Rita Herron - Up in Flames

Her last words convinced Rosanna. With the recent crime wave in town, Natalie was right. Rosanna didn’t have very many friends. She didn’t want to lose this one.

In her bedroom, she slipped on a black sundress, strappy silver sandals and silver hoop earrings. Nothing she could do with her mop of hair, so she left it loose, then added some lip gloss. Seconds later, she and Natalie headed back outside into the hot, sultry summer air.

But once again, a chill of foreboding tiptoed up her spine as they strolled toward River Street.

She spun around twice to see if someone was following her, but saw nothing. Still, tension charged the air, and she sensed something dark and sinister in the shadows.

HE STILL FELT the heat of the flames from the café burning his hands, singeing his hair, the smoke filling his lungs. And he tasted the fear.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. The terrified screams of the onlookers was music to his ears. Food for his hungry heart.

While the firefighter raced to extinguish his handiwork, he had stood in the shadows of the live oaks, letting the spidery web of Spanish moss shroud him. His heart raced, his blood hot from the excitement of watching the flames light up the inky sky and the knowledge that he had exerted control over all of them.

They would never catch him because he had left no evidence behind. Laughter bubbled in his throat. Detective Bradford Walsh would spin in circles.

Perfect. He hated Bradford Walsh.

Now the woman was a different story. He’d felt her presence, sensed that she was like him. Different.

What her talents were he didn’t know. But he would find out.

And he would use her if needed.

He followed her now. Had seen her before, but couldn’t place where.

She was dressed to kill and heading toward the party end of town. Probably on the prowl for a man to fulfill her fantasies.

He had fantasies of his own.

His thirst for another fire already burned inside him, stronger and more intense than before. The city would host a fireworks show in the park tonight, but those would be pitiful compared to his work.

The café fire was only the beginning of the festivities he had planned.

But he had cut short his fun in watching the flames die down at the café because of this woman. He wanted that lost time back, those lost moments of joy, of seeing the final embers dwindle to ashes. That part usually satisfied and fed him for hours. Sometimes days. But not tonight.

She had robbed him of that pleasure.

And she would suffer.

In fact, he just might set her afire and watch her skin erupt into flames like kindling.

Bradford spent the next two hours interviewing the witnesses from the café fire.

Frustration gnawed at him. No one stuck out as a possible arsonist. No one had seen or heard anything suspicious.

Of course, the holiday crowds and tourist season made it easy for a culprit to hide. Restaurants and bars overflowed, catering to the party scene. A ship of sailors had docked and they were combing the streets on their furlough.

If the guy was among them or the tourists, he could disappear tomorrow.

Families had gathered in the squares for picnics and special booths had been set up for the holiday offering cotton candy, sno cones, frozen lemonade and other treats. Face-painting, tarot card readers, clowns, balloon artists and mimes entertained in the square, and a vendor sold voodoo dolls to passersby. The ever-present ghost tours strolled along the graveyards and historic district adding to the atmosphere.

Still, excitement sizzled in the balmy summer air, the sound of children and partiers filling the streets growing louder in anticipation of the upcoming fireworks show.

Hazel’s son Robby had arrived and tried to console his mother while Parker interviewed her.

Bradford listened, then cornered Chief Jackson as the last of the flames died down. Now the ruins, soaked with water, looked like a sludgy mess of charred wood and plastic.

“What do you think?” Bradford asked.

“It’s too early to tell,” Chief Jackson said. “We’ll have to sift through the debris, take samples, run tests…” The tall African-American man shifted, restless himself. “Did you learn anything from the interviews?”

“Afraid not. But three fires in three weeks. Not all accidental.”

“I’ll review the other two scenes,” Jackson said. “See if my men missed anything. Look for a connection.”

Bradford nodded. He’d already talked to the officers himself. In the first two instances, the sites had been vacant. At this one there were people inside. Which meant, if the incidents were related, their perpetrator was taking more chances, growing more confident, more aggressive.

And that he’d just begun his reign of terror. Next time, there might be casualties.

They had to stop him before that happened.

SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her.

Rosanna pivoted in the dark corner of the bar, searching the faces, hunting for someone familiar, or maybe a stranger staring at her. But no one stood out.

Shivering in spite of the heat, she tried to convince herself that the fire and then walking by the graveyard had made her paranoid. After all, for years after her father’s death, she’d had nightmares that he might claw his way from his coffin and try to drag her into hell with him. The fire tonight had reminded her of that nightmare.

The image of that cop helping the café owner to safety returned. He’d been kind and gentle and had consoled the older woman as if he cared.

But when he’d looked at her, she’d seen a coldness that chilled her to the bone.

Determined to put him out of her mind, she studied the dance floor. White lights glittered and popped intermittently across the room, an indoor fireworks show and hopping singles scene. Not one she was accustomed to being a part of.

She sipped a Lemon Drop martini while she watched the hump-and-grind show on the dance floor. Bodies gyrated, sliding against other bodies, men wrapped around women, skin to skin, a game of foreplay in public that made her body tighten with need.

And resurrected images of that detective again.

For a brief second, she pictured the two of them swaying to the music, his big, muscled arms holding her tight, his thigh slipping between her heat, his thick lips skating over hers. Desire shot through her.

A good-looking, blond architect paired up with Natalie and they headed to the dance floor. During the next half hour, Rosanna fended off unwanted advances.

Now she remembered the reason she avoided the clubbing scene.

She’d been alone all her life. And she didn’t mind it. No one to worry about. No one to pry into her secrets.

No one to find out about her past.

And no one pawing at her.

A balding guy wearing a skeleton T-shirt and holey jeans sauntered toward her with a beer in hand. “Wanna dance, baby?”

She gritted her teeth, wondering why she attracted the weirdos. Maybe because she was eccentric herself?

“No, thanks.”

He frowned and cut his eyes over her as if she’d angered him. Uncomfortable with his reaction, she slid off the stool and headed to the ladies’ room. She sensed him following, but refused to turn around.

Near the ladies’ room, another man at the bar made eye contact with her. He was tall, wore a black silk shirt and black dress pants. But instead of approaching her, he removed a lighter, flicked it open and pressed the starter until a small golden flame shot up. Then a slow smile crept over his face.

A smile that did not quite reach his eyes, one that sent a ripple of tension through her.

Anxious to escape his scrutiny, she ducked into the ladies’ room. The line snaked through the cramped bathroom, and it took several minutes to reach a stall. Just as she closed the door, a loud explosion rocked through the room.