Paul winced again, thoughts flashing to Julie’s dad, scowling, imperious… the older man’s searing, unspoken indictment… I blame you…
… and Will kept on, wielding the truth like a blade, sticking it in and twisting. "Don’t you fucking get it??" he cried. "I loved her! She loved me! We could’ve been a family!! We could have been happy! His voice went tight, choking on his own grief. "But we never even had a fucking chance!"
"No…" Paul hissed. Head shaking furiously.
"NO?!! Will scoffed. "FUCK you, man! You’re as much to blame as me!! She killed our baby because of YOU!!"
And that’s when Paul snapped.
"NO!!!" Paul knocked Will back and grabbed the shock paddles. The defib hummed its lethal song as Paul turned back to deliver the killing jolt…
… and with his last shred of strength Will wrenched the bolt free, swung his fist out and up: a straight-armed piston thrust aimed at Paul’s head. Bolt smacked bone inches from Paul’s eye, raking from temple to ear. Blood gushed as Paul howled and descended, the shock paddles blasting the boy’s tortured flesh. Will dropped the bolt as his nervous system fried, seizing up, violently thrashing. Then he sagged, went slack and still.
Paul hovered above him, blood coursing from the gash in his head.
Then, blackness.
FORTY-TWO
It was just before five when Julie pulled her car into the driveway of their house. She’d made good time, hoping somehow that it was a good omen of what was to come. But as she pulled around back she saw that Paul’s truck was gone.
Julie parked and walked up the walk, fading sun throwing long shadows before her. The house was dark, bereft of life; not even Spock’s goofy presence in the yard to inject an air of good feeling. Julie readied her keys to unlock the back door.
And then noticed it was ajar.
She stopped, a chill shivering through her. Julie opened the door and stepped inside. "Paul?" she called out. "Paul, are you here?"
She felt hypersensitized, her awareness taking in all detail. The kitchen looked wrong somehow, like everything had been taken apart and re-assembled two inches to the left. She entered the living room, saw the blasted TV, the books hastily re-stacked, the sundry evidence of spent and demented rage.
"Paul…" she murmured worriedly. "What have you done?"
Guilt hung heavy over her as Julie climbed the stairs, saw missing rungs on the railing, wooden stumps jutting up from where slats were kicked out. The slats themselves lay splayed on the hall floor, forgotten.
"Paul?" she called out, louder this time, listening. Silence. She made her way down the hall, past Kyra’s bedroom. Julie paused to touch the door…
…and she flashed back to Kyra, her eyes bright with tears. The wrenching confession. The shock and the shame. Julie asked who the father was; but Kyra would not give a name…
…and Julie reached the bedroom, stared in horror at the bags half-packed and strewn on the obliterated bed…
…and she bit back her anger, as her daughter cried. Kyra needed not lectures but love, not condemnation but compassion…
…and Julie stepped into the room, heard the soft crunch of paper beneath her shoe. She looked down and saw the crumpled receipt…
…and she remembered the trip to the obscure city clinic; past narrow clots of protestors preaching love and life with eyes full of hate; how she had held Kyra’s hand, promising that everything would be all right…
Julie picked up the paper, her hands trembling…
…and as they called her name in the waiting room, Kyra turned to hug her, her features childish and fearful. "Please don’t tell Daddy…" she whispered. "Please don’t tell Daddy I’m here…"
"Oh God." Julie gasped, staring at the smudged paper, his boot print clearly upon it. "Oh my God…"
She’d kept her promise. She never told him. But he had found out, just the same.
Panic spiked her heart. She had tried to protect their daughter by keeping her secret, but in so doing had fractured the very heart of their family. Because the truth be told, Julie was the glue that held them all together; as involved as Paul was, it was Julie who was there day in and day out, making life happen while Paul was away for days on end, fighting his good fight, facing down death. It was Julie who called the shots, Julie whom Kyra turned to. It was her responsibility…
… and it struck her then like a wrecking ball, that she had failed her daughter, her husband, her family; by building walls where none should be, allowing Kyra’s fear to take root and hold reign over them all. One way or another, they should have talked about it. One way or another, they could have worked it out. One way or another, but together. It was the lifeblood of family.
And Julie blamed herself for allowing it to spill.
"Oh my God," she said again. She had to find Paul. She had lost any hope of redemptive confession; she had lost the chance to explain her sin. And now Paul was out there, lost in a hell of her own creation, paved brick by brick with the best of intentions.
She had to find him. Before things went too far.
But, of course, they already had.
~ * ~
Paul came to, blinking back blood.
He was flat on his back, staring at up at the light shining down on him like an all-seeing eye. He groaned and brought one hand to his temple. His fingertips came away sticky.
Paul winced and sat up , saw the pilfered bolt, its tip still moist with blood. His blood. He touched the wound again, gaze tracking to the floorplates, zeroing in on the hole.
"Son of a bitch," he growled.
Will lay sprawled in a heap before him. Paul crawled over, checked his pulse. His heartbeat was faint, steady. But it was still ticking.
Paul hauled himself up, grabbed the defibrillator. Then turned and left the box. The door creaked behind him, unlocked, ajar.
It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered, but ending this.
Now.
~ * ~
"Whaddaya mean, he took it???"
Dondi arrived to find Wallace sputtering before a very agitated Andy Vasquez, who was busily chewing the probie a new one.
"Like I said, he just took it!" Wallace blurted. "I asked him where he was going, and he told me it was none of my business!!"
"Who took what?" Dondi asked.
"Paul," Wallace explained. "He took the backup defibrillator unit."
"When??"
"About an hour ago…" Vasquez said. "Plus it looks like he raided the med stash…"
Dondi turned to Wallace, furious. "And you let him???"
Wallace freaked. "What was I supposed to do?" he whined. "You shoulda seen him! I thought he was gonna kill me!"
"Fuck!" Dondi muttered. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck!"
On the duty desk, the telephone rang. Dondi was still shaking his head as Andy answered.
"Rescue One, Vasquez…" He paused, brow knitting. "Julie… no… no, he’s not here… we thought he was with you…" he looked at the other men, shrugged. "… no, I don’t know where he is… yeah, I will… I will… don’t worry."
Andy hung up, looked at Dondi. He didn’t need to explain. "What’re we gonna do, el-tee?"
Vasquez only called people by rank when things got official. Dondi was acting captain; it was his responsibility. And friend or no, Paul had gone too far. He sighed heavily.
"Call Steve Buscetti," he said. "Tell him we need him down here." Vasquez looked at him like, you gotta be kidding. Dondi shot him a no-bullshit look.
"Now," he said.
~ * ~
Five gallon cans of enamel paint. Another six of stain. Two liter cans of turpentine. Another three of thinner. Twelve square yards of drop cloth. Twenty of plastic. Plywood and pressboard in four-by-eight sheets. Two-by-four wall studs in soft knotted pine. Stacks of old newspapers. Combined just so: the stuff of restoration. Or destruction.
Paul worked feverishly, unscrewing the lightbulb in the overhead fixture, screwing an outlet adapter in its place. He plugge
d a cheap extension cord into the socket, then snaked the cord over to the workbench where it plugged into an old box-steel heater. A cheesy brand name was emblazoned across the top.
Toastee Glo.
The irony was not lost. Paul had to thank Mr. Toast, he really did. In all honesty, the initial inspiration came from him. Credit where credit was due. The metal coils were dark and cool as Paul angled the box into position. In the adjacent work sink sat a coffee can stuffed with brushes, turpentine soaking, next to a plastic squeeze bottle of liquid soap.
Paul grabbed the bottle, squeezed its contents into the can, then stirred until the liquid turned viscous and slimy. He ripped a strip of dropcloth, two inches wide by six feet long, then dipped it in the can. As the cloth absorbed solvent, he picked up the newspapers, spread them randomly on the floor.
Paul pinched the strip, lifting one end from the can, draped it dripping across the big wooden bench. He laid the end across the face of the heater, stood back. It was perfect.
As a firefighter, he had seen countless cases of arson; he knew how to set one well enough. The light switch at the head of the stairs would act as a trigger; once lit, he would have three minutes max to affect his escape. Then, boom. The house was old, balloon-framed brick; twenty foot two-by-fours ran all the way to the attic. Newer buildings used eight-footers, stacked floor to floor. The older studs cost more, old growth timber being much harder to find. But there was one other distinguishing, if unsung, feature. They were hell in a fire.
Paul cast one last glance back at the darkened basement. The box sat like a squat, silent sentinel. The door hung open, the better to welcome Will to Inferno.
Paul grabbed the defib unit and started up the basement stairs. As he reached the top, he flipped the switch.
Downstairs, the heater started to buzz, as one side of the coils began to redly glow. Paul listened to the familiar hum. Then crossed the threshold from basement to kitchen. He closed the door behind him, turned.
And ran smack into Julie.
~ * ~
Detective Buscetti arrived at the firehouse at four forty-five; by then, word of Paul’s actions had spread through the crew. Everyone looked wary and worried. Buscetti approached Dondi, his expression fixed and grim; as he did, Dondi nodded to Andy. "Okay, guys, clear out, find something to do!" Andy ordered. "Move!!!" The firefighters grumbled and moved reluctantly, heading upstairs or into the bay. Andy turned back to Dondi.
"You, too," Dondi said.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you." Dondi replied, deadly serious. Andy sighed grievously and made for the bay. He paused at the door, looked at Buscetti.
"One of us, Stevie," he admonished. "He’s one of us." Buscetti nodded: he knew. Vasquez withdrew, leaving them alone.
"Okay," Dondi said. "What’d you find out?"
"I put it out soft," Buscetti told him. "Radio cars’ll call if anyone picks up his twenty. It’s not official, yet." He emphasized the y-word, sighed. "But I don’t know for how much longer…"
"Tell me about it," Dondi replied. "If I write this up, it’s his ass. If I don’t, it’s mine."
"Unless we can find him."
"Yeah," Dondi said. He looked at the cop, miserable. "Jesus, Stevie," he muttered. "What the fuck is he doing?"
Just then someone opened the front door. "Excuse me," a shy voice said. "Is Paul Kelly here?"
The two men turned and stared in shock.
It was Kathryn Wells.
~ * ~
Back in the box, Will came to: weak and aching, ears ringing. As his vision focused he realized: he was alive. He was alone in the box. And the door was unlocked.
Will sat up, stunned, half expecting assault. None came. Paul was gone. He looked down, saw drops of blood on the floor, trailing out past the door. Maybe he’s dead, he thought. Or dying. Or hurt. Or all of the above. One thing was certain: he did not plan on hanging around to find out.
Will fought to stand, took a pained, halting step. Then pushed open the door of the box.
And just like that, he was free.
~ * ~
It was a toss-up as to who looked more shocked: Paul, at Julie’s presence there, or Julie, who saw the dried blood tracking the side of his face, the portable defibrillator in his hands, the burgeoning madness in his eyes.
"Julie," he blurted. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," she told him. "What are you doing here?"
Paul dropped the defib, pulled her toward him in manic embrace. For a moment they stood, a swirl of emotions -- love and anger, fear and longing, redemption and damnation — coursing between them. Julie hugged him back, touched his neck, his cheek, the gash on his head. "Baby, you’re hurt," she said. "What happened?"
Paul winced and pulled away. "We’ve got to get out of here," he said urgently. "We’ve got to get out of here now." He took her by the arm, started pulling her toward the back door. But Julie twisted away.
"Paul!" she said. "Stop it!"
He took a step toward her, and she backed up, deeper into the kitchen. "Julie, please, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, I’ll tell you everything. Only later…."
"No." Julie stood her ground, adamant. "You tell me now…"
~ * ~
Will limped forward, heard muffled voices upstairs: a woman and a man. His ears were still ringing from the brutal shocks. The woman’s voice he could not make out, but the man’s he knew all too well: Paul. Will grimaced, searching for a weapon. He saw Paul’s tool box on the work bench. Will limped over, flipped open the lid. Rooted inside. Found a hammer.
The ringing in his ears abated, was replaced by a hum. Will cocked his head, listening, then saw the space heater: the glow of heat spreading the length of the coils. As it crept toward the end Will spied the dripping cloth, the can of brushes, mounds of paper and solvents. The heat spread toward it, closing five inches… four…
"Fuck!" Will gasped, as he dropped the hammer. And lurched toward the steps…
Three inches… two…
"Help!!!" Will cried out, staggering up the steps. "Somebody help me…!!
~ * ~
Paul was still pleading as Julie heard the voice, coming up from the basement. Paul heard it, too. And as she gazed back at Paul in dawning horror and disbelief, Julie saw the look in his eyes. And suddenly, she knew.
"Julie, please," he said. "I can explain…"
~ * ~
Will stumbled and clawed his way up the steps, desperate and crazed. The door was closed before him; behind and below, the glow spread the last inch… a half inch… then, whuff.
Ignition sparked, as a small puff of flame blossomed, hungrily feeding on solvent-soaked cloth. The strip acted as a fuse, an infernal contraption, Rube Goldberg does Dante. The cloth blackened and curled as the flame picked up speed; in less than three seconds it was up to the coffee can, over the lip, and in.
KA-BOOOSH!! The coffee can blew up and out as a miniature fireball bloomed in the basement. Smoke billowed up, the flaming mixture of turpentine and soap spraying out and raining down like homemade napalm, spattering the papers and plastic and cloth. In seconds the fire spread, enveloping the space heater, the workbench, the neatly stacked cans of paint and thinner. The extension cord melted, sparking and arcing instantly, shorting out.
On the stairs Will coughed and clawed his way forward, momentarily shielded by the narrow walls. Downstairs, smoke filled the air, as flames heated cans of highly flammable paint and thinner. Paper labels crisped and curled, as the contents boiled inside. Each possessed of their own distinct thermal characteristics. Each driven to their own unique flashpoint.
And as Will put his hand to the doorknob, the first one blew.
~ * ~
The cellar door opened as the dull whump sounded. Will tumbled out, gasping; as Julie rushed toward him fresh oxygen sucked down to feed the smoldering void. Paul raced forward, grabbed Julie and threw her aside, then dived himself. A heartbeat later… KA-BOOOM!
The exp
losion was immense, rocking the rowhouse through its foundation. The blast blanketed the basement, overpressure forcing the fire up and out, seeking escape, seeking life. It raced up the narrow hall, blasted out into the kitchen, billowing across the ceiling. Paul crawled forward, as instinct and training kicked in. He squinted through the smoke, saw the back door was blocked, sealed off by flames. The blast had sent Will flying, left Julie dazed, semi-conscious. Paul dragged them from the doorway which raged like a manmade mouth of Hell, got them as far away as his strength and the seconds would allow.
And then he had to choose.
He couldn’t get them both out at once. Paul dropped Will in the hall, then hauled Julie up and over his shoulder, in a fireman’s carry, staggered down the hallway, toward the front door, and escape.
Paul emerged outside coughing, carried Julie out and down the steps, kept going until they were safely out of range. As he knelt to lay her down on the sidewalk, Paul glanced back, saw the house on Marley Street, smoke issuing forth from its depths. Up and down the street, faces appeared: strangers peering out of windows, coming out of their homes.
Paul looked up, saw a little red box on a telephone poll. Words glinted silver across its surface. Paul knew them by heart.
PULL IN CASE OF FIRE.
Paul stood.
And did.
FORTY-THREE
Seconds later, the call came in. The alarm bell clanged hugely, echoing through the Rescue One stationhouse. Kathryn Wells flinched and almost leapt from her skin; she had just dropped by to see how Paul was doing. Buscetti queried her urgently, to no avail. She had no idea what was going on.
Buscetti watched as Dondi and Andy hustled. The telex clattered; Dondi tore the printout free and scanned the type as Andy and the others moved. "What’s the addy?" Andy called out. Dondi looked pale, his blood running cold.
"Marley Street." he said. "Five hundred block."
Buscetti and Dondi traded glances. And they knew.
The crew scrambled. Kathryn Wells looked at Buscetti, afraid and confused. "What?" She said. "What’s wrong?"
A Question of Will Page 29
