Fatal Burn (West Coast 2)

Shea returned to his truck, donned protective covers over his boots, pulled on gloves and hauled his flashlight with him. He stepped over the yellow plastic tape and walked through the open door of the stable.

With a flip of the switch, the entire length of the building was awash with bright fluorescent light. His stomach curdled as he saw a pool of dark, crusted blood. Instead of going through the building, he carefully picked his way around the back where he stood outside and studied the dark, drying puddle. It too was blotchy and smeared, whatever evidence might have been there probably destroyed as Shannon was tended to and then moved.

Squatting, he stared down the corridor, trying to imagine what had happened. Where were the bloody hoofprints? If horses had trampled her, they would leave impressions behind. But they were missing. There were other prints however, soles that were the size of a man’s shoe or boot.

His gut twisted and the feeling that things were going from bad to worse got a whole lot stronger. Through the far door he heard the approach of another vehicle. Headlights appeared.

The crime scene team had arrived.

Soon, maybe, they’d have some answers.

From a sun-bleached bench on the back porch of the cabin, he watched the dawn break and sipped from a bottle of Coca-Cola. It was warm, the weather hot enough that there was no early morning chill, just a searing, dry wind that seeped through the surrounding hills, chasing down the dry arroyos and creeping through the forest.

Flaming streaks of light were ri

sing over the mountains to the east. Vibrant oranges and golds pushed the edges of night back to the far corners of the earth, reminding him of fire…always fire.

A jackrabbit hopped through the bracken of this run-down old shack, a place no one had occupied for decades. A crow cawed from the branch of a spindly oak. Overhead the wasps were just coming out of their muddy nests built under the eaves, thin black bodies crawling from narrow holes, warming themselves.

This was his haven.

A spot no one knew about.

Not even those close to him.

If there were any.

He took another pull from the bottle.

The kid was inside. Locked in a room where the only natural illumination came in through a skylight. The windows were nailed shut and covered with plywood, the door locked from his side.

So far she hadn’t complained.

Scared little twit. But a pain nonetheless.

Hard to believe that the frightened wimp of a kid was Shannon Flannery’s blood kin. Her daughter.

His gaze returned to the slowly lightening sky and he pushed thoughts of the girl out of his mind as he stared at the brilliant colors.

Reminding him again of the fire.

Reminding him of her.

His blood ran hot at the thought of her.

He’d been close enough to smell her, to sense her fear, to hear her breath escape in a startled “ooph” as he’d struck. Licking his lips, he remembered the feeling of the impact, just powerful enough to break her skin, to crush a few small bones, but not to pulverize her, not to permanently mar her beauty, not to have her in the hospital for weeks.

Not to kill her.

Not yet.

He’d known when he’d started the fire that she would go for the horses. Either after the dogs or before, but he counted on the fact she would save the beasts before waiting for help to come.

And so he’d waited. Hidden behind a barrel of grain, the pitchfork close at hand, he’d counted the seconds, heard his own breathing, felt his pulse accelerate. Through the window he’d watched his work, felt the explosion that had shattered windows and rocked the ground. Seen the horses panic, pacing in their stalls, working into lathers. He’d stared at the rapidly spreading flames as they’d feasted on the old timbers, chewing hungrily through the dry roof, burning hot and wild.

Oh, God, it had been perfect.

Even now, he could feel that hot surge of excitement whispering through his bloodstream.