Chapter Ten: Flame Red
Jane pressed the phone tighter to his ear, squashing cartilage while he waited for a ring that did not come.
"This is Lisbon. Leave a message."
Heart lurching, he scrambled to stuff the phone back into his pocket before the loud "beep" could sing out over the speaker. Even muffled by layers of fabric, Jane could still hear it sharp and diamond clear.
A black shadow slid across the wall outside, cutting through deep red beams of sunset, and Jane wondered if the killer had heard the beep, too.
But, no – the shadow darted away, disappearing into the bedroom next door. Mattress springs creaked, and something thumped against the carpeted floor.
"Little girl? Are you here?"
Jane winced at the false friendliness of the killer's voice. Jane's eyes flicked nervously onto the hamper over in the bathroom. The white wicker box remained still and silent.
"Little girl?" the shooter sing-songed again, louder this time. He made "girl" into a two syllable word, drawing it out: "Grrrrrrr-uuuulllll."
"It's okay," the man went on, "You can come out now…I'm with the police. Everything's fine…"
Jane's eyes were fixed on the hamper, twin blue laser-beams of intensity as he willed the lid not to open.
"Your mommy's waiting for you downstairs. She's got a big 'ole ice cream cone for you, so come on out…"
Ice cream? This guy was laying it on syrupy-thick. The phoniness of it grated against Jane's nerve endings like cat's claws screeching across an old-style green chalkboard, and his throat went dry, waiting to see if Penny would take the bait.
Three seconds ticked by without a whisper of sound from the bathroom.
Children were excellent lie-detectors. But that sweet temptation – not the ice cream, but the promise of her mother – it might be too much…
Trust your instincts, Penny, Jane silently begged. They're always right…
Over next door, plastic hanger-hooks scraped along a wooden rod. A closet being searched…
The man had given up on calling for her. And the lid of the hamper hadn't so much as cracked open.
Jane exhaled shakily. Good girl…
His eyes strayed from the bathroom and he thought briefly of the phone in his pocket, wondering if he should try pulling it out once more. If it was still recording, maybe he could whisper something…
No. Better to be ready. Help would never arrive soon enough, anyway. By the time Lisbon checked her voicemail and discovered an odd, silent message from her consultant, this situation would already be resolved – one way or the other.
Right now, it was all up to Jane.
The dark irony of this fact was not lost on him as he gently eased the glass stopper from the cologne bottle: that he alone was the one responsible for this little girl's life, when he had so miserably failed to protect his own daughter…
A mighty crash, followed by the soft tinkle of broken glass, signaled the end of the search next door. The killer lumbered back out into the hallway, and Jane gripped the bottle tighter, his hands tingling and trembling, adrenaline-charged and ready.
But the man did not enter the master bedroom next. Instead, the shooter tromped into the bathroom and began to prowl the porcelain and tile cavern.
Jane watched through the crack, not breathing or blinking, as the killer passed within inches of Penny's hiding place.
Short dark hair slicked neatly back, dressed in an expensive and well-tailored grey suit, the man looked like a lawyer from the top of his overly-moussed head to the toes of his shiny black shoes. He didn't look like someone who should be poking through the folds of a still-damp shower curtain with the muzzle of a gun.
Abandoning the tub area, the killer moved on to a small linen cupboard. He rooted around inside it, carelessly tossing crisply-folded blue towels to the floor.
Then, with a frustrated grunt, the gunman gave up on that, too, and turned instead to the hamper…
Chemicals flooded Jane's system, released from his lizard brain, making him dizzy as dendrites crackled and buzzed, waiting for the impulse to act.
Not yet, he told himself fiercely. Just hold on…
The man in the bathroom stared long and hard at the hamper. He tilted his head, considering it. He used the tip of the gun to raise the wicker lid, and then began to nose around through the top layer of laundry, his deadly metal weapon nudging under silken bras and purple polka dot panties…
Jane's nerve endings twanged. He had to fight to keep from bouncing on his heels. Get ready…
With a sigh, the killer swatted the lid closed. Something inside Jane wilted, weak and wobbly with relief.
Over in the bathroom, the shooter started to turn away from the hamper, and then suddenly turned back, delivering a swift kick to the middle of the basket.
Brittle wicker crunched under the impact. Jane flinched. Not even the tiniest whimper escaped Penny's lips.
Shrugging, the killer strode out of the bathroom, and into the hallway.
Jane froze, melting seamlessly into the shadows behind the bedroom door. He breathed silent lungfuls, oxygenating his racing blood. He kept his eyes wide, even though they started to sting.
If he and Penny got through this, Jane would buy strawberries for the entire CBI building. He would buy Lisbon another pony. He would buy her a car. He would-
The shooter arrived in the open doorway, and even Jane's wildly-flitting thoughts seemed to freeze, suspended in mid-air like floating dandelion seeds on a lazy summer afternoon.
The killer stepped inside the master bedroom. Jane stopped breathing. The open door inched wider, shrinking Jane's already-tight hiding space. He sucked in his stomach, and the doorknob halted a few millimeters from his vest button. The man with the gun prowled.
Jane listened as the killer pulled out dresser drawers, pawing roughly through tubes of lip gloss and nests of folded black socks. The shooter gave up, and moved on. Golden chains jingled as he shifted the fire screen aside and peered up the blackened chimney. Finding nothing, the man got down on the floor to look under the bed. Jane's lungs started screaming. His hand was slippery, on the cologne bottle. He could see the dirt-scratched bottoms of the killer's shoes...
The shooter got back up and wandered into a small closet. Jane's eyes were watering from the not-breathing. He blinked frantically to clear them. The shooter wandered back out again, and stood in the middle of the room, absently tapping the gun to his thigh.
Be done, Jane commanded silently. No more looking. Be done.
The killer took a last glance in the waste basket, shrugged, and headed for the door.
That's it…Yes…
A soft creak of wicker drifted through the air. The man paused. Jane's heart dropped four stories.
No…
Head cocked like a Spaniel, gun poised, the shooter started striding back toward the bathroom. Jane couldn't, wouldn't let it happen – he hurled the glass stopper across the room, where it met the fireplace bricks with a satisfying CRACK.
The killer whirled. He instantly began stalking in the direction of the new, louder noise.
Three steps into the bedroom, a heavy oak door bombarded him. Jane leapt out of the shadows as the other man staggered back.
Recovering from the shock of the blow, the killer started to raise his weapon…and got a face-full of cologne.
"Son of a bitch…"
The words were spat, bubbling out past the shooter's lips in a spray of vile oil. Rubbing fiercely at his tight-squeezed eyes with one hand, the killer fired off a round with the other, but Jane had already danced out of the way.
"Jesus," the man coughed, spitting on the carpet again. He pointed the gun in random directions while struggling to open weeping, bloodshot eyes.
Jane flung the empty bottle against the opposite wall, using its crash as a distraction. The gunman turned wildly. He fired at the sound. The muzzle flared. Jane crept across the carpet, begging the floorboards underneath not to creak.
The shooter squeezed off another shot. Again, fire flashed bright at the weapon's muzzle. This time, a single spark flew astray. There was a frightening sound like a gas stove lighting up – fump – and then, before Jane could react, before he could even think, the gunman's oil-drenched head was suddenly, shockingly engulfed in yellow-white flames.
The screaming was awful. Jane tried to run, but the shooter stumbled in front of him, blocking the path to the door. Inhuman shrieks tore from the man's throat as he smoked and burned, staggering in wild lurches, beating at his own face, a whirlwind of noise, heat and light. The man crashed against a dresser, knocking it over and spilling out Diamond brand matches, silver nail clippers and Mary Kay hand cream.
Jane ducked and backpedaled, barely avoiding his enemy's panicked movements. He could feel the rush of the heat as he scrambled one way, then another, before finally managing to dart past.
The hallway was hazy, and filled with the persistent squeal of a smoke detector, pitched high in earsplitting harmony with the burning man's continued screeches.
Jane's face twisted against the racket as he scrambled into the bathroom. He threw open the hamper lid, dug until he found Penny's pale, shocked face, and then shouted to be heard over the unbearable cacophony:
"Let's go! Come on!"
Jane reached out his hands to her, and Penny unearthed her own arms to latch onto his. She let him lift her up and out, showering the floor with more random bits of damp and dirty laundry. Jane stumbled over the lumpy piles as he carried her to the doorway.
His mind fixated on escape, he was unprepared for the heart-stopping scream Penny let loose right next to his ear. Jane followed her eyes sideways, and had to bite back a scream of his own:
The human torch had managed to extinguish himself. Very much alive and somehow still on his feet, the killer lurched toward them blindly, cutting off their path to the stairway. His face was a Halloween mask of red and black, bubbled skin and a mottled, hairless scalp. Smoke continued to pour off of him, making the detector wail and filling the air with a sickening scent of barbequed meat.
Unable to see, the shooter pointed his gun in their general direction – not the same gun he'd had before, but a backup weapon.
Unable to speak properly past charred and blackened lips, the man hissed, "Oooo die, hucker…"