Playing With Fire (31 page)

“Oh, that’s right. You were a stripper. He would have liked
that. And he abused you? So like Dylan. He bragged about it, you know? Said the
only thing he missed about you was that he could no longer offer you to his
friends. As I recall you were to be his little gift to the men he had screwed.
He screwed them; they got to screw his wife.”

Erin fought against a wave of nausea. She couldn’t
understand what was happening. Something was wrong with Blake. Terribly wrong.
She only knew she had to leave. But when she tried to stand, she couldn’t.

“What… what are you talking about, Blake?”

“His birthday party. How he wanted you to…”

“I… I don’t understand. I never told you about that, Blake.
I never told anyone except Connor. How… did you know that?”

“How? Because Dylan told me. When he told me he was still
married to a little slut who ran away, just because she didn’t want him to
share her with his friends.

“Amazing, Erin. You’d say good-bye to all that money, just
because you didn’t want to be the centerpiece of a cluster fuck? How noble of
you. And how stupid.”

Erin was terrified. She started to shake. Through the fog in
her brain, she knew that Blake was the man Nate and Eric were trying to find.
But she couldn’t move. It was as though her arms and legs had no strength.
Blake’s face was twisted in a vile grin. He looked at her as though he pitied
her.

“Who… are you, Blake. I… I feel like I don’t know you.”

“Oh, Erin. Sweet, innocent, dumb, trusting Erin. There are a
lot of things about me that you don’t know, my dear. But you are about to find
out.”

“The fuck do you
mean
she’s not there?”

“Nathan. Please. You know I dislike swearing and, no, Erin
is not here. We just got back from seeing the baby. Oh Nathan, he is beautiful.
He looks just like Connor did when—”

“Mama D, listen to me. I need to know where Erin is. This is
very serious.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so, Nathan? She left a note. She
went out for dinner with that nice friend of hers. Let’s see. Her note says,
Went out to dinner with—”

“Blake Richards?”

“That’s right, honey. But—”

“Good bye, Mama D.”

~~~

“Where are you taking me, Blake?”

“Why, home of course, Erin. I presume you don’t want your
lover to find you at my place? That is what he is, isn’t he? You did let him
screw you, didn’t you, Erin? Of course, you did. How could you resist? A big,
strong muscle-man. Who cares if he is a Neanderthal, right Erin? All you little
sluts care about is appearance. To think that you would forego all that money
Erin, but would hook up with someone like Nathan Stryker. It says a lot about
who you are.”

“Yes, Blake, it does.”

“Sarcasm, Erin? Really? When you are tied up and about to be
gagged and left in a burning building? Well, I can’t say you aren’t a
courageous slut. But, Erin, courage is a useless commodity.”

Erin forced herself to be calm. As calm as she could be.
Thank God whatever drug he had given her was starting to wear off. But he’d
tied her hands behind her with a leather cord, and stuffed her in the car. As
weak as she was, she’d been unable to loosen the cord. Even through her
numbness, her arms and shoulders ached painfully.

She had to believe that somehow Nate would find her. He had
to. She had to believe he would come for her. But, how? Oh God, he will be so
worried. And angry. Why, why did I go with Blake. Oh God. Think, Erin, think.
Somehow I have to distract this hideous man. Give Nate time. Forcing herself to
think and break through the fuzz in her brain, she felt something hard in her
back pocket. Oh God. Was it her phone? If she could somehow reach Nate? But she
realized that Blake would hear her. But maybe she could let them who this man
was, if only she could click on the right button….

“Why, Blake? Why did you do this?”

“Do what, Erin? Kill Dylan? And his latest slut, Camilla?
Or, are you talking about
Simon? Or perhaps you are interested in Blake Richards — the real Blake
Richards, that is.”

He chortled.

“Or maybe we should call him the ‘former’ Blake Richards.”

“Oh my God! You… you killed four people? Oh my God. Dear
God. You are….”

“Crazy? Diabolical? Greedy? Hmm. Perhaps in some degree,
each one of those descriptions apply. But no, my dear, the best way to describe
me is genius. And, determined.

“Ah, yes. Determined not to let that prick you married get
the best of me. My old college roommate, Dylan Masterson. They always thought
Dylan was smart. Hardly. He cheated on every exam he took. But he still got the
honors. And who becomes a multi-millionaire? Why,
Dylan
of course.
Cheated his way to that as well. Stole every idea and passed it off as his. And
the poor chumps he stole from? They were too stupid to protect themselves.

“Dylan was delighted when he saw my breakthrough idea. I didn’t
bother to tell him it was one I ‘borrowed’ from a client. A client who
unfortunately was in a terrible car accident. Much like yours, Erin. Only my
client didn’t survive. I’ll give you that, Erin. If nothing else, you are a
survivor.”

“You killed… someone else? Blake…. What is your real name?”

“You may call me Kenneth or KP — as my friends call me. As I
recall, that is what you kept telling me. You just wanted to be friends. But in
answer to your question, let’s just say I ‘arranged’ for my client’s sad
passing. Except for Dylan and Camilla — and you, of course, my dear — I prefer
to ‘farm out’ my killings. Less messy that way. As for your bottom line
question, Why? For the reason it always is. The money, my dear. It’s always the
money.
Cherchez le lucre
.”

Erin struggled to understand, to try to square this evil man
with the one she thought she knew. How could she have been so deluded? And to
think that she had written off Nate’s antagonism to him as jealousy. No, Nate
had better instincts; but even he hadn’t figured Blake for a murderer.

“Why me, Kenneth?”

“Why indeed, Erin. Two months ago I didn’t know you existed.
When I discovered Dylan planned to cheat me the way he did all those other
ignorant investors, I made my plans. Dylan and Camilla were to have an
unfortunate boating accident. To my surprise, at one of his drunken orgies,
Dylan told me he had a slut of a wife somewhere. One that he never bothered to
divorce. He used you, my dear, as a foil. An excuse for why he could not marry
the money-grubbing Camillas of the world. Imagine my dismay when I learned that
Sarah Marie Masterson was Dylan’s sole heir. Suddenly my open and shut
partnership agreement that would be finalized at his death became problematic.
Why, I might have spent
years
fighting you in court to prove that I was
his partner. And those fuckers at Willoughby and Finch would have eaten up half
of my fortune in legal bills.

“As always, my genius kicked in. Why should Dylan die in an
accident? Why not be murdered by none other than his gold-digging little wife.
A ‘twofer.’ I get rid of both of you at the same time.” The crazed man giggled
lightly, then continued. “You kill your husband and
you
are convicted of
murder. Or, you kill yourself. Because there always should be an ‘or’ — a plan
B, if you will. Conviction? Suicide? Tomato? Tomahto? Either way: Exit little
Sarah Marie.”

When the car stopped, Erin saw that they were in front of
her house. A rush of hope flared. If she could get someone’s attention. Oh God,
yes. She’d pretend to be dizzy, helpless, then scream and scream as loud as she
could. The danger was that in Charlotte Prairie neighbors didn’t pay much
attention to screams, but she could try. That hope was dashed when
Blake/Kenneth pulled out a ball gag. Before she could open her mouth to scream,
he shoved the gag in her mouth and tightened the strap painfully. She fought
back her panic, not sure she could breathe. The only thing more terrifying than
the gag were his eyes. They were demonic.

“You should be impressed, Erin, by my attention to detail. I
want you bound and gagged while you are waiting to die. But I want no traces of
the gag or the bindings when they find your charred body. This gag and
flammable bindings were expensive… but I never scrimp on the details.

“I’m sorry, Erin. Truly I am. The last hour of your life
will not be pleasant. But you see. I need you to stay alive long enough for me
to establish my alibi. A drink with a friend at the local pub should do it. An
after-work beer with a ‘buddy.’ Very Chicadian Falls, don’t you agree? Why, I
might even run into Nate, although by that time he will be heading back to the
Langs to have dinner with you.

“The more I think about it, this may be one of my most
inspired killings. You remember the way Dylan’s and Camilla’s burial pyre
exploded? I doubt even the ‘brilliant’ Nate Stryker figured that one out.
Another stroke of my genius. Why fuss with expensive accelerants when plain old
drugstore rubbing alcohol is available. As I’m sure you know, it is amazingly
flammable. Of course the beauty of it is that it is water soluble. When all
those big bad firemen come rushing in with their ‘hoses’ blazing, they wash
away the accelerant. Well my dear, we are going to sprinkle that rubbing
alcohol all over that nice new furniture that your paramour bought for you. If
I’m correct, and I always am, the fuse I string throughout the house will take
about thirty to forty-five minutes to light. That will then set the rugs and
tables on fire, until finally the fire is strong enough to ignite the
accelerant.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Let’s see. I’m meeting Tom Creighton at 6:30 p.m. By 7:15
or so we should have a nice little bonfire smoldering here, and by 7:30 the
flames will have reached the alcohol… which will also be on
you
. Then
poof! Bye bye, ugly shack. And bye bye to the lovely but oh-so-foolish Sarah
Marie Masterson, aka Erin McFadden.

“Aren’t you impressed that I have done my ‘fire starting’
homework? My hope for you, Erin, is that you die of smoke inhalation.
Unfortunately from my research, rubbing alcohol doesn’t throw off that much
smoke. A pity.

“Besides setting the fire and getting you nicely tied in
place, we have one additional task to complete in your house. That is to send
an email to your lover boy. A suicide note which needs to come from your
computer. I will tell him how much you care for him, but couldn’t bear the
guilt — or something maudlin along that line. As Stryker noted, we ambulance
chasers have a way with words. I will make sure that your ‘last words’ are
poignant, memorable. I owe you that, Erin.

“But, for now, my dear, it’s good-bye.”

With that, he placed a sweet-smelling rag over her face.
Blessed darkness flooded over her, blocking out the sight and sound of her
killer.

“He’s not here, Nate. But they were. There are two wine
glasses and some cheese and shit.”

Nate’s voice was tense.

“I’m three minutes out, Pete. Call for the CSU crew. Cordon
off the entrance and exits. Get those lab boys over there
now
.”

Nate stood in the doorway. His chest constricted more if
possible.

“She was here.”

Dan’s face was dark with concern.

“How… how do you know, Nate?”

“Her smell. Her damnable smell. There’s nothing like it in
the world.”

Pete Maze wrapped a napkin around the wineglass on the table
and sniffed it.

“Speaking of smells. This is rophenol if I ever smelled it.”

Nate’s gut clenched. The fucker had drugged Erin. There was
no way she could signal him or leave clues.

At the vibration in his pocket, he grabbed for his phone.
Praying, please God, let it be….Looking down the number three flashed. Fuck. It
was Ettie Mae. Mrs. J. to him.

Her voice filled with concern echoed across the ether.

“Detective, I knows you thinks I’m a busybody. And you shore
got me in trouble with Erin over that furniture you buyed her. But I heared
about that accident on the TV, and Mr. Creevy down the street says he heard it
was Erin. When I didn’t see for her for a couple days, I jest wanna be sure
she’s all right.”

Nate’s voice was gruff.

“Mrs. J., I’m sorry. I appreciate your concern. And, yes,
Erin was in the accident. But I’m dealing with an emergency—”

“I hear you, Detective. And I knows my eyes ain’t all that
good anymore. But I could a sworn I see smoke comin’ out of Erin’s place. You
told me if I ever seed anything suspicious….”

As he dashed out the door, Dan Coulter at his heels, Nate
shouted, “Fire! At Erin’s house!”

From the hallway he heard Pate Maze bark into his phone,
“Code 1, add likely 51 and for sure a 901. Possible firefighter inside. At…?”

Nate shouted over his shoulder, “289 Wingate in Charlotte
Prairie.”

He knew by the time he reached his car they’d hear sirens,
see lights and a fleet of ambulances. But even a call for a suspected
aggravated arson couldn’t make those emergency vehicles get there faster than
his Z.

As they pulled up, Nate was out of the car before it was
fully stopped. Smoke was coming out of the windows and the smell of gas met
them as they leapt from the car. Before Dan could stop him, Nate was heading
for the porch.

“No, Nate! You gotta wait for the engines. They’re coming
now. Listen to the sirens, Nate. Jesus, man. He’s likely got it rigged to
blow!” Dan’s voice was frantic.

Nate shouted over his shoulder as he hit the porch at full
speed, “I know Erin’s in there, and you do too, Dan!”

Before Dan could pull him back Nate flung open the door.
Smoke hit him in the face, as did the smell of burning fabric. The telltale
odor of leaking gas hit his burning nostrils. Glancing from the empty living
room to the kitchen, he saw the bathroom door was closed. Screaming her name
and breathing in as little of the rancid smoke as he could, he tore for the
bathroom and flung open the door. The smell of alcohol was even stronger, and
he realized it was coming from the bathtub. To his horror he saw Erin. A ball
gag was strapped over her mouth, and her arms were bound behind her and
fastened to the faucet. He grabbed towels off the rack, and stuffed them under
the door. It was a useless attempt to hold back the flames he could feel though
the flimsy barrier.