Through the Fire (18 page)

“One sec. Watch this.” I aimed He-Man so he would strike the block. He swung a mighty swing, toppling the tower to the carpet. It was awesome.

I hopped over the blocks and jumped into my mom’s arms. She held me tight, swaying back and forth. She smelled like my blanket and bear. I liked long hugs.

I played with her earrings. They were gold with little white marbles. I tried to get the marbles out. “Aren’t you so glad you saw that?”

“What, dear?”

“Aren’t you so glad you saw that crash?”

Her eyes crinkled. Each side had four lines. “Oh, yes. That was a really strong punch by Conan.”

“That’s He-Man, Mom.”

“Right.” She sniffled and smiled. “I love you, Aidan.”

“I love you, too, Mom. Is it time to eat yet?”

She looked up and ran fingers under her eyes. “Oh. I guess it is.”

“You know that four plus four is eight.”

She blinked and gave a curious look. “Very good, Aidan.”

“Will Daddy be home tomorrow?”

She put a hand on my cheek and kissed my hair. “Yes, bug-a-boo. Yes, he will.”

CHAPTER
33

I
stood in a stream, my feet ankle-deep in warm muddy water. The wetness climbed my pant legs, rising, flooding, then raging. A
hiss-splash
of pelting water shot over my face.

My eyelids unlatched under blurring rivulets, refracting white tile and incandescent light.

“Wakey, wakey, A-O.”

The shower shut off. I blinked away droplets. My wet plastered hair dripped water down my temples. I wiped my face and stared up into the purple moon judgment of Christine’s countenance.

“You know,” she said. “Yi Jing once spoke the ancient proverb, “ ‘He who wants warm, dry rest ought not to sleep on a riverbed.’ ”

I pushed myself over the edge of the tub and slosh-stepped past her to the bedroom, stripping off wet cotton.

She scoffed. “Top of the mornin’ to ya, laddy.”

I turned and threw my sopping shirt. It hit the wall beside her, leaving a wet shadow imprint on the plaster.

She stared at the shirt and then at me. She held a small cardboard box filled with miscellaneous items and dangled keys on a finger. “Here are your house keys. I’d like my apartment key back, please.”

“I . . . I don’t know where my key ring is.”

She let out a derisive laugh, then turned and walked out. “And if you’re going to insist on not answering your own phone, have the department take me off your emergency contact list. It’s C-shift today.”

I glanced at the clock. 9:05 a.m.

I was already late.

“Don’t expect me to bail you out next time,” she yelled from the entryway. “You’re not my problem anymore.”

The front door slammed.

Mauvain’s office.

There were few things I enjoyed less. I typically made every effort to avoid setting foot on the second floor, and I worked even harder to avoid entering a chief ’s office. Lowell called the entire floor a commonsense black hole. Spend too long in administrative management and rational thought got sucked from your synapses.

Butcher wasn’t a happy camper when I’d walked in at nine thirty-five. But in the sea of other items he had to tackle that morning, my issue was set adrift, only to be snatched up by Mauvain, who happened to be walking down the stairs as I made my way up.

I stewed in the chair opposite his desk and chewed on the inside of my lip. The chair’s height adjustment was stuck on low, exacerbating the already present feeling of being a kid in the principal’s office. Mauvain’s large leather chair sat empty. I stared at his wall of framed certificates.

He walked in holding a flopping stack of papers, leaving the door open, and settled behind his desk. He didn’t look up but set the papers down, clicked the mouse for his computer, and lifted his head to read the screen. I looked out the windows, across the parking lot and the train trench to the bleak urban tones of downtown.

“O’Neills and punctuality.” He typed and stared at the monitor. “Close the door, Aidan.”

I wasn’t quick about it, but I stood and complied, and then slowly made my way back to the low-rider seat. I could just see him after hours with that chair upside down, working with a screwdriver to sabotage the height adjustment. I didn’t know where he was coming from with the “O’Neills and punctuality” comment. My dad had made a habit of showing up a half hour early for every shift. Now, awards ceremonies . . . that was a different story. He may have missed one or two of those.

Mauvain sat back, folding his hands. “You are aware that we have an arsonist on the loose?”

My head was still pounding. My mouth felt like cotton. “Yes, sir.”

“And, you are aware that we start work downtown at eight in the morning.”

We started work at every station at eight in the morning. He was the king of condescension. “Yes, sir.”

He raised his eyebrows and ran his tongue along his teeth, making a suction-release sound. He wanted an excuse. And any reason I gave would only open an opportunity for him. I kept quiet and stared at him. His face drew down. I was making him work. Time for a new tactic.

He pushed his chair back and walked to the window. “That was quite a fire at the Cairo.”

I kept silent.

He stared into the distance. “Interesting, Aidan, how things seem to fall apart around you. First Hartman. Then a couple flash-overs. Your unpredictable behavior. Folks have been talking.”

There it was, his next weapon, the power of the opinion of some indefinable group. He wanted me to ask what “they” had been saying, who “they” were. But I wouldn’t learn from him anything I didn’t already know. Guys couldn’t figure me out. How could I blame them? I couldn’t figure me out.

He turned, leaving his thin façade of cordiality on the sill. He leaned both hands on the desk, staring in my eyes. “Spitting image.” He shook his head and breathed out through his nose. “Same look. Same insolence. Same arrogant attitude.” He straightened. “The apple certainly hasn’t fallen far from the tree.”

I held his gaze. As far as I was concerned, he’d just paid me a compliment.

“You should know that Biltman’s a bust. He set his own place off. That’s it.” He sat down and framed a tent with his fingers. “But of course, you knew that, right?”

I cleared my throat. “Why would I know that?”

He rocked his chair back and forth. “How was your time off?”

“Short.”

“Get everything done that you wanted?”

“What makes you think I had anything I wanted to do?”

He parted his hands and shrugged. “Guy like you that works a lot. Must be things you want to take care of.”

“I was in Mexico.”

“Right. Right.” He scratched his temple. “You have anyone who can account for that?”

“May I ask what this has to do with my being late?”

“I heard that you were at the Prevention lab the other day.”

“And . . .”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if he were letting me in on a little secret just between the two of us. “Folks down there are swamped. This investigation is high priority, and there is a lot of sensitive information surrounding it. It’s probably in your best interests to not get in their way, if you follow me.”

“No, I don’t follow you.”

“Stop showing your face around Prevention.”

I pulled out my phone. “Maybe I should have a union rep here.”

He put out his hands. “Please. I don’t think we need to take it to that level. Just having a chat.” He stood, this time walking to his awards wall. He pocketed his hands. “James never saw the value of recognition. A certificate to him was just a piece of paper. But you know what these are, Aidan?” He motioned toward the wall. “These are rungs. Each one lifting the smart and diligent worker another step higher. Some folks are jealous of that. Some resent an individual’s efforts to better himself. They feel threatened. Belittled. But knowledge is power. Isn’t it?”

He waited for me to respond.

His face betrayed a subtle twinge. “Knowledge
is
power, Aidan. And don’t think I don’t know you. You’ve been lucky with these recent fires. It would be unfortunate for that luck to run out.” He walked back to the desk. “Tell you what. I’ll be sure to keep watch over you.” He picked up the paper stack and thumbed through it. “Your next paycheck will show three hours docked, absent without leave.” He looked up. “I’ll make sure that gets in your file.” Looking back at the papers, he waved toward the door. “Leave it open on your way out.”

The black leather punching bag creased and retreated from my fists. Blow, blow, blow. Combo jabs and palm-heel thrusts and dorsal-foot-plane side kicks. That afternoon gave me Station One’s basement gym to myself. My iPod blasted The Who from a set of connected speakers. Roger Daltrey wailed “Won’t Get Fooled Again.”

What was Mauvain’s angle anyway?

Front kick. The bag chain clinked and shook. Front kick. Sweat flipped and sprayed from my face.

Did he really think I had something to do with the arson fires?

Directing suspicion toward me would be a convenient smoke screen for him, especially if he was involved with it all.

Who could I trust anymore?

I pounded the bag with gut-born aggression. Jab. Jab. Hook.

Not my ex-fiancée.

Jab. Jab. Hook.

Not Blake.

I stood back, chest heaving hard-blown breaths, clenched fists at my sides. My pores stank of secreted ethanol. And there, amid the ruins of what I’d known as my life and the state of things, a dust-settling clarity fell into place.

Blake had been staying at the Cairo the day of the fire.

Every one of the serial arson evidence boxes bore his name.

He’d been passed over for promotion.

And I saw him . . .

In her car.

I heard him . . .

In her apartment.

I turned away from the bag and stretched my neck, pushing open palmed against the ribbed surface of my fist.

The ensuing thought, like a disturbing image, edged its way through the doorway of my mind.

If Blake was tied to the current arsons, and if the current arsons were tied to my father’s fire . . .

CHAPTER
34

I
walked through the rest of the workday with the drugged calm of conviction. And with my empty-handed capitulation came solace.

I stood in the kitchen and stared out the windows. The colors of the evening spilled across the sky like an overturned drink onto a tablecloth. Swirling dust devils danced in a vacant lot. A lingering expectation of a tempest hung in the air. And I knew the day’s moment lay at hand.

I walked to the pole, slid to the floor, strolled to the engine, and took a last look at the transient tawny light suffusing the streets.

Tones.

The dispatcher delivered, monotone, methodical. Something big was going down. The string of rigs ran long.

Brush fire.

In the hills. Threatening structures.

The wood thud of doors closing sounded from the pole holes above. One by one firefighters squeak-slid to the floor. I unzipped my brush bag and pulled the lighter weight yellow pants over my station blues. Kat appeared in the front seat. Battery on, ignition switch flipped, motor rumbling. Butcher swung on his brush shirt and climbed into the cab.

Lowell stepped in holding a bowlful of boiled eggs. He dropped into his jumpseat. “I hate brush fires.”

We shot westbound on I-80, the Pierce’s diesel motor more than apt on the incline. At the line where the eastern Sierra foothills meet with the sprawling home developments of the valley, a dark gray plume pitched skyward.

Engine Five gave an initial report, “Rapid fire spread moving with two fronts—one toward the timber, the other toward the houses.”

I tied a bandana around my neck and strapped on web gear holding water bottles and an emergency foil fire shelter. My heart charged with the rig, aching to approach, drawn to the destruction.

Bring it.

Lowell stuffed his mouth and pulled on his yellows. I double knotted the laces on my brush boots.

“She’s running the draws,” Butcher said. “Let’s watch those downslope winds.”

Kat took the off-ramp to McCarran Boulevard. “Good ol’ Washoe zephyrs.”

Two other engines met us as we exited the freeway, and we traveled together, with us taking point. The sunlight dimmed as we neared the hilltop, gray glowing smoke hovering over the roadway, traffic at a standstill in both directions. Butcher grabbed the PA. “All right, people, let’s part the waters. Let’s do this.” He rested his elbow on the center console and held up the mic like Moses’ staff. A wave of motorists made for the sides of the road.

Kat navigated the opening channel of pavement. The rigs behind followed in her wake. We wound through the intersection, turning west past the RPD patrol cars blocking the street, and crested a small hill leading to the subdivisions.

A ghost-town air lingered in the abandoned streets. Kat maneuvered amid thick curtain waves of backlit smoke. Jagged ash strips whirled in the gutters.

One hand in the map book, Butcher pointed south. “Head up this street here.”

We throttled around until the flashing reds of Engine Five broke through the cloud. Operator Lent arced around the back of his rig, flipping a glance at our engine and pointing to two houses closer to us.

I brought my goggles down and opened my door, the street slowing under the rig. I waited for it to stop and caught a glance of the fire between the stucco houses. A wall of flame stretched and flicked up the canyon side beyond the backyards.

I was tired of being taunted. Fatigued with the inexplicable. I wasn’t about to sit and let harrowing images of Hades overtake me. I’d call it out. I’d meet it in the streets. Let it consume me.

What do I care, anyway?

Butcher looked to the back. “Deploy the progressive hose packs.”

The air was heavy with burnt sage and juniper oils. I snagged a Pulaski axe and sheathed it through my web gear, the flat grubbing end hanging on the belt. Lowell tossed down two bulging green canvas hose bags. I shouldered one and turned so he could loosen the top flap. He yanked the coupling out and connected it to a discharge port.