Firestorm (12 page)

“Sometimes that works too.” He looked down at the papers she'd handed him. “What's this supposed to be?”

“Articles about fires that occurred in Marionville and surrounding towns during the twenty years Trask lived here. I've marked the ones that interested me.” She rubbed her temple. “No, interested isn't the right word. Horrified is closer.”

“You think that Trask started these fires?”

“I told you that I sensed he'd started to be obsessed a long time before he made Firestorm his career. But I couldn't find anything in his background that indicated he was anything but Mr. Clean.”

Silver nodded. “The golden boy.”

“I still can't find any proof. And I don't even have the info to make a connection.” She grimaced. “So tell me about these exceptions you ran across in his school records.”

“There wasn't much.” He sat down across from her. “You look beat. Want to go out and get something to eat?”

“No, I want to make a connection, dammit. I want to know the bastard.”

He nodded. “You know he was brilliant. He was a fantastic student and made the effort to make himself likable to his teachers. But he wasn't the most popular kid with the other students. This was a tough, gritty mining town, and he was generally thought of as a king-size dork. There were a couple incidents when he went to the principal because kids were bullying him.”

She sat up straight. “Who?”

“Wait a minute.” He went to the bed and opened a folder he'd tossed there. “Tim Krazky. Fourth grade. The principal had a talk with the kid and that was the end of it.”

“Maybe. Any other problems?”

He flipped a couple pages. “He was beat up by one of the football players in high school. Dwayne Melton. The school was going to suspend Melton, but Trask stepped up and defended him. Which made Trask even more popular with the academia.”

“Dwayne Melton—” She jumped to her feet and took back the papers she'd handed him. “When did that happen?”

He glanced down at the record. “June fourth, 1979.”

She put the pages down on the table and frantically riffled through them until she found the one she was looking for. “October third, 1981.” She handed him the article. “Dwayne Melton died in a fire when the oil drum at the gas station where he was working blew up.”

“Two years later,” Silver said. “Trask would have had to be a damn patient kid.”

“Like a spider spinning his web. He had no intention of being caught. I doubt if Trask was even in town when it happened.” She went back through the other papers. “What was that other kid's name?”

“Tim Krazky.”

She found it. “Oh, shit.”

“Fire?”

“His house burned down and he and his entire family were killed.” She read the last paragraph.
“No suspected arson. A kerosene space heater ignited the curtains in the living room.”
She shook her head. “His entire family, Silver.”

“Less suspicious.”

She shivered. “Horrible.” She sat back down. “Give me those school records. I want to see who else offended that son of a bitch.”

He sat down beside her. “I'll read off the records. You go through the newspaper articles.”

T
hey found only two more cases that were blatantly suspicious. A gym teacher who'd embarrassed Trask was killed in a private plane crash the year Trask left on his Fulbright scholarship. The principal who had not punished Tim Krazky for bullying Trask was burned to death when his car ran off the road and crashed into a tree.

“Patience again,” Silver murmured. “No wonder he wasn't suspected. He sat back, planned, and waited until his motives would have been forgotten before he went after them.”

“And there's no telling how many more people he killed over the years.” She gazed blindly down at the articles. “He was a perfectionist. He probably did some practicing before he went after his targets. Talk about bad seeds.”

“Isn't this enough for you?” He took the papers from her. “You're not going to know the bastard any better by unearthing his entire list of victims.”

“Yes, it's enough,” she said dully. “No conscience. Not even when he was a child. But clever. My God, how clever to avoid any hint of suspicion.”

“Then, if you're satisfied, why don't we go home tonight? This motel isn't the Ritz.”

She thought about it, gazing down at the articles. “No, I'm not satisfied. This is all too remote. I need to touch him. Feel what he was feeling.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. I just can't leave without—” She picked up the article about the death of Tim Krazky and his family. “Will you find out where this boy's house was located? I want to visit there tomorrow morning.”

“It was a long time ago. They've probably built something over the ashes.”

“Try.” She rose to her feet. “He must have hated that little boy to have destroyed his entire family to get to him. I want to see it, feel it.”

“No, you don't,” he said roughly. “It's going to tear you up. You can't even think about that fire without getting sick.”

“Then I'd better learn. I'd better learn everything about him and the way he thinks so that I don't flinch away every time he gets too close.” She moved toward the door. “And I can't do it by keeping my distance. What's the number of the motel room you booked for me?”

“Nineteen. It's next door.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a key. “Adjoining. You get spooked, you come running.”

“I won't get spooked. I'm too tired.”

“And you don't think Trask is near.”

“No, but what do I know? I can't even be sure I'd sense him.” She smiled mirthlessly. “That's what this exercise is all about. Getting inside his skin. Will you help me?”

“You know damn well I will.” He turned and picked up the phone. “Though it's going to be difficult to find out anything at this time of night. Towns this small roll up the streets by eight o'clock.”

“Call George. He'll consider it a challenge.”

“That's who I'm calling.” He smiled. “You must have read my mind.”

“God, I hope not. The only mind reading I want to do is Trask's.” She paused before admitting, “Actually, you've already helped a good deal.”

“Of course I have. We're in this together.”

“That's true.” She gave him a cool glance. “And I probably never would have decided to do this if you'd helped me in the beginning.”

“Maybe. But Trask is becoming an obsession with you. Somewhere along the road you'd have wanted to visit here.”

“He's not an obsession. I just want to be prepared for—”

He held up his hand. “I've no objection to you being obsessed. It can only help me. It was just a comment.”

“Trask is the one who's obsessed. I'm just trying to—” She drew a deep breath. “It could be you're right. At any rate, I'm feeling too blasted helpless.” She opened the door. “The situation has to change. Good night, Silver.”

Obsession.

She didn't permit herself to think about Silver's words until she'd let herself into her room and closed the door. She'd said Trask was the one who was obsessed, but ever since that first contact with him she'd been driven. Was it possible that when she'd been drawn into Trask's sick mind, she'd not really been able to free herself? Perhaps some of his poison still lingered.

She shuddered at the thought. The idea of being a part of Trask in any way was a horror.

But the idea of being unable to stand against him in another encounter was worse. Screw worrying about Trask's influence on her. Just take one day at a time, one step at a time, and tomorrow she'd sink deep into his past and the filth she'd uncovered.

Fire.

Screams.

Tim Krazky and his family trapped in that burning house.

Jesus, she hoped she could take it.

T
he Krazky family had not lived in town. Their farmhouse had been located on the Oscano River five miles from Marionville. It was a pretty site, surrounded by Bartlett pear trees.

But the ruins of the Krazky house were not pretty. Even decades later the foundations were still crumbling, blackened, and scorched. A brick chimney was the only part of the house that still stood.

“I was surprised that the ruins were still here,” Silver said as he parked the car. “I guess the heirs couldn't get a buyer in such a poverty-stricken area. Or maybe they didn't have the heart to disturb the site of a family tragedy. Do you want to get out and walk around?”

“Yes.” She already had her door open. “But you don't have to come with me.”

“I'll come. Why shouldn't I—” He stopped. “You don't want me to come. Any reason?”

“I don't think . . .” She shook her head. “I don't know. I just want to be alone to . . .” She got out of the car. “I won't be long.”

“Wait a minute.” He glanced around the area. “It's pretty open. No place for anyone to hide.” He nodded. “Okay, don't go out of sight.”

“Why would I do that? Everything I want to see is here.” She walked toward the ruins. It was even more desolate at closer view. Patches of grass were struggling for life among the rotting timbers. That pitiful effort to overcome the destruction only underscored the brutality of the fire that had ravaged the house.

Five people had died on this spot. A family had lived and clung to one another the way families did all over the world. Had they clung together that night when they were trapped in Trask's inferno? Or had they died separately in their beds, suffocated by the deadly smoke? She felt suffocated herself at the thought, suffocated by horror and sadness and anger.

“Okay?” Silver called from the car.

She straightened her shoulders. “I'm fine.” She stepped over a timber and made her way toward the chimney. She wasn't fine. She wanted to get away from here and the memory of Tim Krazky and the hell he'd brought down on his family by offending Trask.

Stop whimpering. Do what you came to do. Think about Trask. Think about what he did. Imagine what he'd feel. Remember that night she'd touched him, and bring it all together. Learn him.

She reached out and tentatively touched the brick of the chimney. It was warm from the sun. It wouldn't have been warm that night. It would have been hot. Hot from the flames.

Hot. Hot. Hot.

Screams.

Lousy son of a bitch. Burn in hell.

No, burn here tonight.

They were trying to get out the front door, but he'd thought of that and tied a hemp rope to the doorknob and fastened it to the porch post. He'd anticipated everything, he thought proudly. Yesterday when they were at church he'd gone to every window and painted them shut, and tonight he'd crept into the house and started the fire first in Krazky's parents' room so that they'd be overcome with smoke first. Then all he'd had to do was wait here and make sure that that asshole, Tim, didn't manage to break a window and get out. But he'd seen no sign of Tim, and now the house was full of smoke. It wouldn't take long before they were too weak to—

He could see a face at the window. Tim's sister, Marcy. Crying. Beating her fists on the glass. She'd always had more guts than Tim. Where was Tim? Probably hiding under a bed.

Marcy was sliding to the floor, her hands clutching at the windowsill.

No more pounding on the glass.

He hurried across the porch and loosened the rope he'd tied around the doorknob. Then he ran around the back and untied the kitchen door.

The house was blazing. He could feel the heat on his face as he stared at the conflagration.

Die, you bastard.

He wished he could smell the oily prick's flesh as it burned. He'd only smelled burning flesh once before. Those two hoboes sleeping in the woods he'd set on fire last year when he'd been experimenting with ways to get at Tim. The scent had been like roast pig, only curiously different, more pleasing. Maybe if he broke a window, he could—

No, he had to get across the river to the woods and then home. Someone might have seen the blaze by now. Though he'd made sure there would be no way to rescue them in time. He'd burned the telephone wire leading into the house earlier in the evening. Tim's father had almost caught him when he went outside with the garbage.

Garbage. They were all garbage now. Less than garbage.

The water was cold as he left the bank and started across the river. But he didn't feel cold. He felt flushed and full of strength and exhilaration.

He'd done it.

So easy. The fire had taken care of everything. Killing. Destroying. Like a wonderful genie who had popped out of the bottle to do his bidding.

He looked over his shoulder, and his heart started pounding with excitement again.

Flames. Beautiful, beautiful, flames—

“Kerry.” Silver was shaking her. “Kerry, what the hell?”

Fire. Let the prick burn in—

“Kerry?”

Fight it.

“I'm . . . okay.” She jerked away from Silver. But then she had to lean against the chimney as her knees gave way. The brick was warm again, not hot like that night when—

Fight it.

“Tell . . . Ledbruk. Trask.” She had to stop to steady her voice. “The woods across the river. He's there now.”

“What?”

“Don't . . . ask me . . . questions. Just get someone across the river.”

He glanced across the river. “And get you back to the car.” His hand was beneath her elbow, pushing her across the ruins. “You're sure that—”

Hot. Hot. Hot.

“Do you think that I was communing with some kind of childhood spirit?” she asked fiercely. “There's no reason I'd suddenly be able to pull that off when I've never been able to do it before. I tell you, it was
him
. He has to be there. He felt safe in those woods that night. He'd feel safe hiding there watching us. He must have followed us from the motel. Call Ledbruk.”

“I'm calling him.”

She hadn't noticed he had his phone out and was dialing.

“Hurry. He's there. I know he's there.”

“Easy.” He opened the passenger door. “Get in and out of sight.”