Because Kenton took one thing in this world very seriously, and that was his job with the Serial Services Division. When his boss, Keith Hyde, told him to jump, well, he touched the freaking sky. So when Keith had given him a stack of files and told him to hit the road—he’d hit it.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked, offering a broad smile.
He pointed to Lora’s disappearing beer. “Same thing. Thanks.” Kenton waited for the woman to ease away, then he leaned in toward Lora. “Arsonists are like serial killers—”
“Uh, come again?”
“They like patterns.” So he’d been told by Monica Davenport, the SSD’s profiler extraordinaire. “They set their fires in a certain way, follow a kind of ceremony with them. This guy…” His fingers tapped on the tabletop. “He’s all over the place. There is no pattern.” If they were even looking at the same guy.
“The victims are the pattern.” Her voice came, slow, certain, and with a smoky, husky edge that ran right over his flesh.
Focus.
But focus wasn’t that easy when she sat there, wearing a too-tight black tank top—really great br**sts—and probably those hip-hugging jeans she’d had on at the morgue.
And yeah, the woman had one fine body. Long, lean, but curvy in just the right places. Curvy in perfect places.
Kenton cleared his throat and realized that by bringing her on as his partner of sorts, he’d set himself up for some suffering and long nights. “What about the vics? They were all different: a woman, an older guy, a firefighter—”
He caught the slight wince on the last one. Of course, she would have known the guy. Probably worked with him. “Ah, Lora, sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter that the vics were different.” She shoved the beer away and tried to scoot away from him, too. Tried but failed. There wasn’t much room in the booth, and with that music blaring, he had to stay close to hear her. “That’s what Seth said. He thought the arsonist wasn’t the same at first because of every reason you’ve just given.”
Ah, that’d be Seth MacIntyre, the lead county arson investigator. The guy was already on Kenton’s list of folks to contact ASAP.
“I was there,” she said, “I saw what he did. And I know we’re looking at the same guy.”
He stared down at her bent head. “Just what did he do?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “He trapped them, and then he let the fire kill them.”
Another run-down building. Another drug hole for his prey to hide inside.
But this time, he’d be careful. He’d do a sweep of the building and make absolutely sure no one else was lurking around.
He pulled his ball cap low and tucked his match behind his left ear. He had some gasoline in his truck. Just waiting.
He’d planned for Larry Powell. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his gloves and took his time putting them on. A guy couldn’t be too careful.
Slowly, not making any sound, he crept toward the door. Just one story this time.
And really, half his work was already done. The windows of the ramshackle drug house were boarded up, all of them sealed with wood except the one on the far right. The one his prey had used to sneak inside.
The one he’d use, too.
Bending, he eased through the opening and smiled. Oh, this place would burn so well.
It was small inside, a tight, cramped space. The floor was littered with trash. A mattress had been shoved against the back wall and—ah, there was Larry. His prey rocked back and forth on the mattress, muttering.
He crept toward Larry and whispered his name.
Larry spun around, eyes wide, hands up.
He eased back, narrowly missing a swipe from those flying hands. “Easy…”
Larry blinked. “D-do I—do I know you, man?” It was dark inside, with thin strips of light coming in that one window. If the streetlights hadn’t been there, he could have worked in total darkness.
He’d always liked the dark.
His fingers curled into a fist. The leather stretched over his knuckles. “Maybe.” It didn’t really matter now if Larry had seen him at the last fire. The thrill of the hunt heated his blood. Power pumped through him. Rage. Hunger.
Larry’s eyes widened. Bulged. “Wait! I—I saw you b-before… you—you’re the one—”
He slammed his fist into Larry’s face.
“For some arsonists, it’s all about the fire.” Lora’s beer was empty. She didn’t order another. “They like to watch the flames, like to see the burn.”
“This guy doesn’t?” Kenton asked.
“People are in the buildings he burns. He knows that; it’s why he picks the places.” Her palm flattened on the tabletop. “The first victim, Jennifer Langley, was in a second-story apartment. He jimmied her sprinklers so they wouldn’t work. Nailed her windows and her door shut. We had to beat our way inside with an ax.”
Jennifer Langley. The Critical Care Unit nurse. Twenty-nine. He’d read the report on her, no criminal record, a woman who seemed to be well-liked by her neighbors, if not her coworkers. Apparently, they hadn’t thought the woman had the best bedside manner.
Yeah, he’d read the facts, and seen what was left after the fire…
Not much.
“She was alive when the fire started. Her neighbors heard her calling for help.”
Hell.
“She tried to break her windows out—there was glass all over the scene, but on the second floor—” Lora shook her head. “She would have fallen right to concrete, not that she ever had the chance.”
“The fire burned too fast.”
“It came right for her. We hauled ass to get there, Kent, knocked down that door…”
But they’d been too late.
Her gaze dropped to the table.
“You know about the fire triangle?”
He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see the movement of his head. “For fires to burn, they need air, fuel, and heat.”
“This guy manipulates the triangle, and he’s damn good at that manipulation. He punched holes in her roof so that more air would get in—and so the flames would burn faster.”
And so that Jennifer Langley would have less chance of surviving.
“For the fuel, well, he’d poured turpentine in three of the rooms in her place.” She bit her lip.
“Turpentine?” It’d been in the report, but… “How’d you know that?”
“We could tell he’d used an accelerant because of the way the floor was charred.” She exhaled slowly. “We ripped up some of the floorboards and baseboards, and we found a sample of the liquid. Seth sent it for analysis.”
Right. Turpentine. “And the second victim?”
“Tom.” She shook her head. “Tom Hatchen. He owned a garage here in town.” Lora glanced around the bar, then back at him. “Hatchen was working alone one night, late. Somehow,” her lips quirked, but there was no humor in her eyes, “the equipment he was using malfunctioned and an engine fell on his legs, breaking them. Pinning him.”
Shit. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
“The killer did that. He set up the whole f**king scene.” Her voice heated. “He left the guy caught like a rat in a trap, then used Hatchen’s own supplies—motor oil and gas—to soak the joint.” Her fingers drummed on the table. “But before he lit the match, the sick f**k called 911.”
Kenton stilled. He knew this, but hearing the fury boiling in Lora’s husky voice froze him.
“He told us that we had ten minutes or Tom would burn.” She licked her lips. “We were there in eight but the fire was already burning strong.”
And a man was dying.
• • •
He snapped the handcuff onto Larry’s wrist. Larry would wake up soon enough. He closed the other cuff around a pipe connected to an old radiator.
Perfect.
Time for a quick trip to the truck.
As he hurried out, he glanced at his watch. How long would he give them this time? The fire station was close by, but he planned to make this fire burn fast.
His gaze swept the street. Deserted.
He grabbed the container that he’d carefully prepared and loped back toward the building.
He poured some lighter fluid just inside the doorway. This line would ignite later. He’d start the fire in the center. Give Larry a nice show.
The fire was so beautiful, especially up close.
“Wh-what the hell?” Larry’s scream.
He glanced up and smiled.
“What are y-you doin’?” Larry wrenched at the handcuff. “Why the f**k you got m-me cuffed? What the f**k—”
He threw a stream of lighter fluid onto him.
Larry choked and sputtered.
Now he hefted the red container he’d retrieved from the truck. He lifted the container higher, and the gasoline spilled out in fat waves.
“Stop! Please, f-fuck, stop! Let me go, man, let me g-go—”
Some people couldn’t die fast enough. He kept a tight hold on his container—he’d be taking that with him—and yanked out the disposable cell he’d purchased.
Nine. One. One.
“Let me go!”
No.
“Charlie Skofield.” Her shoulders tensed a bit when she said his name. “He’d been in a car accident about four months back. Christ, it was one of the worst ones I’ve seen.”
He hadn’t realized that she’d been there.
“The driver—she never had a chance. When I got there, she was already bleeding out, slipping away even as she asked for her kids.” Lora’s breath was ragged. “We had to use the jaws of life to pry out Skofield. Some people didn’t think it was fair that he survived.”
Kenton’s eyes narrowed. “Not fair? Why?”
“There was no official ruling but…” Her lips tightened. “I know an alcohol-related crash when I see one.”
Yeah, he bet she did.
“He survived and a mother of two died, but Skofield… he was paralyzed from the waist down.”
The crowd had begun to thin. Final rounds were being called as more folks headed for the door.
“When we broke the door in at Charlie’s place, the first thing I saw was his wheelchair, just sitting right there.”
Kenton bet poor Charlie had been somewhere else. Somewhere much closer to the fire.
“We searched and finally found him. Charlie was on the floor. He wasn’t moving, but the flames hadn’t touched him yet. He’d poured a line of accelerant to circle Charlie.” Her eyes glinted. “This guy knows how to work the fire. He lets those flames rage, and he sets up his victims so that the smoke doesn’t kill them.”
Kenton knew smoke inhalation was often the cause of death at a fire scene.
“He sets up a burn line with his accelerants. He controls the fire and makes it burn just where he wants.”
The better to make his victims suffer.
“With Skofield, the fire—orange gold and so hot—was rolling near the ceiling above him. I knew that roof was gonna fall. We didn’t have much time to pull him out of that room.”
He knew how the story ended. Charlie hadn’t made it out alive.
Neither had Carter Creed. “You went in anyway.”
Her tongue swiped over her lips, a quick move that had his body tightening when he shouldn’t be thinking about sex. About fire and death, yeah, but not sex. Not now.
“Carter went in.” Pain there. “Carter was lead; he ran in first.” He heard the hard click of her swallow. “Then the roof fell in.”
She stared right at him, but Kenton didn’t think she saw him. Not at all. “Lora.” There was more there. It was personal.
“We got them both out.” One shoulder lifted, then fell. “But it was too late.” He saw her blink, real fast.
Aw, hell, he’d never been good with a woman’s tears.
But Lora wasn’t crying. She was shoving that pointed chin up, narrowing those incredible eyes. Glaring at him. “I don’t like losing victims to the fire, and I sure as shit don’t like burying members of my team.”
“No.” He’d almost lost an agent on his last big case, so he damn well knew the pain that could come from a hit like that.
Kenton touched her because he wanted to. A quick press of his hand against hers.
When the woman didn’t jerk right back, he was surprised.
And glad.
“I buried Creed. I stood over his grave. I put flowers down, and I cried, like everybody else.” Her hand knotted into a fist beneath his. “All because some sick freak out there likes to get off playing with fire.”
“Tell Chief Garrison a fire’s burning on Byron.”
“Sir?” the female voice said. “Are you at the scene? I need a direct address, I need—”
“Garrison can follow the smoke.” The fire would light up the sky. He’d see to it.
“Sir?” Hesitant with fear. Good. She should be afraid. They should all be afraid.
“The victim’s still alive—”
“Let m-me go!” Larry’s broken scream.
“But not for long,” he murmured. “Garrison’s men had better hurry.”
The men… and lovely Lora.
But she wasn’t on duty tonight. Pity. But there was no choice. Powell had to die tonight.
He disconnected the call.
“Please, m-man, I-I’ll do anything…”
He tucked the phone back into his pocket, shook his head, and walked out without saying a word.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked, offering a broad smile.
He pointed to Lora’s disappearing beer. “Same thing. Thanks.” Kenton waited for the woman to ease away, then he leaned in toward Lora. “Arsonists are like serial killers—”
“Uh, come again?”
“They like patterns.” So he’d been told by Monica Davenport, the SSD’s profiler extraordinaire. “They set their fires in a certain way, follow a kind of ceremony with them. This guy…” His fingers tapped on the tabletop. “He’s all over the place. There is no pattern.” If they were even looking at the same guy.
“The victims are the pattern.” Her voice came, slow, certain, and with a smoky, husky edge that ran right over his flesh.
Focus.
But focus wasn’t that easy when she sat there, wearing a too-tight black tank top—really great br**sts—and probably those hip-hugging jeans she’d had on at the morgue.
And yeah, the woman had one fine body. Long, lean, but curvy in just the right places. Curvy in perfect places.
Kenton cleared his throat and realized that by bringing her on as his partner of sorts, he’d set himself up for some suffering and long nights. “What about the vics? They were all different: a woman, an older guy, a firefighter—”
He caught the slight wince on the last one. Of course, she would have known the guy. Probably worked with him. “Ah, Lora, sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It doesn’t matter that the vics were different.” She shoved the beer away and tried to scoot away from him, too. Tried but failed. There wasn’t much room in the booth, and with that music blaring, he had to stay close to hear her. “That’s what Seth said. He thought the arsonist wasn’t the same at first because of every reason you’ve just given.”
Ah, that’d be Seth MacIntyre, the lead county arson investigator. The guy was already on Kenton’s list of folks to contact ASAP.
“I was there,” she said, “I saw what he did. And I know we’re looking at the same guy.”
He stared down at her bent head. “Just what did he do?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “He trapped them, and then he let the fire kill them.”
Another run-down building. Another drug hole for his prey to hide inside.
But this time, he’d be careful. He’d do a sweep of the building and make absolutely sure no one else was lurking around.
He pulled his ball cap low and tucked his match behind his left ear. He had some gasoline in his truck. Just waiting.
He’d planned for Larry Powell. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his gloves and took his time putting them on. A guy couldn’t be too careful.
Slowly, not making any sound, he crept toward the door. Just one story this time.
And really, half his work was already done. The windows of the ramshackle drug house were boarded up, all of them sealed with wood except the one on the far right. The one his prey had used to sneak inside.
The one he’d use, too.
Bending, he eased through the opening and smiled. Oh, this place would burn so well.
It was small inside, a tight, cramped space. The floor was littered with trash. A mattress had been shoved against the back wall and—ah, there was Larry. His prey rocked back and forth on the mattress, muttering.
He crept toward Larry and whispered his name.
Larry spun around, eyes wide, hands up.
He eased back, narrowly missing a swipe from those flying hands. “Easy…”
Larry blinked. “D-do I—do I know you, man?” It was dark inside, with thin strips of light coming in that one window. If the streetlights hadn’t been there, he could have worked in total darkness.
He’d always liked the dark.
His fingers curled into a fist. The leather stretched over his knuckles. “Maybe.” It didn’t really matter now if Larry had seen him at the last fire. The thrill of the hunt heated his blood. Power pumped through him. Rage. Hunger.
Larry’s eyes widened. Bulged. “Wait! I—I saw you b-before… you—you’re the one—”
He slammed his fist into Larry’s face.
“For some arsonists, it’s all about the fire.” Lora’s beer was empty. She didn’t order another. “They like to watch the flames, like to see the burn.”
“This guy doesn’t?” Kenton asked.
“People are in the buildings he burns. He knows that; it’s why he picks the places.” Her palm flattened on the tabletop. “The first victim, Jennifer Langley, was in a second-story apartment. He jimmied her sprinklers so they wouldn’t work. Nailed her windows and her door shut. We had to beat our way inside with an ax.”
Jennifer Langley. The Critical Care Unit nurse. Twenty-nine. He’d read the report on her, no criminal record, a woman who seemed to be well-liked by her neighbors, if not her coworkers. Apparently, they hadn’t thought the woman had the best bedside manner.
Yeah, he’d read the facts, and seen what was left after the fire…
Not much.
“She was alive when the fire started. Her neighbors heard her calling for help.”
Hell.
“She tried to break her windows out—there was glass all over the scene, but on the second floor—” Lora shook her head. “She would have fallen right to concrete, not that she ever had the chance.”
“The fire burned too fast.”
“It came right for her. We hauled ass to get there, Kent, knocked down that door…”
But they’d been too late.
Her gaze dropped to the table.
“You know about the fire triangle?”
He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see the movement of his head. “For fires to burn, they need air, fuel, and heat.”
“This guy manipulates the triangle, and he’s damn good at that manipulation. He punched holes in her roof so that more air would get in—and so the flames would burn faster.”
And so that Jennifer Langley would have less chance of surviving.
“For the fuel, well, he’d poured turpentine in three of the rooms in her place.” She bit her lip.
“Turpentine?” It’d been in the report, but… “How’d you know that?”
“We could tell he’d used an accelerant because of the way the floor was charred.” She exhaled slowly. “We ripped up some of the floorboards and baseboards, and we found a sample of the liquid. Seth sent it for analysis.”
Right. Turpentine. “And the second victim?”
“Tom.” She shook her head. “Tom Hatchen. He owned a garage here in town.” Lora glanced around the bar, then back at him. “Hatchen was working alone one night, late. Somehow,” her lips quirked, but there was no humor in her eyes, “the equipment he was using malfunctioned and an engine fell on his legs, breaking them. Pinning him.”
Shit. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
“The killer did that. He set up the whole f**king scene.” Her voice heated. “He left the guy caught like a rat in a trap, then used Hatchen’s own supplies—motor oil and gas—to soak the joint.” Her fingers drummed on the table. “But before he lit the match, the sick f**k called 911.”
Kenton stilled. He knew this, but hearing the fury boiling in Lora’s husky voice froze him.
“He told us that we had ten minutes or Tom would burn.” She licked her lips. “We were there in eight but the fire was already burning strong.”
And a man was dying.
• • •
He snapped the handcuff onto Larry’s wrist. Larry would wake up soon enough. He closed the other cuff around a pipe connected to an old radiator.
Perfect.
Time for a quick trip to the truck.
As he hurried out, he glanced at his watch. How long would he give them this time? The fire station was close by, but he planned to make this fire burn fast.
His gaze swept the street. Deserted.
He grabbed the container that he’d carefully prepared and loped back toward the building.
He poured some lighter fluid just inside the doorway. This line would ignite later. He’d start the fire in the center. Give Larry a nice show.
The fire was so beautiful, especially up close.
“Wh-what the hell?” Larry’s scream.
He glanced up and smiled.
“What are y-you doin’?” Larry wrenched at the handcuff. “Why the f**k you got m-me cuffed? What the f**k—”
He threw a stream of lighter fluid onto him.
Larry choked and sputtered.
Now he hefted the red container he’d retrieved from the truck. He lifted the container higher, and the gasoline spilled out in fat waves.
“Stop! Please, f-fuck, stop! Let me go, man, let me g-go—”
Some people couldn’t die fast enough. He kept a tight hold on his container—he’d be taking that with him—and yanked out the disposable cell he’d purchased.
Nine. One. One.
“Let me go!”
No.
“Charlie Skofield.” Her shoulders tensed a bit when she said his name. “He’d been in a car accident about four months back. Christ, it was one of the worst ones I’ve seen.”
He hadn’t realized that she’d been there.
“The driver—she never had a chance. When I got there, she was already bleeding out, slipping away even as she asked for her kids.” Lora’s breath was ragged. “We had to use the jaws of life to pry out Skofield. Some people didn’t think it was fair that he survived.”
Kenton’s eyes narrowed. “Not fair? Why?”
“There was no official ruling but…” Her lips tightened. “I know an alcohol-related crash when I see one.”
Yeah, he bet she did.
“He survived and a mother of two died, but Skofield… he was paralyzed from the waist down.”
The crowd had begun to thin. Final rounds were being called as more folks headed for the door.
“When we broke the door in at Charlie’s place, the first thing I saw was his wheelchair, just sitting right there.”
Kenton bet poor Charlie had been somewhere else. Somewhere much closer to the fire.
“We searched and finally found him. Charlie was on the floor. He wasn’t moving, but the flames hadn’t touched him yet. He’d poured a line of accelerant to circle Charlie.” Her eyes glinted. “This guy knows how to work the fire. He lets those flames rage, and he sets up his victims so that the smoke doesn’t kill them.”
Kenton knew smoke inhalation was often the cause of death at a fire scene.
“He sets up a burn line with his accelerants. He controls the fire and makes it burn just where he wants.”
The better to make his victims suffer.
“With Skofield, the fire—orange gold and so hot—was rolling near the ceiling above him. I knew that roof was gonna fall. We didn’t have much time to pull him out of that room.”
He knew how the story ended. Charlie hadn’t made it out alive.
Neither had Carter Creed. “You went in anyway.”
Her tongue swiped over her lips, a quick move that had his body tightening when he shouldn’t be thinking about sex. About fire and death, yeah, but not sex. Not now.
“Carter went in.” Pain there. “Carter was lead; he ran in first.” He heard the hard click of her swallow. “Then the roof fell in.”
She stared right at him, but Kenton didn’t think she saw him. Not at all. “Lora.” There was more there. It was personal.
“We got them both out.” One shoulder lifted, then fell. “But it was too late.” He saw her blink, real fast.
Aw, hell, he’d never been good with a woman’s tears.
But Lora wasn’t crying. She was shoving that pointed chin up, narrowing those incredible eyes. Glaring at him. “I don’t like losing victims to the fire, and I sure as shit don’t like burying members of my team.”
“No.” He’d almost lost an agent on his last big case, so he damn well knew the pain that could come from a hit like that.
Kenton touched her because he wanted to. A quick press of his hand against hers.
When the woman didn’t jerk right back, he was surprised.
And glad.
“I buried Creed. I stood over his grave. I put flowers down, and I cried, like everybody else.” Her hand knotted into a fist beneath his. “All because some sick freak out there likes to get off playing with fire.”
“Tell Chief Garrison a fire’s burning on Byron.”
“Sir?” the female voice said. “Are you at the scene? I need a direct address, I need—”
“Garrison can follow the smoke.” The fire would light up the sky. He’d see to it.
“Sir?” Hesitant with fear. Good. She should be afraid. They should all be afraid.
“The victim’s still alive—”
“Let m-me go!” Larry’s broken scream.
“But not for long,” he murmured. “Garrison’s men had better hurry.”
The men… and lovely Lora.
But she wasn’t on duty tonight. Pity. But there was no choice. Powell had to die tonight.
He disconnected the call.
“Please, m-man, I-I’ll do anything…”
He tucked the phone back into his pocket, shook his head, and walked out without saying a word.
