Flash Point. Metsy Hingle
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“Well, you’re damn lucky I waited,” he informed her, his Mississippi drawl even thicker due to the liquor. “Another two minutes and I’d have been gone.”
“Then I guess it’s fortunate that I showed up when I did.” Following his lead, she opened the passenger door of the car and nearly gagged on the stench of whiskey and stale cigars as she slid inside. Still, she forced herself to pull the car door closed, shutting out the noise from the street musicians and revelers who’d flocked to New Orleans’ French Quarter to celebrate Halloween.
“Fortunate is right, missy. I’m a busy man,” he said, puffing up his chest and straining the buttons on his dated suit coat. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than to wait around for the likes of you.”
Better things like drowning in a bottle of whiskey or slithering into the nearest casino, she thought, even more repulsed by the man now than she’d been when he’d first sought her out six months ago. “Then let’s not waste any more of each other’s time, Doctor. Did you bring the document?”
“Of course I brought it. But first I want to see the money.”
She retrieved the black tote bag that she’d filled with $100,000 in cash. Opening it, she angled it so that the light from the streetlamp fell on its contents. There was no mistaking the lust in the man’s bloodshot brown eyes as he gazed at the money. Like a drug addict about to get his next fix, she thought. But when he reached for the bag, she snapped it closed. “Not so fast, Doctor. First, I want the birth certificate.”
He fumbled inside his coat pocket, drew out an envelope and hesitated. He narrowed his beady eyes. “You know, your daddy sure loved that little girl. Used to call her his princess. I imagine he’d have paid a lot of money to find out she didn’t die in that fire after all.”
“Unfortunately for you, my father’s dead. And I can assure you I don’t place the same value on her that he did. My one concern is protecting my family’s good name. It’s the only reason I agreed to pay you for that birth certificate.”
He tapped the envelope against his palm, gave her a measuring look. “I imagine your sister would be willing to pay a great deal to learn who her daddy was. Of course, if you was to—”
“I don’t have a sister,” she snapped. Fury caused her vision to blur for a moment before she regained control of herself. More calmly she said, “And I suggest you quit trying to shake me down for more money, Doctor. Otherwise, I might reconsider whether or not I’ve made a mistake by not going to the police and telling them about your offer.”
“Now, hang on a second,” he said, alarm in his voice.
“There’s no need to go dragging the police into a little business transaction between friends.”
“You and I are not friends, Doctor. And I doubt that the police would see your proposal as a business transaction,” she said, toying with him and enjoying the fact that she was making him nervous.
“We had a deal and it’s too late for you to try to back out now,” he countered, and shoved the envelope at her.
She took the envelope. And while he pounced on the bag of cash and began pawing through the stacks of bills, she withdrew the faded sheet of paper from the envelope. An icy-cold rage whipped through her as she stared at the form, read the names and examined the signatures. For a moment she was eight years old again and listening at the door as her father told her mother he was leaving them. She crushed the paper in her fist. Reaching deep down inside of herself, she channeled her anger, just as she had that night all those years ago, and focused on what had to be done. “You’re sure this is the only copy?”
“What?” He glanced up briefly. “Yeah, it’s the only one,” he muttered and went back to counting the cash.
She tucked the envelope and crumpled paper inside her purse and reached for the gun. “Then I guess this is goodbye, Doctor,” she said politely and calmly pulled the trigger.
One
“No,” Kelly Santos cried out as flames went up all around her. Bright orange tongues of fire licked at the curtains and raced greedily up the walls, devouring the rose-patterned paper. Terrified, Kelly turned in a circle, searching for a means of escape. But everywhere she looked there were more flames shooting up around her.
Surrounding her.
Trapping her.
She struggled to see past the blaze and to find her way out of the inferno. But the fire was so hot, the smoke too thick. Her eyes stung from the heat. Tears streamed down her cheeks. As the smoke filled the room, she began to cough. Her lungs burned, felt as though they would burst in her chest at any moment.
Have to get out. Have to get out.
Scarcely able to breathe now, she tried waving the smoke away from her face so she could get her bearings. And then she saw the door. Her heart leapt in her chest—part relief, part panic—as she noted the burning beam that dangled overhead in the space between her and the door. Terrified that the beam would collapse on top of her, Kelly was afraid to move, yet afraid to stay still.
Suddenly an explosion ripped through another section of the house and, without thinking, she raced toward the door. The moment she reached it, she grabbed the doorknob.
She screamed as the hot metal scorched her fingers, burning her flesh. Sobbing, she fell to the floor, cradling her throbbing hand. As she lay there, the burning beam came crashing down to the floor and landed in the spot where she’d stood only seconds earlier. Kelly screamed again. Petrified and in pain, she crawled over to a corner of the room and pressed her body against the wall. “Tell Nana where you are! Come to Nana,” she heard a familiar voice call, first by the door, then by the window. Paralyzed with fear, she said nothing. And as the flames ravaged the room, filling it with smoke and depleting her oxygen, she started to choke.
Coughing violently, Kelly jerked awake. Still unable to breathe, she sat up in bed and continued to struggle for air for several moments longer. Pressing a hand to her chest, she dragged air into her lungs. It was just a bad dream, she told herself as she tried to shake off the vividness of being trapped in the fire, of being overcome by the smoke and the heat. With unsteady fingers, she brushed the hair away from her face, discovered her brow damp with perspiration.
“Just a dream,” she murmured aloud. Not real. There were no flames, no stench of burning wood and fabric and smoke. There was no fire. Just a dream. Unwilling to delve into what might have triggered the old nightmare this time, Kelly closed her eyes and drew in one breath, then another. She followed the ritual she’d used since childhood to rid herself of the aftereffects of the nightmares and visions that had plagued her most of her life. Continuing to focus on her breathing, Kelly attempted to erase from her mind all traces of the dream by replacing the fire and smoke with the soothing images of blue skies, white sandy beaches and a rolling surf.
As her breathing steadied, she could almost hear the surf rushing to the shore, could smell the saltwater in the air, could feel the cool breeze on her cheek. Finally, Kelly opened her eyes. She blinked once, twice and a third time as she adjusted her eyes to the darkness of the room. Scanning her surroundings, she noted the drawn drapes, could make out the table with her camera equipment atop it, her suitcase just inside the door. A glance at the illuminated clock on the bedside table read a few minutes past ten. Morning or night? she wondered, and then she remembered.
New Orleans.
She was in New Orleans. Suddenly all the events of the past few days came rushing back. Returning from the month-long photo shoot in Europe to find a message on her answering machine from the Mother Superior, telling her that Sister Grace was dead. The message had been more than two weeks old.
Two weeks.
Sinking back against the pillows, Kelly closed her eyes again. Silent tears slid down her cheeks. They’d buried the only person in the world who had ever cared about her and she hadn’t even managed