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Chapter Fifteen
I watch as the fire begins to dim and the crowd starts to disperse. It’s late and I should rest, there is so much to do, but the licking flames and billowing smoke have energized me.
No one has recognized me, though I’ve seen some who are familiar to me.
Rebecca…
Ah, yes…
Did you feel me here? Did you know that I observed you?
But she left, taken away by one of the others.
I followed their trail, caught a glimpse of her sliding into the passenger side of a little blue car…her vehicle, though he drove it.
Now the night closes in around me and I start back to my own vehicle when I sense it, that special scent, the one that propels me. It’s faint, barely discernible over the odors of charred wood, burned plaster, and smoke, but it hangs briefly on the air. Luring me. Making me nauseous.
I close my eyes, concentrate.
Inside I quiver…anxious.
It’s been so long…
But as surely as the tide changes with the moon, the time is near.
My mission is at hand.
Soon…soon…
Mac stood by his car, doused by dull, sprinkling rain, and stared at the rubble that had so recently been a restaurant and bar. Puddles had formed from the water from fire hoses and the ever-falling precipitation. The drama was all but over; the fire no more than foul-smelling steam. Standing water gleaming beneath the parking lot sodium vapor lights as drifting smoke hovered thick in the air.
The place had an almost vacant feel to it, even though the firefighters were still wrapping up their hoses and the trucks stood by, engines thrumming. Any looky-loos had left and Gia Stafford had been driven home by someone, thank God. The only person Mac still recognized was Scott Pascal, who sat on a wet curb and stared through red-rimmed eyes to the black, sodden hulk of Blue Note. Mac, who was rarely known for flights of fancy, had a sudden, sharp vision of a trumpet player squealing out some impossibly high note that ended in an echo of sadness. Blue note, indeed.
Pascal half turned. “Did you talk to Gia?”
He gazed at Pascal’s profile, noting the deep weariness etched in his face. One thing Mac had discovered from his years of interviewing people was that you never knew what they might say in times of deep stress. He’d found it beneficial to keep his mouth shut. Ask a few tight questions, but just wait for it, something Gretchen had yet to learn, if she ever would.
“Accident or arson?” Mac posed.
Pascal went quite still. “Who’s saying arson?”
“Maybe no one. It’s always a question, though, in a case like this.”
“A case like what? They’re not telling me anything.” He shot a vituperative glare at the departing firemen. Belligerence uglied his face.
“Come on, Pascal. You were bleeding money.”
“You went through my financials?” He half rose from the curb.
“More like a guess. Your employees weren’t exactly shy about saying how long they felt the restaurant would hang on.”
He thought about that and sat back down. “Nice,” he said sourly, then lifted an eyebrow. “How much time did they give us?” he asked with a touch of irony.
“A week or two. Maybe a month.”
“You know Blue Ocean is taking off. Everyone said we’d never make it at the beach, but you’d be surprised.”
“At the coast?” Mac reiterated, thinking of the oyster shell, the fact that Jessie Brentwood had been hitchhiking along the road leading from the coast soon before she disappeared.
