Divine Intervention (5 page)

"She reads fires," Natassia interjected, poking her head from the tent.

Wordlessly, Jasi glared at her partner.

"He needs to know, Jasi. Otherwise he's useless."

Brandon Walsh―useless?

Jasi hid a sly grin. "I can usually tell you where and how a fire started. Sometimes I pick up the perp's last thoughts or the last thing he saw."

"She's a Pyro-Psychic," Natassia bragged. "Jasi is the best there is."

"Jasi?" Walsh smirked.

"That's
Agent
McLellan to you!" Jasi snapped.

She'd make Natassia pay for that slip-up.

Oops
, Natassia mouthed silently, raising her open hands in the air.

"Time for you to leave, Walsh," Jasi said rudely. "I'm sure there's something out there for the Chief of AI to do. Just remember we're running the show here."

Walsh's breath blew warm against her ear. "We'll see about that."

Then he hurried from the tent. "See ya later…
Jasi
."

With her eyes glued to his back, Jasi cursed aloud.

"Not if I can help it!"

Brandon Walsh walked away from the tent, unsure about the PSI's role. He had heard of the Psychic Skills Investigators in his dealings with various police departments, but his cases rarely required CFBI intervention. Or interference, as he thought of it.

As the AI Chief, he was compelled to assist the CFBI in any investigation involving serial arsonists. And that didn't sit too well with him―not one bit.

He'd show Agent Jasi McLellan who was boss.

After all, wasn't he the one responsible for capturing the arsonist involved in the Okanagan Mountain forest fires of 2003? He had led the AI team that had tracked down the arsonist and the accelerant used to set the blaze.

The press had blamed an unattended campfire for the raging fires that consumed a massive portion of the BC forest. Then a week later, it was rumored that a single cigarette had ignited the blaze. That was before the public ban on smoking became official―before people were restricted to smoking in the privacy of their homes, in well-ventilated smoking rooms.

Brandon had never believed the fire had started from a cigarette. He personally sifted through acres of destroyed forest, searching for a clue. He had explored the land until he discovered an abandoned cabin deep in the mountains.

There, he found remnants of liquid
methylyte and zymene
, highly flammable chemicals used in the underground production of Z-Lyte. Z-Lyte, with its sweet musky scent, had become the hallucinogenic drug of the new generation.

Public homeowner records listed Edwin Bruchmann as the owner of the cabin. An hour later, Bruchmann was in custody. When the old man was escorted into an interview room by his caregiver, Brandon was disappointed to discover that Bruchmann suffered from Alzheimer's.

Brandon's leads were slowly disintegrating―until his suspicions turned to the caregiver. Gregory Lawrence, thirty-nine, had been employed by Bruchmann for the past two years and had access to all of the old man's documents. But Lawrence denied knowing anything about a cabin.

"When was the last time Mr. Bruchmann visited his lakeside cabin?" Brandon had asked the caregiver.

Lawrence's face had registered confusion.

Then, without thinking, he had blurted, "You idiots! Edwin Bruchmann's cabin is not by any lake. See? I told you, you have the wrong person. Mr. Bruchmann's cabin overlooks the
valley
."

Brandon had smiled then. "I thought you knew nothing about the cabin?"

"I, uh…" the man stuttered. "Well, I m-might have heard about it once. But that doesn't prove anything!"

A knock on the door halted the interrogation and a detective passed Brandon a toxicology report.

"Maybe not," Brandon had agreed. "But this sure does."

Earlier he had recognized the sweet-smelling body odor common with Z-Lyte users. Suspicious, he offered Lawrence a can of pop. When the man had finished it, Brandon dropped it into a plastic bag and handed it over to the lab for analysis.

It came back positive for Z-Lyte.

The case was immediately closed, Gregory Lawrence locked away, Bruchmann established in a care facility and Brandon promoted to AI Chief.

All accomplished without any outside help.

And Brandon certainly hadn't needed a PSI!

This new case was no different, he reasoned. What could Agent Jasi McLellan possibly offer?

Psychic mumbo-jumbo?

He laughed suddenly, adjusting his shades.

How could the woman expect him to believe she had the power to see into a killer's mind?

I'd have to see it to believe it.

4

Jasi fumed indignantly while she waited for Natassia.

"I've uploaded all pertinent info from Walsh's laptop," her partner grinned. "And a few extra files to boot."

"I don't want to hear it, Agent Prushenko," Jasi scolded, covering her ears with both hands. "You know better than to illegally hack into another investigator's computer."

Even if he is an ass!

"Hacking?" Natassia said with a grin. "Hey! Chief Walsh gave me permission to upload. Not my fault if some extra files found their way onto my data-com. It's not as if he'll know."

Jasi sighed. One day, her friend was going to hack into the wrong person's files. And then there'd be hell to pay.

A dark green van rolled up alongside them.

Ben sat in the driver's seat.

"The ME's already taken the remains to the coroner's office," he said as they climbed inside. "Natassia will have to get her reading later."

Jasi sat in front and cautiously peeked out the window toward the tent.

Brandon Walsh was insolently leaning against a wooden support post, his legs crossed at the ankles. His candid gaze caught her off guard.

If I'm lucky, the posts will come crashing down and knock him unconscious.

As they neared the crime scene, Jasi readied herself.

The unpaved road was a mess of mud and water. The van lurched forward into potholes, stopping suddenly every once in awhile to navigate carefully over the boggy ground. It ventured down a narrow lane and into the thick brush. Spruce and cedar trees surrounded the vehicle, long branches scraping restlessly against metal.

Ben drove cautiously down the road, cursing loudly when the tires spun rebelliously.

"This is the worst part of it. There's grass up ahead."

Sure enough, the marshy ground opened to a grassy field. The ground hardened and they parked a few yards from what was once a rustic summer cabin.

Stepping out of the van, Jasi surveyed the scene.

The emptiness hit her, assaulting her senses. The area was devoid of life―except for her PSI team.

Off to one side, charred wood and clumps of black mud covered a cement pad. Washburn's cabin. Perimeter beacons were spaced every twenty feet. The beacons emitted a six-foot-high screen of orange light that quarantined the area. Anyone stepping through the beam would automatically trigger an alarm that would then activate a GPS, pinpointing the intruder's location and identity.

Jasi stepped closer to the scene and surveyed the damage.

"Okay,
shake 'n bake
time."

This was her ritual―something she said before entering every crime scene.

"Natassia, you're on data. Remember, don't tell me anything that you've gotten from the X-Disc. The less I know the better."

Jasi turned to Ben. "While we're inside you can send in the X-Disc Pro. Maybe we'll get lucky―fingerprints, trace fibers. Hell, anything would be good right about now. We need a break, something."

Natassia brought out her data-com and programmed it for automatic voice recording. With a simple voice command, the data-com would pick up every word.

Jasi opened her backpack and pulled out the
OxyBlast
.

"Give me a sec."

She peeled back her mask and took a few quick puffs of oxygen. Then she grabbed the nosepiece from her pocket and slipped it over her nose. Once the mask was attached to a cord on the side of her jacket, she pocketed the
OxyBlast
.

Ben tugged on Natassia's arm. "She can't use a mask when she's reading so―"

"I know," Natassia said, cutting him off. "Keep an eye on her."

"Stop talking like I'm not here," Jasi groaned. "I'm not deaf, you know. And I don't need babysitters. Come on, Natassia."

When they reached the edge of the crime scene, Jasi entered the code on the main beacon to deactivate the perimeter alarm. The blackened ruin of the cabin beckoned her closer. Ashes fluttered in the breeze and she walked slowly, so as not to disturb them. Smoke from the extinguished fire teased a trail toward her. She could taste its acrid bitterness.

A man died here, she thought. Burned beyond recognition.

"Voice record on!" Natassia ordered.

Jasi closed her eyes, anxious to clear her thoughts. She stood at the edge of the crime scene, her hands stretched above her. Trying to relax, she brought her arms slowly to her sides.

Focus. Deep breaths…in, out.

The wind began to stir. She could hear birds in the distance.
Breathe.
The smoke clung to her skin and swirled around her body. It entered her mouth, assaulting her senses.

In her mind, she saw Washburn's cabin. She could visualize it as it once was. Smoke rising from a chimney, the curtains ruffling in the breeze.

A body strapped into a recliner, unmoving.

Jasi took a step forward, one step closer.

The darkness sucked her in, deeper…

The man muttered a curse. His fishing rod had disappeared again. Maybe he was just getting too old.

Maybe 'old timer's' had kicked in.

"Son-of-a-bitch! Where did I put it?"

I observed him from the bushes, and laughed scornfully at the old doctor's complete lack of attention. He was easy prey. I wrapped the IV tubing around my hands, testing its strength. I saw the moment the old man noticed the fishing pole I had leaned up against the railing. I crept forward and slipped behind a large screen that separated part of the deck.

Then I held my breath.

Dr. Washburn, with his snow-white hair and paunch belly, teetered through the doorway onto the deck.

Fate had delivered him to me.

I pulled a black ski mask over my face. Then I crept up behind him, reaching above his bent head and brought the tubing around his neck. I could feel him buckling and straining beneath my hands.

"Don't fight it, Doctor," I whispered in the man's ear.

His body slumped forward and I dragged him inside the cabin. Hoisting the unconscious man into an old leather recliner, I tugged his inert body until his head rested at the top. Leaning over, I gripped the lever and reclined the chair. I quickly wrapped the rope around his body, looping it around his neck.

And then I sat on the threadbare sofa.

And waited.

I heard the doctor groan a few minutes later. I laughed when he cried out in terror at finding himself tightly tied to the chair. A rope of tubing bound his legs, waist, shoulders and neck.

"I wouldn't try to move your legs too much. The more you move, the tighter the tubing will get around your neck. It's a neat trick I learned."

I reached for the gas can at my feet. The diesel was Super Clean. Only the best for the best. I poured it around the chair, savoring the horrified expression in the doctor's face. The fumes were strong and my eyes teared slightly.

"Why me?" he cried.

I stared at him for a moment, daring him to remember me.

"Because you burned me once."

I reached into the pocket of my jeans, pulled out a Gemini lighter. The gas can leaked diesel behind me as I carried it toward the door.

I peered deeply into the old man's eyes. He sobbed like a child and I watched a tear roll down his wrinkled cheek.

"Who are you?" he croaked, his eyes bulging with terror.

Without answering, I flicked the lighter in my hand. I lit a piece of newspaper, then heard the old doctor scream as I tossed it toward him.

"I don't know who you are!" the old man shrieked. "I don't know you!"

The fire licked the floorboards, searing the old cedar planks. It crawled voraciously up the chair, over his writhing body, and a low keening moan was the last sound Dr. Norman Washburn made.