“That little bitch,” she screeched.
Ash balled up his fist until his fingernails began to cut into the palm of his hand. Physical pain dulled the psychological torture.
“No matter,” her voice calmed once again, “the art must continue.”
Ash unfurled his fist and wiped blood from his palm onto his jeans. He dropped his head and began to pull at the roots of his hair. Don’t say it, he thought, please don’t say it.
“ ‘Cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face; terror the human form divine, and secrecy the human dress.’ ”
Ash broke out in a cold sweat as he mouthed the words along with her.
Words he had spent years trying to forget.
Words that brought memories—bad memories—rushing through his skull.
Words that years of therapy had erased or tried to erase from his mind.
Before she returned.
“It’s time to find a new canvas. It’s time to create something they will not be able to ignore,” she said. “We will give them a canvas they know well. If we can’t bring the people to the art, we will bring the art to the people.”
With her last words, she began a hysterical cackle.
Ash curled in the fetal position and rocked back and forth while praying for her to go away. Hoping beyond hope for the pain to stop.
30
Gonzales exited his car and looked around the neighborhood. “It’s been a while since I’ve been down a lot of these little side streets on the beach. I didn’t know these apartments still existed.”
“Yeah, they’re not the most modern, but a girl has to start somewhere,” Tiffany answered.
Gonzalez smiled. “I like it. It’s quaint. And you have a view of the ocean. If you squint,” he grinned. “And you probably don’t have to deal with all the pretentiousness of South Beach.”
Tiffany’s eyes smiled back. “I like my place better when you describe its amenities.”
“So, you’re on the second floor?” Gonzalez said, opening the front door.
“Yep, the penthouse,” Tiffany mused.
“I’ll tell you what,” Gonzales said, taking off his sunglasses, “why don’t you run upstairs and pack what you need while I try to locate the property manager.”
Tiffany smiled. “Sounds good. I won’t be long.”
Gonzales got lucky, found the property manager, Victor, onsite, and introduced himself. While presenting his credentials and handing him a business card, a piercing scream made him cringe.
“Shit,” he yelled, running for the stairs. He glanced back at Victor as he shoved the door open. “Call the number on the back of that card and then call 911,” he yelled.
Gonzales ran up the stairs and pulled his sidearm while in motion. By the time he reached the landing, the slide on his Glock 23 was rocked and a bullet was chambered. He could smell smoke before he reached the second floor. Cautiously, he opened the door. Near the far end of the hall, he saw the silhouettes of two people dragging a body away from the cloud of billowing, eye-watering smoke.
“FBI,” he yelled. “Let me see your hands.”
A woman lifted her hands, but the other did not. “Tiffany’s out cold and she’s been burned,” the man yelled back. “Her apartment’s on fire!”
Gonzales ran down the hall, gun pointed at the pair just in case it was a hoax. Seeing Tiffany—her hair scorched, and her face fire engine-red—he holstered his gun and helped the man carry her down the stairs to the lobby.
“Help is on its way. Did either of you see anyone come out of her apartment?”
“No,” the woman said. “We live across the hall. We heard a scream and came running. Tiffany was the only person we saw.”
Gonzales ran back upstairs, hugged the wall, and tried to get near her apartment. The smoke was too thick, and he had no choice but to go back downstairs and wait for the fire department.
By the time Sin, Jack, and the paramedics arrived, Tiffany was conscious.
“Some first and second degree on your arms and face,” Sin overheard the paramedic tell Tiffany. “You’re a very lucky girl.”
“You’ll be all right,” Sin said, as the medics were bandaging her head. “You might have short hair for a while, but something tells me you’ll rock the look.”
Tiffany’s mouth quivered. “Catch this bastard,” she said, squeezing Sin’s hand as the medics lifted her into the back of the ambulance.
Sin didn’t answer, she just smiled weakly and nodded to the paramedics who raced off, rushing Tiffany to Jackson Memorial Hospital.
Most of the fire damage in the apartment was superficial. Wall hangings and decorative rugs caused most of the thick black smoke. And by the time Sin made it upstairs, Jack was looking over some sort of odd rifle setup.
“What the hell is that?” Sin said.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Jack replied.
Sin pulled her phone from her back pocket and called Evelyn. “Eve, I need you to use your resources and get a weapons specialist here, immediately.”
“This is quite something,” Lieutenant Smalls said as he went over the rifle and mechanism.
“What the hell is all this stuff?” Sin said, pointing to the gun.
“What we have,” the lieutenant said, “is an ingenious homemade remote control firing system. The crazy son of a bitch hooked up a flame thrower to a gaming console.”
Flame thrower? What the fuck! “Wait, did you say gaming console? You mean like an Xbox?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Jesus, I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“Possible and easy if you know what you’re doing,” Smalls said. “The directions and parts are online for any wacko to get his hands on. Score another one for the Bill of Rights.”
Sin walked up to the gun. “Can this thing still shoot?”
“Nah. Fortunately, the kickback was more than our friend bargained for. When it tipped back, the flames actually fried his own system. Shorted out the entire thing.”
And saved Tiffany’s life, Sin thought.
“What I don’t get is the flame thrower,” Jack said. “What the hell did he expect to accomplish with that?”
It only took Sin a few seconds to figure out the puzzle. “The poem,” she
