Bayou Betrayal

Gary headed toward the EMT wagon. Rounding the corner, he met a paramedic moving toward the burning house. Gary touched the man's arm. “Was anyone in the house?”

“Only her.” The EMT nodded at a woman with hair as red as the flames devouring the house.

Gary hated this part of the job—having to ask questions and probe when people were hurting or grieving. He went over. “Ma'am? I'm Gary Anderson, acting sheriff. I need your statement. Can you tell me what happened?”

Lifting her head she set her chin. “Yes. Someone set this.”

“You think this was deliberate?” She was confused, obviously. “Ms. Harris, I'm sure you're very upset, but—”

“Yes, I'm upset, but I'm not delusional. This was done deliberately.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because just this week I got a phone call telling me to leave.”

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Just holding the match against the strike-plate caused him to tremble. Knowing what would come, having that ultimate control.

His heart pounded, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

There was something lyrical about striking a match. The scratching, followed by the sizzle. White smoke spiraling upward. The comforting aroma of sulfur tickling his nostrils. He took a deep breath, inhaling the smell that energized him.

All too soon, the match burned to his fingertips. With a slow puff of air, he extinguished the flame. He always brought a whole box of matches, going through several before he finally let the beast loose. Once the fire was released from his hand, it roared and devoured like a lion on a rampage. Too fast.

And he could never stay long enough to watch the monster destroy. Not without risk.

He was good at his chosen profession, passionate and thorough. Not once had he gotten caught. Well, there was one short stint in prison, but it had nothing to do with arson and only served to give him more connections, more business. Stupid cops—they'd never fingered him for a single blaze.

Lighting another match extinguished the annoyance he felt when it came to the police. For many years he'd perfected his craft. Honed his skill. Expanded his talents. All because of his love for the deadly flames.

He dropped the match and stared at the house in front of him, the one he'd already coated in accelerant. There'd be no mistakes here, either. He was clever, using a local accelerant, one that would make the police focus on a local angle. His boss would be pleased.

He was that good.

Crouching, he held the final match against the strike-plate. This was it.

If only his employer had known he'd have done the job for free. Just for the thrill of releasing the fiery monster. But he sure wouldn't turn down the money. After all, he wasn't brainless.

He struck the match, inhaled for a moment, letting the flame move down the stick. When it almost kissed his fingers, he dropped it onto the fuel trail he'd poured so carefully.

Flames shot along the bayou and the fire snaked in a ring around the house.

Crackling, popping, sizzling.

He straightened and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. With a final glance at the flames licking the wood, he headed to his car.

Another successful beast unleashed.

H
er throat burned, the acidic sensation ripping Monique Harris from a sound sleep. Disoriented, she swallowed against a stinging throat. The pungent smell of smoke accosted her. She held her throbbing head and sat up, fighting to clear the sleep from her mind. She glanced around the room, heart thudding. This wasn't her bedroom.

Reality washed over her. This
was
hers. Her new house in Lagniappe, Louisiana, where she'd celebrated the New Year by settling in. The place she'd run to when she needed to start over. She sucked in air.

Breathing was nearly impossible. The air hung thick…heavy…hot.

Recognition and realization slammed her gut. Fire!

Bolting out of bed, she ran, tripping over the tangle of bedcovers as she pushed from her bedroom into the hallway. Dense smoke swirled in the air, forming a wall. Monique covered her nose and mouth with her hand and stumbled along the hall. Her knee connected with boxes piled in the walkway, knocking her down. Pulling herself up, she fought to focus. She had to get her bearings, had to keep her wits about her.

Deep orange flames sizzled everywhere—heat overwhelmed her. How long had the fire been burning while she slept?

An underlying stench invaded her nostrils. A surge of raw fear pulsated inside her, tingling down into her limbs. She moved to lean against the wall, but heat seared her back. She jumped away, staggering.

Off in the distance, sirens wailed their approach. Someone must've called 9-1-1. Help would reach her soon, but she had to get out of the house.
Now.
No time to wait.

Monique stumbled toward the front door. Flames shot out from the living room and stopped her in her tracks. Her bare heels burned against the hardwood floor. She backed away and stumbled blindly toward the kitchen.

The only other door out of the house.

Heat scorched the soles of her feet as she ran through the thick smoke. She coughed and gagged, eyes burning and tears spilling down her cheeks. She wasn't going to make it. Not on her own. It'd been a long time since she asked for help, especially from God. A long time since she'd gotten angry with Him. She still wasn't ready to let go of her anger, but she cried out now.

God, please don't let me die. Not like this.

Sheetrock fell from the ceiling. She screamed and crouched, covering her head with her arms. Wallpaper peeled into crumbling piles of embers. Fear spurred her onward.

She dropped to all fours, the hot floor digging into her knees and hands, burning. Her vision blurred against the smoke. Get to the back door. Get out of the house.

The muscles in her arms and legs cramped as she struggled toward the kitchen. Sheer determination propelled her forward.

Please, God. Help me.

Coughing, she finally reached the kitchen. She stood to reach the doorknob and spied her purse lying on the kitchen counter. Kent's Bible was inside it. In one fluid motion, she snared the bag and tossed the strap over her shoulder. Covering the doorknob with her flannel pajama top, she flung open the kitchen door.

January night air cooled her lungs and throat. Monique paused to gulp in the freshness. Then sweat beads settled on her upper lip and brow as heat streaked across her face, like sitting too close to an open campfire. The only problem was the campfire was her house. Smoke billowed from the open door, suffusing the bayou in a gray haze. She pushed herself to keep moving.

Sirens screeched louder, closer. Her nerves knotted, and she wanted to throw up but knew she had to keep moving. Had to get away from the burning house.

She tripped down the four wooden steps and landed on the ground with a resounding thud. Coughing and sputtering, Monique felt like her lungs were going to come up. Nausea swept over her in waves. Still she pressed on, crawling toward her vehicle, ignoring the gravel digging into her bare, stinging palms.

A fire truck, lights strobing and siren wailing, whipped into the driveway and screeched to a halt. Gravel dust mixed with the smoke pouring from the open kitchen door, filling the air with a dense cloud. An EMT unit followed. In record time, the paramedics had her in the back of their wagon with an oxygen mask over her face. The medic held it tight, and she inhaled several times before removing the mask.

A fireman touched her shoulder. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

His words sounded muffled against the hum of the fire and the bustle of activity around her. “What?”

“In the house. Is there anyone still inside?”

“No. I live alone.” Ever since Kent had been murdered, she had no one. Loneliness hit her anew. Would the mourning ever end?

The blood pressure cuff squeezed her arm as the paramedic measured her blood pressure. Monique blinked several times, washing out the burning feeling along with solution they'd placed into her eyes. The cuff came off with a rip of Velcro.

She stared at her home going up in flames. What a way to start the New Year. What caused it? Faulty wiring? No, the inspector had checked that. She hadn't even turned on the oven or stove. Smoke swirled as flaming beams crashed.

The fire burned hot. And fast. Wait a minute…

She bolted from the back of the EMT wagon, horror settling over her. “No!”

A firefighter grabbed her arm and jerked her away from the popping flames. “Ma'am, you can't go in there.”

She froze, hot tears burning her scorched face.

The pieces quickly fell into place. The out-of-control fire. The smell. And the phone call she'd received just the other day. It hadn't been a prank after all. She'd been warned. This wasn't an accident. This had been planned, set. This was arson.

Someone didn't want her in Lagniappe.

 

“Deputy, we got a 9-1-1 call reporting a burning house.” Missy, the dispatcher, stood in the sheriff's doorway, her platinum-blond hair looking as frazzled as she sounded.

Deputy Gary Anderson, the acting sheriff, let out a long sigh. Only January 2, and already a call? So much for a quiet two weeks catching up on paperwork and getting the office organized. “Is it bad?”

“According to the neighbor, the place was engulfed in flames before they even noticed.”

Gary shoved to his feet, reaching for his radio. “Is it too much to hope the place was vacant?”

“Sorry, Deputy. It's the house out on Bridges Lane that young woman moved into just last week.”

“Well, I'll be.” He snatched his keys off the desk. “The old Pittman place?”

“That's the one.”

“I'm on my way.” He made quick strides out the front door and across the lot to the cruiser parked in the sheriff's space.

Anticipation soared in his chest, despite the potential tragedy looming over the bayou. Sheriff Bubba Theriot was on vacation and as acting sheriff, Gary had all the responsibilities that went along with the title. He'd better write a report, get it filed, then have cleanup ordered before the sheriff returned. This could be his chance to make an impression. A good one.

Two weeks—that's all Gary had to prove himself. The sheriff had taken his wife, Tara, to New Orleans to visit her sister and the new baby. Bubba was a good man, Gary would never say otherwise, but he didn't seem to put much stock in Gary's abilities to handle matters on his own. This was Gary's opportunity, maybe his only one. And he'd prove himself worthy.

With siren screaming and lights blazing, he raced down the roads through his beloved town. He'd grown up just outside the city limits of Lagniappe, the only child of a widowed mother. She'd worked a multitude of small jobs—cleaning other people's houses, doing ironing from their little two-bedroom rental, waitressing at the small diner—all to support herself and her son. College had never been an option for Gary, but his determination to make something of himself wouldn't allow that to stop him. He'd applied himself, completed correspondence courses on criminal justice and had been hired on as a deputy. But he still hadn't earned the respect he needed.

Not yet. But maybe now…

With the increased population of Lagniappe over the past year, the parish had decided the sheriff's office could justify appointing a chief deputy and hiring a regular deputy for replacement. Gary had the experience and seniority for the position over Deputy Tim Marsh. Sheriff Theriot had already hired another deputy—Mike Fontenot, previous bartender at the jazz club and a former MP with the Marines—but he hadn't made the decision about who would be chief deputy. Now Gary pressed the accelerator harder in his anticipation.

He arrived on the scene amid chaos. Red and white flashed over the bayou from the lights atop the fire trucks. Water shot from hoses at odd angles and filled the air with steam. Firefighters rushed about, barking orders and moving equipment. But the focal point of activity was the home engulfed in flames. Gary's eyes burned from the smoke.

Lord, please don't let anyone have been inside.

He parked and headed toward the EMT wagon, weaving out of the way of the firefighters. Rounding the corner of the vehicle, he met a paramedic moving toward the burning house. Gary touched the man's arm and kept his voice strong and full of authority. “Was anyone in the house?”

“Only her.” The EMT nodded at a woman standing nearby with hair as vibrant as the flames devouring the house. Another uniformed paramedic held one of her arms, while a firefighter stood in front of her, obviously blocking her path.

Gary rushed to the woman. “Ma'am? I'm Gary Anderson, acting sheriff. Will you come with me?”

Her green eyes flashed amid tears. “My house…my home.”

He took her free elbow. “I understand, ma'am. Let's get your statement.” He tugged gently, but she remained firm.

He nodded at the paramedic and together they turned her from the fire. “I really need to get your statement.”

“We still need to take you to the hospital so they can check you out, ma'am,” the EMT added.

They led her back to the emergency vehicle and helped her onto the stretcher inside. She sat with her gaze locked on the fire. Gary took a seat on the metal bench alongside her. He pulled out his notebook and pen, but didn't speak yet. He needed to observe both the scene and the victim first.

A purse lay on the floor beside the stretcher. He nudged it with his toe, questions flooding his mind. How had she managed to get her handbag out of the burning house, despite everything? Most people didn't think that clearly in a crisis of such magnitude. How had she?

“Did the firefighters pull her from the house?” he whispered to the paramedic.

“No. We found her in the driveway when we arrived.” The EMT radioed Lagniappe Hospital.

Gary made a note, then turned his attention back to the woman sitting on the stretcher, her gaze locked onto the house now reduced to nothing more than a semblance of a bonfire.

The woman's copper-colored hair hung in big waves down her back, ending just below her shoulder blades. Soot stained her otherwise fair complexion. Wide eyes blinked from beneath almost invisible eyelashes. The plaid pajamas drooped off her slight frame. Gary took in how the hem hung well below her bare feet. Men's pajamas?

One of the paramedics held an oxygen mask to her face, while the other jumped from the back of the wagon and held the door. “You riding with us?”

Gary took another look at the woman and nodded. The doors slammed shut.

She shoved the mask aside. “Where are we going? I can't leave. My house.” She grabbed an overhead rail and pulled herself to standing.

The EMT gently pushed her back down on the stretcher as the vehicle shifted into Drive. “We're taking you to the hospital for them to check you out.”

She didn't appear pacified. Actually, irritation covered her delicate features.

“There's nothing you can do.” Gary all but whispered the words, but they stopped her movements immediately.

Big tears fell from her eyes, making tracks down her cheeks through the soot.

“I'm sorry.” And he truly was. He gripped his pen tighter. He hated this part of the job—having to ask questions and probe when people were hurting or grieving. But he'd never prove himself worthy of the chief deputy position if he didn't do what he must. He cleared his throat and took charge. “I need to know your name, ma'am.”

“Monique. Monique Harris.”

He wrote down her name, jotted his impressions of the scene, then met her stare. “Some of the questions I need to ask will be repeated by the fire chief, but it's just to make sure we cover everything, okay?”

She nodded as the paramedic shoved the oxygen mask back into her hands.

“Ms. Harris, did you leave a fire in the fireplace burning, something on the stove, anything like that?”

“No.” She gulped in oxygen.

“Are you sure?”

She removed the mask from her face and glared at him. “I'm positive.”