Chapter 18

Sunday, March 14

10:45 p.m.

Officer Pierce hadn't come to her rescue this time.

Leigh sucked oxygen out of a mask at the back of the ambulance. The fire was mostly under control with help from Lebanon Fire and Rescue, but the memories of what'd occurred within the house couldn't be doused as easily.

Firefighters battled the last of the flames, leaving nothing but smoldering ashes and broken structure behind. The roof had caved in and kicked up a stench that collected in her nose. One of the shutters hung diagonally away from the window it was supposed to protect. Everything that'd connected her to this wretched town had gone up in flames and accelerant in a flash.

It was a miracle the fire hadn't spread to the neighboring houses.

Towels soaked in cool water had been compressed round her shins to stop the burning process. It didn't make sense at the time EMTs had pulled her from the backyard, but the pain had numbed a bit. The blanket draped over her shoulders was meant to keep her from going hypothermic, too. Funny. She didn't think it was possible for her body temperature to drop after nearly being burned alive.

"You didn't see anything that would give you an idea of who did this?" There was Boucher with his damn notebook. Only she'd never seen him in his civilian clothes since she'd joined the investigation. She hadn't recognized him at first. Then he'd opened his mouth. He'd already asked her this question. Twice, but no amount of repeating would change her answer. She wasn't suffering from a bump on the head this time. She remembered every second of what'd happened. "What was he wearing?"

"A ski mask, jeans, a jacket. I could've sworn he had a vest." The oxygen mask muffled her answer. "I didn't notice any jewelry or tattoos. If there was, they were covered up." Almost like he'd gone out of his way not to be identified. Her attention was drawn to the officers at the scene, the ones asking her neighbors what they'd seen, if they were safe, and their versions of the story. Still no sign of Officer Pierce. Perhaps it was his night off.

But she did recognize one face. A woman carrying a toddler on her hip. It was the hair. Leigh could never forget that hair, even after all these years. Her childhood best friend must've still lived close, at least close enough to walk over with a toddler. She watched Leigh as though afraid she'd get off the back of the ambulance and tackle her to the ground. She was afraid. Leigh could feel it. Or was she nervous?

"A vest? Kevlar or cashmere?" Boucher asked.

She wanted to smack him but couldn't summon the energy to lift her hand. "Kevlar."

"You said this might be the same guy you chased after two nights ago." Boucher repositioned himself between her and the woman across the street.

Leigh pulled in another lungful of oxygen then lowered the mask into her lap. She didn't have the motive to feel embarrassed about her tank top and skimpy underwear visible to the entire rescue crew and police department. Her clothes had gone up with the rest of the house. "Yes. The way he spoke. It was the same kind of threat."

"Have you pissed anyone off lately?" he asked.

She cut her attention back to Boucher. "I don't know. What do you think?"

"Agent Brody!" Chandler Reed pulled up short from behind one of the ambulance bay doors, out of breath. He labored as though he'd run the entire length of town to get here. "I was at the station when I heard. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Okay. Not the length of town. Just the two miles from the police station.

"I'm fine." Although she appreciated the concern. She certainly wasn't going to get it from anyone else around here. "Just a couple of minor burns and bruises. Nothing I won't get over. See? Still got my good luck charm." She held the toy soldier in her hand. The EMTs had tried to take it during their exam, promising it would be at the hospital when she arrived, but she had no intention of recovering in a bed while the rest of the team worked this case. Someone had just tried to burn her alive. She was going to find the man responsible before they disappeared. Or before they hurt someone else.

Boucher turned one shoulder away from her, lowering his voice for Chandler. "Take it from me, buddy. Little less desperation next time. Why don't you go see if Fire and Rescue needs you for anything?"

Hesitation tore across Chandler's expression. Either he didn't want to leave her, or he wasn't pleased to take orders from Boucher. She could see both, but the federal investigator did as he was asked with a nod in her direction. "I'll see what the fire marshal has to say."

"Thanks." She studied Chandler as he jogged across the street then refocused on Boucher. "What was that?"

"Oh, nothing. Our boy's just been asking about you is all." The lieutenant shook his head, refusing to meet her gaze. A hint of amusement cracked that controlled expression. "I think he's got a crush."

"I'm not his type." No one wanted to get wrapped up in her mess, and she didn't blame them. Leigh took another gasp of oxygen and tried to conceal what was left of her clothing with the blanket. Luckily, she'd stashed her overnight bag into her rental after the confrontation with whoever'd graffitied her garage. Just in case she needed a quick escape. Her instincts would pay off this time.

One of the firefighters broke into her peripheral vision and hiked a thumb over his shoulder. "Lieutenant Boucher, I think you're going to want to see this."

"What is it?" Leigh moved to jump down from the rig.

"Stay put, Brody. And put the mask back on," Boucher said. "I'll be back to get the rest of your statement."

He was sidelining her during the investigation into the destruction of her own house. Asshole. A wave of dizziness nearly knocked her on her ass, but before she had a chance to reach out for balance, a set of hands held her up.

"Careful now, Agent Brody," a familiar voice said. "I'm not sure you could take any more trauma tonight."

She pinched her eyes closed to clear the haze and partly wished it wasn't who she thought it was. Didn't help. Chris Ellingson centered himself in front of her, both hands on her shoulders. His skin was cool and abrasive. She couldn't fight the nausea churning in her gut at his touch. "I'm not traumatized. I'm pissed."

"And with good reason." Ellingson surveyed the scene, most likely ensuring he wasn't noticed. Fire and Rescue shuffled into position as a reburn flared at one corner of the house. Boucher shouted orders to his officers to get everyone back.

Ellingson had chosen his moment perfectly.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Let's get this off of you. Go someplace quieter where we can talk." Tugging the oxygen mask from her grip, he tossed it into the ambulance. His hands moved down the length of her arms and clasped her wrists. He hauled her to her feet with surprising strength for a man closer to sixty than forty.

"I don't want to talk to you." But her feet were moving to keep her upright. A single tug forced her to take another step. Asphalt scraped against the raw skin of her bare feet. The blanket slipped from her shoulders. She was still moving. The red and blue patrol lights were dimmer here. Soon grass replaced graveled asphalt, and the chaos died. They'd left the scene, but exhaustion, adrenaline loss, and straight up fear had moved in to replace calm and logic.

"You're in shock, Agent Brody. Probably dehydrated. Don't worry. I'll take good care of you. There you go. Right here." Ellingson maneuvered her to sit. Old wood bit into the backs of her thighs, and she realized he'd brought her to a picnic table less than a block from her house. Would anyone even notice she'd left? "You've been so busy with the investigation, we haven't had a chance to talk."

She was exposed—physically, mentally, emotionally—stripped and burned and vulnerable. Just the way he liked his victims. Because no matter what the recent evidence said in the investigation into the deaths of three victims, he'd killed those boys twenty years ago. She knew it as well as she knew her father was innocent. He'd tortured his victims, cut them, bled them out, removed their mouths. And despite the fact she didn't fall into his preferred victimology, he was dangerous to anyone who dared shine the light on the monster he kept inside.

Leigh pressed the edge of the picnic table into her back for a spike of pain, to keep her in the moment and cognizant. "Let me guess. You're here to help."

"Come now, Agent Brody." Taking the seat beside her—too close—he spread his hands out in front of him. "I'm a psychologist first and foremost. It's in my nature to help. Considering what you've been through, I think it's in your best interest to talk to someone."

"You were a psychologist." She moved to stand on her own. "The state stripped you of your license, or did they give you a pass in Fruitland?"

Chris Ellingson gripped her elbow, pulling her back into her seat. The picnic bench shuddered with the impact. "Fruitland? I assure you, I don't know what you mean. Is that someplace I'm supposed to know?"

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. See, I might be concussed or traumatized and tired, whatever you want to call it, but I can still tell when someone is lying to me. Everyone has a tell, and I know what yours is, Mr. Ellingson." She almost wanted to knock her shoulder into his as though they were friends clearing the air. "Did you know Michelle Cross was writing a book about my father's arrest? She was trying to prove Joel Brody did not, in fact, kill my brother and his best friend. She had someone else in mind, and she'd put a fair amount of research into it, too."

"Michelle always did have quite the imagination. It was one of the reasons her parents had sent her to see me. She'd rather daydream than pay attention in class." Ellingson pressed his hands together, waiting to strike like the snake he was. "In any case, my answer is no. I did not know Michelle was writing a book about the investigation, but I can tell you I caught her on my property several times. One time in my house. You of all people know how that feels. To have someone come into your personal space, go through your things, learn your secrets."

"Is that what Michelle did?" She shouldn't be here. She should try to go back to the scene, but the mystery that'd driven her up through the ranks of law enforcement and into the FBI was right in front of her. A carrot she could practically bite. She had no doubt Chris Ellingson had produced that carrot intentionally, had probably even done a little research or analyzed her himself. Know thy enemy and all that crap. "Learn your secrets?"

"You know, come to think of it, yes, Agent Brody. I think she did." Echoes of voices shouted orders from off in the distance. Ellingson focused on a small, giftwrapped box she hadn't noticed until now. "I think she learned I'm lactose-intolerant. I was rather hoping to keep that information private."

And here she'd expected an entire admission of guilt.

But Chris Ellingson wasn't a petty criminal in over his head or intimidated by police. He tested wills and refused to back down or stand corrected. Threats and reprisals—violence in and of itself—were tools he'd polished to an art. In his world, consequences didn't exist. At least not for him, but for his victims… They would be expected to obey every command or suffer. Until he broke them completely.

Leigh eyed the brown paper packaging. The box wasn't much in size. Rectangular tied with string. Like a present. "What's in the box?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was for you?" He set the box between them as though knowing her curiosity would get the better of her. "I know you've been eyeing this one for a long time."

She wouldn't touch it. This was another of his games, same as the ones he'd played with his patients. Look how that'd ended for a handful of them. "Am I supposed to say thank you?"

"I suppose you'll stare at it a while after I leave. Just to prove I haven't piqued your curiosity. That I don't have some kind of hold on you." He got up from the bench. The lack of balancing weight tipped the table to one side and thrust her off center. "And while admirable, in the end, you'll do what you've always done. You'll succumb to your incessant need for answers."

He slid his hands into his slacks pockets, stopping to turn back for just a moment. "Oh, and I'm truly sorry about your home. If I may make a recommendation. You'll want to take photos of the crowd watching the blaze. The person who did this"—he nodded toward the glowing cocoon of ambered light on the other side of the park where her house had stood—"will want to commit the scene to memory and watch as long as they can. Arsonists often attempt to gain pleasure and power and attain a feeling of success, however slight, in their lives. It's not just about controlling the victim, but also police, firefighters, and other figures of authority. He's gotten a taste of it now, and I'm afraid this may just be the beginning. Then again, as you said, I'm no longer a psychologist. What do I know?"

Chris Ellingson walked straight into the darkness as quickly as he'd materialized.

There one second, gone the next.

Tremors climbed up through her forearms, and she slapped one hand to stop the progression. Shock, dehydration, her body's last resort to keep itself from going into hypothermia—Ellingson had taken her away from help to show his own need for control and power, to force her to do as he willed as he had so many others. But it wouldn't work.

Leigh dragged the gift-wrapped present from the table and slid off the bench, collecting a couple splinters in the backs of her thighs. She stumbled forward.

"Brody!" Boucher and Chandler Reed sprinted toward her from the scene. The lieutenant caught her just as her legs gave out. The box fell from her grip, and in that moment, she knew exactly what waited inside the packaging. "Shit. Didn't you hear what I said? Stay in the rig. Keep the mask on. You're freezing. Damn it. You're going into shock. We have to get her back to the ambulance."

"Ellingson was here." The words hurt coming up her throat. Too much talking. Too much smoke inhalation. Too much almost dying.

Chandler picked the box off the ground, shaking it again. He cut his attention to her, his expression telling her he was familiar with the sound as much as she was.

Chris Ellingson had gifted her a set of Legos.