by Alex Kava
The machine gun had spit over the heads of the men who had their fingers dug into Sam’s arms. They already had her shirt wadded into their fists, ripping at her, grabbing, poking, by the time the bullets zinged overhead. It wasn’t until later, when Sam and Jeffery were safe back in the States reviewing the footage, that she saw the look on Jeffery’s face, the one that had made the men drop her to the ground. The look that told them the next round of bullets wouldn’t be in the air.
“I got your back, you got mine,” he told her that day, and she’d been hard-pressed since then to argue.
Her Spanish-speaking mother, who lived with Sam to help care for Sam’s six-year-old son, didn’t like Jeffery. She called him “Diablo.” Not to his face. Mostly she called him the devil when he woke the household in the middle of the night, like tonight. Her mother didn’t know any of the details about the danger zones they traveled, but she suspected enough that she lit candles at St. Jerome’s Catholic Church every single Sunday.
The longer Sam worked with Jeffery, the more she wondered if her mother was right. Sometimes working with Jeffery Cole felt like she had, indeed, made a pact with the devil.
This was the third fire in less than ten days, but their bureau chief had told them to back off.
“No body count,” he said. “Registers low on the sensational meter.”
He called it an “oh-by-the-way blip,” fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, tops.
Not even close to the feature spots Jeffery prized. Tallying seconds and minutes had become an obsession for Jeffery. He claimed he could find the feature in any news, peeling away the leaves like an artichoke until he got to the tasty heart.
That’s what a good investigative reporter did, he’d lecture anyone who’d listen. Usually it was only Sam, who was unable to shrug off his bravado and walk away because there was an invisible chain that bonded them together. A chain, like handcuffs … actually more like an umbilical cord, because her life, her career, had come to depend on Jeffery’s success.
She wasn’t exactly happy or proud of that fact, but she’d started living by the saying “It is what it is.” A bracelet she never took off, the leather worn and the pewter pockmarked, had the words engraved on it. It was a constant reminder. Maybe she couldn’t always control all the crap that was thrown at her, but she could damn well control what she made of it.
Her mother’s version was a little more colorful: “It’s your life. Only you can choose what you make with it, whether it’s chicken salad or chicken shit.”
She noticed that Jeffery had taken a break and gone off somewhere, either to find a responder to interview or to take a piss. She didn’t keep track of him when he was off camera. Often she simply got lost in the world through the camera’s viewfinder.
Now, suddenly coming up from behind her, he said, “Looks like we have company.”
She glanced around without stopping what she was shooting. A tall man in a trench coat and two women were headed their way. They were on the inside perimeter of the crime scene tape. The tall woman in the bomber jacket was definitely a cop. Sam bet the other two were feds.
“Keep the camera running,” Jeffery told her. “No matter what, keep me in the shot, too. Remember to get my good side.”
Sam wanted to roll her eyes. Instead she repositioned the camera.
Here we go again. You never know what might still happen.
CHAPTER 9
“The bastards are like vultures.”
Maggie ignored Racine’s muttering. It was the fourth time she’d called the news media bastards during the short walk over. She wondered if Racine clumped her partner, Rachel, into that same category. Rachel worked for the Washington Post.
Maggie convinced Tully to let her take the lead even though he was definitely the better diplomat.
“Good evening,” the reporter said, an announcement more than a greeting, like the opening to the morning news.
Maggie saw the international news station’s logo on the side of the camera and now she recognized the reporter’s voice as that of Jeffery Cole. She resisted the urge to wince. This wasn’t some local affiliate. The camera was rolling and Cole believed he had an exclusive interview.
He moved clear around to the other side, shifting the angle as if jockeying for a better profile of himself even at the expense of exchanging the flames behind them for the building across the street.
“Detectives, do you have some information about how this fire started? Or who might have started it? Do we have a serial arsonist loose in the District?”
“We’re not here to answer any questions at this time,” Maggie said. “I’m sure there’ll be a media briefing later.” She glanced at Tully and Racine, who appeared paralyzed in the camera’s laser beam of light.
“Can you at least tell us whether anyone was hurt?” Cole continued. “Any fatalities? We haven’t seen any victims brought out yet.”
Maggie recognized the tactic. The rapid-fire questions that didn’t wait for answers. Reporters did it all the time. Send out a barrage of questions, overwhelm, overload, tax the patience of the already exhausted cops in the hopes of getting a single piece of information. Cops were used to doing the exact same thing to criminal suspects. They just weren’t used to having it done to them.
Racine started fidgeting and Maggie hoped the detective wouldn’t do something reckless, like tell them to shut the frickin’ camera off. Only Racine would come up with more colorful language or gestures that would require plenty of bleeps if ever broadcast. And Racine’s comments would probably be the ones that would make the 24/7 loop in the cable news cycle.
Maggie also saw Tully’s hand come out of his coat pocket, but he flexed his fingers and thankfully resisted the urge to shove the camera away or to put his hand over the lens. Both gestures would ensure a top-of-the-hour breaking news spot.
“Actually we need your help,” Maggie said calmly, addressing Jeffery Cole, not the camera. “I’m sure you and your news organization would want to assist us in this investigation.”
It was enough to stop the questions. In fact, Cole looked stunned. That’s when Maggie realized the camerawoman had, indeed, been including him in the shot. The young woman flinched as she glanced over for his instructions. The camera bobbed just a notch.
“I’m sorry, Detective, but I hope I’m misunderstanding you and you’re not really asking us to stop filming.” He took several steps forward and so did the camerawoman.
Maggie didn’t budge. She tried not to blink, although she now felt the camera’s spotlight directly in her eyes. “No, that’s not what I’m asking.”
“Good, because that would be an infringement of our constitutional rights. There is such a thing, Detective, as freedom of the press. And we are allowed to film this and inform our viewers. It would benefit them if you could tell us if you have a suspect? Or if these random torchings will continue? Should they be afraid that it might be their neighborhood tomorrow night? Look around.” He waved for the camerawoman to span the buildings across the street. “It could happen anywhere in the city.”
“What an asswipe,” Racine muttered behind Maggie and started walking away.
That’s when Maggie heard a crack like thunder behind her. A second crack was followed by a whoosh that slammed her to the ground.
CHAPTER 10
Maggie felt the heat press against her and kept her face down in the damp grass. Shattered glass pelted a thousand needles into her back. When she dared take a peek over her shoulder she saw debris floating like feathers and leaving trails of sparks. A glittery mist lit up the night sky, only it wasn’t rain.
Bystanders ran, some screamed, others were flattened to the ground like Maggie. Some weren’t moving. Flames shot out of the gaping hole in the building across the street. More flames spewed from the blown windows, leap-frogging along the outside awnings until a lace of fire strung clear around the corners.
The moans and darkness took Maggie to another place, a too recent experience. Th
e middle of a forest, thunder and lightning in place of roaring flames. Teenagers injured, two dead. A boy wrapped in barbed wire, bleeding and scared.
She shook her head, brought her elbows up to raise herself off the damp grass. She closed and rubbed her eyes. Without effort, her fingers found the scar at her left temple.
Sirens filled the air. She didn’t even see the third fire unit arrive. Black boots stomped by with the rustling of heavy gear. She stayed down on her hands and knees, waiting for the swirl in her head to stop, not pleased when she realized it was simply an aggravated version of her new normal.
“You okay?”
Maggie nodded without looking up at Racine. Hadn’t she just asked her that a few minutes ago? She tried to stand. The damn swirl dropped her back to her knees.
“Stay put for a while.” A new voice.
She saw the hand on her shoulder before she felt it. When Maggie glanced up at Tully his eyes locked on hers, waiting to find assurance, then darted away, tracking the scene, coming back and pausing at hers for another beat or two before they continued their track again. He turned enough for Maggie to see the bloody back of his head, hair matted and red streaks running down his neck.
“You’re bleeding.” She reached up. Tried to stand, instinct overriding ability.
She didn’t wave away his hand from under her elbow. Although for the last several months it was exactly the type of treatment she had resented.
“Careful,” he said, the concern creasing his brow. “We’re all bleeding.”
He reached his hand to the back of her neck and brought it back to show her his fingertips, red and slick with her blood.
“Just take it easy. Are you okay?”
Her knees wobbled a bit. The swirl inside her head blurred her vision.
“I might not be okay,” she confessed.
“I don’t think you are either.”
Again, she saw his arm around her shoulder without really feeling it.
“We need a paramedic over here.”
She heard Tully’s voice through a wind tunnel now.
The memory flashed in front of her like an old-fashioned film reel caught on a sprocket, jerking from scene to scene. The gun barrel against her head. A blast of light followed by the roar. The pain was intense—a driving pressure, scalding, then peeling off the side of her head.
Perhaps it really was unrealistic of her to think she could be shot in the head and just shrug it off.
Tully was still holding on to her. She looked around the chaos and saw Racine with a group of uniformed officers. She was pushing back the crowds while standing tall and strong, legs spread, arms out waving, making room for the paramedics like a traffic cop. From where she and Tully stood, Maggie could see that the back of Racine’s leather bomber jacket had been shredded. And Maggie’s first thought was that Racine would be so pissed. She loved that jacket.
She tried to take a step but Tully’s fingers tightened their grip, holding her back.
“Stay put, okay? Let’s have a paramedic take a look at you first.” His voice was quiet, gentle, and certainly didn’t match his grip. “Let the first responders take care of everyone else.” He stopped short of saying, We’ll just get in their way.
She nodded. She understood. They weren’t trained to take care of the wounded. It was a fact she had to accept, only recently discovering that it didn’t sit well with her. She hated feeling useless, but the truth was, her skills and training couldn’t help the living victims. Her and Tully’s expertise wasn’t needed until the victims were dead and could no longer tell their stories.
She knew Tully was right on both counts. She did need a paramedic. If she didn’t have someone give her the all-clear signal, she’d have to put up with those damned looks of concern. So she stayed put.
Chaos surrounded them and an inferno roared on two sides. Rescuers stomped and yelled while they hauled equipment that lurched and whined. They pushed and shoved their way through. Some of the bystanders stood paralyzed and watched. And in the midst of the chaos, not fifty feet away, Cole and the camerawoman appeared totally unfazed by it all.
“This is Jeffery Cole,” Maggie heard him say into the lens, “reporting live.” He looked remarkably calm.
CHAPTER 11
VIRGINIA
Patrick Murphy had lost track of how many hours he’d gone without sleep, this time. So far college had best prepared him for all-nighters. His fire science classes had barely scratched the surface of what Patrick had seen and done for the last several weeks.
That appeared to be true physically, too. He thought his body was well toned from a daily punishment of weights and two miles pounding the pavement, yet each time he returned from an assignment his muscles screamed at him in places on his body he had taken for granted.
Despite the aches and pains, he’d gladly get back on a fire truck for another assignment rather than be here, sitting in the luxurious lobby of corporate headquarters waiting to be reprimanded by his boss, whom he’d never met.
Patrick poked a finger into his collar, hoping to relieve the stranglehold. He’d also prefer wearing seventy-five pounds of gear rather than a suit and tie.
He checked his wristwatch. It probably cost more than a semester of tuition. It had been a signing bonus. Maybe they’d ask for it back. What was taking so long? Yet, according to the Swiss precision, it had been only eleven minutes.
Felt like forty-five.
At least Maggie hadn’t come back to the house before he had left. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain where he was going. Not that he had to. Their arrangement was more like roommates than siblings. They had to get to know each other, learn their quirks and pet peeves. Patrick had been on his own for a long time, even growing up. His mom had worked two jobs, leaving Patrick to fend for himself since he was the legal age to be left alone. Total latchkey kid.
She was a good mom, still was. And he understood she did what she did for both of them. As a result he’d grown up a bit sooner than his peers. While his friends were playing video games after school, Patrick sorted laundry and fixed grilled cheese for another dinner alone. He never minded. He liked that it had made him independent. And he knew all kinds of stuff that other guys his age didn’t have a clue about. His mom called him an “old soul,” and recently told him she regretted that she hadn’t given him a chance to be a boy.
Maggie told him she had also been on her own since she was twelve, but Patrick saw in her eyes and heard in her voice a sadness that told him it wasn’t the same.
She’d been great so far about his staying with her. Earlier this morning he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had conked him over the head. It was totally rude not to let her know before he came barging in, especially during the middle of the night. He’d been too upset to even think, yet he had told her they finished their assignment early like it was no big deal. Like it was true.
Instead, he had been sent home early and was probably lucky he hadn’t been fired on the spot.
“Mr. Murphy.” The receptionist’s voice was so soft and quiet Patrick wondered if she had called to him before and he just hadn’t heard.
He started to stand. Stopped. Corrected himself and, despite a bad case of the nerves, managed to make his eagerness look like a scoot to attention, to the edge of his seat.
“Mr. Braxton can see you now.” She smiled and nodded at the door to his right.
Then she swiveled to pick up a ringing phone while Patrick stared at her, expecting further instructions.
He stood and waited a second. The door was closed. Was he supposed to knock? But her eyes were back on the computer while she talked into the phone. Even her attention was not coming back to him. After his mistake of not warning Maggie of his presence and since he was already in hot water, he chose to knock.
“Come on in,” a voice with a Southern drawl answered.
The voice and the man who stood beside the sleek iron and glass-top desk were nothing like Patrick expected. The bank of floor-t
o-ceiling windows showed treetops and blue sky, and Braxton looked like he was posing for a photo with one of those fake too-good-to-be-true backdrops.
The mountain of a man with a sprinkle of silver in his hair offered Patrick a beefy hand. “You must be Murphy.”
The unexpected grip crushed Patrick’s hand.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m golfing in an hour, so you’ll have to excuse my attire.” The Southern accent made “attire” sound like two words, “a tire.” “My wife buys these shirts for me with the little polo player on them.”
The knit shirt was bright blue, the khakis well pressed. The tops of the leather moccasins were well polished.
“Guess she’s always hoping she can make this ol’ boy look fashionable.” Again, “fashionable” was drawn out into separate words. He gave Patrick an easy, genuine smile as he waved him to take a seat in front of his desk. “You married, son?”
The question disarmed Patrick, though he tried to conceal that. “No, sir.”
This wasn’t anywhere near the conversation he’d had going through his mind all morning.
“When you find the right one, son, don’t let her go.”
Braxton’s eyes were on the framed picture that took up the left front corner of his desk’s pristine glass top. The woman looked young and small compared to her husband, tanned, with lean arms and friendly crinkles at her eyes. Both of them wore khakis and polo shirts, hers pink, his a different version of today’s blue.
Patrick had no clue what the correct response was, so he simply said, “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”
This time Braxton’s eyes found Patrick’s and held them. “You be sure and do that, son.” But the playfulness had been replaced with something sober. There was almost a sad tinge to his voice. “Hands down, that’s the best advice I can give anyone. You find a good thing, don’t let go.”
