by Nancy Gideon
Alex and Al walked past the dispatch room and through the lounge and kitchen area, heading for the locker room where at least the stench and soot could be washed down the drain. The showers were running and steam billowed out invitingly. Al fastidiously hung his gear on his assigned hook and sat to remove his boots. He looked over at Alex who seemed to have discovered something fascinating in the back of his locker.
"Need a hand?"
Alex didn't respond.
"Yoo-hoo, Alex."
Alex blinked away his brooding thoughts and glanced at his friend. "What?"
He still sounded miles away. Or was that twelve point three miles exactly, where a smoldering ruin stood empty?
"I said, do you need a hand?"
Alex quickly dumped his gear into his locker, mashing it to fit with a brusque indifference while avoiding the sight of the name tag on the locker to his left. The plate read T.Birdsall. No one had taken it down yet. After stuffing in his boots, Alex slammed the locker door, ignoring the strap that dangled out of it. "No, I got it."
Al tugged on the strap. "You should treat your suit a little nicer. You're going to piss Wayne off."
Alex shrugged. "He'll live."
Grabbing up two towels, Al threw one to Alex and wrapped the other around his own head, swami-like. "You may not," he advised with a sage waggle of his eye brows. When Alex didn't react to his obvious hilarity, he sighed as if dejected. Alex wasn't buying into that, either, so he tried a different track.
"Say, are you going tonight?"
"Where?"
"Double-Vision."He stared at his friend as if to say, Where else, you moron?
"Are you kidding? Last time I went there, I got my ass chewed!"
"Like you hated that." Al had naughty fantasies about Alex's wife, Helen.
"Careful," Alex growled in warning, loosening up a little. It was tough staying up tight when Al was on a roll. He was the station court jester. A dirty job but someone had to do it. And it was a job Al relished. He grinned at his morose friend, ready to go the whole nine yards to charm him out of his doldrums.
"You were the one buying the shots. Remember?"
"Yeah. You got me." But he still didn't look inclined to give in.
"Besides," Al drawled out temptingly, "you know it's therapeutic."
"Therapeutic?"
"Yep, therapeutic. Good for what ails you. The rest of the gang will be there." As if that cleared the way and made everything all right. It did, in Al's book.
And he was right, in his own way, about the therapy. Nothing like a cold draft and a loud band to get the head aching too much to remember glum thoughts.
"Well . . ."
Al began to grin wider.
"Helen, did say she'll be at the store late," Alex rationalized."They had a problem with some hamsters."
Al raised his brows.
"Never mind." He sighed in defeat, shaking his head. "I could probably use a few after this morning."
A few dozen, he reiterated to himself as he stepped under the stinging sluice of the shower head. Hot spray needled through his skin, stirring his body back to life, if not his soul. His soul was numb, as gutted out as that woman's house, and just as vacant.
Too late.
He'd been too late today to save that woman. Just as he'd been too late a month and a half ago to save Terry.
The chief claimed it was an accident. An occupational hazard.A backdraft had snuck in and roared to life, consuming the surprised fireman Terry Birdsall. There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it, nothing they could do to save him. Terry died as he had lived, recklessly, bravely, fighting fires. They all mourned him.They all missed him. But Alex most of all.
Because Alex knew what the others didn't.The fire hadn't killed Terry.
He had.
ӜӜӜ
Laurie Walshank’s eyes left the road for only an instant, long enough to find the station selector on the radio and give it a push to scan the endless commercials to fix on a lively tune.
The only thing she didn’t like about the night class she took at the community college was the lonely drive home. The desolate stretch was creepy in the dark, with no streetlights to create a warm beckoning path toward home. The music kept her company, filling the sporty little car with life instead of nagging thoughts of the other kind. The kind preying upon everyone’s mind lately. Usually, she shared the ride with one or two of her classmates. It made her family more comfortable, and frankly, quieted her own jumpy nerves. But tonight, she was alone. One of her friends had gone to a late movie with her boyfriend after class and the other was down with some nasty bug.
And Laurie cranked the radio up to lessen the void their absence made as mists from the swampy lowlands began to curl and seep across the road ahead.
She was a good driver who was especially careful since receiving her reward for graduating high school as valedictorian. It wasn’t a new car, her dad couldn’t afford that, but it was all hers. She religiously checked the oil and ran it through the wash and wax, and had a fit if any of her passengers lit up a cigarette or carelessly tossed down a wrapper. She’d never had a ticket and was scrupulously defensive behind the wheel, alert to everything around her.
Which was why, as her eyes were averted for just that fraction of a second, she was startled by the thumping sound as her tires bounced over something in the previously empty road ahead.
“Oh no,” she moaned aloud as her foot mashed instinctively for the brake. Her eyes teared up as she searched the rearview mirror for signs of what she’d hit, praying it wasn’t someone’s dog.
Dismissing all her father’s cautioning words, she pulled over onto the narrow gravel shoulder that quickly gave to dense woods.It never occurred to her to keep going. She had to check . . . just in case. She couldn’t live with the thought of someone’s treasured pet lying on the dark stretch of pavement, suffering, or of some child frantically calling for a best furry friend who would never come home again. She paused long enough to take a flash light out of the glove box before stepping outside the car. If the animal was injured, she’d take it to the nearest vet at her own expense. If it was too late, she’d at least do her best to notify the owner. That was the least she could do. Though the accident wasn’t her fault, it didn’t lessen the sense of guilt.
The narrow beam cut through the fog-laced gloom in looping circles, searching over empty black top. Maybe whatever it was had crawled off the road and into the trees. But on recalling the sound of terrible finality in that moment of impact, Laurie knew that wasn’t the case. She kept looking.
What she found made her frown in confusion.
A good sized length of oak lay in the right hand lane. No wonder it had given her such a jolt. But where had it come from? She knew the road had been clear an instant before she’d struck the log.
It wasn’t like a big piece of cord wood just ran out in front of her.
Laurie bent down, still puzzling over the possibilities.Clamping the flash light under her chin, she gripped the wood with both hands, planning to roll it off to the side so it wouldn’t become an obstacle for the next passerby. Then she’d check for damage to the car before hurrying home. If she’d broken an axle or something equally fatal, she’d be up a creek. She hadn’t seen another set of headlights for the last fifteen minutes. It was late and the road wasn’t exactly a main drag. She wouldn’t dwell on the possibility of being stranded. The car would be fine and she’d be on her way in a minute. She didn’t want her family to worry. Especially with all that had been happening in their community.
She pushed the log toward the shoulder, wondering again how it had managed to appear in front of her. Maybe a trick of the fog had concealed it, but at least she’d make sure no one else made the same mistake.
Intent upon that purpose, she didn’t notice the shadow passing through the wavering light.
Until it was too late to do more than scream.
CHAPTER FOUR
Double-Vision looke
d like any neighborhood sports bar at first glance. It sat near the community softball fields against a backdrop of tangled woods on a road one traveled to get from here to there but no one lived on. Its parking lot was half paved, half dirt and gravel ruts and, under the glare of economically located mercury lights, hosted more trucks than a used pickup convention. Flickering neon boasting the King of Bottled Beers beckoned the work-weary to the inadequate awning which dripped cold depth charges down the back of the neck during rainy seasons and made the small cement slab under it as slick as the bar top in winter.
Upon opening the single door, the senses were assaulted by the pounding bass of the live band currently playing over the weekend, usually a local garage band looking for some live feed-back other than the patrolmen called in to investigate noise pollution by non-music lover neighbors. Or music loving neighbors, depending upon the band.
The bar's interior was softened by the filtering of near to non-existent lighting, nothing to strain the bleary eyes. The pungent scent of stale smoke, left over from when it used to hang like a low cloud front over the patrons, mingled with that of greasy pub food. The décor, a cozy mix of sports memorabilia, didn't intrude upon the solid wall of liquor bottles mirrored behind the long bar. Besides the band platform, there was a minuscule dance floor squared off in scuffed linoleum, and a weaving path of tables and chairs between the pool tables and the bathrooms. The ping-ping-ping of video games sounded from a tiny cubby hole in the rear.
No, nothing out of the ordinary until a fellow after a half dozen too many happened to glance toward the bar and blink in doubt of his visual acuity. For behind the glossy length of padded-edged wood, worked a pair of dark haired, dark-eyed beauties who were identically split right down to the birth marks on shapely left thighs.
This implausibly gorgeous twosome with the pert names of Jodie and Julie were as big a draw to Double-Vision as the variety of on-tap brewskis. Not only were the ladies easy on the eye, they possessed a gift of barbwire repartee that made the average Joe, thinking to test out his macho spiel, wither up with frost-bitten netherparts to seriously reassess his potent charm. There was more to the beauteous pair than two mind-boggling sets of bodacious ta-tas.
Jodie, or was it Julie, was busy drawing draughts for the group of rowdy fire-fighters who'd commandeered a table with the intention of making it their all-night bivouac. A familiar sight, a welcomed sight. The group was notoriously free with their tips. And sometimes, not so welcomed, with their roving hands.
"One more onion ring and I turn into a Funyun," remarked Stan Rikowski with a contented rub of his belly.
There was a sputter of laughter from the others who tended to believe that particular metamorphosis had taken place years ago.
"So, what's this I hear about hamsters?" rookie Davy Miller baselined toward Alex.
Stan's heavy brows soared heavenward. "Hamster?"He tossed back the last of his beer and let out a healthy belch. "What, did you and Helen split and you can't find anyone better?" He dodged the popcorn Alex missiled in his direction.
"Have another."
"Okay." Stan motioned towards the bar and Jodie or Julie started over with a tray of fresh drinks. "Another round for my fine feathered friends!"
Alex finished off his own beer in ready anticipation of the next.It went down smooth and golden, cutting through the taste of smoke and muting the bitter edge of failure. A truly magic elixir.
"What about the hamster?" Al prompted, with an annoying gift of recollection. Knowing Al’s fine-tuned instincts, there’d be no getting off the hook without taking his medicinal ribbing. So Alex surrendered without too much of a fight.
"Damn. Okay, I'll tell you. She got a new shipment of the little furry guys, and just a few hours after putting them in the cage. . . they ate each other."
All eyes widened.
"Cannibals?" Al muttered at last, clearly shocked by this alarming picture of what he considered kiddy pets.
"No," stuck in Chet Patterson with amazing wit, "I think they're called gerbils."
"Shut the hell up," Al suggested amiably, kicking at the leg of his tipped back chair to incite a hurried scramble for balance long since lost.
"Anyways," Alex went on, ignoring the usual antics because it felt good to talk about anything other than what preyed upon his mind, "she was pretty freaked out about it. Nothing like that's ever happened before."
"Didn't they feed them before they delivered them?" Davy asked with a queasy curiosity. Because he was as green as his current complexion, he found himself the butt of many a stationhouse joke and he wasn't sure if another elaborate gag was being set up at his expense. But as usual, caution couldn't outweigh the need to know.
Al snorted. He glanced up at the lovely Jodie/Julie and smiled as she dealt out the drinks.
"Thanks, darlin'."
She puckered up and blew a wet kiss to excite them all into ravenous fantasies before sashaying back to the bar with a ball-bearing roll of hips. Al gave an unrequited sigh before smirking at the younger man once more.
"They don't ship hamsters in the first-class section."
His look encouraging images of well-groomed yuppie rodents kicking back, sipping Perrier, nibbling gourmet greens off lap trays while plugged into the smoothing strains of Barry Manilow on airline headsets.
"No, shit," Davy shot back in his own defense. "But they can still feed them some hamster food."
Stan leaned in on his damp elbows, grinning evilly. "Maybe hamsters are gerbil food!"
Davy's features screwed up in disgust, which was exacted what Stan had hoped for.
Alex shook his head. "You guys are brilliant. You know that?"
They all nodded in complete agreement as they addressed the new round of drinks enthusiastically. Alex slumped back in his chair, watching them, his comrades-in-arms, the closest thing he had to family outside his wife of seven years. He was reminded of a motley assortment of noisy and none too clean hunting hounds, gathering together to scratch and pull burrs off each other after a long, dirty chase. Hard to superimpose them as they looked now over the diligent heroes of that afternoon. But they were heroes, every one of them, each willing and ready to brace death in the line of duty, to risk their own mortality to save some stranger who might not give them the time of day if they'd met on the city street instead of in the middle of a two-alarm blaze.
Crazy bastards, every one of them.
And so was he, because those were the same things that drove him, the same rules that governed his life. Only those rules of sacrifice were wearing hard on him these days. Ever since Terry had gone down in his own private blaze of glory.
All because he, Alex Kerwood, had waited an extra five seconds.
He would have given everything he possessed to have those five seconds back. But he knew the likelihood of that happening.
Too late. Too damn late.
"What's the difference between a hamster and a gerbil?" Maury Weintraub asked suddenly after being a silent observer to the entire conversation.
Not sure if it was meant as a genuine question or the lead in to a particularly bad joke, Alex threw up his hands and got up from the table to make a none-too-straight trip to the bar where he plopped on a vacant stool.
"Help me," he pleaded as Jodie—yes, it was Jodie because he recognized the floral scent she favored. Helen liked it, too. That light clean fragrance teased around the harsher odors of smoke and death that still filled his nose in a stale bouquet.
And also like Helen, Jodie was more than just fond of Alex. The guys teased him about it, betting on when he’d succumb to the lovely bartendress’s subtle invitations. Hell, any of them would have jumped at the chance if it was ever offered in their direction. But Alex’s money was safe. Though he did plenty of teasing of his own and had a fantasy or two, he never pretended to be other than what he was, a happily married man who wasn’t interested even remotely in threatening that fact by indulging in an adulterous fling. He had enough problems without addi
ng that particular sin.
Jodie grinned at him as she toweled off the bar, nodding toward the increasingly noisy table. "You work with them, I don't."
"Thanks for the sympathy. That and a quarter can call me a cab."
She nodded happily in the face of his sarcasm. Her sister joined her, pushing a fresh drink in Alex's direction.
"Whoa," he muttered in feigned alarm. "You trying to get me divorced?"
The comely ladies exchanged a wistful look expressing, Don't we wish! in silent empathy as Alex picked up the mug and downed half of it in a lusty swallow.
"Actually," Julie began gently, "we heard about what happened today."
"Yeah," echoed Jodie. "I'm sorry."
His idyllic moment screeched to a halt. "Not as much as I am," Alex whispered into the dregs of his glass.
Julie frowned at his brooding attitude, having seen it before and probably not for the last time. "I guess you guys just got the call too late, right?"
"That's what they're telling me." Which told them he didn't believe it. He didn't look up as Al settled onto the stool beside him.
"What's your poison?" Jodie asked him.
"Give me some scotch. Straight." Time to get to some serious intoxication. Jodie turned to find the right bottle as her twin placed a slender hand on the bar between the two fire-fighters.
"I want you two to know that these drinks are on us tonight."
"You don't ha--"
Julie cut Alex off with a, "Shut up and drink it."
Who was he to refuse when it was put so sweetly?
When the glass was half way to his lips, a look of shock gripped Alex's features. "What time is it?"
Jodie set the scotch down in front of Al and checked her watch. "Quarter to twelve,” was the unwelcomed news spelling out his doom.
With a grumbled curse, Alex tottered off the stool. "I better get home before Helen does or there’ll be hell to pay . . . and pay . . . and pay.”
Al waved a calming hand. "Just tell her it was your turn to get groceries for the boys."
