Retribution (18 page)

“I should have been there. I would have smelled the smoke and gotten them out safely.”

“Most likely you would've died with them. God has something planned for you. He isn't ready to give you your reward.”

Death as a reward? She had never thought of death that way, but more as something to be avoided. She pulled Trina close and hugged her. “You are such a blessing to me.”

“If you're all right, I'm headed to bed.”

“Have a good rest. You deserve it.”

The room felt cold and empty after Trina left. Sleep eluded Lillian. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and headed downstairs. Darlington was safe after dark. Maybe the night air would help settle the thoughts filling her head.

Her mood felt euphoric after the cleansing conversation with Trina. She had been in Darlington for six weeks now, and she felt more alive than she had in the past two years.

~*~

Roger headed to his bedroom, closed the curtains and reached for the box on the top shelf. Mindlessly he opened the lid and grabbed the thumb drive. Within minutes, the computer came to life. A message from his contact popped up, and anger surged through him. How many times did he have to tell her not to send him messages? Just let someone get hold of his computer, and it wouldn't take much to trace her. If she wanted to be careless and implicate herself when he was the one taking all the risks, then he should let her. He skimmed the message, already knowing what it would say.

With the thumb drive shoved into the port, the data began to load. He punched in the contact's phone number on the pre-paid cell phone. Her smooth greeting accosted his ears. “You sent me another e-mail,” he said. “I've been too careful for you to be sloppy on your end.”

“Careful? That's what you call it?”

“And what would you call it?” It was easy for her to judge when her hands remained clean. Maybe he had been too noble to take all the risk.

“I call it scared.” The woman's words stung. “Or lazy. Maybe you never meant what you said in the first place; all words and no backbone.”

Heat flamed his face. No one doubted his courage. He had learned to fight in third grade, a necessary survival technique for the frequent changes in schools. In each new location, he had worked to develop the reputation of being the toughest kid on the playground. He had backbone. “I have proven…”

“I know what you did. You don't need to remind me. But do
I
need to remind
you
of the real Lillian Hunter?”

“I know who she is.” Then the near-kiss played in his mind. Did he really know which Lillian was real? Maybe the Lillian he had planned to kill was already dead, or perhaps she had never existed at all except in the imaginations of himself and his partner.

The tinkle of ice, and a throaty swallow filtered through the phone. He could almost smell his partner's breath. He knew exactly what room she was in, where she was sitting.

Her mood softened. “I know this is hard. Imagine how it is for me. I have to sit here, waiting, not doing anything. I need her to pay—”

When had the woman's voice turned cold? Initially she had lit the fire that moved him forward, provided the fuel to propel his actions. Her words had solidified his determination to act. Now he stood with the phone held away from his ear, wanting the call to end.

Reassurances given, he shut down the call and returned his attention to the computer. The download completed, he accessed a file and made notes. Next, he pulled out the map from inside the desk, marked changes, and carefully closed out the software.

Harboring too much suppressed tension to sleep, he slipped on a light jacket and locked the house behind him.

With no destination in mind, he wandered much like a dog followed its nose, going from spot to spot based on the step before. Feet mindlessly guided the body while the cool air soothed the mind. Control began to seep back into his muscles.

Even though it was not quite midnight on a Friday night, a few houses already stood dark, those who lived within them tucked safely in their beds. At other houses, the blue glow of the television reflected against the windows. Most likely, the occupants were watching the nightly news. Nothing that interested him. He had never participated in politics. He didn't imagine he would be around long enough to worry about things like social security and Medicare.

A car passed. From the dark silhouette, he couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, but the person was alone. Like him. He felt hollow and empty, more vulnerable than he had been in a long time.

The phone conversation haunted him. He should have taken care of Lillian a long time ago. That was the original plan: within a couple of weeks. It had been a month and a half since Lillian Hunter moved to Darlington, and she was still alive.

13

Roger wandered for over an hour, moving from one neighborhood to the next, like a man with nowhere to go.

A door burst open and light spilled onto the porch. Two men swayed down the steps, laughing and slapping each other on the back as they reached the sidewalk.

Roger stayed behind them until the next block, when he turned, leaving them to their own destruction. His mind whirled as he walked, trying to process his unexpected attraction to the woman he had learned to hate. There was something about her that he seemed unable to escape. What power did she hold, or was she playing a game with his mind?

And her attraction to him seemed equally real. The fear on her face when she talked about finding the gas cans wasn't staged for his benefit. And she had turned to him for help. That had to prove something. And then tonight.

What would it have been like to kiss her? His heart thumped in his chest. He was falling in love with the woman he had vowed to kill, and the realization caused a flicker of joy and then bitter pain.

The sound of his footsteps awakened a dog from his slumber, and the beast shared a half-hearted bark before settling back against the foundation of the house. Except for the rowdy party a few streets back, he could almost believe he was the sole survivor of the end of the world the pastor was so fond of talking about. Sleep had settled over Darlington.

The black sky shimmered just above the trees to the right, and soon an orange glow broke the darkness. The brightness increased into a mass of light that domed a section of the night sky.

Sirens pierced the silence.

Blood rushed through his veins. He began to run.

A fire engine roared past, then another.

Rounding the corner, he stopped. A low groan escaped his lips. Flames roared and wood cracked as the fire destroyed another house. Even from half a block away, the heat assaulted his face. His mind slipped into memories of two other fires. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the visions aside. He had to stay in the moment.

Voices layered on top of each other, commands shouted, hoses shot streams of water that hissed as they joined with the blaze.

His shoulders slumped as he watched the licking greedy tongues ingest wood and mortar. He should make his presence known as the proxy homeowner. A loud crack disturbed his thoughts, followed by sprays of orange and red sparks.

Voices shouted. Yellow-garbed firefighters stumbling backward, hindered by heavy gear. Arches of water sizzled, their sound almost lost in the roar of the fire.

The house was dying.

People dressed in nightclothes gathered on the lawns, holding their arms around themselves as if protecting all they loved. An older woman with bare feet, a housecoat tied at her waist, ran to a firefighter and pulled on his arm. A bald and shirtless man ran after her and tried to pull her away. As they struggled, she continued to point toward the adjacent house.

Roger could see her mouth move, and could imagine her screams, but the snarl of the fire drowned her voice.

Soon firefighters shot water at both neighboring structures. Save the other houses; let this one go.

He knew their thoughts. As he stood alone on the sidewalk, too far from the action for anyone to want to join him, he noticed another solitary person huddled within distant shadows.

As though knowing it had been spotted, the figure melted into the blackness.

His back stiffened. He knew this person, but it was impossible.

14

The old post office smelled of dirty bodies and pot roast.

The pinging sound of rain hitting windows mingling with the shuffle of feet, the guttural words of thanks, and the plop of food on paper plates. About fifteen men had shown up at the shelter for dinner and a place to sleep.

Continued showers were expected throughout the night.

Roger thought the rain would bring in more men, but it hadn't. Apparently, if one was homeless, one didn't get weather forecasts, but surely even the dregs of society had enough sense to come inside.

He blamed Lillian for his presence at the shelter, for forcing him into dishing out mashed potatoes to men he did his best to avoid. Eager to please, he had agreed to help, knowing it would also give him the opportunity to watch her.

And then there was the complication of Paul Studler. The man could show up anytime.

After her first experience volunteering, Roger had hoped she would give it up, but no, she had gone the second week. Now the third.

He felt compelled to tag along. Regardless of his growing attachment, he had a commitment to keep. He looked around the large room and imagined the dozen or so smaller spaces that stood in dark isolation throughout the building. What a perfect place, if he could just find the right time.

The men would never miss her when she was gone.

As a man slid his tray along the rail, Roger dropped a scoop of mashed potatoes onto the plate. The man mumbled something that resembled thank you and moved on. Another man followed. Then another. Roger didn't think his stomach would ever accept mashed potatoes again. The very thought of eating anything right now made him gag.

Taking advantage of the lull in the demand for potatoes, he glanced around, searching for Lillian. He spotted her among the tables, her voice carrying through the clatter. “Coffee or iced tea?” She smiled at each man, as though he were the only person in the room. Why did she work so hard at making these men feel special? He would have thought it all an act except for their conversation the night before; that's when he knew he had to come. How could an attorney be so blind to the dangers of what she was doing?

“It's the family's night,” she had said as they sat close together on his sofa. “You're part of the family. Come and help.”

He stiffened against the softness of her eyes. “How do you know any of the men want to talk to you about legal issues?”

She had laughed. “They don't. Not yet. You should've seen them the first night I helped out. They wouldn't even look at me. Sandra told me that homeless people don't usually trust strangers, especially someone who doesn't have the southern lingo down yet. I just wandered around, doing what I could to help. The second night was better. And this will be the third night. As they say, the third time's the charm.”

“There are other things you can do if you're bored, Lillian.”

“I'm not bored, and this
is
what I want to do.”

Later that night, she had gone back to the bed and breakfast with his promise to come.

And now, movement at the shelter door caught his attention. He hissed under his breath. He should have expected the man, but so much had happened since the accident that he had moved the man to the back of his mind.

Now there he stood, the derelict Lillian had almost hit, still slumped, still staring at the floor, water dripped off of him like a soaked dog while rivulets formed around his feet. Struggling out of his coat, the man placed the wet garment over an empty chair and shuffled toward the food line.

“Good evening, Joe,” Sandra said. “Good night to be inside.”

Joe lifted his head long enough to give her an awkward smile.

“It's pot roast tonight, your favorite. I've been holdin' back this piece just for you.” She placed a generous helping of beef on his plate, followed by a spoonful of green beans. Sandra had said the same thing to every man who had come through the line, greeting most of them by name.

Roger plopped potatoes onto the man's plate, and spooned gravy over the top.

As Joe lifted his head and grunted thank you, a spark of light pulsed through his dull eyes before he moved on.

The guy unnerved Roger. And why the look? It was all he could do to not jerk the bum aside and ask for an explanation. But location was everything, and he had the good sense not to confront the man in his own environment.

“Joe! I'm glad to see you,” Lillian said.

The man gave her a look of…what? Friendship? Appreciation?

The familiarity of the exchange sent flames of anger through Roger.

As Lillian poured Joe's beverage, a new line of men had formed, ready for their handout. He slapped potatoes onto plates.

Joe sat across the room, staring at him, a look of concentration furrowing the vagrant's brow.

As the men finished eating, each deposited his paper plate, empty cup and plastic silverware into the trash bin. They stacked their trays on the table next to the far wall.

Roger had no idea who washed them, but it wouldn't be him.

Sandra scraped the remaining meat into a corner of her stainless steel container. “Looks like our job's over for the night.” She turned off the burners under each of the serving trays. “Will y'all carry your containers to the sink for me?”

At the sink, Roger handed his heavy container, remnants of mashed potatoes still clinging to the sides, to Bill.

“So how'd your first night go?” Bill asked as he placed the empty server into the deep sink. He pulled out a cloth that hung from his pocket and mopped the beads of sweat lining his face.

“OK, I guess.”

The steam from the kitchen coated the high windows, shielding the room from the night. The scent of supper clung to the air, and cheerful chatter mingled with the clunk and splash of large pots in the metal sinks.