A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  She looked in the mirror on the side of her car and saw a shadowy figure shuffling up the sidewalk. He was still some distance away, but heading in her direction. The man skirted a street lamp to keep out of the light and looked around him in a series of nervous jerks and nods. The shape appeared too large and bulky to be Danny.

  Where was the boy? She surveyed the area again, but the figure approaching on the sidewalk was the only other person she saw. The man had seen her, too, and was bearing down. As he neared, she noted that his gait was none too steady; she could barely make out his features and wasn't reassured. Was this some kind of set up?

  The evening was only pleasantly warm, but perspiration trickled down her back as she debated her next move. When the man was only twenty feet or so from her car, she decided she couldn't wait for Danny any longer and reached out to start the engine.

  Just as her fingers closed around the key, a slender form detached itself from the deeper shadows of a warehouse on her left and ran across the street. Cathy groped for the pepper spray in her pocketbook and closed her fingers around the can, but in the brief moment when the figure cut through the glare from the headlights, she saw it was Danny. He was bent over and holding his stomach.

  She released the spray and leaned across to unlock the passenger door; the boy jumped in and pulled the door closed behind him. The man approaching had stopped and stepped back a few paces when the boy had suddenly appeared. He watched them in a kind of open-mouthed stupor.

  "Lock it," she told Danny. He was breathing hard and didn't try to say anything as she put the car in gear and accelerated away from the curb. For want of a better place to go, she drove back to the office. Danny slumped in the seat, head tilted back against the headrest. His labored respiration gradually relaxed.

  In the parking lot, she pulled into a spot directly under a pole lamp, then shut off the engine and turned on the overhead light. The illumination wasn't great, but sufficient to show why he'd sounded odd.

  His lower lip was swollen and blood trickled from a cut. Another gash on his left temple was bleeding freely. He wiped the side of his face with the sleeve of his tee shirt, but the blood immediately started running again. A nasty swelling was beginning to blacken the side of his jaw, and a larger one blossomed just under his cheekbone. She watched him a minute, swearing under her breath.

  "What does the other guy look like?" she asked finally.

  "It wasn't a fair fight," he answered. "Hell, it wasn't a fight at all. Three dudes jumped me in the dark; two of 'em grabbed my arms, the third started hitting on me."

  "Do you know why?"

  "Yeah, the third guy told me to keep my nose outa other people's business. He said to tell my lawyer friend, too, if we wanna stay healthy, to stay outa things that don't concern us. Something like that."

  Cathy grabbed his arm when he started to wipe his face with the shirt again. She rooted around in her purse, found a clean handkerchief, and handed it to him. "Use that, please. What am I supposed to do with you now?"

  "Take me home," he suggested.

  "Like this?"

  "If I go in the back, Ma won't see me. I can clean myself up."

  It was tempting. Cathy had work to do and no desire to get further involved in his problems. But she felt uneasy about it, too. She couldn't tell the extent of his injuries but suspected he was in more pain than he wanted her to know.

  "I don't like it," she said at last. "I think I'd better take you to the hospital."

  "No way!"

  "Why not?"

  "They'd call Ma and make her come down. She's had enough lately, she don't need that."

  "You might have a concussion or internal injuries. You should be checked out."

  "No hospital."

  Cathy sighed, thinking furiously. She started the car and drove it up to the curb in front of the employees' entrance. There was a telephone in the hall. "I'm going to make a phone call. Stay where you are."

  Danny nodded, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back again.

  She locked the car door behind her and went to the phone. She had to look up Peter Lowell's number, and he wasn't at home when she dialed. Ray was still in the meeting, she learned when she tried to call him, so she left another message, and returned to the car. She thought Danny was asleep but he opened his eyes when she got in.

  "Compromise," she offered. "I'll take you someplace where I can get a look at the damage. If I decide there's a possibility of serious injury, you come with me to the hospital and no gripes; otherwise, I'll patch you up as best I can and take you home. Agreed?"

  "Okay," he said.

  She started the car again. She didn't really want to take him to her apartment, but couldn't think where else to go. What had Lowell said about a more-than-professional involvement in this case? It probably applied, but she hadn't asked for this; in fact, she resented the whole situation. To let Danny into her apartment was an invasion of her privacy and implied a more personal concern and responsibility than she was ready to accept. She wished she'd never heard of anyone connected with the case. If only Adelaide hadn't been sick, she never would have been at that party, never would have been outside for Bobby to find her, and wouldn't be saddled right now with a pig-headed pain in the neck who had an absolute talent for getting into trouble.

  She pulled into her parking place, and being angry, let the car bump into the curb. The jolt made Danny gasp, and she regretted the display of temper. He didn't say anything, but followed her out of the car and up the stairs to her apartment.

  Inside, she considered her small living room and kitchen, finally turned her desk chair around and told him to sit. Danny seemed alert and examined the area with interest, but he looked even worse than she'd anticipated. Against his pallor, the bruises stood out lividly. His right eye was swollen nearly shut with a dark semicircle beginning to show underneath it. The cut on his lip had stopped bleeding, but the one on his temple still oozed sluggishly. She sighed over the mess and decided to start at the top. As the oldest and only daughter in a family that included four boys, she'd had plenty of practice cleaning scrapes and bruises.

  She got a bowl of warm water and clean towels from the kitchen, gauze bandages and antiseptic ointment from the bath.

  "This is your place?" Danny asked while she washed the blood off his face.

  "Yes."

  "You've sure got a lotta books. You've read all those?"

  "Yes."

  "You must spend a lotta time reading."

  "I read most of them when I was in college. I don't have as much time now as I'd like."

  The cut wasn't deep, despite the way it had bled, so she smeared antiseptic on it and taped a piece of gauze tightly to stop the flow. There wasn't much she could do for the bruises; he'd have to put an ice pack over most of his face. She checked for signs of concussion, but didn't find any. He wasn't bleeding from the ears or nose; she couldn't tell about his pupils since the one eye was so swollen.

  She hadn't forgotten he'd been holding his stomach when she first saw him. She asked him to pull up his shirt. Cathy saw the argument gathering in his face and forestalled it by reminding him of their agreement. He glared at her and pulled the shirt out of the waistband of his jeans.

  The swelling along his mid-section and left side was extensive. It looked so tender she hesitated to touch it at all, but she did run fingers gently along the rib above the worst-looking area. He tensed against her touch, but she didn't feel any displaced bones.

  "Take a deep breath," she ordered. He heaved a lungful of air and let it out again.

  "Any sharp pain?"

  "No."

  "Feel nauseated?"

  "No."

  "How about earlier?"

  "Yeah, for a while. It's okay now."

  She looked at the bruises a moment longer, chewing her lip. She'd still feel better if she could take him to the hospital, but an agreement was an agreement. She rolled the tee shirt back down.

  "I guess you're going to
live." Cathy looked up at the clock. It showed ten fifty-six; just under forty minutes since she'd first gotten his call. She rose and crossed to the kitchen. "I've got to have something to eat before I go back to work. Are you hungry?"

  She thought he hadn't heard, but when she turned to repeat the question, she saw some kind of debate going on. Finally he answered, "Yeah."

  She sorted through the cans in the cabinet. "Chicken Chow Mein or Beef and Vegetable soup?"

  "Either."

  She opened the can of soup and dumped it into a pot on the stove. Checking the refrigerator, she pulled out two cans of orange soda, which she put on the counter that separated her tiny kitchen from the living room. Danny came over and sat on the bar stool on the far side of the counter, facing into the kitchen.

  "You ought to put some ice on that eye," she said.

  "Need it on my whole face," he returned.

  "True."

  She dug out some ice cubes, wrapped them in a towel and handed it to him. “Take your pick where you want to put it.”

  He held the ice against the side of his jaw.

  She got out bowls and spoons, stirred the soup. It wasn't boiling yet. Danny moved on the stool and tried to suppress a wince.

  "Do you want some aspirin or something?" Cathy asked.

  "Yeah, I guess so," he answered, watching her with an unreadable expression. She got down the aspirin bottle and shook out two; when he struggled to get the can of soda around his lip, she rummaged through a drawer and found a straw.

  "Tell me what happened tonight. From the beginning."

  "I already told you what happened."

  "Not all of it. What were you doing in that part of town, for instance?"

  A defensive look hardened his face. "Me and Mr. Lowell were going around, trying to find out who Bobby talked to that day," Danny said. "Then Mr. Lowell went home, but I thought of a couple more places... I thought I'd check 'em out. You know, spread the word."

  "Do I need to ask if Mr. Lowell warned you about doing this on your own?"

  "No."

  The soup bubbled gently and Cathy spooned it into bowls which she put on the counter. "Did you actually see anybody you knew?"

  "A few guys."

  "Where? At the last place you went?"

  "One before that on Second Street. I talked to some people there; they said they didn't know nothing about Bobby, so I told them about the reward Mr. Lowell is offering and asked them to spread the word."

  "Somebody spread the word all right," she commented. "Do you know their names?"

  "One of them's named Willie James. The other's a guy called Shark. I don't know any other name for him."

  "How about the guys who jumped you?"

  Danny shook his head. "It was dark and they were wearing masks."

  "Masks? Like ski masks?”

  "Those hat things you pull down over your face," he answered.

  "Could you see what colors they were?"

  He shook his head and winced. "Too dark."

  She questioned him for several minutes, trying to get any detail he remembered, but there wasn't much he could add.

  "There's more soup in the pot." She picked up his empty bowl.

  "Okay." His healthy appetite relieved her worries about internal injuries.

  When he finished, she stuck the dishes in the sink and locked the apartment before driving him home. She pulled the car to the curb in front of his house and waited for him to get out.

  He looked at her before he opened the door, and said, "Thanks."

  Cathy laid a hand on his arm, and he turned back toward her. "Take better care of yourself. Please?"

  He nodded, then got out and merged with the shadows, going around to the back of the house.

  - 14-

  Tuesday

  She woke Tuesday to a blaring alarm and a pounding headache. Fighting the temptation to roll over and go back to sleep, Cathy got up, showered, dressed, and took a couple of aspirin. She had two more candidates to interview, ones who were only available in the morning. After three cups of coffee and time enough for the aspirin to take effect, the day began to look more promising.

  She called Peter Lowell's office to learn that he was in court. Since she'd be out for most of the morning, she didn't leave a message. Danny wasn't at home, either; his mother said he'd already gone to work. That answered one of her questions.

  The weather was still beautiful, and the interviews with the candidates went reasonably well, so she was in a better mood by the time she finished them and got to the office.

  She tried Lowell again and left a message this time. A new folder on her desk demanded her attention. She'd barely opened it and noted the contents—clippings of news stories about fires—when the phone rang.

  Before she could start to explain what had happened last night, Lowell asked if she'd join him for lunch as it was the only free time he had all day. When she agreed, he suggested a place she'd never been before and requested she meet him there in ten minutes. Cathy put the folder away.

  The sandwich shop was decorated in high-tech chic, but the tables were real wood instead of formica. Interesting smells drifted on the air: Cathy identified onion, pastrami, and bacon. Lowell had arrived before her and was seated in a booth at the back, engrossed in reading something. He put it aside when he saw her approaching and smiled with real warmth.

  Cathy's mood improved another degree. "Hello, Counselor."

  Lowell handed her a menu as she sat down and asked, "How's the newspaper business?"

  "Tedious. We're gearing up for primary coverage; I've interviewed four candidates for City Council, and not one of them had anything of substance to say."

  "You expected they would?"

  "I suppose not, but it would've been a pleasant surprise. You know I've been trying to call you all morning?" she asked. When he nodded, she related the events of the previous evening: Danny's solo effort, the beating, and her attempt to patch him up.

  "I wish I knew what the blasted kid uses for brains," Lowell said. "I told him at least three times not to work this on his own. I thought he understood the danger."

  "He told me you'd warned him about it," she said.

  The lawyer shook his head, anger and irritation still showing on his face. "I'm tempted to take him home, tie him to a chair, and tell his mother to feed him three times a day but not let him up for any other reason until I say it's all right."

  "It might not be a bad idea. He seems a bit dense. Words didn't penetrate, and I don't think the beating he took last night made much impression."

  "He's been knocked around so much already, he barely notices," Lowell agreed. He shook his head, then nodded toward the menu. "Better take a look."

  She smiled and followed the order. Unpromising offerings of sandwiches with peculiar combinations of ingredients stared back at her from the laminated page. When the waitress showed up, she asked for a roast beef sandwich on white bread. Lowell ordered the Tuesday special on whole wheat. She saw his look when she requested the roast beef but decided to ignore it.

  "How is your part of the investigation coming?" he asked when the waitress had departed.

  "Okay, I guess." Cathy filled him in on yesterday's efforts.

  "So, on Friday morning they—whoever 'they' are—searched Bobby's work area," he repeated thoughtfully.

  "And checked the air vent," Cathy added. The way his eyes sharpened suggested that he realized the significance of that detail, but he made no further reference to it, and she wasn't prepared to pursue it until she'd gotten a few more facts straight.

  She had something else to add and wasn't sure how he'd react to it, either. "Counselor, call it intuition or whatever you like, but I think Bobby's proof is in that junkyard. He went there so often, Ike gave him a key, and it's full of great hiding places."

  She was gratified when he didn't dismiss the idea out of hand. "Worth putting some time into searching the place," he commented. "When were you planning to do it?"
<
br />   "When I can get some help."

  His eyes quizzed her. "You have someone in mind? It wouldn't happen to be yours truly, would it?"

  "Right the first time," she answered.

  Lowell was quiet while the waitress delivered their plates. "I suppose I owe you the assistance," he said when the girl had left. "Since it's my client we're trying to get off the hook." He picked up his sandwich, which seemed to consist mostly of lettuce and tomato, and took a bite. He noticed her staring at him. "What's the matter?"

  "What have you got on your sandwich?" she asked.

  "Lettuce, tomato, Provolone cheese, mayonnaise, and cucumber. Why?"

  "Cucumber?" Cathy had to repress a shiver. "Why aren't you having a real sandwich? You're not on a diet, are you?" Lowell was built pretty lean, but he might have to work to stay that way.

  "This is a real sandwich," he said.

  "There's no meat on it. This is a real sandwich." Cathy held up her roast beef.

  He looked at it with distaste. "That's a pile of cholesterol between two pieces of limp styrofoam."

  "At least it's edible. Human food." She pointed at his lunch. "That's a salad on two pieces of burnt toast."

  "This is good for you."

  "But this tastes good."

  "This argument is ridiculous," Lowell said, setting his sandwich down. "Truce. Eat your lunch and enjoy it, and I'll eat mine. And enjoy it, too. Cucumber and all. Fair enough?"

  "You've got a deal, Counselor." Cathy grinned and he returned the smile. He was in a good mood today.

  "Where were we?" he asked.

  "Help. My need for."

  "Right. How long do you think it'll take?"

  "Several hours. There are a lot of air conditioners and ducts. You'll need to wear old clothes and bring a tool kit."

  "Sounds like a major production."

  "It is."

  "There goes another Saturday morning," he said.