Trial by Fire (30 page)

Halloween. The second-worst frickin’ day of the year for calls, right behind New Year’s Eve. Wouldn’t you know, it was A-shift’s turn to work the Day of Ghouls this year. All day long, the team had responded to calls, almost every one of them for teens skipping school and pulling stupid stunts resulting in minor injuries or property damage. Who wanted to sit and stagnate in class on a balmy Friday when you could be out destroying stuff?

This evening, the calls had skyrocketed, including the old burning sack of dog crap trick on an elderly man’s front porch, which caught the modest wooden structure on fire. At least they got the blaze doused quickly, and nobody was hurt.

Unlike the unfortunate kid who’d gone with his friends to the cemetery, yanking over tombstones, and got cold-cocked by a falling six-foot marble Virgin Mary. His brains would be scrambled for a week. Some might call that divine justice.

On top of all this, Howard was coming down with something. He lay flat on his back in his bunk, one arm thrown over his eyes, thinking it might be too much to hope for that every juvenile delinquent in Sugarland suddenly got tired of wreaking havoc and went home.

The burning ache in his chest had grown steadily worse in the two days since The Incident. Food turned to ash in his mouth, cramped his belly, so he’d stopped eating. On downtime, between calls and after chores, the guys and Eve joked around as usual, played cards, whatever. But he couldn’t seem to focus on anything they said. His mind was wrapped in fog, his body weighed down by bricks.

Naturally, they’d all gotten concerned, tried to get him to talk. Even Sean came out of his own funk for a change, worried about his best friend and not bothering to hide it. Problem was, Howard had nothing to say.

At least he wasn’t having nightmares, because you had to sleep to have them.

“Six-Pack? You awake?”

Stifling a sigh, he lowered his arm and blinked in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he made out Zack standing in the dim light from the hallway, shuffling his feet. Nervous.

“For you, sure thing. What’s doing?”

“I, um, need to ask you a question. In private, before Julian comes in.” The younger man walked in, hands in his pockets. He spoke quietly, voice strained. “It’s important.”

His own ailments put aside for now, Howard sat up and switched on the bedside lamp, gestured for Zack to sit. The man was drawn tight as a bowstring, laser-blue eyes grim as he took a spot on the other end of the bunk. In a flash of memory, Howard recalled this same vibe from his friend the day of Bentley’s birthday party, and the mental note he made to speak to Zack. He’d never followed through, and now he felt bad. He waited, giving the guy time to say his piece.

“I need a couple of days off,” Zack said, clasping his hands in front of him, elbows on his knees.

Howard shrugged. “That’s it? We can swing it.”

“Next week.”

“Hmm. Tricky, but not impossible.” He eyed his friend, speculating. “I assume you’ve run this by Sean.”

The younger man’s mouth flattened. “With all due respect, the captain isn’t exactly receptive to anything I say or do lately. No, I haven’t.”

Oh, boy. “What, you’re afraid to talk to Sean? Since when?”

“If I’m scared of anyone, I guarantee you it’s not him.” The sidelong, icy stare Zack leveled at Howard chilled him to the bone. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of. Personal. For this once, I’d like to avoid taking his shit.”

What the hell was going on? “What kind of shit?”

“Man, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not saying jack. You two are tight and I’m
so
not going there. I can deal a while longer and pray he gets it together, because the only other option would tear our team apart.”

Howard blinked at him. “A formal grievance? Things are that bad between you?”

“And then some.” Zack raked a hand through his short black hair, yanked off his wire-rimmed glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He appeared as tired as Howard felt.

“Look, I just need two days off next week. I rarely ask, but that won’t mean squat to the captain. I’m not asking you to grant me the time off over his head, just to smooth the way after I talk to him. Help me make sure this happens, because I
have
to be somewhere else. I’ve got no choice.”

“Sounds dire, my friend.”

“God.” He hung his head, glasses dangling from one hand. After a long silence, he murmured, “I’ve sold my house.”

“Why?” He frowned. “After you worked your ass off to get the loan? You’ve only been there a year.”

“Again, no choice. And I can’t talk about this yet.”

Judging by Zack’s defensive stance, there wasn’t anything Howard could say right now to budge him. “All right, whatever you need. Whenever you’re ready to talk—”

“I know.” Some of the tension drained from his friend’s shoulders. “Thanks, Six-Pack.”

Zack left as quietly as he’d come in. No sooner had Howard settled himself on his bunk again when his cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. Irritated, he considered letting it go, but he held out slim hope the caller might be Kat. Very slim, based on how badly he’d hurt her when she’d showed at his place.

He’d never forgive himself.

He grabbed the phone, flipped it open. “Paxton.”

“I have an old friend of yours here, Lieutenant,” a low voice hissed. “She’s gonna burn for you one last time, but not in the way you’d like.”

“Who is this?” Sitting up, he swung his legs to the floor. The caller laughed, and his blood ran cold.

“Wouldn’t you love to know, boy. Here, bitch,” he barked at someone on the other end. “Tell our fine, brave hero you need to be rescued.”

A woman’s scream nearly arrested his heart. “He’s going to kill me! Oh, God, don’t let him kill me! What are you doing? Nooo . . .” Her voice faded, the phone snatched away.

Oh, God, no. “Kat!” he yelled. “Where is she, you sonofabitch?”

“No blondes on the menu tonight, only redheads. Lucky for sweet Katherine. Isn’t that right, slut?” In the background, the woman’s bloodcurdling screams intensified.

A redhead.
Janine.

He stood, swaying on his feet, and lurched for the door. “Where is she? Tell me!”

“Oh, that’s right. She means less than nothing to you, so you wouldn’t remember.” After rattling off an address, he taunted, “Better hurry, Lieutenant. The clock is ticking.”

The line went dead. Howard ran, shouting orders. Tommy and Eve emerged from their bunks, sleepy and confused.

“What’s going on?” Tommy yawned. “I didn’t hear an alarm.”

“There wasn’t one.” Howard skidded to a halt. Briefly, he gasped out what was happening. “Get everyone rounded up and bunked out in their gear. Tell Sean to have dispatch radio a full alarm and notify the police! We need to roll—now!”

They raced toward a disaster he couldn’t have conjured, even in his nightmares. As he hurried out the door to the bay, his palm landed on the black-and-white letters.

EVERYBODY GOES HOME.

But not always.

17

Janine might still be alive.

Howard’s brain numbed itself to the probability of her murder. Desperately, he clung to the hope that they might reach her in time. Even though he knew in his gut it wasn’t true.

Don’t think. Just do your job.

Because if he allowed himself to think, he’d have to face his role in leading a killer straight to Janine’s doorstep. That her death was ultimately his fault.

That the victim could’ve been Kat.

He and Julian leapt from the ambulance, donning their SCBA units, turning on the air. Sean, Eve, and Tommy poured out of the engine, shrugging on their tanks, letting the masks hang around their necks. Zack took his post beside the quint to connect the hoses and man the pump.

“Engine 171 initiating primary search. Three going in,” Tanner barked into his handset to the battalion chief and everyone else listening on the airwaves. Two more engine companies from nearby stations were en route.

“Be fucking careful,” Eve ordered, expression fierce. As the RIC crew this shift, she and Sean would remain outside in case Howard, Julian, or Tommy got into trouble.

Howard unhooked the handheld thermal imaging camera from his shoulder strap as Julian took the nozzle of the hose, Tommy behind. “You guys ready for this?”

“I’m good,” Salvatore said, and Skyler nodded.

A gloved hand landed on Howard’s arm, restraining him. Sean shook his head, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes and nose. “I’ll go with them. You stay and coordinate, wait for the battalion chief and the others.”

“Uh-uh. No way.”

“This sick animal wants you to go inside, Howard. I don’t like this. Something’s wrong.”

“No time for this.” He clapped his best friend on the shoulder. “Be back in a few.”

He and Jules kicked in the front door as sirens from the assisting engine companies wailed in the night, approaching. Using the camera, he stood slightly behind Salvatore in the lead and helped guide the three of them through the dark. They had no problem negotiating the hallway leading to the bedrooms, following the lure of angry, writhing flames to the last room on the end.

They stepped inside, into hell. The bed was a torch, flames licking the ceiling. But the room wasn’t yet fully involved, the window glass intact, which meant the killer had set the fire less than two and a half minutes ago. The bastard had waited until he heard them coming.

Then he’d murdered her.

In the center a figure was sprawled, handcuffed to the posts. A person unrecognizable as his former lover, jaw frozen open in a scream, burning.

Dead.
She’s dead and it’s my fault. Jesus, God
. . .

Shut it out. Do your job.

Pulling back the nozzle, Tommy at his back, Julian easily controlled the immense water pressure that would otherwise turn the hose into a wild, living thing. Turning the stream on the blaze, he doused the bed, the draperies, the ceiling. Tamed the beast into submission. Nothing more they could do for a woman who hadn’t deserved this fate.

The guilt threatened to buckle Howard’s knees.

“I guess we’re done,” Julian said, raising his voice. “I don’t envy the crime tech—what the
fuck
?”

“What is it?” Turning, Howard blinked, peering through the mask and thick smoke to see what Julian was staring at on the wall behind them.

When his vision cleared, he gaped at the message illuminated by Tommy’s flashlight. The red fluorescent letters ran as though written in blood: BOOM.

In spite of the stifling, superheated air in the room, his body went cold.

The clock is ticking.

Fear kicked his heart into overdrive. “Get out!” he shouted at his partners. “Go, go!”

His men didn’t need to be told twice. Dropping their section of hose, they bolted from the room, likely assuming Howard was on their heels.

And he would’ve been, except, holy shit . . .

“Cap, get everyone away from the house! Tanner!” Nothing but crackling static. He paused, keyed the microphone on his left shoulder strap again. Damned radio wasn’t working.

He ran to the window and without a thought, doubled his gloved fist and smashed it though the glass three times, ignoring the pain slicing into his hand and arm. Bending, he yelled through the jagged hole at his startled team and others who’d arrived to take up positions.

“Get away from the house and take cover! Do it
now
!”

No time to explain. He had to trust they’d do as he’d ordered. Had to get the hell out of here. Not daring to look again at the charred body on the bed, he ran as fast he was able in his cumbersome gear. He cleared the door and sped down the hallway.

Probably the killer’s idea of another sick joke, like the note in the shower. Make them scramble like rats, laugh from somewhere nearby when his quarry realized nothing was going to—

The deafening explosion hit his back with the force of a runaway 747. The blast lifted him off his feet and hurled him through black space shot with flame that reached with deadly arms to consume him. His flight ended abruptly as he crashed into something hard, jarring his right shoulder. He bounced and fell, slammed onto a sharp table corner that caught his ribs in a glancing blow, before finally landing on his side in a shower of glass and debris.

Immediately, he tried to roll to his hands and knees, only to double over in agony and slump prone on the floor. His right arm wouldn’t work; dislocated shoulder. His head swam and the pain in his side stabbed like a serrated blade. He couldn’t see or hear a damned thing, either, except inky blackness and a loud roaring in his ears. Couldn’t move to reach the button on his PASS device to sound the alarm for help. Heaving a deep breath, he tried calling out.

But nothing emerged except a hoarse wheeze, his effort rewarded by a fit of coughing. Dull horror seeped into his brain. God help him, his mask had been ripped from his face. On his back, the Air-Pak hung to one side, useless weight. His throat and lungs burned, filled with smoke.

Since he’d been motionless for too long, the PASS device on his coat began to emit a shrill wail even the dead could hear, alerting his team to his location.

Stay calm. Breathe.
But it was no use. His limbs were encased in cement, his lungs heavy and full. He was suffocating.