Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

She forced herself to focus on the sheet of paper, where he’d just checked off the final name.

“Okay, here’s the list,” said Chase. “Everyone in Richard’s file. I’m almost certain they all own property on the north shore.”

“Are any names missing?”

Chase sat back and mentally ticked off the camps along the access road. “There’s Richard, of course. Then there’s old man Sulaway’s property, down the road. He’s a retired lobsterman, sort of a recluse. And then there’s Frenchman’s Cottage. I think it was sold some years back. To hippies, I heard. They come up for the summers.”

“So they’d be living there now.”

“If they still own the place. But they’re not from this area. I can’t see Richard bothering to dig up information on them. And as for old Sully, well, an eighty-five-year-old sounds like a pretty unlikely victim for blackmail.”

Blackmail. Miranda gazed at the papers on the table. “What was Richard thinking of?” she wondered. “What did he have against these people?”

“Something to do with the rezoning? Were any of these names on the land commission?”

“They couldn’t have voted, anyway. They would’ve been disqualified. You know, conflict of interest.” She sat back. “Maybe our burglar was looking for something entirely different.”

“Then the question is, did he — or she — find it?”

From somewhere in the house came a sound that made them both glance up. It was the soft tinkle of breaking glass.

Miranda jerked to her feet in alarm. At once Chase grabbed her hand, signaled her to be silent. Together they moved from the dining room into the living room. A quick glance around told them the windows were all intact. They paused for a moment, listening, but heard no other sounds. Chase started toward the bedrooms.

They were moving up the hall when they heard, louder this time, the distinct crash of shattering glass.

“That came from the cellar!” said Miranda.

Chase wheeled and headed back into the kitchen. He flicked on a wall switch and yanked open the cellar door. A single bare bulb shone over the narrow stairway. A strange mist seemed to swirl in the shadows, obscuring the bottom of the stairs. They had taken only two steps down when they both smelled smoke.

“You’ve got a fire in here!” said Chase, moving down the steps. “Where’s your extinguisher?”

“I’ll get it!” Miranda scrambled into the kitchen, pulled the extinguisher from the pantry shelf and dashed back down the cellar steps.

By now the smoke was thick enough to make her eyes burn. Through the whirling haze she saw the source: a bundle of flaming rags. Nearby, just beneath a shattered basement window, lay a red brick. At once she understood what had happened, and her panic gave way to fury. How dare they smash my window? How dare they attack me in my own home?

“Stay back!” Chase yelled, plunging forward through the smoke. His shoes crunched over broken glass as he crossed the concrete floor. He aimed the extinguisher; a stream of white shot out and hissed over the flames. A few sweeps of the nozzle and the fire faltered and died under a smothering blanket of powder. Only the smoke remained, a stinking pall that hung like a cloud around the bare light bulb.

“It’s out!” said Chase. He was prowling the basement now, searching for new flames. He didn’t notice that Miranda had gone rigid with fury, didn’t see that she was staring, white-faced, at the broken glass on the floor.

“Why can’t they leave me alone? ” she cried.

Chase turned and looked at her with sudden intensity. He said, dead quiet, “You mean this has happened before?”

“Not — not this. But phone calls, really cruel ones. Again and again. And messages, written on my window.”

“What sort of messages?”

“What you’d expect.” She swallowed and looked away. “You know, to the local murderess.”

He took a step toward her. “You know who’s doing it?”

“I told myself it was just — just some kids. But kids, they wouldn’t set fire to my house….”

Chase glanced down at the brick, then up at the shattered window. “It’s a crazy way to burn down a house,” he said. He went to her, took her by the shoulders, gently rubbed her arms. She felt warmth in his touch, and strength. Courage. He framed her face with his hands and said quietly, “I’m going to call the police.”

She nodded. Together they started up the steps to the kitchen. They were halfway up the stairs when the door above them suddenly slammed shut. An instant later the bolt squealed home.

“They’ve shut us in!” cried Miranda.

He dashed past her up the stairs and began pounding on the door. In frustration he threw himself against it. His shoulder slammed into the wood.

“It’s solid!” said Miranda. “You can’t break it down.”

Chase groaned. “I think I just found that out.”

Footsteps creaked across the floor overhead. Miranda froze, tracing with her gaze the intruder’s movements.

“What’s he doing?” she whispered.

As if in answer to her question, the single light bulb suddenly went out. The basement was plunged into darkness.

“Chase?” she cried.

“I’m here! Right here. Give me your hand.”

She reached up blindly toward him; at once he found her wrist. “It’s all right,” he murmured, pulling her toward him, gathering her tightly against his chest. Just the unyielding support of that embrace was enough to take the edge off her panic. “We’ll be okay,” he murmured. “We just have to find a way out. We can’t make it through the window. You have a cellar door? A coal hatch?”

“There’s — there’s an old loading hatch near the furnace. It opens to the side yard.”

“All right. Let’s see if we can get it open. Just move us in the right direction.”

Together they felt their way down the steps, to the cellar floor. Shards of glass skittered before their feet as they inched their way through the darkness. It seemed like a journey across eternity, through a blackness so thick it might have been firm to the touch. At last Miranda’s extended hand touched pipes, then the cold, damp granite of the cellar wall.

“Which way to the hatch?” asked Chase.

“I think it’s to the left.”

Upstairs, the creaking moved across the floor, then a door slammed shut. They’ve left the house, Miranda thought in relief. They’re not going to hurt us.

“I found the oil tank!” said Chase.

“Then the coal hatch should be just above. There are some steps—”

“Right here.” He released her hand. Though she knew he was right beside her, that break in contact left her hovering at the edge of panic. If only she could see something, anything! She could hear Chase shoving up against the wood, could hear the crack and groan of the hatch as he struggled to swing it open. Straining to see through the darkness, she could make out, little by little, the vague outline of his head, then the gleam of sweat on his face. More details seemed to emerge out of darkness: the hulking shadow of the furnace, the oil tank, the reddish glint of the copper pipes. It was all visible now.

Too visible. Where was the light coming from?

With new apprehension she turned and stared up at the basement window. Reflected in the shattered glass was a flickering dance of orange light. Firelight. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Chase…”

He turned and stared.

Even as they watched, the glow in the window shards leaped to a new and horrifying brilliance.

“We have to get out of here!” she cried.

He shoved against the hatch. “I can’t get it open!”

“Here, let me help you!”