Up in Flames

In the bar, chaos had broken out. Flames shot upward, eating the wood and hissing as it danced through the room. People screamed and stampeded to the exit, debris rained down, and bar glasses shattered and spewed glass in all directions. She spotted a couple of people on the floor, blood flowing from one man’s head. Then she saw Natalie trapped beneath a gigantic light fixture.

Oh God, no…she wasn’t moving. She had to get to her friend, save her.

But heat seared her and crackling wood popped near her feet. There was no other way to get out of the bathroom. No window. No back exit.

She was trapped with the flames growing higher all around her.

THE SCENT OF SMOKE and singed fabric permeated Bradford’s clothes as he and Parker left the Savannah square and maneuvered through the crowded streets.

The fireworks were in full swing, but he wanted to go back to the little house he’d rented on Tybee Island, wolf down a pizza and crash.

Parker leaned back in the seat, whistling a blues tune beneath his breath, looking relaxed now that the café excitement had ended. But Bradford’s body felt wired, jittery, as if he was waiting on the other ball to drop. He’d had these same antsy feelings in the military on missions, on missing persons cases in Atlanta. The night his father had died.

The night he’d discovered the extent of his brother’s problems.

The traffic came to a congested halt, and he veered down a side street where two restaurants and a new bar had opened up, then cursed.

Ahead he spotted trouble. More smoke curling toward the sky. Flames shooting from the roof of the Pink Martini.

“Hell, do you see that?” Parker pointed to the nightclub.

“Yeah, call it in.” While Parker called dispatch, Bradford flipped on the siren, gunned the engine and screeched around an illegally parked car. In seconds, both he and Parker jumped out and ran toward the building.

“Fire trucks are on their way!” Parker shouted.

Bradford scanned the street where a panicked mob poured onto the sidewalks. People raced toward cars, the downtown area, some running as if the flames might chase them down, others huddling in shock and hysteria.

“Let’s see if everyone got out!” Bradford shouted over the confusion.

As soon as they entered the bar, Bradford assessed the situation. This fire was ten times worse than the one at the café, and already engulfed half the room. Although the emergency sprinklers had kicked in, the thin jets of water weren’t enough to douse the overpowering blaze, which was feeding greedily on the alcohol. Wood, glass, tables, drinks, lighting equipment—everything lay in shambles.

What the hell had happened here? How had the fire spread so rapidly?

He cut his eyes through the haze, searching for victims, someone trapped, hurt, needing assistance. The fire was a monster, the gray smoke so thick he could barely see, so he removed a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Somewhere amidst the crackling timber and the haze of shattering glass he heard a scream.

“My God,” Parker muttered. “There’s a woman trapped over there. I’m going after her!”

“I heard someone else in the back,” Bradford yelled. “I’m going to check.”

Without waiting for a response, he darted through the patches of flames, coughing into the handkerchief, searching through the thick plumes of smoke.

A curly haired young man wearing an apron who must have been a server lay facedown on the floor, arms and legs sprawled at awkward angles. Bradford knelt and checked for a pulse, but he couldn’t find one. Dammit.

Then he saw the blood pooling beneath the man’s face and neck. Bradford lifted his head slightly, and grimaced. A huge chunk of glass had pierced the man’s throat. Another was embedded in one eyeball.

It was too late for the poor guy. He was already dead.

A terrified scream pierced the air again, faint and hoarse, barely discernible over the roar of the flames.

Heat seared his back, face and hands, but he forged on toward the back.

“Help me!”

His lungs and throat burned as he spotted the caller. A woman lay on the floor, trapped by a wooden beam. She was using her bare hand to beat away the flames crawling toward her skirt. Another burning beam lay behind her.

He raced to her, jerked off his shirt and swatted the flames.

“Help me!” she cried again. “I have to save my friend.”

He glanced at her face and recognized her immediately. The redhead he’d seen in the crowd outside Cozy’s.

“Please,” she whispered. “I have to find Natalie.”

She broke into a coughing fit, and he handed her his handkerchief, then stood and dragged the beam off her legs. She tried to stand, but stumbled, so he swooped her up in his arms and ran toward the front door, praying they made it out in time before the monster eating the building swallowed them completely.

Chapter Three

Rosanna coughed, clinging to her rescuer as he hauled her into his arms. The last few terrifying minutes rushed back, fear tightening her lungs.

She’d been trapped in the bathroom. No way out. But she refused to give up. She had to get to Natalie.

She’d splashed water from the bathroom sink on her clothes hoping they wouldn’t catch fire when she ran through the spiking flames in the doorway. But another beam had fallen and she’d collapsed as it slammed down onto her legs.

Her ankle throbbed, her throat ached and she felt dizzy. She squinted through the smoke, though, desperately searching for her friend. Maybe she’d escaped. Maybe she was huddled in the mob pouring onto the streets.

A siren wailed. Then another. Police cars, ambulances and two fire trucks screeched through the mass, all arriving at once and jumping into motion.

“Miss, are you all right?” a gruff voice asked.

She tried to answer, but her voice squeaked out, low and pain-filled. Disoriented, she blinked through the darkness, but the raging fire illuminated her rescuer’s face, and her stomach tightened. He was the detective she’d seen questioning spectators at Cozy’s earlier. He had saved Hazel, and now her.

She clutched his open shirt in a death grip as he dodged the flames and falling debris. Outside, she dragged in gulping breaths of fresh air, then swallowed against the dryness in her throat, aware of his masculinity and the power of his body as he carried her toward the ambulance.

Her body glided downward, scraping over the detective’s massive thighs as he lowered her onto the stretcher. For a brief second, he pushed errant strands of her hair from her forehead. The gesture was so tender and gentle that tears pricked her eyes.

“Miss, are you okay?”

She nodded. “My friend…” she whispered. “Natalie Gorman, she fell. Find her, see if she’s all right.”

He nodded and squeezed her arm. “I will. What does she look like? What’s she wearing?”

“Brown hair, a green dress!”

An EMT met them and shoved an oxygen mask toward her.

“Check her out!” The detective shouted, then he raced back toward the burning building.

The EMT examined her hands and arms for burns. They tingled from the heat, but she’d survived without any major injuries. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Rosanna tried to tell him that she was okay, but again she broke out in a coughing fit.

The weighty pull of the smoke and exhaustion pulled her under, and she drifted into unconsciousness.

BRADFORD DARTED back toward the blazing building searching for his partner, but he didn’t see him anywhere.

Two pairs of officers had arrived on the scene, and were trying to manage traffic and contain the crowd. He quickly explained what had happened and asked them to canvas the people who’d been inside, as well as the spectators on the street for information.

“See if you can find a Natalie Gorman, too,” he said. “Her friend was asking about her. Brown hair. Green dress.”

He pushed his way back through the mob, but didn’t see a brown-haired woman in a green dress. And no Parker. He radioed him, but Parker didn’t respond, and panic seized Bradford.

He headed to the front door to go back inside, but a fireman grabbed him. “You can’t go in. Too dangerous.”

“Detective Walsh, SPD.” He flashed his badge. “My partner may still be inside. And another woman.”

The burly man’s expression clearly looked doubtful that they’d find anyone still alive. But he turned to one of the other rescue workers. “Search for survivors.”

Bradford paced the sidewalk feeling helpless and angry. He should be questioning people, hunting for clues as to how the fire started, but fear kept him watching the doorway, listening.

Finally one of the rescue workers appeared, sweating and cursing. “We have a live one, trapped. Need equipment.” He grabbed an ax from the truck.

“Let me help,” Bradford pleaded.

The burly man put a hand to Bradford’s chest as his coworker ran back inside. “No, stay put. You do your job, we’ll do ours.”

Bradford scraped sweaty hair from his forehead as another firefighter grabbed an ax and followed his coworker inside the blaze.

Heat scalded Bradford’s face and a wave of anger crashed over him a second later when one of the men carried an unconscious woman outside. He ran to check on her, but the firefighter shook his head. “She’s dead,” he said. “Looks like she took a blow to the head.”

Bradford saw her blood-soaked hair, the green dress, and grimaced. Then he noticed the tiny purse with the strap still wrapped around her wrist. He unsnapped the bag, checked her ID, then muttered a curse.

Natalie Gorman. The redhead’s friend.

God, he’d have to tell her.

“Your buddy tried to save her, but a wall crashed on him,” the firemen said. “We’ll have him out in a minute.”

Suddenly two rescue workers rushed out, yelling for the paramedics who met them with a stretcher. “He’s alive, but we’ve got injuries. Multiple contusions to the body, second-and third-degree burns, his leg needs to be set…”

Bradford shouldered his way to the ambulance, his chest clenching when he saw Parker’s limp body. He was unconscious; nasty blisters were already forming on his charred arms and hands. His leg looked twisted and mangled below the knee, his color ashen.

The EMT’s secured his head and neck, started oxygen and an IV drip, and quickly loaded him in the ambulance.

“Is he going to make it?” Bradford asked.

The EMT shrugged. “We can’t say yet. We need to get him to the hospital ASAP. What’s his name?”

“Parker Kilpatrick,” Bradford said. “He’s a detective with the SPD.”

“Is he allergic to anything?” one of the EMT’s asked. “No.”

A frown marred the second EMT’s face. “If you know his family, contact them.”

“He doesn’t have any family,” Bradford said grimly.

The medic closed the doors, the siren began to screech, and the ambulance rolled away, the lights twirling.

NIGHTMARES OF FIRE, death, hell and eternal damnation consumed Rosanna. She struggled against the exhaustion, but lost the battle and closed her eyes. She was suffocating, couldn’t breathe. The fire engulfed her hair and body, and her skin sizzled. Then her father’s nasty smile found her as he climbed from the grave and grabbed her.

Then she was in the bar. Beside her, a man lay on the floor, his eyes wide pools of nothing, blood floating around his head like a red river. Her friend was sprawled facedown with fire shooting sparks around her, chewing at her hair and fingers. Rosanna’s own skin burned, was frying, sliding off bone until black, sooty ashes fell like brittle, dead leaves onto the sodden floor.

She jerked awake for the hundredth time, and searched the sterile hospital room, wishing she were home in her own bed, wishing she’d talked Natalie out of going to the Pink Martini. Wishing she had someone to talk to, someone who cared that she was lying here alone, dirty and scared.

A knock sounded at the door. Quiet. Barely discernible. The doctor, most likely.

“Come in,” she said in a hoarse voice.

The door squeaked open, and the detective who’d rescued her stuck his face through the opening. His thick, wavy black hair was ruffled, looked as if he’d jammed his hands through it a dozen times, and soot and exhaustion colored his face. “Are you awake, miss?”

“Yes, please, come in…”

His boots pounded on the floor as he strode toward her. Did he have news about Natalie?

One look into his troubled, dark eyes and she knew the answer before she even asked him.

“My name is Detective Bradford Walsh.”

“Rosanna Redhill,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”

He shrugged, but his jaw remained rigid as if he didn’t want or expect her gratitude. “How are you feeling?”

His rough, thick voice skated over raw nerve endings.

“I’m fine.” She clutched the sheets between shaking fingers, praying she was wrong about the bad news. “Did you find Natalie?”

He nodded, stepped toward her. Shadows haunted his eyes, eyes that had seen violence and death and sorrow.

“I’m so sorry. My partner tried to save her….”

“Oh God, no…” Her voice broke, and she curled into a ball, and pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle a sob.

He lowered himself onto the bed, gently stroked the hair from her face, then wiped a tear trickling down her cheek.

“How?” she asked in a tortured whisper.

“A head injury. The firefighter managed to get her out before the flames reached her.”

Thank God. She couldn’t stand that image in her head. Still, grief swelled in her chest.

She sucked in a sharp breath, determined to hold herself together until he left, but another sob escaped her, and he pulled her into his arms and held her. The gesture was so kind that it undid her, and she clutched him, not wanting to let go. For the first time in her life, she didn’t want to be alone.

Poor Natalie. She had been so young and vivacious, so full of life with so much ahead of her. Her new apartment, internship, classes at the College of Art & Design…

He stroked her hair again, and she gulped back more tears, the tension in his hard body reminding her that he was only a stranger being kind, not a real friend. She couldn’t lean on him….

Finally she swiped at her eyes, managed to regain control. “What about your partner? Is he okay?”

He cleared his throat, then glanced down at his hands. “Parker is alive, but in critical condition. He suffered burns and multiple wounds. His leg was crushed and his lung collapsed.”

With an anguished look on his face, he pulled away and stood, putting distance between them. Guilt tightened her throat and chest. Why had she survived and Natalie died? Why had his friend suffered?

“I’d like to ask you some questions about the fire…if you’re up for it.”

She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I went to the ladies’ room, then I heard something crash and I heard screaming. People panicked and ran out.”

“You don’t know how the fire started?”

She shook her head. “The stall door was stuck, so I had to crawl underneath it. By the time I reached the door to the bar, a beam had fallen, and flames filled the doorway blocking my path.” She hesitated, felt those moments of panic and fear clawing at her. Saw the fire chewing at her legs when she’d fallen. Heard that second beam come roaring down on her. Her own scream of helpless terror.

She’d thought she was going to die. Had tried to push the beam off of her, first with her hands, then her mind, but there had been no time.

“Did you see anyone suspicious before then?” he asked.

“I…don’t think so.” Her head felt fuzzy, disoriented again, and she closed her eyes, tried to concentrate, but all she could do was think about Natalie screaming. Natalie dying. Natalie never coming back.

“You were at the café earlier tonight, too, weren’t you?”

She clenched her hands, forced her eyes back open. “Yes, I can’t believe it. Two fires in one night.”

He frowned. “You were inside when the fire broke out?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“Why did you run away?” he asked, his voice harder now. “We were questioning everyone at the scene.”

She couldn’t quite look at him. “I don’t know. I was upset. I just wanted to escape.”

“Did you see anything suspicious inside the café?”

“No.”

He studied her for a long moment, and she willed him to leave, not to push her anymore. Her head ached, her eyes hurt and grief for Natalie clogged her throat.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll be back tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”

She nodded, miserable, still shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to curl up and cry for her friend, wanted to be alone in her sorrow.

Yet she didn’t want him to go. Didn’t want to be alone. She’d been alone all her life.

But he stepped out the door and closed it behind him, leaving her with her misery and the memory of her friend’s face to haunt her.

His question echoed in her head. Had she seen anyone suspicious at the café or the bar? Had someone set that fire intentionally?

If so, then he had murdered Natalie…

HIS BODY SWELLED with arousal as he lingered in the shadows across from the Pink Martini. So much chaos. People panicking. Crying. Screaming. Gawking in horror and awe at the amazing fireworks display he’d started.

The firefighters had worked so diligently, sweating and shouting orders, hacking away fallen debris to save the injured and extinguish the mountainous blaze. They’d done their best to drown out his handiwork, but they had been too late. Too late to save the woman and man who’d died.

Death…such a nice perfect ending to a dull day. Except neither had actually melted into the fire because their bodies had been rescued first.

Adrenaline fired his blood at the thought of watching flesh and skin sizzle, and he realized that the high from watching wood and plastic burn was no longer enough to satisfy him.

He wanted, needed more. Craved the deeper, more exhilarating euphoria arousing him now at the thought of a body being consumed by the flames.

Yes, next he wanted to see a human burn.

Maybe the redhead…

Her hair was the same rich red, orange and yellow of the flames. He was drawn to her. Wanted to touch her. Make her quiver with fear. Elicit a scream from her pale throat as he turned her body into a playground for his pleasure.

He had seen the terror in her eyes when she’d been trapped in that bathroom. But she had shown amazing courage by running through the blaze.

Then she’d gone down, and a surge of excitement had seized him. She had been trapped beneath the fiery beam of wood. The fire would have eaten her alive in seconds.

Had it not been for that cop. The one man he hated.

It was the second time tonight Bradford Walsh had shown up and ruined his fun. Pretending to be some kind of savior…

But he knew the real detective Walsh—Brad boy he liked to call him.

Brad boy, the traitor.

Soon everyone else would see him for the weak failure he was.

A chuckle rumbled from his chest. Brad boy had no idea who he was dealing with. Or the power he possessed.

He had the gift of fire in his fingers. He would use it again and again, make each mark more impressive.

And no one could stop him.

Chapter Four

Rosanna Redhill’s tortured, tearstained face haunted Bradford as he drove back to the bar. The firefighters were still battling the remnants of the blaze, the arson investigator from the county surveying the scene.

He strode toward Adam Black, the captain of the department.

“How’s Kilpatrick?” Black asked.

Bradford shook his head. “Alive, but critical. Burns, a crushed leg and lung.”

Black frowned, anger darkening his eyes. “How about you?”

“Pissed.” Bradford gestured toward the ashes and embers of the bar, then around at the crowd still watching. “This one can’t be accidental.”

“I agree, that’s why I called the CSI team out here immediately. I think we’re dealing with a serial arsonist. And he just upped the stakes.”

Bradford nodded in agreement. So far, he liked Captain Black. He was fair, smart, commanded respect and knew the innerworkings of Savannah and the Coastal Island Research Park. “You’re right. And he’s going down for murder,” Bradford said, thinking about Rosanna’s friend Natalie.

“You’re done tonight. Go home, get some rest,” Black ordered.

“No, I want to help here. I have to.”

Ignoring Black’s scowl, he joined the other officers questioning the spectators, and spent the next two hours trying to get a lead on what had happened. But everyone he questioned shared the same story. They hadn’t seen anyone set the fire. Flames had suddenly shot up from behind the bar. Then near the doorway, and on the stage.

Possibly faulty lighting? He didn’t think so. Someone had set the fire; he just had to figure out who and how they’d done it.

The owner of the bar, a big guy named Benny, looked shaken and furious. “I can’t believe this damn mess. I just opened the bar this month.”

Like Hazel, the man had invested all his money into the establishment. He was insured, but the labor costs and time spent rebuilding would mean more money lost.

If Benny had intentionally set the fire for insurance purposes, why do so when the bar was filled to capacity? He would have waited until it was empty, wouldn’t have chanced injuries or deaths, which would stir more questions and bring more serious charges against him if caught.

Two hours later, Black informed him that they had everyone’s contact information and again ordered him to go home. They would meet in the morning with the CSI team, then officers would be dispersed to requestion the people who’d been in the bar.

Exhausted, the adrenaline and anger that had fueled Bradford to keep working waned as he drove toward Tybee Island.

He’d thought living near the ocean might provide a few days of relaxation in between shifts. That the sea air and warm weather might improve his mood swings and help him regain his control over a temper that had nearly cost him his job back in Atlanta. But so far he’d yet to have a day off to enjoy the beach or to go fishing.

As he left town, the city gave way to narrow country roads sprinkled with sea oats and small weathered shacks and cottages. He crossed the bridge and inhaled the salt air and smell of the marshland.

Though the island was only a few miles from downtown Savannah, the celebration had drawn a large crowd. Traffic was a bitch, and it took him over thirty minutes to reach the small house he’d rented. He killed the engine, climbed out and walked up the shell-lined driveway.

Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, he unlocked the door, flipped on a light and welcomed the churning sound of the air conditioner. A frozen pizza, a shower and some shut-eye before the next shift would rejuvenate him.

He only hoped the holiday didn’t bring out more crazies tonight. After all, it was a full moon. And celebrations meant boozing, which often led to trouble.

His own past proved that to be a fact. His little brother, Johnny…

A drunk. An arsonist. A murderer.

In jail now.

And he hated Bradford for it. Blamed him for everything. His screwups. His father’s death.

His arrest and sentencing.

One reason Bradford had relocated after leaving Atlanta. That and the need for a detective here in Savannah.

He’d thought he’d seen it all over his years, had worked special ops in the marines, had been assigned to a missing persons unit in Atlanta, but the bizarre cases with CIRP and Nighthawk Island topped the list of stranger-than-fiction and had piqued his interest.

Tonight’s fires had nothing to do with that, though. But they did make him wonder.