and Mr. Dailey, both well into their sixties, having a quickie somewhere. Jessie Lee leaned closer to the Pontiac, checking to see if the windows were foggy or the chassis was rocking. The car looked empty.
She finished the smoke, ground it out under the toe of her pumps, and tried Erwin again on the cell. No signal. When she turned to head back in she bumped into a man.
Jessie Lee let out a cry of surprise and stepped backward. It was the lottery commissioner.
“Why aren’t you inside?” he asked.
“I stepped out for a smoke. One of my many bad habits.”
Jessie Lee smiled brightly. He didn’t smile back. Up close, he didn’t look as handsome as she originally thought. And something about him struck a chord.
“If you want to get what’s coming to you, you need to get back inside.”
He flashed a humorless grin, and Jessie Lee realized why he looked familiar. She was a Court TV junkie, and this guy was the spitting image of Marshal Otis Taylor. Taylor was a serial killer and murdered more than twenty women back in the 1990s. He did some really twisted things to them, too, like bite off their fingers and toes.
Jessie Lee didn’t like biters. She had a terrible experience with one once.
This guy certainly had the Taylor cold stare down pat. If memory served, Taylor had died by lethal injection about five years ago, so there was no way he could be the real deal. Still, it was kind of creepy. Jessie Lee wondered if she should tell him who he resembled. She decided there wasn’t any point—who would like knowing they looked like one of the world’s most notorious psychos? Besides, it wasn’t a wise idea to annoy the guy cutting forty-grand checks.
“Let’s get back, then,” Jessie Lee said, offering the commissioner her arm. He took it, roughly, and walked her back to the gym. Once the door closed behind them he headed back to the locker room. Jessie Lee decided he was kind of a dick. Maybe he was pissed off at having to work so late.
She rubbed her arms again and felt something sticky on her shoulder. There, where the commissioner had touched her, was a smear of blood.
Fran’s eye fixed on the sledgehammer poised above her head, but rather than fear she felt rage.
“Where’s Duncan?” she yelled.
The man in black paused. Smoke swirled up around his shoulders, but Fran could still make out his smile. He bent down, his free hand squeezing her right breast.
“Are you, are you his, Duncan’s, mother?”
Fran recoiled from his revolting touch and she tried to push away his hand, but for a thin man he possessed unbelievable strength. The harder she shoved, the harder he squeezed, until Fran could almost feel his fingers touch each other.
“Leave us alone!”
“Yes, yes, you’re the mother. Fran. The pictures match. Tell me where—”
And then the man was off her, rolling to the side, the sledgehammer thrown up into the air. Fran watched it arc upward—so clear and detailed it seemed like slow motion—and then crash into the floor just a few inches from her head, cracking the tile and peppering her with broken bits.
She twisted to the side and saw the stranger roll across the foyer with …
Fran turned her attention back to the basement door. She scrambled to it on all fours, staying under the hovering cloud of smoke, and banged on it with her open palm.
“Duncan! It’s Mom! Open the door!”
A grunt, to her left. The stranger, though smaller, had managed to get on top of Erwin and straddle him. Fran continued to pound.
“Mrs. Teller! It’s Fran Stauffer! Are you in there!”
“Mom!”
Hearing Duncan’s voice made Fran want to sing.
“Duncan! Open up! Hurry!”
She put her ear to the door, listening to deadbolts turning and mechanisms engaging. But the door didn’t budge.
“Mom! It’s stuck!”
Fran coughed—hot, viscous, black smoke hovered at chest level—and reached for the knob. It wouldn’t turn. The stranger must have damaged it with the sledge-hammer.
A scream, raw and high-pitched. Fran looked. The stranger had some sort of miniature flamethrower. He held it to Erwin’s face.
She needed to protect Duncan, but if Erwin were killed she wouldn’t be able to fight the stranger herself.
Erwin’s howl cut into her, forcing her decision. Fran launched herself at the man in black.
Josh handed his cell over to Streng and listened to the sheriff’s conversation with the state police.
“Safe Haven is under attack by an unknown military force … armed and very dangerous, they’ve already killed two that I know of, and there have been several fires and an explosion … as many men as you can spare … I’ll be at my office outside of town … reception is spotty, try me on my land line there … dammit!”
The sheriff squinted at the phone, which had apparently disconnected. Josh took the phone back, tried to redial. No signal. He put the phone in his pocket and felt the container he’d taken from Ajax. He pulled it out. It looked like a cigarette case, but rounder, and the finish was blackened like gun metal. A latch on the side opened it. Inside, nestled in the felt lining, were rows of amber capsules.
“What are these? Pills?”
Streng opened a matching case and squinted. “Kind of big for pills.” He took one out and rolled it between his fingers. “They look like poppers. Who the hell knows? Probably shouldn’t mess with them.”
Josh considered throwing the case out the window but wound up pocketing it again. Then he studied the electronic device he’d found on Ajax. Like the case, it was made of smooth black metal. But it was solid rather than hollow and had a USB port on the bottom. It also had a large dent in the face, possibly from one of Streng’s bullets. Josh played with it for a few seconds, trying to get it to do something. He failed. Then he gave it to Streng, who had similar results.
“Maybe it’s a tracking device, like a GPS. Lemme have that canteen.”
Josh handed it over. Streng unscrewed the cap and sniffed. He must have judged it safe, because he took a long pull and passed it to Josh. The firefighter drank greedily, surprised at how thirsty he was. They each took another sip, and then the canteen was empty.
“Here’s Pine Village.”
Olen swung the Honey Wagon onto Montrose Street at a sharp angle, and Josh heard the liquid contents in the tank behind him slosh in protest. He could see the fire behind the hill ahead. Josh’s thoughts shifted to Fran: smart, funny, sexy, a great mother, and great all-around person. He really messed up a good thing with her.
Josh willed her to be okay. For her sake, and for Duncan’s, but also for selfish reasons. Josh was surprised how much the thought of her being in trouble made him angry.
The Honey Wagon crested the hill, and Josh set his jaw against the inferno before them. Fran’s house looked like a palace in hell, every window and doorway belching flame, not a square inch untouched by fire. A lost cause. Anyone trapped inside would be dead by now.
Olen slowed down and uttered, “Wow.”
Across from it, another home, burning but in better shape. Josh saw an unattended garden hose, pumping water onto the porch. That had to be where Erwin was. And, hopefully, Fran and Duncan.
“Park by that house,” Josh instructed Olen. “What’s in your tank right now?”
“Sump water.”
“How do you pump it out?”
“Way ahead of you, boss. It’s gonna smell to high heaven.”
“Smelly is better than burned to the ground.”
