I pretty much slept through writing my report and the debriefing that followed. And later I could never have explained how I drove all the way to my house and crawled into my bed.
• • •
I woke when one cat leaped to my outside bedroom windowsill, yowling that it was time to come back inside. I stumbled out of bed, let the cats in, and fed the mousers dry kibble. Still half-asleep, I added scrap paper to coax the coals alive in the skin-temp firebox of the Waterford Stanley wood-burning cookstove. Living off the grid was time-consuming, never-ending, hard work. Fortunately, thanks to muscle memory and repetition, I could do most of it in my sleep. When I had some flames, I added kindling, hot-burning cedar, and slow-burning oak to the firebox and adjusted the dampers. Topped up the water heater on the back of the stove, testing the warmth with my hand. It was still warm, but not hot. I fumbled around and made a whole pot of coffee in the Bunn and scrambled some eggs while bread toasted and water heated. I did not want a tepid shower.
I ate standing in front of the stove, my wool socks doing nothing to keep my feet warm. The house was frigid, another one of the drawbacks of living mostly off the grid. I had been thinking about buying a small electric space heater, but the watt-hours usage might not be worth the speed of the warmth. The stove would eventually heat the house to bearable without depleting the solar panels. At least that was what I told myself today.
Carrying a second cup of coffee to the bathroom, I showered. It wasn’t a long luxurious shower, not with the size of the hot water tank, but it was at least hot. I checked the calendar to make sure it wasn’t a church day, as I had promised Mama I’d come to services on Sunday, and dressed in work clothes. Still caffeinating my body, I repacked my gobag, put a load of clothes on to wash, and drank a third, and then a fourth cup of coffee, while I rubbed down a few venison loins with oil and my own spicy recipe meat rub before I put them in a Dutch oven on the hottest part of the stovetop. Awake enough to slice veggies without carving off a finger, I added veggies and diced potatoes. Satisfied that I’d have food to eat and a warm house when I got home, I finished a few housekeeping chores, made more coffee and poured it into a thirty-ounce travel mug, put the cats on the back porch for the night, and locked the door.
I was halfway to PsyLED when my cell jangled and JoJo’s voice said, “Justin Tolliver’s house is burning. Sending address to your cell. Lights and siren. LaFleur wants you there ASAP.”
I pulled off the road, slapped the lights in place, turned on the siren, and set the cell to give me directions to Tolliver’s house. I drank coffee all the way there, knowing for sure that caffeine was a gateway drug to crack. Had to be. Mama would be horrified if I ever let that slip.
• • •
The sun was setting over the bend of the Tennessee River when I pulled up to the mansion, parked, and slid to the ground. The rear of the place was engulfed, flames flinging themselves out the windows and doors and the holes in the roof created by the firefighters. The roar and crackle of the fire, the rushing of water through the fire hose, the thrum of diesel generators, all created a rush of heat and noise unlike any other.
I had never seen such a huge inferno and found myself struck still and speechless as the fire’s heat and might reached out and gripped me in its raging fingers, scorching my face even out in the street. Glowing embers and stinking ash fell from the sky, burning. I tossed my good coat back in the truck and pulled a hand-me-down on instead. The heavy coat had belonged to John, my husband, and it hung on my too-slender form, but it was something I didn’t mind getting burned, and it had a hood, which I raised over my hair as I watched the scene. I reseated my weapon in the holster, made sure my badge was in view before I locked up the C10.
Three fire trucks were on-site, pulled up in the grass, two pumping water in through the roof holes, one watering down trees nearby to keep the fire from spreading. Firefighters strode through the ruined lawn, each wearing heavy gear and oxygen tanks and fire-blackened yellow coats.
Feds were on-site too, as was P. Simon—the former Green Beret ALT Security guy, from the Holloways’ party—and Rick, his silver-laced black hair sparkling. A group had gathered beneath the protection of the wide arms of a fir tree. I looked around and saw a small sign that read ALT SECURITY. It was interesting that a man with so many personal problems was at the site of another situation involving the Tollivers. I sent that info to headquarters and heard back instantly that ALT was the highest rated private security firm in Eastern Tennessee. All the rich and famous used them for protection and security. Before I left the truck I sent back a two-word text. Still strange.
I jogged over to them. There were three uniformed men from KFD and two feds, both from previous crime scenes, Chadworth Sanders Hamilton and E. M. Schultz. There was also a small group of four civilians, Justin and Sonya Tolliver and their two children. The smallest child wore what looked like pajamas with bunny slippers and a blanket wrapped around him. The massive fir tree was dripping wet from a drenching by the fire hose, but offered protection from the falling ash.
I was joining a debriefing in the middle. One of the fire department uniforms was saying, “Preliminary testing indicates that an accelerant was present near the back of the house, probably gasoline.”
I turned my eyes to him, blinking against the dark, my retinas burned by the flame, my mouth firmly shut. These were the bigwigs at this investigation and I didn’t want to get myself thrown off the scene.
He continued, “It’s too early to definitively call it, but I suspect arson.”
“I think that assessment is premature,” Justin said, his voice clipped and precise, sounding like a lawyer, even in his shirtsleeves and damp pants and house shoes. He scrubbed his head with both hands, leaving his hair standing up in tufts, staring at the house with eyes that looked too large, too full of emotions that I couldn’t decipher. “The lawn care company kept supplies under the back deck. I never saw a gasoline can, but it’s possible they left one there.”
“Sir,” the fire investigator started.
“No.” His hands slid down his face, past his nose, which was hooked like Abrams’, nostrils too narrow for his face, a Tolliver feature. “Not until you have something more conclusive than just a hit on gasoline.”
Sonya leaned against Justin, crying softly. He didn’t lift his arm to wrap around her. Instead he dropped his hands from his face and gripped his wife’s shoulders, setting her aside as if she was in the way. There was trouble in this marriage, I thought. And I wondered how much the house had been insured for and if one of them had seen a divorce lawyer recently. And then wondered how I had changed so quickly from churchwoman thoughts to law enforcement thoughts. I’d never have considered such a thing only a few months past.
Justin said, “It could have been electrical. Maybe a short in an outside outlet. And if there was gas under the porch, then the can got hot from the fire. It probably burned and splashed flaming liquid up the walls, right?”
Even I knew Justin was being foolish. He had been present at two shootings and now his house was on fire. He had to sense that he was, perhaps, a target.
“Gasoline doesn’t act like that, sir,” one of the fire department’s uniformed men said gently. “Special effects on TV and movies are often wrong.”
Special Agent Hamilton smirked at Tolliver. So far, my distant cousin had shown no particularly good character traits. I had a feeling that I was not going to like him even if I ever got to know him better.
I looked back at the burning structure just in time to see a partial roof on the back of the house, maybe a porch roof, fall in. The crash shook the ground, jarring up my legs and spine. The embers shot high, the flames finally freed to feed on the air, ravenous, destructive. I knew how that fire felt. If I ever let my bloodlust go, it would feel that way—explosive, ferocious, violent.
Sonya walked away from her husband, closer to the fire, as if mesmerized. Justin followed, the flames reflected off his skin, glowing golden.
Schultz turned, her gaze following the Tollivers’ actions, her face to the fire, her dark skin gleaming. “This house burning like a torch might be a crime of opportunity, a fluke of timing.” Softer, so it didn’t carry, she asked, “Are the Tollivers getting along?” No one replied.
Rick said, “Ingram? Thoughts about this fire?”
I flinched just the tiniest bit, then raised my hands to lower my hood, taking the time to evaluate Rick’s question and think how I wanted to say this. “Since Justin Tolliver was at the scenes of both shootings, coincidence, while possible, seems unlikely. Even though there’s a different MO here, there’s a good chance it’s tied to the Holloway crime scene, and the restaurant even if only by copycat or opportunity.”
“How high?” Rick asked.
“I’m not a mathematician,” I said, keeping my words toneless. “This is just common sense, using reason and probability.”
I hoped that was what Rick had wanted to hear. However, if I was right, and killing Justin or Sonya was the objective all along, that meant that Ming, the witches, and Senator Abrams Tolliver could be cut from the possible list of targets. And with no absolute proof that the assailant was a known paranormal creature, the Secret Service and PsyLED both would probably pack up and go home. Until we had a witness, a clear video, or a tissue sample that could be analyzed, there was no paranormal.
“What can you tell me?” Rick asked me. It was a hint to go read the land.
I pulled my flash from my pocket and nodded to the group. “I’ll check the grounds with the psy-meter. Mr. Tolliver?” I called out. “Your wife needs a hug.” I spun on the grass and left the group before Rick could tell me to mind my own business.
The Tollivers, Justin and Sonya and their children, had a good three acres, which was a large patch of ground this close to inner-city Knoxville and Sequoyah Hills. I stayed out of the way of the fire crews, and under the dripping forest of trees and shrubs on the boundaries of the property. There was a shed in back, with an old flatwater kayak leaning against the wall. It looked recently used, clean, and not covered with yard dust, as it might if it had sat for a while. Beside it, there were a pair of wading boots, a tackle box, and what looked like a fishing rod, broken down into easy-to-carry segments. At the back of the shed, the psy-meter 2.0 showed the telltale spikes at level four. Spikes that led toward the house. I caught Rick’s eye and held up four fingers. I knew he’d see them in the dark. Cat eyes. He gave me a minuscule nod.
I put the expensive device away and got my blanket. It was faded, frayed, an ugly pink thing, but I liked it. It made me feel good about reading the land, as if I brought part of Soulwood with me each time I sat on it.
I stopped several times to try to read the ground, but the fire had woken the plants. Usually when I read flora, I got nothing, because plants were sluggish thinkers, slow to recognize anything of humankind other than the fire that came in our wake and the destruction of chain saws. But this was the ancient enemy of life. Fire was the destroyer. All I got from the plants I touched was, Fearfirefearfire, from everything: from the grass, shrubs, the old firs and oaks; the warnings had spread from plant to plant. At the back of the property, behind the shed where I had first found the level four psysitope spikes, I finally found something other than fear sizzling through the flora. I found several spots of death when I placed the blanket down and sat, hidden by shadows and winter-bare flora, put my hands into the earth, digging my fingernails down for a light read.