Journey Into the Flame by T. R. Williams Page B

backward and noticed a red trail leading from the kitchen to the staircase.
    He followed the trail of blood up the stairs. The hallway light was on, and he could see the trail leading to the master bedroom. As he passed the two smaller bedrooms, he saw scattered clothes and mattresses flipped onto their sides. As Logan approached the master bedroom, he saw bloody handprints smeared on the white double doors. As he entered the bedroom, Logan’s fear turned to shock. On the bed were two bodies lying facedown. Two large knives were protruding from their backs. The sheets were soaked in blood. He screamed.
    BANG! BANG! BANG!
    Logan awoke, startled, his heart racing. Someone was knocking at the front door. He took a deep breath and tried to collect himself. He’d had this nightmare before—if only it were just a nightmare. But it was more than that; it was memory, too. This was how he’d discovered his parents on that warm July night two years ago, less than a year after he’d moved back in with them after his divorce. Logan had returned from a long night of work at the museum and had found his parents brutally murdered in their bed. The police found no clues to the killer’s identity and eventually declared the case unsolved.
    Logan’s parents had bequeathed him the Chronicles along with the house. He had put the house on the market several times, but the gruesome story of the murders had deterred any interested buyers.
    The knocking on the door continued. Logan was still wearing the black suit he’d worn to the auction. He had fallen asleep in the study while thinking about his parents and trying to convince himself that he’d done the right thing in selling the books. An idea that was hard to justify after being told the fate of Cynthia Brown.
    “Coming!” Logan shouted, as he rose from his father’s favorite chair. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes.
    When Logan opened the door, he was taken aback. An older man in a floppy wide-brimmed hat and carrying a clumsy tote bag smiled backat him. “Mr. Perrot!” Logan exclaimed, greeting the older man with a heartfelt hug. “It’s been a while. Come in. Come in.”
    “Hello, my boy,” said Mr. Perrot as he took off his trademark hat. “It looks as though you had a rather festive evening last night.”
    “Yes, I think I might have had a bit too much to drink.” Logan ran his hand through his hair again and looked at the clock hanging on the wall; it was 6:22 a.m. “Early to be on a stroll, isn’t it?”
    Mr. Perrot shrugged pleasantly. “Old men are early to rise. And besides, sleep has not been a comforting friend these last years.”
    Logan nodded. He knew that Mr. Perrot had taken the death of Logan’s parents hard. “I see you’re still wearing your favorite hat,” he said affectionately.
    “The habits of young men follow them into old age, I fear,” Mr. Perrot said. “I bought your father a hat like this once, but he said your mother wouldn’t let him wear it. I always suspected that he was really the one who didn’t like it,” he added with a laugh.
    Alain Perrot had been Logan’s father’s closest friend, a part of Logan’s life for as long as he could remember. He and his daughter, Valerie, who was Logan’s age, had often joined Logan’s family for weeknight dinners, weekend picnics and barbecues, and all kinds of holiday celebrations. Although Mr. Perrot lived just a few blocks away, Logan hadn’t seen him in months. He felt bad that he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems that he hadn’t made an effort to visit this old family friend.
    “It’s really nice to see you. It’s been too long,” Logan said as they walked into the study and sat down. “How are you, Mr. Perrot?” Logan noticed that he looked thinner, and his hair was a bit grayer. His dark eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Something seemed to be bothering him. “Is everything OK? You seem a bit preoccupied.”
    “You are as observant as your