Ashes of Another Life (9 page)

Forensics gathered evidence as cameras flashed.

In the other room, the victim’s self-proclaimed best friend kept mumbling, “This can’t be. This can’t be. Not Casey,” and weeping softly into her hands.

When Casey wouldn’t answer the door for their weekly “Latte Night,” she had let herself in with a spare key. The neighbors said they could hear her screaming in the next building over when she stumbled onto the gruesome crime scene. She’d placed the 9-1-1 call but had barely been coherent with dispatch. Now, McKelvey understood why.

He turned around and exited the bathroom, keeping his head down as he walked. The little boy inside him, the one who had always wanted to be a cop, who had played make-believe games of busting the bad guys—that part of him wanted to solve the case. But the other part of him, the weary part that had witnessed too much violence in his time, it wept for Rita, for Ms. Wendell, for Tara Jane…

He made his way through the small group of analysts and officers gathered in the main room. The image of Casey Wendell and the red-stained bathtub stayed with him, still vivid in his mind. As he suspected it always would be.

Chapter Eleven

Randall tugged at the collar of his button-up shirt. It was a breezy May evening, but his long sleeves and undershirt stifled the effects of the wind. He tried to remain still as he crouched in the bushes, concealed by the rustling leaves. He was starting to feel itchy and discouraged.

After he had left Casey Wendell’s apartment earlier in the day, it had taken him a while to find his way back to her office building. He needed to retrieve his SUV, but he didn’t want to drive his murder victim’s car to get it.
Don’t be stupid
, he had told himself. Rolling up his sleeves to hide the blood stains on his cuffs (there was nothing he could do about the splatter across his front), he had walked the distance back to the parking lot on foot, taking the turns he had committed to memory during their tense car ride.

He had scanned the parking lot for any signs of police or Casey’s co-workers and slipped into his vehicle unnoticed. He wondered if the parking lot had security cameras. If it did, they’d catch up with him eventually. By then he’d be home, under the prophet’s protection. There were places in his community where a person could hide and never be found. A lot of folks didn’t even have social security numbers.

Randall had arrived in this neighborhood shortly before nightfall, finding a shady cul-de-sac where he could park the Cherokee unquestioned by neighbors. He followed the sidewalk to the address on the Post-it note and gazed up at the spacious, two-story home.

Is this it? Is Tara Jane really in there?

The address jotted on that sticky note could be
anything
, but Randall had a feeling this was where he’d find the girl.

At first he’d been happy to find a thick line of shrubs at the edge of the yard. But now, an hour had passed and he still didn’t have any idea what to do. He was desperate for a plan. He peered through the bushes, searching the windows, looking for signs of Tara Jane.

A neighbor passed, walking a mutt who sniffed the air and barked in Randall’s direction. Randall held his breath.

Keep walking, keeping walking. Lord, don’t let them see me.

Through a mesh of thin branches, he saw the furry mongrel drool and sneer, looking right at him, but its owner yanked the leash, and the furry nuisance had no choice but to comply, trotting away.

Randall took a deep breath.

Thank you, Lord.

He turned his attention back to the house and pursed his lips. The clock was ticking, and he didn’t know if Tara Jane was inside.

And how will I get her, even if she is?
It’s too late to pretend I’m a salesman or gain entrance to the house by friendly means. Besides, I’ve got blood on my shirt and nothing to sell. I’ll wait until they are defenseless, until tonight when they are sleeping in their beds…

Headlights cut through the darkness as a vehicle pulled to the curb. The high-beams blinded Randall, who was beginning to feel like the bushes provided very little cover. He shielded his eyes and gulped as a Hispanic woman climbed from the car. Her black hair shined in the lamplight as she slung a purse over her shoulder. She closed the door and adjusted her shirt, paying no attention to Randall. She took the driveway to the patio and rang the bell.

A pale woman with brown hair answered the door, and Randall strained to hear their conversation.

The homeowner stepped outside and shut the door behind her. “Ms. Martinez. Thanks for calling. Do you mind if we talk out here? It’s such a nice night, and Tara Jane is just inside. I’d hate for her to overhear us.”

The other woman nodded. “That’s fine. And please, call me Vanessa. I’m wondering… how has Tara Jane been doing? She mentioned she’s not taking her medicine?”

A solemn head shake. “That’s a complicated issue. I’ve tried to encourage taking the medicine. I have. She refuses to take it.”

She gripped the porch railing tight, staring at the stars. Sighing heavily, she added, “Forgive me if this is wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it… but when I saw her anxiety building and her episodes getting worse, I started… putting the medicine in her food.”

“Oh?”

“I know. It sounds terrible… to do it that way, to force it against her will. But these are her
prescriptions
, prescribed by a
doctor
for her own well-being. No one sees how she gets when she has a nervous episode.”

“I understand,” said Vanessa. “I’ve seen PTSD symptoms many times.”

“It’s no use anyway. She’s stopped eating. I slipped in into her lemonade today… and I—I feel bad about it. All I want to do is establish trust with the girl, and here I am being deceitful.” Her voice shook.

“Tell me, is it wrong? Should I allow her to refuse treatment? The guilt, it eats her up, and I can’t stand to see it.”

Vanessa reached out and patted the other woman’s shoulder. “I understand why you did it. Tara Jane needs treatment. She’s on the verge of a breakdown. But she has to
want
help if we’re going to make progress. She has to take the medication on her own.”

“But how can I get through to her?”

“Patience,” said Vanessa. “She’s close, so close to a break-through.”

Randall watched as they finished their conversation and eventually said their goodbyes. The black-haired woman walked past him for a second time, unaware of him watching her from the bushes. She started her car and pulled away.

They are holding her hostage away from her true home and force-feeding her pills on top of it?

His pulse quickened. These outsiders had no business meddling with one of God’s chosen children. He’d get the girl, tonight, and bring her home. No matter what.

Chapter Twelve

Tara Jane tried desperately to fall asleep. It wasn’t even close to her usual bedtime, but she wanted this day to be over. It had been so long since she’d had a good night’s sleep, dozing off shouldn’t be a problem. But no matter how she tried to relax, she couldn’t.

Then she smelled it.

Her spine went rigid. She clenched the bedspread and turned toward the window with a reluctant grimace. There was a stench coming in from outside. A smell she would never forget.

They’ve come for me
.

Smoke curled in through the window. It danced in thin swirls before it dissipated, leaving behind that terrible stench of burned flesh. Tara Jane covered her nose and gagged. With rattling knees, she took baby steps over to the window, bracing herself against the wall.

Her heart broke when she looked out across the lawn.

There’s so many of them
, she thought as she stared down from the second story window. Her family had never seemed so large before, but then, she’d never examined them from a distance, as an outsider looking in.

A herd of smoldering corpses roamed the yard. Blackened footprints dotted the lawn where they’d walked. A few blades of grass still burned bright orange. They angled their heads toward the window in unison, returning her stare with scorched eye sockets.

Patches of their charred skin glowed red-hot as wisps of smoke rose from their fire-ravaged forms. It blew upward, carried on an otherworldly breeze. It crept in through the window. The godawful stench that she hated more than anything else in the world was everywhere now, surrounding her. Even the hand she held over her nose was not enough to block it out.

This can’t be happening. I’m dreaming
.

She looked around her bedroom. searching for a sign that she was no longer grounded in reality, something changed or out of place. She found nothing, no proof that she was dreaming, and reluctantly, she turned to face the family of burn victims gathered on the lawn.

All was quiet in the neighborhood. No children ran the sidewalk. No teenagers on a lover’s stroll. Not a single car passed by. Tara Jane desperately wished something, anything would happen. The silence, the stillness made her heart pound and her throat tighten.

The calm before the storm
.

Or maybe I really am dreaming, all alone with them. A dog barked from behind a nearby fence—a frightened, high-pitched yelp, and she thought,
the dog can see them, too, and it is frightened.

The smoke seeping in through the window was beginning to fill the room. Soot coated the white fur of a stuffed bear on her window sill. She reached out to touch it, and dusty black ashes covered her fingertip.

She gulped, trying to steady her breathing as she counted the family members on the lawn, their melted eyes fixed on her. She got to thirty-three, then counted again. Someone was missing. She shook her head and gulped, backing away.

Where was Father?

A heat wave hit her from behind and warmed her goose-pimpled skin.

Fire crackled and an old, familiar voice said, “Tara Jane. Come back to us.”

She spun around to see Father with open arms. Flames glowed orange and yellow on his burning form. She caught glimpses of his features through the fire, but mostly she couldn’t tell where the fire ended and Father began. She only recognized him by his deep voice and by his dark, pleading eyes, which looked right through her into her broken heart.

“Come back to us,” he repeated.

He held his arms out wide, as if to welcome her embrace.

Instead, she backpedaled until her rear end bumped the window.

“Tara Jane. It’s time to come home.” His mouth was a black void behind a veil of flames, but death had not altered his voice. So familiar. “Home with your family, where you belong.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as Tara Jane closed her eyes against the horror. “No-no,” she stammered.

And then it came, just as she knew it would—a threat. Disobedience always triggered a threat. “Come with me or I’ll hurt the outsiders.”

Tara Jane forced her eyes to open. She struggled to focus through a haze of tears. “What do you mean?”

Father raised his outstretched arms into the air. Flames shot from his palms, reaching higher, burning hotter. His dark eyes watched her from behind a fiery veil. “Come with me now, Tara Jane, or I’ll take you anyway, and then I’ll pay a visit to your new parents.”

She gasped. Beads of sweat formed on her skin as she realized the implications. He could set this house ablaze in an instant. He could hunt Mr. and Mrs. McKelvey down and hurt them.

Heat filled the air between them, coiling around her like a hot, asphyxiating fog. Yet she shivered. She was in his grasp again. Instead of dragging her by the ankle, he had a different kind of hold on her this time.

He’s not leaving here without me
.
Whether we do this the easy way or the hard way, he’ll get me.

Her face poured sweat as Father’s flames rippled before her.

He wants to take me with him because he loves me
, she told herself, but her limbs rattled with fear. Some days she felt there was nothing left to live for, anyway, not with her family gone. So she wiped her sweaty face on her sleeve, then clenched her fists at her side and said, “Okay. I’m ready to come home.”

Father approached the bedroom door. She couldn’t see his legs through the fire, but he left sizzling footprints and melted carpet in his wake. He walked like a man, but he floated through her closed bedroom door like a blazing apparition and disappeared.

Tara Jane had to jog to catch up with him. She flung open her bedroom door and saw him halfway down the stairs. The sulfurous stench of burned hair and the odor of his flesh like charred, crispy beef hung in the air behind him.

She held her breath that Mrs. McKelvey wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t
smell
him and come to investigate. For the first time in a long while, she prayed.
Don’t let him harm her, please.