Touched By Fire. Elizabeth Sinclair

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СКАЧАТЬ alert, headache forgotten, her firefighter training kicked in. She ran through the house searching for the source. It didn’t take long to find it. Just a few feet from the front door, thick gray curls of smoke poured from under an armchair and had begun to accumulate in a misty layer along the ceiling.

      “What the…”

      Despite her bordering-on-petite size, she upended the heavy chair and found a plain white, smoldering, business-size envelope beneath it. Automatically, she scooped it up by a corner. Racing to the front door and nearly falling on the highly polished cypress floor, she unlocked the door and yanked it open, then ran to the edge of the porch and threw the envelope onto the dew-wet grass.

      With the emergency in the past, the surge of adrenaline that had driven her dissipated—just as it always did after every fire she’d ever attended—leaving her drained and emotionally exhausted.

      Then realization of what had just happened and its possible outcome hit her between the eyes.

      I could have died. And my home could have burned to the ground.

      For anyone else the specter of possible death would have been trauma enough, but for Sam, who had spent her entire childhood hopping from motel room to motel room, the destruction of her home almost outweighed her own mortality. To lose her house would be like losing herself and everything she’d worked for since she’d separated herself from the nomadic life her mother had forced on her and her sister for years. This house wasn’t just a brick-and-mortar structure. It was home, the very foundation of her independence, her symbol of security and stability. Aftershock set in.

      Her hands began to shake, and her knees threatened to fold like an accordion beneath her. She collapsed against the porch railing. Her heart pounded in her ears. Sweat beaded her forehead and coated the palms of her trembling hands. Her empty stomach churned with sour fear.

      Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she stared at the smoking envelope. A part-time arson investigator, she didn’t have to wonder what had caused the envelope to smolder. She’d learned about them in her basic training at the firefighters’ academy, and she’d seen them in the line of duty. As a result, she knew all too well what had caused the spontaneous combustion—hand lotion and potassium permanganate, or some variety thereof.

      It was a simple, cheap, insidious device that initially just produced a lot of smoke, but if left to reach its full potential, could cause untold damage. She busied her mind by repeating by rote the steps of its creation.

      Hand lotion went into the bottom of the envelope, then it was folded. The potassium was added and the envelope folded again. When the fire-starter got to the scene, he had only to unfold the envelope, shake it to mix the two ingredients together, place it somewhere where it wouldn’t be quickly discovered and walk casually away. The ingredients would first begin to smoke, then eventually erupt into open flame. Ideally, no one would know it was there until it was too late. The fire would start long after the arsonist had left the scene undetected, and any evidence would almost certainly be consumed by the fire. Rudimentary, but deadly.

      The torch—or arsonist—had taken a calculated risk that Sam wouldn’t find it in time to put it out. He had probably counted on her sleeping through the preliminary stages and waking when the fire had already taken hold—hopefully, when it was out of control.

      But how did he get it in the house? Everything had been locked up tight. Sam lived alone, and she was smart enough not to take chances with security. This house represented the first real home she’d ever known, and she had guarded against it being invaded in any way. That it had been gave rise to a mixture of fear, indignation and anger.

      She glanced toward the open door and at once knew how this had happened. The torch hadn’t gotten inside. He’d shoved it through the mail slot in the door. But because of her highly polished floors, when it hit the slick wood, it had probably slid forward, stopping only because it had come in contact with the dust ruffle of the overstuffed chair, accidentally making it more deadly and efficient than the arsonist intended.

      Now that she had figured out how it got there, two even more disturbing questions drummed at her mind:

      Who had planted the device?

      Why would anyone want to burn down her house and possibly her with it?

      Though she racked her brain, no one came to mind. Sam was a very private person with only a few friends. To her knowledge, she had no enemies. But since she and Rachel Sutherland had formed FIST, the Fire Investigation Special Team, she had nailed a few property owners who had torched their buildings for the insurance money. Could it be one of them? That was the only thing that came close to making any sense. But if so, which one was ticked off enough at her to want her dead?

      While she’d been trying to sort through who could have done this, the wetness from the dew-laden grass had seeped into the paper and the envelope had stopped smoldering. Now that it no longer presented a threat, she picked it up by one corner and carried it back inside, slipped it into a brown craft envelope and sealed it, then marked it with her name, the time and date, and the words incendiary device, then put it beside her purse.

      For a moment, she considered giving it to A.J., but that would mean seeing him, and she knew all too well what happened each time she saw him. She turned into an emotional heap who could think of little beyond how much she wanted to give in to her desires. Maybe Rachel’s detective husband, Luke Sutherland, could pass it on to his boss.

      But first things first. She went to the garage, removed a piece of wood from an old packing crate she’d hung on to, found some nails and a hammer and nailed the wood over the mail slot. That would do until she could have the door replaced with a slotless one. Back in the living room, she threw open the phone book and searched the yellow pages for the name of a carpenter. While she did so, she continued to try to make sense of all this, always returning to the same question.

      Who wanted to kill her?

      Deep in thought, A. J. Branson stared down at the official-looking letter in his hand. He hadn’t expected such a quick reply to his application. At least he’d been given a few months’ time to make a decision. Frowning, he rubbed absently at his forehead. Outside his office door the noise of the squad room drifted to him as Orange Grove’s finest arrived for night duty. Automatically, his free hand reached for a cigar that would have, until he’d given them up months ago, resided in a humidor on his cluttered desk.

      “Don’t tell me. The president has asked you to come up with a solution for world peace.”

      Starting guiltily, A.J. withdrew his hand, then looked up to find Luke Sutherland, one of his detectives and his best friend, standing in the doorway, a brown craft envelope in his hand.

      A.J. chuckled, but the sound held no humor. “Nothing that earth-shattering, I’m afraid.”

      “Oh? Sure looked serious to me. What else would make you reach for a cigar that hasn’t been there since last year?” Luke grinned and dropped into the chair facing A.J., then steepled his fingers beneath his chin and studied his boss. “Want to talk about it?”

      Did he? A.J. wasn’t sure he was ready to share this with anyone. But this was his friend. He’d been the best man at Luke’s wedding. Together they’d lived through Luke’s child being kidnapped and thought dead, his breakup with Rachel, a series of fires that had threatened Rachel’s life and the final capture of the arsonist/kidnapper and rescue of little Maggie and her mother. The reunited Sutherlands had even named their son after him and made him Jay’s godfather. If he could share this with anyone, Luke would СКАЧАТЬ