Touched by Fire (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

T
he green Jaguar came south on Fourteenth Street, passing the credit union where Marge Graham worked, then continued up the hill toward Pico and turned into Woodlawn Cemetery.

The modest abutments at the entrance and graceful rows of headstones beyond were awash in the amber light of an autumn sunset that sent long shadows across the neatly clipped grass and made the names that had been chiseled into the granite appear to glow from within.

The gravel roadway crunched softly as Lilah slowed, letting the car glide beneath the canopy of bare fruit trees. The tiny, Depression-era cemetery took up only a few square blocks, and moments later she found the grave she was after. She left the car and walked slowly toward it, then paused, staring solemnly at the words cut into the pale pink granite.

LAURA GRAHAM

AGE 7 YEARS

THE LORD GIVETH AND THE LORD TAKETH AWAY

“Hi, it’s Lilah,” she said softly, as if Laura could hear her. Her eyes drifted to the spray of flowers her mother had
left earlier, then they filled with tears that went rolling down her cheeks. Each time she blinked, the drops that glistened on her lashes caught the sun’s rays, setting off tiny bursts of light; and with chain-reaction speed and intensity, they began refracting into the all too familiar purple, yellow, and white flashes of her nightmare.

Soon her naked body was soaring through infinite blackness, ringed by the glowing tentacles that were lashing out at her like a jungle of neon whips. They were within an eye blink of ensnaring her when something happened that had never happened before. The long, flaming red hair that swept in waves across her breasts and pelvis suddenly parted, revealing not the mature voluptuous form of a woman, but the pristine angular body of a child, a child who hadn’t experienced even the initial stirrings of adolescence let alone the flowering of womanhood. And just as she was about to crash headlong into the explosions of colored light, something else happened that had never happened before: her journey ended not in the terrifying uncertainty of the netherworld but in the blissful community of Santa Monica by the sea, where—dressed in the white blouse and plaid skirt of her grade school uniformLilah Elizabeth Graham was running across her lawn toward her father’s outstretched arms.

Doug Graham worked three days on, three days off then, during those wretched, gloomy days when Laura was taken ill and died; and whenever he was off duty, he’d be waiting outside for Lilah when she came bounding off the school bus. He’d always smile and say, “Give us a hug, princess,” picking her up as she ran into his embrace and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. Then, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist in the innocent way children do, she’d cling to him as he stood and
carried her inside, heading straight into the kitchen for an after-school snack. It was their little routine, their own special time together on his days off; and Lilah looked forward to it with the excitement daughters reserve for these moments with their fathers; moments that made her feel loved and secure; moments that she especially enjoyed because, like all little girls going through that stage where they’re secretly planning to dispose of Mommy and marry Daddy, Lilah didn’t have to compete with her mother for his attention and affection.

This time, as she clung to her father and he carried her inside, he spoke in a tender whisper and said, “You’re my girl, Lilah. The only one I have left now; and I’m going to do something that will show you just how much I love you, okay?”

Lilah nodded excitedly, listening with curiosity and delight as he explained it would be their special secret and that she shouldn’t tell Mommy or anyone else about it. Then, instead of taking her into the kitchen so she could get the cookies while he fetched the milk, he went into the den and sat in his new recliner, still hugging her to him, hugging her tightly, hugging her, she thought, as if afraid he was going to lose her or never see her again.

“Take your hair down, Lilah,” her father said in a soft, trembling voice.

Lilah settled in his lap, then reached up behind the nape of her neck and did as he asked, letting the carrot-red waves cascade over her shoulders and across the front of her uniform; then she leaned her head against his chest, savoring the faint scent of fire that seemed to linger on him despite the harsh soaps and numerous showers. Her eyes were peering over his shoulder at the lounger’s colorful fabric, her heart racing with anticipation, as she wondered
just what this supreme expression of her father’s love might be, when she felt the movement beneath her skirt, felt his cool, trembling hands caressing her thighs, felt the tip of his finger slipping inside her panties and gently stroking her in a place he had never touched her before. Her eyes widened in surprise and confusion, her adrenaline-charged pulse surged uncontrollably, and her mouth opened in curiosity and protest, but no sound came out.

That was more than thirty years ago, and Doug Graham continued to show his daughter how much he loved her with increasing regularity and intensity until she went away to college, a goal that Lilah set early on, a goal that drove her to excel as a student, a goal she subconsciously knew was her salvation.

Now, as dusk fell, enhancing the cemetery’s air of solemnity, Lilah had no trouble emitting an anguished scream. The long-pent-up wail shattered the silence and brought the terrifying flood of memories to a sudden end. She was on her knees when she came out of it, though she had no memory of kneeling, and remained perfectly still for a long moment until she was certain she had regained her equilibrium; then she brushed the tears from her eyes and reached out to the headstone. Her hand was surprisingly steady as it touched the sun-warmed granite, her fingertips gliding across it, tracing the graceful letters of her sister’s name.

She felt surprisingly secure and in control as the terrifying sense of uncertainty that always gripped her after an episode gave way to a clear sense of purpose and unwavering resolve. “Don’t worry, Laura,” she said with eerie calmness. “Everything’s going to be okay now.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

T
he
tableau of smashed mirrors had stopped Merrick cold. He took a few moments to gather his wits, then back-tracked through the condo to the kitchen and located a door that he had noticed was slightly ajar.

It opened onto a flight of stairs that led beneath the condo. He threw the light switch and started down cautiously, calling Lilah’s name; then, detecting the faint scent of napthalene, he took the remaining steps two at a time, and found himself in the garage.

Lilah wasn’t there either, but he found an impressive variety of tools, along with surgical gloves, spools of wire, shipping cartons, packing tape, and a workbench covered with evidence. The latter included chunks of crumbled fireplace logs, cans of charcoal lighter, disassembled lightbulbs, and empty mothball and fertilizer boxes.

Merrick picked through the clutter, coming across a crumpled supermarket receipt and several pieces of recently delivered mail from which the postal stickers,
X-RAYED CLEARED FOR DELIVERY
, had been removed. He took a moment to search the rest of the garage, found nothing else of interest, and charged up the stairs, intending to leave. The flashing indicator light on the answering machine caught his eye. He pressed Play and
waited with growing impatience as the message tape rewound.

“Hi, guess who?” Marge Graham’s voice finally chirped. “Your office said you were in class, so I waited and tried you at the hotel. I’m sure glad you’re out of there. Wasting all that money and everything. You really should try to be more frugal, Lilah. Anyway, a package came for you today. You think by now people would know enough not to send you things here. Don’t worry, it has those stickers on it. You know the ones. Come by and pick it up whenever you want. No rush as far as I’m concerned, but—” There was a pause, filled by a mischievous giggle. “—your father says you can’t have it until he gets his next checkup. So I suggest you . . .”

Merrick was on the move the instant he heard the word
package
. Marge’s voice was still droning on when he went out the door and ran to the Blazer in the falling darkness. He got the four-by rolling, then dialed the Grahams’ number on his cellphone. The line was busy. He pressed Redial, then pressed it again and again.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

M
oments before Merrick left the condo, Marge Graham was in the kitchen of the modest bungalow in Santa Monica. She had just begun preparing dinner when the phone rang. The last time she checked, her husband was dozing in his recliner, and she picked up the wall phone on the first ring, hoping it wouldn’t wake him.

“Hi, Mom, it’s me.”

“Oh hi, you get my message?”

“I went to see Laura,” Lilah said beatifically, oblivious to her mother’s question.

“Laura?” Marge echoed incredulously. “You mean, you went to the cemetery?”

“Uh-huh. I’m with her right now.”

“It’s about time,” Marge grumbled. “After all these years I can’t imagine—I mean, what could have possibly prompted you to go today?”

“Is Daddy there?” Lilah asked in a tiny, childlike voice.

“Of course he is,” Marge replied dismissively, as perplexed by the question as ever. “Oh, before I forget, a package came for you this afternoon. That’s why I called.” As Marge spoke she drifted into the doorway and glanced down the entry hall to the den. She could see the box on the floor just inside the archway, where she’d had the
courier leave it. Her eyes swept across the
CLEARED FOR DELIVERY
stickers, the ones that had assured her it wasn’t an incendiary. “Oh, and don’t worry,” she went on blithely, “it’s been cleared and all. I mean the package. Any idea when you might be able to come by? . . . Lilah?”

Lilah smiled strangely and didn’t reply.

“Lilah? Lilah, you there?”

Lilah pressed a key on the cellphone, ending the call, and pressed another, one of three she’d assigned to the pagers when prestoring their numbers, then pressed Send. The cellphone immediately autodialed the number, transmitting a page to the third, and last, of the Motorola personal pagers that she had transformed into remote detonators.

Seconds later the pager inside the box in Marge Graham’s entry hall received the signal, and the appropriate microcircuit closed, but the pager didn’t vibrate to indicate the presence of a message. Instead it acted like a switch, connecting the wire that came from the lantern battery to the wire that went to the lightbulb filament inside the matchbook. The delicate curlicue came to white-hot life. The matches ignited with a soft whoosh. And the surrounding excelsior, which had been sprinkled with charcoal lighter, filling the box with volatile fumes, burst into flame.

Marge had given up on Lilah and was at the sink washing lettuce when the phone rang again. The constant busy signal had prompted Merrick to dial an operator and use his authority to initiate an emergency intercept; but by the time it had been arranged, the line was clear and the phone rang normally.

Marge dried her hands and was crossing the kitchen to answer it when the heat and pressure within the box reached explosive force and burst the taped seams with a
deafening crack. The shock wave rocked the house, propelled bits of burning cardboard in every direction, and sent flaming sludge from the incendiary-filled Ziploc splashing against the walls and rolling across the floor.

Marge Graham’s ears popped about the same time the items in the kitchen cabinets started tinkling. She thought it was an earthquake at first, but the pungent smell and crackling roar that followed left no doubt what had happened. She ignored the phone and dashed from the kitchen into the entry hall. Shafts of fire were already racing up the walls and bending across the ceiling. She screamed and screamed again, then ran toward the den where her husband slept, shouting his name. A towering wall of flame blocked her way, and the phone was still ringing when the eye-stinging smoke and intense heat sent her running outside into the darkness in search of help.

Moments later columns of smoke were twisting skyward above the house. Most of the windows had been left open, in hopes an ocean breeze might come up and take the edge off the sweltering heat, and the fire was consuming oxygen so fast that air was rushing through them at gale force velocity. Fanned and fed by the infinite supply of oxygen, the blaze literally spread like wildfire.

Paint was blistering and panes of glass were popping from their frames when the Jaguar came down the hill toward the golf course. Lilah saw the smoke and orange glow against the sky, punched the gas and made a looping turn into the driveway, screeching to a stop behind Marge Graham’s sedan. She found her mother stumbling about the front lawn in the darkness. Her hair was singed, her face blackened, her mouth trembling with fright, muttering her husband’s name.

“Mom? Mom, where is he?” Lilah shouted, trying to snap her out of it. “Where’s Daddy?”

Marge whimpered helplessly, nodding at the house.

“Daddy’stillinside?” Lilah exclaimed, running the words together into a mournful screech as she ran toward the house.

Her mother pursued and tried to stop her. “No! Lilah, no!” she shouted, getting hold of her arm. Lilah pulled free and dashed up the walkway to the entrance, plunging straight into the inferno in search of her father.

The interior of the tiny structure was alive with the death rattle of burning wood, which snapped and popped with the crisp retort of gunshots. Panels of drapery were going up like sheets of flash paper. The plaster was buckling from the intense heat and popping off the walls in massive sheets. Immediately upon exposure, the sixty-year-old desert-dry framing and lath beneath ignited like kindling. The floors were rolling seas of blue-orange flame.

By the time Merrick arrived, Marge Graham had progressed from shock to hysteria and had been joined by several frantic neighbors. One woman had fetched a garden hose and was aiming the stream of water into a flaming window. “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!” Marge wailed, running toward the Blazer as it screeched to a stop. “They’re in there! They’re in there! Doug and Lilah! They’re in there!”

Merrick pulled his fire coat from the rear of the four-by, hooked an arm through the strap of his air tank, and ran toward the house, commandeering the garden hose en route. He wet down the entrance, then dropped to his knees and went in below the smoke. Dragging the air tank alongside him, sucking heavily on the mask, spraying the
griddle-hot floor in front of him with water, he began crawling down the entry hall between the columns of flame and swirling smoke toward the den. The gauntlet of fire led to an archway that framed the raging blaze beyond like the mouth of a massive oven.

In the distance Merrick saw the pale silhouette of a body sprawled on the floor. His eyes were burning and tearing heavily and he could barely keep them open, let alone determine whether it was Lilah’s body or her father’s. The hose was literally melting in his hands as he wet down the flaming debris in his path, inching forward on his belly, feeling his way until his hand found Lilah’s. It was limp and lifeless.

Merrick quickly wet her down, then discarded the hose, slipped off his fire coat, and threw it over her head and torso, protecting them from the tongues of flame that lashed out from every surface. He gulped several frantic breaths from the air tank, burrowed beneath her until his shoulders were squarely under her midsection, and lunged to his feet. Bent beneath Lilah’s weight, blinded by eye-stinging pain, he lumbered back down the flaming gauntlet and through the blizzard of orange cinders as fast as he could.

Marge emitted a euphoric scream as Merrick burst through the blazing rectangle that had been the front door and stumbled across the lawn with Lilah. He dropped to his knees and, with the help of several neighbors, laid Lilah flat on her back.

With swift, practiced hands he opened her mouth, put his lips to hers and forced his breath deep into her lungs. He did it several times in rapid succession, then locked his hands together, placed the palms on her chest and began rocking back and forth rhythmically, counting to himself
as he pumped the oxygen-rich blood to Lilah’s brain. He repeated the procedure several times and had his lips pressed to hers again when she finally stirred and began coughing.

Seconds later her eyes fluttered to life, blinking in confusion at the hazy image that gradually came into focus. “Merrick?” Lilah wondered weakly, squinting at him with a totally baffled expression.

“Yeah, easy now, take it easy,” Merrick said reassuringly. “You’re going to be okay.”

A faint, dopey smile broke across Lilah’s face. She’d been waiting more than thirty years to be rescued, and it had finally happened. “Thanks,” she said, in a dry-throated rasp.

Merrick nodded and smiled thinly. “You’re some piece of work, Doc.”

Lilah was aglow with relief, then her brow furrowed at a thought and her watery eyes snapped open in panic-stricken awareness of what had happened. “My father!” she rasped. “My father! Did you get him out?”

Merrick glanced at the roaring inferno behind them, and shook his head no, sadly.

The sound of a wounded animal came from deep inside Lilah. She lurched into a sitting position and started to get to her feet.

“Nothing you can do, Doc,” Merrick said, holding her back. “He’s gone.”

“Let me go, dammit!” Lilah shouted plaintively. “Let me go!” She struggled to break free of his grasp and pummeled him feebly with her fists, her reddened eyes staring forlornly at the house that was now totally consumed by fire. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

She kept shouting it over and over until she heard the
rising scream of sirens, felt the throbbing rumble of fire trucks, and saw the multicolored flashers sweeping the darkness; then, amid the screech of brakes, the pounding of thick-soled boots, and the chatter of hose against pavement, Lilah crumbled beneath the weight of overwhelming exhaustion and grief, collapsing into Merrick’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably.