Touched by Fire (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

On this night the gusts that swept into Lilah’s bedroom had taken on an acrid bite that went unnoticed by its occupants. Several hours had passed since they’d burrowed beneath the covers. Now, while Kauffman lay beside her, Lilah tossed and turned, tormented by a familiar litany: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The Lord giveth and . . . over and over, the words rang in Lilah’s head.

It was her mother’s favorite saying, and Lilah always thought of it after having sex. Not that her mother ever said it to her in that regard. They never talked about making love, as Marge Graham’s generation called it. No, the saying came to mind because the euphoria and the blissful sleep that followed inevitably gave way to harrowing nightmares.

It was always the same. A spiraling descent into a netherworld where, emotionally spent and physically naked—her flame-red hair, tumbling in sweeping waves across her breasts and pelvis, cloaking her demurely like a modern-day Botticelli—she soared through suede-black darkness to the pinnacle of emotion, then spun out of control and crashed headlong into an explosion of colored lights. The intense bursts were always violet, yellow, and
white, and were always ringed by neon-green tentacles that tried to ensnare her.

Lilah fought ferociously, terrified of being caught and of the eerie silence that she tried desperately to shatter, only to find herself unable to whimper, let alone scream. It was like a virtual-reality encounter with no sound track, an encounter she’d had hundreds of times without once getting to the end. This wasn’t because she would suddenly awaken in sweat-soaked terror, but because the nightmare would suddenly stop as if someone had pulled the plug, leaving her with a nagging feeling of uncertainty when she finally awakened hours later.

This time it was intensified by a flickering glow that came from the far side of the room. Lilah pushed up onto an elbow, squinting into the glare; then she recoiled at the sight of a raging blaze. Everywhere she looked she saw fire. She frantically rubbed the sleep from her eyes, to discover that the sheets of flame were marching across her television screen, not through her condo; and, having been multiplied by the collection of mirrors, were merely illuminating, not incinerating, the figure in jeans and T-shirt at her desk. “Kauffman?” she muttered sleepily.

His lanky body sagged like a hammock between the chair and a file cabinet where his bare heels rested. He grunted in reply, keeping one eye on the televised inferno, the other on the textbook in his lap.

“What’s going on?”

“Wildfires,” he explained, getting to his feet. “This town’s going up in flames.”

Lilah nodded knowingly and sighed with relief. “That time of year . . .” She found the remote next to the pack of Virginia Slims on the nightstand and shut off the television. “Happens every October.”

Kauffman was about to protest but sensed she was unsettled and let it go. “You okay?”

“Yeah, thanks, I’m fine. Why?”

“You were really rocking and rolling there for a while. Kinda like you locked horns with things that go bump in the night.”

Lilah nodded vulnerably. “Always do after I’ve been with someone.” She sat up against the headboard, the flame-red waves swirling about her shoulders and across her breasts, then reached to the nape of her neck and ran both hands up into her hair several times, her slender fingers gathering it into a flaming column that she began weaving into a chignon with practiced grace. She’d been doing it for decades; ever since her mother denounced her waist-long tresses as unruly and threatened to cut them; and, over the years, it had evolved into a sensuously choreographed ballet—which Kauffman found wholly intriguing. He was still savoring the performance when Lilah pulled a cigarette from the pack with her lips and struck a match to light it. It burst into flame with a sharp pop, revealing the fascination in her eyes. “Something about matches . . .” Lilah said in that seductive whisper, holding it up to him. “The way they sound, the way they smell, the way the tongues of flame start licking at each other and become one . . .”

“You see everything relative to getting your rocks off, don’t you?” he prompted with a little smile.

She lit the cigarette, then blew him a kiss, exhaling a stream of smoke that extinguished the flame. “Well now that you mention it . . .”

Kauffman’s eyes rolled. “Women are weird. This art major I used to go with said her orgasms were like diving headfirst into a de Kooning.”

“I’ll have to try that sometime,” Lilah said with a mischievous grin. “But I need to dive headfirst into a cup of coffee first. You make any?”

“No. I’ve been studying.”

“Sans caffeine?” she teased incredulously. “You sure you’re from Seattle?” She stood up stark naked, took a drag of the cigarette, and headed for the bathroom, pulling a thin layer of smoke after her. Kauffman sat there watching, fascinated by the dimple that winked at him with each step.

Lilah emerged shortly, wearing a clingy robe and a few dabs of her favorite perfume. She had experimented with many over the years, initially favoring the more potent ones that could strike the target from afar; then, on finishing her residency, whether as a symbol of her maturity or an admission that she was an old-fashioned girl at heart, she settled on Chanel’s legendary No. 5, the subtle, alluring scent that sophisticated women had been using for decades as a clincher in intimate moments.

Lilah tossed some beans in the grinder, cranked up the cappuccino machine, and soon they were sitting at the counter, sipping industrial strength espresso from cups the size of soup bowls. “My turn,” Lilah said, sensing the kid’s distance. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh. It’s nothing. Really.”

“That wasn’t very convincing, Joel,” she said with gentle concern.

Kauffman took a thoughtful sip of coffee, then made his decision, and gestured to a framed snapshot at the end of the counter. “That’s you and Professor Schaefer, isn’t it?”

Lilah nodded.

“I think I have him for psych next semester.”

“Heard the rumors, huh?”

“Looks like they’re true.”

“
Were
true,” Lilah corrected with a little sigh. She circled the counter and pushed the picture with the tip of her forefinger until it toppled facedown. “Why?”

“Feels a little weird, that’s all.”

“You mean a student making it with a professor who’s been having an affair with another professor who happens to be a shrink with a wife and three kids? What’s weird about that?”

Kauffman laughed and loosened up.

Lilah suddenly scooted off as if she’d remembered something, and returned with her briefcase. “Right arm or left?”

Kauffman looked baffled.

“I need a blood sample.”

“Blood sample?” he echoed defensively. “Hey, you’re not worried that”—he paused awkwardly—“I mean that I’m—”

“HIV positive?”

He nodded. “I’m not. Really, I’m not.”

“I know,” she said, opening one of the vacutainer kits she used to take blood samples. “Your hemo report. Nice job by the way.” In her class, the students ran batteries of tests on their own blood, and on occasion their professor graded more than their lab skills. “Besides, it’s a little late to be worried about an exchange of bodily fluids, don’t you think?”

“A little,” Kauffman replied with a sheepish grin, aching to exchange them again as a tingling sensation spread from the pit of his stomach down the inside of his thighs. The fantasy ended with the glint of steel, the cool swab of alcohol, and the pinch of a needle.

“Come on, make a fist,” Lilah said, slipping the vacutainer—a
test-tube-like vial with color-coded stopper—into the plastic holder to which the needle was attached.

Kauffman watched it filling, then felt a little queasy and looked away as she released the tourniquet. “What
are
you testing for?”

“A genetic mutation.”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously—and by the way, the word is probing. I need all the random samples I can get.”

“I have to sign something?”

“I think we passed that stage last night.” Lilah chuckled lasciviously and ran her free hand through his sleep-tousled curls. “Yeah, everyone does. I mean, I don’t care who has the mute and who doesn’t. I’m just into the statistics; but informed consent is a hot-button issue these days.”

“What mutation you looking for?”

“An MAOA defect.” Lilah removed the vacutainer and slipped the needle from his arm. “It’s an X-linked phenotype found at the XP11 locus between DXS14C and OTC.” She saw his blank expression and added, “Monoamine oxidase A. Number 309850 in Mendelian, if you want to look it up. It’s an enzyme that processes serotonin.”

Kauffman’s brow knitted in thought as Lilah fetched a consent form, peeled off one of the bar-code stickers—there were a half dozen with the same number and code in a row across the top—and affixed it to the specimen tube. “Serotonin . . . It’s a neurotransmitter or something, isn’t it?”

Lilah nodded and slid the form across the counter. “A stress modulator—controls impulses—unless the gene is a mute and your brain’s in sero withdrawal. Couple of studies have linked it to antisocial behavior. Which, if
you’re into cause and effect theories . . .” She let it trail off suggesting he supply it.

Kauffman’s pen paused over the consent form as he thought it out. “A defective MAOA gene—retards the processing of serotonin by the brain—resulting in antisocial behavior.”

“Uh-huh. And if we dispense with scientific procedure and cut to the chase, we might conclude that—what?”

The kid saw it immediately and hissed, stunned by the import of what he was about to say. “That some people are genetically programmed to be violent.”

Lilah nodded, then grinned seductively. “Maybe even sexually violent.” The words were still coming in that sexy whisper when she lunged toward him, burying her hands in his hair, and drove him back against the counter, her hungry mouth devouring his until his lower lip was captured between her teeth. He winced and recoiled, pulling the flesh taut but not free. Lilah held it for a long moment, then smiled slyly and released it. His entire body began trembling in anticipation as she worked his jeans to his thighs, then undid her robe and pressed her body against his. They were clinging to each other in frenzied passion when he cupped her bare bottom in his hands and lifted her onto the counter.

CHAPTER SIX

The previous evening, after being caught on the traffic-packed freeway, Merrick finally reached the Pacific Coast Highway. He raced north on the twisting road that paralleled picturesque beaches, passing long convoys of fire trucks and rescue vehicles.

Multicolored flashers strobed in the darkness. The wail of sirens mixed with the crackle of radios. Iridescent stripes on fire coats streaked the night as frantic crews worked in a blizzard of eye-stinging ash. Overhead, low flying tankers spewed pink flame-retardant foam in the path of the fire, which was roaring across the terrain at twenty-five miles an hour.

Merrick turned into the parking lot of an oceanfront restaurant where a command post had been set up. A group of firemen hovered over maps, plotting strategy and deploying fire-fighting units. “Merrick!” the one in the white helmet growled as he approached pulling on an
ARSON SQUAD
raid jacket. “Where the hell you been?”

“Making it with your daughter.”

“Fuck you, Merrick.”

“That’s what she was doing.”

“Fuck you, anyway.”

Battalion Chief Roscoe Decker had black skin, intelligent eyes, and the bone-weary posture of someone being pummeled by a relentless adversary. He turned into the gusting wind and pointed to a man reading a newspaper. His clothes had the ragged edges and oily sheen of constant wear. A long ponytail hung across one shoulder. “Walked out of there without getting his butt barbecued and said he saw who started it.”

“He say who?”

“Nope. He said he wants to make a deal first.”

Merrick nodded and studied the man for a moment. Most arsonists watched their handiwork from afar like a pornographic movie. Some derived a sense of power from seeing the human chaos firsthand. Others took insidious pleasure in helping fight the fire. A few, driven to be lauded as heroes, claimed to have seen the arsonist at work; and Merrick wouldn’t put it past one to stride boldly into the command post and do so.

He palmed his ID case, letting the badge shimmer in the light. “Lieutenant Merrick, Arson Squad. I hear you want to make a deal.”

The man looked up from his newspaper and nodded.

“Okay, I get the pyro. You get the film rights.”

“I wish,” the man said with a wistful smile. “Here’s my problem: When I tell you what I saw, you’re going to want to know what I was doing there.”

“Something illegal,” Merrick said matter-of-factly.

“Just being homeless seems to be illegal around here, you know?”

Merrick nodded and lit a cigarette.

“Look, I wouldn’t hurt anyone: but I do what I have to, to survive; and I don’t want to be fucked over for helping you out. We have a deal or not?”

Merrick dragged on the cigarette and studied his eyes. Rather than the manic glint of someone enjoying the chaos, they had a forthrightness confirmed by steady. hands, the fingernails clipped and clean. “Deal.”

“Okay,” the man began hesitantly. “There’s this house up near the crest. I use the pool sometimes when they’re out. To freshen up, you know? Anyway, they left a patio door open. I was . . . I was inside raiding the fridge when I saw headlights in the brush. I thought they were coming back, but the driver chucked something out the window and took off. Couple of minutes later—fire everywhere.”

Merrick nodded pensively. “You happen to get the plate number?”

“Naw, way too dark.”

“Can you describe the vehicle?”

“Yeah, it was a van. Dark one—black, green—it looked real beat up. The driver was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap . . . and he had a ponytail—long, like mine—pulled through the back. He lit a cigarette. That’s when I got a look at him.”

Merrick nodded thoughtfully. “You’re sure it was a man, not a woman?”

The man cocked his head to one side, then winced. “I couldn’t swear either way.”

“You just said
he,
several times.”

“Power of suggestion, I guess,” the man explained, holding up his newspaper. This was the third wildfire in a month, and the front page was covered with stories. “Says eight out of ten arsonists are men.”

“They are.” Merrick ground out his cigarette with frustration. “And most don’t get caught.”

The man nodded, then began laughing softly.

“You think that’s funny?”

“
No, that.” He gestured to the inferno, then slipped a wallet from his jeans and removed a driver’s license. It had a local address and a photo of an executive in a shirt and tie. The man’s face was thinner now, and ruddy from exposure, but the crisp blue eyes hadn’t changed. “I used to live here. I would’ve ended up homeless anyway.”

Merrick jotted down his name and D.L. number on a note pad. “Sounds like you’ve got an ax to grind.”

“With the bank that foreclosed on me, not my neighbors. I worked here too.” He took an ID card from his wallet. It had a similar photo and proclaimed
HUGHES AIRCRAFT
.

“Engineer?”

“Missiles,” the man replied with obvious pride.

Merrick nodded knowingly. “Yeah, Reagan really screwed it up.” He took the man to Decker’s map table and had him locate the house from where he saw the van, then peeled a twenty from a billfold. “Stay out of other people’s kitchens.”

The man smiled thinly and walked into the darkness.

Merrick put out a bulletin for a battered van, dark color, ponytailed driver, then assembled an investigation team: Bill Fletcher, boyish, quiet and new to A.I.; and Pete Logan, a crusty forensic expert with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms based in L.A.’s World Trade Center. He and Merrick had worked dozens of cases over the years.

It was about an hour before dawn when they headed up the canyon to start their manhunt. They heard the hundred-decibel roar and felt the two-thousand-degree heat well before reaching the fire line. The fifty-foot-high wall of flame had just come into view when the Blazer’s headlights cut through thick smoke to find a fire truck blocking its way. The crew had been trying to keep the blaze from
jumping the road, but a sudden wind shift sent the firestorm racing in the opposite direction, trapping them in a field of dry grass. Within seconds the entire expanse of scrub ignited with an oxygen-sucking whoosh that knocked them to the ground and tore the hoses from their hands.

Merrick, Fletcher, and Logan left the Blazer to help them, but the flames and lung-searing heat drove them back. Merrick buckled his fireman’s coat, pulled an air tank from the back of the four-by and began following a length of hose through the blinding smoke in search of the nozzle. It brought him face-to-face with the towering wall of flame.

“Hey! Hey, Dan!” Fletcher shouted, aghast. “What the bell are you doing? Dan? Dan!”

“Nothing you can do, dammit!” Logan protested.

Merrick secured his helmet, hooked the hose over his arm, and strode into the heart of the inferno.