Bentley Little - The Burning

Her number appeared on his screen, and he dialed it, clearing his throat so as to sound as professional and unthreatening as possible. She picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Sue Wing?" he said.

"Yes?" came the tentative voice on the other end of the line.

"This is Agent Rossiter from the FBI-"

The line went dead.

He immediately called back, but the line was now busy. He tried once more, just in case, but he knew she had taken the phone off the hook. He felt a flash of anger and was tempted to call one of his old asshole comrades from the Phoenix field office who was now working in Southern California and have him haul her in for questioning, but he quelled that impulse.

What would the girl know, anyway? The grandmother was the expert. With her gone, his chances of learning anything worthwhile dropped to nearly nothing.

Hcsidcs, he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Time was ol the essence, and he couldn't afford to fuck things up.

Rossiter glanced down at the printout next to his computer, saw the circled name.

Chester Williams.

He'd almost forgotten about that, and though he still couldn't remember where he'd come across the name before, it would be easy enough to track down. He called up another screen and typed in "Williams, Chester," and an entire page of distilled information appeared. Now he knew why the name was familiar. Williams had been an investor in the United Pacific Railroad. He had been influential at the beginning of the drive to build the transcontinental railroad, but his involvement had faded as time went on. He'd spent his final years in Bear Flats, California ... where he'd formed an organization called the ACL, the Anti-Chinese League, which had spread across the country and at its peak had over two hundred chapters and featured among its supporters a wide array of politicians.

That was one coincidence too many.

Rossiter pressed a button on his speakerphone. "Agent Saldana," he said. "Come in here, please." He'd intended to say "Get in here," without the "please," but at the last second he'd softened it. He was getting pretty good at this if he did say so himself.

A moment later, there was a knock at the door and his assistant let in Saldana. Rossiter stood. "I need you to lead a team of four men to the town of Bear Flats, California. A police officer reported hearing ghostly voices speaking Chinese and recorded an incident on his cell phone. This occurred in a house where an unexplained murder recently took place, a house built by railroad tycoon Chester Williams. I'll message over everything I have. I suggest you print it out and bring a laptop."

The agent seemed surprised instead of flattered. Wrong response, Rossiter thought, but he kept his expression neutral.

"I assumed I would be going to-"

Rossiter cut him off. "I'll be leading the team at Promontory Point. I want you to lead the second team--"

"But I thought-"

"Or not." Rossiter turned away dismissively and pressed the button on his speakerphone.

"No!" Saldana practically shouted. "I'm sorry! Thank you, sir. I will be happy to go to Bear Flats."

"Step on it, then. I want you there tonight. And I expect hourly reports once you're in town."

"Yes, sir."

Rossiter looked at the unmoving young man. "I said I would send you everything I have. Is there anything else?"

"No, sir."

"Then what are you standing there for? Get moving!"

Saldana practically tripped over his own feet at- t tempting to flee the office, and Rossiter smiled. Being nice had its place ... but there was nothing like good old-fashioned fear to light a fire under someone's ass.

He glanced at the clock. Time was wasting. He wanted Saldana in Bear Flats tonight, and he wanted to be at Promontory Point with his own team by midnight. He doubted they would make it, but he sure as hell was going to try. He went over a list of agents in his mind, trying to decide not only who would be the most thorough, knowledgeable and self-motivated- but also who would be the least annoying on the flight over.

Successful FBI work sometimes required more than merely brains and ability.

He pushed the button on his speakerphone. "Hanson," he said. "Singh, Worthington, Munoz ..."

Thirty-one

Bear Flats, California

Jolene looked down at the faces of her mother and her son. Both appeared more peaceful in sleep than they ever did awake, and she wished they could always be this way. Skylar shifted position, one arm flopping above his head, and her heart went out to the boy. Although he was strong, although he coped, adapted and survived, her greatest wish was that she could make his life easy, that she could spare him these hardships and give him the kind of carefree childhood he deserved.

She reached out and touched his cheek. It was soft, almost as delicate as it had been when he was a baby. A fierce protectiveness rose within her. If anyone or anything ever attempted to harm one hair on his head, she would kill them.

Her mother shifted in her sleep, muttered something unintelligible, then sank again into deep slumber.

Her mom had been doing very well. She'd found a small liqueur bottle in Leslie's cabinet yesterday that she'd polished off, but that had been it, and when they'd all gone to the store this morning, she hadn't even gone down the liquor aisle. Jolene was proud of her, and she wished she knew how to tell that to her mother without sounding patronizing.

She straightened, massaging her stiff neck with one hand, and glanced around Leslie's living room. Her friend was at work. She had been great through all of this, and though Jolene had not seen her in years, had not even bothered to keep in touch, the two of them had picked up exactly where they'd left off. It was as though she'd never moved away. Once best friends, always best friends, Jolene thought, and the sentiment brought her close to tears. She hadn't had a friend since to whom she'd been anywhere near as close. Part of it was due to the demands of being an adult. With work and family and the responsibilities of life, there just wasn't the free time to hang out together that there had been in high school. But part of it was also the mysterious chemistry that had brought them together in the first place, that had led them to bond over their shared disdain for jocks and cheerleaders in the back of Mrs. Wilson's social studies class. They'd been kindred spirits back then, instantly attuned, and connections formed at that pivotal age were always much stronger than those created later.

She or Leslie or both of them might move away in the future, but Jolene knew that they would not lose touch this time. They were bound together, friends forever.

Her throat felt dry, and she made her way to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Although the drapes were drawn, Jolene avoided looking at the windows. Leslie's curtains were frilly and sheer, and she was afraid of what she might see. Outside these walls, normal life went on for everyone else in town, but more and more she felt trapped within the house, barricaded against evil forces she could not hope to fight against. She knew that wasn't healthy, knew it was fostering an attitude of fear and paranoia, but she was afraid. For her son as much as herself. And after reading those diaries and seeing what she'd seen, she knew that there were evil forces.

Evil was not an abstract concept or metaphoric construct. It was real. And it lived.

They want revenge.

She wished Leslie would hurry up and come home.

Jolene walked back out to the living room, turning on the television but keeping the sound low. Jerry Maguire was on. She'd seen that movie with Frank. Before Skylar was born. Although the film itself still seemed recent, that period of her life felt like a long, long time ago, and thinking about it now made her sad.