Fireproof

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by S. M. Kava

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.doubleday.com

  DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Jacket design by Michael J. Windsor Jacket photograph of the Washington Monument © mbell/Flickr/Getty Images; fire © Jurgen Vogt/Getty Images

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kava, Alex

  Fireproof : a Maggie O’Dell novel / Alex Kava. — First edition.

  pages cm.

  1. O’Dell, Maggie (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Criminal profilers—Fiction. 3. Arson investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3561.A8682F57 2012

  813’.54—dc23 2012002002

  eISBN: 978-0-385-53552-6

  v3.1

  FOR MISS MOLLY

  JUNE 1996–MAY 2011

  You were there from the very beginning,

  for eleven out of twelve,

  at my feet or at my side.

  Sure do miss you, girl.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part 1 - Thursday

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part 2 - Friday

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Part 3 - Saturday

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Part 4 - Sunday

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Part 5 - Three Days Later

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by This Author

  CHAPTER 1

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Cornell Stamoran slid his chipped thumbnail through the crisp seal of Jack Daniel’s. He stared at the bottle and swallowed hard. His throat felt cotton-dry. His tongue licked chapped lips. All involuntary reactions, easily triggered.

  Back in the days when he was a partner in one of the District’s top accounting firms, his drink had been Jack and Coke. Little by little the Coke disappeared long before he started keeping a bottle of whiskey in his desk’s bottom drawer, and by then it didn’t even need to be Jack or Jim or Johnnie.

  He probably wasn’t the first accountant to stash his morning fix in his corner office, but he was the only one he knew of to exchange that desk and office for a coveted empty cardboard box, the Maytag stamp still emblazoned on the side.

  His first week on the streets Cornell had slept behind a statue on Capitol Hill. Frickin’ ironic—he used to sit in the back of clients’ limos driving by those same streets. Funny how quickly your life can turn to crap and suddenly you’re learning the value of a good box and a warm blanket.

  Usually Cornell hid the box out of sight between a monster-size Dumpster and a dirty brick wall when he needed to make a trip downtown. Out here on the outskirts of warehouseland it was quiet. Nobody hassled you. But it got boring as hell. Cornell would make a trip downtown at least once a week. Pick up some fresh cigarette butts, do a little panhandling. Sometimes he’d sit in the library and read. He couldn’t check out any books. Where the hell would he keep them? What if he didn’t get them back on time? In this new life he didn’t want even that little bit of obligation or responsibility. Those were the pitfalls that had landed him on the streets in the first place.

  So once a week he’d leave his prized possessions—the box, a couple of blankets someone had mistakenly tossed in a Dumpster. He’d put his few small valuables in a dirty red backpack and lug it around for the day. If he didn’t want to walk the five miles he’d have to get up early to catch the homeless bus. That’s what he’d done this morning. But he missed the last evening bus. He didn’t bother to keep track of time anymore.

  What did it matter? Not like he had a meeting or appointment. Hell, he didn’t even wear a watch. Truth was, his gold-plated Rolex had been one of the first things he’d pawned. But today Cornell ran into a bit of luck. Actually sort of tripped right in front of it when a black town car almost knocked him into the curb.

  The car was picking up some woman and her stiff, both all dressed up, probably on their way to the Kennedy Center or a cocktail party. The woman started to apologize, then elbowed her old man until he dug into his wallet. Cornell didn’t pay much attention and instead found himself wondering how all these gorgeous young women ended up with these old geezers.

  Never mind. He knew exactly how.

  A few years ago he would have been competition for this bastard. Now he was a nuisance to take pity on. Although Cornell convinced himself that the woman had caught a glimpse of his irresistible charm. Yeah, charming the way he picked himself up from the sidewalk, smack-dab between the curb and the car’s bumper. Lucky he hadn’t pissed himself. He could still feel the heat of the engine.

  But the woman—she was something. There was eye contact between them. Yeah, she definitely made eye contact. Then a hint of a smile and even a slight blush when Cornell licked his lips at her while her escort wasn’t looking. The guy had ducked his bald head to rifle through his wallet. Bastard was probably sorry now that he didn’t have anything less than fifty-dollar bills.

  In Cornell’s mind that smile, that blush, screamed to him that in another place, another time, she’d gladly be giving him something more than her boyfriend’s cash. And he took heart in their secret transaction, restoring a small piece of something he had lost but didn’t miss until someone like this gorgeous woman reminded him that he wasn’t who he used to be. Not only who he use
d to be, but now little more than garbage to be kicked or shoved to the curb. A small piece of him hated her for that, but he did appreciate the hell out of the fifty bucks.

  It was more than he’d seen all month. And as if to prove to her, to prove to himself, that beneath the grime and sweat stains he was still that other person who could be charming and witty and smart, Cornell broke the fifty at a corner diner. He even sat at the counter, ordered soup and a grilled cheese. When he paid the bill he asked for ones. The waitress did a double take, turning the fifty over, her eyes narrowing as she examined the bill and then his face.

  Cornell just smiled when she finally handed him his change. He folded and stuffed the ones carefully into the side pocket of his threadbare cargo pants, pleased that the button still closed solid and safe over his new stash.

  When his food came—soup steaming, melted cheese oozing onto white porcelain—he sat paralyzed, staring at it. He hadn’t seen anything quite so beautiful in a long time. There was a package of cute little crackers and a slice of pickle, utensils wrapped in a crisp white napkin. A cloth napkin. All of it seemed so foreign and for a minute Cornell couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do with real utensils rather than the plasticware they gave you in the soup kitchens.

  He resisted looking around. Dishes clanked, voices hummed, machines wheezed on and off, chairs scraped the linoleum. The place was busy, yet Cornell could feel eyes checking him out.

  He tugged the napkin open, laid the utensils one by one on the counter, and draped the cloth over his lap. He ignored the stares, pretending that the stink of body odor wasn’t coming from him. He tried to keep his appearance as clean as possible, even making a monthly trip to a Laundromat, but getting a shower was a challenge.

  Finally Cornell picked up the soup spoon, stopping his eyes from darting around for direction. He let his fingers remember. Slowed himself down and ate, painfully conscious of every movement so that he didn’t dribble, smack, wipe, or slurp.

  Now, as he made his long way back to his cardboard home, he took guarded sips from the brand-new bottle. The food, though delicious, had upset his stomach. The whiskey would help. It always did; an instant cure-all for just about anything he didn’t want to feel or remember or be. Tonight it sped up the long walk and even helped warm him as the night chill set in.

  Cornell had barely turned the corner into the alley when he noticed something was wrong. The air smelled different. Rancid, but not day-old garbage. And tinged with something burned.

  No, not burned, smoking.

  His nostrils twitched. There were no restaurants nearby. The brick building he kept his shelter against had been empty. It was quiet here. That’s all he cared about and usually the Dumpster didn’t overflow or stink. All important factors in his decision to take up residency here in the alley, his Maytag box sandwiched between the wall of the brick building and the monster green Dumpster.

  That’s when Cornell realized he couldn’t see his cardboard box. Though hidden, a flap usually stuck out no matter how carefully he tucked it. A sudden panic twisted his stomach. He clenched the bottle tight in his fist and hurried. He hadn’t had that much to drink yet, but his steps were staggered and his head dizzy. The only two blankets he owned were in that box, along with an assortment of other treasures tucked between folds, stuff he hadn’t wanted to lug inside his backpack.

  As he walked closer, the smell got stronger. Something sour and metallic but also something else. Like lighter fluid. Had someone started a fire to keep warm?

  They sure as hell better not have used his box for kindling.

  That’s when he saw a flap of cardboard and a flood of relief washed over him in a cold sweat. The box was still there. It had been shoved deeper behind the Dumpster. The box, however, wasn’t empty.

  Son of a bitch!

  Cornell couldn’t believe his eyes. Some bastard lay sprawled inside his home, feet sticking out. Looked like a pile of old, ragged clothes if it weren’t for those two bare feet.

  He took a long gulp of Jack Daniel’s. Screwed the cap back on, nice and tight, and set the bottle down safe against the brick wall. Then Cornell pushed up his sleeves to his elbows and stomped the rest of the way.

  Nobody was taking his frickin’ home away from him.

  “Hey, you,” he yelled as he grabbed the ankles. “Get the hell out of here.”

  Cornell let his anger drive him as he twisted and yanked and pulled. But he was surprised it didn’t take much effort. Nor was there any resistance. He didn’t stop, though, dragging the body away from the container, letting the intruder’s tangled hair sweep across the filthy pavement. Before he released the ankles he gave one last shove, flipping the person over.

  That’s when Cornell saw why there had been no resistance.

  He felt the acid rise from his stomach. He stumbled backward, tripping over his feet, scrambling then kicking, gasping and retching at what he saw.

  The face was gone, a bloody pulp of flesh and bones. Raw jagged holes replaced an eye and the mouth. Matted hair stuck to the mess.

  Cornell pushed to his knees just as the soup and grilled cheese came up his throat in a stinging froth mixed with whiskey. He tried to stand but his legs wobbled and sent him back down to the pavement right in the middle of his vomit. His eyes burned and blurred but he couldn’t pull them away from the mangled mess just a few feet away from him.

  In his panic he hardly noticed the smoke filling the alley. He tried to wipe himself off and saw that it wasn’t just his vomit he’d fallen into. A slick stain trailed into the alley, as if someone had accidentally leaked a line of liquid all the way to the Dumpster.

  That’s when he realized the slick stain that now covered his knees and hands was gasoline. He looked up and saw a man at the entrance to the alley, pouring from a gallon can. Cornell slipped and jerked to his feet just as the guy noticed him. But instead of being startled or angry or panicked, the man did the last thing Cornell expected. He smiled and then he lit a match.

  CHAPTER 2

  NEWBURGH HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA

  Maggie O’Dell tried to push through the black gauze, her head heavy, her mind still swimming. There had been flashes of light—laser-sharp white and butane blue—before the pitch black. A steady throb drummed against her left temple. Soft, wounded groans came out of the dark, making her flinch, but she couldn’t move. Her arms were too heavy, weighed down. Her legs numb. Panic fluttered through her.

  Why couldn’t she feel her legs?

  Then she remembered the electric jolt—the memory of searing pain traveling through her body.

  More panic. Her heart began to race. Her breathing came in gasps.

  A gunshot blast and her scalp felt on fire.

  That’s when she smelled it. Not cordite, but smoke. Something actually was on fire. Singed hair. Burned flesh. Smoke and ashes. The sound of plastic crinkled under fabric. And suddenly at the front of the darkened room Maggie could see her father lying in a satin-trimmed coffin, so quiet and peaceful while flames licked up the wall behind him.

  She had had this dream many times before but still she was surprised to find him there, so close that all she had to do was look over the edge of the lace to see his face.

  “They parted your hair wrong, Daddy,” and Maggie lifted her hand, noticing how small it was but glad to finally be able to move it. She reached over and pushed her father’s hair back in place. She wasn’t afraid of the flames. She concentrated only on her fingers as they stretched across his face. She was almost touching him when his eyes blinked open.

  That’s when Maggie jerked awake.

  Flashes of light, tinged blue, came from the muted big-screen television. Maggie’s eyelids twitched, still heavy despite her desperate attempt to open them. She pushed herself up and immediately recognized the feel of the leather sofa. Still, her head and heart pounded as her body pivoted, looking for shadows, expecting the embodiment of the wounded moans in the corners of her own living room.

  But ther
e was no one.

  No one except Deborah Kerr, who filled the TV screen. Deborah’s face was as worried and panicked as Maggie felt. She was running on a beach in the middle of a storm. Somewhere Robert Mitchum was hurt, injured.

  Maggie had seen this movie many times and yet she felt Deborah’s panic each time. Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison. It was one of Maggie’s favorites. She had just defended it to her friend Benjamin Platt during one of their classic-movie marathons. Which had prompted her to pull it out. But tonight she was alone. At the moment, it was just her and Deborah.

  She sat up. Leaned back against the soft leather and rubbed her left temple. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead. Her heartbeat started to settle down but the familiar throb continued. Under her fingertips she could feel the puckered skin on her scalp. The scar no longer hurt even when she pressed down on it like she did now. But the throbbing continued. All too predictably it would lead to a massive headache, a pain that started as a sharp pinpoint in her left temple but would soon swirl around inside her head.

  Eventually it would settle at the base of her skull, pressing against the back of her brain, a steady dull ache threatening to drive her mad. Even sleep—which came infrequently and often in short bursts—gave her little relief. She had no idea if the insomnia was the result of her nightmares or if the threat of nightmares kept her awake. All Maggie knew was that any sleep, no matter how short, was accompanied by a film version of her memories—the edited horror edition, looped together. This newest sequel included clips from four months ago. Teenagers attacked in a dark forest, two electrocuted, the rest reduced to frightened and wounded moans.

  Her fingers found the scar again under her hair. Just another scar, she told herself, and she wished she could forget about it. If it weren’t for the headaches she might be able to put it out of her mind for at least a day or two.

  Last October she had been shot … in the head. Actually the bullet had grazed her temple. Perhaps it was asking too much to forget so quickly. She did wish that everyone around her would forget it. That’s why she wouldn’t tell anyone about the headaches.

  Her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, already thought she was “compromised,” “altered,” “temporarily unfit for duty.” So far she had managed to avoid and put off his insistence that she go through a psychological evaluation. Her only leverage in delaying it was that Kunze felt responsible for sending her on the detour that resulted in her almost being killed. Not that he would admit responsibility. Instead he let her off the hook, claiming he had a soft spot for the holidays. Funny, when she thought about Kunze and Christmas, Maggie could easily conjure up the image of the Grinch who stole Christmas. But now that the holidays were long over, she expected Kunze would push for the evaluation.