Sinister (22 page)

“Go! Go, go!” Ricki shouted, though it wasn’t necessary. Colt had already urged the horses into a run. The sleigh bounced and rocked as its runners strained against the brittle, frozen land.

Beside her, Delilah was already on her cell, asking for the fire and rescue squad.

Nell shook Ricki’s arm. “Brooklyn?”

It was hard to hear over the horses’ hooves, the rocking sleigh and the pounding of her pulse. Ricki swallowed back the knot in her throat. “She’s inside.”

Everyone braced themselves as the sled flew over the final rise and slammed back on the path. Ricki’s teeth jolted in her head, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but the baby girl she had loved for fourteen years.

With the foreman’s house in full view now, the fire’s fury was undeniable. Black smoke rolled off the roof timbers and mixed with falling snow. The blaze engulfed the entire front of the house, orange and yellow flames licking the beams, outlining the A-frame shape.

Ricki’s fingers dug into the seat as the sled drew closer.

She knew hysteria wouldn’t help the situation, but she wanted to bound out of the moving sleigh and dash through the roiling flames.

When they reached the final slope, Colton halted the horses and Ricki scrambled out while the sleigh was still moving. She landed in a drift that covered her boots, but she tore through the snow to get to her daughter.

The wood of the front porch glowed red—pulsing, hot coals. There was no getting through that way, so she raced around to the side of the cabin, hoping to find Brook waiting outside the kitchen door.

But the side door was ablaze, too. A separate fire, suspiciously confined to the exit. There was no way in . . . no way out.

“Oh, my God!” She tore at her hair, veering into the searing heat. “Brook! Brooklyn! Where are you?” Her throat burned. Her eyes teared from smoke.

In the periphery of her focus, her family moved around her, shouting and scrambling and calling for Brook.

If the doors were impassible, Ricki would have to find another way in. She was backing around the house in search of a way in when a crashing sound split the air.

Glass exploded from the window of the rear bedroom—Brook’s bedroom.

“Brook?” Pressing into a gust of thick smoke, Ricki could make out a flurry of movement in the window. Something fell over the sill—Brook’s zebra blanket. A moment later, there was a denim-clad leg on the windowsill.

“Brook!”

The teen jumped, sailed out the window and dropped into the snow.

Ricki rushed forward. She picked up her daughter from the ground and folded her arms around her, noting the smell of smoke on her, the ash on her face, the coating of soot that made her hair brittle as Ricki stroked it.

“Brook. Oh, my God, Brook.” Her voice cracked, wrought with emotion. “Are you okay? What happened?” She was shaking from head to toe and so was her daughter.

“Rudolph . . .” Brook choked out. “I couldn’t find him.”

Ricki let out a breath of relief. “He’s probably hiding. Animals are smart that way.” She prayed she was telling the truth. As she spoke, she edged her daughter away from the heat and smoke of the fire.

A man ran up to them, his hand on Ricki’s shoulder. “Anyone else inside?” he asked.

Ricki recognized Hunter Kincaid, though the rest of the fire squad was still on the way, sirens wailing in the distance.

“No one else—”

“But my kitten!” Brook interrupted.

“Stay back,” Hunter ordered, adding, “I’ll look for it.”

Immediately, he got back to work with Colton and Tyler, hacking burning embers from the porch and spraying the fire with the garden hose, which someone had apparently found in the garage.

Ricki turned away from the wall of heat and hugged her daughter again. “I’m so glad you’re safe. What happened?” she asked again.

“I was Skyping and the power went out. So Sophie called me back on my cell, and we were just talking awhile.” Brook’s rapid-fire speech reflected Ricki’s racing pulse. “And then I smelled something funny, then smoke. At first I thought it was the toaster, but when I went to check the front door was on fire. The kitchen door, too! I’m sorry about the broken window, but it was stuck and I dropped my phone and it was the only way I could get out!”

“Forget the window. The important thing is that you’re okay. I’m proud of you, honey.”

Brook coughed, swiped at a soot-smudged cheek. “I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t do anything.”

“I’m just so glad you’re okay,” Ricki said again, her mind shying away from the terrible thought that Brook could have been seriously hurt.

I love you,
she thought. Tears burned behind her eyes, threatening to spill out.

Brook pulled back, her gaze on the orange waves of fire in front of her eyes. There was something in her expression—a glimmer of fear or guilt—that sent Ricki’s mind spiraling off in a different direction as aunts and cousins surrounded them, hugging and patting Brook on the back.

The image of that lighter in Brook’s backpack.

She wanted to dismiss it, but there was no denying the trouble at school ... Brook’s history. The fire that had been started in New York ...

Ricki wanted to deny the thought as soon as it crowded into her mind, but it persistently remained. And she didn’t need an arson specialist to know this fire was deliberate: the entire porch structure had burned quickly, as if it was doused in gasoline or kerosene. Was someone trying to hurt Brook? Send a message to Ricki by hurting her daughter? Scary as those notions were, they were better than the idea of Brook starting the fire herself to get attention.
Oh, please, God, no. Anything but that.
Ricki couldn’t bear the thought that her daughter might be as deluded as the father she had escaped.

 

 

He watched through the descending night from the crest of a hill as the Dillingers ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. He could just make them out: as small and insubstantial as toy figures riding a model train, their coats and knit caps dark against the snow.

From his pocket he removed the teeth and popped them into his mouth. They still tasted of salt and blood, but he didn’t mind. He was tasting the essence of his victims, woman and beast, sucking the life from them, mastering them. As he rolled them around with his tongue, he considered the chaos below him. Those Dillingers, pounding through the snow on their horses, tearing over the prairie in their vehicles. He let his tongue linger in the crevice of a molar, feeling his juices flowing once again.

He would have another Dillinger, soon.

They were concerned about the fire ... about things that did not matter.

He rolled the loose teeth around in his mouth, his body pulsing, rock hard, as he thought of the power that would be his. He would have everything he rightly deserved. Finally.

Hunter stood at the front of the cathedral-ceilinged dining room, where all the Dillingers were assembled along with Sam and Davis Featherstone and several other members of the sheriff’s department and fire squad. Luckily Whit Crowley was off-duty today, so there was one less jackass to contend with. Hunter had been elected to speak to the family, though there was nothing to tell until they had time to assess what had caused the fire. It was just that someone needed to reassure them. The fire was out and the investigation had begun. The foreman’s cottage had been saved, but the damage at the points of ignition was extensive.

He looked over the somber Dillingers, noting Colton and Sam’s smoke-stained faces, undoubtedly a reflection of his own soot-covered skin and clothes. His gaze inadvertently landed on Delilah. That red-gold hair. That touch-me-not demeanor. Her years in Hollywood had turned her from a rawhide-tough, skinny kid to a slim woman with curves in the right places and a haughty attitude he could read from across the room. All Dillinger.

“Is it arson?” Ira demanded before Hunter could speak.

“Yes,” Hunter said. “The electricity was cut from the feed outside. And there were multiple points of origin for the fire—the front door and the kitchen door, which is around the side of the house, a good twenty feet away.”

“You’re saying someone deliberately started it?” Ricki’s daughter asked.

Brooklyn, he remembered. Everyone had tried to get her to go to bed, but she wanted to hear what he had to say. He got it. She needed to know. She was tightly holding the white kitten Hunter had found yowling in the woodpile. The little feline had clamped on with tiny, fierce claws that had made it damn near impossible for him to extract it. Besides the smoke, he had a few bloody scratches for his effort.

“They used gasoline and an accelerant, lighter fluid like you spray on charcoal in a grill. You’d need some kind of squirt can to soak the eaves of the porch roof. That’s what made it catch fire and burn at that intensity and speed. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

“Was someone trying to kill me?” Brook asked in a quavering voice.

“No,” Ira and Ricki declared at the same moment, with Ricki adding, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Hunter said, “Someone was trying to block the exits. We can’t be sure they knew you were in the house, especially with most of the family gone on that sleigh ride
.
”
But we need to pursue the motive,
he thought.

Apparently Sam agreed with him, because he turned to Ricki. “Could be a grudge against you or your family,” the sheriff told her.

“Besides the Kincaids?” Ricki responded with a snort.

“Last I checked, our two families were on speaking terms,” Hunter reminded. “My mother and Ira have been meeting about oil rights.”

“Georgina and I are talking with Century Petroleum,” Ira clarified. “There’s no deal yet. No one’s signed anything.”

Hunter kept his expression neutral. Ira, the old dog, would hardly admit that there were ongoing negotiations. Couldn’t bear for anyone to think he might have softened about the feud, though Hunter knew his mother sure hadn’t. Whatever Georgina was doing with Ira Dillinger was a mystery to Hunter.

“I know some people have a bone to pick with me.” Ricki spoke up. “Especially now that I’m law enforcement. First one that comes to mind is Dodge Miller. He was spitting mad when he recognized me last night.”

“Yeah, there’s that.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m gonna track him down. See if he left his trailer today. In the meantime, we need to be thinking about who else might have a motive.”

Hunter opened his arms to include all the Dillingers at the table. “And if any of you remember anyone on Dillinger property that shouldn’t have been here or seemed out of place, report it.”

Tears streaked through the ash on Brooklyn’s face. “I want to go home. Just take me home.” She leaned into Ricki, who was sitting beside her.

“Honey, the house is filled with smoke,” Ricki said. “No one can sleep there to—”

“Not there. Back to New York. I’m done with this place. I want out of this cow-shit town, out of this insane family!”

“I know.” Ricki patted her daughter’s back. “This is really hard, and you were very brave today. But we’re going to pull through it. Your family is behind you.”

“My family might get me killed,” Brook declared. “What if this is because somebody’s got it in for Dillingers, Mom? What if I get killed because of it?”

“You’re fine now, and we’re going to do everything we can to make sure you and the rest of our family are protected.” Ricki’s voice was loving but firm.

“What do you want to do?” Colton asked Hunter.

“For now, clean up,” he admitted. “When I have more information, I’ll be in touch.”

Everyone rose from the table, meeting adjourned. But when Hunter looked for Delilah, she was nowhere to be seen.

 

 

“Go on up and take a shower,” Ricki told Brook. The girl was pallid with exhaustion, but she did as she was told, dragging herself out of the room toward the stairs.

The main floor was empty but for family and a few stragglers from the fire squad. Ricki found Sam taking notes at the desk in the great room. She bypassed Colt and Rourke and approached Sam. “I need to talk to you,” she said in a voice so quiet, it was nearly lost in the cavernous room.

Sam stopped writing. “Okay.”

She drew a deep breath, exhaled, then dropped to her knees so that her eyes were level with his. “Back in New York, there was an issue with Brook and her friends, and a fire.”

“What do you mean?” Concern burned Sam’s smoky eyes.

Glancing toward the door, she was grateful to see that Colton was ushering Rourke out of the room. When they were completely alone, she said, “Brooklyn had a friend who was a kid on the edge. Shoplifting, smoking, drinking. She was smart and clever, but from one of those families where the kids were overlooked. She set several small fires, one of them on school grounds.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I know. A fire in a trash can. April said she had been trying to put out a cigarette. Maybe that was true. But the administration pulled in all of April’s friends, and Brook was one of them. Though Brook says she warned April to be careful with the cigarette, who knows . . . ?” Ricki trailed off. “I tried to forbid Brook from seeing her. They weren’t close friends, but she resented my interference anyway.”

“Kids do stupid things. You know that,” Sam said gently. “Doesn’t mean they’re headed for a life of crime.”

“Yeah, but the other day I found a lighter in Brook’s backpack.” Ricki pressed her hands together tensely. “And she hates it here. She tells me that all the time. I just ... don’t want to think that she set this fire to take away our home and pave the way back to New York.”

“She’s not capable of that,” Sam told her.

His dark eyes held her gaze, and she envied the assurance she saw there. “How can you be sure?”

“Doesn’t match up with the kid I’ve observed these last few days. And Ricki, look at the details of this fire. The electricity cut from the outside? A kid her age probably doesn’t even know where the line comes in. And both exits burning? Seems to me she would have left herself a way out. This fire was beyond Brook’s current skill set.”

“My God, I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” He rose from the desk and reached for her.

Energized by his touch, Ricki straightened and took a deep breath.

“Should I send Katrina on that interview this afternoon? You can stay with Brook and—”

“No.” Ricki smoothed down her sweater, as if taking a mental inventory. “I’ll go check on Brook, but then I’m going to try to reach Doc’s girlfriend, keep pushing the investigation. I need to keep busy, and there’s no use sitting around and waiting for Hunter Kincaid and the fire department to do their part.”

“You sure you want to keep going tonight?”

“Yep.”

She walked with him across the room as Delilah slipped inside, glancing behind her toward the foyer as if she didn’t want to be seen by anyone. “I was outside the door and heard what you said about Brook,” Delilah admitted. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but—”

“It’s all right.” Ricki finalized her good-byes to Sam, then closed the front door behind him and leaned back against the panels, staring at her sister. “I never thought she was really involved with April, but when I found that lighter, and now the fire . . .”

“Sam’s right. Brook couldn’t have done this. Maybe she had the lighter because she was experimenting with cigarettes herself. Or burning incense, or something,” Delilah suggested.

Ricki nodded, feeling hopeful. “Scented candles. That was the excuse she gave me.”

“See? That could be it. Stranger things have happened.”

“You heard Sam. You sound just like him.”

“Great minds think alike.”

Ricki smiled faintly. “It was nice to hear him defending my daughter. Sam’s so level-headed, so sane, y’know?”

“He is,” Delilah agreed.

“It’s good to be home. Even with everything that’s going on, I think this is the right place for us.”

“Because of Sam?”

“Partly,” Ricki admitted.

“Ricki, are you falling for him?” Delilah asked, a smile creeping across her face.

“Oh, no.”

“You sure?”

She shook her head. “I have to work with him. I don’t have time to fall in love with anyone. Besides, Sam’s more like a brother to me.”

Delilah’s guffaw could be heard all the way to the second floor.

It was nearly seven when Ricki headed out to her truck in search of Doc’s “mysterious” friend, Allison Waller, who assured her that she would be at her home in Lander tonight when Ricki stopped by. When Ricki had called her, she was just getting off work at the car dealership where she was employed, but she’d been more than accommodating.

As she climbed into her truck, she heard a distant bark and a yelp. Coyote? The plaintive tone struck a sad chord inside her, somehow reminding her of the two women who had died alone at the hand of a predator. She paused, scanning the horizon as her breath produced a white puff in the air. She could feel him, his heinous touch nearby. He was close ... maybe even watching the lodge at this very moment.

And he was coming after her ... or was it Brooklyn he wanted? This didn’t seem like the same m.o. as the church fire. So, what did that mean? Two arsonists? Was he after her, now that she had joined the sheriff’s department? Was he after Brook? Was he making a statement to the Dillingers as a whole? Or was it someone else entirely?

The coyote howled again and she touched the bulge at her hip, reassured by the pistol at her belt. It was a fact of nature—predator and prey—but not something to be tolerated in human society.

As she got into the truck, worry weighed her down. First Amber, then Mia, then ... then a fire in her home. Oh, God, was her small family next on his list?

Putting her fears aside with an effort, she drove over to Lander and located the small subdivision Allison Waller called home. The split-level homes with picture windows had probably been all the rage when they were built in the fifties, but now they suffered from a plague of leaky windows and abandoned cars.

From the outside, Allison’s home seemed well kept. The older woman who answered the door introduced herself as Allison’s mother, Esther.

“You want coffee?” Esther offered, her mouth set in a tight line. Was that because her daughter was being interviewed by a cop, or did tension always permeate this home?

“No, thanks.” Ricki waited just inside the door, taking in the contemporary sofa, easy chair, flat screen TV. A moment later a stunning woman came into the room. From her bleached blond hair to the spiked heels of her boots, Allison Waller was everything Ricki had expected, with one exception. She was actually beautiful.

“Hey, there. You must be Ricki Dillinger.” Allison tilted her head so that her blond hair fell over one side of her face, grazing the gloss on her lips.

“Thanks for seeing me. I just have a few questions for you about the night you and Doc were at Big Bart’s.”

“Come in.” Allison motioned Ricki to a sofa, and they both sat, staring toward the picture window.

“I guess Doc told you we have to keep this quiet.” When the woman’s blue eyes connected, there was a surprising alertness. “We don’t mean to cause anyone heartache.”

“Right.” Ricki wasn’t here to judge her. “It was Thanksgiving weekend.”

“The night that woman went missing. The one found in the church, all . . . cut up.”

“She was on her way back to California and stopped in for a bite to eat, apparently.”

“I was hanging out in the Buffalo Lounge. With Stu. You know that already, don’t you?”

Ricki nodded. “Do you remember Amber Barstow at all?”

“Not really,” she admitted.