Deadly Heat (Deadly #2)(40)
“P-please… m-man… I–I did what you wanted…”
He took a long gulp from the tequila bottle in his hand.
“I–I want the fire… Man, I need it…”
He glanced at the kid—big eyes and a sweaty forehead, with a voice that kept trembling and breaking. The kid was rocking back and forth, his body shaking, a lighter in his hands.
A smile curved his lips as he watched Michael Randall. Poor Mike. He was jonesing bad.
Another gulp as the kid’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“You know what you’ve got to do?” It was a risk, using Mike. He knew it. But using Mike had been his only option. And even then, he’d known the guy would have to die the minute he made the call. He’d given Mike the distorter and told him what to say. So easy.
He leaned toward the kid. A white, puckered scar ran the length of the boy’s right cheek. “You like the fire, don’t you, Mike?”
Mike’s gaze darted to the back, sliding to the bottles of booze his mom kept lining the walls of her kitchen. The lady didn’t even bother to hide her habit. She hadn’t bothered in years.
Now she was passed out in the bedroom. Always was this time of day.
He tipped the bottle up and poured the tequila on the floor. “You set the last fire with mama’s booze, didn’t you?”
Mike liked the fire. Liked it so much he’d caught a twelve-year-old neighbor in the blaze. The girl hadn’t made it out, but Mike had.
He knew Mike’s secrets. He knew how the guy longed to watch the fire. How he wanted to touch the flames.
He knew everything.
“I did wh-what you wanted—”
“You did good, Mike, real good.”
A smile curved the kid’s thick lips. “You—you’ll take care of her for me?”
They’d made a trade. A fair agreement, really. He gave a nod. “She’ll go first. Don’t worry.” A life for a life. Because for this next trap, he would need very special bait.
He understood Mike. Mike wouldn’t betray him. He wouldn’t betray Mike.
They’d both get what they wanted from the flames.
He turned away from Mike and strolled down the hallway. The place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. With a flick of his hand, he shoved open the bedroom door. The mother was there, with her arms thrown out, her skirt hiked up, her face smashed into the covers.
Still dead to the world.
Well, she would be soon enough.
She didn’t stir when he poured the tequila on her. Didn’t move when he soaked the sheets.
He reached for her cigarettes and lighter, shaking his head. So dangerous for her to keep them this close. Very, very dangerous.
He lit a cigarette, took a long pull, and let the nicotine fill his lungs. Not really his addiction of choice. Then he put the cigarette into her hand and positioned her fingers right above the tequila-soaked sheets.
Easy.
But just in case… and because he wanted the fire to burn fast…
He reached for one of the fat candles that sat on her dresser. The candles she used to hide the stink of her alcohol and cigarettes. A flick of his lighter and the candle was lit.
He put it on her right side and punched up the sheet next to it. Ah, there was a little tequila left.
A quick pour.
Not anymore.
The candle flame flickered, then flared higher. Ash dropped from the cigarette, burning bright orange.
He watched a few moments, waiting, waiting…
The smoke came first, pluming up into the air, light gray. Then the flames flared to life.
And the bitch didn’t stir. Those eyes wouldn’t open again.
His heart raced, and his breath came faster and harder.
The fire was so damn beautiful. Dancing, higher, higher…
He backed up to watch a little more—had to watch—before he turned away and hurried back into the living room.
There. He snatched up the cell phone on the coffee table. Couldn’t very well leave that behind.
Besides, he’d paid for it. That one and the other half-dozen disposable cells that he kept handy.
Mike had more bottles off the shelves: whiskey, cheap wine, gin. He was pouring them on the floor, swinging them in wide circles and letting the alcohol fly out.
He steered clear of Mike and headed for the door. The flames would travel fast. He knew better than to stay too long.
It was the kid’s show now.
“I’m gonna rise!” Mike’s high-pitched voice stopped him. He glanced back, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
“Rise from the flames!” Mike shouted.
His lips lifted in a smile. “Yes, you will.”
Mike’s blue eyes were so bright. That grin—so happy.
The last thing he saw was Mike, swinging those bottles, pouring the alcohol all over his mother’s house.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Outside, he inhaled as he tugged down his cap, taking in a quick gasp of air, already tasting the smoke.
He hurried away from the house and waited until he was safely in his car. Then he made the call.
“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”
Leaning forward, he glanced out of the window. The houses on this street were crammed pretty close. A fire in this neighborhood could spread fast. If the firefighters didn’t hurry, that nice Ms. Jenny Sue, the elderly widow who lived right next door to the Randalls, would get too hot.