Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

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      The flames were growing.

      Chrissie called 911.

      “I want to report a fire and a woman screaming for help!”

      As they followed the trail, knifing into a thick wall of trees and undergrowth, Chrissie guessed they were about one hundred yards from the fire. She gave the dispatcher directions and was assured that fire, paramedics and police were on the way.

      Leafy branches continued scraping and slapping at the car. Robbie drove carefully over the rugged road.

      “My old man will kill me if I scratch the Taurus!”

      Underbrush and stones smacked at the undercarriage as they came to a clearing, gasping at the sight before them.

      The old barn was engulfed in flames, the fire raging against the night sky.

      A woman ran from it shrieking, trailing smoke and sparks. The flames that were devouring her entire body flapped like horrific flags as she staggered and collapsed into a burning heap in front of the car.

      Chrissie screamed.

      Robbie grabbed the sleeping bag, rushed to the woman and smothered the flames. While the inferno of the barn crackled and roared, Chrissie’s screams were soon overtaken by the approaching sirens.

      The woman groaned in agony.

      As Robbie tried to take her hand, which was now a blackened hook, they saw charred ropes tied to her wrists.

2

      Rampart, New York

      Oxygen flowed in a soft, calibrated rhythm through the ventilator tube connected to the burn victim in the intensive-care unit of Rampart General.

      The small screen above her bed monitored her heart, her blood pressure and her other vital signs.

      An IV pole with a drip stood beside her bed.

      She was wrapped from her head to her ankles in gauze and was heavily sedated to alleviate the excruciating pain of third-degree burns to over 85 percent of her body.

      She’d lost her hair, ears, face, nearly all of her skin.

      Her feet were charred stumps, her hands charred claws.

      Her injuries were fatal. She would not live through the night, the doctor had told Detective Ed Brennan of Rampart Police Department.

      Since then Brennan had waited with the ICU nurse by the woman’s bedside, never leaving it.

      He’d been home when he got the call.

      His wife had put their son to bed. He’d made popcorn and they were watching the end of The Searchers, when his cell phone rang.

      “White female, mid-twenties,” Officer Martin had told him over blaring sirens. “Found her near the old burial grounds. Burned bad. They’re taking her to the General—they don’t think she’ll make it. Looks like she was tied up, Ed.”

      Brennan rushed to the hospital in the hopes of obtaining a dying declaration from the victim.

      The doctor took Brennan aside after emergency staff had done what they could for her.

      “There’s no guarantee she’ll regain consciousness.”

      Brennan needed her to help him solve what would soon be her murder.

      In the hours he waited, he’d gotten used to the room’s smell. They had no ID for her. There was no chance of fingerprints and no indication she’d had any clothing or jewelry. If so, it had been burned away. They’d have to review local, state and national missing persons cases.

      The most disturbing aspect was the ropes.

      Again, Brennan looked at the pictures on his phone that Martin had sent from the scene.

      Again, he winced.

      Then he concentrated on the charred ropes.

      She appeared to have been be bound by ropes.

       The fire could’ve allowed her to escape from the building.

       Escape from what and from whom?

      Once they doused the fire and things cooled off they needed to get the forensic people in there.

      “Detective?” the nurse said.

      The charred remnants of what was once the woman’s right hand moved.

      The nurse pressed a button above the bed and the doctor arrived, checked the monitor and bent over the woman.

      “She’s regaining consciousness,” the doctor said. “We’ll remove the airway so she can talk, but remember, her throat and lungs are damaged.”

      Brennan understood.

      This may be his only shot.

      Once the tube was removed, the monitor started beeping as the woman gasped. They took a moment to tend to her and the beeping slowed. Then the doctor nodded to Brennan, who stepped close and prepared to make a video recording with his phone.

      “Ma’am, I’m Detective Ed Brennan. Can you tell me your name?”

      A long moment of silence passed punctuated with a gurgle.

      Brennan took a breath and looked at the doctor before he continued.

      “Ma’am, can you tell me a name, or tell me where you live?”

      A rasping sigh sounded, then nothing.

      “Ma’am, is there anything you can tell me?’

      A liquidy, coarse utterance began to form a word.

      “Share— R...”

      “I’m sorry, ma’am. Try again.”

      “There...are...”

      Brennan glanced at the doctor and nurse, blinking to concentrate as the woman tried to raise her blackened hand as if she wanted to pull Brennan to her.

      “There are...there are others...”

      The woman lowered her arm.

      The monitors sounded alerts and the tracking lines flattened.

3

      Rampart, New York

      Brennan whirled his unmarked Impala out of the McDonald’s drive-through and headed for the scene.

      He gulped his black coffee but only СКАЧАТЬ