I’m not sure...” Mallory looked around, wondering if she might really be in danger—a different kind of danger. “I, uh, I don’t think so.”
“Are any structures involved in the fire?”
Mallory peered out toward the separate shop building where Dad kept his old Model A. “Not yet. But if the fire spreads, they will be.”
“Can you stay on the line until assistance arrives?”
Mallory thought she heard something out in the woods, perhaps a spooked animal...or something more. “My phone’s breaking up,” she said as she opened the door. “It doesn’t connect in the house, but I’m going inside—I think it’s safer.”
“Firefighters are on their way. The first responders should arrive in about ten minutes. Keep your eye on the fire and if you need to flee the house, call 911 again and give us your location. And if you need to—”
“Hurry!” Mallory yelled as she closed and locked the door. With trembling legs, she ran back upstairs, going into Austin’s old bedroom since it faced west. There, she could observe the growing fire. Positioned in front of her brother’s window, she watched the leaping flames. A forest fire in summer had always been one of her dad’s worst fears about living next to the National Forest. And they’d had numerous evacuation alerts over the years, but she’d never seen anything this close before.
As she stared at the soaring flames, she felt certain this fire had been set by the same person who’d killed Kestra, the same person who had been threatening Mallory. And, although no one in the world believed her, Mallory felt sure that a certain charismatic newscaster from Portland’s Channel Six News was involved. Somehow Brock Dennison had to be behind this. As irrational and unbelievable as it sounded, she just had a feeling.
Oh, she knew it made no sense. She also knew that the Portland police were convinced she was at the very least neurotic—and possibly something much worse. Even the seemingly sympathetic detective, Janice Doyle, had suggested it might even be the result of Mallory’s sleep-deprived mind.
When Mallory had confessed her wild suspicions about Brock to them this morning, their expressions said it all. They clearly thought she was delusional. Detective Snyder hadn’t bothered to hide his disbelief. When she’d shown them the words You’re Next scrawled across her car’s windshield, Detective Snyder had pointed out that lipstick seemed to suggest a woman had written it, and Janice Doyle had mentioned that the shade of lipstick seemed to match what Mallory had been wearing. She’d produced a tube of lip gloss to show them they were wrong, but they’d remained unconvinced.
She realized now how ridiculous she must’ve appeared to them. She’d brought all the notes she’d made during her sleepless night, pieces of information that seemed important, seemed to be pointing at Brock. They’d made so much sense to her. And yet as she’d laid them all out, going into all the details that had been bouncing around in her mind, the detectives had been unimpressed. They had politely listened to her and even recorded much of it, taking pages of notes.
But when it was all said and done they obviously thought she was making it all up. Probably just one more reason for them to suspect she was the murderer.
Detective Snyder had even insinuated as much. “Why are you going to much effort to point us toward Brock Dennison?” he asked as they were finishing up. “He has a perfect alibi. Cut and dried. He was on live TV when Kestra died.”
Janice had placed a hand on Mallory’s shoulder. “It’s obvious you’re exhausted. Take a break and think this all over. It’s possible that your focus on Dennison is related to your breakup with him. Maybe you’re not over it yet.”
Mallory shook her head as she watched the fire outside. She’d felt so convinced that Brock was behind everything—now including this fire—but it really didn’t make sense. How would he even know she was here? She’d never brought him to meet her parents—and this house was off the beaten path. Besides that, why would he start a fire? What would be the point?
She also knew from experience that most forest fires were the result of lightning strikes, sometimes they flared up from old strikes—possibly even a week old—that smoldered until the conditions were right and a breeze stirred the embers up. Did she think Brock had sped over here after doing the eleven o’clock news to light a forest fire—to smoke her out? How would he even know her whereabouts? It was just plain crazy. Maybe she was crazy.
Coming back to her senses, she realized that the fire was moving steadily toward her dad’s shop—the place where he stored gas cans and propane tanks and lots of other inflammable stuff. Dad had always warned them that, in the case of a fire, the shop would probably blow sky-high, taking the house and everything with it. And based on the usual mountain wind currents, the shop was in the line of fire right now.
She couldn’t just remain up here, watching it burn, knowing that it would set the house aflame, as well. She had to do something about it. Digging through Austin’s closet, she found his old letterman jacket and a Dodgers cap. Pulling them on for protection against flying sparks, she raced back downstairs and outside, locating the nearest hose. Her dad was well prepared and always kept long sturdy hoses handy. Just in case.
Blocking out her fears and telling herself that help was on the way, she turned on the faucet and stretched the hose toward the spot fire that had popped up dangerously near the shop, hoping that she could do damage control until the firefighters came—whenever that would be. At the very least, she hoped to keep Dad’s shop from being engulfed. If that caught fire, the other structures would probably be goners, too. With the nozzle fully open, she positioned herself between the growing fire and the outbuildings. Her plan was to soak the ground and saturate the surrounding foliage, and hopefully keep the flames at bay until help arrived.
It felt like ages before she heard the sounds of sirens coming closer. Although she was relieved they’d finally made it, she was agitated that they’d taken so long. And with the fire even closer to the buildings, she wasn’t about to stop her own firefighting efforts. Her single garden hose might not be enough to put out the whole forest fire, but until she was assured the firefighters were doing their job, she was determined to do her part. Besides, it was a distraction from her bigger problems.
It wasn’t long until several sets of flashing lights appeared at the end of her parents’ long driveway. Most of the vehicles parked upwind of the fire area, and a couple parked closer to the house. Soon there were people moving around and yelling back and forth.
Feeling that things were under control, Mallory was about to give up her post. But before she turned off her hose, she spied a new spot fire igniting some dry grass dangerously close to the shop. With hose still in hand, she dashed toward it, spraying the flames. But while she was running, she felt a heavy thud from behind, as if she was being tackled—and then she was pinned facedown on the muddy ground, a heavy figure on top of her.
With the wind knocked out of her, her heart pounded in fear. Certain it was the killer, about to put his knife to her throat, she tried to get enough breath to let out a scream, but all she could do was gasp for air—and pray for help!
Logan McDaniel had spotted the figure near the garage as soon as he’d come down the driveway. The youth was dressed in a letterman jacket and ball cap, and as soon as Logan approached, the kid took off running. Naturally, Logan chased him down, jumped him from behind and pinned him to the ground. Fortunately he was a lightweight and, despite the flailing arms and legs, it wasn’t hard to keep the kid pinned down while Logan got out his flashlight. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use it as a weapon.
Using one arm, he flipped his captive over, shining the light straight into the kid’s face. It wasn’t a guy after all. It was a girl, and as the ball cap fell off, he could see that she had long dark hair.
“Help!” she screamed loudly, as if she thought he was some kind of an assailant. “Let me go! Help!