Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

3. Marcus

Chapter three

Marcus

T he rubber mats beneath my boots had melted and re-hardened into twisted shapes, releasing a uniquely nauseating stench of vulcanized rubber gone wrong. These mats had absorbed years of sweat, blood from split calluses, and chalk dust that never quite came out.

Now they'd transformed into something grotesque—black waves frozen mid-surge, edges sharp enough to slice through boot leather. The iron plates I'd lifted thousands of times had partially liquefied, cooling into abstract sculptures resembling vertebrae picked clean by industrial-strength acid. Just yesterday morning, I'd been here doing shoulder presses, my hands knowing every nick and groove in the familiar equipment, while mentally reviewing my race training schedule.

Even the air was wrong, thick with particles that coated the back of my throat with every breath. It wasn't destruction; it was desecration.

My hands curled into fists before I consciously stopped them. They'd not only burned the gym—they'd erased it. My space, my sanctuary, was reduced to twisted metal and blackened ash by someone who thought they had the right to claim it. Heat still radiated from the warped metal equipment, making the air shimmer in places.

"Marcus." Michael held onto the forced, steady voice he used during SWAT operations, the tone that always made my big brother instincts prickle despite him being fully capable of handling himself. He emerged from the cardio room, his boots leaving clean prints in ash. "Primary origin point was deliberate. They used the ventilation system to control the spread."

I watched him move through the wreckage with tactical precision, noting how his shoulders stayed square even as his eyes betrayed his concern. The professional part of my brain noted his observations while something deeper processed the violation of such a sacred space. It was the place where I'd rebuilt myself after losing Dad, one rep at a time until physical exhaustion could finally quiet the guilt and grief.

"They knew the layout." I traced the path to the remains of my favorite treadmill, where I'd logged countless miles during winter storms. Its display panel had transformed into flowing silver tears, frozen mid-descent. "See how they targeted specific equipment?"

"The machines you use most." Michael's jaw tightened, and I watched him fight the urge to shift into full protective mode. We'd had this dance our whole lives—him trying to shield his older brother despite the age difference and me pretending not to notice. "This isn't random anymore, Marcus. They're targeting you."

"No. They're making it all intimate."

The locker room hit harder than I'd braced for. The acrid smell had faded, replaced by the ghost of familiar scents—metal, sweat, the particular mix of cleaning products Tony used. The tile floor was slick with firefighting runoff, each puddle reflecting the emergency lights in fractured patterns.

Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, creating small rivers that carried streaks of ash toward the drains. Most of the contents had burned, but my locker door hung open like an accusation, the metal warped from heat but still recognizable.

Dead center on the top shelf of my locker sat a pristine white envelope, placed with the delicate precision of a love letter. The handwriting flowed across the expensive paper in controlled curves that were invasively familiar, as if written by someone who had watched me long enough to develop affection.

"Your form has improved significantly over the past four months, though you still battle that left elbow drop during butterfly recovery. The way you cut through the pre-dawn mist is poetry in motion—the camera barely does it justice. I've watched you push through fatigue and adjust your technique degree by degree. You're becoming everything I knew you could be."

My hands didn't shake as I removed the accompanying photograph, but my breath came a fraction too slow, like my lungs had forgotten the rhythm for half a second. The image showed me mid-stroke, steam rising from Lake Washington's surface around my shoulders.

Whoever took it understood photography and swimming mechanics intimately—the composition caught the exact moment of power in the pull, the clean line of entry. It was the kind of shot that required professional equipment and patience. Practice. Perfect timing.

"Jesus." Michael's tactical training showed in how he immediately scanned sight lines and calculated angles. His concern about his big brother warred with his professional assessment. "This is more than surveillance. They're..." He trailed off, probably editing his word choice given our youngest brother's arrival.

"Dr. Reynolds is here." Miles appeared in the doorway, his crisis counselor's insight apparent in how he positioned himself—close enough to support, far enough to give space. He'd mastered that balance years ago, at the tender age of twelve in the months after we lost Dad. "He's already examining the burn patterns in the cardio room. And Marcus?" His voice softened. "He's seeing things in the patterns. Things that might help."

I found James crouched beside the remains of an elliptical, those elegant hands of his sketching invisible patterns in the air as he traced the fire's path. The furrow between his brows deepened as he chewed his lower lip, lost in whatever puzzle the destruction revealed to him.

He moved with an understated grace that caught my eye—not an athlete's swagger, but something more deliberate and refined. The morning light through the broken windows caught the angles of his face, highlighting cheekbones that could have been carved by an artist's chisel. Even his perpetually rumpled dress shirt somehow suited him, making him look less disheveled and more like a Renaissance scholar too absorbed in his work to care about appearances.

"More deliberate patterns." His professor's voice blended academic precision and genuine fascination.

"See how the aluminum support beams liquefied here? They'd need temperatures above 1200 degrees Fahrenheit, precisely controlled. The plasma cutting effect in the metal shows they understood thermal dynamics."

He gestured to where a curve of molten steel had frozen mid-drip. "The arc mirrors swimming dynamics—the entry, catch, and pull-through."

"You know a lot about swimming technique for someone who doesn't swim," I observed, keeping my tone casual.

James's fingers paused mid-gesture. "The physics fascinates me, actually. Fluid dynamics, propulsion mechanics, the interplay of forces." His analytical tone softened slightly.

"I did my undergraduate thesis on competitive swimming biomechanics. I spent hours filming the university team, breaking down every movement into its component parts. But I've never..." James shook his head. "I've never been in water over my head since childhood."

Something in his expression made me wait rather than respond. After a moment, he continued, eyes fixed on the burn patterns before us.

"There was this quarry back home in Vermont. All the local kids would swim there in summer. My older cousin was watching me one afternoon—I must have been six or seven. Some older boys thought it would be funny to..."

His precise hands sketched smaller patterns now, almost unconsciously. "They grabbed me off the shallow ledge and said they would teach me to swim the fast way. I remember the water was so cold and dark when they threw me in. I couldn't tell which way was up."

The intensity of my protective surge surprised me. His voice remained academically distant, but I saw the tension in his shoulders.

"My cousin got me out quickly enough. No real harm done, except..." He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "Except I haven't been able to put my face in the water since. Not even in a bathtub. I understand the mechanics perfectly—thrust coefficients, drag reduction, and optimal stroke patterns. I just can't..." His hands finally stopped. "It's ridiculous, really. A grown man, a scientist, unable to even take basic swimming lessons because of some childhood incident."

"It's not ridiculous," I said quietly. "Fear doesn't care about academic credentials."

He glanced at me, surprise flickering across his features. The furrow between his brows deepened. "No, I suppose it doesn't." A pause, then softer: "Though sometimes I wish it did. There's so much beauty in the physics of it, in the way a body moves through water. I just can't... participate in it."

I blurted out words before I could second-guess them: "The UW pool opens at five. Private, quiet, no audience. And I'm told I'm a patient teacher. Had a similar incident to yours, but I guess—"

His startled look hid more than professional interest. "You'd be willing to—"

"If you want to try." I kept my voice steady and neutral. "No pressure. But sometimes understanding the mechanics is only half the journey."

The silence stretched between us. Finally, he nodded, that endearing furrow appearing between his brows again. "I'll bring coffee?"

"Deal."

The moment stretched between us until a distant crash from the cardio room snapped us back to the present. James cleared his throat, reaching for his messenger bag with precise movements. He used them to rebuild his professional distance quickly.

"I should examine the letter more closely." He pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves, the blue material stark against the ash-dusted floor. "The paper quality might tell us something about..." He trailed off, head tilting as he lifted the letter to the light streaming through the broken windows.

I moved closer, telling myself it was a better position to see what had caught his attention. The morning light put his profile in sharp relief, highlighting the refined line of his jaw. His dark hair fell forward slightly as he leaned in, and I fought an inexplicable urge to brush it back.

"This is archival quality. It's acid-free, probably a hundred percent cotton fiber. The kind of paper conservators use for documents meant to last centuries." He turned the letter carefully, examining the edges. "See these subtle markings in the grain? This is handmade from one of those traditional artisan mills. Probably European."

"Expensive?"

"Very." The professor's cadence crept back into his voice, but it was softer, meant for an audience of one. "The ink is similarly archival grade. It's the kind used in museum-quality documents. Pieces meant to be preserved and studied—"

"And exhibited," I finished.

He glanced up, startled perhaps by how close we'd drawn together over the evidence. For a moment, I saw past his professional mask—something warm and uncertain. Then, he blinked, and the analytical armor slid back into place, though not quite as thoroughly as before.

"Yes. They're crafting a collection."

I forced myself to step back and focus on the investigation rather than how James's hands moved through the air or how his voice had softened when sharing his fear of water. "Everything carefully composed."

"Yes." He carefully slid the letter into an evidence bag, his movements precise.

The professional mask was firmly back in place, but something had shifted between us. Like water finding its level, we'd settled into a new equilibrium. It wasn't quite professional distance or personal connection but something undefined and inevitable, flowing like the currents we'd soon face together in the pool.

The evidence bag crinkled softly as James sealed it. I found myself paying close attention to his tells—the tight line of his shoulders, how he adjusted his glasses though they hadn't slipped, and the slight hesitation before looking up from his task.

"I should get this to the lab. The paper analysis might help us narrow down suppliers." He stood, messenger bag clutched across his chest, then paused. "About tomorrow..."

"We don't have to." I kept my voice gentle. "If you've changed your mind—"

"No." The word came quickly, surprising us both. He took a breath, shoulders squaring. "No, I want to try. The physics makes sense, after all. And...and I trust your understanding of water. You read currents and analyze patterns similar to how I analyze evidence."

Something warm unfurled in my chest at his words. He trusted me implicitly. "Five AM. I'll meet you at the pool entrance. Bring coffee if you want, but no drinking it until after we finish."

The smallest smile tugged at his mouth. "Are you always this dictatorial with your students, Mr. McCabe?"

"Only the ones who've read doctoral dissertations on swimming biomechanics without ever getting wet." The teasing came naturally, and it was necessary after the weight of our earlier conversations.

His smile widened slightly, softening his academic edges. "I'll have you know that my dissertation earned the highest honors."

"Then I expect perfect form." I held his gaze, letting him see both the humor and the promise of patience beneath it. "Five AM."

"Five AM," he echoed, then turned toward where Michael was investigating burn patterns. He paused after two steps. "Marcus?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For understanding about..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing both the water and perhaps something more significant, less definable.

I watched him walk away, noting how his usual precise stride faltered slightly, crossing the wet patches left by the fire hoses. Even his uncertainty had its charm—how he maintained his dignity while carefully navigating the puddles like a cat pretending it meant to do precisely what it just did. He slung his messenger bag across his chest in a way that emphasized his slim build, academic and athletic all at once.

Tomorrow, I would teach him that water could be more than a source of fear. Understanding the physics was only the beginning of mastery. Some barriers could only be crossed by trusting someone else to guide you through the deep end.

For now, I had a case to work. A stalker to catch. A family to protect.

Somewhere in Seattle, someone was watching. Planning. Turning my daily routines into twisted art.

Still, for the first time since the case began, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow's pre-dawn hours for reasons that had nothing to do with training. Nothing to do with the case.

And everything to do with a professor who understood fluid dynamics in theory but had never learned to float.