Read the book: «Into The Fire»

She stayed in the shadows, silent, motionless, horrified. He saw her anyway, his head jerking up as he peered into the darkness.

“Who’s there?”

He wasn’t alone. The small figure of a man stood in the doorway, blocking the light from spreading out onto the little tableau. The man on the ground was groaning, cursing, but smart enough not to move. And Jamie wondered if she had time to run.

She wasn’t going to run, she reminded herself. She had a bad habit of running from trouble, and this was what she’d been determined to face.

She stepped out of the shadows, moving up to him. He wouldn’t know who she was, of course. He’d barely been aware of her back then, and he hadn’t seen her since that night so long ago, when both their lives had changed. She’d be the last person he expected to show up on his doorstep.

She was right about one thing. “What are you doing here?”

He knew exactly who she was. It was one shock on top of another, and she came out with the only answer she could muster. “I’m looking for answers.”

“Nate’s dead,” Dillon said, his voice as flat and expressionless as his eyes.

“I know that. I want to know why.”

Into the Fire
Anne Stuart

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This one’s for Spike and Yoshiki.

Contents

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

1

I t was a cold night in November, and the heater in her old Volvo had died forty miles back. Jamie stared straight ahead into the darkness, ignoring the warning lights on her dashboard, ignoring everything but her final destination. She’d put soothing New Age music on the CD player, but it hadn’t managed to calm her. She’d grown even more tense, trying to fight the soporific effects of the soft music, until her hands were numb from gripping the steering wheel.

What the hell was she doing here? Nate was dead, murdered three months ago—coming here wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t stop the pain.

She focused on the road, trying to stay alert after seventeen hours of driving. Nate was dead and no one could tell her what happened. He’d been found bludgeoned to death in an old garage in Cooperstown, Wisconsin, and no one seemed to give a damn. The police had given up after what had been only a cursory investigation. It was a drug deal gone wrong, they said. They had more important things to spend their time on. Three months had passed and everyone had forgotten.

Everyone but Jamie Kincaid and her mother. Nate had come into their family when he was ten years old, his own parents dead in a tragic fire, and he’d always been more of a brother than a cousin. More of a son to Isobel and Victor Kincaid than a nephew. Maybe even more of their own child than Jamie, it had seemed at times, but she always quashed that paranoid, disloyal thought. Her parents loved her, just as they loved Nate. Everyone loved charming, feckless Nate, with his glorious smile and easy charm. And he even looked like her parents, with his dark Kincaid good looks and brown eyes. A resemblance the paler, adopted Jamie had always lacked.

It didn’t matter, never had mattered to her. There was enough love in their small family to go around, no matter what disasters befell them. And disasters had followed Nate like a vengeful guardian angel. Ending in his own murder, a thousand miles from home, a thousand years away.

The police didn’t care. Isobel did. After she’d learned of his death, she’d sunk into a deep, angry depression, not eating, not leaving the house, mourning her lost nephew with a fierce, almost biblical passion. But both Isobel and Jamie needed answers before they could let him rest in peace. And after a bleak, broken Thanksgiving, Jamie had gotten in her old car and driven a thousand miles to get those answers.

If she’d thought twice about it she never would have left Marshfield, Rhode Island. The roads had been crowded with holiday travelers, rushing to and from warm family gatherings. Her car was on its last legs, barely reliable enough to get her to and from work at the small private school where she taught. It wasn’t up to heroic efforts, and it was telling her so.

The windshield wipers had stopped working hours before. Fortunately the rain had stopped, as well. She’d passed the Wisconsin state line hours ago, left the interstate to wander on the dark, wet roads outside the city. It seemed like the final indignity, to die in Wisconsin, Jamie thought. Nate was such a flamboyant, larger-than-life character—he should have died spectacularly. Not in some squalid room over top of a garage.

But Dillon Gaynor had seen to it that he had. Nate’s lifelong best friend, his nemesis, the person who’d dragged him into the gutter and held him down there. The man Nate had called Killer. Who might have lived up to his name three months ago.

The police had even taken him in for questioning. But they’d let him go. Never filed charges and simply closed the case when other, more important issues took their attention. And the question that haunted Jamie was simple. Had Dillon Gaynor gotten away with murder?

Sometime in western Pennsylvania she’d wondered what the hell she was doing, going after a man she knew was capable of killing. A man who’d scared the shit out of her when he’d been a teenage delinquent. She hadn’t seen him in twelve years—he hadn’t even bothered to come east for the memorial service for his oldest friend. Even if he hadn’t beat her cousin to death, he was still guilty. He’d kept Nate supplied with drugs, he’d taken him down the dark path that had ended in a sordid death. He was to blame, even if he hadn’t actually killed him. And she would have been happy never to see him again.

But by Ohio she’d stopped thinking about it. She needed answers, her desperately grieving mother needed them. And Dillon wouldn’t dare hurt her. He might be little better than pond scum, a high-school dropout with a record and an ongoing history of trouble with the law, but he was very, very smart. Almost frighteningly so. He’d be too smart to commit another murder and think he could get away with it.

She even had a plausible excuse for coming. Dillon was holding on to a box of Nate’s possessions, and despite Isobel’s increasingly virulent requests, he hadn’t bothered to send it back to them. God only knows what was inside—maybe the Patek Philippe watch that had been handed down through generations, maybe some clue to what happened. Or maybe dirty laundry and unpaid bills. It didn’t matter. Isobel was fixated on having anything that had ever belonged to Nate, and after that bleak Thanksgiving meal Jamie had agreed to go and get it.

Exhaustion set in by Indiana. She’d been surviving on black coffee and Ritz crackers, and the blinding headache was such a familiar companion that it almost felt like a friend. She tried turning off the New Age tape to listen to the radio, but all she could get was angry hip-hop or mournful country music. The classical music station put her to sleep, so she cracked the window and turned the New Age music back on. She gripped the steering wheel tightly.

Illinois had passed in a blur. She didn’t even mind Chicago driving, when she usually panicked over city traffic. It was late by then, the commuters were home in bed, and she sped through, half daring the police to stop her.

No one did. She was close now, within just a few miles of her destination. She had an address, she had a map, she had determination.

She also had a car on the verge of dying and a light snow that had begun to fall. She turned on the windshield wipers, forgetting that they were broken. The night seemed darker still on this narrow back road, the lights barely cutting through the darkness.

And then she realized it wasn’t her imagination, it wasn’t exhaustion. The lights were getting dimmer, the car was slowing, cruising to a sudden, coughing halt in the middle of the road. The New Age piano was still going, but it sounded like a warped record. And then even that stopped, and the last of the light gave up the ghost, and she was left sitting in the darkness.

Crying was an option, an appealing one, but she resisted. She hadn’t really cried since she’d heard that Nate had died. She was afraid that once she started she’d never stop.

She certainly wasn’t going to start crying right before she came face-to-face with Dillon Gaynor. She wouldn’t give him that pleasure.

She rolled down the window, put the car in Neutral and stepped onto the wet pavement. The car was on a slight rise, and she couldn’t leave it sitting in the middle of a road, even one as deserted as this.

Pushing a car onto the shoulder was a lot harder than it looked, even with the aid of a slope. And it was just about impossible to steer through the open window. God knows there was no stopping it when it began to roll, picked up speed and knocked her onto her knees on the pavement. She watched it slide off the road, ending up on its side against a copse of trees.

She flinched at the crunching sound. Volvos were strong—they could take a lot of punishment. Even a twelve-year-old one was tougher than a lot of new American cars. She’d get someone to tow it out tomorrow, fix it.

Hell, Dillon lived in an old garage. Maybe someone still worked there, and she’d kill two birds with one stone.

Her watch was an elegant antique, a family heirloom. It needed to be wound every day, having been made long before aquaglow was invented, and it had stopped hours ago. There was no way she could tell what time it was. It had to be after midnight, but that was as close as she could come. She hadn’t seen another car since she’d gotten off on this secondary road that led into the small mill city of Cooperstown. She had a choice—climb down the embankment, crawl into the back seat of her car and wait for morning. The snow had picked up a bit, but one night in below-freezing temperatures wouldn’t kill her.

And maybe she’d wake up in the morning stiff and sore, and think better of her impulsive trip. Maybe she’d rent a safer car, abandon the Volvo and drive straight back home. What did she think she could learn from a man like Dillon Gaynor? A man who always kept his secrets?

That wasn’t going to happen. She’d come too far, worked herself up to face him. She left her second thoughts back in Rhode Island. She wasn’t turning back now.

She’d been heading in the right direction—she was certain of that. Her only choice was to follow the empty road and hope that eventually she’d find what she was looking for. All she had to do was manage the snowy bank and grab her purse from the car without falling again.

In the end it was almost too easy. Her feet were numb, from the cold, from walking. She’d scraped her knee when she’d landed on the hard pavement, and her winter coat was back in Rhode Island, where the weather had been unseasonably balmy. She kept walking, huddled in a thick sweater that had seen better days, plowing forward through the slowly drifting snowflakes.

The building where Nate died sat alone on the edge of the run-down little town. She hadn’t even been able to find Cooperstown, Wisconsin, in the road atlas—it had taken the Internet to find a route. The place was little more than a ghost of an old industrial town, and the building itself looked as if it had once been some kind of factory back when this had been a viable community. Now it simply looked abandoned, and she would have walked on if she hadn’t seen the glimmer of light behind one of the filthy windows. And the sign by the door—Gaynor’s Auto Restoration.

After so many miles, so many hours, she simply stood outside the closed door, afraid to take the last step. She could hear voices, and a moment later the door opened, light and noise spilling out into the night as two men flew forward, locked in an embrace of fury.

She stumbled back, just in time, and the two ended up in the thin layer of snow, one on top as he methodically pounded his fist into the other man’s face with a casual violence that would have horrified Jamie at any other time. She hadn’t seen anyone hit someone in twelve years. And it had been the same man administering the beating. She knew it with a kind of sick fear.

He dropped the man back on the ground and rose. She could see blood on his fists, and he wiped them casually against his jeans. “Don’t come back,” he said.

It was the same voice. Huskier, but the same. Nate had been beaten to death, beyond recognition, in this very building. Maybe by those very hands.

She stayed in the shadows, silent, motionless, horrified. He saw her, anyway, his head jerking up as he peered into the darkness.

“Who’s there?”

He wasn’t alone. The small figure of a man stood in the doorway, blocking the light from spreading out onto the little tableau. The man on the ground was groaning, cursing, but smart enough not to move. And Jamie wondered if she had time to run.

She wasn’t going to, she reminded herself. She had a bad habit of running from trouble, and this was what she’d been determined to face.

She stepped out of the shadows, moving up to him. He wouldn’t know who she was, of course. He’d barely been aware of her back then, and he hadn’t seen her since that night so long ago, when both their lives had changed. She’d be the last person he expected to show up on his doorstep.

She was right about one thing. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He knew exactly who she was. It was one shock on top of another, and she came out with the only answer she could muster. “I’m looking for answers.”

“Nate’s dead,” Dillon said, his voice as flat and expressionless as his eyes.

“I know that. I want to know why.”

He said nothing. He looked just as she remembered, and yet nothing like it at all. He stood with the light behind him, and she couldn’t see his face. She could only see the blood on his hands.

“Go home, Jamie,” he said after a long moment. “Go back to your safe little boarding-school world. There’s nothing for you here.”

She didn’t even stop to wonder how he knew that she taught in a boarding school. “I can’t. I promised my mother. We need answers.”

“Your mother,” Dillon said with a throaty laugh. “I should have known the Duchess would have something to do with this. I don’t give a shit what you and your goddamned mother want, I only care what I want. And that is for you to get in your car and get your scrawny little ass out of here before I lose my temper. I’m already in a bad mood, and you should remember that I’m not very nice when I’m in a bad mood.”

The notion was so absurd she found she could laugh. “You’re never very nice,” she said.

“True enough.” He glanced past her. “Where’s your car?”

“Broken down somewhere.”

“And I’m supposed to rescue you?”

“Aw, Dillon!” The man behind him spoke. “Let the poor girl in out of the cold. You’re scaring her.”

“Easy enough to do,” he said carelessly.

“C’mon, man. We’re finished our game, anyway. We can’t play two-handed, and I don’t think Tomas is going to be in any shape to play cards for a while.” He stepped out into the alleyway, a short, skinny little man, smaller than her own average height. He probably wouldn’t weigh more than one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. Less than she did. If there was one thing she didn’t possess, it was a scrawny ass.

“I’m Mouser,” he said. “And your name’s Janie?”

“Jamie,” Dillon corrected. “Jamie Kincaid. Nate’s sister.”

Mouser took an instinctive step back from her, looking rattled. “I didn’t know he had any sisters. I thought he hatched from a snake’s egg.”

“Cousin,” she said, startled. “We were brought up together.”

“Then you knew what he was like,” Mouser said, nodding. “Just ignore Dillon. He gets like this when someone cheats at cards, especially when they do it badly. It insults his intelligence. That’s why we’ve got Tomas over there in the mud. He’s not going to make you stand out here in the alleyway and freeze to death.”

“Who says?” But with that caustic remark Dillon moved back inside. Leaving the door open behind him.

“That’s as close to an invitation as you’re gonna get,” Mouser said. “Better get moving before he changes his mind and locks us both out in the snow.”

The room beyond the door was hot and smoky, and Mouser closed the door behind her, shutting out the cold. Shutting off escape.

The place was a mess. They’d been playing poker around an old table, and chips and cards lay scattered on the floor. Two chairs were overturned, bottles of beer lay spilled on the floor, and Dillon stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette and looking at her out of hooded eyes.

She stifled a cough. The room was a sty, but what else would she expect of someone like him?

“So you’re Nate’s sister,” Mouser said, getting a better look at her in the smoky light. “Not much of a resemblance, is there?”

“Cousin,” she corrected him again. “We were just brought up together. And I’m adopted.”

“Lucky you,” Mouser said obscurely. He glanced up at Dillon. “Maybe I’ll just leave you two together to relive old times.”

“Not likely,” Dillon said.

“Well, then, to work out your differences. Be nice to her, Killer. It’s not every day you have a pretty waif show up on your doorstep. Be a hero for a change,” Mouser said, his voice stern.

“Jamie’ll tell you that’s not in my nature. Scrape Tomas off the sidewalk on your way, will you? I don’t want any more complications tonight. She’s enough.”

“Will do. But I’m warning you, I expect to find her safe and happy next time I see her,” Mouser said.

“She’ll be safe enough,” he said. “I can’t be responsible for ‘happy.’”

“Funny, that’s not what your women say,” Mouser murmured.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s not one of my women,” Dillon snapped.

“Oh, I noticed,” Mouser said in a cheerful voice.

“I notice everything. Don’t let him browbeat you, Jamie. He’s mostly bark and very little bite.”

That wasn’t what she remembered. But the door closed behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the smoky, trashed room.

He moved then, picking up the overturned chairs on his way to the sink. They were in a kitchen of sorts, with a microwave, a hot plate, a tin sink and an old refrigerator. Which would undoubtedly be filled with beer. The old oak table in the center of the room took up most of the space, and he had to come way too close to her to reach the sink. He made no effort to avoid her, and she had to stumble back, out of his way.

He was washing the blood off his knuckles, and she stared at his hands. They were big hands, strong, with a webbing of little nicks and scars. His knuckles were skinned—it hadn’t just been his victim’s blood. He didn’t seem to react to any pain—he just rinsed the blood off and dried the raw knuckles with a paper towel. He tossed it in the overflowing trash can by the sink, but it missed and floated down to the floor in a lazy, graceful swirl.

He turned then, leaning against the sink to look at her, letting his eyes run from the top of her head to her wet, aching feet.

It was very nice of Mouser to call her a pretty waif. She couldn’t disagree with the waif part, but “pretty” was pushing it. Particularly right now, when she hadn’t slept for two days, wore no makeup, and her pale brown hair straggled around her face. She’d never been Dillon’s type, thank God, even at her best, and at her worst she was definitely safe. If anyone could be safe around Dillon.

“You can spend the night,” he said abruptly. “It’s after three, and I’m not in the mood to haul your car out of a ditch. Tomorrow I’ll get someone to tow it here, I’ll fix it, and you can get the hell out of here.”

“You’ll fix it?” she repeated.

“I’m a grease monkey, remember? I can fix any car. I just don’t happen to have a tow truck. I count on other people to drag them to me.” He opened the fridge, but to her surprise she couldn’t see any beer. They must have drunk it all. “I suppose you came to collect Nate’s stuff. Fine with me—it’s been just taking up room.”

“Then why wouldn’t you send it?”

“Couldn’t be bothered.” He took a carton of milk, opened it and drank.

She wondered what he’d do if she fainted. She was tempted—she couldn’t remember the last time she ate, and after her long, cold walk she was too hot, dizzy, ready to collapse, and he hadn’t even offered her a chair. She should walk to the nearest one and sit, but for some reason she couldn’t move.

She realized he was looking at her again. His eyes were just as cold, just as blue as she remembered. “You look like shit,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He pushed away from the sink. “Come on. I don’t feel like carrying you upstairs if you pass out.”

He was more observant than she realized. There were at least three closed doors leading off the small kitchen. He opened one to reveal a dark, narrow flight of stairs.

He took them two at a time. She hauled herself up with the handrail, slowly, knowing he was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

He didn’t move out of her way when she reached the second floor. He moved to take her arm, and she jerked away from him in sudden panic.

She could feel nothing beneath her—she was falling, and she was going to break her neck on these rickety stairs, and then what would her mother do, and what the hell did she care, and…

He caught her arm and yanked her back onto solid ground. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” he snapped.

He was very strong. Stronger than she remembered. She’d have bruises on her arm.

“You can let go of me now,” she said.

“And have you take a header down the stairs? I don’t think so.” He moved down the hallway, dragging her after him.

The bare lightbulb overhead did little to illuminate their way. The place smelled of gasoline and cooking and all sorts of other smells she didn’t even want to think about. He pushed open a door and pulled the string from overhead. The light didn’t come on.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Stay here.”

At least he let go of her. She stood in the hallway, waiting, while he disappeared behind another door. When he came back he was carrying a sleeping bag and a small lamp. He pushed past her into the room, and in a moment the light came on. He’d plugged it in and set it on the floor next to the mattress that lay there, the only thing in the small, bare, dismal room.

He tossed the sleeping bag on the mattress. “You’ll have to make do with that. The bathroom’s down the hall. You want something to sleep in?”

“I’ll keep my clothes on.”

His smile was cool and fleeting. “I’m sure you will. Go to sleep, Jamie. Tomorrow you’ll be safely on your way home.”

And before she could respond he closed the door, shutting her into the tiny, empty room.

Someone was there, in the huge old building. He knew it without seeing, without hearing. Knew that someone had finally come, to break him free from the stasis that had held him .

Was the newcomer afraid of ghosts? He didn’t want to scare whoever it was. Not yet, at least. First he had to see if they were of any use .

And if they’d help him kill Dillon Gaynor. He’d been waiting too long. It was time for Dillon to pay .