JoJo looked up at that one and grinned. “So the kid, Devin, is a pyro from his mama’s side? Not his daddy’s? We been concentrating on the wrong family name. And the nanny is gray because . . . why?”
I shook my head. No one had an answer. Yet.
I asked, “Is the PM on the body burned in the limo fire complete? Do we know for certain that it’s Sonya Tolliver, Justin Tolliver’s wife, the cousin-in-law of Senator Tolliver? And why was she with Devin instead of her own kids?”
“I asked that,” T. Laine said. “Security and Sonya had picked up the kids at school. They had dropped off Sonya’s children at ballet and soccer practice and were heading home.”
Rick leaned in to his laptop and punched a button. A form flashed up on the overhead screen, the words Preliminary COD at the top. “Cause of death for Sonya Tolliver is burning at extremely high temperature. There wasn’t enough liquid left in the body to do toxicology screening the usual way and liver tissue has been sent to a reference lab for special testing. The results aren’t expected back for ten working days. I doubt they bothered with ordering DNA comparisons. Why should they, when multiple witnesses know Sonya Tolliver was in the limo.”
“Can we get samples sent off for DNA?” Occam asked. The first words he’d spoken.
“You can check,” Tandy said, “but line seven says the body was burned so badly that the family requested immediate cremation.” He tapped his screen. “The forensic pathologist released it to the funeral home at two a.m. That’s five hours ago.”
“That’s awful fast,” JoJo said.
“The Tollivers have a lot of political pull,” Tandy said, wryly. “They usually get what they ask for, and there was no reason to hold the body.”
Rick said, “We don’t have probable cause to request that the remains be DNA tested. And I’m sure rich-as-sin Justin Tolliver and the senator would resist an invasion of privacy that might imply anyone was somehow culpable in Sonya’s death or that they were hiding something.”
Soul said, “Jones, put in a request to have extra samples taken and held for possible future DNA comparisons. If the body hasn’t been picked up and if the techs or the pathologist is in a receptive mood we might get our wish. But I won’t hold my breath.”
“Any tissue left after toxicology testing would be held for a time in the lab before disposal,” Rick said. “If we find probable cause, we’d have a narrow time frame to get a warrant and then claim the tissue. We need to talk to Justin. And the senator and his wife. And Devin, if the father approves. And the gray-skinned nanny. Because it’s possible we’re looking at this all wrong. We’re still thinking paranormal turf war. What if it’s simply nonhuman lineage and paperwork? A way to keep the money in the family. Like vampires do.”
T. Laine said, “So they burn Sonya to death? You’re suggesting that they’re long-lived and are covering their tracks by killing people? If so, then the body in the limo wasn’t Sonya Tolliver. It’s a body they picked up to arrange a legal death certificate. But that would indicate the possibility that they murdered someone in the fire. And what happened to the real Sonya? Where is she? And what about the kid? No one could have foreseen that Devin would be saved by Soul. Was he supposed to die? This theory doesn’t work.”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Rick said. “I’m saying we haven’t dug deep enough.”
“Too many unanswered questions,” Soul said. “Our goal right now is to apprehend the unknown subject who’s been shooting up Knoxville. Second order of business is to determine what paranormal species all four of the Tollivers and the Jeffersons are. Not vamps. Not gwyllgi. Not were-creature. Humanoid? Something that produces fire and might live a long time. That might have gray skin.” Soul wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes; she was wearing her working-worried-emotionless face.
JoJo said, “Pulling up my search files. A number of creatures—including Hephaestus, who was the Greek god of blacksmiths, craftsmen, artisans, sculptors, metals, metallurgy, fire, and volcanoes. Roman equivalent of Hephaestus is the god Vulcan.”
Occam said, “You think we have gods here? In Knoxville?”
“No,” JoJo said, shoving long braids over her shoulder with a clicking of beads. “But what if we have descendants of some creature that was once worshiped as a god? Sending you all my list. Go over it and see if you can make any connections. There are even a couple of Hindu gods that were traditionally depicted as being blue-skinned.”
Rick said, “Nell, update on your night out.”
I said, “There isn’t much to tell except the thing we’re looking for has been all over the senator’s property. Every single plant on the entire acreage is dead or dying. The psy-meter 2.0 gave me a level four reading. Whatever we’re looking for has recently marked territory there and showed there in the night. If the nanny is one of the creatures we’re looking for, then maybe she let another one or more onto the property. Maybe they had a party there. It’s a big piece of land and every single plant on it is dead, when they were all fine only a day or so ago.”
“Which means the senator is either colluding with her or is in even greater danger,” Rick said. “Occam, get back there. Stay on the senator like white on rice. Do not let him out of your sight, even in the shower.”
Occam sighed, a sound like a cat blowing, and added the senator’s schedule to the overhead screens. “His entire day is booked with appointments with his constituents. The first one is breakfast with the Small Business Association. The man treats his voters right. Even with a death in the family, he’s keeping appointments.”
Rick said, “Get over there. E-mail an updated schedule to us as soon as it’s confirmed. JoJo will update you via text or e-mail on anything new that comes up before we conclude the meeting and anything we find during the day. Keep your eyes open. Do some good.”
“On it, boss.” Occam stood and swung a leg over the back of his chair. He had been straddling the chair, his arms braced on the back. I carefully didn’t look his way, but I was completely aware of him as he left the room. And I felt some odd unexplained tension leave my body when he was gone.
“Nell,” Rick said.
I jerked at my name, as if I’d been caught daydreaming in church.
“Every single appearance of the shooter has been at night,” he said. “I want you at the senator’s property with your hand in the earth every single night, all night, until this is solved. I know it’s a lot to ask, but we need to get ahead of this guy and you’re the only one who has even half a chance to find the shooter before he strikes.”
I dropped my chin, indicating that I understood what he was saying, but it was also the most dangerous job on this case. It put me right at the most likely location of the next crime scene. “Backup?” I asked.
“You’ll have it. I know I’m asking something that’s difficult. Energy draining. Unlike the others, I don’t want you pulling sixteen-hour shifts. I want you home and in your bed, to recuperate between shifts. Twelve hours on, twelve off. Go home. Get some sleep.”
• • •
But I didn’t make it home. I was within a mile of the turnoff toward Oliver Springs when JoJo’s call came in. “Getchur butt back to town. The senator was just attacked on his way into the breakfast meeting of the Small Business Association. I got no deets. Texting you the address and the GPS. Move!”
“On my way,” I said, pulling into a corner gas station, where I braked and checked the location, pulled up a map, and eased back into traffic, heading for the Just Yolking Around breakfast café, on East Summit Hill Drive.
I could see the smoke miles out, a black cloud rising straight up into the still air. Fire trucks and medic units were everywhere. Flaming ash fell from the sky, burning everything it touched. And all I could think was, It’s daylight. The shooter, if it was the shooter and not a grease fire, just changed his MO. And, Occam was with the senator. My fingers trembled and my b
reath came too fast.
I remembered seeing John’s old hard hat in the back. It was too large for me, but it would keep my hair from going up like fireworks. As I drove I reached behind the seat and felt around until I found it. I banged out a dusty spiderweb, slid the yellow plastic hat on my head, and caught an unexpected whiff of my husband, from when he was hale and hearty, and not the sick smell from the months he was dying.
Memories flooded over me and I hesitated an instant. His laughter, which had been soft but vigorous enough. His small smile when he brought me a bouquet of daisies from the edge of the woods. His work-roughened hands smoothing a length of wood as he made a cedar chest for some townie. Kindness, a dour composure, and a steadiness of purpose were mingled into the remembered scent of his sweat and, for reasons I didn’t understand and didn’t have time to analyze, it stopped my fear cold.
John had never been cruel to me. According to the church rules and guidelines he had gone far beyond expectations in his care and treatment of me. And he had died and left me protected and wealthy enough, rich in land if not in monetary funds. And now there was Occam. A man as different as it was possible to be from John Ingram. And not really a man, but a cat-man. Who might have been inside the restaurant when it went up in flames. I gunned the engine and turned on the emergency lights and siren.
• • •
Just Yolking Around was mostly gone. The brick walls still stood, but the roof had fallen in, the windows had blown out from the heat, and glass on the ground glittered with the reflection of the orange and red flames. Two high-powered water streams jetted into the cavern of black smoke and hungry fire. Anyone who had not gotten out was dead. A sense of loss gripped me, which was stupid because Occam wasn’t mine. Never had been. Such a thing was only a possibility and one fraught with obstacles. Yet, I felt grief, a wailing, raving, furious grief.
I couldn’t shake the strange feelings away. I carried them with me like a survival pack, insulating me from more possible hurt. Getting out of the truck, I was instantly assailed by the heat and the smoke and the incredible noise of flame, shouting, sirens, water pumping, and generators. A uniformed officer ran to stop me and I held up my ID. “Command center?” I shouted over the din.
He pointed across the street from the fire and I held up my thumb before trotting toward the conflagration. An ambulance pulled away; another followed; both were running lights and sirens, which meant they carried the injured and the dying. The strange feelings clasped me tighter, and then I saw Occam on the far side of a table littered with gear, his eyes glowing the brownish gold of his cat. There was blood on his white shirt, and his blond hair was whirling in the fire-wind. His clothes were black with soot. But Occam was alive. Relief shot through me like some kind of drug, melting my bones.
Occam looked up as if he scented me. He met my eyes and the glow of his cat went brighter. My relief was so intense that my knees nearly buckled.
I hadn’t lost him.
As if he knew what I was feeling, Occam placed a hand on the command center table and leaped across it, to land with balanced precision. He stalked across the street, dodging equipment without really seeing it, relying on his cat senses. My heart was beating so fast it felt like a drum in my chest. And I feared he might shame me by doing something overt in front of other people. “Special Agent Occam,” I called out as he reached me. “Special Agent Ingram reporting in.”
Occam stopped so fast his feet ground on the broken glass. His fists were balled as if to keep him from doing whatever he had been about to do. “Thank you, Nell, sugar. This kinda kiss don’t need to be out in the middle of a crime scene.”
This kinda kiss . . . “Crime scene?” I asked instead of what I wanted to say: This kind of kiss . . . What kind of kiss?
“The fire started in the kitchen about three minutes after the senator entered. Flames exploded outward, from the kitchen. Smelled of natural gas and grease and something earthy, like mushrooms. The first flame caught the senator. A direct hit. He’s badly burned. Third degree on his face, head, and hands. Second degree on his torso and abdomen, with his clothes stuck to him like glue. One of the kitchen help, a human, was injured at the scene, and both of the Secret Service assigned to the senator were killed. I couldn’t get them snuffed in time.”
Occam took my arm and guided me back the way I had come. “LaFleur is here and interviewing witnesses. Soul is hobnobbing with the brass, talking arson and grease fire and accelerants. Rick wants you and me to follow the senator’s ambulance to the hospital and try to talk with him before he’s airlifted out to a burn center, and my car is back at the senator’s office.”
I raced back to my truck and got in as Occam entered on the passenger side. Our doors closed and the noise died to a low roar. The stink of smoke and fire and burned flesh didn’t go away but filled the cab from his clothes and hair. I started the engine and Occam pointed to an ambulance that was just pulling out. I still didn’t ask what I wanted to: What kinda kiss? “Which hospital?” I asked. If the senator was human he could go to any hospital, but UTMC was the only one in the area with a paranormal unit and fully trained paranormal practitioners.
“St. Mary’s Medical Center is closest. Something about his airway means he needs immediate surgical attention. The only burn centers in Tennessee are in Memphis and Nashville, I think. He can’t wait that long.”
I activated my emergency flashers and pulled in behind the ambulance as it sped through a red light. “Are you hurt bad?” I asked, hearing the strain in my voice. “You’ve been bleeding. And I smell burned skin.” It was a smell like no other.
“Burned myself and got cut pretty bad”—he held up his arms to expose seared, bloody sleeves—“wrapping the senator up in a woman’s overcoat and jumping through the front window.” He shrugged and belted himself in. “I’m fine now. Werecat healing. Becoming a leopard was a life stealer, but at least the taint has a few benefits.”
“Walk me through what happened,” I said, to keep my mind on the case and not on the man beside me.
“Early breakfast meeting. The senator and two Secret Service men walked into the restaurant at six forty-two. I was directly behind them. At six forty-six, while the senator was still glad-handing his voters, someone yelled. I heard a noise from the kitchen that went whump. A wall of orange and purple flame shot out through the service window and caught the senator and his men, dead-on. I threw three people to the floor, yelled for everybody to get out. Grabbed a woman’s coat off her back and smothered the senator. Picked him up. Jumped through the front window. Finished snuffing the flames. His men were dying when I left them. On the floor. The fire was abnormally”—he paused and I heard him swallow even over the siren—“unbelievably hot. It spread like it was fed by kerosene. A flash fire that far away from the stove should have missed anyone except kitchen help. Instead it ate to the bone on the sentator’s face. His eyes are gone. His lips.” Occam shook his head, his voice shaking. “His men were pretty much the same but over a larger body area. I never saw such a thing.”
I took off my hard hat and tossed it behind the seat, then reached behind into a gobag and brought out a room-temp bottle of water, which I gave to Occam. He drank it in three massive swallows, crushing the bottle fast as it went down. “Thanks, Nell, sugar.”
“The senator. You were holding him and he was bleeding. Is he human?”
“Flame that hot? Burning so many things at once? Including me? I don’t know, couldn’t tell, don’t remember anything standing out as nonhuman.”
We were silent the rest of the way to the hospital and reached the ambulance bay at the same time as the medic unit. I parked in a No Parking zone and put my shield up in the window to avoid getting towed. We bulled through into the emergency department behind the senator’s gurney as the paramedics shouted vital signs to the doctors and shoved their patient into the trauma room. We held up ID when the nurses tried to make us leave
, shouting to be heard over the din in the trauma department, “PsyLED. Official business!” Not knowing what else to do, they let us stay.
A short, stout trauma doctor began working on the senator’s airway and I got my first view of Tolliver. His face was charred away, with blackened and red weeping edges. His chest was working, trying to draw in air. He was gurgling and gagging. It was the most horrible thing I had ever seen.
People ran back and forth cutting off his clothes and sticking things into the senator’s scorched body. He was badly burned from the hips up, only his legs still pale and hairy and growing gray from oxygen loss.
“Upper respiratory system is fried,” the doctor said, her gloved hands at the senator’s jaw and throat and a headlamp on her forehead. “Suction! He’s aspirating.”
“Probably inhaled flaming air,” another woman said. Her name was Madeline, with the word Respiratory below it, on her name badge.
“I need a trach kit,” the doctor shouted.
Because there was nothing else to work with, and they needed multiple lines, they started inserting IV lines with screws into his thigh bones, which I had no idea could even be done.
Two people were monitoring the senator’s oxygen status and trying to get blood pressure readings off his lower leg. It was a haze of action that I couldn’t even begin to follow.
The doctor at his throat grunted out the words, “Who’s taking notes? We have acute inhalation injury. Acute pulmonary edema. Lungs are scorched.”
Madeline said, “Not sure the tissue will hold for a trach. His trachea is cooked.”
All that happened in the first two minutes. By the third minute, three doctors were working on the senator, along with two respiratory therapists and four nurses and techs. I recorded as many of their first names and departments in my cell as I could, in case I needed them later. It gave me something to do rather than staring at the senator’s ravaged body.