“Fuck.” He pressed his burnt palm into his mouth, licking at the pain like an animal would.
The first death was Glover’s fault. Glover deserved to die for making him so enraged he’d forgotten his protocol for setting the fire that accidently killed that poor homeless fart. Always before he’d been meticulous. That was why Glover couldn’t catch him. But the game had to end. He pocketed his lighter.
If only Noah had gone up in smoke. A just death for a death.
Carly was a whole different matter. He couldn’t kill her. But he couldn’t let her go either.
But maybe he could make what happen to her look like Glover’s fault.
He paused. If she died in a fire, just like all the others they thought Glover set, in every detail, the police might conclude that Glover had killed the only eyewitness to his suicide attempt.
“Won’t work.” He spoke aloud to keep from spooking himself. He needed to think it through.
What could she know that would make Glover look guiltier?
Pillow talk. Glover had bragged to her that he’d gotten away with arson before he was arrested. Now she was a liability.
No. He needed something less complicated.
Easier if she simply disappeared. A corpse found in a fire without ID could take weeks, months to identify. Glover might already be convicted.
Of course, the disappearance of a celebrity would draw lots of attention. If and when they did identify her, Glover would naturally be a suspect.
He smiled. He had photos of them together. Taken with his cell phone.
He could send them to the police, anonymously. After a couple of weeks. Nudge the arson investigators. They might not be able to pin it on Glover, but it would look bad that the woman who saved him had disappeared. And they would have picture proof that he’d been witness tampering before his arrest.
Witness fucking, more like. At least he had them kissing.
The great solid mass of indecision resting on his chest began to lift.
He’d needed to cover his own tracks for the evening.
No one had seen him follow her. He very conspicuously went out the front door five minutes after Carly left by the backdoor. He’d thought he might have to follow her home. But there she was, sitting behind the wheel of her car, looking lost. A whisper in the dark. That’s all it took. And he was behind her wheel.
He’d have Darleen swear he was home from eight o’clock on. She’d say anything if he got her that new motocross bike she wanted. Like a maggot in her head, she couldn’t stop droning on about it every time they watched a competition. He’d be able to buy a hot bike somewhere. He knew a guy.
Alibi done.
Now he just needed to make a few arrangements.
He walked into the family room where he’d left Carly on a folding cot. For a second his heart stopped. She wasn’t there.
He whirled around, afraid to use a light of any kind that might alert someone that the vacant house wasn’t empty tonight.
He walked the perimeter of the room, letting the light from beyond the windows direct his search.
He found her in the kitchen pantry. She scooted herself into it and tried to close the door.
“Stay away from me.” Her voice was coarse with fear.
He wasn’t angry. He was grateful she was still there.
Even so, he hauled her back to the cot and dosed her a second time. Taping her mouth shut so that she had to swallow. She fought him, stronger than he would have thought possible for a tied-up drugged-up woman.
When she finally passed out, he stripped her, no interest in sex now that he had a blaze to plan. He gathered up everything, even her jewelry and shoes. Nothing must be left to make identifying the body easier. He carried it all to his truck and backed it away slowly from the house so as not to draw attention. Coming back after he’d parked on another street, he used an old broom to scatter his tire tracks. Then the impressions of his booties in the dirt of the yard. His handyman truck contained everything he’d needed so far.
Carly’s Mazda was another matter. He’d driven her here and then taken her Mazda and parked it in her own lot, just after midnight. Come morning, if anyone was looking for her, they’d find her car and think she’d come home sometime during the night.
If he had time, tomorrow, he’d use her passkey to check out her place and return all her clothing, jewelry, even handbag and phone. But for now, his schedule was too tight for those details.
The night was so quiet he could hear himself breathing as he drove out of the neighborhood with his lights off.
Three hours. That’s about all the time he’d get to set his plan in motion before the sun rose and the roofie wore off. He didn’t want her to suffer. He was not a cruel man. Or a killer. He had no choice.
Three hours to plan the last best fire of his career.