I jogged over to them. There were three uniformed men from KFD and two feds, both from previous crime scenes, Chadworth Sanders Hamilton and E. M. Schultz. There was also a small group of four civilians, Justin and Sonya Tolliverand their two children. The smallest child wore what looked like pajamas with bunny slippers and a blanket wrapped around him. The massive fir tree was dripping wet from a drenching by the fire hose, but offered protection from the falling ash.
I was joining a debriefing in the middle. One of the fire department uniforms was saying, “Preliminary testing indicates that an accelerant was present near the back of the house, probably gasoline.”
I turned my eyes to him, blinking against the dark, my retinas burned by the flame, my mouth firmly shut. These were the bigwigs at this investigation and I didn’t want to get myself thrown off the scene.
He continued, “It’s too early to definitively call it, but I suspect arson.”
“I think that assessment is premature,” Justin said, his voice clipped and precise, sounding like a lawyer, even in his shirtsleeves and damp pants and house shoes. He scrubbed his head with both hands, leaving his hair standing up in tufts, staring at the house with eyes that looked too large, too full of emotions that I couldn’t decipher. “The lawn care company kept supplies under the back deck. I never saw a gasoline can, but it’s possible they left one there.”
“Sir,” the fire investigator started.
“No.” His hands slid down his face, past his nose, which was hooked like Abrams’, nostrils too narrow for his face, a Tolliver feature. “Not until you have something more conclusive than just a hit on gasoline.”
Sonya leaned against Justin, crying softly. He didn’t lift his arm to wrap around her. Instead he dropped his hands from his face and gripped his wife’s shoulders, setting her aside as if she was in the way. There was trouble in this marriage, I thought. And I wondered how much the house had been insured for and if one of them had seen a divorce lawyer recently. And then wondered how I had changed so quickly from churchwoman thoughts to law enforcement thoughts. I’d never have considered such a thing only a few months past.
Justin said, “It could have been electrical. Maybe a short in an outside outlet. And if there was gas under the porch, then the can got hot from the fire. It probably burned and splashed flaming liquid up the walls, right?”
Even I knew Justin was being foolish. He had been present at two shootings and now his house was on fire. He had to sense that he was, perhaps, a target.
“Gasoline doesn’t act like that, sir,” one of the fire department’s uniformed men said gently. “Special effects on TV and movies are often wrong.”
Special Agent Hamilton smirked at Tolliver. So far, my distant cousin had shown no particularly good character traits. I had a feeling that I was not going to like him even if I ever got to know him better.
I looked back at the burning structure just in time to see a partial roof on the back of the house, maybe a porch roof, fall in. The crash shook the ground, jarring up my legs and spine. The embers shot high, the flames finally freed to feed on the air, ravenous, destructive. I knew how that fire felt. If I ever let my bloodlust go, it would feel that way—explosive, ferocious, violent.
Sonya walked away from her husband, closer to the fire, as if mesmerized. Justin followed, the flames reflected off his skin, glowing golden.
Schultz turned, her gaze following the Tollivers’ actions, her face to the fire, her dark skin gleaming. “This house burning like a torch might be a crime of opportunity, a fluke of timing.” Softer, so it didn’t carry, she asked, “Are the Tollivers getting along?” No one replied.
Rick said, “Ingram? Thoughts about this fire?”
I flinched just the tiniest bit, then raised my hands to lower my hood, taking the time to evaluate Rick’s question and think how I wanted to say this. “Since Justin Tolliver was at the scenes of both shootings, coincidence, while possible, seems unlikely. Even though there’s a different MO here, there’s a good chance it’s tied to the Holloway crime scene, and the restaurant even if only by copycat or opportunity.”
“How high?” Rick asked.
“I’m not a mathematician,” I said, keeping my words toneless. “This is just common sense, using reason and probability.”
I hoped that was what Rick had wanted to hear. However, if I was right, and killing Justin or Sonya was the objective all along, that meant that Ming, the witches, and Senator Abrams Tolliver could be cut from the possible list of targets. And with no absolute proof that the assailant was a known paranormal creature, the Secret Service and PsyLED both would probably pack up and go home. Until we had a witness, a clear video, or a tissue sample that could be analyzed, therewasno paranormal.
“What can you tell me?” Rick asked me. It was a hint to go read the land.
I pulled my flash from my pocket and nodded to the group. “I’ll check the grounds with the psy-meter. Mr. Tolliver?” I called out. “Your wife needs a hug.” I spun on the grass and left the group before Rick could tell me to mind my own business.
The Tollivers, Justin and Sonya and their children, had a good three acres, which was a large patch of ground this close to inner-city Knoxville and Sequoyah Hills. I stayed out of the way of the fire crews, and under the dripping forest of trees and shrubs on the boundaries of the property. There was a shed in back, with an old flatwater kayak leaning against the wall. It looked recently used, clean, and not covered with yard dust, as it might if it had sat for a while. Beside it, there were a pair of wading boots, a tackle box, and what looked like a fishing rod, broken down into easy-to-carry segments. At the back of the shed, the psy-meter 2.0 showed the telltale spikes at level four. Spikes that led toward the house. I caught Rick’s eye and held up four fingers. I knew he’d see them in the dark. Cat eyes. He gave me a minuscule nod.
I put the expensive device away and got my blanket. It was faded, frayed, an ugly pink thing, but I liked it. It made me feel good about reading the land, as if I brought part of Soulwood with me each time I sat on it.
I stopped several times to try to read the ground, but the fire had woken the plants. Usually when I read flora, I got nothing, because plants were sluggish thinkers, slow to recognize anything of humankind other than the fire that came in our wake and the destruction of chain saws. But this was the ancient enemy of life. Fire was the destroyer. All I got from the plants I touched was,Fearfirefearfire,from everything: from the grass, shrubs, the old firs and oaks; the warnings had spread from plant to plant. At the back of the property, behind the shed where I had first found the level four psysitope spikes, I finally found something other than fear sizzling through the flora. I found several spots of death when I placed the blanket down and sat, hidden by shadows and winter-bare flora, put my hands into the earth, digging my fingernails down for a light read.
The plants in a narrow opening between two maples were beginning to die, exactly the way the plants had died at the other house. Standing again, I traced the passage of death. Sliding into the dark undergrowth between the trees, I switched off the flash. Tucking my coat under me, I sat in the shadows and placed my hands flat on the ground, digging my fingertips into the soil beneath. The roots were dead. Here was the spot the assassin had come in by. I got up and brushed my hands off. Using the flash, I followed the trail back through the woods, along a rivulet creek that fed the Tennessee River, to a tertiary road, where I lost the trail of dead plants. Tracking my way back, I fingered the plants, tearing off leaves and small stems and digging out rootlets. They looked and felt dead, but also smelled, very faintly, burned. Had I missed the scent at the Holloways’? It had been much colder that night. I had been exhausted. Hungry. It was possible I missed something.
Back at the house, standing in the overhang of trees, I studied the yard, where I’d felt a second patch of dead. It was near the garage, where the Tollivers seemed to park their cars. I needed to go back to the Holloways’ and smell the plants at the first crime scene.
Rick caught my eye across the lawn and I nodded slowly,hoping he understood what I was saying, that it was the same attacker. He nodded back curtly and gestured me over. I made my way along the edge of the property back to the small group. “So,” I asked, “gas?”
“Yes and no,” said a man in a fire department uniform and a winter coat. “Gasoline was recovered from the gas can under the porch, but the can was below the worst of the heat and didn’t explode. Didn’t contribute to the fire at all. From the way the fire started—on both stories at the same time—and the way it spread—inward from both levels and fast—I’d say the structure was targeted with a flamethrower, but we didn’t get a hit on known accelerants except the gasoline. If the sprinkler system hadn’t come on, some of the family, particularly the kids, might not have gotten out alive. The fire ate right through their rooms.”
Sonya Tolliver sobbed, gathered her children close, and herded them toward a big SUV. She opened the door with the keypad and climbed in with the children, shutting the door on the fire and the unwelcome information. Her husband looked us over and then fled after his family.
