Incandescent (2 page)

“Thank you. I’ll wait outside for my
taxi.”

Anna slid the small gift from Gretchen into
her handbag, tucked the bulky black case under her arm, and left
the posh brewery. The street was quiet, the night cool for late
August. She shivered and pulled the collar of her blouse closed,
hunching her shoulders. At least the air was fresh, not filled with
grease smoke like the bar. Within minutes, a car pulled along the
curb and the driver leaned out the car window. “Did you call for a
taxi?”

Anna stepped off the curb. “Yes, thanks.”

The intruder lifted the window, and when it
squeaked, he pulled out a small can of lubricant, spraying it along
the tracks. The bathroom window slid up and down without a sound.
Next, he spread a washcloth on the side of the sink, and from his
jacket pocket, withdrew a yellow paper packet, secured with a
rubber band. He placed it on the cloth and rolled it into a tube,
taking care that the edge of the packet stuck out. His nostrils
flared at the faint aroma of tobacco.

He stuffed the roll into sill, propping the
window open. He surveyed the tableau, double-checking the bathtub,
the candles on the floor next to the wall, and the towels draped
over the bar. All was ready.

Alerted by the laughter outside, he retreated
to the back of the house and slipped out the kitchen door. Seconds
later, the women approached the old Victorian home. He leaned
against the side of the house and removed his thin black gloves,
listening to hushed voices as someone fumbled a house key into the
lock. After the front door shut, he crept along the side of the
house watching through the gauze-curtained windows as shadows moved
first into the foyer, then to the living room, switching lights on
along the way.

Adrenaline surged through his body. It
thrilled him to stand on one side of a wall while his pretty prey
stood on the other.

A figure stood in front of the television,
turned it on and changed channels before settling on a music video
station. Like a metronome, the dull thump of the bass kept time
with the pulse in his forehead. He crossed the street, opened the
door of dark, nondescript car, and settled behind the wheel to
wait.

Chapter Two

Using her key, Anna let herself into the
silent, dark house. Without turning on the lights, she locked the
front door’s deadbolt. After climbing the stairs, she paused at the
top and listened to her father’s soft snores. She went into her old
bedroom and put her handbag on the dresser. She decided to take a
quick shower, not wanting to smell of smoke and deep-fryer grease
longer than necessary. She pulled a pair of sweatpants and a small
T-shirt out of the dresser drawer before entering her personal
bathroom.

In the shower, steam enveloped her. The small
room filled with the scent of citrus shampoo as she lathered and
rinsed her long hair. She squeezed shampoo onto a cloth and washed
her body.

After toweling dry, she slipped into the
clean clothes. She found an ancient jar of moisturizer and
slathered it on her face and elbows. Without a dryer, her hair
morphed into curly waves instead of her preferred straight style.
As she brushed her teeth with her finger and a bit of paste, she
made a mental note to buy soap and new toiletries.

Smirking at her reflection in the clouded
mirror, she recalled her friend’s sweet, yet half-assed, attempt to
celebrate her birthday. To top it off, they stuck her with the
bill.

She opened her bedroom door and stumbled over
Fred, the family’s aging Golden Retriever. The lazy sentinel
recognized her upon entry and was content to doze outside the door
until she opened it.

“Hey, big boy! Did you miss me?” She crouched
and fluffed his fur, scratching his belly when he rolled over.
“Yes, you did, didn’t you, Freddie boy.”

The dog’s large tail thumped against the
carpeted floor, and he stretched and groaned in appreciation. Anna
stroked his soft ears before heading for her father’s bedroom door.
Although it was midnight, Anna knew she could knock, and he would
be alert, although he slept like a rock through normal noises such
as doors opening and closing, showers turning on and off, and
toilets flushing.

“Papa.” Anna called softly.

“What … Anna, is that you?”

She opened the door a few inches waiting for
his invitation.

“Come on in, sweetheart. Happy birthday,” he
said, struggling into a sitting position, before he leaned against
the headboard. James Braddock Johnson patted the covers. “Have a
seat.”

Anna sat in her usual spot at the foot of the
bed. It was a large, lonely bed since her mother had died. With a
grunt, Fred bounced onto the mattress, stretching out next to her.
She crossed her legs and raked the dog’s long, furry tail. Fred
groaned his content.

“How’s work? Are you getting many
assignments?” James asked.

“Yes. I’m not crazy about working for a
newspaper, but it’s part-time. There’s not a lot of creativity in
it, you know what I mean?”

“Are you getting many side jobs?”

“Well, I’ve done a couple of weddings this
month, and I did a brochure for the new bookstore, East of Eaton. I
have a steady gig with Jack Frey at Peachys. He’s soliciting new
businesses for the mall he wants to build, so each time someone
signs up, I add them to the Internet site. I have a couple of Web
design jobs and Riverview Advertising has asked for a logo. I guess
it’s coming along.”

“Your mother would have been so proud of
you.”

“I’m not sure about that, Dad. My income
hasn’t improved and if I weren’t able to live with Lacey, I’d have
to move back home.”

“You know the door is always open. And your
mother didn’t judge success by money.”

“No? Are you sure about that?” Anna’s voice
betrayed her bitterness.

“Anna, you have to cut yourself some slack.
She never measured you by her own standard.”

“She left a giant shadow, Dad.”

“I know.” He reached for her hand and gave it
a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad,”
she said.

“You didn’t. It’s been five years. I’m
content with my life, and I know she’s at peace.”

Anna patted her father’s foot. “Well, I’m
going to bed. I’m a bit tired. Do you want to go out for brunch
tomorrow?”

“I plan to cook breakfast. I’ve bought bagels
and orange juice for mimosas.”

“Great, Dad. We can watch cartoons, like in
the old days.”

She gave her father a quick hug. “Do you want
the hall light off?”

“No, leave it on. Fred can’t see well
anymore, so I keep the light on for him.”

“OK. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

In a cabin along the Juniata River near
Harrisburg, Aaron Tahir slept fitfully, kicking the covers off his
long, muscled legs. Since childhood, the same dream tormented him.
Fire consumed the decrepit woodshed behind the abandoned house. He
ran, frightened and guilty, from the scene. Memories of flames,
loud voices, sirens and angry men in uniforms flashed through his
nightmare. They found him and dragged him from his hiding place,
shouting at him while tears streamed down his cheeks. He was seven
years old and had started his first fire.

Aaron woke in a sweat, his heart racing. He
flung aside the covers as the night terror tore his soul. He paced
the room, rubbing his eyes before running his hands through his
short, black hair. Still shaking, he went into the bathroom,
flipped the light switch and turned the handle of the faucet. He
filled a glass with ice-cold well water and gulped it. He raised
deep-set green eyes to the mirror, searching for traces of the
frightened little boy. Instead, he saw winged, black eyebrows, a
large, blade-like nose and a small goatee. Some people said he
looked Satanic. He didn’t mind. It helped when intimidating people,
which he did every day.

He splashed cold water on his face and dried
it with an old T-shirt. He left his bedroom and, after a detour to
the kitchen for a beer, went into his office and turned on his
computer.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he
decided to work. He clicked an icon and the homepage for the State
Fire Marshal’s office opened. After logging in, he searched the
national arson bureau’s database trying to find a profile that fit
the firebug burning his way through central Pennsylvania.

Chapter Three

Cartoons flashed on the small television
screen mounted under the kitchen cabinet while Anna, sitting
cross-legged on a stool, sipped an orange juice-and-champagne
mimosa. Her father scrambled eggs at the stove, turning off the gas
flame before sprinkling the eggs with Parmesan cheese. The toaster
popped and Anna pulled out two bagels, and dropped them onto her
plate. She blew on her fingers. “Dang, that’s hot.”

James slid a platter of steaming eggs,
crowned with fresh-ground black pepper, sea salt and sprigs of
flatleaf parsley, onto the counter. He opened the microwave and
pulled out a plate of hissing bacon.

“This pre-cooked turkey bacon is great,” he
said. “It’s ready in two minutes and has much less grease.”

After a diagnosis of high cholesterol two
years before, James launched a health regime, which included more
fiber in his diet. He also walked on a treadmill each morning while
watching the news.

“All things in moderation,” he said gravely,
slathering a multi-grain bagel with light cream cheese.

Anna grinned at her father. “I’m sure the
pulp counts as roughage in your mimosa,” she teased.

Weight wasn’t the problem. James Braddock
Johnson towered a good four inches over six feet and weighed less
than two hundred pounds. He was lean and fit for a man nearing
sixty.

The problem was stress combined with high
blood pressure, a deadly mix to which his wife had succumbed.

He met and married his wife while they
studied law at the University of Virginia. While her interests took
her into corporate law, James became a trial attorney and then a
judge, winning every election for the past twenty-two years.

The rigors of the job, however, had taken
their toll on Angela Johnson, and she died of a massive coronary at
the age of fifty-three. James turned to Anna, for comfort. A
sophomore at Cornell University, Anna moved back home and
transferred to Marshall College to complete her degree in fine
arts. When she graduated, magna cum laude, it was a hollow victory.
She commuted to Penn State University for her master’s degree,
graduating at the age of 24.

For two years, she taught high school art and
served as adviser of the yearbook. She enjoyed working with young
people; however, she became weary of the constraints, the
disciplinary role of teaching, and the demanding schedule of rising
at dawn and not getting home until time for dinner. When the school
board cut back on teacher’s salaries, the art department was the
first to feel its effects. She lost her job.

She regretted the students’ loss, yet
appreciated the liberty to start anew.

She freelanced, specializing in graphic arts
and photography. When Lacey invited her to share the old Victorian
house she’d inherited from her grandmother, Anna left home. She was
twenty-six.

She knew her father would cope fine. He had a
housekeeper, he had his weekly golf outings, he had his judicial
work at the courthouse, and he’d started dating. Still handsome,
his dark hair beginning to silver, the tall, lean judge was a
popular escort. He and his numerous “lady friends” attended the
symphony, watched plays at the local community theater and often
dined out.

A knock on the front door brought a deep,
rumbling growl from Fred. The dog seldom barked. Whoever was at the
door was unwelcome, a stranger or both.

Anna stood aside while James opened the door.
An Eaton City police officer perched on the steps. He turned
towards his patrol car and spoke low into a hand-held radio.

“Hello Rand,” James said, recognizing the
officer from previous appearances in court.

“Good morning Judge Johnson. I’m looking for
your daughter. Do you know where Anna is?”

“Certainly,” James replied, opening the door
all the way, allowing Rand to see her standing behind him. “She’s
right here. Would you like to come in?”

Anna whooped and ran up the stairs heading
for her room.

“Oh, sorry. She probably doesn’t want you to
see her in pajamas,” James said.

She heard his candid remark. “Dad! Excuse me,
I’ll be right there.”

Anna knew Randall Murphy from high school.
She had a crush on him when she was in the ninth grade and he was a
popular senior on the football team. Now passing acquaintances, the
last thing she wanted was for him to catch her in a pair of baggy
sweatpants and a skimpy T-shirt.

Frantic, she pulled open her empty closet.
She realized the alternative was to drag on the mini skirt and
blouse from last night, which still smelled of cigarette smoke and
vodka. She went into her father’s bedroom and opened his closet,
chose an old hooded sweat jacket and pulled it on. She walked down
the stairs; her fists plunged into the jacket pockets, trying to
act normal.

She followed the voices until she found her
father and Rand in the den. Her father was sitting in his recliner,
Fred leaning against his knee. Rand stood next to the fireplace, a
notebook in one hand. He looked from his notes with an expression
of sorrow.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Anna, your father says you spent the night
here last night. Is that right?”

“Of course it is. Now tell me what’s
wrong.”