Evidence of Mercy (16 page)

“I'm so sorry, Lynda,” a voice said above her as the paramedics put her on oxygen. She looked up into the troubled eyes of Curtis McMillan from across the street, who stood over her in his slippers and robe. “I didn't know you were home! I thought you were still in the hospital—I should have checked. I should have called.”

She pulled the oxygen mask away from her face. “What are you talking about?”

“I woke up around midnight and happened to look out the window. I saw him start the fire, so I called the police, but I told them you weren't in there. I didn't know—”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “You saw someone start the fire?”

“Yes,” he said. “I thought it was a prowler at first. He was sneaking around your house, and the minute I had 911 on the phone, I saw him light it. The house went up in flames, but I didn't even check to see if you were in there.”

“Did he go
into
the house, Judge?” she asked in a shocked whisper.

“I didn't see it if he did. But he must have doused it with gas because the fire caught instantly and circled the house—”

The paramedics were checking her vitals, prodding under her clothes, checking her incisions and her ribs. Impatiently, she shoved them away and got to her feet. “Judge, did you see his face? The color of his hair?”

The old man shook his head with distraught frustration. “He was more or less just a shadow. I only saw him for a second.”

Smoke fell like a cloud around them as the flames devoured her house. Waving it away so she could breathe, she grabbed the old judge's arm. “I have to talk to the police,” she told the frustrated paramedics. “I'm fine, really. Just let me go.”

“But you probably need to go to the hospital! You need to be examined at least!” one of them said.

“In a minute,” she said.

Lynda pulled the judge toward one of the trucks to find someone in authority. But as she did, she saw a car approaching, and Tony Danks and Larry Millsaps got out.

Still pulling the judge behind her, she met them at the car. “It was
arson!”
she blurted before they could even get out. “This is Judge Curtis McMillan, my neighbor. He saw the man who did it.”

Larry shook the man's hand then somberly studied the house. “Thank God you got out.”

“Only because he called.” Lynda's face glowed with the orange reflection of the inferno as she gazed back at it. “He called 911. The sirens woke me up.” Turning back to Larry, she said, “It's official now. Someone's trying to kill me.”

Larry opened his arms and she collapsed against him, crying out her rage and terror as everything she loved burned down behind her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

S
o what's next?” Lynda's voice was weary as she looked across Curtis's kitchen table to the two detectives who had spent the last hour questioning the old couple.

“We follow up on the leads we've got until we apprehend the right person,” Tony said.

“You don't
have
any leads,” she said in a hoarse voice. “You don't really have a clue who he is, do you?”

Larry leaned forward on the table, meeting her eyes directly. “Here's what we know, Lynda. It's probably a man, between five feet eight and five feet ten, around 180 pounds. We know that he has at least a working knowledge of airplanes—”

“And we have the gas can he used with the name of an auto repair shop on it, even though he didn't leave any fingerprints.”

“And you know he wants me dead.”

“Yes,” Tony admitted. “That does seem to be his goal. Now all we have to do is find someone with a motive. We still need your help for that.”

But Lynda couldn't help. Wearily, she got up and went to the same window through which Curtis had seen her house catch fire, and she peered at the smoldering pile of rubble that had once been such a source of pride. Next to the pile the garage still stood, unscathed except for the black scars from the fire that had just begun to penetrate the structure when the fire trucks arrived. Lizzie, who had been tending to a fresh pot of coffee, slid her arm around Lynda. “It'll be all right, honey. These young men aren't going to let anything happen to you.”

Lynda didn't respond. Instead, she ambled into the living room where Paige and Brianna sat in a rocking chair. Brianna was asleep, and Paige's smoke-stained face looked numb with shock as she leaned her chin against her daughter's head and stared blankly in front of her.

“Well, I guess the thing to do now is figure out where we're going to go,” Lynda said. “At least our cars survived.”

“I was just thinking how glad I am that
we
did,” Paige whispered, bringing her dull eyes back to Lynda's.

Lynda shook her head, feeling gently—and, she was sure, unintentionally—reproved. What were her lost treasures compared to her life? And Brianna's? “You're right. Once again for some reason, God spared us.”

Lizzie squeezed Lynda's shoulder again. “Honey, I've already made up the guest rooms for you. You're going to stay here tonight, all three of you.”

“No, Lizzie. That's sweet of you, but I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

Her face reddened, and she hugged herself as a shiver ran through her. “Someone's trying to kill me,” she said. “I'm not safe. And if I'm in your house,
you're
not safe. I shouldn't even be here now.”

Lizzie's eyes drifted to her husband's. Curtis took the baton. “Lynda, don't you think you're safe enough tonight? I mean, he wouldn't dare come back, and besides, how would he know you were here?”

“It's okay,” she said, waving off the questions. “I've got an idea. I still have my father's house on the other side of town. I've been trying to sell it, but I'll just have to live there until I can rebuild. It should be safe. Only a few people even know I have that house. If I don't tell anyone where I am . . .” She met Paige's eyes, and saw the despair on her face, the indecision. “Paige, I know you won't want to come with me, but I can give you some money so you can get by until he's caught. You could stay here or get a hotel—”

As if she'd spent the last hour holding them back with a paper-thin wall of resolve, Paige's eyes filled with tears. “Maybe I should just take my chances and go home.”

“No,” Lynda insisted. “You can't. Paige, we've come this far. Don't let this make you drop your guard.”

Paige pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to steady her voice. “I can't keep taking your money, Lynda. I've got to start handling things myself.”

“Not until after we go to court, you don't.” Lynda stooped in front of her, making Paige meet her eyes. “I know this was traumatic tonight, but don't give up just because some lunatic is out to get me. That has nothing to do with you.”

Larry, who had been jotting notes on a pad, looked up at Paige. “What do you mean, take your chances? What's the risk in going home?”

“My ex-husband.” Paige swallowed, and a tear dropped from her cheek onto the top of Brianna's head. “He's abusive, and he's suing me for custody of Brianna. Lynda's representing me.”

“She's not safe at home,” Lynda cut in. “Despite our restraining order, he's tried to take Brianna, and he's broken into her house. That's why she's staying with me.”

“I see.” Frowning, he got up and paced across the kitchen. “And you don't have anyone else you can stay with?”

Paige shook her head. “My family is in Arizona. But the judge ordered me to stay in town until this court thing is settled.”

Tony frowned and stared thoughtfully at Paige, as though flipping through possibilities in his mind. But it was Larry who had the solution. “Listen, Lynda, what if I guaranteed that we'll have someone guarding your father's house, at least for the next couple of days? That way Paige and Brianna could go with you, and you could feel safe. If it isn't common knowledge that you have that house, chances are you'd be okay there anyway.”

Lynda was skeptical. “Larry, I know how the police department works. They're not going to waste a man guarding me twenty-four hours a day.”

“I'll take care of it,” Larry promised. “Even if Tony and I have to take turns on our off-hours, I know I can at least get them to agree to somebody the rest of the time.”

Lynda glanced at Tony, who was gaping at Larry, but Larry ignored him. “You both need protecting. You might as well be in the same place so we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Lynda smirked. “Somehow that cliché isn't very comforting to me right now.”

“Sorry,” Larry smiled. “So what do you say?”

Lynda turned her worried eyes back to Paige. “Paige, this is up to you. I can't ask you to put your life and your daughter's life in jeopardy to stay with me.”

The turmoil on Paige's face told Lynda what a struggle this was. Then Paige wiped her eyes and settled her troubled gaze on Lynda. “Who'll take care of you if I'm not there? I promised. You just got out of the hospital. The doctor said—”

“Paige, I'll be fine. For heaven's sake, I just scaled the roof and got out of a burning house. I can take care of myself. I've done it for a long time.”

Paige dropped her head back on the chair. “This nightmare just keeps getting worse.”

They waited for her decision, not prodding her, and finally, she took a deep breath and tried to steady her voice. “I guess we'll stay in a hotel. But . . . I swear I'll pay you back someday, Lynda. I know it's hard to believe, but—”

“It's not hard to believe, Paige. But I don't care about the money right now. That's not important.”

“I feel like I'm letting you down or taking advantage of you, and you've been so nice to me.”

Stooping down in front of the rocking chair, Lynda stroked Brianna's sleeping head. “You aren't letting me down, Paige,” she said softly. “You're protecting your daughter. I think you've made the right decision. And when they catch this guy, you can stay with me again.”

Paige turned her worried face to Tony and Larry. “Do you promise you'll guard her? You won't let anything happen to her?”

“I promise,” Larry said. “And we'll take you to the motel tonight to make sure you get there safely.”

Tony didn't look too happy about all the promises Larry was making on his behalf, but he didn't argue.

L
ynda's father's house sat at the end of a dead-end street; a thickly wooded area separated it from the other two houses back up the road. Looking out the living room window, Lynda realized that she'd never thought of her parents' house in terms of safety before. She had only seen it as too small, too old, too mundane for an up-and- coming young lawyer.

The furniture was worn and faded, hopelessly outdated. From the rickety rocker in the corner to the recliner that had provided the only comfort her father had been able to find in his last days, she had been ashamed of it all.

Now it was all she had.

And coming here from a position of vulnerability and fear, she found some comfort in that it was so secluded and so familiar.

Larry touched her shoulder, and she jumped. “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “I guess I'm a little jumpy.”

“Can't say I blame you.” Stepping closer to the window, he peered out. “Well, one thing's for sure. No cars will be coming here by accident. If anyone comes this far up the street, they're looking for something.”

Lynda glanced across the street; in the moonlight, she saw only one edge of the empty car backed into the wooded lot where Larry would be spending the rest of the night.

Turning away from the window, she looked back over the stale-smelling house she hadn't walked into in weeks. “It's pretty dusty in here. No wonder it hasn't sold.”

Larry looked around. “It's homey. I like it.”

“I used to hate it,” she said pensively. “I couldn't wait to get away from here. My folks turned the garage into a little apartment for me when I started college since we couldn't afford for me to live on campus. It was a little more freedom, but I still felt so trapped here.”

For a moment, she let melancholy creep in as she surveyed the living room where her parents used to spend so much time—her mother crocheting, her father reading the paper and watching “Jeopardy” at the same time, each occasionally blurting out an answer that often was right. The standing joke around the house was that someday her father's ship would come in by way of a stint on “Jeopardy,” where he was certain to win. But he'd never made it.

Shaking off her thoughts, she sank wearily onto the gold-and-green plaid couch.

“Where's the linen closet?” Larry asked.

She gave him a questioning look. “At the end of the hall. Why?”

“I'm going to make a bed up for you,” he said. “I don't think you want to sleep on a bare mattress.”

“No, I can do it,” she said, getting up. “Really.”

“Sit down,” he ordered gently. “I've had broken ribs before. And you're not in any shape to be up at this hour, much less dressing beds. Now, which bedroom do you want?”

She looked toward the hall for a moment, trying to decide. “The guest room. I don't think I can sleep in my father's room yet.”

“How long has he been . . . ?” The word fell off, and Lynda took a deep breath.

“Just three months.”

“I'm sorry,” Larry said. “Looks like a run of bad times for you.”

“It could be worse,” she whispered. “I thought it was bad luck that I hadn't sold this house, but now I see that God was saving it for me.”

“No subtlety there, huh?”

Remembering what Mike had told her about Larry being a believer, she smiled as he left the room, and she heard him in the guest room, shaking out sheets and blankets, stepping around the bed. Was changing beds a part of his job description?