Hidden Fire

by Jo Davis

  But most of the men were tearing at the earth with shovels and other tools. Digging at the mouth of the cave that was no longer there. The entrance was sealed as though it had never existed.

  “No.”

  Scrambling up the rise, he dropped to his knees and began clawing at the rock and soil with his bare hands. Distantly, he was aware of screaming her name, frantic for a response. To make a hole and get to her, hold her in his arms. Protect her as he’d failed to do before.

  “Julian!” Strong hands pulled him backward, and he fought. “Get hold of yourself!”

  “Let me go!”

  Sean came around him and grabbed his bare shoulders, got in his face. “Do you want to be forced to leave? Because you’re headed out of here unless you get a grip.”

  He stared at Sean, breathing hard, the words penetrating his panic. For all Six-Pack’s kindness, his gentle support when a friend needed it, nobody could get in your face and cut the bullshit the way Sean could. “No. I have to help. She’s in there alone—she needs me.”

  “Then calm your ass down and help. If you’re a burden to these men working to get her and the other woman out, you’ll put them in more danger. You hear me?”

  “Y-yes, sir.” Calm. He could do calm. For Grace.

  And Carmelita. Oh, God, how could he have forgotten her?

  “Good. Let’s find you a shirt and something to dig with.”

  Glancing down at himself, he gazed dispassionately at the seeping cuts and bruises forming on his chest, stomach, and arms. He’d forgotten he’d given his shirt to Brett and wore nothing on top but his ever-present gold cross. The events of the past couple of hours seemed fragmented, like some weird acid trip, the whole thing hallucinated.

  His friends returned bearing shovels for the three of them and he set to work, trying to focus his energy on nothing but making a hole. Make the earth give way, get the women out. After a few minutes, however, the kid crossed his mind again and he glanced at Howard.

  “Did they transport Brett to the hospital?”

  “Yeah. Physically, he’ll recover, but mentally? Damn. Some of the stuff he was babbling about while I was waiting with him made my hair stand on end.” A smile curving his mouth took the sadness from the moment. “At least Shane got to make a happy call to the kids’ parents. He said Brett’s mom started screaming in joy and dropped the phone. The dad had to come on the line and figure out what the hell had happened. They’re probably with their son by now . . . thanks to you.”

  “Me? No. Shane was already getting a warrant, so they would’ve found him anyway.”

  “That’s right; you don’t know.” Howard gave him a look of satisfaction. “Shane said they were having trouble reaching the judge, and probably couldn’t have gotten the go-ahead until tomorrow. By then, Brett might have been tortured again, or dead. You saved that kid’s life, my friend. Because you solved the mystery, that boy has a future. Might as well face it.”

  His throat burned with a wave of conflicting emotions. As damned glad as he was for getting the kid out, what if the price was the life of the woman he loved? The life of a friend, as well? No good deed goes unpunished. Fate gives with one hand and takes with the other.

  Pausing, he clutched his cross and said a quick prayer of thanks for lives spared. And one for those hanging in the balance.

  Help us get them out.

  They worked through the night, driven by coffee and sheer will. Word had spread, and more cops and firefighters had showed up to help, though Kat and her parents hadn’t.

  Howard had firmly ordered Mr. McKenna to keep his wife and Kat at home to wait for word. They didn’t need to be here if Grace was . . . gone.

  An hour after dawn broke, a shout sounded on the far-right-hand side of where the mouth used to be.

  “We’re gettin’ through!”

  Men scrambled to assist in widening the opening. Julian tried to work his way into the middle of them, but there was no room. His friends made him move back and flanked him, lending their quiet support.

  About a half hour later, two men from the new shift at Station Two ducked and crawled inside to try to locate the women. Eerie how the hillside was covered in people, everyone still as statues, nobody speaking. After an agonizing ten minutes, a fire hat poked out of the opening.

  “One deceased,” he said softly. “Gonna need some help in here getting her free. Still trying to locate the other lady.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, but Julian hardly noticed. One of them was gone. He’d lost either his woman or his childhood friend. He made a small sound in his throat, agony and despair. Blackness wanted to take him, but fear kept him upright as more firemen crawled into the space.

  Fear and his friends at his back, Six-Pack’s hand gripping his shoulder. “Julian, it’s going to be all right. Hang in there, buddy.”

  It wouldn’t. His heroics had cost a life. Oh, Grace, please. No.

  A man backed out of the opening, carrying his end of the stretcher. A blanket covered the body, a small, pitiful lump, just a shell where a vibrant woman used to be.

  He was frozen in place as the two men carried it past. A third man approached him, sympathy on his craggy face. “I’m so sorry to put you through this, but I’ve got to give you a description.”

  That meant there wasn’t much left to look at, and they preferred he not see. Not trusting his voice, he nodded.

  “Female with brown hair, black pants . . .”

  The roaring in his ears drowned out the rest. “Carmelita,” he choked. “Gutierrez.”

  The man clasped his arm. “Again, I’m sorry. We’re still looking for the other one, hoping for the best.”

  A strong forearm went around his chest, holding him from behind, preventing him from sagging to the ground. Grief threatened to drown him, take him down to where nothing mattered. His breathing hitched as tears spilled down his face. He thought they might as well be blood.

  Endless minutes scraped by and finally, two more men emerged bearing another stretcher. Julian saw dirty blond hair trailing over the side, a splint on her right arm, and an IV.

  Alive.

  “Oh, my God! Grace!” Breaking away from his friends, he stumbled to her, staring down at her pale, bruised face. Too still. “Baby, can you hear me?”

  “We need to transport her, Julian. Meet us there, all right?”

  “I want to ride with her,” he insisted, keeping pace with them.

  “Nope, you’ll meet us. Your lady is hanging in there and you need to get checked out yourself.”

  “But—”

  They slid her into the back of the ambulance, and the one who’d been speaking hopped in. The other one shut the doors and they were off. Taking her to safety.

  Battered, but alive.

  Sean and Six-Pack appeared in front of him, expressions determined.

  “Well, let’s go after her,” Sean said. “You’ve done all you can here. Now Grace needs you more.”

  Through his tangled emotions of grief over Carmelita and overwhelming relief that Grace would be all right, he had to wonder. Did she want him anymore?

  Their dinner the night before haunted him. She wasn’t ready to commit. And perhaps she’d been right. He’d done nothing but push her where she didn’t want to go.

  He’d nearly gotten her killed.

  He couldn’t force Grace to love him, and he could see the truth very clearly now.

  Julian Salvatore had finally grown up. Now he had to do the right thing. Even if it destroyed him.

  19

  Grace pried open her lids, blinking away the layer of grit coating her eyeballs. Mostly. She tried to grab a coherent thread of thought and hold on, but her head felt as though an evil scientist had sucked out her brains and replaced the space with fluid.

  She felt dull, her body heavy and floaty at the same time. How was that possible? Oh, her brain was floating outside her body, that’s how. She was also lying flat on her back. Her bleary gaze traveled south an
d she tried again to process the situation.

  IV in her left hand. Cast and sling on her right arm. She was a boneless chicken with broken wings. No, one broken wing. Except if you’re boneless, they can’t be broken. Whatever.

  Okay, add good drugs to the list. Dripping happy juice through the IV thingie.

  Maybe she could order one of these for the condo.

  “Grace? Hey, querida, welcome back.”

  She turned her head toward the sound of the beloved voice. Happiness swelled that had nothing to do with drugs—well, maybe just a little—and she gave him what must be a goofy smile. “Julian, you look . . .” She frowned, belatedly realizing he looked awful.

  Not his appearance, but something else. He smelled good and his hair was clean, so he must’ve showered. His little gold cross rested outside his T-shirt where it belonged. No, what bothered her was his smile. It didn’t match the sadness in his dark eyes, which were smudged with circles underneath. His face looked ravaged, as though he’d aged a decade.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, stroking her leg on top of the blanket.

  “My chicken wing is broken.” Damn, drugs made the weirdest things come out of a person’s mouth.

  “Yes, it is, but in about six weeks it’ll be well. Are you in any pain? If so, I’ll buzz the nurse.”

  “Hmm.” She thought. “Not really. Just floating.”

  “All right. Grace, do you remember what happened?”

  “An accident.” No, that wasn’t right.

  “Not exactly.” He paused, looked away for a moment. “We found Brett and got him out of the cave. But then we got caught and—”

  “The explosion,” she breathed. Everything came back in a rush, spinning her mushy brain. “Carmelita.”

  “She’s . . .” His voice broke. “She’s dead.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She wanted to reach for him, but couldn’t, trussed up like she was.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. All of what happened to you and her is my fault.” He sounded so desolate, her heart broke.

  “No. That makes no sense.” Not much did, in fact. She struggled to keep up with his thinking.

  “If it weren’t for me, neither of you would’ve been put in danger.”

  “That’s crazy!” she blurted. “Not your fault. Things happen for a reason—wings get broken—and you fix them!”

  “Some things can’t be repaired, Grace,” he rasped, making a visible effort to retain control of his emotions. “I want you to listen to me. I’ll always love you, but I want you to know that I finally understand something. Real love is letting go when you know you’re not what the other person needs.”

  “What?” She blinked at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I want what’s best for you, and I know it isn’t me. I hung on, pushed too hard, and I refused to see things from your point of view. I thought if I held on tightly enough, I could make you feel what I did.” He cleared his throat, continuing with an effort.

  “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, bella, and I realize now it can’t be with me.” Leaning over, he brushed a kiss against her lips, and stood.

  “But—”

  “Good-bye, Grace.”

  “Wait! I have something to . . .” To tell you.

  But he was already out the door. Gone.

  Julian borrowed Kat’s spare key to Grace’s condo, with a promise to give it to Howard when he returned to work next week, and fetched his belongings. Five minutes, in and out, before he could change his mind.

  Next, he went to see Brett at his parents’ house outside Nashville. Shane said they’d phoned and left several messages at the police department, desperate to thank Julian in person, and didn’t know where to reach him. Julian had agreed, after some coaxing. They needed closure, Shane told him.

  He’d expected the meeting to be awkward, and he dreaded the boy’s reaction to seeing him again. He was afraid Brett would associate him with the trauma he’d been through, perhaps be withdrawn or angry. He needn’t have worried.

  Brett was coping, one day at a time. He was a stronger young man than anyone, even his own family, had realized. He spoke some about how he’d survived a month in the dark, by keeping his mind focused on survival. He was saddened by the fate of the others, but noted they’d mentally given up. They weren’t murdered until they broke, and that, to Brett, was the key.

  Brett’s parents were awesome people, serving soda and warm cookies and reminding Julian of his own mama. Food fixed everything from the common cold to broken hearts. They hugged the stuffing out of him and thanked him profusely for putting together the threads that led to their son’s rescue. After Brett went upstairs to nap, they spoke in hushed tones about the other victims. The San Antonio PD had located several graves at the Vineses’ old place, and several more at their current one.

  The truth was, the authorities might never know how many victims there were. But at least they could rest easy knowing the entire bunch, including Warren, had been charged with multiple counts of kidnapping and murder. The court trial would be a nightmare, but Julian would face it when it came, knowing those monsters would never again see the light of day.

  That was poetic justice.

  After saying good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Charles, he went for a long drive. He couldn’t face anyone else right now, even his friends, as supportive and well-meaning as they were. He wanted only to be alone, to fortify his courage for Carmelita’s funeral in three days. How he’d face her family, he didn’t know. They’d flown her body home to San Antonio, and he’d made his plane reservation for tomorrow.

  He’d called Mama, and her sweet voice telling him to come home had been the last straw.

  He drove, the hot bubble in his chest, the rage, hurt, and sorrow, needing to be lanced before his heart exploded and killed him outright. But maybe that would be kinder.

  Before he was aware of exactly where he was headed, he’d turned down the rutted path onto the land. The property he’d made the offer for, it seemed, a lifetime ago. The car bumped along and he thought, I really do need a truck.

  He’d add that to the list.

  Right after burying his best friend.

  And losing the woman he loved.

  Putting the car in park, he got out and walked over to the pond. And inevitably, he recalled making love with Grace right here, in this spot. The place he’d hoped to make theirs forever.

  The bubble in his chest burst and he sank to the ground. He stared, unseeing, over the water, trying to breathe through the pain, to hold it off a bit longer.

  He lost. Burying his face in his hands, he let the tide of grief wash over him, carry him away. He didn’t know how long he sat there sobbing, but eventually he was spent. Drained. Cleansed in a sense, like maybe now he could handle the rest of what he must go through this week.

  And after that, maybe he could get on with his life.

  He looked around the property with new eyes, and a small kernel of hope took root. This would be his.

  Whatever the future brought, for him, it began right here.

  Grace stared at her nosy, interfering, wonderful sister, and smiled at their hatched plan. “It’s perfect! Why didn’t I think of an all-out ambush? He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Well, drastic measures are now called for. You’ve left him how many messages since he returned from San Antonio?”

  “Five.”

  “Five! Stubborn ass. I think it’s buried in the genetic code.”

  “Surely Howard’s not this muleheaded.”

  Kat snorted. “Frequently. Are you sure you want a man?”

  “Ha! You don’t fool me. Even when you’re pissed at him, you glow.”

  “I know, dammit. The way he lights me up even when I want to stay mad is programmed into my genetic code.” She grabbed her purse. “Ready to storm the Bastille?”

  “When you are.” They left, Kat helping Grace into her Bimmer and setting a covered chocolate cake at her feet. Then
she hopped in the driver’s side and they were on their way. Grace glanced at her sister. “I appreciate your taking the week off work to chauffeur me around like this. Broken chicken wing and all,” she said, lifting up her arm in the sling.

  “I still can’t believe you were babbling to Jules about chicken wings when he came to see you,” Kat teased.

  Grace found she could smile, even laugh, because she knew something Julian didn’t.

  This little separation wasn’t going to stick.

  Kat pulled into the station and parked in a visitor’s slot. The big bay doors were open today to let in the warm June breeze, and a few guys were visible, hanging out near the quint. The two women approaching, especially one bearing a cake pan, drew lots of attention.

  “I have chocolate cake!” Kat announced to whistles of appreciation from the team.

  Grace sought Julian and found him leaning negligently against the door of the ambulance on the other side of the bay, feet crossed, hands in his pockets. Their gazes clashed and she winced at how empty his eyes were, how blank.

  As though she were a stranger he’d never bent over the hood of his Porsche in the sunlight. “Hi,” she said, giving him a tentative smile.

  Vaguely, she was aware of the rest of the team following Kat inside as though she were the Pied Piper, intent on a fudgy treat. But Julian didn’t move. Just relaxed there like a lean, lazy cat, with not a care in the world.

  He nodded, but didn’t budge. “Hey. How are you?”

  Time to bring out the big guns. “Well, if you’d bothered to return any of my five messages, I’d have told you.”

  There. A flicker of emotion. Quickly hidden, but not fast enough. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yep, being a coward.”

  He pushed off the ambulance and straightened, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “I did what’s best for you. Call me whatever you want.”