by Carina Alyce
"No, the postcard arrived after they left." He waved his hand. "I already tried to get them on the radio; they're out of range. Cell phone coverage has been spotty, and there are wide dead zones between here and NYC. Hopefully, they'll check in when they arrive, and we can tell them."
"That's all you can do? Tell them Noah was in the city? Hope they run into each other?"
"Ms. Baker, his not checking in isn't necessarily a shock. If he was in Manhattan, they were evacuated by boat yesterday. The phone lines in New York City are overwhelmed, as is the cell service. If you could be patient—"
"Patient? My brother was in a city during a terrorist attack, and no one has heard from him? Be patient?!" Abby was almost screaming.
"Your brother is a Cleveland firefighter. He was my firefighter, and if I know him, the reason he hasn't checked in is because he is volunteering with the recovery operation. It's who he is… as you should know."
That hurt. Abby would either have to agree or admit how little she had been involved in Noah's life. "This vacation—is there anyone I can get more details from?"
"I am not involved in any of those aspects of his life," Soto said. "Rumor was that he took a road trip with the friend who brought his night school homework here from Cleveland State."
"I'll take whatever you can give me," Abby said.
"I don't have much, honestly. He's a Black guy with a giant Afro and beard, like an ad for Burning Man. Noah called him 'Wills' when he stopped by."
"Dude with an Afro and goes by 'Wills.' Age, height?"
"I'd guess early twenties. Big—in height and weight. Might be six five, two to three inches taller than Noah, but… pudgy. Maybe 270 pounds. Always had a candy bar and potato chips with him."
"Anything else?" Abby said, trying not to show her shock that Soto thought Noah was six-two.
"Huge joker, always talking shit to Noah. Refused to drink coffee, though Noah mainlined the stuff. He drove a red Ford Taurus."
"I guess that's better than nothing." Abby didn't mention how unhelpful the last part was. "I'd like Noah's address."
"I'll instruct Lieutenant McClunis to give it to you," Soto said. "Noah is probably fine. The reason this is hush-hush is because the Fire Chief doesn't want the city to know that almost a tenth of its firefighters didn't report to work. This is the busiest house in the city, and we had to combine 13 and 15 to field a full shift. Everyone is on edge, and the last thing we need is a panic. Yesterday, the bomb scare—it was on an airplane when they were grounding flights. I would go myself, but I have Luna…"
They walked out to the desk where McClunis was watching the news again. She obeyed her captain and gave Abby Noah's address without commenting on Abby’s ignorance of his living situation. It wasn't far from the firehouse.
Abby took back her ID, and Hank did the same. Even though they knew better, it was difficult to not watch the plane on the screen over and over again. Every cell in her body rejected the idea it was real, but there it was on repeat.
When Soto left, McClunis handed them a map. "This is a map of the World Trade Center grounds. I've heard from a few people that the borders of New York City are closed to everyone except emergency responders."
"You gonna give us credentials from Cleveland FD?" Abby said, wondering if she'd like this woman after all.
McClunis leaned forward. "I can give you a copy of the letter Soto unofficially had me prepare for our team. I wrote their cell phone numbers on the back, too. I don't know if it will be enough to pass through the checkpoints. If you stop by his apartment, he might have some uniform T-shirts."
Abby decided to like her. "I'll find him, don't worry. Thank you."
She started to leave and noticed Hank was still staring at the TV. "Hank?"
"Coming." Hank spoke to McClunis, "If you hear from your team before they get to the site, make sure they wear masks."
"Masks?" McClunis asked.
"Yeah, I've seen as big as a four-story building come down, but 110 stories twice? There's gonna be insane shit in the air. Asbestos, steel, oil, who knows what."
A silent word passed between McClunis and Hank. The lieutenant nodded. "They'll be instructed to wear respirators."
Chapter 4
Back outside, Hank was thinking hard. Abby had left a lot out of what was going on with her relationship with her brother. She talked like he was supposed to be in college, but he was a firefighter. Then she was unaware that he'd transferred firehouses or where he lived. Honestly, he doubted she knew what he looked like as Soto's description was nothing like the skinny kid Abby had discussed fondly.
"Why don't we grab a bite to eat?" Hank indicated the newly opened Panera Bread across the street. "It's another eight hours to New York. You aren't going to get there tonight."
"Wouldn't now be a good time for the bus stop?" Abby suggested. "You could catch a bus back to Michigan…"
"And get dropped off in Detroit at one am? Thanks, but I'll find a place here and head back tomorrow. Besides, do you have a key to his apartment?"
"A key?" Abby asked.
"How do you plan on getting inside?" Hank waited to see her response. She didn't have one. "Throwing a rock through his window is a bad idea. I'm good at opening doors."
"With your hook-hand?" Abby asked.
"I'll pay." Hank walked her across the street to the homey decor of the Panera. They ordered coffees and sandwiches with chips and took a table.
She ate in silence, which was unlike her, judging by the day Hank had spent with her.
“Do you want to talk about it at all?”
“There's nothing talk about,” she said.
“If he’s not at his apartment, you're going to drive to Manhattan?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“You're sure he hasn't checked in? I haven't seen you use your cell phone yet.”
“I bought it last year after Noah moved to Cleveland. We weren’t talking then.”
“Why not?”
She smashed a potato chip to smithereens. “We had a little falling out when he graduated early and left suddenly for Cleveland Fire Academy. In the grand scheme of things, it was an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini of an argument. I wanted him to stay close to home.”
His personal bullshit detector went off. No way had Abby taken that well, and now she was carrying around a lot of guilt. It was likely she had argued fiercely and loudly, and her brother had retaliated by cutting her off.
“And you’re going to find him in New York by yourself.”
“Why not? There can’t be that many White guys paired with a giant pudgy man with an Afro.”
Yet again, he was seized by the urge to help her. He shouldn't have cared, but he did. Here she was, trying to keep such a brave face and unable to ask for help. He’d need to be the one to act.
“If you want to get past the checkpoints, then you need gear or equipment making it worthwhile to let you though. You should have respirators.”
“What's a respirator?”
“It's kind of like a gas mask. It’s the same thing I told McClunis to make sure her team wore. We use them to clean up asbestos. Your chances of getting through increase if you're carrying them.”
“Where do you think I should buy these respirators?”
“We passed a Sherwin Williams.”
Abby rolled up her food. “Let’s go do that.”
“Now?” Hank tried to swallow the rest of his sandwich.
“Yeah, before the store closes.”
Hank folded his sandwich in its paper wrapper. “Not his apartment first? You don’t think he’s home?”
“Do you?” Abby asked, already on her way out the door.
He chased after her, not bothering to argue. There was a method to her madness—she was a goal directed person. Loud and extroverted, she moved from target to target, directly and without hesitation.
As if she was used to being the one with all the responsibilities.
Turned out, Abb
y was right. They got into Sherwin Williams with fifteen minutes to spare. With minimal effort, she charmed the fiftyish clerk into bringing out the expensive respirators with their carbon filters.
The clerk happily parted with them, especially once Hank showed off his Haz-Mat OSHA card.
Then they drove south and west of Firehouse 15, stopping near an old house converted into apartments across the street from newer rowhouses. Abby parked next to a turquoise Ford Contour, and they got out.
“His car is here,” she stated and felt under the back bumper.
“What are you looking for?”
“A key. He always thought having a fake rock was a dumb idea.” She went to the back of her car and opened the trunk, removing a tool kit and a crowbar.
“Do you have plans for the crowbar?” Hank asked when she hefted it.
“Yep. I’m gonna put it in the frame or lock or whatever.”
“That sort of thing gets you arrested for breaking and entering. Why don’t we knock first then try a credit card?”
As expected, no one answered.
The credit card didn't work, but Hank’s next step, a paperclip and an Allen wrench, did fine.
Abby rushed in. "Noah!"
They entered a small studio apartment. It was on the first floor of the chopped-up house. There was enough space for a kitchenette, a futon, and a double bed. Weirdly, there was a pull-up bar fixed to the ceiling with a few free weights and a pair of boxing gloves.
Shoved against the wall sat a personal computer and several posters—Seven of Nine from Star Trek Voyager, a Seether poster, and a Cleveland Browns roster. All in all, it reminded Hank of his first apartment in Detroit. It had fewer beer cans and its own Nintendo 64, which Hank's apartment had lacked. Still, the stacked washer dryer in the closet and the empty fridge were carbon copies.
Abby plopped down at the computer desk and booted it up. She started sorting papers and suggested, "Why don't you take a shower?"
He blinked; he had not expected an invitation to shower while she typed nearby. "A shower would be nice."
"Once I'm online, I'll find you the numbers of nearby hotels," she said.
That was more like it. She thought she was going to go on this quest by herself to New York. As if Hank would let that happen. After over nine hours in her presence, he understood she would never ask for help, even if she needed it.
He had no reason not to take a shower, so Hank went into the small bathroom and its shower for one, complete with Star Trek shower curtain. That wasn't the biggest surprise in the bathroom.
Why did the missing Noah have ten open razors? There were four on the pedestal sink and six in the shower itself. He couldn't come up with any earthly reason a firefighter would need to shave off his body hair. Soto had been pretty swarthy, so it seemed unlikely it was job related…
Construction encouraged hair, as it was another buffer and protection from skin injuries, and, in general, much warmer while working outside. If Hank decided to shave his chest, he'd likely use ten razors on that alone. Finster genes tended toward thick dark brown hair on his chest, arms, and legs. He'd always been glad it didn't include his back, or else he'd need a lawnmower.
Speaking of shaving, he rubbed his goatee. He hadn't masked up for any demo projects lately, but if things panned out the way he envisioned, the goatee had to go. No mask would seal with large facial hair.
It would take work to get rid of the whole thing. Hank didn't love razors for this work, but he'd have to deal. He wasn't going to use any of the old razors, though. His grandmother had drilled into him the dangers of sharing razors and sharp objects.
There was an entire pack of unused disposable ones in the medicine cabinet, and shaving cream. Hank lathered up his face and bid his goatee goodbye, courtesy of a fresh razor. Then he turned on the shower, stripped, and got in behind the curtain. The stream of water and a bottle of Pert Plus did wonders on that grime from standing on the side of the freeway for an hour.
He was about to get out when he remembered that he didn't have any clean replacement clothes.
Or a towel for that matter.
Eleven razors, no towel.
"Umm, Abby!" He wrapped the curtain around his hips.
She stuck her head in the door, squinting in the steam of the bathroom, "Hank? What the fuck?"
"No! Do not come in! This is not a pervy trick! There're no towels in here. Or underwear. Or clothes. If you could find a towel and throw it in, it'd be great."
She ducked back out. Seconds later, a towel landed on the floor.
Hank stepped out of the shower into the empty space in front of the sink. He had the towel in his hand and was drying off his legs when the door opened a second time.
Abby reentered with a pair of boxers and a navy-blue T-shirt in her hands. She came to a complete and sudden stop upon seeing him naked with his dick free.
Neither of them moved, though unbidden, blood flow was flowing elsewhere. His penis was quite aware that a woman’s eyes were giving it a hard stare.
A very, very, hard stare.
A getting harder by the second stare.
Hank glanced down and confirmed that his cock was standing up for attention.
“Aww, shit," he growled and pulled the towel over his hips. Then he discovered it was one of those half-sized towels because it didn't make it around his waist.
At least it wasn't a dish towel.
"Abby,” he said.
“Yes?” She was still staring at his crotch.
The stupid towel was too small to cover everything, so he decided to sacrifice his butt for frontal coverage. He struggled to rearrange it over his front while pointing his back away from the door. “Thank you for the clothes.”
“Sure thing.” She dropped them on the floor and backed away, closing the door behind her.
Hank decided to have a word with his dick. “Off-limits. You met her today. No one is interested.”
Good thing his cock couldn't talk because it wanted to hold up a sign that said ‘interested.’
Ignoring his flagrant erection, Hank shoved the shirt and the boxers on.
And the shirt immediately tore in the back when it passed his shoulders. He checked the tag. Her brother must have been small if he wore a medium.
Unable to reverse his course, Hank finished ripping it apart. He put back on his new Kmart shirt; it, unlike his undershirt, should have been clean enough. Fortunately, the boxers didn't shred the same way. Legs were a bit more forgiving than the shirt.
Then he spent a few minutes thinking about the least sexy possible parts of his job. Snaking drains, assessing buildings after sewer backups, exterminating termites and roaches.
That worked well enough.
He came back out, but Abby was gone. Was she calling the police? She hadn't been giving him the eyes like she had never seen dick before. She was thirty-four, and blushing virgin didn’t come to mind about her. The woman discussed the relative size of her rack to him, a stranger.
Crap, now he sounded like a prude. It was fine. Everyone was an adult.
If she wasn't calling the police, she wouldn't abandon him at her brother’s apartment. She was certainly desperate to see her brother, but not desperate enough to drive off in the middle of the night.
She came back in carrying her duffel bag and his wet clothes. Once she toed off her ballet flats, she started laughing maniacally. “Oh, your face when I came into the bathroom. Priceless.”
“I thought you'd stop at the towel.”
“You said you needed clothes. I didn't expect you'd be packing heat. Good for you.”
She unzipped her bag and removed a tank top and pair of pajama pants, setting them on a new towel. He caught the flash of pink lace. Sternly warning his brain to not think about her underwear, Hank tried to not look directly at her.
Abby had other ideas. She took a long step with her clothes into the bathroom and kicked his clothes out. “I'm showering. You’re in charge of laundry. Set every
thing on permanent press.”
The minx didn’t bother to shut the door before she tossed her shirt, capris, socks, bra, and panties in the living room.
His stupid cock, fully ignoring the previous warning, got stupid interested again in what Abby wore underneath her clothes.
No. The last thing this woman needed was a one-night stand. She wasn't asking for it; she was proving that she was independent and didn't need help.
And Hank was an honorable guy. He'd made mistakes in his past, but he'd learned a lesson from his parents. The right choice didn't always win, but the wrong one invariably screwed you over.
Closing his eyes, he used one foot to sweep everything into a pile. His two sets of clothing could hide her smaller, daintier, more feminine clothing. As a precaution, he kept his eyes anywhere but on the clothes on his way to the closet laundry.
Interestingly, the computer was off, and the papers he’d seen on the desk were gone. Noah had a Gateway computer and an attached printer, but the paper was blank. Abby hadn’t even written down any hotel phone numbers for him to call. And she asked him to wash the clothes. That meant he wasn't going anywhere for a couple hours.
A yowling sound came from the closed bathroom door.
Abby was singing in the shower. Lots of enthusiasm, not a lot of skill. It was the type of thing forgiven at a karaoke bar because of a sunny attitude and fearless nature of the performer. Musical talent might not have run in their family. Though he noticed a guitar was now sitting on the futon. Abby must have found it in the closet since there weren’t many possible hiding places.
He picked up the guitar and strummed it once. It was in tune. It wasn't even tuned to open G, the way the Rolling Stones did to simplify playing.
Placing his left hand on the neck, Hank strummed the strings over the sound hole. This was a beginner’s guitar, a Fender Hellcat. No way was he playing any Destiny’s Child on this. An 80s power ballad felt more appropriate, or possibly some Aerosmith. No, he needed a more uplifting song.
Chapter 5
Abby finished her shower and wiped off the mirror with her towel. This was an excellent time for a self-pep talk while she combed out her hair.
