Dead Burn Page 8

  Kneeling slowly at the exact location where the body was discovered, he took a ballpoint pen from his top pocket, and moved some of the ashes with a circular motion. Not expecting to see the final puzzle piece that would break the case wide open, but he wanted to make some sense out of the scene.

  Why this barn?

  Did the victim know the killer?

  “Haven’t solved this case yet?” The voice came from behind the detective.

  Duncan grunted before he hoisted his cumbersome body in an upright position again, not showing the sharp pain he felt in his knees. He knew the voice, which had a hint of sarcasm infused into a perfectly innocent question.

  The detective turned to face Lance Myers, the arson investigator. “Just making sure you don’t get all the glory.”

  “This one is different.” The tall, extra lean investigator stated as he casually looked around. He towered over the police detective. Both professionals looked like the perfect odd couple.

  “Accelerant?” Duncan asked.

  “Yep. Won’t know the exact chemical components, but my guess, it was gasoline used in the loft area.”

  “What’s his motive?” The detective asked rhetorically rather than waiting for answer.

  “That’s your job detective.” Myers scoffed. “You’ll get my report.” He walked away without another word.

  It unnerved the detective that an investigator with little experience, about eighty hours to receive certification, made him feel unworthy of solving an arson case. He watched two technicians chat for a moment. Suddenly he barked out orders to them in frustration. “I want everything gone over twice, everything needs to be documented! Now!”

  The two forensic techs jumped at his deep tone, kept their eyes down, and stepped with great care around the area in order to finish their duties.

  Duncan retrieved his cell phone from his pocket, agitated, anxious, and annoyed with his progress. He stared at the screen. It was still the same - no messages.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Friday 0945 Hours

  The silence inundated Emily’s ears as she awoke and found herself lying on a king size bed, all alone, in a colorless room. Slowly rolling to the side, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gently sat up. Wavering as she strained to focus on the room.

  White imprisoned the comfortable bedroom. The bedspread, pillows, two nightstands, tall dresser, small round table with a scarf draped, and the ornate closet doors shared the same starkness. If it were not for the high priced pieces of furniture professionally arranged, the room could easily double as a cell for the criminally insane.

  Extreme nausea washed over her, lobbying from her head to her stomach. Her eyes, dry, and with each blink made the room appear grainy and impressionistic.

  She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Her skin felt damp to the touch. The black t-shirt she wore felt cool, wrinkled, and her jeans looked like someone else had dressed her. The urge to take a long, hot shower overpowered her, as her stomach grumbled with the same emptiness as the room.

  The events of the previous night knitted its way into the daylight.

  Dinner with Rick and Jordan, and then she arrived at home. She remembered her conversations, along with details discussed of the last arson scene.

  She ran her hand down her right leg and could feel the tenderness of the bruises from the fall at the burn site.

  A raging headache ensued. The harder she tried to remember, the more pain it caused.

  Emily stood up, faltered from side to side, before she sprinted for the bathroom. Within seconds, she heaved several times until her stomach was completely empty and her muscles left sore.

  Overpowered and drugged in her home, the thought made her angry. Her hands shook slightly, along with a dizziness, which seemed a side effect as the drugs left her system.

  She sat down on the bathroom tile, waited for the spinning to stop, and noticed that she was barefoot. Strapped tightly around her left ankle was a tracking device, similar to the ones used for house arrest. It was a small black box, the size of a matchbook with a tightly interlocked strap.

  It seemed futile to try to pry it loose.

  A green light blinked every two seconds.

  Emily watched her ankle accessory, hypnotized by the exact timing. She wondered what would happen if it changed to red.

  She stood up, using the wall to steady herself. As she positioned her body in front of a white pedestal sink, she splashed water on her face and gargled with the cool water. She saw her reflection staring back. Gaunt, haunted, with a hint of fear, was the expression that filled the center of the mirror. Dark circles under her brown eyes enhanced the petite features of her face, and accented the subtle battle scar she wore on her cheek. It was a constant reminder of the danger she put herself in to rescue a child.

  Emily splashed more water on her face, running her fingertips through her hair. It didn’t help her appearance much, but she managed to steady her floating nausea, and began to feel better.

  She rejected the obvious thoughts.

  Where was Rick?

  Was he okay?

  Denial in her line of work was useful because it allowed her to focus on stressful situations without any unnecessary conflicts – at least for a short period of time.

  Feeling more human and present of mind, Emily approached the bedroom door. Her hand turned the knob.

  It was unlocked.

  She half expected to hear a blazing alarm, along with a crew of armed guards to burst into the room.

  It remained unusually quiet.

  She pulled the door open.

  For the first time since she awoke, it felt strange to be barefooted. The bedroom carpet felt plush, until she stepped into the hallway where the cool tile was accented by European rugs. The smooth tile pressed against the balls of her feet as she warily stepped down the long hallway.

  Absent of her usual arsenal of weapons, feeling vulnerable. Emily steadily, but cautiously, walked toward the large room not knowing what, or who to expect.

  Cameras installed at various angles above the crown molding tracked her movements. Emily counted six. She kept moving forward.

  Silence escorted her.

  She stood at a threshold that opened into a large living room area. Heavy European furniture rambled out in front of her.

  Quickly discerning her self-defense options, Emily took a mental inventory of the accessories of lamps, candlesticks, and interesting knick-knacks.

  Quickly she rushed through the room toward an outside door, which led out into a large patio. Before she could reach the glass French door, the locks engaged automatically with a harsh clunking sound. She tried the door anyway, but it remained locked.

  Before she grabbed a silver candlestick to smash the door, the distinct click of a firearm hammer cocked in her ear.

  “Put it back.” A monotone voice ordered.

  Her heart sank as another wave of nausea caught her by surprise. She gently put the candle stand back down on the end table, and turned her head in the direction of the voice.

  With a quick wave of the gun, the severe looking man dressed completely in black said, “Sit down.”

  Emily knew the man would kill her without any hesitation, and no one would ever find her body. He never took his gaze from her, but it was difficult to get a solid read on him. It meant only one thing; the man knew psychology or had psychopathic tendencies. Her guess, he was a hit man, or some type of specialized security guard.

  Emily’s mind spun in so many directions as she sat down on the sofa.

  Another middle-aged, extremely severe looking man entered, carrying a tray. “Ms. Stone, nice to see that you’re awake.” He set down the plate with a tall glass of orange juice and a buttered bagel.

  “Who are you?” Emily wanted immediate answers. “Where’s Rick?”

  “Slow down Ms. Stone. One thing at a time.” He smiled like a snake with a devious secret.

  “Why am I here?” Emily no
ticed another heavyset man loitering on the far side of the room within earshot; no doubt, her host had more than one hired gun at his disposal.

  “My name is Mr. Bishop and you’ve already met Red.” He gestured to the man in black. “Well, maybe you don’t remember you’re first introduction to him.” He took a seat across from her.

  “Why am I here?” Emily was scared, but her anger tried to disguise the fear. She struggled desperately not to show any vulnerability.

  “Ms. Stone I have wanted to meet you for quite some time. You’re not an easy person to find… since you’ve been very, very busy.” He never looked away from Emily as he spoke. His eyes flat, dense, as he stared right through her. He gestured to Red.

  Emily didn’t believe that her life was in immediate danger, but there was something terrible that she was about to learn. Her body chilled just below the surface. Call it an instinct of a former cop, but she had been outmaneuvered, and would soon pay a high price for her mistake.

  Red holstered his gun under his leather jacket, walked toward a tall cabinet, and slid open the top portion to reveal a large flat screen television. In a few seconds, the display showed a photograph of Emily when she was a deputy sheriff in Indiana. A serious expression painted on her face, hair pulled tightly back, eyes eager to make a difference, and all from a rookie’s naïve perspective.

  Bishop stood up and dramatically wandered the room as if making sure he would hit his marks in a well-rehearsed movie scene. It was clear that he was going to tell a story. It was going to be a tale that Emily didn’t want to hear.

  He began, “You see, as you probably know, every single law enforcement agency in the United States report their crime statistics to the government. Every crime incident, every arrest, and every solved case in order to record and analyze crime statistics.” The older man who seemed to control his deep seeded anger smiled at Emily. He continued. “Something interesting has happened here in California over the past few years. Do you know what that is Emily?”

  Emily sat motionless and quiet, as she narrowed her eyes in extreme focus. Her adrenaline radically pumped every ounce of energy she had left.

  “There was a spike in solved serial cases and child abductions. Much more than statistically possible. Now, it’s been long documented that the average murder, solve rate is around fifty percent, and usually less for any given department.”

  Red stood quietly. He stared emotionless at Emily.

  Emily didn’t know which man was more dangerous. Both men ticked all the right boxes for the psychopathy checklist used to evaluate incarcerated offenders. Red unnerved her, and Mr. Bishop reminded her of the quiet man next door that had fifty bodies buried in the basement.

  Bishop smiled. “So I did some digging, and you know what I found?”

  Emily gritted her teeth and took slow deliberate breaths.

  He nodded once again toward Red.

  The television screen flashed through photographs taken from satellite images and other security cameras of both Emily and Rick. Some of the pictures showed them searching remote areas, while others were of them entering into various buildings and conducting basic surveillance.

  It shocked Emily to see her covert investigations documented. A new perspective of her life’s work emerged. Seeing it in black and white made everything surreal and unbelievable, it probed through a hidden eye instead of from her own personal view.

  “I found you shadowing the investigations and helping the police. Quite impressively, I have to admit. Of course, not one detective ever refused your assistance, even though they didn’t know where the information was coming from. But of course, you weren’t acting on their behalf, so they could use your evidence legally.” He sat back down in front of Emily, leaning back in the grand chair. “So pathetic cops are, but you… you are a different breed. I have never met anyone like you, with such drive and dedication. Not wanting any recognition, or money, for your good deeds.” He turned to look his associate. “Interesting… isn’t it Red?”

  The hit man looked bored with the entire scenario.

  Emily’s nerves and anger had reached its limit. To Bishop, she demanded. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to work for me.”

  More photos flashed on the screen. Some were close up shots of Emily’s face, somber and fierce, as she worked the grid of a murder dumping ground.

  “What do you mean?” She tried not to let her panic override her demand.

  “You’ve probably figured out that Red here does a variety of contract work, and he’s very good at it.” He leaned forward. “I need someone like you to compliment his work, and he’s so graciously accepted the task to be your mentor.”

  “It’s never going to happen.” Emily felt sick at her stomach, an uncomfortable churning. She wasn’t sure if it was the aftereffects of the drug in her system, or the thought of being a hired killer.

  He laughed, a broad, deep belly laugh. “I hoped you would say that.” Like a sudden flip of light switch, his face turned taunt and serious.

  She watched Red go to a desk near the window, and he picked up a laptop computer. He walked up to Emily, flipped it open on the coffee table, and turned the screen toward her.

  Emily gasped in horror. She leaped up and lunged at Bishop just as a searing pain pierced her left ankle. She crumbled to the floor in misery. The agonizing burn teleported up her leg, and immediately caused her stomach to contract. Her breath stayed trapped in her belly.

  “Don’t forget, I know everything about you.” Bishop said as he kneeled on the floor next to Emily. He showed her a remote in his hand. “This is the one time where you can’t fight your way out of it.” He grabbed hold of her hair and forced her to look at the screen. “You will do exactly what I say.”

  Emily saw every horrifying detail in real time. The live video recorded from a small room that looked more like an archaic prison cell. Rick sat helpless and strapped to a chair. A dark bruise had begun to appear on his jaw and cheekbone, accompanied by dried blood staining his nose, side of his right eye, and mouth.

  A man’s back stepped into camera view. Careful to remain away from his victim’s sight, as he slammed his fist into Rick’s face. The pain and anguish captured with every shocking detail on the remote webcam. The torturer’s identity conveniently remained out of view, while he roughly shoved a hood over Rick’s head that ended the beating.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Friday 1145 Hours

  The distinct metallic taste spilled into his mouth as parts of Rick’s body went numb from the fierce beating and tightened restraints. He knew that his nose was broken, but that was the least of his worries.

  Every nightmare scenario of what had happened to Emily, where she was, continually pushed its way to the forefront of his mind. Despite how heinous it was to imagine, it kept him acutely aware of everything around him. If he were to survive, he was going to have to stay focused.

  Even from inside a canvas hood, the room’s rank odor of body waste and rotten garbage came in repulsive waves. Rick swallowed frequently to keep from retching.

  The most important mind control to uphold in desperate situations was to remain calm, and keep the psyche absent of any unnecessary thoughts and feelings. Solid judgment and options depended upon a clear head – easier said than done.

  It was exceedingly difficult, but Rick switched psychological gears and began to retrace the entire experience from the previous evening, starting with dinner. Gently clearing his mind of thoughts of Emily, he pieced together the previous evening’s events in a cohesive sequence.

  Arriving home after dinner, he had entered the house to let Sarge outside, but noticed that the dog was locked in the bathroom. Before he could investigate, his arms were forcibly wrenched behind his back and securely tied, his body slammed down, and his head held against the hardwood floor. Instantly a gag pushed into his mouth and tape over his eyes. He didn’t have time to react, or fight back. The person that ambushed him was a pro,
and knew exactly when and how to act.

  The events turned to a speeding blur after that, but he had managed to stay conscious as he rode silently in some type of cargo van. He never heard Emily, or felt her next to him. He wasn’t sure if she was even in the same van.

  Counting quietly in his head, he managed to estimate that it took thirty minutes to arrive at the current location. The van drove constantly and only stopped a few times, which meant that he travelled most of the journey on the freeway, about thirty to forty miles.

  What Rick didn’t know was which direction he had gone. He envisioned possible scenarios, and came up with either the direction of north or east from his home. It was one of the two disturbing theories; he would be a murder victim, and dumped at a remote location, or held as a prisoner.

  The locks rattled at his cell door.

  He heard his captor enter again.

  Rick braced for another beating, or the final bullet. Instead, the unknown assailant released him from the chair and shackled him with prison issue restraints. Without a word, the captor blindfolded Rick and ushered him out of the room. It took a few minutes before he was loaded into another vehicle. He held his breath, counted the travel time, and listened for anything that would give him some solid answers.

  * * * * *

  Red helped Emily to her feet. It was as if he had lost the art of speech, and was an android going through the motions for his master.

  Silent.

  Intense.

  Red’s hands were strong as he kept hold of her arm and guided her from the living room. Emily could smell the subtle fragrance of his spicy soap mixed with the aroma of the leather jacket he wore. She had the feeling that he had only black clothes in his closet, so it made it easy to throw on something coordinated every day.

  The pain subsided from her ankle and leg, but it still managed to cause her difficulty in balance and coordination. Anger reverberated throughout her body, while anxious thoughts came flooding back.