Fire Angel (23 page)

Alexis was familiar with the use of fire bombs. A traditional Molotov cocktail was made using a glass bottle containing a flammable substance like gasoline and motor oil, with a wick of some sort, soaked in gas or alcohol, pushed through the bottle's stopper. The person lit the wick and threw the bottle at the target; however, the chances of getting burned in the process were quite high. In fact, if the arsonist didn't know exactly what he was doing, he could set himself on fire instead. She frowned. This arsonist must have been aware of that danger, which explained why the cocktail here had not been a traditional one. Although he had used gasoline as an accelerant in two of the fires, that was not the case this time.

“According to the preliminary reports, the arsonist used reactive chemicals — specifically sulfuric acid, sugar, and potassium chlorate together with dish soap and Styrofoam, which created the clouds of thick, black, choking smoke. I thought that meant he had a higher education, but not so.” Jake continued as if he could read her mind. “None of the materials are hard to get; a high school lab would stock them. Yes, I agree with you about Angus. If he got the chemicals from the high school for him, our killer would definitely need to shut him up.

“The internet tells you how to mix the chemicals; they even give the directions for something called ‘Dancing Gummy Bears'; in fact, you can even learn how to make your own potassium chlorate, and most drain cleaners contain enough sulfuric acid to be used as is with a splash of water. Basically, when the sulfuric acid mixes with the potassium chlorate, it produces oxygen and the sugar burns. That's why there was so much smoke and flame, but not much damage to the rest of the place.”

Styrofoam; there had been Styrofoam in one form or another at each of the fires — the polystyrene insulation at the shelter as well as coffee cups. Here it had been in the cocktail, but might there have been cups on the table as well? Would it be possible to find out if there had been Styrofoam at the cabin — possibly in the form of disposable cups and plates? Duffy's would have had Styrofoam packing materials as well as coffee cups. What purpose could the Styrofoam play other than creating the thick black smoke? Was it part of his ritual, a signature of sorts, or was it just coincidental?

Alexis looked around the room. If the handymen had been sitting at the table, then the cocktail would have hit the wall above them. The coroner's report was very specific — they had been burned alive, and the photos seemed to confirm that.

The flash and burn from the chemical cocktail alone could not account for the level of damage in the photos, but the heavy smoke traveling through the rest of the house would have taken care of the others.

“I'll get started in here,” she said to the firefighter. “Jake, can you look around outside? I'm sure the snow has obliterated any footprints in the immediate area, but see what you can find.” She hoped he understood that she needed him to look for a sheltered vantage point and cigarette butts, maybe even the remains of a joint. It wouldn't be easy to find anything considering the recent weather …

She turned to the firefighter standing beside her.

“Jackson, is it?” He nodded. She pointed to the broken window above the sink, the only window in the kitchen other than the one in the door.

“Was that window broken when you arrived?”

“No ma'am. We punched it out when we got the go-ahead to pour water in here. The fire was really bad over in that corner.” He indicated the table.

“What color was the flame?”

“Yellow and white, oh, and blue — I'm not the expert, but my guess would be alcohol or gasoline; we didn't find any containers, but there were bits and pieces of rags around.”

“Thank you; I'd better get to work.”

Jake left the kitchen area; Jackson stayed in the house, well within earshot, in case Alexis needed anything, while he went and searched the perimeter where the spectators would have been.

He walked around the house to the back door, but the snow was undisturbed. He went back out front and walked down the front walk to where the barrier would have been on the night of the fire, wondering who had shoveled it and when. From the lack of the snow, it had been shoveled shortly before the storm had ended. A good Samaritan? Unlikely; probably the firefighters had done it.

He shook his head.
If I were a pyromaniac, where would I stand? I'd need to be close but private; that's what Alexis said.
There would have been a lot of curious neighbors watching that night.

He quickly found what he was looking for; someone had built a playhouse years ago at the edge of their yard, under an old Sycamore tree that gave the street its name. The structure was in rough shape, but would have provided the view and the privacy the killer would have needed. Inside the dilapidated structure were two cigarette butts, similar to those he found at the cabin and on the roof. They might not be the arsonist's, but it was a possibility. He put them in the baggie that he had taken from the kit he carried in his truck, and then headed back towards the house.

When they had arrived, a few of the neighbors had come out to see what was going on, but they had soon gone back to their business. How did they feel about having a flophouse in the neighborhood? Most of the people the police had interviewed had little sympathy for the dead. All they wanted to know was when the house would be repaired or torn down.

An eerie feeling made Jake stop in his tracks. He looked up and down the street in front of him. Had those cars been there earlier? Had that black SUV been there? Hadn't a black SUV almost struck Frank the day of the shooting? He stopped and did a slow scan of the neighborhood. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Someone was watching him; he would stake his life on it. Was she right about Dr. Shillingham? That black SUV looked a lot like his. He would talk to Everett as soon as he arrived. They should have been able to get some information by now. The first note had made him nervous, the second one had scared him; this one terrified him.

He walked towards the house, intent on putting the baggie in the truck and collecting his cell phone which he had forgotten on the seat when he saw Frank Arthur's Mobile Canteen pull over just a few houses down from the crime site. He saw Patrick wave at Frank and heard him call out to him.

“Glad you got my message, Frank, I'm freezing my you-know-what! Got hot coffee?”

Jake put the baggie in his pocket and started across the street for the canteen. He would bring her a cup of coffee and use it as an excuse to stay in the house with her.

“Hi Frank, nice to see you here. Perfect timing. Can I have two with double sugar and cream?”

“Coming right up. I saw you make that speech to the media,” Frank said. “That guy sure sounds like a badass, do you have any clues as to who he really is? I tried to think of anyone who might fill the bill, but the ones I know are either dead or in jail.” He laughed.

“We are narrowing the possibilities, and Alexis will know more when she's done here. I expect we'll make an arrest before Christmas.” Jake answered, hoping that he was right. “If you do think of anything, you'll let me know, right?”

Frank looked concerned. “I sure will. I dropped off more venison at the inn. Randy said the restaurant was still closed.” He handed out two cardboard cups filled with coffee. “I stopped by the hospital on my morning run and Dr. Shillingham was quite annoyed about it. It seems that you've thrown off his routine.”

“New cups?”

Frank nodded. “They're recyclable.”

“I'll give the doctor a call. He's probably worried about missing that Yorkshire pudding.” Jake laughed. “If you see him before I do, tell him we'll be open for business tomorrow night.”

“I was a little worried too,” said Frank and smiled sheepishly. “That's the best meal the boys and I get all week.”

Jake laughed and put three dollars on the shelf. “Thanks.”

Jake hurried towards the house. If Andrew knew the restaurant was closed, he could easily have brought that note. He could see Jackson waiting for him just inside the door. The man could probably use a cup of coffee too. He was glad that Jackson was waiting for him. He didn't like the fact that Alexis might be left in that house alone.

Alexis sat back on her heels and sighed. Whatever the accelerant he had used had been, there was one thing that she knew for sure. It had not been gasoline. Despite the report, she had checked under the old tiles, looking at the sub-floor in case the techs had missed it, but there had been nothing. There had been remnants of old rags, but they had been covered in paint solvent, not gasoline, and they hadn't been close enough to be of use.

Jackson had mentioned blue flames. She thought of the fancy dessert she had had in Miami — something flamed. That flame had been blue too. What if alcohol and sugar had been poured over the bodies? A strong liqueur like Grand Marnier? It would burn quickly and with the modern Molotov cocktail, alcohol would be hard to spot. She checked the floor and the table for signs of wax, knowing it was a long shot at best. She noted that the table was made of metal, one of the old-fashioned ones that opened up to add a leaf. She examined the center crack. Something seemed to be stuck in it. She tugged at the table trying to open it, but the heat had fused it shut. She got down on her knees and crawled under the table, examining the underside of it and the floor. There it was — the same tacky, waxy residue she had found in the cabin and on the table from Duffy's garage — just as the techs had noted in their reports. She grabbed a sample jar and scraped the floor. She grabbed another and scraped the table.

She walked over to the door with her camera and started snapping pictures. If the cocktail had been thrown through the window in the door as Jake had said, it would not have hit in the right place. She changed her vantage point and moved to stand near the sink. She faced the table on the other side of the room, about seven or eight feet away.

She slowed her breathing, closed her eyes, and allowed the evidence to bring the fire to life for her. The arsonist had stood right here and smashed the bottle full of chemicals against the wall, igniting the contents. He had stayed inside and watched the men burn, just as he had at the cabin. He would have heard them scream and seen them trying to put out the flames on their clothing, but he had used a lot of alcohol and the sugar — when the alcohol had burned off, the fabric and flesh had caught fire.

When she could finally breathe again, she thought she'd be sick. She reached into her kit and took out the bottle of water she'd added this morning. She took a deep drink, trying to steady herself. At times like these, her talent was not a gift, it was a curse.

She shook her head; she had to get out and get some fresh air. Then she would have to tell Jake about her talent. Jake needed to look for someone who had made an unusually large purchase of liqueur; he would have needed several bottles for this.

She was just leaving the kitchen when she heard a sound, a click that did not seem to belong.
There it is again
. She had heard it a couple of times earlier. She stood in the kitchen doorway and looked around the living room at the decrepit, damaged furniture, searching for something that clicked, but could find nothing. The old television set in the corner was silent. There was no radio, no clock. She smiled at Jackson, who stood near the open door through which his friend had just left. He closed it and turned to her.

“Do you hear that?” she asked Jackson, “that clicking sound?”

She saw Jake coming up the steps with two coffee cups; Jackson opened the door. There was that click again. Jake elbowed it open wider.
Crack!
All hell broke loose. There was a loud bang and the ceiling came down on top of her. Everything went black.

The force of the roof collapsing knocked Jake off his feet and sent the coffee cups flying into the air and out onto the front porch.

“Alexis!” he screamed, pushing the debris off his back so that he could get up. His entire left side ached; he would have some nasty bruises in the morning. He tried to assess the damage inside.

“Alexis,” he shouted again, terror loud in his voice. Where had she been? In the kitchen doorway? Would the doorframe have provided any support? What if she were badly injured? He tried to turn over, but a beam held him solidly in place. He could not move his prosthesis.

“Get to Alexis,” he yelled at the firefighter who had run up the steps. The man moved debris from the ceiling out of the way to get past him. He grabbed a large chunk of drywall and pushed it aside, allowing Jake to see into the room. His heart stopped. Oh Lord; the entire kitchen ceiling and some of the living room and porch had come down, and he was certain that it had not come down on its own; somehow, it had been engineered to fall.

“She's in the kitchen,” he cried out. “Jackson should be near me; that's where he was when the whole thing came down.”

Jake could smell gasoline; he sniffed again, realizing that the liquid was running along the floor towards him, soaking his clothing; Alexis and Jackson had to be covered in it as well. If anything sparked, they would all go up in flames.

“Hurry,” he yelled to Pierre and Patrick who had rushed to help. “There is gasoline coming from some place; I'm covered in it. Alexis, Jackson!” he yelled again, but there was no response. He was frantic. He couldn't move, and his helplessness terrified him.
Not again! Please God, not again!

Pierre had moved most of the debris off of Jake, but he shook his head when he looked at his leg. A spike had pierced the prosthesis, fixing it firmly to the floor.

“It could have been worse, Jake. It could have been your good leg. I've called the station; help is on its way.”

“Alexis? Can you see her?”

“No, but Cal and Patrick have uncovered Jackson. Your prosthesis is nailed to the floor; from what I can see most of it is smashed. I've got bolt cutters in the Hummer; I'll get them. I can cut you free. That's the best I can do. It would take too long to try to strip you down to get the prosthesis off. We have to get you out of here, out of the way.”