Fire Born (Firehouse 343)

by Christina Moore

  “I gathered from our conversations about him that you and Calvin were close,” Martie observed.

  “Meant nearly as much to me as my own dad,” Chris said. “Cal and I were a lot like brothers, in a way. We hung out together outside the job, he trusted me with his kid—I’ve been an uncle to Kara since she was eight. Hell, I babysat her more than once. Her father was my best friend.”

  He stood then, shaking his head. Then Chris looked down at her with a sad smile, saying, “At least come have something to eat before you go.”

  Martie nodded. After putting the laptop in sleep mode so she could finish her work after her meal, she took his hand and walked with him out of the office.

  ***

  Well now. Trevor Breckon was not only suspected of insurance fraud, but of arson as well. He might even be charged with attempted murder.

  It made him feel as giddy as a school girl with a crush, but truthfully things weren’t working in his favor. Breckon—who really was guilty of insurance fraud in the case of the warehouse and the convenience store—was supposed to be the perfect scapegoat. He had been, given that the apartment building was one of his properties; who else would be suspected given the numerous complaints about electrical problems by the tenants?

  The problem was that the objective hadn’t been achieved. Two people were supposed to die, two annoying little thorns in his side. He’d wanted to get rid of one of them years ago, but somebody had to suddenly become clever. Fucking cunt. Who did she think she was, not doing as she was told? If she’d just done what he’d wanted her to do, he might have let her live. But no, she had to keep that pathetic brat of hers, a weak, imperfect copy of herself—proof that her DNA was inferior to his, because his other children weren’t handicapped. They were perfect.

  So was his marriage, save for his wife being a frigid bitch. She’d had a hysterectomy due to recurring cysts to prevent cancer, which had worked, as she had no problems with her health since—but they took her uterus, not her vagina. That was still perfectly usable, yet ever since the surgery, she hadn’t been interested in sex. Only her stupid charities. He was a man, damn it, he had needs. He had desires. And those needs, those desires, included wanting to fuck the woman he was married to. It was his right as her husband, and the coldhearted bitch was lucky he didn’t just take it from her. So after she’d started denying him, he’d started looking elsewhere. After all, what was a man to do?

  The little cocktail waitress really was very pretty. A slim body, light brown hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and lips that verged on pouty but weren’t too plump. He’d been unable to resist imagining them fastened around his dick as he fucked her face the moment he saw her. But she was shy, too, and getting her to trust him had taken a little work. He knew she found him attractive as well from the way she smiled at him, the way she tended to linger by his side whenever she served him a drink during his visits to the hotel lounge where she worked. She’d been reluctant to get involved with a married man, a fact that he had never bothered to hide, but the ‘woe is me, my wife won’t have sex with me anymore’ line had eventually worn away her resistance. The first time he got to taste that sweet little pussy, to have it riding his cock as he pounded her, had been in a room at the very hotel where they’d first met.

  So had the second and third time, but eventually she’d started letting him come over to her apartment. It was then that he knew why she’d preferred the hotel. Her apartment was on the wrong side of town, in a place where shootings happened on a near-daily basis. So he’d been the generous boyfriend and helped her get into a better place, one that, frankly, he wasn’t ashamed to be seen in. Naturally it was still far from where he socialized with his friends, his wife’s family, and his children. But it was a damn sight better than where she’d been. His little mistress had been content with their arrangement—the apartment, his money, his gifts—and why wouldn’t she be? She was a whore and he was taking care of her.

  Why the fuck did she have to go and get pregnant? She was supposed to be on birth control, for fuck’s sake. He’d insisted she get on the Pill, because he was “allergic” to latex. He wasn’t really, he just hated condoms. He’d never liked those damn things, because they took away from the feel of a woman’s hot, slick channel around his cock. Her ridiculous excuse was that she’d gotten sick one month, and the cold medicine had neutralized the effects of the Pill.

  He thought it was bullshit the moment the words came out of her mouth, and immediately accused her of getting pregnant on purpose. Trying to trap him so he’d leave his wife and marry her, make her an “honest” woman. She denied it, of course. Swore it was an accident. Then if it was an accident, he’d said, she wouldn’t be averse to getting rid of it. An abortion was the only answer.

  The tramp had refused. Said she wasn’t going to kill her baby, that if he didn’t want it that was his problem. She’d raise the baby on her own, without his help. The bitch didn’t want his help? Fine by him. He cut her off, completely—no sex, no money, no jewelry. And no job—he’d seen to it she was fired by telling the manager she’d been sleeping with guests in empty rooms. Without a job, she wouldn’t be able to afford the nice apartment, which meant she’d eventually have to do as she’d been told. All would be forgiven if she’d just get rid of the problem, though he’d have made her beg for his forgiveness on her hands and knees.

  But she didn’t, much to his surprise. His little whore had simply disappeared, leaving the apartment in the middle of the night. He knew she had no close family so she had nowhere to go. He’d thought he would find her quickly and force her to get the abortion, because that bitch wasn’t going to come after him for child support, ruining his marriage and his political aspirations. He had goals, damn it, and she was not going to fuck his plans up. But amazingly, it had taken him ten years to track her down.

  It was just his luck that she happened to be living in another crappy apartment, one owned by a weasel that bought up properties sold cheap and then didn’t bother to maintain them as he was supposed to. He’d sent someone to spy on her, someone who had found it only too easy to gather information about her and the kid. Then the other day, he’d sent in another of his minions (a fellow he’d hired for just this purpose, who was now a John Doe at the morgue) to take care of the problem.

  How the fuck was he supposed to know the bitch would be out when the fire started? Or that those damn firefighters would rescue that fucking brat of hers? He didn’t necessarily want his little piece dead—she’d been one hell of a lay, and he’d be only too happy to take her back, after he punished her for her disobedience, of course. But had she actually been in her apartment, where a good mother should be with a child that weak—had they both gone up in flames—it wouldn’t have been any skin off his back.

  After all, he had other mistresses.

  But no. Not only was she alive, her damn kid was still alive. Thank goodness he’d had the foresight to silence his poor excuse for a hitman, otherwise both of them would be able to identify him. If he was identified, then the guy would have been picked up, and possibly convinced to turn state’s evidence. He couldn’t allow that. So he’d killed the ignorant prick.

  Only now he wished he hadn’t, because he could have sent him in to finish the job. Maybe blame something else on Trevor Breckon so that the BFS would have no choice but to arrest that punk. Unfortunately, he had no idea yet what his next move would be. He just knew he had to make it soon, before the whore told someone about him and they got suspicious.

  ***

  The last two days had been nothing short of hell. He would have preferred walking into an inferno to dealing with the grief of Calvin’s family, because it only served to remind him how much he was hurting. Chris had done the best he could, supporting whatever decisions the Maynards and Tonja wanted to make. The only thing he’d insisted on were the bagpipes. Calvin had loved the sound of “Amazing Grace” played on Scottish bagpipes, once saying that even the coldest of hearts had to melt at that ha
unting refrain.

  Karalyn was being a trooper, trying to be strong for her aging grandparents and her aunt, who’d finally managed to get home from her business trip. Chris loved her for putting on a brave face in front of everyone, but he could tell she was hurting. He hoped she would soon make time for her own grief, because if she didn’t he knew it would eat her up from the inside out.

  Chris also missed Martie. She’d called him from Billings every night, but as much as he loved hearing her voice, that sultry, husky sound that had attracted him almost as much as her beautifully shaped ass, it just wasn’t the same as having her beside him. Even if they were just in the same room he’d have been happy, though certainly he’d have preferred to have her in his bed. Even he was beginning to wonder how in the world they were going to make a relationship work when they lived in different cities—it had hardly been two days since he saw her last and already he was miserable without her.

  As much as he missed her, however, he had to put that aside for today. Today he needed to be strong—for his men, for Calvin’s family, maybe even for the entire city. Though it had taken him time to see it, he’d come to realize just how much losing one of their own had meant to the citizens of Gracechurch. Flags in front yards had been lowered to half mast. One of the local church youth groups had organized a bake sale fund raiser and donated the money to The Fireman’s Rescue, a charity that supported the families of injured or deceased firefighters, in Calvin’s name. Another had raised money to put toward Calvin’s funeral.

  All of this in a matter of days. Chris knew he might never be prouder of the people in this place he now called home than he was today.

  Though his mother had once said he looked “devilishly handsome” in it, he hated having to put on his dress uniform. The only time he ever had occasion to wear it was for special ceremonies and funerals. Still, he pulled it from the closet and put it on, making sure every crease was sharp, every button shiny, every medal (yeah, he had a few) in its proper place…his rarely-worn badge, complete with black mourning band. Personally he thought the navy blue clashed with his copper skin rather than enhanced it, as his mother believed, but then his favorite outfit was a t-shirt and jeans, so what did he know?

  Martie had said she would be back in town for the funeral, but he hadn’t seen her yet. He hoped he would see her soon—he needed to see her, to see that there was a light at the end of the dark tunnel he’d been living in the last few days. She was that light for him now, had become his future so fast his head felt like it was spinning every time he thought of it.

  After dressing, he locked up his apartment and headed over to Calvin’s house. He was to meet with the family there and they would head to the church, St. Michael’s, together. When he arrived, Richard Maynard opened the door for him, looking as though he’d aged from 80 to 100 in the last two days.

  “Mr. Maynard,” he said, nodding as the elderly gentleman stepped back to let him in.

  “I think after all these years, you’d be calling me Richard, son,” Cal’s father replied.

  Chris smiled lightly. “Maybe so, sir,” he said simply. “How are Kara and Tonja?”

  Richard’s expression fell. “Them girls are having a hard time, though Karalyn’s trying to be tough for everyone.”

  “You noticed that too, huh?” he replied, following the other man into the living room. There he found LouAnn, Calvin’s mother, holding the hands of Irene, her former daughter-in-law, and Tonja, her would-be daughter-in-law. The latter woman looked up on their entering the room.

  “Chris!” she cried, then jumped up and ran to him.

  He wrapped his arms around her and embraced her tightly. There was nothing he could say to Tonja—to any of them—that might ease their pain, so he said nothing, merely held her close and let her cry.

  The priest leading the ceremony was about Calvin’s age. His was a strong, deep voice, a voice that commanded attention even though he spoke quietly. Reverently. Every mourner in attendance listened as he talked about why they were there, of the roles Calvin had played—son, brother, husband, father, firefighter. Then he invited anyone who had something they wished to say about Calvin to the pulpit, and Richard rose first.

  “I don’t rightly know what I can say what ain’t already been said the last few days,” he began. “Most of us here knew Calvin, or knew of him. But I suppose I can say that only a few of you know what I mean when I say I loved him like no other. Only a parent knows or understands the love another parent has for their child. That’s how I loved Calvin. That’s how he loved his little girl, my granddaughter Karalyn. And though he never met her, Calvin knew that was the same love a young mother felt for her daughter, that little girl he saved.

  “Am I sad that my boy is gone? I am, because no parent should have to bury their child. That’s why he went into that building. That’s why he used his own body as a shield to protect a small, frightened child. He knew what it was to love as only a parent can, and he didn’t want that little girl’s mother to lose her baby. So yes, I am sad. I am going to miss Calvin somethin’ fierce. But I’m proud of him, more proud than I’ve ever been. Because my only son gave all he had to give so that another parent didn’t have to say goodbye to her only child.”

  Tears fell from the old man’s eyes, and it was all Chris could do not to rise from his seat and help him down from the pulpit. But he had a feeling Richard wouldn’t have wanted that. He’d stood strong this long, he could stand strong a little longer.

  Cal’s mother spoke next, a tearfully eloquent speech about how much she had loved and would miss her little boy. Then Irene spoke. She said that though she and Cal hadn’t been married for more than a decade, she still loved him. He’d once been her best friend, and he was the father of her child. Because of that, he would always hold a special place in her heart—and she would miss him more than she could ever put into words.

  Tonja got up to speak next, becoming so upset before she said even one word that she nearly walked off the stage. But as she was descending the few steps, she happened to glance over at the picture of Calvin that had been enlarged and placed next to his coffin—the last formal portrait of him taken in his dress blues. She’d smiled tearfully, stared at it for a long moment, and then returned to the lectern. She spoke of a chance meeting at a bar, where she’d met a man who had charmed her and wormed his way into her heart, a heart she’d once thought incapable of loving again after the string of bad relationships she’d been through. But Calvin had been smitten from day one, or so he’d told her over and over, and his patient loving over the last three years had helped her realize that she loved him too. That if she didn’t say yes to his marriage proposal, she was a fool.

  “The only thing I regret,” she said, hiccupping as she wiped away tears, “is that I didn’t say yes sooner. Because now I’ll never get to say ‘I do’—I’ll never be his wife.”

  With those words, whatever strength she’d gained from looking at Cal’s picture failed her, and she began to sob. Her sister Tina quickly rushed up and wrapped her arms around Tonja, guiding her back to her seat.

  Now it was his turn, and slowly Chris rose to his feet. He’d taken only one step before a light voice spoke up from near the back of the church. “Excuse me.”

  He turned, as did everyone, and recognized the woman from the Breckon Apartments. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, taking a tentative step forward as she nervously patted her light brown hair. “I don’t even know if I should really be here, but… My name is Veronica Thompson. That little girl that was saved was my daughter.”

  Chris nodded silently and gestured for her to come forward. As he watched her, he caught sight of Martie sitting about halfway back. She smiled at him and his heart jumped in his chest at the sight. She’d come after all.

  Veronica made her way down the middle aisle and stepped up to the lectern. Chris noted as he sat again that she swallowed nervously, and thought that standing there staring out at a few hundred people she didn’t know
had to be intimidating for her. But she took a breath and released it, then took another.

  “I did not know Calvin Maynard,” she began. “I never met him. Never even got the chance to thank him for what he did. In the middle of a nightmare, he covered my baby with his own body, and he saved her life. Jessica is still here because he risked his life for a stranger… How do you even thank someone for that—for being so brave, so selfless? I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone who didn’t think about themselves when Hell or high water came.

  “While I’ve been with my little girl in the hospital, I’ve been reading the papers. I read that the man that saved her had a daughter of his own, and I remember thinking how sad it was that someone else’s little girl had lost her daddy. Since I couldn’t say thank you to Mr. Maynard, I wondered what I might say to her, if I ever met her. I thought about it a lot, and I realized what I wanted to say was that she should be proud of her daddy. I might not have known him personally, but I know he was among the very best of men. I just hope that he can hear me up there in Heaven when I say how grateful I am for what he did for me and Jessica.”

  Drawing another breath, Veronica turned and started down from the stage. Chris watched as Kara stood and walked over to her, the two just looking at each other for a moment before Kara tearfully embraced the other woman.

  When they parted and Veronica started back to her seat, Chris stood again, his chest constricting as he made his way to the lectern. When he got there, he looked first over at the coffin, which was closed even though Cal hadn’t been burned, and then he searched the pews for Martie. When he found her with his eyes again, she gave a little nod. He felt instantly better that she was there supporting him.

  “I met Calvin Maynard as a probie sixteen years ago,” he began. “I’d gone to the Montana Fire Academy with big dreams of fighting fires in a big city like Billings, Bozeman, or Helena. And where did they send me? Gracechurch—a tiny little city I’d never even heard of. I was told that after my probie year I could transfer, but there was no getting out of the assignment—and believe me, I tried.”