Cause to Burn

by Mairsile Leabhair

  “Engine 61, Engine 62, Truck 31, Squad 34, Quint 38, Medic 37, Battalion 13, respond,” the dispatcher said over the loudspeaker.

  “Damn, it’s a big one,” I muttered out loud. The welcomed rush of adrenaline had me focused on the alarm, forgetting the reason that I couldn’t sleep.

  “McClean and Union, abandoned building…”

  I jumped out of bed, as did everyone else, except for Roberta. “Hey, wake up. Can’t you hear the alarm?” I asked as I poked her shoulder.

  She grumbled and told me to go away. I didn’t care whether she came with me or not, but I pulled her covers off anyway. She was wearing a pink camisole and tiny shorts that barely covered her round, pink hips. Her hair was tangled around her face, making her nose twitch. Too cute. “Hey, I’m going to leave you behind if you don’t get your ass in gear.”

  “I’m up, I’m up,” she said sleepily, trying to sit up. Again, I was distracted with how adorable she looked when she was sleepy. Damn it.

  “We are on the road in sixty seconds. You can either ride with me or jump on the truck,” I stated. I was already dressed, thanks to sleeping in my jeans and tank-top. Most firefighters working the night shift remained partially dressed when they went to bed. I pulled my black company T-shirt on and grabbed my keys off the nightstand, unlocking the drawer where I kept my weapon. Clipping on the holster and securing my gun, I grabbed my jacket. The other firefighters were already out the door, and I was right behind them, when she stopped me.

  “Hey, wait! I have to get dressed.”

  “Sorry, fire doesn’t wait for lazy reporters,” I retorted a bit more snottily than I meant to. As I rushed out of the room, I heard her mutter bitch. Not sure why, but that made me laugh.

  As usual, I drove my own car, so I was the last to leave behind the others. Just as I plugged in my LED Visor Light Bar and pulled down my visor it was mounted on, Roberta came running out in her bare feet and jumped in the car. She was wearing a fireman’s jacket that was three sizes too big for her. Considering she didn’t have much on, that was probably a good thing. She clutched the rest of her clothes, including her boots, in her hands. She was determined, I had to give her that.

  She threw everything on the floor between her legs, pulled the blue jeans out of the pile and squirmed into them.

  “Put on your seatbelt,” I warned her, more out of bemusement than legality.

  She glared at me and mouthed a word that rhymed with suck. I couldn’t hide the smirk even if I had wanted to, which I’m not sure I did. She ignored me and buttoned her jeans. Then she leaned over and retrieved her socks and boots and began putting those on. Thankfully, she wasn’t wearing high heels this time. Incredibly, she had brought pink hiking boots. Pink?

  “What’s on fire?” she asked, dropping a boot and clicking her teeth in frustration.

  “An abandoned building on McClean and Union. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, it’s a very old building that has been sitting empty for a couple of years, and...” I hesitated for a second. I was pissed because my girlfriend chose her career over me, but I wasn’t a complete bastard. I didn’t want Roberta to walk into something she couldn’t handle. “Homeless people take shelter in it sometimes.”

  “Oh, no,” she gasped.

  “You can wait outside, if you want,” I offered.

  “Why? Do you think I’m too chicken shit? That I’m a fucking coward?”

  “Damn, you people from New York sure have potty mouths,” I snorted, even though my cussing was usually much worse.

  “I’m not from New York and you know it,” she spat out. “I told you, I’m from Germantown.”

  “Well, someone sure woke up on the wrong side of the bed, didn’t she?” I teased.

  She glared at me, then turned and looked out her window. I always kept the convertible closed up to keep smoke and soot from getting inside when I was on a call, but this time, it felt almost claustrophobic as we rode the rest of the way in silence. Only the sirens blaring in front of us disrupted the peace. That and the radio squawking fire alarms from other stations. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up when I heard that there were multiple residential fires across the city. It was as if someone was trying to burn down Memphis. I had a sickening feeling that it was the serial arsonist, but it was too large in magnitude to believe.

  As I parked and got out of the car, I could see that the building was fully involved. There was one other battalion arriving on the scene, which seemed unusual, given the magnitude of the fire. Firefighters from my station were getting set up on the A-side or front side of the building, with the other battalion making their way to the rear, or C-side. Until the fire was extinguished and Uncle Joe declared it safe for me to go in, all I could do was watch and wait.

  Roberta climbed out of the Camaro minus the oversized jacket. I guessed she’d taken advantage of the tinted windows in my car, because the jacket was gone and she was wearing a pink tank-top over the camisole. She was adorable in that jacket, but now she was just plain sexy in her tight jeans, short tank-top and pink boots. It was easy to appreciate her beauty. Unfortunately, she also reminded me just a little bit of my girlfriend, who was probably already packing for Germany.

  Tina never liked my being a firefighter, but she came around after I was promoted to investigator. It was a much less dangerous job, or so I led her to believe. True, it wasn’t the same as running into a fully involved burning building, but I carried a gun now, and was trained to use it, if necessary. That time hadn’t come yet, thank God, but my gut was telling me it would, and soon.

  Whatever it was that compelled a first responder to run headlong into a burning building – rescue, conquer, protect – was still deeply ingrained in me and having to stand by the wayside was the worst part of my job. I glanced at Roberta, who stood looking up at the fire, her arms crossed against her chest. I wasn’t sure if she was cold or still mad at me. Probably a little bit of both. I walked around the car and opened the trunk.

  “Here, put this on,” I said, handing her one of my jackets. “It will help protect you from falling ash and debris.”

  “Thanks,” she grunted and took the jacket from my hand. She gazed up at me for an instant, her eyes swimming with questions. She wanted to say something but changed her mind and shrugged into the jacket. Then she turned back to the fire. My jacket was too big for her but not as big as the one she had been wearing.

  “And you’ll need to find a helmet or hard hat before we go in.” I looked down at the black fire helmet I used to wear before I became an investigator. “I’d loan you mine but it’s bad luck to wear someone else’s helmet.” It was my father’s helmet from when he was a firefighter, and he gave it to me when I was twelve and declared that I wanted to be a firefighter, too. He had just brought home a shiny new white helmet and gave me his old black one. Mom took our picture wearing our helmets, and that picture is tucked between the mesh straps inside my white hard hat.

  “Do I really have to wear a helmet?” she asked without looking at me. “Those things cover my eyes, and I can’t see very well.”

  “Without question, you have to wear a helmet or a hard hat. When we get back to the station, I’ll find you a smaller one. You can adjust the straps on it so it doesn’t fall in your face.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” she replied very taciturnly. “So, are we just going to stand around and watch? I mean, can’t we interview witnesses or something?”

  “The police are already doing that,” I said, tapping her shoulder and pointing to the clutch of people standing in the back talking to police officers.

  “Then that’s where I’ll be,” she stated, and walked away.

  Damn, if her shoulder gets any colder I’m going to start calling her the ice queen.

  I caught up to her and reminded her to let me ask the questions. Then I walked in front of her because I didn’t trust her to let me take the lead. I showed my badge to the officer and began asking him questions. He singled
out a woman standing to the side who was a credible witness because she had been inside the building when the fire broke out.

  Pulling out my pen and pad, I approached the woman. “Ma’am, I’m Fire Investigator Jordyn Stringfellow, and I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “I didn’t do it,” she said immediately, clutching her grocery bag of clothes closer to her. Everything she owned was probably in that bag.

  Her eyes were clear, although fearful, and her hands were steady. She was wearing a short-sleeved blouse that was in bad need of a washing, along with everything else she wore, but there were no track marks on her arms. The officer was correct; she would be a credible witness.

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t say you did,” I assured her. “But could you just tell me what you saw? Did you hear anything?”

  “Popping.”

  “Popping?” I repeated. “Like popcorn, or…”

  She shook her head. “No, there’s no electricity in the building so we couldn’t pop— I mean, if there was anyone else in there, um…”

  “Ma’am, no one here is going to arrest you for being in that building, or any of your friends, either.” Vagrants weren’t usually arrested, just told to leave the property and even, at times, given a ride to the nearest shelter.

  She dropped her shoulders and relaxed. “It was in the ceiling overhead and it was more like a ticking, or clicking sound, and then a loud pop. That’s when we heard the loud roaring sound, like the wind was blowing through the cracks. We thought there was a storm coming, it was so loud.”

  “But there wasn’t a storm, was there?” Roberta asked.

  My witness clammed up again and took a step back. I glared at Roberta. Damn it, why won’t you just do as you’re told? She shrugged indifferently. I turned back to the witness and introduced the thorn in my side. “It’s okay, ma’am, this is Roberta Witherspoon. She’s a reporter… of sorts.”

  Roberta held her hand out to the witness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss…”

  “Perla May Gibbons,” she responded, wiping her grimy hand across her blouse before holding it out to Roberta. The two women were the same height and build, and next to Roberta, Perla May looked to be at least twenty years older.

  “Perla May, what a beautiful name,” Roberta complimented her, taking her hand without hesitation. “I’m actually not here as a reporter. I’m doing research for a book I’m writing. Would it be all right if I used your name in my book?”

  She beamed a large smile at Roberta and nodded. “I’ve never had my name in a book before. I reckon it’d be all right, as long as you say something nice about me.”

  “Of course, Perla May,” Roberta said.

  The homeless woman looked down at Roberta’s feet. “I surely do like your pink boots, Roberta.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Roberta replied, shooting a smirk at me.

  “Can we please get back to the fire burning out of control behind us?” I asked testily. Once again, Roberta had railroaded my investigation, and it was really starting to piss me off.

  “Oh, sorry,” Roberta muttered. “I’ll just take notes. Act like I’m not even here.”

  Would that I could. “Ms. Gibbons, in the last few days, have you seen anyone you didn’t know? Anyone who didn’t fit in, so to speak.”

  “Y’all can call me Perla May, and nobody fits in around here. I’ve seen all kinds of folk come through this part of town. People who lost their jobs and homes. People who are on the streets begging for money to buy their drugs…” Perla May swallowed her emotions. “Children hanging on tight to their mother’s hand, afraid to even look up at me.”

  Roberta was typing furiously again, but I saw a shadow of sadness fill her eyes when she looked up. “Perla May, why are you here? I mean, if I’m not being too presumptuous.”

  “No, sugar, it’s a fair question. I was laid off after twenty years of faithful work, and now I’m too old. No one wants to hire me.”

  “Oh, no,” Roberta sighed. “That’s just awful. But couldn’t you stay at one of the shelters?”

  I had completely lost control of this conversation.

  “I do, when it gets cold enough or I run out of food. But I don’t like to,” she stated. “My friends and I look out for each other here. I feel safer with them.”

  “Your friends? Have you known them long?” Roberta asked without looking up from her cell phone. For someone claiming she wasn’t a reporter, she sure was asking a lot of questions.

  Perla May smiled. “One of the fellas I worked with was also laid off. We were married last month,” she replied, showing Roberta the green ring she wore on her finger. I’m pretty sure it was a bottle cap ring, but Perla May showed it off as if it were made of gold. “And the rest of the gang just became friends over the last few years. Things are getting worse out there, so you have to depend on your friends, you know? You have to have someone to love because a loveless life is worse than death.”

  Roberta stilled her typing and looked up at the woman. “Ms. Perla May, you are preaching to the choir.”

  I felt a smile crawl across my lips, and I bit it back. It was frustrating to be annoyed with someone one minute and smiling at their innocence the next. Especially when that someone used to be a reporter, and I was agreeing with her.

  “Don’t fret, honey, you’re still young,” Perla May said and then glanced at me. “The trick is not to grow old alone.”

  Her gaze was piercing, and I got the feeling she was talking to me specifically. Was I projecting my emotions unintentionally? Could she tell that I had just broken up with my partner? I shook my head and chuckled, and both women looked at me curiously. I shifted my stance and said, “I’m going to talk with the chief. You stay here and chat it up with Ms. Perla May.”

  “Fine, you do that,” Roberta retorted, not looking at me.

  Perla May’s smile caught my eye and I tried to smile back, but it ended up more of a smirk. I curtly turned around and marched off. I decided that I would finish my interview with Perla May later, after her highness was done distracting her.

  I looked through the first responders for the white hat Uncle Joe would be wearing and walked over to him, standing by Engine 61. He was talking with another chief and a group of firefighters, so I didn’t interrupt him.

  “We know there is one victim, maybe two, trapped on the third floor,” Uncle Joe said, pointing up at the floor with the most smoke billowing out of the broken windows. “Get your RIC team ready to deploy, and we’ll cover you from the outside with the quint.” Joe and the others walked over to the big rig, while I stayed put so I wouldn’t be in the way.

  The Rapid Intervention Crew were fully-equipped firefighters who wore bunker gear and self-contained breathing apparatus. Two would enter the building, while two more stood by ready to assist in case the first two became compromised. The firefighters went into the hottest spot, usually with only one entrance and exit, and brought out terrified, sometimes combative victims. Although it had not happened to me personally, I knew how easy it would be to get turned around inside a burning building and walk right into a firewall. Even with specific training, it was still a very dangerous job and though I’d trained for it, I went in a different, safer direction, investigating fires after they were extinguished.

  The RIC team tested their self-contained breathing apparatus or SCBA, adjusted their masks, and walked into the building. Others operated the quint, a five-function fire apparatus that carried a pump, water tank, fire hose, aerial device, and ground ladders. The aerial device extended with a firefighter manning the hose from inside the bucket. They would be called on to catch the victims if retreat wasn’t possible.

  Abruptly, I heard a scream and a woman appeared in a third-floor window, trying to climb out. I didn’t see a firefighter inside with her, but Larry Owens, who was manning the pipe on the turntable ladder, shouted at her to stay put. I held my breath. My first instinct was to climb up that ladder and pull her out, but I knew there were peo
ple trying to get to her already. It was the standing around and feeling helpless part that I hated about my job.

  “Oh, no! Why isn’t someone helping her?” Roberta cried as she rushed up beside me.

  “They are. The guy on the ladder is trying to keep the fire at bay so the rescue team can get to her,” I replied.

  “I know that, damn it. My stepdad was a ladder man.”

  I glared at her. “Look—”

  “No, I’m sorry, Jordy,” she inserted, shaking her head. “I know what’s at stake, and I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m just a little on edge.”

  I looked at her angrily, but my irritation melted away when I saw tears in the corners of her eyes, which were filled with sorrow and pain. I instantly felt sorry for her. My instinct was to wrap my arm around her and try to comfort whatever pain she was feeling, but I didn’t think it would be welcomed, and I didn’t have the strength to face another rejection, no matter how inconsequential it might be.

  “It’s okay, Robbie,” I said, using her first name as a way to console her. I quickly turned my attention back to the scene playing out three stories above us.

  “I can see her!” Larry shouted into his radio.

  The building seemed to shudder and then a bellow of flames shot out of the windows, spewing glass and debris everywhere. Larry jerked back and then down inside the bucket, but I knew he must have felt the brunt of it.

  “Get back! Everybody pull back!” Uncle Joe shouted.

  I grabbed Roberta by the arm and pulled her back behind the fire truck, where falling debris… or bodies, wouldn’t hit us.

  They maneuvered the turntable ladder further back from the building, even as Larry kept a steady stream of water pouring into the window where the lady had been. She was quiet and no longer visible. That wasn’t a good sign.