Playing with Fire (2 page)

“You’re right. How foolish of me.” The second voice, Maggie’s voice, was confident, soft but with an edge. Had experience put steel beneath the silk? He could hear the smile in her words and pictured her gently smacking her forehead with the heel of her palm. “I should have let the hospital burn down. Now that would
really
have ticked Bennett off. Damn. And to think I was sooo close.”

“This isn’t about Bennett. He’s the least of your worries, girlfriend.
But
while we’re on the subject—”

“Hey! You brought up Dr. Just-Call-Me-God. I didn’t.”

“Why can’t you at least try to be nice to the man? He’s on the hospital board.”

“I do try, Donna. I really do.” The protestation was about as sincere as the hokey sigh that followed. Donna obviously didn’t believe her either.

“Ha! Telling him that you were worried ‘something terrible had befallen him’ is
not
being nice.”

“I said it sweetly. He took three hours to respond to my page, Donna. Three. He’s a jerk.”

“It’s a good thing you’re one of the best, because that’s the
only
thing keeping your mouth and your butt from being fired.”

Maggie’s laugh was unexpected, like sunlight in winter. “Someone else used to warn me that my alligator mouth was going to get my hummingbird butt in a lot of trouble.”

“Well, whoever he was, he was right.”

Groaning, Maggie said, “Look … if you’ll get off my case and go back up to the floor—where you belong—I promise to think happy thoughts and await my inquisition like a good little child. I won’t draw on the walls or make long distance telephone calls to 900 numbers. Okay, Mother?”

“Not okay. I’m coming back down in half an hour to check again.”

His witness took the threat in stride. “Good. You do that. Now go away. Sick people need you more than me.”

By the time the tall, mahogany-skinned woman opened the door, Beau had stepped away from the wall. It didn’t matter. The nurse never looked in his direction. She had her back to him, delivering one last instruction. “You don’t go anywhere without talking to me first, Maggie. Not home. Not back on the floor.”

Beau assumed she received a nod because she sailed off toward what must have been a staff entrance in the rear of the ER treatment hallway. The woman actually left a noticeable wake as she plowed through the health care professionals in her way. Beau’s opinion of Maggie went up a notch. He didn’t think many people would have the guts to tell Nurse Ratchet to go away. Nor did he think Nurse Ratchet would have gone away for most people.

Curious to match his mental picture of Maggie St. John with the physical reality, he forgot to knock. The lady didn’t sound like someone who needed the kid-glove treatment, and Nurse Ratchet had left the door ajar. Pushing it open was just a reflex. A second later his introduction died on his lips.

Instead of a cocky nurse pacing the floor and ready to give him an earful for keeping her waiting, a small figure in turquoise scrubs sat cross-legged on a gurney, angled slightly away from him. He couldn’t see all of her face, but he could read the panicked body language. She had drawn inward, concentrating so intensely on her clasped hands that she hadn’t heard the door swing open. Hadn’t even noticed him.

Beau eased into the room and revised his list of questions for Maggie St. John. Friday the thirteenth was shaping up to be a helluva day.

Maggie wove her trembling fingers together and squeezed until they stopped. No one had noticed. Yet. But every time they left her alone, her heart raced, and her hands began to shake again. Without conversation there was nothing to occupy her mind, nothing to push away that terrifying flash from her past.

Why couldn’t someone else have found that fire?

Why was it so cold in here?

She knew why, but that wasn’t the point of the question. What she really wanted to know was why
she
felt so cold and alone. Not for the first time in her life, she wanted to be somewhere warm, held in someone’s arms.
Fire is warm.
Maggie shut out the thought. No, no, no.

Right now she’d have killed for a significant other. A father. A mother. Anyone.
Someone.
Someone to promise her the memories of that night weren’t going to come back, and that it wouldn’t matter if they did. Someone to tell her whatever really happened wasn’t her fault. Someone to tell her that she wasn’t that little girl anymore.

But what if it was her fault?

Watch me.

When she opened that utility room door, the words had been so clear. Just like before. In less time than it took to blink, the world tilted, dragging her down into a dark place inside herself. For a split second Maggie had been
there.
The fire was in front of her, coming for her. And then it was gone, leaving behind one image, one sound. One terrifying snapshot of a night she had never been able to remember completely. Didn’t want to remember.

At least not alone.

The only family Maggie had was Carolyn Poag, an all-but-blood big sister, who was on the other side of town trying to hold body and soul together by cutting hair and setting perms. Maggie couldn’t call her. Carolyn couldn’t afford to close the shop, not on a Friday.

So she huddled on the bed, trying to pull herself together. Waiting for the past to stab her again. Waiting for the familiar questions.

Déjà vu.

Except this time she
knew
it wasn’t her fault. This time there wasn’t a huge black hole in her memory. She could recall every single detail about today—from the time she’d gotten up until she’d opened that utility room door. She hadn’t struck a match much less set fire to anything.

Didn’t matter. The knot in her stomach refused to go away.

Maggie drew her legs up and rested her head on her knees. Her eyes drifted shut as she rocked. That’s when the past struck with blinding speed. Like a knife slipped into her brain the memory was sharp, edged with pain. She remembered fumbling with a latch, begging for something.

“
No!
” Maggie jerked up and forced her eyes to focus on her hands, on the here and now. She didn’t want the memories. Didn’t want to know. Her breathing was almost normal when a man’s compassionate voice startled her all over again.

“You okay?”

Maggie didn’t actually jump off the bed, but she came
close before her common sense canceled her instincts. Settling down, she asked, “Who the hell are you?”

“Assistant Chief Grayson, arson investigation.” His voice was harder now, more official. The compassion was gone. “If you’re Maggie St. John, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

She got off the bed. Sitting on it put her at a disadvantage somehow, and Maggie couldn’t shake the feeling that Grayson liked it that way. The jeans and the rumpled shirt couldn’t camouflage the man’s hard edge or the constant assessment in his eyes. Judge and jury.

Maggie wanted to cringe when she realized exactly how much he must have seen. Instead she flicked a glance over his long frame. “Right,” she said. “You’re just here to interrogate me. That’s reassuring. For a minute there I thought you were here to scare me.”

“Something did that before I ever got the chance. Care to tell me about it?”

Suddenly Maggie didn’t want to tell him anything. Not when he looked at her like that. As if he already knew her secrets and wanted a confession anyway. “No. I wouldn’t care to tell you.”

“Have nightmares often?”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Have panic attacks often?”

She bristled. “Only when strange men sneak up on me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was strange.”

Beau saw a grudging smile catch the corners of her mouth. He hadn’t meant to make the joke, but old habits kicked in. The lady was strung tight, and he was an expert at pulling the release trigger. Growing up he’d lost
count of the times he’d seen his mother huddled into a ball trying to shut out the world.

But seeing this woman scrunched up hadn’t been the real kick in the gut. Her eyes had. He’d never seen anyone except his mother look so alone and frightened. For a second he’d seen real terror in Maggie St. John’s eyes, and then she put up the mask.

What are you hiding, lady?
One way or another he’d find out.

He relaxed his expression, returning her uncertain smile. “Seems like we got off to a bad start, Ms. St. John.”

“Never apologize. I don’t, and call me Maggie. It’s a perfect day for bad starts. Trust me on this one.”

“I’m not the trusting type.”

“It figures.” She leaned against the bed and shoved a hand through hair that looked as if it’d been cut with a Weedwacker.

Parted mostly in the center, it fell in every direction imaginable. Coupled with a generous mouth, the mussed hair gave the impression she’d just been kissed hard—and needed to be kissed again. Her plump bottom lip and the vulnerability in her eyes were a dangerous combination.

He wanted to taste the first and made it a habit to avoid the second. Fortunately, getting to know her better wasn’t a decision he’d have to make. Her involvement in this case placed her squarely in the look-but-don’t-touch category. The unisex scrubs helped too.

Fishing a small notebook out of his back pocket, he said, “This’ll only take a few minutes. It’s pretty basic.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about the fire. I
opened the door. There it was. I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t do anything.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No one’s accused you of anything.”

The word
yet
hovered unspoken in the air, a sword over Maggie’s head.
Just get through the questions
, she told herself as the room began to make her feel claustrophobic.
Just answer the man, and get him out of here.

He seemed to take up so much space, so much of the air she needed to breathe. She was used to doctors patronizing her, accustomed to interns leering at her, and was an old hand at fending off party drunks. With them she felt she could hold her own. Maggie had no such illusions about Grayson. There would be no question of winning. With him it was a question of surviving.

Intensity came off him in waves. No missteps allowed. He was the real deal. The absolute last thing she needed today.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Full name for starters.”

Maggie hesitated. She always did. “Mary Magdalene St. John.”

He looked up from his pad, but didn’t comment. That was a first. Her name ordinarily earned her at least one wisecrack. In quick succession he got her address, telephone, her floor assignment, and how long she’d worked at Cloister.

“Now, you said you didn’t see anyone, but you didn’t mention how you happened to be in the hallway.”

“I had to straighten out a chart mix-up. The emergency department sent a D.O.A. chart up to the floor with a live patient and sent the live patient’s chart to the
morgue. I was on my way to switch them when I smelled the smoke.”

“Is the door kept locked?”

“Never.”

“Who else has access to that hallway?”

Maggie laughed and wrapped her arms around her midriff. “The city of Baton Rouge. There are a million ways to get in and out of this hospital. Though most people just want
out.
”

“Do you?”

The question was so unexpected, she answered truthfully. “Yeah. Sometimes. But I wouldn’t see the kind of patients we see in Cloister’s ER. I didn’t get into nursing to hand out aspirin.”

Grayson paused, contemplating his pad and then raised his gaze to hers. “You don’t work in ER. Why do you care what patients go through there?”

Maggie realized her mistake. If she didn’t tell him, someone else would. “I worked in ER until last week. I … transferred.”

“Transferred?”

She saw the noose looming before her and had no choice but to put her neck in it. He was fishing for a motive, and she had a dandy one for him. She was about to paint herself as the disgruntled employee trying to get back at the big, bad employer.

“I was reassigned actually.”

“Reassigned?”

“Yeah. I took exception to where Dr. Thibodeaux put his hands. Unfortunately, I had a scalpel in my hand at the time.”

Beau straightened, suddenly wary. He shifted his attention from her long enough to check the room for sharp objects. He was safe. At least physically. The risk associated with Maggie St. John would be allowing her vulnerability to cloud his thinking or excuse her behavior.

Not that she looked vulnerable or in need of excuses at the moment.

Beau tried to reconcile the frightened woman he’d seen curled into a ball with the tough blonde in front of him. Neither of them were what he expected. One settled disputes with a scalpel, and the other looked petrified of her own shadow.

Not that his expectations were important to the case. Based on her proximity to the fire, she was his prime suspect. His job wasn’t to understand her; it was to arrest her or clear her. Simple. Except that he doubted anything about Maggie St. John was simple. His reaction to her wasn’t.

Running his gaze over her once more, he looked for
signs that she regretted the incident with Thibodeaux. Instead of her eyes dropping, her chin came up, and she met his scrutiny with a challenging glare of her own. Beau was left with the certainty that the lecherous Dr. Thibodeaux wasn’t very bright. He’d certainly picked the wrong lady to mess with.