"If you scream, I'll cut out your tongue."

She drew a deep breath into her lungs to scream anyway. Laughing softly he pressed her face into the floor again, his knee hard against the back of her neck. He shoved something in her mouth. Cloth. She tried to spit it out and gagged. Don't throw up. You 11 die if you throw up. You 'll die anyway. Dear God. I'm going to die.

A whimper of terror escaped her throat and he laughed.

He tossed the ziplock bag holding the used condom in his backpack. He'd been lucky with Caitlin. He wouldn't rely on luck this time. If by any chance he failed to completely incinerate Penny Hill, he'd made sure there would be none of his DNA left behind. She lay on the floor, curled in a fetal position. She was in pain. But not enough. She would be, though. A few more things to do and he could be on his way.

In her car, which he'd left running in her driveway, her briefcase was in the backseat. The briefcase was an unexpected find. Who knew what information he'd find inside?

But first things first. He spread the same nitrate gel over her torso that he'd used in the egg and ran a fuse out of the room, alongside the fuse that led to the egg. He'd come prepared this time. Caitlin Burnette had been unplanned and he hadn't been thinking. He'd used gasoline on her when he should have used the gel from the second egg. Gasoline burned off too quickly. He wanted Miss Hill to burn very thoroughly. But in the event she did not, he didn't want her surviving to tell tales. That would be bad.

Once more he returned to his backpack, pulling out the two garbage bags he'd packed. He pulled one of the bags over his head and poked his arms through the sides. With the wrench he removed the valve on the gas line behind the stove. In a few minutes the top half of the room would be filled with gas.

He'd crouched down next to Penny Hill, the knife in his hand, before realizing he'd nearly forgotten the most important thing. Quickly he ran to the far corner of her house, crumpled some newspaper and threw it in the trash can. Then he pulled the filterless cigarette from his pocket and carefully lit it, sat it on one end so that the burning tip rested away from the paper. In a few minutes, the cigarette would burn to its end.

Back to Miss Hill. He ran back to the kitchen and grabbed her arm. Hard. Her eyes slowly opened. "For Shane," he said. "You remember Shane. You placed him and his brother in some godforsaken foster home in the middle of fucking nowhere." Her eyes flickered in startled recognition. "You never came to check on them. For a whole year. They were sodomized there. So now you understand why I had to do that to you."

Quickly he sliced her arm, just above her elbow and blood spurted all over the plastic bag he wore, warm and wet. "You'll die," he promised. "But first, you'll burn." He crouched closer, until he was in her face.

"Count to ten, bitch Then go to hell"

He pulled off the plastic bag, rolled it up and put it in the clean bag, threw his tools in his backpack, shouldered it, then lit the fuses from the relative safety of the laundry room. Ten… Nine… He ran to the front door, pulled it firmly closed… Eight… Then he was in her car, peeling out of the driveway, counting down all the while.

Three, two… and… Right on cue the air shook with the explosion, broken glass flying from the windows of Hill's house. He'd done a much better job at estimating the length of his fuses this time. He was at the end of the street before the first neighbor ran from their house. Carefully he drove, making sure to arouse no suspicion. Driving on, he pulled far off the deserted side road where he'd left the car he'd stolen that evening. He covered Hill's car with evergreen branches. Nobody would find it there.

He changed cars, making sure to take his backpack. Settling behind the wheel, he pulled off the ski mask and drove away. Penny Hill would be in a lot of pain right about now. He'd savor the satisfaction later.

Tuesday, November 28, 12:35 a.m.

"You were right. He's done it again."

Reed turned. Mia Mitchell stood behind him, her gaze fixed on the inferno that used to be the residence of Penny Hill. She'd gotten here fast. "It appears so."

"What happened?"

"Residents reported an initial explosion at about five minutes after midnight. Companies 156 and 172 responded at 12:09 and 12:15 respectively. They arrived at the site and the battalion chief immediately saw the similarity to Saturday's fire. Larry Fletcher called me at 12:15." He'd immediately called Mitchell, expecting a cranky middle-of-the-night reception. Instead she'd been instantly alert, professional. He glanced at the crowd, dropped his voice so only she could hear. "They think the homeowner was home. Her name is Penny Hill. Two guys went in to look for her."

Horror and pity and sad resignation flickered in her eyes. "Ah, shit."

"I know. The pair checked the right side of the house, but she wasn't there."

"They check the kitchen?"

"Can't get close enough yet. They've turned off the gas and run a line into the house. They're working it. There was a smaller fire in the living room."

"Trash can?" she asked and he lifted a brow.

"Yeah."

"I've been mulling it over. The trash can was the odd thing at the Doughertys'."

"Agreed. The solid accelerant was sophisticated. The gasoline was like an afterthought, but the trash can was almost…"

"Childish," she supplied. "I bounced it off Abe tonight. He thought the same thing."

Abe. her partner who was laid up in a hospital bed. "How is he?"

She nodded once, briskly. "He's good."

So then, he suspected, was she. Which made him glad. "Good."

"You talk to the crowd?"

"Yeah. Nobody saw anybody before, but everybody was inside, asleep or watching TV. Then all of the sudden, the big boom. One of the neighbors heard the squeal of tires just before the explosion, but he's pretty shaken up." Reed pointed to a man standing at the front of the crowd, his expression one of shocked horror. "Daniel Wright. There are skid marks on the driveway and Mrs. Hill's car is gone."

"I'll put out an all points for her vehicle."

"I already did." His brow lifted when hers went up. "Hope you don't mind."

Her eyes had blinked with surprise, then settled. "Of course not. Just so it gets done." She turned her gaze back to the fire. "They've got it under control."

"Knocked this one down faster. It hadn't caught hold in the top floor yet."

"He wanted that bed to burn in the Doughertys' house," she noted. "Why not here?"

He wondered the same thing. Two firefighters emerged from the house. "Come on," he said and started toward the truck where Larry stood with his radio. "Well?"

Larry's expression was grim. "She's in there. Mahoney says she looks like the last one. We couldn't get close enough to get her out in time." He eyed Mitchell. "You are?"

"Mia Mitchell, Homicide. You must be Larry Fletcher."

Larry's expression went from grim to wary. "I am. Why Homicide?"

She looked up at Reed, her blue eyes accusing. "You didn't tell him?"

Reed scowled. "I left him a message to call me."

"Tell me what?" Larry demanded and Mitchell sighed.

"The victim in the last fire was dead before it started. This one may have been, too."

Larry's frown was troubled. "I shouldn't feel relieved, but I do."

"Human nature," she said. "There wasn't anything you could have done."

"Thanks. Maybe we'll sleep tonight. You'll want to talk to the guys who went in. Mahoney and the probie. Hey!" he shouted at the men. "Mahoney. Hunter. Over here!"

Mahoney and the newest probationary member of their company trudged toward them, still in full gear with the exception of their breathing apparatus which hung around their necks. Both wore looks of exhausted devastation. "We were too late," Brian Mahoney said, his voice rough from the smoke. "She's charred, just like the last one."