Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(63)
“I spent twenty years in a cage as part of a traveling circus. Don’t remember much before that. Went to school when I got away and then joined PsyLED pretty soon after. The job’s my family right now. Hopefully that’ll improve, and sooner than later.”
I wasn’t sure what the last words meant. But I blushed again, my flaming face hidden in the cold and dark of the car.
? ? ?
Back at HQ, we opened the door to the narrow stairway up to the second floor, and the stink of fire struck instantly. Occam stepped back outside, his nose wrinkled like a cat’s snout. I didn’t laugh. Much. I raced up the stairs, yanking the pins and the tight-fitting wig from my head, scratching my fingernails through my sweaty hair and scalp, pulling at the tiny green leaves growing at my nape, smoothing my short bob down over them. I’d have pulled the wig off sooner except I knew the sweat would make me colder. I slid my ID through the reader and straight-armed my way inside.
The stench of burned gasoline and scorched upholstery hung heavy and foul, polluting the air. Along with the smell of burned human flesh. Surely Soul hadn’t brought a burned child here, one who needed medical attention.
I dumped my gobags in my office cubicle and made sure my weapons were locked up, then went in search of Soul and the child she had rescued. The little boy, whose name I didn’t remember, was asleep in the break room, curled on the couch. Someone had found a blanket and it was tucked around him, but his collar and sleeves showed, singed and charred. I wanted to take him for a shower and give him a clean shirt, but that wasn’t happening. Not in a law enforcement office where allegations of abuse might be made.
His face was coated in soot and streaked with tears, dried snot at his nose. His chapped lips made little fluttering sounds as he breathed. Brown hair curled over his head and he looked younger than the eleven years I remembered the senator’s son being. Beneath the soot, his flesh was red, but not burned. No visible burns on him at all. Just that awful stench of . . . the burned body of his aunt. That was what I’d been told, that Soul had saved the boy, not his aunt Sonya. In his sleep, his hands clasped the blanket and he whimpered. My heart clenched and melted all at once. I had seen children cry themselves to sleep after some awful trauma. This little boy was sleeping the sleep of survival.
? ? ?
I went to the conference room, where the other members of the team were gathered. T. Laine vacated my chair, which I realized was positioned with a clear view of the break room doorway. I nodded to her that I’d keep watch.
Rick and Occam were standing together near the window, which was cracked open to allow in fresh icy air. The smell was rank and offensive. It would be overpowering to the cats’ noses. As if to make up for the stench, T. Laine set a package of cinnamon sticks on the table, and turned on the Christmas tree lights. Neither helped much except to remind me that I hadn’t bought or made a single Christmas gift. Usually by this time I had the Nicholson family gifts all made: jams and preserves and plants and floral fabric for dresses, plaid fabric for the men’s shirts. Small store-bought items. Candy for the young’uns. I’d done nothing. And would start feeling guilty and get on the job of Christmas gifting as soon as this case was over.
As I slid into my seat, Soul glanced down the hall toward the break room and said quietly, “I thank everyone for being here. I know this case is exacting a toll on everyone. I’ll try to keep this brief: the fire and the rescue and my impressions. Then, Nell, I’d like you to update us on the two interviews. I know it will be in your report, but I’m interested in intuitions. I have a feeling we’re missing something important.”
I dipped my head in agreement.
“I was behind the senator’s limo convoy,” she said, “three cars back, when they came to a red light and stopped. I saw the fire explode inside.”
“Inside?” Rick asked. “Not underneath and then up into the body of the vehicle?”
Soul shook her head and said to the group at large, “No. The fire originated inside. Then it burst out the windows. First fire. Then the explosion. I can only postulate that an instant of opportunity gave the aunt time to unlock the door and shove the boy out onto the pavement. The explosion caught him, burned his clothes and hair, but he escaped the worst of the blast and fire. His aunt, the driver, and the security detail were all killed.”
But Soul was unscathed. Not a hint of scorching. I wondered how the feds and the Secret Service would take all this. I wondered if rainbow dragons breathed fire and smoke. As if she heard my thoughts she sent a smile to me, but spoke to the cats. “Do you have a sense of smell about the child?”
Both were standing in the window’s draft and shook their heads, noses crinkled and brows furrowed. “Everything stinks,” Rick said. “Just like the Tollivers’ house fire but with diesel fuel.”
Even more softly, Soul said, “And Justin and the senator? We know Justin’s wife’s linens had a peculiar odor. But when you were with them, did they smell of that same oddness?”
Occam shrugged. “Fire and smoke stink interfere with and overwhelm other scents, and we’ve had fire everywhere they’ve been. Fire was the clue. We just didn’t put it all together until Nell did. Couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”
The last bit made me smile.
Soul murmured, “To me, this child does not smell human. I never got close to his family, or to the other Tollivers. However, you are agreed that at least Justin is human?”