point of the star.

  Rossi nodded. He handed Paterno one of the paper cups. “But what?”

  “Beats me,” he said, taking a sip and staring at the images. “But it means something and it has to do with birth order, according to Shannon Flannery.”

  “Looks more like the spokes are protecting the center piece. Birth order…Do the numbers represent the brothers by birth order?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “That’s a weird thing, though, isn’t it?” Rossi shook his bald head. “The guy’s just fuckin’ with us.”

  “Why go to all the trouble?”

  “He’s a friggin’ psycho. Got time on his hands.”

  Paterno’s head snapped up. “Good point. Whoever did Oliver took a lot of time at it. He had to have been waiting for a while. If this guy’s got a regular job, or a family, he must be dead on his feet by now.” He drank a long swallow, then frowned. “And where the hell is Travis Settler’s daughter?”

  “Wish I knew,” Rossi said.

  “I wish anyone but the killer knew.” Paterno looked at a map of the area he had mounted on his wall. With blue pushpins he’d marked all the residences of the Flannery and Carlyle families. Using red, he’d indicated where fires had been set, black where a murder had been committed. In Shannon Flannery’s case, she had two red pins and two blue—for the two fires and for being a member of both the Flannery clan and the Carlyle family. At Robert and Mary Beth Flannery’s residence, he’d inserted a red, two blue and a black pin on the map.