Dance on Fire: Flash Point

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Part Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part Four

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Author’s Bio

Flash Point:

1) temperature at which vapor from oil, etc., will ignite in air.

2) point at which anger, indignation, etc., becomes uncontrollable.

Prologue

Nathaniel! came a bloodcurdling scream. It was an ancient voice, one Nathaniel knew all too well. It seemed to shake the very foundation of this sad, dilapidated barn which had served as his home. He glanced over toward his new house-guest, but he appeared undisturbed and already fast asleep.

He couldn’t blame the fledgling vampire for being exhausted. Indeed, he was lucky to be alive. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since his transformation and he had already gone through so much life and death. It was best to let him sleep and attempt to gain some semblance of strength. He would definitely require it and so much beyond that for what lay ahead of him. Perhaps then he wouldn’t consider himself lucky at all. Troubled as he was for the man-no-longer, Nathaniel would not and could not change a thing. He had spent anguished centuries hating the monster that he was, but he had made the same terrible choice for Detective Mark Jackson when called to do so. There had been simply too much at stake.

Nathaniel pushed away the layers of old musty blankets and, taking one for himself, climbed to his feet. The sun wasn’t yet strong in the early morning sky, but it was more than enough to destroy him. Using the blanket as a shield, he approached a broken window that had fallen into disrepair and, in fact, been neglected just like the abandoned barn. He glanced outside and then quickly moved away, processing the gathered information from the safety of the second floor shadows.

He had seen nothing of significance. Instead, hearing only the early buzz of the new day, Nathaniel turned and headed down to get a better look. Draping the blanket about him like a cape, he leapt from the loft and nearly fell in a heap amongst the shadows at the foot of a rickety ladder. He needed his sleep, too, in order to regain everything he had sacrificed during the night, which had nearly been his own life.

Rising to his feet, he turned toward the place in the barn where he and Mark had left two sabers embedded through the wall. Vincent, the great beast, was on the other side of that wall, the two blades piercing his horrid flesh and pinning him there to await a terrible end.

Only, there was nothing there where the scarred blades should have been poking through.

Nathaniel felt something inside him sink into the pit of his very bowels, as if it were still possible to feel such things, and he absently dropped the blanket. With little regard for his own safety, he ran to the spot, literally throwing himself upon the wall. It shuddered as if it might give away, but didn’t. Frantically, he searched, willing his vision to penetrate the many cracks in the old boards and beams, but unable to see anything except the outside world.

As if sensing the presence of undead flesh, the sunlight—like tiny yet powerful laser-beams—prodded him, singeing whatever flesh they happened upon. Skin snapped and cracked open, revealing gray meat; hairs fluttered into tiny plumes and floated off into the morning air.

By the time that Nathaniel realized what was happening to him, he was already in awful shape. He winced at the pain and the smell of himself coming undone, but didn’t immediately retreat to safety. Numb to the destruction, he worried about more devastating concerns. His thoughts quickly turned to Barbara, Michael and their children, not to mention Vanessa and Mark, who was conceivably still oblivious above him in the loft.

Ultimately, he did retreat, but not for self-preservation. He was still hunting for Vincent.

Nathaniel could pick up no trace of Vincent’s presence. He could only smell the horrible odor of his own flesh burning about him. He moved right and left, still frantically looking for any sign of the other vampire, yet finding none.

Eventually, Nathaniel’s panic led him to another neglected window. It was covered in thick cobwebs, but not enough to keep him from seeing the sign that tore into him far worse than any measure of sunlight.

In the clearing, which had once stood as a driveway to the old barn but was now overrun with weeds and dead tree branches, lay the US Calvary Sabers. They had been cast aside. Nathaniel threw himself upon the window frame, letting a wave of sheer horror wash over him. The stained and filthy glass cracked, but he took little notice of it.

There was no sign of Vincent.

How he had managed to get free, Nathaniel didn’t know. He only knew that he was. It had taken the combined strength of many to subdue him, but apparently it wasn’t enough to slay him. Perhaps the vampire couldn’t be destroyed, and there was nothing standing in his way. He would kill them all, to be sure. He would avenge himself upon each and every one of them.

And he would savor doing it.

Nathaniel awoke with a start, panting like he had never done before. He studied his surroundings. He wasn’t in the loft of some abandoned barn, but in his meager room far away from Kingsburg. It was no longer the day he saw to it that the great beast was destroyed forever, but five years later. He sighed, long and slow, collecting himself.

It had been five long years since his last nightmare. Why was he suddenly having one now?

"Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY,’ says the Lord. ‘BUT IF YOUR ENEMY IS HUNGRY, FEED HIM, AND IF HE IS THIRSTY, GIVE HIM A DRINK; FOR IN SO DOING YOU WILL HEAP BURNING COALS UPON HIS HEAD.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good."

Romans 12:19-21

New American Standard

Part One:

Dry embers re-ignite

Chapter One

Good morning, Police Chief Michael Lopez greeted Dispatcher Susan Reynolds. He exchanged her playful salute with one of his own as he closed the door behind him that took him from the lobby of the Kingsburg Police Department into what he liked to refer to as the inner sanctum. It was playful for two reasons: first, one never saluted a superior officer while indoors; second, she liked to hold it at a dramatic angle and snap it off as if she were fly-fishing.

Michael took his time walking the hallway and then turned right to get to his office. It had become his practice to never be in a hurry just in case someone might need to speak with him. Sometimes just the way an officer hovered or nervously glanced his direction spoke volumes.

He exchanged a few absent waves and a good morning or two and decided that he wasn’t currently needed, so he opened his office door and headed right in. It hadn’t been until year two that he felt comfortable enough with Chief O’ Donnell’s memory that he reorganized the office. The desk now sat on the southwest side, facing the door. It was relatively clutter-free. Behind it sat a leather chair and an immense bookshelf filled with procedurals, awards and a small collection of biographies ranging from law enforcement to sports celebrities. Across the desk sat two chairs for guests. Smaller faux oak shelving units adorned the north wall. These contained training manuals, textbooks and more procedurals. Several decorative picture frames about the room were unchanged from the day Michael had moved in some five years before.

The east wall was now the home to the two US 1860 Calvary Sabers and their steel scabbards. They had only been taken down from their perches once that the Chief knew of. He had wondered what a DNA analysis of the two of them might reveal, although he never attempted to find out. He had known on the surface what a technician was sure to find there, the result of which would have been simply a whole bunch of additional questions and very few answers.

At least none that a curious technician would have been the least bit satisfied with. Sometimes it was better to let sleeping dogs lie, or beasts, as it were.

He set his brown briefcase down on the thinly carpeted floor and quickly sat down in the large and very comfortable leather chair. He pulled off his iPhone holder that was clipped on his duty belt and set it on the desk. Next, he removed his Glock 22 which he carried wherever he went, even to church, and set it inside the top right hand drawer. Thankfully, it had never been fired in action other than at the range.

He reached up to his left ear and readjusted the Jawbone wireless device which enabled him to answer all of his calls hands-free. Nowadays, thanks in no small part to the 2008 cell phone law, every fourth person had one. Now, if we could only get the first three to do so as well, he always thought, considering the fact that most people continued to seemingly disregard the law, and law enforcement seemed powerless to do much about it due to budget constraints.

To his right, Michael took his wireless mouse in his hand and brought his Sony laptop out of sleep mode. He didn’t need to take his laptop home with him every night, not because he had no work to do, but because he could easily connect to it from home via his personal laptop that sat in the north-east corner of his master bedroom. The first task he began was connecting to the internet to check his e-mail. He had checked his mail the night before, only to find nothing new except spam; although his wasn’t the busiest e-mail address in the world, it was the first thing that he did to begin his day. One never knew when something important came through.

As soon as his Hotmail account had downloaded, something three mails down in his inbox jumped to his attention. The width of the preview wasn’t long enough to see the entire message, but he understood the gist of it.

NathanielL has sent you a message on Faceb...

Michael felt neither glee nor concern. It was a feeling of interest, to be sure. Without pause, he opened another window and logged into his Facebook account. As it downloaded, he took a glance toward the open door and into the hallway beyond. He felt a pang of guilt as he waited. All but the cadets and Community Service Officers had access to the internet in the police department, and yes, he would be upset to find that his officers and detectives spent department time and resources fooling around on networking sites such as Facebook, Twitter, or even the new Google Plus, just as he was doing now. He continued anyway.

When the page came up, a snapshot of him, Barbara, Jerod, Robbie and Rebekah posing merrily before Snow White’s castle at Disneyland taken this past Christmas stared back at him. He couldn’t look at the photo enough times. It was a ten month old picture, and although the twins looked as if they were a full two years older by now and Jerod had begun shaving, he loved it because it was a beautiful time that he didn’t want to take for granted.

He moved his mouse to the top left corner of the page and opened the new message. The tiny photo at the corner of the message wasn’t a face but a vista of what appeared to be a tranquil water garden somewhere. He guessed what it was because he had visited it once before, although then it had been at nighttime, and it had been a rushed visit. He noted the time of the message. It had been sent in the middle of the night.

Michael, how is everybody? I trust all are well. I am well. I still struggle at times with demons, as you well know, but for the most part things are going well for me here. Tell Barbara to continue praying. Her prayers have been extremely effectual. It takes me forever to use this contraption, but I have the time. That is a joke. Was it amusing? How is the town? Quiet? I hope so. How is Mark doing? I fear his relationship with Vanessa cannot stand, but I would not want him to know about this. What of their child? Thank you for the photographs that Barbara sent to me. They just arrived. I believe that I was the one who asked for a remote location, is that right? Another joke. The photographs are glorious to behold and I do so often. Jerod reminds me of you. Do I detect a shadow of growth on the young man’s face? It is very faint, but please do not tell him that I said this. Tell him I cannot even look upon his face by candlelight because his dark beard blinds me. Joke #3. How do the young ones like school? I am particularly intrigued to hear how they do there. They have such spirit, those two. I do not wish to take up too much of your time. The monks tease me that I take so long at the computer. They say that they could rewrite whole books of the Bible by dipping a feather into an inkwell and writing on parchment before I could but answer one tiny e-mail. They are extremely fortunate that I do not believe in shedding human blood or else they would not be so cruel to me. Joke #4. Very well, my friend. Blessings to both you and your family. Nathaniel L.

Joke number 5, Michael thought as he reread the message one last time before closing it and logging out of the Facebook page. Nathaniel used an additional L at the end of his user name as if his full name had been Nathaniel Lopez and he was their eldest child and away at college. Michael shook his head with a grin as he closed down the internet and reached for some police reports and duty logs that needed his approval and final signatures. He planned to reply to the message before he went home for the day. He had time.

After all, it was 8:30 am and the vampire wouldn’t be up for another thirteen hours or so.

Chapter Two

Steve Rosen involuntarily sighed as he rolled over onto his right shoulder. Absently, he reached back and redistributed the sheet, embedded blanket, and bedspread above that. He didn’t open his heavy eyelids or even awaken. His subconscious mind didn’t know the time, but had the sense that it was still far too early to be putting an end to his sleep for the morning. He had the sense of something else as well: somewhere close by someone was sobbing. A moment or two passed by, and by then, with the absence of any further noise to distract it, fell back into a deep sleep.

An hour and a half later, Steve rolled over once again, and this time his eyes fluttered open, signifying the beginning of the end. He was on his back now. He stared up at the plain white ceiling while he cleared the thick cobwebs from his sleepy head. He yawned long and loudly, stretching his arms out as he did so. Angie was no longer in bed so there was no real danger of waking her with his movements. The smell of coffee was thick and rich in his nostrils. He rubbed his eyes and yawned for the second time while the aroma attempted to crawl down his throat towards his stomach, as if that might do it.

Today was that day, he knew. He wondered how Angie was handling it. It wasn’t as if it had been their first one. They had been through four others. He frowned, deeply rubbing his scalp as he contemplated how it might go. There was simply no telling how the day might play out. He also knew that he might be considered damned either way. Say nothing and he’d run the risk of appearing as an insensitive, forgetting bastard. Acknowledge the day and its significance too much, and he might be an irritating and loathsome creep who just couldn’t leave well enough alone but had to tear open old scabs and pour salt into deep and terrible wounds.

It wasn’t as if Angie were the only one heartsick about the whole thing. He had feelings, too. He sighed. If his once happy-go lucky and kooky wife was ever going to be her old self again, he would have to do his part getting her there. After all of this time, one had to wonder whether she ever would. With that thought, he threw back the covers and rolled carefully out of bed.

Good morning, Steve greeted his wife as he entered the kitchen.

She was sitting at their tiny kitchenette, absently stirring her coffee and watching the movement of it intently. He was reminded of the line in the Carly Simon song, You’re so vain, concerning clouds in coffee. That had been some of the stuff that she used to listen to all of the time. She rarely listened to music anymore. He wondered next—if there were clouds to be seen there was his wife looking down through them or up into the face of God.

Good morning, Angie returned his greeting with one of her own. It was weak, but it was there. How did you sleep?

Not bad. He walked over to the counter where the coffee maker sat. He applied two spoons of Sweet N Low to his favorite mug, but no creamer. The mug was getting pretty tired but it wasn’t likely that he might easily replace it. The mug celebrated the 2008 NCAA men’s baseball National Championship for the Fresno State Bulldogs. The color was now more orange than red, but he planned to use it until it no longer held coffee.

Good.

He carried the mug over to the table and sat across from his wife. I woke up a few times, I think.

It was pretty cold last night, Angie added, guessing what might have kept him up.

Yeah, he answered. But you know me. It usually doesn’t affect me much at the beginning of winter. We’ll see what it’s like in three more months.

Well, we’re not as young as we used to be.

Yep. That’s true. Now he was the one staring into clouds. It wasn’t exactly the conversation that he thought he might be having. At least it was civil.

Maybe I’ll change the comforter to something a little thicker.

Okay.

They sat mostly in silence for the next half hour or so. Ultimately, Angie excused herself and headed off down the hall to get ready for work. She volunteered at one of the many thrift shops in town. It paid nothing, but made her feel immensely appreciated and gave her an opportunity to help others, which she needed desperately. Besides, they didn’t need the money. What they got from the sale of Steve’s share of his company, plus residual benefits was plenty to keep them living the way they wanted. It was a simple life, growing simpler by the day.

Another thirty minutes later and Angie was on her way. She poured herself another cup of coffee, this time in a travel mug, kissed Steve lightly on the top of his head and headed out. The store was five blocks away so she didn’t take the PT Cruiser, instead choosing to walk.

The morning was cold and dreary, and the low sky was blanketed by thick fog. Angie paid no attention to it. This was life on the central coast, and it was where they had chosen to live. Here, it was clearly fall while in the San Joaquin Valley, where they were originally from, it was no doubt still quite warm and giving no indication of the season yet to come.

Steve watched as she made her way down the street and eventually turned from the living room window when she left his field of vision. He made his way back to the table and sat down to finish his coffee. Angie’s vacated chair was in need of being pushed back under the table, but he didn’t think to do so. Instead, he stared at the empty space between the front of the table and the back of the chair, and found himself wishing that she were still sitting there with him. He longed for that. He wanted to talk about the days of their youth without dwelling upon sadness.

Hell! They weren’t too old to be beyond making new memories; to laugh, to sing, to dance. Yet, in so many ways, not only was he sitting at the kitchen table alone, but living in Morro Bay, California alone, as well.

***

By the time Angie arrived at the store there was a fairly large crowd of people squeezing into the tiny building. Morro Bay Boulevard was a main thoroughfare, and the store always enjoyed a good share of foot traffic from both regulars as well as tourists. She recognized many of the patrons by name as she opened the glass door and entered.

Good morning, everyone. Buenos dias.

Buenos dias, Señora, said one tiny middle-aged Hispanic woman, her three small children in tow. Cómo estás?

Bien, Carmen. Gracias. Angie answered in her rudimentary Spanish. She wasn’t exactly being truthful, but she told the woman that she was doing well. Y sus niños? She laid her hands upon the knees of her blue jeans and looked into the eyes of the children. Two of them stood their ground, but the youngest hid behind her mother’s dress.

Aye, Maria! The woman shook her head as she followed after the girl. Bien, bien. She addressed the two boys. Carlos, Juanito? Que dice?

Buenos dias. They sang in unison with wide bashful grins.

Angie reached out quickly for their cheeks before each could get away. She caught both. Que hermoso! she teased. How handsome. Carmen Villarreal smiled proudly.

Angie greeted two other ladies that she knew from their regular visits, and another that she didn’t know, with a friendly smile. She didn’t see anyone else who worked in the store until she got halfway down the length of the extremely narrow but long building.

Hello, Louise, she said as she found the retired school teacher hanging newly donated men’s shirts. The shirts were oddly colored although no doubt not nearly as bright as they had been fifteen years earlier when new.

Oh, good. The woman turned and sighed. I was afraid I might be working alone this morning.

Where’s Summer? Angie asked, although not particularly surprised to see that the flaky drop-out teenage mom twice over had skipped out on them. She was good for missing one day a week, but with volunteers hard to come by, the ladies kept the complaining down to a minimum.

"Who knows? Of course she didn’t call! She’s probably still asleep. Where is the question?"

Lou!

She’s probably working on baby number three.

Louise, you’re horrible! Angie said playfully, giving her friend a gentle push on the arm. Simply horrible!

What? she asked, feigning ignorance.

By the time the afternoon had rolled around, the crowd had whittled down to just a straggler or two. The work at the back of the store remained steady, however. Angie had helped offload two pickups with several hampers of children’s clothing; a garbage bag of children’s books that were like gold to the local doctor’s office, day care and preschool; and several plastic bags holding more ancient men’s casual shirts. She even had to take possession of an old television that had been dropped off illegally the one time that she had turned her back.

The store closed at four-thirty, but Angie usually didn’t stay that long. The latest that she ever worked on the busiest of days, which this definitely wasn’t, was 2:00 pm. Today, she found herself continuing to catalogue, price and organize well past this time. She did so quietly, never once glancing up at the large analogue clock that hung on the north wall. It was priced for sale, but nobody ever inquired about it.

Angie, darling, came a voice from behind, somewhat startling her. Are you planning on staying the night or what?

Angie glanced up at the woman and smiled as she allowed the words to play inside her head for a while. The older woman looked down inquisitively upon her as she sat on the dingy linoleum flooring, Native Indian-style, stacking a share of the children’s books that they had received for the store. The woman’s hairspray had begun to lose its grip and allow her short gray hair to do what it liked.

No, Angie told her. I’m going to work a bit longer before I go. She turned from the woman and looked back to the task at hand.

Oh? Louise stepped back and leaned against the rack of blouses to her right. Is it trouble at home?

No, she answered without looking up. Don’t be silly. Steve can survive without me for a few hours. It’s not as if he’s an invalid, you know!

No trouble, huh? Sounds like a recipe for some, if you ask me.

Angie shoved the book that she held in her hands forcefully into place on the bottom of the bookshelf and quickly looked up. It was clear that words were cueing up and she was preparing to let them fly.

Louise held her hands up and interrupted her friend before she could do so. I know, I know. You didn’t ask me. But listen, dear. I took this job after retiring because I love helping people, and because Richard’s gone. If he were still here, God rest his soul, I would still be here, but it would be a lot less than the thirty hours I’m currently putting in.

Listen, Lou, Angie attempted to interrupt.

Don’t ‘listen, Lou’, me! she said, no longer leaning upon the rack but standing firmly above her sitting friend. Your husband is here. You need to spend time with him; not those books. They’ll still be here tomorrow morning. Not for long, mind you.

Louise stepped close and reached down for her friend’s hands. Angie tried to wave her off, but Louise was having none of that. She took her hands and wouldn’t let go. She was still strong for her age, but not wanting to injure the woman, Angie reluctantly allowed herself to be raised to her feet.

Louise?

Dear, she interrupted. When I said that your husband was here, I meant it.

The woman stepped out of the way and gave Angie room to see that Steve was indeed standing at the front of the store. He was carrying a wicker picnic basket and doing his level best to be spontaneous. Angie returned his smile with one of her own. It didn’t appear to be as genuine as the one Louise Pauline Donaldson was wearing as she surveyed the scene. Steve did notice but tried not to let on that he had.

What are you doing here? Angie asked as she reached her husband and gave him a quick peck on the left cheek.

I thought I should bring you something to eat since you didn’t come home.

‘Didn’t come home!’ You make it sound as if I were leaving you. There was just a lot of work for me to do around here, that’s all. Summer didn’t come in again and Louise and I were alone.

Hearing her name mentioned seemed to empower the woman with license to put her two cents into the discussion. Now don’t bring me into this, she said poignantly, walking over and standing beside Angie’s husband. She put her left arm through his. You know where I stand.

Thanks, Louise. Steve leaned over with his head and lightly brushed up against hers.

Nonsense! she said, removing her hand but not before patting his shoulder. Now get this lady out of here. The beach is probably freezing, but there’s bound to be some place where you could plant yourselves down and share a nice lunch. Don’t worry about me. My daughter’s coming to pick me up today and she and I can close the place down.

***

Ultimately, Angie succumbed to peer pressure and left the store with her husband. However, they didn’t walk down to the beach or drive over to some vista overlooking the ocean or Morro Rock. Steve had attempted to steer her in any of those directions, but he had been overruled. In the end, they simply went home. They did eat the tuna sandwiches that he had lovingly prepared, cutting off the edges of the bread just the way Angie liked them. They also had something to wash it down with. They most definitely didn’t open the bottle of wine that Steve had set inside the basket in a moment of wishful thinking. Angie was in no shape to drink anything that was supposed to be celebratory. They sat mostly in silence once again. Only at the end of the meal did Steve attempt to speak.

How are you doing, Angie?

She sighed at the question, almost as if she had known that it was coming and had been dreading it since they had come home from the store.

I’m fine, Steve. She almost snapped at him with her answer.

I’m sorry, dear, if I am beating a dead horse here, he said and instantly regretted it. He tried to act as if he didn’t even notice the word he had used, but it was to no avail.

Dead!

"Shit!" he muttered under his breath.

You said, ‘dead’! Go ahead, Steve. What is it you wanted to say to me?

Dear God! Steve snapped. She wasn’t the only one who had been storing pent up emotion in a giant grain silo that could be seen from space. And once he pulled open the big door and the grain had begun to pour out, there wasn’t very much that anyone could do to push it inside again. "Why does everything have to come back to this? Do you think you’re the only one hurting, the only one having to deal with this? It’s both of us, damn it! Both of us!"

Is it? Angie yelled.

Steve’s eyes widened at this. How could you ask such a thing? She was part of me, too!

And more than me, I suppose!

Who said that? Nobody. Where are you getting this from? Steve asked, stunned at her comment.

From my broken heart!

I get that. Steve was no longer shouting at her. This argument was loud and terribly ugly, and likely years in the making, but it wasn’t about winning or delivering the best lines. He was worried sick about the woman that he had known nearly his entire adult life, and couldn’t stand the thought of sitting idly by while her fantastic grief ate her up from the inside.

He tried to take her hand, but she quickly pulled it away. He dismissed this and continued. "But it’s been