ACT 4
Peter Loggins was sitting in the living room, watching TV, when he heard something. It
was a faint noise, but sounded almost like the breaking of glass. From where the couch
was, he could lean his head back and look down the hall toward the bedroom. He didn't see
anything. He set the remote on the coffee table and stood, walking down the hall.
He moved quietly, glancing into the bathroom. It was empty. He moved on toward his
bedroom, approaching the doorway cautiously. He stopped in the doorway and look around.
Nothing appeared out of order, but then something caught his eye. He walked across the
floor to the one window. One of the panes of glass had been partially shattered. His eyes
widened and he turned, just in time to see a fist swing at him and darkness close in
around him.
Chase was already halfway up the stairs in his house when the phone began ringing. He
came back down and went to answer it. "Hello?"
"Chase, it's Sam. We know who the killer is."
"Who?"
"Rebecca Nelson's brother. Lee Nelson. James found it mentioned in one of her
obituary's."
"Okay, I'll call August. Call the cops guarding the others and let them know."
Chase hung up and quickly dialed August's number.
Richardson stood holding the phone, listening to the ringing. After eight rings, he hung
up and looked at James. "The guards for Peter Loggin's aren't answering."
"Something's wrong. Come on."
Richardson hung up and followed him down the hall.
Peter blinked as he came to, clearing his eyes. He was sitting in a chair in his bedroom,
hands tied to the arms. Lee Nelson was sitting on the edge of the bed. "Good morning,
Mister Nelson," he said. "And how are we today?"
Peter's jaw felt sore from the punch. "Who are you?"
"I'm the person who's going to deliver justice. The guilty must be punished, and
you, my friend, are one of the guilty. You and your friends."
"We haven't done anything."
"Oh, yes, you have. One year ago you came to the scene of a fire, and you saved
everyone in the building. Everybody but one person. My baby sister. You let her burn. You
let her burn to death."
Peter remembered the incident. "There was nothing we could do," he said. "The flames
were too intense. Nothing we could have done would have saved her."
"But you didn't even try!" he exploded, jumping to his feet. "People said they
could hear her screams from within the flames. Could hear her calling for help, begging
to be saved. And you didn't even try!" He calmed himself. "But now, you'll know what it's
like to be calling for help and have no one save you. You'll know what it's like to burn
in the flames of hell."
James was driving fast, swerving around traffic, sirens blaring loudly. "Right,"
Richardson said, and closed his cell-phone. "That was Chase. Frank Russell and Lisa Mason
are okay. That just leaves Peter as the only one still unaccounted for."
"Let's hope we're not too late."
James sped through a red light. Cross traffic swerved to a stop, horns blaring,
angry motorists shouting. "I think that guy in the Ford gave you the bird," Richardson said.
Peter could only watch as Lee walked around the bedroom, dossing the the place with
gasoline from a large red can with "Fuel" stenciled on the side. He sloshed it up on the
walls, on the bed and curtains, the dresser, desk, bed, everywhere, then set the can.
"Don't go away," he said.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of
alcohol and removing the cork with his teeth. He grabbed a rag from the counter and
stuffed it into the bottle. He searched through the cabinets until he found a box of
matches, took one, and walked back to the bedroom. He stood before Peter. "I really don't
want to be doing this," he said. "But you have pay for what you and your friends did to
my dear sweet Becca."
"We couldn't do anything to save her."
He put a finger to his mouth. "Shhh. Shhh. Don't worry. It will all be over soon."
He started to light the match.
"Can I just say one thing really quick?"
Lee considered for a moment, then said, "Why not? What's on your mind? And don't
plead to live, because it won't help."
"I was just gonna say--" He was on his feet in a flash, slamming into Lee and
knocking him back against the wall. The match fell from Lee's hand, and the bottle
shattered on the floor.
Peter threw himself into Lee repeatedly, throwing him against the wall and pinning
him with the chair. Lee threw a punch and made Peter stumble back, then charged. The two
collided and fell back to the floor. The chair broke under their weight, and Peter felt
the ropes loosen around his wrist. He struggled to get them free, his heart racing. He got
to his feet and turned in time to catch Lee as he charged again, and they fell back onto
the bed.
They grappled for a superior position, and Lee locked his hands around Peter's
throat, choking him. Peter grabbed his wrists and tried to pull them away, but the grip
was too tight. He hit Lee's ears with the open palms of his head. Lee yelled out,
grabbing at his ears, and Peter put one foot against his chest and kicked, throwing him
over the bed. He rolled over and scrambled across the bed and dropped to the floor,
grabbing the neck of the broken bottle.
He heard Lee coming and turned. He threw his arm up to protect himself as Peter
swung the bottle. The sharp jagged edge of the bottle made a gash in his skin. He grabbed
his forearm, screaming in pain. Peter made another swing with the bottle, but Lee
deflected it and grabbed his wrist, twisting it until he dropped the bottle. Still keeping
a grip on Peter's wrist, he turned him around and locked his arms around his neck. Peter
grabbed his wrists, but he was afraid that it was all over. The grip was tight, and he was
already starting to feel lightheaded.
James pulled up to the curb, the tires screeching. They climbed out and hurried up to the
car parked in front of them. They leaned in through the windows. The two plain-clothed
officers were dead. They ran for the house, drawing their guns. James kicked the front
door open with one kick. "Peter Loggins?" he yelled.
"You smell that?"
James nodded. "Gasoline. Be careful."
They came down the hallway toward the bedroom. The smell grew, and they saw the red
gas can sitting near the door. They stepped into the room and saw Peter lying on the
floor. Richardson felt for a pulse as James went to a window that was open. He looked out,
but the side area was empty.
"He's dead," Richardson said, holstering his gun.
James looked down and saw a spot of blood on the window sill. "We got blood here,"
he said. "Our guy's injured."
Richardson stood, gesturing around. "What do you make of this mess?"
James surveyed the scene. "Looks like a struggle to me." He pointed at the broken
chair and tangle of ropes. "He had Loggins tied up, dowsed the room in gasoline"--he
pointed at the broken bottle neck with the rag still sticking out"--made a Molotov to
start the fire from a safe distance. Something happened, they had a struggle, our guy got
injured, probably with that bottle, but he still managed to kill Loggins and get away."
Richardson took out his cell-phone and started dialing. "I'll call the coroner."
With her apartment nothing by embers, Lisa had stayed with Frank the night before. Chase
and August were there as well, having just arrived to inform them of Peter's murder. "I
can't believe this," Frank was saying. "Don't you know who this guy is yet?"
August said, "The detectives helping us identified the suspect. It's Rebecca
Nelson's brother, not her husband."
"Her brother?"
"The detectives reported that there were signs of a struggle at Peter's house,"
Chase said. "They found some blood that doesn't look like it came from Peter, and there's
also a chance to get fingerprints since the house wasn't burned. We need to confirm it is
him, and then we'll be able to nail him."
"If you can find him," Lisa said. "I mean, if he's injured he may disappear for
awhile."
Chase shook his head. "I don't think so. I think this guy has proved his
determination. He's come this far, so he's not likely to give up so easy, especially when
there's just you and Frank left."
"So what's your plan?"
"As soon as we get fingerprint confirmation," August said, "we'll go to his house."
"Chances are he won't be there," Frank said.
"Obviously," Chase said, "but it's the best place to start."
In the forensics lab, Cragmeyer handed James a manila folder. "Lee Nelson," he said. "The
prints from the crime scene match his. He's your man."
James thumbed through the paper. "Former NAVY Seal," he said. "Demolitions expert."
Richardson said, "That would explain how he knows how to make car bombs and affect
the wiring."
"Current address is right here in L.A. Let's get an arrest warrant. And call Chase."
They started out. "Thanks, Cragmeyer."
Lee Nelson was sitting on a stool, attending to the cut he had received on his forearm.
The afternoon news was on the television. "Another fire-fighter is dead today, victim of
yet another killing by the elusive criminal some are dubbing the Fire Bug Murderer.
Fireman Peter Loggins was found by police this morning in his home, his neck broken.
Evidence was also found that suggests the killer himself was injured and got away as
quickly as he could, which would explain why this crime scene was not set aflame as the
others were. The Los Angeles Police Department has announced that they have found enough
clues from the recent murder scene to narrow down the suspects, and that they feel
confident they will have him in custody soon."
He turned the TV off and finished with the wound. He placed a bandage over the cut,
which he had already cleaned, then covered it with a small roll of gauze. He was patting
the tape down on it when he heard the sound of a car approaching. He hurried to the window
and looked out. A car was just coming to a stop at the curb, and a black-and-white patrol
unit was parking behind it. He turned as the officers climbed out and started toward the
house.
James knocked on the door. "Mister Nelson? Los Angeles Police Department. We have a
warrant. Open up."
The two officers were standing on the front lawn, hands on their guns.
James knocked again. "Mister Nelson, we have a warrant for your arrest. Open the
door or we'll kick it in."
The front window shattered as something was thrown out. It was a small object,
about the size of a hardback novel. The two officers backed up as it landed on the yard
in front of them. James had already descended the steps and instantly saw what it was.
"Run!" he yelled.
He pulled Richardson back around the porch. The officers turned to flee, but the
bomb went off, throwing them forward through the air and crashing into the side of their
cruiser. It was't a big bomb, but had the power to do just enough damage. James and
Richardson looked around the corner of the porch. "Son of a bitch," James said.
He hurried toward the cops to check them while Richardson stepped back from the
house, covering the front with his gun. James checked for pulses and found them. They were
hurt pretty badly from colliding with the car, but were alive. A car suddenly barreled
down the driveway alongside the house. Richardson fired two shots. The first missed, the
second took out the rear driver's-side window.
As the car turned into the street, James jumped up onto the trunk of the cruiser
and threw himself onto the roof of the car as it sped past. Richardson ran to the curb as
it happened, starring in shock. "Ah, geez. Now I know how August feels." He holstered his
gun as he ran around the car.
James clung to the roof of the car as the car gunned down the road. He heard sirens
behind him and knew Richardson was in pursuit. He was in the middle of the roof, one hand
holding the passenger-side edge of the roof, the other holding the front. Lee fumbled in
the seat next him and raised a gun. James rolled away as the shots ripped through the roof,
inches from his head.
Lee tried to keep the car on the road with one hand. He emptied the gun through
the roof and threw it aside in frustration, putting both hands back on the wheel. He hung
a corner tightly, turning into traffic. James hung on as the car weaved around the other
vehicles. As he drove, Lee leaned forward and looked up, trying to see who was on the
roof. Frustrated at not being able to see, he tapped the brakes.
James was thrown forward and crashed onto the hood. Through the windshield, Lee
laughed. James held onto the back edge of the hood. The car raced forward, weaving around
more vehicles, threatening to throw James off first one side, then the other.
Lee turned into an alley. James bounced on the hood as the car bumped over breaks
in the pavement. He looked over his shoulder, trying to see what was ahead. Through the
front and rear windshield, he could see Richardson enter the alley. Lee tapped the brake
and spun the wheel. The car swerved sideways at the end of the alley, and James was
thrown free, crashing into a pile of garbage bags and old dirty bed mattresses.
He rolled back onto the ground as the car sped off again, tires squeeling. He got
to his feet as Richardson pulled up and climbed out, hurrying over. "Damn, you've got
some guts, man. You okay?"
"Yeah," James said, watching the escaping car. "I'm fine."
Moments later, an ambulance was on the scene, paramedics checking out the two officers
who had been injured in the explosion. James and Richardson were walking around inside
the modest-sized single-story home. The rooms were sparse. James was looking at a picture
of Lee and Rebecca Nelson when he heard his named being called. He hung the frame back on
the hook and walked down the hall toward the back of the house.
He found Richardson in the rear bedroom. "Hit the big time, hu?" The tabletop was
scattered with first aid materials--Band Aides, rolls of gauze, scissors, tape--and
various bomb-making equipment. A small television sat on a stand nearby. James turned
around. "Woah."
A series of 8x10 black-and-white photographs were pinned on the wall next to the
door. They stepped closer and looked. Most of them had an X drawn through them, the
pictures of the firemen who had already been killed. Only Frank Russell and Lisa Mason's
pictures remained untouched.
James took out his cell-phone. "I'll call Chase."
That night, Frank Russell's house was dark, quiet. An unmarked patrol car sat outside,
the two officers inside keeping watching. The passenger lifted his walkie-talkie.
"Nothing yet," he said.
The officers never saw the faint flicker of movement near the side of the house.
Lee Nelson walked quietly alongside the house. He paused and looked in through a window.
It was a bedroom, and a huddled form was lying under the covers. He looked around, then
moved on toward the back of the house.
On the back porch, he inserted a small pistol-shaped device into the lock on the
door, squeezed the trigger a few times, and heard the click of the lock opening. He did
the same to the deadbolt, then pushed the door open. It stopped, held three inches ajar
by the security chain. He reached in with a pair of clippers and snapped the chain, then
slipped inside and shut the door behind him.
He set the clippers and the lock-picker down on the table in the kitchen, then
stepped toward the doorway. The living room was empty. The clock over the fireplace
showed that it was just after nine o'clock. He crossed the room for the hallway that lead
to the side of the house. As he approached the bedroom door, he adjusted his gloves. The
door swung open without a sound, and he saw the sleeping form lying in the bed.
His feet fell quietly on the carpeted floor as he moved toward the bed, reaching
into his jacket and pulling out a knife. He turned it over as he reached the bed, and in
a blinding flash, slashed the knife down through the air, stabbing into the sheets and
the form underneath. He had already gotten three stabs in when he realized he hadn't
heard a sound. He pulled the knife out and saw there was no blood on the blade. With his
other hand he whipped the covers back, only to reveal a huddled form of pillows and a wig.
A click.
He stood frozen, the knife still clenched in his fist. He turned slowly. Chase and
August stood in the doorway, their guns aimed at him. "Drop the knife," Chase ordered.
Lee looked at them in surprise. "You're the two other fire-fighters," he said.
August shook his head, pulled one side of his coat back to reveal the badge hooked
to his belt. "Los Angeles Police Department," he said. "You're under arrest. Drop the
knife."
It was a tense standoff, but it wouldn't be hard to predict the outcome if a man
armed with a knife charged two men armed with guns. Lee seemed to be considering his
options, then the knife dropped to the floor.
"Got him?" Chase asked.
"Yeah, I got him," his partner replied.
Chase holstered his gun and took out his handcuffs. "Turn around and place your
hands behind your back."
He did so without protest. Chase put the cuffs on him and read him his rights. Lee
turned around. "You know, detective," he said, "I admit what I was doing was wrong. But
you have to agree that it was understandable. They killed my baby sister."
"No one killed her, Mister Nelson. She died as a result of a massive fire. And
nothing they or anyone else could have done would have saved her. I sympathize with your
lose, but not with what you've done."
And with that Chase took Lee by the arm and lead him out of the room.
James was making himself a peanut butter sandwich at the kitchen counter. He took a drink
of soda and set the can back on the countertop, then went back to spreading peanut butter
over the first slice of bread. Richardson rounded the corner and instantly saw the can
sitting on the tile. "Ah!" he seemed to yell, and hurried forward to grab the can and set
it atop a paper towel. "What were you doing?"
"What?" James asked.
"What were you doing setting a soda can on the countertop?" he asked, rubbing off
the little ring it had left behind. "You don't do that."
"What's the harm?"
"It'll leave a ring."
"It's already gone," James said. "It wouldn't have done any damage."
"You have to careful when using the kitchen." James turned back to his sandwhich,
taking a deep breath and mumbling something. "What was that?" Richardson said, leaning
in.
"What was what?"
"You said something."
"I didn't say anything."
"Yes, you did. You went--" He imitated mumbling under one's breath.
"Okay, okay," James said. "You want to know what I said? Hu? I said, 'To hell with
your rules.' There. You happy?"
"Tell hell with my rules?"
James nodded. "Yeah."
"My rules?"
"Your rules. They suck. I'm sick of them. Every single one of them. 'Clean the
counter, don't leave hairs in the sink, fold the wash clothes, do this, do that, blah
blah blah, yada yada yada. Well you know what? To hell with your rules."
Richardson seemed shocked, not believing what he had heard.
"And another thing," James said, and took the knife he had been using and smeared
the peanut butter on the blade across some of the tiles.
Richardson gasped, grabbing for a wet towel from the sink. As he hurriedly rubbed
it up, James took another glop of peanut butter from the jar with the knife and smeared
across the other end of the counter. Richardson gasped again, and moved to clean the mess
up.
"Live a little, Sam," James said. He held the knife low to the countertop, making
as if he was about to smear more. Richardson was watching, leaning in, as if preparing
to strike at the first sign of more smearing. "Be alive. Be active. Don't be so . . . so
. . . tight-assed."
"I'm am not tight-assed."
"You're ass tight-assed as they come," James said, and moved quickly alongside the
counter, spreading peanut butter along the edge.
Richardson seemed to scream out in anguish. "My counter," he said, and quickly
began scrubbing the mess up with the towel. "Okay, you're in for it now, James. You're in
for it big time."
James put the knife down and opened the refrigerator, taking out a carton of eggs
and flipping the top open. He took one out and held it up. Richardson pointed a finger at
him, standing at the opposite end of the counter. "Don't even, James."
James was smiling, clearly enjoying the torture he was inflicting. Then he dropped
the egg. "Oops," he said innocently. The egg shattered on the ground.
Richardson yelled out. James took another one and dropped it as Richardson came
toward him. "Okay, that's it." He grabbed the bread James had been using and threw it.
James ducked, and the peanut butter helped the slice stick to the front of the
refrigerator. James fell into a heap of laughs.
He moved around the counter as Richardson began grabbing more slices of bread and
throwing them at him. Crumbs flew everywhere. James dropped more eggs. Finally fed up,
Richardson grabbed a small jar from the other kitchen counter and took off the lid.
"Here," he said, and flung the jar forward, covering James's face and torso in flower.
James threw up his arms, but it was no use. He was covered. He rubbed the flower from his
face, coughing. "How do you like that, hu?"
In reply, James set the eggs down, grabbed the syrup bottle from the cabinet, and
began squirting it on the floor.
"Oh my God!" Richardson yelled, and grabbed the next thing he could find. The salt-
and-pepper shakers. He flung them continuously at James.
Trying to avoid the assault of salt and pepper, James dug his hand into the peanut
butter jar and began smearing it all over the cabinets as he made his way around the
kitchen. It was now all-out war as they each used what they could. Salt and pepper,
flower, sugar, cereal, packets of Cream-of-Wheat, chocolate syrup, everything.
When it was over, it looked like the aftermath of an elementary school cafeteria
food fight. James and Richardson were sitting on the stools, leaning forward and resting
their heads on the countertop, hands in their laps, clearly exhausted. "I wish you could
have seen the look on your face when I first smeared that peanut butter on the counter."
Richardson laughed. "I wish you could have seen the look on your face when that
wall of flower was coming your way."
James laughed. "Didn't it feel good, though? To just be able to unleash all that
tight-ass restraint that's been building up in you for God knows how long?"
Richardson seemed to think for a moment, then replied with a tired, "Yeah."
Chase and August watched as the black-and-white cruiser pulled away with Lee Nelson in
the back seat. Two more were parked nearby, their red-and-blue lights flashing on the
front of the houses. A small group of neighbors had gathered. Frank stood with an arm
around Lisa. A cool breeze was picking up, rustling their hair. The detectives walked
back.
"Well," Chase said, "it's all over now. Lee Nelson is on his way to jail and I'm
sure you'll never hear from him again."
Frank said, "I just don't understand why he was doing it. There really was nothing
we could have done to save that girl."
"I know," August said. "But he was just so full of anger and frustration that he
had to blame somebody. And since you and your friends managed to rescue everybody from
that building but her, you guys were the ones."
"How you doing, Lisa?" Chase asked.
She nodded. "I'll be fine."
"She's going to room with me for awhile," Frank said. "Until she can find another
place."
"Well, good luck," Chase said, shaking their hands. "Both of you."
She smiled. "Thanks."
"Thanks, detectives," Frank said. "Have a nice night."
"You, too," August said.
Frank and Lisa watched them go, then turned and started back up the porch. Chase
slipped in behind the wheel and started the car as August closed his door. He put the car
in gear and pulled away from the curb. "What do you think, partner? Tomorrow's Saturday.
Want to get together for a barbecue?"
August laughed. "Oh no. I've been around enough fires for right now."
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