___________________________
If fear is the spark which ignites the touch-paper of the nervous system, then adrenaline is the body’s combustible gunpowder.
And I went off like a rocket.
I’d hurdled the hood of the cruiser and hurtled into a sprint before the cop had spoken the last word. If he went on to holler a warning I didn’t hear it; the rush of blood to my head was booming. All at once my legs were pounding like pistons, accelerating my feet into a blur across the asphalt. Arms working the air. Teeth barred as muscles fizzed. All I could think about was getting to the last house on the left and to . . .
Rae!
Hers was the house ablaze. I could see luminous orange serpents writhing against its timber walls. Hear wood splintering. Plastic popping. Paint sizzling. I could see flaming Medusa heads poking out of broken window panes, hear their tortured screams as they raged at the night air. Heard hot glass shatter. Support beams creaking like the last dying moans of a shipwrecked galleon. I could see burning tumbleweeds of fire cartwheeling along the roof tiles. Thick acrid smoke belching skywards.
I shot between a pair of patrol cars. Several startled cops were slow to react. No one was expecting some nut, fresh from the nuthouse, making a direct dash to the fire.
All I could thinking about was . . .
Rae!
We’d spoken, barely thirty minutes ago. I knew she was home. If she weren’t being comforted out on the street by a friendly neighbor or a Fire Department paramedic, then she was still inside the house. Still inside that raging inferno. And that meant . . .
I was so focused on the wall of flame that I failed to see the two firefighters intercept my mad bolt. But they saw me coming. They reached out big arms and grappled me against the shiny paneling of one of the fire trucks. Gloved hands holding tight. Terrified words spewing from my mouth:
I had to get into the house! Rae was in there! I had to get her out! They had to let me go!
The fire burned brightly, crackling in a mocking tone.
A couple of burly cops took over and manhandled me face-down on the hood of a police cruiser. I kicked and I thrashed like an apprehended drug dealer with pockets stuffed with crack cocaine. But they clung on. Yanked my arms behind my back and threw on cuffs. More terrified words spewed forth:
they had to let me go! Rae was in the house! I had to get in there and get her out!
But I wasn’t going anywhere.
Flames soared high, pulled by spark-filled smoke.
The whole of Rae’s house was afire. Every bit of wood blanketed in red-hot flame. No way anyone was going in without getting burned alive. No way anyone was coming out unless they already were.
With my cheek pressed firmly against the metalwork, I was unable to do anything except observe, helpless, as firefighters aimed hoses at the rampant blaze. The infernal beast fought back. Hissing and reeling. Rearing up as the flaming serpents hissed and slithered for cover.
Vomit clawed at my throat.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. No sign of Rae out on the street or sitting on the back plate of an EMS vehicle. I couldn’t believe her house was on fire and she was inside.
“Cut him some slack,” I heard someone shout. “He’s a Fed.”
Heavy-duty hands rummaged in my back pocket, then flipped me over. A no-nonsense beat cop compared my sickly pallor against my photo ID.
“She’s a Fed, too,” I blurted, voice racked with panic. “In there! This is her house! She’s my partner, dammit! You’ve got to get her out!”
___________________________
There are times in our lives when we feel utterly useless: listening to George’s doctor tell us about his tangled brain chemistry for the first time; Hope lying in a coma at Cedars-Sinai, her prognosis grim; Jamie Garcia falling to her death from the Stratosphere Tower. This was one of them. Irrationally, I wanted to rush through the flames, do the superhero thing, find Rae and carry her out to safety. Realistically, I already knew it was too late.
Blood thumped behind my eyes.
Nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do. The cops removed the handcuffs, but kept me restrained – they assured me for my own safety – while the firefighter platoon did their job.
Despite the punishing heat, there was Alaska pack ice floating round in my belly.
No way anyone could have survived in that hellfire.
No way.
___________________________
Hardly any traffic on the road this time of night.
He drove the van west along the coast highway, out toward Malibu, listening to Jim Morrison trying to set his night on fire.
His blunt fingers strummed against the wheel.
He was feeling exhilarated, mildly optimistic.
One step closer to sealing the deal.
To the final play.
The showdown at the end zone.
Everything going according to plan.
In the cargo space behind him, his silent passenger rolled around on the floor, conscious but unable to lift a finger of protest.
Not dead.
Not yet.
___________________________
It took the best part of an hour to completely put out the blaze on Corona Del Mar in Pacific Palisades. One of the longest hours of my life. All the while, itching to rush in there. No way anyone was going in until it was absolutely safe to do so, and then only the FD assessors in the first instance.
Throughout, I watched, nauseous and disbelieving, as the fire dwindled under the relentless deluge. Rage throttling my throat. The beast did its best to take refuge in the farthest reaches, but slowly the hoses exhumed the blackened remains of the house. A shattered shell of smoldering timbers emerged through the smoke. Wet burn in the air – horribly reminiscent of the boat bomb in Kodiak. Spectral lights revealing brief glimpses of skeletal wood and smoking limbs.
A soot-faced platoon commander splashed his way toward me through the black water coursing down the street. “Someone said you’re the next of kin,”
“I’m her partner,” I breathed.
“We found the body in the bedroom,” he confirmed with a difficult nod. “If it’s any consolation, she was probably asleep and didn’t know anything about it. I’m sorry for your loss.”
There it was: the irrefutable proof.
Rae was gone.
My old flame had died.
But she hadn’t been asleep.
She’d been waiting for me.
And now she was dead.
Burned to death in her own home.
No way she’d been asleep.
No way she couldn’t have known what was happening.
I steadied shaking legs against the patrol car and gasped.
All of a sudden the world was spinning crazily out of control.
Rae was dead!
The platoon commander shouted: “Get this man some water. And somebody get the detectives down here; this is now a crime scene.”
Through acidic tears I stared at the blackened hulk of Rae’s home. Every emotion imaginable fisting me in the gut.
Rae was gone.
No doubt about it now.
Burned alive in her own bed.
And I’d been too late to save her.
Someone handed me a glass of water as ashy flakes began to fall from the sky.
It was Christmas in California and it was snowing the remains of Rae’s house all over the street.
___________________________
I know procedure.
As raw recruits, it is drummed into us until we know it by rote. Every public service has its protocols. I haven’t always followed them. In this case, I had no choice. It was the Fire Department’s call. Not much I could do anyway. Even the yawning police detectives, who had shown up last minute, had to acquiesce to the FD’s investigators sifting through the burnt debris.
Someone had died in the house fire on Corona, and a cause had to be established.
I sipped at the water. It tasted like vinegar.
Painful minutes passed
All but one of the fire trucks cleared out, leaving overlapping tire tracks in the ashy snow. The police cordon stayed put. Most of the residents returned to their homes, to a restless rest of the night. Hard to sleep with red-and-blues lighting up the neighborhood. A van from the Scientific Investigation Division arrived. A pair of forensics techies got out and suited up, then carried heavy kit bags into the ruins of Rae’s home.
I paced; the wait was torturous.
Eventually, an inspector in firefighter gear came out of the wreckage, took off his helmet and spoke with the platoon commander. The big chief pointed in my direction, then waved the yawning detectives to come join him in a heated confab. The inspector came over, pulled off his heat-retardant gloves and stowed them in his helmet.
He offered a hand, “Morrissey. I’m an investigator with the Fire Department.”
“Quinn.”
“Commander says you’re FBI.”
I nodded. Steel neck sinews unyielding.
“The victim was your partner?”
I didn’t say
in more ways than one
.
“A professional heads-up,” he said. “We’re formally treating this as arson. We found evidence of an accelerant used extensively throughout the property, and several five-gallon jerry cans out in the yard. Looks like the fire was started in several key locations, which then spread rapidly throughout the residence. Judging from the amount of accelerant, we calculate it took it less than three minutes to completely overwhelm the house.”
Plus anyone unlucky enough to be caught up in it.
I rocked back on my heels under the weight of his words.
The fire had been started deliberately. Fiery demons had raged around the house, consuming everything within minutes. Rae hadn’t stood a chance.
Rae had been murdered!
“Forensics also thought you’d like to see this.” He held up a clear plastic evidence bag. “It was in the victim’s left hand.”
I was numb from the neck down and dumb from the neck up. Everything zooming in and out. With uncooperative fingers, I took the bag from Morrissey and examined it in the beam of a headlight. Inside was a small rectangular wafer of blistered plastic.
“Looks like a credit card,” Morrissey pointed out.
But I knew otherwise. It was a hotel keycard. Melted and blackened. Same thing I’d seen on my son’s burned body in Akhiok.
All at once I knew what had happened to Rae and her fixer-upper. I didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t process the terrible truth. I was still gawping when a black Suburban screeched to a stop and Mason Stone jumped out. Aptly, he looked ashen.
“Bloody hell, Quinn. What happened?”
“It’s Cornsilk,” I breathed over a cotton candy tongue. “He’s burned down Rae’s home. He’s killed Rae.”