Count to Ten (12 page)

“But she won’t tell you.”

“Nope. Good old Annabelle. I did get her to tell me about the boy.” She set the beer down, its taste suddenly bitter. “I’ve got to tell Kelsey. She needs to know.”

The last time she’d spoken with her sister had been the day their father died, through the Plexiglas as she always did. Mia never asked for any special visitation with her sister. Having the other inmates know Kelsey Mitchell’s sister was a cop would not be in Kelsey’s best interest.

Kelsey needed to know what she’d found. Maybe she could finally find peace.

“I can go tell her,” Dana offered.

“No. It’s my responsibility. But thanks. I’ll have to fit it in. I got a new case today.”

“With who?”

Mia studied her bottle carefully. “With Reed Solliday. Arson.”

Dana’s brows lifted, knowing her moods well. “And?”

“Seems like a nice guy. Not married. Fourteen-year-old kid. Moves like a dancer.”

“I never understood how that was such a turn-on for you.”

Mia chuckled ruefully. “Me, either. Good thing he’s off-limits.”

“You said he wasn’t married.”

She sobered. “I also said he was a nice guy.”

Dana made a frustrated sound. “Mia, you piss me off.”

“I don’t mean to.”

Dana sighed. “I know. So... What will you do with the box?”

“I don’t know.” Her mouth twisted. “I put my dog tags in it.”

Dana’s eyes dropped to her chest. “Then why are you wearing them now?”

Mia fingered the chain around her neck. “Because once I put them in the box, I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know, it was like a panic attack or something. So I got up and put them back on.” She lifted a brow. “That was the night before Abe was shot.”

“You were shot, too, Mia.”

“And look at me.” She spread her arms wide, sardonic. “Good as new.”

“I can’t understand how a smart woman like you is so superstitious.”

Mia shrugged. “I’d rather be superstitious and alive than logical and dead.”

“And if it were a rabbit’s foot, I’d say no harm, no foul. But they’re Bobby’s, Mia, and until you take them off, you’re still connected to him.” With a frustrated sigh, Dana stood and put on her coat. “Ethan will be worried about me so I have to go. Come out to the house tomorrow. I’ll fix you a special treat for dinner. The kids brought you something.”

“Please say it’s not another goldfish,” she begged and Dana smiled.

“No, not a goldfish.” She gave Mia a hard hug. “Get some sleep.”

Monday, November 27, 11:35 P.M.

Penny Hill breathed a sigh of relief. Her garage door was several inches closer than it usually was.
I never should have had any of that punch. But it was my retirement party, after all. Should have called a cab.
She’d been lucky not to have hit another car or been stopped by a cop for DUI.
Wouldn’t that look just dandy in my file?

But her file was now officially closed. After twenty-five years with Social Services, she was calling it quits. A lot of families had come her way. A lot of successes. A lot of regrets. One moment of shame. But that water had flowed under the bridge years before. She couldn’t change it now.

She was free. She tugged at her briefcase, teetering on her feet. It was unusually heavy. She’d cleaned out her desk and stuffed the briefcase full. Too much punch made her too unsteady to haul it in tonight.
I’ll get it tomorrow.
Now, all she wanted was a strong antacid and a soft pillow. Wearily she opened her front door.

And flew forward, violently. Her head smacked the newel post as the door closed and she was jerked to her feet by a pair of strong hands. Pulled against a hard body. She started to scream but a cold gloved hand covered her mouth and she felt the bite of a blade against her throat. She stopped fighting, feeling a spear of hope when her daughter’s dog bounded into the room.
Please, Milo. Don’t be friendly for once.

But the dog just stood there wagging his tail and the man behind her relaxed. He forced her forward, into her kitchen. “Open the door,” he said. “Let the dog out.”

She did as he said. Happily Milo bounded away across her fenceless backyard. “Now lock the door, just like it was before,” he said and she obeyed. He let go of her mouth just before he forced her to her knees. Then flat on her face. She cried out as he grabbed her hair and smashed her head into the linoleum. Hard.

“If you scream, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

She drew a deep breath into her lungs to scream anyway. Laughing softly he pressed her face into the floor again, his knee hard against the back of her neck. He shoved something into her mouth. Cloth. She tried to spit it out and gagged.
Don’t throw up. You’ll die if you throw up. You’ll die anyway. Dear God. I’m going to die.

A whimper of terror escaped her throat and he laughed.

He tossed the ziplock bag holding the used condom into his backpack. He’d been lucky with Caitlin. He wouldn’t rely on luck this time. If by any chance he failed to completely incinerate Penny Hill, he’d made sure there would be none of his DNA left behind. She lay on the floor, curled in a fetal position. She was in pain. But not enough. She would be, though. A few more things to do and he could be on his way.

In the backseat of her car, which he’d left running in her driveway, he’d found her briefcase. The briefcase was an un--expected find. Who knew what information he’d find inside?

But first things first. He spread the same nitrate gel over her torso that he’d used in the egg and ran a fuse out of the room, alongside the fuse that led to the egg. He’d come prepared this time. Caitlin Burnette had been unplanned and he hadn’t been thinking. He’d used gasoline on her when he should have used the gel from the second egg. Gasoline burned off too quickly. He wanted Miss Hill to burn very thoroughly. But in the event she did not, he didn’t want her surviving to tell tales. That would be bad.

Once more he returned to his backpack, pulling out the two garbage bags he’d packed. He pulled one of the bags over his head and poked his arms through the sides. With the wrench he removed the valve on the gas line behind the stove. In a few minutes the top half of the room would be filled with gas.

He’d crouched down next to Penny Hill, the knife in his hand, before realizing he’d nearly forgotten the most important thing. Quickly he ran to the far corner of her house, crumpled some newspaper and threw it in the trash can. Then he pulled the filterless cigarette from his pocket and carefully lit it, set it on one end so that the burning tip rested away from the paper. In a few minutes, the cigarette would burn to its end.

Back to Miss Hill. He ran back to the kitchen and grabbed her arm. Hard. Her eyes slowly opened. “For Shane,” he said. “You remember Shane. You placed him and his brother in some godforsaken foster home in the middle of fucking nowhere.” Her eyes flickered in startled recognition. “You never came to check on them. For a whole year. They were sodomized there. So now you understand why I had to do that to you.”

Quickly he sliced her arm, just above her elbow, and blood spurted all over the plastic bag he wore, warm and wet. “You’ll die,” he promised. “But first, you’ll burn.” He crouched closer, until he was in her face.

“Count to ten, bitch. Then go to hell.”

He pulled off the plastic bag, rolled it up and put it in the clean bag, threw his tools in his backpack, shouldered it, then lit the fuses from the relative safety of the laundry room.
Ten
...
nine
...he ran to the front door, pulled it firmly closed...
eight
...Then he was in her car, peeling out of the driveway, counting down all the while.

Three, two
...
and
...Right on cue the air shook with the explosion, broken glass flying from the windows of Hill’s house. He’d done a much better job of estimating the length of his fuses this time. He was at the end of the street before the first neighbor ran from their house. Carefully he drove, making sure to arouse no suspicion. Driving on, he pulled far off the deserted side road where he’d left the car he’d stolen that evening. He covered Hill’s car with evergreen branches. Nobody would find it there.

He changed cars, making sure to take his backpack. -Settling behind the wheel, he pulled off the ski mask and drove away. Penny Hill would be in a lot of pain right about now. He’d savor the satisfaction later.

Tuesday, November 28, 12:35 A.M.

“You were right. He’s done it again.”

Reed turned. Mia Mitchell stood behind him, her gaze fixed on the inferno that used to be the residence of Penny Hill. She’d gotten here fast. “It appears so.”

“What happened?”

“Residents reported an initial explosion at about five minutes after midnight. Companies 156 and 172 responded at 12:09 and 12:15 respectively. They arrived at the site and the battalion chief immediately saw the similarity to Saturday’s fire. Larry Fletcher called me at 12:15.” He’d immediately called Mitchell, expecting a cranky middle-of-the-night reception. Instead she’d been instantly alert, professional. He glanced at the crowd, dropped his voice so only she could hear. “They think the homeowner was home. Her name is Penny Hill. Two guys went in to look for her.”

Horror and pity and sad resignation flickered in her eyes. “Aw, shit.”

“I know. The pair checked the right side of the house, but she wasn’t there.”

“They check the kitchen?”

“Can’t get close enough yet. They’ve turned off the gas and run a line into the house. They’re working it. There was a smaller fire in the living room.”

“Trash can?” she asked and he lifted a brow.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been mulling it over. The trash can was the odd thing at the Doughertys’.”

“Agreed. The solid accelerant was sophisticated. The gasoline was like an afterthought, but the trash can was almost...”

“Childish,” she supplied. “I bounced it off Abe tonight. He thought the same thing.”

Abe, her partner who was laid up in a hospital bed. “How is he?”

She nodded once, briskly. “He’s good.”

So then, he suspected, was she. Which made him glad. “Good.”

“You talk to the crowd?”

“Yeah. Nobody saw anybody before, but everybody was inside, asleep or watching TV. Then all of a sudden, the big boom. One of the neighbors heard the squeal of tires just before the explosion, but he’s pretty shaken up.” Reed pointed to a man standing at the front of the crowd, his expression one of shocked horror. “Daniel Wright. There are skid marks on the driveway and Miss Hill’s car is gone.”

“I’ll put out an all points for her vehicle.”

“I already did.” His brow lifted when hers went up. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Her eyes had blinked with surprise, then settled. “Of course not. Just so it gets done.” She turned her gaze back to the fire. “They’ve got it under control.”

“Knocked this one down faster. It hadn’t caught hold in the top floor yet.”

“He wanted that bed to burn in the Doughertys’ house,” she noted. “Why not here?”

He wondered the same thing. Two firefighters emerged from the house. “Come on,” he said and started toward the truck where Larry stood with his radio. “Well?”

Larry’s expression was grim. “She’s in there. Mahoney says she looks like the last one. We couldn’t get close enough to get her out in time.” He eyed Mitchell. “You are?”

“Mia Mitchell, Homicide. You must be Larry Fletcher.”

Larry’s expression went from grim to wary. “I am. Why Homicide?”

She looked up at Reed, her blue eyes accusing. “You didn’t tell him?”

Reed scowled. “I left him a message to call me.”

“Tell me what?” Larry demanded and Mitchell sighed.

“The victim in the last fire was dead before it started. This one may have been, too.”

Larry’s frown was troubled. “I shouldn’t feel relieved, but I do.”

“Human nature,” she said. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

“Thanks. Maybe we’ll sleep tonight. You’ll want to talk to the guys who went in. Mahoney and the probie. Hey!” he shouted at the men. “Mahoney. Hunter. Over here!”

Mahoney and the newest probationary member of their company trudged toward them, still in full gear with the exception of their breathing apparatus which hung around their necks. Both wore looks of exhausted devastation. “We were too late,” Brian Mahoney said, his voice rough from the smoke. “She’s charred, just like the last one.”

The probie just shook his head. “My God.” His voice was thick, horrified.

Mitchell stepped forward, peering up under the brim of the probie’s hat. “David?”

The probie pushed his hat back. “Mia? What are you doing here?”

“I should say the same thing to you. I knew you took the exam, but I thought you were still waiting for an assignment.”

“Been with the 172 for three months. I guess since you’re here we should assume these were homicides. That the fire was just to cover them up.”

“That’s a good assumption. Do you know Solliday?”

The probie shoved his hat under his arm. Sober gray eyes met Reed’s and annoyance prickled as Reed studied his face. Even dirty, this guy was a calendar boy. “No. I’m David Hunter, the new guy.”