by Pat Warren
“There was a funnel cloud that came along with the hurricane,” a tall stranger with a bushy mustache explained. “Happens sometimes. The thing swept along here, looks like, hitting things randomly. Chopped off this porch and when that happened, it broke the foundation of the house at the rear. See up there,” he added, pointing to the next block. “It must’ve whirled through the yard between those two houses, knocking bricks and roofing every which way. Then it went on down toward the sea, apparently, ‘cause the ground looks kinda scorched across the way.”
“Where is Irma?” Briana wanted to know.
“Inside, trapped on the floor of the kitchen over that way,” Jake answered, pointing. “We had a firefighter here couple of minutes ago. He tried going in after her, didn’t get far before another section of the floor fell down to the cellar. He crawled back out and said he was going for more help, but with things the way they are, he didn’t know when he’d be back.”
“Irma,” Slade called out, “can you hear me?” Listening hard, he stepped closer to the wreckage of the porch, peering over as he shone his flashlight in an arc around the kitchen area.
“I just don’t know …” a woman in a raincoat began.
“Shush, will you?” Jake told her. “Let the man hear.”
“Irma?” Slade called again. “It’s Slade. If you can hear me, call out so I know where you are.”
They waited for what seemed a long while before at last a weak voice could be heard. “Over here.”
Slade swung the light in what he thought was the right direction, but didn’t see her. “Again. Yell out again.”
“Over here, Slade.”
Finally, the light found her, but Slade didn’t feel much better. She was trapped, all right, lying in an awkward position on her side in the far corner near where the kitchen sink had once stood. Several thick boards had her pinned in and it looked as if one had her legs caged. “I see you. Are you hurt?”
“My one foot, a little,” came the shaky reply.
“Irma,” Briana called from alongside Slade. “Hang on. Help’s on the way.”
Yeah, but when would it arrive? Slade wondered. Something caught his eye and he flashed the beam over to it. “Damn,” he muttered.
“What is it?” Briana wanted to know.
“See where those flames are trailing slowly along? They’re heading in the direction of that gas line. There has to be a break somewhere.”
“Yup, that’s what it is,” Jake chimed in. “Firefighter fella said his guys have been trying to get to the main gas line to shut it off, but hadn’t managed to yet. That’s another reason he came back outta Irma’s place. Said if those floorboards gave way, that gas line could blow the place sky high.”
“So how does he plan to get Irma out of there?” Chris asked.
Jake rubbed a trembling hand over his unshaven chin. “He didn’t say.”
Because he couldn’t say, Slade thought. Getting Irma out would take a miracle, what with the precarious way the back section of her house was now situated and the additional threat of a fire explosion.
He’d no sooner completed the thought than they heard the unmistakable sound of a blast coming from the street over. Flames shot into the sky, followed by billowing smoke. Grinding his teeth, Slade knew they were looking at the forerunner of what Irma’s place could be in short order. Those patient flames were inching along steadily.
“Someone’s got to do something,” Briana murmured. “We can’t just let her die in there.” She grabbed hold of the dangling end of the broken porch, testing its strength. “Why don’t I crawl in there? I’m lighter than that fireman who was here, I’ll bet, and …”
“No!” Slade’s voice was low but firm. Hadn’t he known the moment he stepped over here that it would come to this? To wait for the firefighter to come back was to waste valuable time. He would have to go, yet could he do it?
He felt sweat drip down his back despite the chill morning air. What if he failed, what if he set off the explosion and sealed Irma’s fate by taking things in his own hands, by not waiting for the proper authorities? What if Briana and this whole town blamed him for yet another death? He wasn’t afraid for himself, but rather afraid of mishandling the rescue. Was his judgment any better now than a few months ago?
Maybe not. But looking into Briana’s tortured eyes, he had to try. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t. “I’ll go,” he told her.
If anyone could do it, that man would be Slade, Briana knew. She wanted him to try, but what if she lost the both of them? Yet there was something in his eyes, something that told her there was more involved here than the rescue of one woman. It was a test he needed to take, for himself.
Reaching up, she touched his cheek and felt her heart lurch when he turned his face into her palm and placed a kiss there. No words were said. None were needed.
Chris Reed wanted in on the action. “I’ll go with you.”
“Can’t risk the weight of two men, and I’ve done this sort of thing before. You can help by getting as close as you can and shining the light exactly where I tell you.” Slade would need his hands free to climb over the rubble, and the flashlight was big and awkward. What he wouldn’t give for his gloves, an ax, his mask.
“Right, just tell me where.” Chris took the flashlight Slade handed him.
The fire crackled and climbed the far wall, the smoke thick with bits of charred debris flying about. With careful, measured steps, Slade climbed over the wreckage of the porch and stepped gingerly onto the rim of the kitchen flooring. The gaping hole was just to his left. He’d have to circle it and cross over the exposed gas line. Fire sputtered from the area of the uprooted stove. He gave it a quick glance only. “Over here, Chris.”
The wide beam of light showed the hole into the basement more clearly. Slade began inching around it. “Hold tight Irma. I’m coming.”
“No, Slade. I’m an old woman. If I die here in my home, it won’t be so terrible. Don’t risk your life for me.” It was a long speech for someone hurt and frightened.
“Save your strength.” Testing each board as he stepped ever so carefully, he moved slowly, coughing as the smoke swirled around his head. He crouched, ducking lower as heat shimmered in great waves. One step, then another. Then … his foot skidded on a slippery section where water had seeped. Sliding to the edge of the hole, he managed to hold on, to catch himself before going over, but just barely. The creak and moan of the old house told him he didn’t have much time, as the weight shifting was loosening things even more.
Despite his best efforts, his memory took him back to another fire, inching along that smoldering floor, trying to find a little girl. There’d been smoke then, too, and a sizzling, scorching heat. And fear. Just like now.
What if he failed again?
“Slade, are you all right?” Irma asked, barely able to see through the smoke and without the glasses she’d lost in the fall. Not only that, but her wig was turned around and hanging crookedly, her best black one. She knew crying wouldn’t help, but she felt like it anyhow.
Regaining his footing, Slade continued on his path, climbing over a broken maple chair. “I need some light over here, Chris.” The beam raced along the floor and finally he could make out Irma’s form. “There you are.”
“A sight for sore eyes, right?”
“You fishing, Irma?” he asked, grabbing hold of the section of fallen beam that had one of her legs trapped. Damn if it wasn’t wedged in there good. Kneeling so he could put his upper body weight into hefting the beam, he got a good grip. “When I give you the word, you see if you can move your leg out, okay?”
“Okay.”
It took three tries, but Slade raised the beam perhaps half an inch. “Now!” Irma’s leg moved, but not enough. Grimacing, Slade held on, knowing if he dropped it back, he could sever her foot or break her ankle. “Okay, once more,” he said, grunting with the effort, and lifted it higher. Nervous sweat trickled into his eyes, but he saw her l
eg pull completely free. Muscles straining, he lowered the beam slowly, trying not to cause the floor to shift.
It shifted anyhow, sending chunks of debris hurtling into the cellar while bits of the ceiling rained down on them. Placing his hand on Irma’s ankle reassuringly, Slade held perfectly still till everything was once more quiet, then he cautiously inched closer. “Okay, what hurts, anything?”
“My ankle like the fires of hell and maybe my pride,” she confessed. “Can’t believe I let myself get in this mess.”
“Hurricanes aren’t anyone’s fault, Irma,” Slade commented drily. This was no time to debate. Still on his knees, he glanced over his shoulder. The wall fire was gaining ground. When the structure was weak enough, the remaining wall would fall right on them. He prayed they had enough time to make it out before that happened.
Slade brushed at the sweat pouring into his eyes with the back of a sooty hand. There was no way he would be able to pick her up and carry her out the way he’d come in, knowing the precarious floor wouldn’t hold their combined weight. A long rectangular window was just to the left. It would be tricky, getting her to it over the fire line that was lazily hissing and sputtering. But there was no other way.
“Chris, can you find something to knock out that window with? I’m going to have to hand her through to you. Can’t risk backing up with the two of us. Floor’s gonna give any minute.”
“Right.” Glad to be able to do something more constructive than holding a flashlight, the young man carefully made his way over and, using the solid end of the heavy flashlight, began smashing the glass out. He did a thorough job, scraping off the jagged edges. Then he turned the flashlight beam back to where Slade knelt alongside Irma, who was now sitting upright. “All set.”
“Do you think you can stand, Irma?” Slade asked.
“I will, or die trying.” Holding on to him, she slowly pulled herself up.
But as she did, the boards under their feet shifted, a large section breaking off. Irma cried out, fear causing her heart to pound.
“Hold on to me!” Slade yelled. Oh, God, he couldn’t lose her now, not when they were so close. Had he misjudged yet again?
A shower of ceiling rabble fell onto both of them, battering them with chunks of tile, covering them with gray dust. Irma almost stumbled to her knees, but the iron grip of Slade’s hands held her, kept her with him. “Don’t move,” he told her.
The waiting was wearing, but he didn’t budge, not until he felt sure the shifting had stopped. He could hear the hissing of the fire raging behind him, inching closer. Carefully looking down, he saw that they had no more than a foot and a half of board left to stand on. He couldn’t waste another second. Over his shoulder, he saw that the other fire trail had snaked itself across the room and was now perilously close to the main gas line.
“Chris,” Slade said, “I’m going to pick her up and hand her out. You ready?”
“Ready,” Chris answered, propping the flashlight beam so it would provide some light. Overhead, the sky was beginning to clear, but inside Irma’s house, it was dim and dank. He held out his arms, waiting.
Trying to be careful of her injured foot, Slade picked Irma up, realizing that although she was tall, she probably weighed no more than a hundred pounds, all skin and bone. Still, that weight added to his could send them plummeting to the basement, where chances were they’d never get out again.
Pulling his mind back to the job at hand, he silently thanked Irma for wearing slacks instead of one of her long, flowing skirts. Each step took forever as he tested the board for stability. At last at the window, he handed Irma into Chris’s waiting arms. He caught a glimpse of Briana on the lawn, her face tight with tension.
The searing heat licked at his back. “Everyone get back!” he ordered.
As soon as Chris stepped from the window, Slade took a rolling dive through the jagged opening, landing on the grass. Hurriedly, he jumped to his feet, annoyed that too many people were still just standing around. “Everyone, let’s move away from this house. It’s going to blow sky-high any minute.”
That got things moving. The bystanders began scattering, running, dashing away. With Irma in his arms, Chris hurried down the block just as an ambulance came careening around the corner. An eerie popping sound could be heard. Finally, only a few stragglers were left. Slade grabbed Briana’s hand and ran with her.
“I knew you could do it,” she told him, tears trailing down her cheeks. “Thank you.”
They stopped some distance away, but Slade didn’t respond. He felt numb, like a man sleepwalking.
Time, Briana thought, noting his sudden pallor beneath his dirt-streaked face that even the heat hadn’t reddened. He needed time to assimilate and assess all that had happened this morning.
Halfway up the street, Chris was settling Irma into the ambulance. Briana rushed over, Slade at her side. Just then, they heard a low, rumbling sound followed by a fierce explosion that had fire spurting upward from the back of Irma’s house, followed by a huge billowing cloud of black smoke. Those nearby fell to the ground.
It was several long minutes before Slade dared to raise his head, his body still covering Briana’s where he’d guided her beneath him, instinctively protecting her.
After several minutes, Slade rose, helping her up. He stood watching the greedy flames devour Irma’s home, feeling dazed and infinitely sad.
Inside the ambulance on the gurney, Irma saw the remains of her roof crash into the interior. “Well,” she said, “I’d been wanting to remodel anyway.”
Briana climbed up to her and hugged the older woman. “I’m so sorry you lost so many of your lovely things.”
“Pshaw! If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my eighty-two years, it’s that people are more important than possessions.” She brushed away a tear. “I do wish I could have saved my photo albums.”
“The insurance will help you rebuild your home. The important thing is that you’re okay.”
Irma gazed over at Slade and Chris standing near the ambulance doors. “Yes, thanks to these two young men.” She felt her eyes fill. “How do I thank you for risking your lives to save an old woman?”
“By getting well.” As the attendant settled a blanket over Irma, Slade glanced at her ankle, badly swollen and lacerated where the heavy board had trapped it. “You’ll be up and dancing in no time.”
“He’s right, Irma,” Chris chimed in. “First dance is mine.”
“You’ve got a date,” Irma told him, adjusting her wig somewhat clumsily. “Briana,” she said, taking hold of her young friend’s hand and pulling her closer, “I was wrong about Slade at first. But no more. He’s quality goods, honey. Don’t let him get away.”
Brie looked over at Slade, who’d turned back to silently watch the flames reduce Irma’s house to ashes. Was he remembering that other fire where Megan had died? Was he in shock? “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to.” She kissed the wrinkled cheek. “I’ll be by to see you at the hospital as soon as things settle down.” She hopped out of the ambulance.
The attendant closed the double doors. “They’re running out of beds at the hospital, but I hear medevac helicopters are on their way over from the mainland to give us a hand. The National Guard’s coming too, to prevent looting. I don’t know where your friend will wind up, but you can call once the phone lines are working again. They’re setting up some kind of hot line.”
“Thanks.” Slade watched the ambulance drive off, feeling filthy, exhausted, drained. A hand on his shoulder had him turning to see Chris looking at him.
“You did one hell of a job in there,” the redhead said quietly. He already admired the man for finding his daughter that evening. But what Slade had done just now had taken nerves of steel and courage not many men had. Chris had grown up on Nantucket, had known and cared about Irma Tatum all his life, yet he’d been afraid to go in. They’d gotten her out with mere seconds to spare before the house had blown.
“Couldn’t have d
one it without you.” Slade took the hand Chris offered and shook it.
“I’m going back home,” Chris said. “I don’t want to leave Pam and Annie alone too long. Looks like the emergency people are getting things under control. See you guys later.” He started to leave, turned back to Slade. “Listen, you ever need anything, anything, you know where to find me.” And he walked off.
Pulling in a deep breath, Slade looked out to sea. The sky was lightening, turning blue, and a weak sun was breaking through.
“Will you look at that?” Briana asked. “It’s going to be a nice day after all.” She looked up at Slade. “You’re a hero, Slade. Irma wouldn’t be alive if not for you.”
Frowning, he shook his head. “I’m no hero.” He’d saved one life, but cost a child hers. That hadn’t changed, not really. He’d managed to carry Irma out this time, but did that mean he could trust his instincts the next time? How many times before he could feel secure and confident once again?
Brie took his hand into hers, saw he was cut and bleeding. “Let’s go back to the house and I’ll fix this for you.”
Shaking his head, he pulled free. “I can do it.” Looking down, he noticed that his shirt was torn and dirty. “I need to clean up.” He started walking back toward their houses, his steps slow, lumbering.
Brie followed, frowning. “Slade, what’s wrong?” He’d done a heroic deed, yet he seemed to be blaming himself for something. He was shutting her out. What was going on in his mind?
He held out a hand, as if to keep her at arm’s length. “I need some time. I need to be alone for a while.” He glanced at her, saw the pain and confusion in her eyes. He’d put it there and wasn’t sure how to make it go away. “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”
Brie slowed, then stopped. “No, you go ahead.” Shoving her hands into her pants pockets, she turned to gaze out to sea. “I’ll be along.”
Irritation flooded him, at her, at himself. “Look, I don’t mean to hurt you. I just… I’m not an easy man, Briana.”
That was an understatement, she thought, feeling her eyes fill, keeping her head averted.
