Arsonist

CHAPTER 39

Stanton stood outside the two-way mirror and watched the sketch artist work with Tabitha Richardson. He particularly watched the way she interacted and answered questions-with an air as if she was doing him a favor just by being in his presence. She was beautiful by conventional standards with bright green eyes and golden hair and her beauty would get her far in life, or it would destroy her. Stanton had rarely seen beautiful women who were mediocre. They would enter modeling or gymnastics or other sports and then marry well, or if they happened to have intellectual power as well, they would enter business, law, medicine or other professional fields, their looks bolstering their resume.

That was one path.

The other was one of early molestations and later abusive relationships laden with heavy drug use. Many times the two would be intertwined, with high-profile models that seemed to have their lives and careers in order who would buy cocaine cut with baby laxative on street corners or marry the most abusive husbands they could find. They would become porn stars and strippers and prostitutes. When their beauty faded away, they would be left with an empty shell of what had once been a life. Stanton saw many of them, in their fifties and sixties, still on street corners trying to coax johns into letting them in their cars.

Stanton thought how interesting it would be to conduct research on the effects of beauty in life. If ever he were to return to academia, he would have to keep that subject in mind.

Detective “Slim Jim” MacAfee strolled up next to him, a microwaved burrito in his mouth. He stood there, chewing for a moment, the sauce and cheese dripping down his chin onto the floor.

“Who’s that?” he said.

“That’s the sole witness on your arson case, the Humbolts.”

“Benny said the evidence is inconclusive on that.”

“You believe him?”

“No. The fucker’s lazy. I didn’t read about a witness in the reports.”

“She wasn’t in them.”

“How’d you find her?”

“I don’t know. I just thought she knew more than she was telling me.”

If Slim Jim didn’t believe that answer, he didn’t show it. He continued biting into his burrito and sucked down a Sprite. Before he was done with it, the sketch artist gave a thumbs up and stepped out of the room.

“Girl’s got a good memory. Saw this guy for no more than ten seconds at night but could recall the shape of his lips.”

“Did you get a good print?”

“See for yourself.”

Stanton took the drawing. His heart raced and his guts tightened up like a fist. “Slim Jim, this girl’s life is in danger. We’re getting her into protective custody right now. Send some uniforms to her house. Her family’s in danger too.”

Nehor Stark bounded up the stairs to the second floor, his flame resistant suit swooshing as he jumped up the top three steps. He kicked in the first door on his right. It was a bathroom. He tore down the shower curtain and looked in the tub. He pulled open the drawers underneath the sink so violently they broke. He bashed his fist into the mirror and it broke in a spiderweb of cracks.

The next room was the master bedroom. He pulled the covers off the bed and kicked over the mattress. He noticed a sound in the bedroom and thought a dog or other family pet was in there with him but then realized he was grunting like an animal. He kicked over the dresser and ripped the closet doors off before rummaging through the clothes inside.

“Where is she!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Nehor went through the next bedroom and tore it apart. There were photos and drawings on the walls and he ripped them down, glass shattering into hundreds of pieces on the soft, white carpet. He ran down the hall to the next room, another bedroom. He tore curtains away and shattered the plasma TV against the wall, mumbling, “Where is she?” to himself.

He tore their clothes off the hangers and ripped them apart. There was an echoed screaming and he knew it was his own.

Finding nothing in any of the rooms, he bounded down the stairs and to the kitchen. He opened several drawers, dumping their contents on the floor, and finding the largest kitchen knife he could, he went to the living room.

Gagged and tied together with polyester rope, the Richardsons were crying and squirming underneath the tight grip of the ropes. Hal Richardson, the father, had a large wound on his head that was pouring blood over him, soaking the portion of rope around his chest a dark crimson. He appeared faint, like he could pass out at any moment. Nehor went instead to Katie, the mother, who he had left untouched.

“Where is she?” he said, placing the tip of the knife against her throat.

Katie shook her head.

“Your whole family is going to die and I’m going to make you watch. If you tell me where she is maybe I’ll decide to let all of you live and just take her. Is that a deal?”

Katie broke down, her head lowered, tears streaming down her face. She nodded.

“Good,” Nehor said, reaching over and taking out the cloth that had been stuffed into her mouth. “Now where is she?”

“She’s down the street at a neighbor’s house.”

“Which neighbor?”

“Are you going to harm them?”

“No,” he said, frustrated, “now which fucking neighbor?”

“Six doors down. The Taylors.”

He pulled the knife away. “Thanks.”

Nehor jumped to his feet and went to the three red canisters that lined the wall on the south side. He began emptying the remnants over the floors and tracing a pattern into the hallway.

“Why are you doing that?” Katie cried. “You said you would let us go?”

“Did I? I don’t remember.”

She screamed as he finished the hallway and came inside, pouring the clear liquid over her two children and her husband. He went to retrieve another canister when he saw movement outside in front of the house. It was a police cruiser.

He stood frozen, staring out the window as two police officers got out of the car. They could be going anywhere, he thought. Then they walked up the yard and to the front porch, ringing the doorbell.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. He couldn’t survive going back to living in a cage. He would die here then, with this family and the two officers. He would set the fire such that it would cause an explosion as soon as the officers got through…no. No, why should he do that when there was a perfectly good backdoor?

Nehor glanced to the family as he ran past them. Briefly, he considered slitting their throats before leaving and he took a step toward them. As he did so, one of the officers pounded on the door and said, “San Diego PD, please open the door.”

Nehor’s face twitched in anger. He threw the knife as hard as he could at Katie, the handle hitting her in the head and causing her to scream. He laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

He ran out the backdoor into the dwindling evening light. He jumped into a neighbor’s yard over their fence and then ran to the street where Amber’s car waited for him.