Illusive Flame Read online

  He’d just given her the rest of her salary, wished her luck, and returned to the current issue of Scientific America he’d been reading He had been cold and unfeeling. It had become a habit. It had been the only way to survive his marriage to a woman whose sunny smiles and laughing eyes hid a heart of coal. At the beginning of his marriage he’d craved her warmth, but in the process she’d frozen his heart. He didn’t remember becoming as hard as her.

  He sighed. He should have handled Natalie better. He could have asked her why she had to leave so suddenly, but he’d been too bitter to care...too insulated in his own guilt about his marriage to have compassion for others on a level deeper than pure intellect. Strangely enough, he wasn’t bitter now and he didn’t feel guilty, but something still haunted him. He wasn’t sure what it was. He hated the ambiguity of such emotions.

  He definitely hated the ambiguity of what he felt toward Victoria. He didn’t understand her. Didn’t trust her. There was something about her, however, and he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  He pressed a fist against the flat of his hand and swore. He was too grown to be ruled by curiosity. He liked the order of his life. The darkness in him was a comfort, a feeling he could trust. How could he let her close when the darkness in him cringed at the light that surrounded her?

  He turned on the TV needing some noise. Susannah Rhodes came on the screen. He lifted his remote to switch channels when she said, “Bubba’s Diner now lays in ashes....”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Robert stripped off his gear after investigating the burned restaurant, his spirits low. Bubba’s Diner had been a part of the landscape for generations. One night had changed all that. Two fires in one week. Perhaps they were connected. He doubted it. Restaurant fires started by arson were usually quickly solved. Either the owner did it for insurance or an employee wanted revenge.

  “So we meet again, Braxton,” Caprican said.

  Robert closed his trunk.

  “Where’s your buddy? Or do you think you’re the only competent investigator around?”

  Robert sighed, not in the mood to argue. “We used to be in the same business.”

  “Yes, before you stabbed me in the back at the Tracts’ trial.”

  “I stated what I knew.”

  “Which was nothing. I stand by what I said then. Andy Tracts killed his wife. He burned her alive for the insurance money. The evidence was all there, and just because you were able to confuse the jury and put doubt in their minds doesn’t mean he was innocent”

  Robert rested a hand against the hood of his car, trying to keep calm. “Multiple points of fire do not always equal arson. Plus, the laboratory used by the department didn’t comply with the standards of ASTM.” The American Society for Training and Materials was important in his field. “That left doubt about the accuracy of the results. The trial was about a man’s life and maintaining our reputation as protectors of the innocent.”

  “He was guilty. You can’t convince me otherwise. I’ve been in this field over twenty years. I’ve learned—”

  “A lot of myths that have put some innocent people away. You’re still doing it.”

  “And you’re letting killers walk free.”

  “The point is that the insurance company didn’t want to pay.”

  “They shouldn’t have to pay a murderer. We were right, Braxton. The proof lay in the pour patterns and how the body was found. Years of investigative techniques can’t be wrong.”

  “But they were.”

  “Why don’t you go home and write another book about it? I’ll go and do my job. Unlike some, I need the money.”

  Robert got in his car and slammed the door. He took a deep breath. He wouldn’t let Caprican get to him. He knew the trial ended the way it should have. Evidence was key. Except in this case. Despite Victoria’s vision all the evidence pointed to an electrical fire with no sign of arson. He’d send samples to the lab and see what they found.

  He tapped his steering wheel. How had she known about the fire if she hadn’t been there?

  ***

  The phone rang just as he stepped into his office. “This is Susannah Rhodes from—”

  Robert interrupted her. “Yes, I know where you’re from.”

  “Could you say a few words about the Bubba’s Diner fire?”

  “I’ll give you the number to—”

  “I already have it,” she said. “They say it’s likely an electrical fire.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have there been any new developments regarding the warehouse blaze?”

  “No.”

  “Could there be a possible connection?”

  “Let me switch you.” He pressed the button before she could protest. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling trying to sort his thoughts. If the warehouse fire and the restaurant fire were connected, they were in deep trouble.

  Grant came into the room a few minutes later. “You’re not going to like this.”

  Robert sat forward. “Probably not. Bubba’s Diner burned.”

  “Yea, I know and an apartment caught fire because of a waffle iron in DC.” He paused. “Why did you mention the restaurant?”

  “No reason.” There wasn’t a connection. Things were always burning somewhere...

  Grant waved a file. “I have bad news.”

  “What?”

  He tossed the file on the desk. “Your little maid has a fascinating legacy.”

  Robert drew the file toward him. “What do you mean?”

  “Open it.”

  A sense of dread spread through him. She was probably part of a long line of phony psychics charged with petty misdemeanors and fraud. Robert opened the folder and began to read. A sudden anger gripped him as he gazed at the truth. He struggled to control his emotions determined not to overreact.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped. “So her father is Vernon Taylor?”

  “Yep.”

  “Vernon Taylor,” he repeated though the name had been seared into his memory. Vernon Taylor was one of the most notorious firestarters in New York history.

  “Yep.”

  Robert felt his gut clench and steeled himself, pushing his anger down. He closed the file and tapped it. “How hard was it for you to find this out?”

  “Not too hard.”

  “How easy do you think it would be for someone else to find out?”

  “They’d have to really want to know. I don’t think they’d make the connection. Why?”

  “Because she’s working in my house.”

  “Scared?”

  He shook his head. “No, but the public would have a circus with this. I’m an arson investigator.”

  “I still think we should use her.”

  “Even after knowing this?”

  “Especially knowing this.” Grant rested his elbows on his knees. “He could have taught her stuff. She knows fires. Maybe that’s what makes her sensitive to them. He was a pyro. She could pick up on his energy or something. As an empath she may be sensitive to that pull.”

  Robert stared at him confused. “As a what?”

  “An empath.”

  He scribbled the word down then jumped to his feet. Grant watched him grab his things and open the door. “Where are you going?”

  “To the library. I need to understand what the hell you’re talking about.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Robert stared amazed at the books and papers piled in front of him. There really was such a thing. Such a person. He’d been skeptical when he’d quickly found information about empaths online. Any nut could put up a website. But the books amazed him. People, respected doctors, truly believed in this phenomenon. ESP he’d heard of, reincarnation...yes. But empath?

  One book hooked him from the start. Writings by Dr. Michael Kent of the Everette Institute in Washington, DC. They’d conducted a study with Victoria as a participant. He glanced at his watch. He’d make it there in good time if he left no
w. An hour later he stepped inside the clinical walls of the institute surprised by its modern design. He’d expected crystals hanging from the ceilings and people wearing sandals and discussing the benefits of wheat germ.

  Robert approached the front desk. “Hello, I’d like to speak to Dr. Kent.”

  The receptionist smiled at him through her curtain of black hair. “Who should I say wants to gift him with their presence?”

  Did she just speak English? “Dr. Braxton.”

  “Okay Dr. Braxton please have a seat.”

  He did, sinking in a chair so low his knees nearly reached his forehead. A few minutes later a little man with shaggy gray hair came up to him, smiling wide. “Dr. Robert Braxton it’s a pleasure to meet you. I read your dissertation on addictive personalities and was very impressed. Please follow me.” Once in his office he asked, “How can I help you?”

  “I’m interested in discussing a participant in one of your studies, Victoria Spenser.”

  “I’m afraid the information about our participants is confidential,”

  “But you wrote all about her in your book, The Levels of Empathic Abilities.”

  Dr. Kent hesitated. “I can assure you that I used false names.”

  “She was case thirty-two.”

  Dr. Kent took the book down and flipped through it.

  He read a few passages then glanced at Robert. “Amazing...”

  Robert straightened satisfied. “I told you she was there.”

  “No, it’s amazing that you could decipher who this young girl was out of all the participants. Has she not changed much?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know her very well.”

  He sent Robert a strange look.

  Robert shifted uncomfortable. “But I know enough about her to make a basic deduction based on certain factors.” When Dr. Kent didn’t reply, Robert said, “I want to know the likelihood of an empath causing fires.”

  “They are usually more destructive to themselves than others.” He paused, remembering back. “She was a special case. A colleague of mine was on vacation in Jamaica when she saw her wandering alone. My colleague also heard about the stories the people shared about her. With no objections from her family we brought her to the Stevenson Center.”

  “An asylum?”

  “I don’t like that term. I prefer—”

  “Doesn’t matter. How long was she there?”

  “A couple of years. We helped her emerge from the wall she’d built around herself and discovered she had a great sensitivity to heat and fire. An uncle eventually came and claimed her. I believe they thought she was cured.”

  “So empaths can predict things?”

  “They can see things. Current events. Depending on the level, some can’t give you precise data, but enough clues for a lead. Empaths have been known to help police in their work.”

  “Have they been known to make mistakes?”

  Dr. Kent spoke with caution. “They are human.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “It’s rare.”

  Robert tapped a beat against his knee. “I see. So it wouldn’t be intentional?”

  “If an empath shares information, they’re taking the big risk of not being believed. If one comes to you with information, it’s out of a willingness to help, not harm.”

  * * *

  Victoria twisted her hair back, trying to fight a yawn.. She hadn’t slept well last night, but she was used to that. She rarely slept well. She walked to the house bundled in two cardigans to protect her from the brisk morning. She knew she looked like an Arctic traveler, but was too warm to care, and no one said anything. Toward evening she headed into the dining room to polish the table.

  She loved the dining room, with its high ceiling and mahogany table with carved legs and wood inlay. This evening the sun seeped through the windows, casting a bright sheen on the wood.

  “Did you rob a flock of sheep?” Robert asked in disbelief staring at the layers of clothes.

  She turned and saw him standing in the doorway, large and arrogant and every much lord of the manor in gray trousers, dark blue shirt, and sweater. She fought her response to him. Every time she saw him, she felt as though the air had been knocked out of her.

  “What did you say?”

  Robert came into the room and stood across from her. “You’re wearing enough wool for twenty sheep.” He took off his sweater. “Here, wear this instead.”

  She glanced at the object as it waved its promise of warmth. Unfortunately, it had one major defect. It was his. “No thank you, Mr. Braxton.”

  He continued to hold the sweater out to her.

  She refolded her rag and began wiping the table again.

  He draped the sweater over his shoulder. “You can’t be comfortable in all those clothes.” He quickly examined her. “You don’t need the extra padding.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “It was a compliment.”

  She rubbed the table with extra vigor. “You also could do with a little less padding yourself.”

  “I’m in excellent shape.”

  She stopped and stared at him. “I was referring to your ego.”

  “I see your tongue has been sharpened today.”

  “Purely for your amusement, Mr. Braxton. I know how you like to be entertained.”

  He came around the table and narrowed his eyes. “Is your goal to entertain or provoke?”

  “I’m just a housekeeper, Mr. Braxton. I’m not significant enough to provoke you.”

  He stopped next to her as she pushed a chair in, trying to ignore the aching desire to touch her. “Careful butterfly, ” he warned. “Laughing at the eagle may get you eaten.”

  Victoria rested against a chair and quirked a brow at him. “Are you hungry?”

  “You do like taking risks, but the question is: Are you merely clever or just reckless?”

  “Perhaps I’m just bored and find you an easy target.”

  His voice deepened. “An easy target and a woman that likes to aim. That makes for a dangerous combination.”

  She met his stare though she shivered inside. “That shouldn’t mix.”

  “Or can’t resist,” he countered.

  Her gaze fell.

  “Wear the sweater,” he said. “I don’t like my employees looking ridiculous.” When she began to protest, he placed a finger over her lips. “Your tongue or your job.”

  She took the sweater, managing a thin smile. “Thank you, Mr. Braxton.”

  “See how easy that was?”

  She maintained her brittle smile. “I’m sure a rash will form later.”

  He tapped a beat on the back of a chair. “I found out some interesting information today”

  She stopped, goose bumps forming on her arms. “About the fire?”

  “About your father.”

  Victoria gripped the rag and began wiping the top of a chair prepared for the storm of accusations expected to come. She kept her voice cool. “I see.”

  “He had quite a reputation. He started fires for profit and made a good living until one day he got crazy and set fire to a motel and cooked 80 people in their sleep.”

  “He was sent to prison for that.”

  “Yes, and he escaped after fifteen years. No one has seen him since.”

  She began to wipe with extra vigor. “I haven’t seen him, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “That’s not what I’m wondering.” He seized her wrist and took the rag from her. “I know you spent time in an asylum because of an unhealthy preoccupation with fire.”

  She struggled to release herself “So now you have your proof that I’m crazy.”

  “No, I just wanted to find out more about you and I did.” He let her go.

  She rubbed her wrist though his grip hadn’t hurt. “And I suppose you also found out that I was born in New York. That I lived there with my mother and father for a while. That I grew up with the smell of gasoline, kerosene, and smoke. That
the clothes on my back, the food I ate, the house I lived in all came from the destruction of someone else’s life.” She rested a hand on her hips. “If you had money trouble, or you had a grudge you came to Vernon Taylor. He would make all your troubles turn to ash. I’ve seen plenty of troubles burn—houses, shops, cars, bodies. Mum eventually left him and returned to Jamaica. When she died, I moved in with relatives. And I frightened every relative I lived with. So are you afraid too? Afraid that your home may go up in flames?”

  “No.”

  Victoria folded her arms still stinging from the pain of her past. “You don’t know what it’s like to be your father’s child. To be a constant outsider no matter how hard you try.”

  Robert scratched his chin and laughed without humor. “As a matter of fact I do. My grandfather was a rich man. I can’t seem to escape it. I’m worth a lot of money I didn’t earn, and there are plenty of people who like to remind me of that.” He hesitated. “Are you afraid he’ll contact you?”

  “No.”

  He set the rag down, averting his eyes. “A restaurant burned last night.”

  Her hands fell to her hips. “And you think I’m involved?”

  He sent her a sideward glance. “No, it was accidental.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t accidental.”

  “We’ll see what the evidence points to, but there was no trace of an accelerant.”

  Victoria fell into a chair and stared up at him in disbelief. “But—”

  His face softened. “I know you have good intentions, but the science doesn’t prove your claim. I have to go based on what I know.”

  “Not what I see,” she said defeated. She hung her head. “Exactly. Now I--”

  Katherine came into the room. “Ms. Spenser, I need to speak to you about the—”

  “She’s busy at the moment, Ms. Anderson,” Robert said annoyed by the interruption. “You’ll have to attend to the matter yourself or wait until later.”

  Katherine looked taken aback then calmly said, “Yes, Mr. Braxton.” She shot Victoria a glance then left.

  Victoria stood. “Maybe I should see what she wants.”

  Robert gently pulled her arm, forcing her to sit. “Ms. Spenser, this is my house not hers. You only answer to me.” He drew out a chair and sat. “So what can you tell me about it?”