Sarah wasn’t about to be driven from her home by fire or anything else. But was the house habitable? Just how bad was the damage inside? She’d soon know, because here came the chief. She decided that, no matter what he told her, she wasn’t going to easily abandon her home. Sarah wasn’t certain whether her attitude was based on pure stubbornness or a sentimental attachment, but whatever the cause, she was adamant.
The chief climbed into the driver’s seat of his vehicle and half-turned to face her. Sara had a vague recollection of meeting him at some point in the past, although she couldn’t recall his name. In her present condition, she wasn’t sure she could even remember her own.
“Doctor, I’m Stan Lambert, the deputy fire chief,” he said, answering Sarah’s unasked question. “I know this is unsettling. Are you okay? The EMTs are here. I know you told one of my firemen earlier that you didn’t need any attention, but maybe you should let them check you over.”
Sarah made a conscious effort to still the shaking she felt inside her, shaking due not just to her ordeal but to the emotions it set churning within her. She put the empty coffee mug on the floor of the SUV. “I’m fine, chief. What I need to know is whether I’ll be able to get back into my house tonight.”
“That’s the good news,” he said. “The fire was centered in a pile of oily rags burning in the garage near the entrance door to the kitchen. It produced a lot of smoke, sort of like a smudge pot. Despite depositing soot around the area of the fire and leaving the smell of smoke in some parts of the house, the fire didn’t do any real structural damage.”
“Even in the garage?”
“There might be a little scorching of the wood in a place or two, but nothing that would make the house unsafe. By the time my men got to it, most of the rags were consumed. As soon as we arrived, some of the firemen unrolled the hose and hooked it to the fire plug down the street in case it was needed, but as it turned out, all we had to use was a hand-held fire extinguisher.”
“So I can go back into the house?” Sarah said.
“Yes, that’s the good news,” the chief said. “But I think there’s some bad news to go with it.” He looked up. “And I think I’ll let this man tell you about it.”
The back door of the SUV opened. A man edged in and took a seat behind Sarah. In the illumination provided by the dome light, she could tell he wore a suit and tie. However, the suit was wrinkled and the tie askew. He closed the door, brushed his dark hair out of his eyes, and rubbed his unshaven chin. “I’m so sorry this happened,” he said.
Sarah searched her memory. She knew this man. That is to say, she felt like she should know who he was. Then it came to her. She’d seen him at church, heard his name there. His name danced on the edge of her memory, and she found it at about the same time he held up a badge wallet and identified himself.
“You may not remember me, but we go to the same church. I’m Detective Bill Larson.”
“Why are you here? Are you part of some group at the church that ministers to people who’ve had a fire?” She did a double take. “Surely you’re not here as a policeman. This was just a fire in some oily rags in my garage,” Sarah said.
“No, I’m not here as a church member, although I’ll do anything I can to help,” Larson said. “And I’m very definitely here as a policeman. I’m sure the chief has already told you this was no ordinary fire.”
“No, it was just some oily rags burning,” she said.
“And where did those oily rags come from? They didn’t just materialize and set themselves ablaze.” Larson said. “Do you even keep such things in your garage?”
“No,” she said. “I’m careful about that. They could catch on . . . Oh!”
“That’s right,” Larson said. “That fire was set. This is arson.”
***
Bill Larson watched from the back seat of the fire chief’s SUV as firemen loaded their gear onto the truck. Sarah Gordon sat huddled in the front seat of the vehicle. Her dark hair was mussed, she wore no make-up on, her eyes were red-rimmed. This was quite a different Sarah than the picture Larson had carried in his mind. Although she looked so miserable that he wanted to comfort her, the detective reminded himself that tonight he was here in his official capacity. To do his job properly he’d need to put aside any personal feelings.
He pulled a notebook from the inside pocket of his summer weight suit coat, clicked a ballpoint pen into life, and said, “Sarah . . . Dr. Gordon, can you think of any reason someone would want to do this?”
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “No.”
Larson waited for her to expand on that answer, but she just sat silent, unmoving. He figured she was probably in shock, and it was unlikely he’d get any useful information from her right now. But he had to try. However, his assumption proved correct as the answer to every question he put to her was the same—“I don’t know.”
Finally, Larson put his notebook back in his pocket. “Tell you what.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow—or rather, today—is Saturday. Why don’t I give you a call about mid-morning, and you can give me your statement then? Meanwhile, let the chief and me get you settled in with a friend or neighbor so you can get a few hours of sleep.”
The chief said, “Doctor, where would you—”
She turned to face him, and her expression— the set of her jaw—stopped him in mid-sentence. “I’m perfectly fine to be alone,” Sarah Gordon said. “I’m planning to spend the night—at least, what’s left of it—right here. You’ve told me there’s no structural damage to the house. Well, I can stand the smell of a little smoke. I’ve lived through much worse.” She swiveled to look at her home through the windshield of the vehicle. “Nothing and no one will force me out of that house.”
***
Despite what she’d said about her willingness to be alone in her house, when the front door closed behind the fire chief and the detective, Sarah felt depression and loneliness descend on her. She dragged herself up the stairs, entered her bedroom, and—still wearing her robe and slippers—threw herself across the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She spent the next half hour sobbing into that pillow. She’d managed to hold it together in front of the fire chief and Detective Larson, but now she let it all out—not just the emotions caused by the fire, but her sorrow at the loss of her husband and daughter, the struggle she’d had since their death. She thought she’d be over it by now—she’d have moved on. But that’s not what had happened.
Come on, Sarah. You’re a grown woman. You’re a physician. Every day in the emergency room you make critical decisions. Why can’t you hold your personal life together?
That question had occupied Sarah for the past eight months, and she was pretty certain she had the answer. Before Harry’s death, she’d gotten into the habit of shedding her professional persona at the door. At home she and Harry shared responsibility. They had been a team. If she didn’t have an answer, Harry did. If one of them was unable to do something, the other one would. They could talk about things, make decisions jointly, lean on each other. But that changed with his death. Now she was alone, in every respect.
There was no more respite from responsibility when she came home from her work at the hospital. She simply moved into a different set of circumstances, another situation in which she had to make decisions. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, it was all up to her. There were a few times when she thought she heard Harry’s voice whispering, “Go ahead, Sarah. You can do it. You’re strong.” But I don’t feel strong—
especially when things keep coming at me.
And in addition to the burden she felt, Sarah was still subject to episodes of grief, interspersed with anger—at God, and (although she hated to admit it) at Harry for leaving her so alone.
The hardest times, times that seemed to tear her apart, came in the middle of the night. That’s when she’d think she heard the sound of Jenny’s voice. Sarah would roll out of bed, still half-asleep, and head for the room
where Jenny slept before realizing that room was empty—just like all the other rooms in the house. Sarah was no longer needed as a mother. Jenny was dead.
Tonight the smell of smoke was pervasive throughout the house, but she could tolerate that. Her depression at the loss of her family nipped at the edges of her consciousness, but with an effort of will she put that aside to consider something of more immediate importance. What she couldn’t get past was her fear that whoever set the fire would return. Every noise she heard seemed to represent footsteps on the stairs or movement in the next room.
Sarah wished she still had the pistol Harry kept in his bedside table. Right after they were married, she’d told him she felt uncomfortable with a gun in the house.
“I’m a nut about firearm safety,” he’d said. “I want to have it to protect us, but I’m careful. Believe me.”
After Jenny was born, Sarah renewed her objections. It wasn’t safe to have a pistol in the house where there was a child. She’d read about gun owners who shot a family member or were wounded or killed themselves. Finally, Harry had given in to her entreaties to get rid of the weapon. But now she wished she had it with her. More important, she wished she had Harry beside her.
They’d worked together—she, an ER doctor, and he, a surgeon—to mesh their schedules so they’d have time with each other and with Jenny. Things were going well. They’d even talked about trying for a little brother or sister for their daughter. But one afternoon, as Harry drove home from the day care center with Jenny in the car seat, another driver crashed into them and snuffed out both their lives, as well as her own. And, so far as Sarah was concerned, her life ended at that moment as well.
Sarah told herself for the hundredth time there was no need to go over the past. Harry and Jenny were gone. She was still here, although she wasn’t sure just why, and she had to concentrate on moving ahead. That had been her priority since her loss—moving ahead, one day at a time, one step at a time—even if she had to force herself. This fire was simply another roadblock she had to get past. Harry, I’m trying. Really, I’m trying.
The firemen had thrown the main electrical breaker to the house until they determined the location and severity of the fire. Now, although the electricity was back on, the clock at Sarah’s bedside continued to flash 1:13, the time when all this took place. She’d fallen into bed without resetting the clock, so that now, when she opened her eyes and looked in that direction, she saw a constant reminder of what had happened tonight. She knew she should get up and reset the clock, but the effort was beyond her at this point.
It seemed to Sarah she’d done nothing but toss and tumble since dropping onto the bed in a state of exhaustion at almost four a.m. She untangled herself from the covers and punched the button to light up the dial of her watch. It was ten after five. Sleep wasn’t going to come.
She slid her feet into the scuffs that had fallen at the bedside. She shrugged out of her robe, then went to the closet and wrapped herself in Harry’s robe, one she’d kept because even after eight months she thought she could smell his after-shave lotion in it. Even now, it felt like she’d put on a suit of armor. It was a little like Harry was there with her. And she needed that.
Sarah padded down the stairs. In the kitchen, she flipped on the coffee maker and waited, hoping the scent of the freshly brewed coffee would overcome some of the smell of smoke that seemed to follow her wherever she went in the house.
She looked at her watch and wondered how long it would be before she could begin making phone calls. Sarah moved to one of the kitchen cabinets, opened a drawer, and withdrew a notepad and pencil. Then, armed with a fresh cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and began to make a list of the tasks that faced her.
***
The last emergency vehicle had gone. Clouds covered the moon and stars, and there were no streetlights nearby. He couldn’t have planned better circumstances for watching unobserved. With the car windows partially open to let in the night breeze, he was comfortable leaning back behind the steering wheel. Other than a couple of officers driving by earlier, apparently the police had decided that regular patrols in the area weren’t necessary for the rest of the night. That suited him just fine.
The house had been dark since he drove up, but he knew that didn’t mean its occupant was sleeping. Sure enough, at that moment the light in an upstairs room came on. In a few minutes another window, this one downstairs, was lit, the illumination faint as though from a light in an adjoining room. He figured she’d been unable to sleep, had tossed and turned before eventually getting out of bed. Now she was probably sitting in the kitchen, perhaps drinking coffee or tea, wondering why this had happened.
Well, that was the point of the whole exercise, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to kill her—not yet. First, she had to suffer, but not necessarily physically. No, she had to suffer first. That’s what this was about—the waiting, the wondering, the fear. The dying would come later.
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