Elizabeth Sinclair - Baptism In Fire

“Now, wait just a minute, Luke. I’m a big girl and I had the option of saying no.” Rachel looked him in the eye, her face grim, her lips set in a tight line. “Luke, I need to do this.”

Luke looked from her to A.J., well aware of A.J.’s ability to talk the leaves off a tree, if the need arose. “Like I’m supposed to believe he didn’t pressure you into this.” Luke stared at her, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. “You need to get out of here and go back to Atlanta,” he growled, his gaze locked with Rachel’s.

His attitude puzzled Rachel. He knew she was a damn good profiler. Why this sudden need to send her packing? It certainly couldn’t be because he had any concerns about her personally. The day he’d packed his clothes and walked out of their apartment, he’d given up any right to a say in her life.

“I’m here, and it’s a done deal.” She snapped her briefcase closed with a decisive click, then turned to A.J. “Can we get started?”

A.J. sighed, his tense expression melting into one of relief. “How long before you have to get back to Atlanta?”

Ignoring Luke’s reproachful scrutiny and his presence in the small office as best she could, she said, “I have two weeks of vacation time, so we’d better get to it.” Rachel took a pad from her briefcase and clipped a pencil from A.J.’s desk. “Tell me about the fires.”

Transforming from concerned friend to hard-nosed cop, A.J. glanced at Luke, then took his place behind the desk. He motioned for Luke to sit in the chair beside Rachel. When he didn’t, she glanced around.

“I’ll stand, thanks.” Luke leaned against the gray file cabinet, which, when she turned to face A.J., would put him just out of her range of vision. His arms were crossed, his flinty gaze silently castigating A.J.

Did his hardened expression mean that he was pissed because A.J. had brought in outside help? Or was it because the outside help was Rachel?

It didn’t matter. Either way, she was here and, like it or not, he’d have to learn to live with it.

A.J. waved a dismissive hand at Luke. “Suit yourself.” He opened a file folder and began. “In a nutshell, the three victims are women, one separated and two divorced, single moms living alone, ages twenty-eight to thirty, small children. Two blondes, one brunette. The fires were set at night and when each victim was alone. The kids were with relatives or friends. All were rendered unconscious with a rag soaked in chloroform. The first fire was set about six months ago. Cause of death in all three cases was smoke inhalation.”

He took a glossy photo from the folder and tossed it on the desk. “Marsha Adams, married but legally separated, bound with a lamp cord.” Other photos taken of the women at the fire scenes followed. “Jane Madison, bound with a lamp cord. Colleen Winston, tied up with duct tape. Both divorced.” He wiped a hand over his eyes. “This bastard wanted them to suffer, and they did. One other thing—” He took a deep breath, glanced at Luke, then back to her. “We found all of them in a closet with a Bible beneath them.”

Rachel stared at the photos. Instantly she saw the similarities to her own fire, which A.J. had alluded to on the phone. The closet. The lamp cord. The chloroform. The Bible.

The color photos swam before her eyes. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She was sure she’d prepared herself for this part. She’d been terribly wrong.

Rachel closed her eyes to shut out the images, but the same frustrating, disjointed memories that had been torturing her for years, memories that she could never put definition to, flitted in and out in snippets like a badly edited movie. No face to put on an arsonist. No one to tell her what happened to Maggie. Just a blur of indistinguishable events.

Sleeping peacefully. Something on her face. A sweet smell filling her nostrils. Sleep. Then waking in a closet.

Her bedroom engulfed in flames. The smoke. Choking.

Closet too small. Can’t move.

Hands tied behind her. Bible cutting into her chest.

Helpless to escape.

Helpless to save her baby.

Heat. Intense heat. A voice calling to her.

“Mommy. Mommy?”

Maggie?

Blackness.

Then fresh air seeping into her burning lungs. Wet grass beneath her, soaking into her thin nightgown. A fireman standing over her. Luke, cradling her close to his chest, crying, calling her name and Maggie’s.

“Rachel? Rachel? Are you okay?” Luke’s voice called her back from that terrible place she’d hidden inside her for so long.

Rachel snapped her eyes open. The images, images that mirrored a periodic dream she’d been having since that night, faded.

She blinked. Luke and A.J. were standing over her, their faces twisted in concern. She searched her mind frantically for something to excuse what had just happened. She knew her ex-husband too well. If she told him the truth, he’d send her back to Atlanta despite what A.J. said. And she made up her mind in that instant that she wasn’t going anywhere until she nailed this bastard.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, just a bit…dizzy. I was so eager to get here that I skipped lunch.”

Luke exhaled a huff of air. He crossed his arms over his chest again and glared down at her, eyebrow arched so high it almost disappeared in his hairline. He hadn’t believed a word of her explanation.

Determinedly, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and forced her gaze toward the photos again. Silently, she employed a system she’d used when she’d started in the firefighters’ academy and was confronted with her first horrific fire scene.

You’re a professional. Detach yourself. You’ve got to prove to them that you can do this. If they send you home, you won’t be able to help anyone. Detach yourself. This can’t be personal. You are a professional. This is your job.

Slowly, the tension eased from her body, and her stomach settled. When she felt calm enough, she picked up the pictures. All three women were curled in the fetal position common after exposure to the high temperatures of a fire. Most of their hair had burned off, and the intense heat had split their skin in several places. In all three cases, their arms curled behind them, most of their bonds burned in the fire. Because they had been facedown, the underside of each body had escaped the heat. She could just make out the corner of a book beneath each woman.

She pushed the photos toward A.J. Quickly, he gathered up the pictures and shoved them inside the folder. Instead of handing her the file, he held on to it, glanced at Luke and then to her.

Doubts that hadn’t been there before lurked in his eyes and colored his expression. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

“Amen to that,” Luke grumbled behind her.

Rachel leaned toward A.J. “If you take me off this case now, I swear I’ll stay and work it without the police department. He almost burned me alive, then he took my baby and—” Her voice broke. She glanced at Luke. The concern she’d seen in his expression before had been replaced by a pain she knew well. That of a parent who had lost a child. “And, though we never found her body, it’s been almost two years, and I know now that he killed her. I want this sick bastard.”

A.J. studied her for a long moment. Her gaze held his without wavering. He nodded and handed her the file folder. “Everything we have is in there—interviews with relatives, spouses, boyfriends, friends. If there’s anything else you need, just give a yell.”

“How about the arson investigator’s photos, the firefighters’ narrative reports?”

“They’re in there, too. I’ve designated a room in the annex out back for your office and a place for the task force to meet. The names of the two officers I’ve assigned to the task force are in the folder.”