Through the Fire

by Shawn Grady

  “A-O.” Lowell Richmond leaned his chair forward from the west wall, his wispy brown hair tousled, face unshaven, with purple crescents doubled under his eyes. He shifted the newspaper into his left hand and extended his right. “Glad to see you survived your purgatory.”

  I smiled and shook his hand. “Man, if you only knew. This place keeping you busy enough?”

  “It’s been crazy.”

  I lowered my voice. “How’s Hartman? Heard anything?”

  He nodded. “I went in yesterday with a couple guys. He’s still on a vent.”

  My heart sank.

  “But—” He coughed. “They said that’s only to fully drain the blood from his lung cavities and let the ribs heal up. So they’re keeping him sedated.”

  “So, he’s not . . .”

  “Gonna die? No way, man. You guys got him out in time. CT scans are otherwise clear. Just the hemothoraxes and a bad concussion.”

  I took a deep breath and looked around the room. Chris Waits, a stocky Asian man with a black handlebar moustache, strolled over from the coffee maker.

  Lowell leaned back against the wall. “Don’t let the second-floor Admin screw with you, man. I know you guys were just trying to do your job.”

  “What’s up, Mr. O’Neill,” Waits said with a pat. “Good to have you back.” He nodded toward Lowell. “This guy already boring you with stories about his tank?”

  I looked at Lowell. “You bought a tank?”

  His eyes lit up.

  Waits sat and placed his mug on the table. “You know, and I’ll say it again, there is the world we live in and the world Lowell lives in.”

  Lowell leaned his chair forward and lifted his hands. “What?

  C’mon, Chris.”

  Beside Waits sat John Peyton, a tall, solidly built man in his thirties. He looked up from his paper with eyes tinted red at the edges. He nodded with a smile. “Hey, Aidan.”

  Lowell looked as if he was fighting to hold back a grin. “And you know what the best part about it is?”

  Waits lifted his coffee mug. “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “It’s street legal.”

  Waits stared at him. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

  Lowell shook his head and laughed, tapping the table with his free hand. “And it fits in a standard-sized garage.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy.” He took a sip.

  “No, see, it’s a light-armored reconnaissance tank. They’re made for cruising over any kind of terrain. It—” He glanced in his empty coffee cup. “Where’s our new new kid?”

  “Right here, sir.” A slim blond fireman stood at semi-attention by the table holding an empty coffeepot.

  Peyton looked at him sideways. “At ease there, son. We’ll be in the area all day.” He set down his paper. “You from Hartman’s class?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How is he?”

  “I saw him this morning, and it’s looking like he may come off the vent soon.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Waits shifted in his seat. “What’s your name?”

  “Brian Sortish, sir.”

  “Sortish?” Lowell said.

  “Good to meet you.” Waits shook his hand. “I’m Chris. Now, let me ask you a question.” He motioned across the table. “You believe anything this guy says?”

  Sortish laughed and threw an uncomfortable glance at Lowell.

  “See,” Waits said. “Even the new kid thinks you’re full of—”

  “We got everybody here?” Butcher called out, holding a sheet of paper.

  Sortish extended his hand to Lowell. “Hi, I’m Brian.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Lowell said. “I was right here when you just told Waits. You know how to make coffee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  I scratched my forehead and glanced at the floor. Requisite rite of passage for a probie.

  Brian nodded and spun around. “I’ll get on that.”

  Waits shook his head. “Sheeze, Lowell. You’re such—”

  “Okay, people, let’s get this roll call done so we all know who’s where and doing what.”

  “Don’t worry, Butcher,” Lowell said. “We’ll help you out. You are currently in the kitchen, and today you get to ride on the big red engine with all the yellow hoses. And if you’re really good, maybe Aidan will even let you talk on the radio.”

  A swell of laughter rolled through the room. Peyton shook his head and smiled at his coffee.

  “Thank you, Lowell.” Butcher stroked his moustache. “Now that I am apparently all squared away, let’s go ahead and run down rig and house-duty assignments for everyone else.”

  Lowell leaned on the table. “You got that coffee made, Swordfish?”

  “Sortish,” he said.

  More chuckles.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “New kid’s got coffee, Butcher.”

  “Yes, all right. Thank you again, Lowell.”

  Waits lowered his newspaper and looked at Lowell. “Would you shut up?”

  Lowell deferred and sat back.

  A voice spoke from a far table. “And tell him not to make it rocket fuel like Kat likes it.”

  Operator Katrina Breckenridge glanced up. She leaned back on the island, silver-streaked hair tied in a ponytail, stirring a spoon in a mug. She squinted her eyes at the man who’d made the remark. “You just can’t take it, you big—”

  “We’re never gonna get through this,” Butcher said.

  “All right, all right. Sorry, Mark.” She smiled at him. “You go ahead.”

  “Engine One is myself, Kat’s driving, Aidan O’Neill and Timothy Clark are the firemen. Truck One is Captain Sower—”

  “Where is he, anyway?” Kat said.

  “He’s tied up talking with Mauvain.”

  “New info on the fires?” Waits said.

  “You know”—Lowell leaned forward— “Mauvain called up here about ten minutes ago, and I swear I could smell the starch through the phone.”

  Laughs rumbled. The kitchen door swung open and the room fell silent.

  Battalion Chief Mauvain stepped in, his football-sized brass belt buckle leading the way. “Morning, all.” His tone held the icy candor of someone whose ears had just been burning.

  Behind him, appearing to be half his width, stood a slender woman in a white lab coat. A jolt shot through my solar plexus. She had azure eyes that glowed in a frame of light chestnut hair. I was confident that I didn’t know who she was, I had no idea of her name, and yet my instinct was that somehow I knew her. Her simple elegance and beauty left Mauvain looking like a shaven Cro-Magnon in a frumpy white badge shirt.

  The chief cleared his throat and turned to Butcher. “Captain, mind if we move this meeting into the dayroom?”

  CHAPTER

  11

  I crossed to the wall opposite the windows and sat back in a mustard yellow lounge chair, the kind with a chrome frame and rubber cushions. The more senior guys took up residence in the newer recliners along the walls. Mauvain was all about throwing his weight around, and by changing rooms he’d shifted the momentum. His smug expression showed that he knew it.

  Miss Lab Coat stood in front of the chalkboard, her arms crossed. Thin white sunlight traced her profile, lending a crisp brilliance to her features. She scanned the room before catching my eye. I smiled, but she looked away, staring at the glass-framed fire patch collection on the far wall as though it had morphed into butterflies.

  My cell phone vibrated.

  “Hello?”

  “Aidan? It’s Cormac. I’m so glad to hear your voice! Where are you?”

  “Hey. I’m actually at work.”

  “At work? I can’t believe it. I came back to the hospital and they said you’d already left. I couldn’t believe it.”

  Timothy Clark hit my arm, nodding toward Miss Lab Coat. “You know her?”

  I shook my head.r />
  “I hated to leave,” Cormac said. “They were talking like the coma could be permanent.”

  “Come on, now,” Timothy whispered. “Do tell, do tell.”

  “Cormac, can I call you back? I’m in a big meeting right now.”

  “No problem, bud. It’s just great to know you’re alive.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll talk later.” I hung up and pocketed my phone.

  “Beauford Maddox Biltman,” Mauvain boomed, commanding the room like a Shakespearean orator. He’ d make a good Macbeth. Or maybe Richard the Third. He held up a photo of a firebug I recognized from a couple years earlier. “Convicted arsonist in the Fourth Street fires, if you recall.”

  Lowell laughed. “If that ain’t an arsonist’s name, I don’t know what is.”

  Mauvain flashed a look at Lowell like an old cat toward a puppy. “Due to certain legalities, a wealthy family with skillful lawyers”—he was counting off with his fingers—“the overcrowding problem at the jail, and I don’t know, probably a politician in there somewhere, Biltman, believe it or not, is now free.”

  Voices muddled through the room.

  Waits raised his hand.

  “Quiet, please.” Mauvain pointed to Waits. “Chris?”

  “How long has he been out now?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Kat retied her ponytail. “Is he living downtown again?”

  “My understanding is that he’s renting a one bedroom off of East Taylor.”

  Waits folded his arms across his chest. “Right back in District One.”

  “Yes,” Mauvain said. “Which is why I wanted you all to see this. I know we’ve been getting beat up around here. Some of you haven’t been home for four or five days. But I need your eyes and your vigilance. These fires are not only increasing in frequency, but with an intensity that I personally have not witnessed in my career.” He motioned to Miss Lab Coat. “In lieu of Investigator Blake Williams, who is still out at the scene of last night’s fire, I’ve asked recently hired prevention analyst Julianne Caldwell to share a bit about the latest test results that support the mounting case for Biltman as the prime suspect.”

  Julianne stepped forward. Her quiet demeanor gave way to a confident delivery. “Essentially, the latest lab tests conducted affirm that the recent fires are in fact arson, and are related to each other.” Her voice stirred in me the sense of hearing an old, old song, like one from an heirloom music box that only comes out at Christmastime. “We still know very little about the incendiary method being used. But we do know this—recent fires have been burning hotter and faster, and the risk for flashover is exponentially higher. One second the fire is in its incipient phase, the next second the entire place flashes into flame.”

  Timothy Clark leaned forward. “So, we don’t know what’s causing it to do that?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Not yet.”

  The ceiling speaker chirped. A female dispatcher’s voice came over. “Battalion One, please landline dispatch.”

  Mauvain glanced at the ceiling and then at Julianne. “Thank you, Ms. Caldwell.” He put his hands together. “Well, that’s it for now. You guys are doing a good job. Stay heads-up and be safe.” He started toward the stairwell and pulled a cell phone from his belt.

  Captain Butcher stood. “All right. Let’s get to morning checks and house duties.”

  Guys stretched and conversation resumed.

  Timothy Clark turned to me. “I’ll clean the north bathrooms if you’ve got the south ones.”

  I nodded. He disappeared down the hall toward the dorms. My stomach growled, so I made for the kitchen and found a couple heel slices of bread wrapped in plastic in the free-for-all bowl on the counter. I pushed the handle down for the toaster and watched the metal wires glow red-hot, feeling the warmth on my face.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said from across the room. “Do you know where . . .” Julianne stopped when I turned around. “Never mind,” she said, and walked over to a set of cabinets, opening and closing doors.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  “I’m fine.” She opened and closed two more cabinets. “Thank you.”

  “Coffee cup?”

  She closed three lower doors and exhaled. She kept her back to me. “Yes.”

  “Second top cabinet from the right.”

  She threw her hands in the air and muttered, “Of course, the one I didn’t check.”

  My toast popped up. I grabbed a couple paper napkins and set them on it. “So, sounds like you’ve had your hands full with the new job.”

  She pulled down a mug and walked to the coffee maker.

  “Yep.”

  I buttered the toast and watched her from the corner of my eye. She poured the coffee and stared at it. Her shoulders slumped.

  “Creamer?” I said.

  She turned her head to the side and gave a slight nod.

  “Fridge to your right. First door.”

  She fished out the half-and-half.

  I set the butter knife down. “You new to this area?”

  She stopped pouring and held the creamer carton in the air for a moment, then added a splash more. “I’ve been out of state for a while.”

  “Oh. Nearby?”

  “Northern California.”

  I bit into my toast and stared at her, chewing.

  “Thank you,” she said, raising the coffee mug.

  I swallowed my bite. “My pleasure.”

  She gave a quick polite smile and moved to the door, stopping to look out the window. “It hasn’t changed that much.”

  “Did you grow up here?”

  She seemed to be looking more inward than out. “There’s always more going on than what you see on the surface.”

  I stepped to the island. “This probably sounds canned, but . . . you seem really familiar.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it. She pushed on the door. “Have a good day, Firefighter O’Neill.”

  “Wait. How do you know my name?”

  She disappeared into the dayroom.

  Tones cycled from the ceiling-mounted speaker.

  A woman’s voice echoed. “Battalion One, Engine One, Engine Two, Engine Four, Truck One, Rescue One with the safety officer to a structure fire—smoke and flames seen coming from the front of a residence.”

  My heart rate quickened. I opened the kitchen pole-hole door. The brushed-steel cylinder stretched from the ceiling to three floors down. I felt the cool metal on my palms and dropped through the circle of air.

  CHAPTER

  12

  A cross the apparatus bay it rained firemen.

  My head pounded with my pulse. I stepped into my turnout boots, pulled up my suspenders, and hopped in the back. Kat shot out of the barn and I threw on my coat, falling back into the rear-facing jumpseat. The ladder truck followed us with the rescue behind it. Chief Mauvain trailed caboose in a screaming train weaving down Evans Avenue.

  I worked my arms through the shoulder straps of the seat-mounted air pack, standing to tighten the straps. The engine jerked, and I slammed against the door.

  Butcher bent around from the front. “Get seated back there.”

  I cinched the waist belt and dropped back into the seat. Timothy cranked on his air valve.

  Butcher pointed. “Left here on Spokane.”

  “I got it,” Kat said. “I’ll get you there. I’ll get you water.”

  She pulled to a stop just past a hundred-year-old two-story house on my side of the rig. Butcher reported a wood-framed structure with an A-frame roof and heavy smoke showing.

  The air brake snapped and hissed. I opened my door and hopped out. Everything felt right, back in step.

  Until I saw the fire.

  Black smoke rolled out the front door, swirling liquid fire chasing it down a darkened hallway. Two opalescent eyes formed within the flame. The fire morphed, and the world around it shadowed into a Mexican beach, bonfires raging—and there in the doo
rway stood the sickle-gripping reaper waving with the heat. A vacuum opened in my gut. I stepped back and collided with Kat.

  “Look out, Aidan.”

  I rubbed my eyes. Timothy hopped on the sideboard and put his arm through the hose loops. The fire was on my side, and he had beat me to the nozzle. He yanked the hose load to the pavement and winked at me, taking off up the walkway. The wind shifted and he vanished into the smoke-filled air.

  Butcher walked in front of me, radio held by his ear. He slapped my shoulder. “Find the seat and knock it down before this whole thing flashes.”

  The ladder truck turned the corner, Peyton spinning the rear steering wheel in the tiller cab.

  Kat shoved the handle of my flathead axe across my chest. “Am I going to have to do everything for you guys?”

  I grabbed the smooth linseeded handle with its familiar dark hickory veins.

  My father’s axe . . .

  She grabbed my jacket and pushed me toward the house. “Wake up, Aidan!”

  Kat circled around to the pump panel and shouted, “Water comin’!”

  It snaked through the flat hose fabric, swelling it solid. I slid the axe into my belt sheath and strode up the walkway. The nozzle jerked forward in Timothy’s grip, pointing at the doorway like a dog to its catch. Timothy pointed it at the side of the house and bled the air from the line with a hiss-splash. The heat was palpable. I knelt and strapped on my mask as flames wicked around the doorframe. Timothy crawled in, his boots assimilating into the smoke.

  Sheol sucked him in.

  I swore I heard laughter. Panic raced down my windpipe. The hose line inched inward like a python.

  I couldn’t leave Timothy. I pulled on my gloves.

  Fire erupted at the ceiling, bulbous and rolling up the building side. I hit the floor and clambered in. Timothy’s coat took shape in front of me.

  He yanked on the line. “There’s a glow back there.”

  I nodded and grabbed a coupling. We pushed deeper in. Fire rippled above like an inverted river.

  Cormac’s voice echoed in my head. “Its sole desire is to consume.”