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  JUST FIRE

  

  Dawn McKnight

  Morningtide Publishing

  PO Box 4262

  Yankee Hill CA 95965

  Copyright © 2015 by Dawn McKnight

  All Rights Reserved

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-0-9899102-2-4

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the express prior permission of the author of this book.

  REVIEWS

  Just Fire is one of the few novels this year that I could not put down. I'll be reading every book in this series.

  C. S. Lakin, author of Innocent Little Crimes

  A Must Read!!! An emotionally charged story that grips you from page one with compelling, nail-biting suspense throughout. The story is highlighted with lush descriptions of the beautiful and sometimes savage landscape of the high Sierra’s, vivid characters with whom we can readily empathize, a breathtaking wild series of plot turns, and a blockbuster finale.

  Rabid Reviews

  FIVE STARS***** Ever since reading Just Fire, I can’t wait to buy the next book in the series!! I get all excited and then remember – it hasn’t been written yet!! It’s making me crazy.

  “Watch out Dawn Mattox! If you don’t get that next book written SOON, I will do a *Misery on you!”

  Catherine Wolcott; Heart & Soul Reviews

  *Stephen King’s Misery

  Victim

  Noun:

  1. a person that suffers harm or death from another, an adverse act, or circumstance.

  2. a living person or animal sacrificed in a religious rite.

  Verb:

  to slay as or like a sacrificial victim.

  Ritual Abuse

  Ritual abuse is an extreme, sadistic form of abuse of children and non-consenting adults. It is methodical, systematic sexual, physical, emotional and spiritual abuse, which often includes mind control, torture, and highly illegal and immoral activities such as murder, child pornography, and prostitution.

  Also known as RA (Ritual Abuse), SRA (Satanic or Sadistic Ritual Abuse).

  Human Trafficking

  The illegal practice of procuring or trading in human beings for the purpose of prostitution, forced labor, or other forms of exploitation.

  “There was never butterflies.

  Just fire.”

  ~A Haiku Poem

  Table of Contents

  Spoiler Alert

  Take me to the Action!

  Take me to the Romance!

  Just Fire

  WATCH ME BURN - Bonus Chapters

  Disclaimer

  Click HERE for Your FREE Novella

  JUST FIRE

  Her fight for justice could take her to the brink of death…

  Sunny McLane has just inherited a new caseload: the victims of deadly cults. The legal advocate is barely prepared to face down the ritual abuse perpetrated by Satanist tormenters, but she refuses to back down without a fight. As Sunny hunts for evidence, she uncovers something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface…

  When her quest to save a victimized infant collides with her ex-husband's criminal endeavors, Sunny finds herself on a race across the snow-bound Sierra Nevadas in the dead of winter. The clues she uncovers along the trail could bust her investigation wide open, if she manages to get out of the mountains alive…

  PART ONE

  “There was never…”

  CHAPTER 1

  There was no nice way to say it—Nina simply scared the crap out of me.

  As a crisis worker, I was used to patterns of erratic behavior—from the taut stretch between totally numb to the snapping point of suicide associated with victims of sexual assault, to the cataclysmic turbulence of love and loathing that churned and muddied the emotions of victims of domestic violence.

  Then there was Nina. A simple misdemeanor case that left me with a sinking feeling that I was witnessing a scab being peeled back and something putrid was about to be exposed.

  “You don’t know who you are dealing with! They’ll kill me,” Nina hissed. She had a look and feel of a feral cat—her gothic styled black hair was spiked, reminding me of raised hackles that perfectly framed her slanting green eyes.

  I pulled the county-issue pen from my mouth and leaned forward across the table between us, rolling the pen in my fingers and noting the fresh teeth marks before popping it back between my teeth.

  Maybe I’ve just been missing it, I thought. Me—and a million other advocates.

  Delusional? Maybe. But there was something in Nina’s razor-sharp words that slashed at my skepticism. Either way, this wasn’t a homicide, and I didn’t want it turning into one.

  I pulled the pen from my mouth again and drummed it against the legal pad. “Who are ‘they’? Who is going to kill you? And why?” I asked.

  Nina paced the floor of the safe room at the courthouse, her eyes darting about as if looking for an escape route. Then she stopped, grabbed her hair in frustration, and bunched it in her fists, yelling, “They will kill me. And then they will kill you. Don’t you get it?”

  Nina stared like I was the crazy one. “Look at me! Can’t you see my tats?” Then she froze, pinching her brows and shaking her head. “No, of course, you can’t. They’re white tats. You have to be under a black light to see them.” She looked me straight in the eye. “The tat says they own me. It’s a pentagram.” She pointed to her forehead, then dropped her voice and shoulders in despair. “There’s no way out.”

  I got that. I knew all about tattoos and contracts. They were one and the same. Words or pictures, they’re a declaration of ownership that defines the relationship, be it a club, swastika, butterfly, a naked woman, or Jesus. All sealed in ink. Nina had sealed her identity to Satanists.

  Nina passed the tipping point and broke into tears, sobbing, seemingly clutched in the grip of a nameless fear. Her thick mascara pooled and dripped, making her look like a mime from hell.

  Poor Nina.

  I got up and walked around to face her, lifting her chin with my fingers, wiping the smears of mascara from her face and ensuring that she was looking me in the eyes. “I’m not going to lie to you. I really don’t understand what you’re saying, but if you’re willing to trust me, I will help you through this mess. But you have to trust me first. Now . . . are you talking about a gang?”

  “Not a gang!” Her black brows tented, and she reached out to me with trembling fingers, touching my shoulder. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she repeated, then lowered her voice to a snakelike hiss. “They sacrifice babies.”

  My budding headache bloomed. It was almost time for Nina to take the witness stand.

  “I have to ask you, Nina. It’s a standard question,” I hurried to assure her. More like a standard lie. “Have you ever been diagnosed with any mental health issues? Are you under treatment or taking prescriptions?”

  Vonda knocked at the door. The court bailiff poked her head inside. “Ready, Sunny,” she said. Her gray eyes strayed to Nina, and she frowned. “Everything okay?”

  “Please, Vonda, just one second.”

  “I can give you one minute—but no more.” Vonda withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  I took Nina by the shoulders. “Listen. Just get on the stand and look at me. I’m your advocate. I’m here for you. I promise that we’ll talk after the trial. Trust me,” I said as I tried to sweep both hair and mounting anger from her face.

  “Bullshit,” she said, knocking my arm away. “You think you’re so smart.” She put her face an inch in front of mine. “If you knew
where this road leads, you’d run the other way—screaming.”

  She pulled back and squared her shoulders, opening the door with the confidence of a death row inmate who had made peace with her fate. Nina strode down the corridor and boldly pushed her way into the courtroom.

  The towering door seemed to whisper a warning as it closed with a sigh.

  Amanda Cross swept into my office with the look of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound African American ticked-off tigress that just lost her lunch to a jackal defense attorney. She was wearing her colorful trademark attire—today, a rustic orange-and-brown woven tribal kaftan with a matching turban wrap that layered around her head in folds before tucking into one side. She looked both formidable and magnificent.

  “And just what was all that about?” Amanda growled. “You assured me that Nina was ready to go, and now I look like an idiot in front of that weasel, B.S. the Third.”

  I smiled. Defense attorney B.S. x 3—aka Brecken Stewart III—really was a weasel. He even looked like a weasel with his lanky, too-thin body, ferret nose, and beady brown eyes.

  Amanda listened attentively as I related everything that had transpired with Nina. “I know it sounds outrageous, but it wasn’t what she said. It was how she said it.” I gave a slight shiver as I recalled Nina’s words, “They sacrifice babies,” and then I shrugged. “She didn’t feel delusional.”

  Amanda arched her brows. “You know what delusional feels like?”

  Warmth crept over my face. “No,” I admitted, “but I know what honest feels like—and I know how liars feel. She just . . . well, has me wondering.”

  Amanda’s brows knitted together like a pair of thoughtful shuttles weaving a plan on her mental loom.

  “Call Danielle Kitch over at Behavioral Health. I’d like you to make time to see her once a week.”

  “What? You think I’m crazy?”

  “Not necessarily,” she qualified by flashing a quick smile. “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard stories like Nina’s, and probably won’t be the last. She may be a survivor of ritual abuse.”

  “And exactly what is ritual abuse?” I asked.

  “For us? When a cult has committed a crime through a ritualistic act, and the act has been repeated. They are usually called Satanists, my dear girl.”

  “Seriously?”

  Amanda ignored my question and grew distant as if she were wrestling with an old memory. “Yes,” she concluded, “the more we learn about victim behaviors, the better it will be for all of us. It has to be one of the three C’s.”

  “One of the three C’s?”

  “She is either clean, crazy, or criminal. Find out which.”

  Nina wouldn’t talk to me after the trial or return my calls. Later, when I heard she was back dealing drugs for her boyfriend, I readily dismissed her dark and disturbing words.

  Nonetheless, Nina had been a light—the first light to pierce the dimness of my understanding. The first sharp cutting away of a path that would lead me into a different kind of wilderness—one much different from the high country and the beloved mountains where I lived.

  The annoying sound of tapping pulled me back from sifting through the latest police reports that had been sent up to the district attorney’s Special Victims Unit.

  “It’s me!” Paige sang out all atwitter. My bird-brained intern rapped on my door even as she pushed it open—first peeking, then barging, then waddling over to plop herself on the office sofa.

  Oh, joy. If it isn’t Pregnant Paige and Wonder Kid.

  “Paige,” I said, sounding as stern as a judge at sentencing, “I could have been counseling a victim.” I pushed back from the desk and swung around to face her.

  “But you weren’t!” Paige countered in her naturally blond, naturally self-centered manner. “And guess what?” she asked, looking radiant.

  It had been ages since Paige resembled anything close to happy, so I relented and swallowed the bait—hook, line, and—

  “What’s up?”

  “He’s here!” A glint of mischief sparked behind her clear blue eyes.

  “Who’s here?”

  “The new computer guru. You know—Super-geek? Dweeb? Mega-Nerd?”

  I laughed with her, mostly at her childish delight in gossip. Paige frequently acted twenty-three-going-on-thirteen. The Pregnant Paradox was both overly educated and highly immature for her position, but I only had myself to blame for recommending her.

  “Let me guess . . .” I played along. Rolling my eyes, I leaned back in my chair and resumed chewing on my pen as I speculated. “Fat? Loser? Pimples? Coke-bottle glasses? Walks like a duck? Dressed in Walmart’s finest?”

  “Harrumph!” A deep, long throat-clearing “Harrumph” widened Paige’s gaze as she stared over my shoulder.

  Spinning around in my chair, I rose, startled, to stand face-to-face with six-foot-six, two hundred and fifty pounds of fat-loser-pimples, who wore Coke-bottle glasses and duck-shaped shoes and was probably dressed in Walmart’s finest: the new technical supervisor—Super Geek, Dweeb, Mega-Nerd.

  Oh, my Lord.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Oh God, I can’t believe I just said that,” I said, feeling like Wiley Coyote straddling a stick of dynamite.

  “Said what?” The stranger’s voice suggested innocence that was betrayed by the hardening of his naturally soft features. From behind his Coke-bottle glasses, doe-brown eyes briefly splintered from the painful wound I had just inflicted. His lips—full lips—pinched for a moment above a chin that slightly trembled. He was either hurt or angry.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. Hi, hello, I’m Sunny McLane,” I said in a voice even weaker than my handshake. “I am the advocate for the Special Victims Unit, and this is my advocate intern, Paige.”

  “My name is Duncan. Duncan Harder.”

  “Pfffffft!” Paige spewed between pinched lips, leaning forward, unashamed. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered without conviction, swiping the mirth from her eye. “I bet you got beat up in school with a name like that.”

  “Paige!” I was shocked and embarrassed—Paige’s rudeness left me mortified. I would have fired her except that I was the person who got her the job in the first place. That—and the fact she might have been carrying my husband’s child. Or my lover’s. It was awkward, but she needed the money.

  “Oh, come on.” Paige shook her head, feigning superiority. “We’re all adults here.”

  “Are we?” I asked, flushing with embarrassment.

  Stung, Duncan paused and stared. First at Paige. Then at me. “Chief Technical Administrator for Butte County.” He continued his introduction with a solemn air of dignity.

  I swallowed hard. When it came to practicing faith, I still felt more like a lost cause than a lost sheep. It was more than not wanting to be a jerk and more than wanting to please my almost-pastor husband. I knew what it felt like to be a victim of verbal abuse and take no pleasure in being unkind to others. But sometimes, I am still a jerk.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Duncan replied with all the warmth of an auto-responder. His eyes never left me as he continued to stare with an intensity that made me squirm like a worm under his size fourteen shoes. Then he lifted his chin and turned away without so much as a word or a glance at Paige, squaring his broad shoulders to stand an inch or two taller as he lumbered out the door.

  “Oh my God!” said Paige, as Duncan turned the corner—out of sight but not out of hearing. “How did you do that? You described him to a T.”

  I shook my head in wonder at Paige’s stupidity and mine. The only difference between us was that I knew better.

  Waves of sunlight and shadow splashed across the foothills as I drove home from work. Going home was a bit like going to church. Everywhere I looked I was blessed by the beauty of creation, from the cathedral-like spires and domed mountain tops to the face of God dancing in the shimmering waters of the Feather River.

  Our home was nestled on a three-thousand-foot-high ridge in the Sierra Nevada mo
untains with a view across the central valley to the Coastal Range. Together, the two mountain chains resemble a pair of arms that embrace the northern half of California. Butte County lay in the crook of the eastern arm and geographically includes cities and small towns in both the valley and mountains.

  “Hello, baby!” I stooped to pick up Kissme, my blond Pomeranian who greeted me with all the passion of a Ukrainian Kazachok dancer as she spun with near hysterical joy. Happiness was a little dog. Little dogs had always been my closest friends. Something, I supposed, about their unabated joy and devotion. “Hello to you too, Miss Mercy,” I called affectionately to our German Shepherd, as Mercy came bounding up to me, happy to see anyone after a long day of chasing shadows. I was more Mercy’s babysitter than master. Much like me, her heart belonged to my husband, Chance.

  Juggling grocery bags, I raced to the kitchen with Kissme on my heels. If I hurried, I would have just enough time to make a pot of chili for the church potluck. I rolled up my sleeves and poured a little wine to soothe my growling stomach. If I didn’t bring chili con carne, I would probably be forced to eat Ashley’s “tofu con caca.” I suppose I could survive being a vegetarian if the diet included eggs, cheese, milk, fish, and chicken.

  The vent over the stove rumbled like an airplane on takeoff, nearly drowning out the phone’s ring.