Story code: ST-000180
Part 2: The Imposter in Silk
The silver rectangle in the woman’s hand felt heavier than the two-hundred-pound ceramic lemon tree Mateo had just moved. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, bruising rhythm that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of hauling patio furniture. Every inmate on a fire crew knew the fragile nature of their freedom. Good-time credits were a lifeline, a mathematical equation that translated into seeing his daughter years before his original parole date. All it took was one formal complaint-one accusation of theft, insubordination, or malicious destruction from a wealthy civilian-and he would be stripped of his orange gear and thrown right back behind the concrete walls of a Level 4 maximum-security yard.
The woman tapped the screen to wake it. The harsh white light illuminated the sharp angles of her jaw. “Do you know how quickly dispatch responds when a taxpayer in this zip code reports a felony in progress?” she asked, her tone conversational, completely detached from the apocalyptic orange sky swirling above them.
Mateo swallowed hard. The smoke in the air coated the back of his throat like crushed glass. “Ma’am, please. It was an accident. The base slipped.”
“An accident,” she repeated, running her thumb near the green dial button.
Before she could press it, the radio clipped to Mateo’s web-gear shrieked with static. Captain Miller’s voice punched through the noise, tight and edged with panic. “Camp 14, immediate tactical withdrawal! The wind is shifting rapidly. The fire is crowning in the manzanita. Drop your tools and make for the black! I repeat, all crews fall back to the safety zone!”
Mateo’s hand instinctively twitched toward his shoulder mic to confirm the order.
The woman stepped directly into his space, invading his reach. She held the phone inches from his face. The screen showed the numbers 9-1-1 already punched into the keypad. “If you touch that radio, I press call. I will tell the dispatcher that an inmate firefighter broke away from his crew and tried to force his way into my master bedroom. Who do you think they’ll believe? The soot-covered convict, or me?”
The sheer, venomous calm in her voice froze the blood in Mateo’s veins. He looked past her shoulder. Just beyond the edge of the infinity pool, the ravine was a churning vortex of black smoke and angry, leaping flames. The roar of the combustion sounded like a freight train barreling through the canyon. His crew was retreating. He was entirely isolated on this ridge.
“What do you want?” Mateo rasped, lowering his hand from his radio.
She pointed a manicured finger toward the lower observation deck, a wooden platform jutting precariously out over the steep, burning drop-off. “My husband has a bronze greyhound statue on the lower deck. It’s a priceless antique. Bring it up here.”
Mateo stared down the heavy timber staircase. The lower deck was already engulfed in a thick, toxic soup of smoke. Sparks and burning embers were raining down on the wood like a meteor shower. “I can’t go down there,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “The heat alone will sear my lungs. The fire is right under the decking!”
“Then I press call,” she said smoothly, not blinking once.
Mateo gritted his teeth, the injustice burning hotter than the ambient air. He pulled his yellow Nomex shroud up over his nose and mouth, snapped his goggles firmly down over his eyes, and turned toward the stairs.
The descent was sheer torture. The heat radiating from the canyon below was a physical wall, pressing against his chest and stealing the oxygen from the air. The sap in the nearby eucalyptus trees boiled and popped with sounds like rapid gunfire. He reached the lower deck, his heavy boots slipping on the accumulating ash. Through the blinding smoke, he spotted the life-sized bronze greyhound. It was bolted to a heavy wooden plinth.
He grabbed the metal. It was already searing hot through his leather work gloves. He kicked the wooden base brutally with his steel toe, splintering the wood until the statue broke free. Gasping for air, his lungs screaming in protest, he hoisted the massive weight against his chest and began the agonizing climb back up the stairs. His thighs burned. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
When he finally crested the top of the stairs, he collapsed onto his knees, dropping the heavy bronze onto the travertine patio with a dull, heavy thud. He tore his shroud down, gasping desperately for oxygen.
A violent gust of wind swept over the ridge, carrying a shower of glowing embers directly onto the covered loggia. Several large, burning flakes landed squarely on the pristine white cushions of the chaise lounges Mateo had broken his back to save just ten minutes earlier.
He expected the woman to scream. He expected her to demand he beat the flames out.
Instead, Mateo watched in breathless confusion as she simply stood by the outdoor bar, calmly watching the expensive fabric begin to singe and smoke. She picked up her glass of iced water-the one she had been sipping so delicately-and casually dumped the remaining contents directly onto the cracked tile at her feet, never taking her eyes off the burning cushions. A slow, chilling smile crept across her face.
Mateo leaned his hands on his knees, his chest heaving as his mind frantically tried to process the bizarre behavior. He looked past her, peering through the massive sliding glass doors into the estate’s great room. The interior was immaculate, anchored by a massive limestone fireplace. Above the mantle hung an enormous, professional family portrait.
The painting featured a tall man with silver hair and a slender, blonde woman with sharp, aristocratic features, surrounded by three blonde teenagers.
Mateo blinked the stinging sweat from his eyes, staring hard at the portrait, then back to the woman on the patio. The woman standing ten feet away from him had jet-black hair, olive skin, and a completely different bone structure. She looked absolutely nothing like the woman in the painting.
His gaze dropped lower. Beneath the swaying hem of the expensive jade-green silk robe, he finally noticed her footwear. She wasn’t wearing designer slippers or sandals. She was wearing heavy, scuffed, mud-caked steel-toe work boots. The kind of boots someone would wear to hike up the treacherous backside of a canyon.
Before Mateo could piece together what he was looking at, his shoulder radio erupted with a frantic, high-decibel emergency broadcast that cut through the roar of the wildfire.
“Dispatch to all units in sector four! Be advised, we have a frantic 911 call from a civilian trapped at 4400 Ridgecrest! The homeowner reports she is locked inside her basement panic room and the ventilation system is pulling in heavy smoke! I repeat, the homeowner is trapped inside the residence at 4400 Ridgecrest!”
Mateo froze, the blood running icy cold in his veins. 4400 Ridgecrest was the address painted on the mailbox at the front of this exact estate.
The dark-haired woman in the silk robe tilted her head, her cold smile widening as she listened to the radio transmission echoing across the patio. She casually tossed the silver cell phone into the glowing waters of the infinity pool. Then, she reached deep into the pocket of the robe, pulled out a heavy, iron skeleton key, and held it up directly in front of Mateo’s horrified face.