Out of the Ruins

by Karen Barnett

  Abby’s eyes narrowed. “I’m coming with you. It’s my fault he’s there.”

  Mrs. Fischer trembled in his arms. “How could I not know he was still home? How could I just leave him?” She clutched handfuls of her hair, burying her fingers in the long locks. “He’s all alone.”

  Robert reached a hand out to Abby, who was edging backward as if she was prepared to leave immediately. “Abby, you should stay with your mother. We can’t leave her in this condition.”

  The crazed look in Abby’s eyes softened as she stared down at her mother. She dropped to her knees. “Mama, I’ll find him. God walked every step with me over the past two days—I know He’s watching over Davy, too.”

  Mrs. Fischer’s breathing eased as she clutched her daughter’s hands. “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll find him.”

  Robert watched Abby’s head bob as she repeated the words with growing conviction. Something has changed in her.

  Abby clutched her mother’s arm. “We were all in the backyard when I was getting ready to leave. Do you remember? What happened then?”

  Mrs. Fischer shook her head, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s such a blur. I was upset.” Her brows pinched low. “I went inside to start cleaning up.” She covered her mouth, eyes widening. “Maybe he followed you. Or he was still in the yard and I didn’t even notice.”

  Her lashes flickered as her gaze darted between Abby and Robert. “Abby, I thought he was with you. I never would have left him there.” Her voice rose, piercing the air.

  Robert touched Mrs. Fischer’s shoulder, the woman’s grief palpable.

  “I know, Mama. I know.” Abby’s chin lowered. “I should have taken him. And I should have come straight home. This is my fault.”

  “How could I not know he was there? What kind of mother am I?”

  Robert rubbed a hand across his brow. “What time did you leave the house?”

  “The soldiers came just before noon. I told them I needed to wait for Abby, but they wouldn’t listen. I gathered a few things and left.” She clutched at Abby’s arm. “I hoped you and Davy had stayed with Aunt Mae. I tried to join you, but the streets were blocked. They kept telling me to go to Union Square. I never dreamed Davy was still in the yard.” She dug her hands into her stained skirt. “He hasn’t eaten since the morning of the earthquake. He must be—have been—so frightened.” She lifted her hands to her throat. “He couldn’t be . . .” Her eyes rolled. “It’s been two days!”

  “Shh, Mama. Maybe he’s still at the house.” Abby rubbed her mother’s arms.

  “But the fires—” Mrs. Fischer gulped back a sob. “And the dynamite—Robert, the soldiers said they were going to dynamite the area.” She rocked back and forth on her knees, her hands pulling at the neck of her dress like it had closed about her throat.

  Robert leaned forward, catching her shoulders. “Mrs. Fischer, you need to breathe slowly. Look at me.”

  Her head wobbled on her neck, her eyes darting around before finally meeting his gaze.

  Robert took her face in his hands. “Keep your eyes on me and breathe.”

  She sobbed, gulping air between cries, eyes fluttering open and closed.

  Abby jumped to her feet. “I’m going back to the house.”

  Robert jerked, his gaze lurching between the woman in his arms and the woman of his heart. “No. I’ll go.”

  Abby pinned him with a glare, her hands settling on her hips. “There isn’t time to argue. And there is no way I’m staying here while my brother is in danger.”

  Mrs. Fischer pushed Robert’s arm away, pushing up to her knees and then her feet, swaying unsteadily. “I’m coming with you. We have to find him, Abby. We must. I will never forgive myself if something has happened to him.”

  Robert placed a hand under Mrs. Fischer’s elbow to steady her. Maple Manor stood several miles from the park and up a steep hill—in the fire zone. His stomach tightened. The chances of finding the little boy alive were minimal. Could this family stand another tragedy? He glanced at Abby, the firm set of her jaw reminded him of their first meeting. If there’s one thing this family understands, it’s slim odds.

  46

  10:45 a.m.

  Robert pushed through the crowd, clearing a path and leading the way to the edge of the camp. His stomach soured at the thought of what they might find when they approached the Maple Manor neighborhood. He’d walked the charred streets, seen the remains of the deadly combination of earthquake and flames. The firestorm offered no compassion. It wouldn’t care whether a house contained a lone little boy. Please, Lord. This family needs mercy.

  As they reached the edge of the park, he glanced at Abby, her shoulders back and head high. Even with tangles of hair draping around her face, the gleam in her eye and tilt of her chin suggested an inner strength and determination. He remembered the thug he and Gerald had worked on last night and a flare of heat burned through his chest. With all she’d survived, where did she find the fortitude to continue?

  Robert picked up the pace once they cleared the park. The crews of workmen had removed much of the debris from the road, so other than dodging horses, wagons, and the occasional automobile, the journey went faster than before.

  Mrs. Fischer grasped her daughter’s fingers as they hurried along, her eyes rimmed with dark shadows. “We must find him. Losing two children . . .” Her voice faltered.

  “Mama, let’s not think that way.” Abby’s voice quavered.

  Robert placed his hand on the small of Abby’s back, the sudden urge to connect with her overwhelming his sense of propriety. He had no claim on her, or her family’s struggles, and yet he couldn’t—even for a moment—imagine walking away.

  Abby’s gaze met his, the glistening eyelashes surrounding her brown eyes providing him a glimpse into her heart. She reached for his hand, sending a wave of warmth through his arm.

  Robert squeezed her fingers. Seeing the smoke roiling in the distance, his pulse accelerated. Even if the flames had not yet reached the house, it was a race against time.

  Robert guided Abby and Mrs. Fischer up the hill. Reports of dynamite echoed through the air, a vortex of smoke billowing from nearby streets. Spotting that the neighborhood was still intact, a portion of the crushing weight lifted from his chest. Praying with each step, Robert was determined to follow Gerald’s advice and turn this problem over to God. It was time to let Him be the hero.

  Abby’s pulse raced as she hurried along, gripping Robert’s hand for strength. She’d walked every step in terror, expecting to find smoldering ruins. At the sight of standing homes, new hope sprouted in her heart.

  But what about Maple Manor? Shivers broke out across her skin as she thought of the choking smoke she had experienced in the abandoned store. And now Davy could be in the same situation, all because she had been too lazy to take him along to Aunt Mae’s. It seemed like years since the morning of the quake. And Davy’s been alone ever since. She blinked away the tears, not wanting to let go of Robert’s or her mother’s hands.

  Her parents wouldn’t survive another loss. Abby gulped back the emotions rising in her throat and straightened her shoulders. God, You said You wouldn’t leave me. I am trying to trust, but it’s so hard. She glanced down at her dusty shoes, hurrying across the fractured road. Pressure on her hand made her glance over at Robert. He lifted his brows, a question in his eyes.

  She gathered a breath, trying to force a confident smile to her lips.

  Robert nodded, his dark eyes shining with an inner light, and squeezed her hand a second time.

  Abby pulled from his strength, even as he turned his gaze back to their path. My fix-it man. The healer. She sighed. But you can’t fix this one, can you? She focused on the loose cobbles in the road, careful to keep her feet from stumbling. It’s too big for any of us. Davy’s in God’s hands—where he’s always been.

  A pair of soldiers blocked the final approach onto O’Farrell Street from Van Ness. The men’s olive drab
uniforms were coated in filth, their soot-stained faces more fitting for chimney sweeps. Each toted a bayonet-topped rifle. One of the pair balanced his gun over a shoulder, while the younger man leaned against his.

  The duo jerked to attention as Abby approached, Robert and Mama at her heels. One of the soldiers waved his weapon. “No one is allowed past here!”

  Mama released Abby’s hand and approached the men. “My baby is down there.” She pointed a shaking finger into the smoke-filled street.

  The senior soldier gestured with his rifle. “I can’t let you folks go that way. We have orders. No one goes down this street without permission.” The barrel of the gun bobbed with the cadence of his speech.

  His partner stood silent, face pale and taut. His fingers wrapped around the grip on his rifle as he pulled it to his chest.

  “I must get my baby.” Abby’s mother’s voice grew slow, almost detached. She took several steps toward the men, hand outstretched, eyes imploring. “You wouldn’t shoot a mother trying to rescue her child, would you?”

  Abby’s throat tightened at the sight of her mother’s shaking hand. “Mama . . .”

  The soldier lifted his rifle and steadied it against his shoulder in response, his blue-corded campaign hat casting a shadow across his narrow-set eyes.

  Robert reached for her mother’s arm, his face grim. “We’ll find their superior officer. We’ll get permission.”

  “There isn’t time.” Mama’s voice crackled, like branches creaking in the wind. She shrugged off Robert’s hand and took two more steps.

  Abby edged to the side of the road, holding hers hands outward. “Don’t shoot my mother. She’s just trying to save my baby brother.”

  “Corporal,” the younger soldier frowned. “Can’t we—”

  “You have your orders, Private.”

  The quiver in the younger soldier’s hands made his rifle barrel vibrate. Abby’s stomach churned as she watched the man track her mother’s movements. Abby took another step to the side. They won’t be able to stop her. Mama’s going to make a run for it.

  Mrs. Fischer’s eyes flashed. “You will not keep me from my son.”

  Robert took two quick steps to the far side, drawing the soldiers’ attention.

  Abby’s mother surged forward.

  The older soldier cursed, throwing his body into her path. They collided, falling to the ground in a heap. The bayonet flashed in the morning light.

  Abby screamed, leaping toward her mother.

  As the younger soldier lifted his gun, Robert smashed into him, grabbing the rifle and shoving him against a wall. “Abby, go!”

  Energy surged through her veins. She darted forward, sprinting through the gap and racing down the street toward Maple Manor. Abby lifted her skirts, her feet hammering down the cobblestones, running faster than she had ever done before. A shot tore through the air, echoing off the nearby buildings. Abby’s steps faltered. She pictured her mother or Robert lying injured, but pushed the image away choosing to continue on her path. They wouldn’t want her to turn back. She must reach Davy.

  Flames licked through nearby houses and Abby closed her mind to both the scene behind and the one ahead. Sweat dripped down her face as she hurdled debris and threaded through abandoned belongings strewn in the road. Paper fluttered by on the breeze, lost and forgotten. Lord, please. Lord, please. Abby chanted the words in her mind in rhythm with her pounding feet.

  Maple Manor faced the empty street, the structure still untouched by the flames. Abby stopped in front of the house, her breath ragged in her chest.

  The front door stood wide open.

  The breath blasted from Robert’s body as he crashed onto the cobblestones.

  The soldier rolled, gaining his feet—and his gun—in the time it took for Robert to suck in a breath of precious oxygen. Robert froze, the gleaming bayonet inches away from his chest. He laid his head back on the ground, hands held to each side.

  The soldier pressed the tip against the front of Robert’s vest. “Don’t move!” Beads of perspiration stood out on the man’s forehead, his campaign hat nowhere to be seen.

  Robert wheezed in the scent of spent gunpowder as his lungs remembered how to function. Move? Not likely.

  The silver blade tapped against Robert’s top vest button in rhythm with the shaking of the young man’s white knuckled hands. When the soldier risked a sideways glance, Robert followed his gaze, gravel scraping against the back of his head.

  The older soldier gripped Mrs. Fischer across her midsection, the small woman lifted off her kicking feet. His sidearm lay on the ground by his feet. He glared at the man standing over Robert. “You’re an idiot, Thompson. We’re not supposed to fire at civilians unless they’re looting!”

  The younger man took one hand off the weapon to wipe an arm across his nose, red patches rising on his pale skin. “I didn’t mean to, it was an accident. I didn’t see the guy coming.”

  “If you’d shot someone—” the man wrenched the struggling Mrs. Fischer to Thompson’s side, “Sergeant Haskins would have had you peeling onions for months.”

  Robert eyed the point bouncing against his sternum, splashes of crimson decorating the silver blade. Blood? A stinging in his hand drew his gaze to the laceration crossing his right palm. His stomach twisted at the sight of blood oozing down his wrist and staining his cuffs.

  “What about the girl?” The private relaxed his stance, the bayonet retreating by a few inches.

  “Well, it’s her funeral, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Fischer twisted in his grip. “You’re talking about my daughter.”

  “Corporal, sir, what do we do with these people?”

  The corporal grunted as Mrs. Fischer landed an elbow in his gut. He took a step back, giving himself at least an arm’s-length distance from the flailing woman. “I suppose we might as well let them pass at this point. The young lady is already past and I don’t want to go retrieve her. It’s probably better if she’s not alone.” He released his grip on Mrs. Fischer’s wrist.

  Private Thompson glanced down at Robert, still spread-eagled across the ground. “He attacked me.”

  Robert squeezed his fingers into a fist, applying pressure to the wound.

  The corporal guffawed. “What’re you going to do? Spear him? You’re hands are shaking so bad you couldn’t roast a sausage on that thing.”

  The private’s cheeks darkened to a deeper shade of red.

  “Actually,” Robert waved his dripping fist. “He already has.”

  The private’s face blanched and he scuttled backward, pulling the rifle up to his chest. “I didn’t.”

  Robert sat up, bracing himself with his good hand. “It must have nicked me when I grabbed at the gun.”

  Mrs. Fischer hurried over. “How bad is it?”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to the wound. “I’ll live. But we should go after Abby.”

  The corporal pulled out a second handkerchief and pressed it into Robert’s hand. “Get out of there as quick as you can. And don’t tell anyone about this. Got it?”

  Robert pushed up to his feet, watching the smoke roll over the rooftops. “Trust me, we won’t be there one minute longer than necessary.”

  Abby stared at the door, running through scenarios in her mind. Had she left it open yesterday? Had Davy opened the door and wandered away? Had some stranger been inside their house?

  She clambered up the stairs and crossed the threshold, slamming the door closed. The windows rattled with the sudden force. An echoing blast of dynamite answered, only a few blocks away.

  Not much time.

  Abby pressed her back against the door, the knob still clutched in her sweaty palm. What if I find him dead? She imagined her baby brother lying cold and silent, like Cecelia in her coffin. Abby drew in a slow breath, pushing away the horrific thoughts. God wouldn’t let it happen. Not again.

  Late afternoon shadows loomed as her knees and hands trembled. The smell of plaster du
st and wood smoke tainted the air. She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering strength for whatever she might find. Please, God, don’t leave me now. Help me find him.

  “Davy?” Her voice quavered, echoing through the still house. Her throat ached, raw from days of smoke and dust. She cleared her throat. “Davy? Are you here?”

  She tiptoed into the hall as if she were sneaking into a stranger’s home. “Davy? It’s Abby. It’s safe to come out now.” Abby’s voice sounded unfamiliar to her own ears as it broke the silence of the cluttered house. She wandered into the parlor. Two shattered vases littered the rug. A second blast of dynamite set the light fixture swaying above her head. Abby crunched over the mess on the floor and pushed open the pocket door to the dining room.

  The polished top of the cherry dining table hid under a thick layer of plaster dust, strewn with chunks fallen from the ceiling. Abby peeked under the table, one of Davy’s favorite hiding spots. Empty.

  She hurried to the kitchen. Food and dishes covered the floor, cornmeal crunching beneath her shoes. Earthquake damage or a little boy searching for food? Abby stepped gingerly through the mess, her toe bumping into something solid. A glass jar rolled across the floor. She grabbed it up, the sticky preserves adhering to her skin.

  Calling Davy’s name, she swung open the basement door and crept down the steep, creaky stairs, like descending into a dark throat. The dank air barely stirred as she revolved, peering into the shadows beneath shelves lined with canned fruits and vegetables. Wooden crates filled most of the floor space. A scraping noise sounded behind her and Abby whirled about watching for movement in the gloom. “Davy?” She held her breath.

  A bristly rat peered out from behind one of the boxes, its dark eyes glittering in the dim light. Abby shrieked and dove for the stairway, climbing the steps two at a time using both her hands and her feet.

  The methodical search over, she dashed through each room, calling Davy’s name, her voice echoing throughout the house. Her bedroom stood empty, littered by the broken bed frame, shelves and bricks, the other bedrooms in similar states of disarray. She checked every corner, praying she’d missed something.