Judging by his dentition and light facial hair, the deputy was less than twenty-five, probably in his first couple of months on the job. It was obvious he cared more about me respecting the badge than doing what was right.
“Face the vehicle. Hands on the hood.”
“We’re on the same side,” I protested. “I was only speeding to respond to a call.”
“Don’t sass me!”
A second siren sounded, and a smile slowly formed on my face.
Down the highway, behind the deputy’s car, I saw the familiar sight of Sheriff Hoyt’s gold and white cruiser pulling off the pavement.
Paul Davis Hoyt was an ex-state trooper, a box of a man sporting a plush gray-brown flattop and jowls dappled with ancient acne scars. He hitched his britches over a hickory-hard gut and stuck out a wide, flat hand. The palm was so red, it looked like he had been picking blueberries. He wore a dark blue uniform and a thick, leather belt that creaked when he walked alongside the empty highway. He was also a vet, just like me.
As Hoyt reached the truck, I noted that I smelled of aftershave and starch and a touch of body odor.
“What in blue blazes is going on here?” The sheriff spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Deputy Mercer, why’re you frisking a Navy Medal recipient?”
The deputy jumped back like he had been zapped. “A what?”
“You heard me. This boy’s a war hero.”
Mercer bobbled the Taser, and it bounced from hand to hand.
I snatched it out of the air with my big mitts an handed it over. “You dropped this.”
The deputy snatched it back. “Sheriff Hoyt, I apprehended this hoodlum traveling at a high rate of speed. While writing his citation, he became agitated and aggressive.”
Hoyt pointed at the Taser. “Looks like you’re the one got agitated, Pete. Didn’t you see the cherry top on the boy’s car? He’s on a call.”
“Which I tried to explain to him,” I interjected.
“Thought it was fake.”
The sheriff raised his hand.”Tell you what, Pete, you head on back into town, and I’ll take care of the ticket on this one. Stop by the Red Fox Java and get yourself a slice of pie. My treat.”
The deputy rubbed his neck. “My shift ain’t over for another two hours.”
Hoyt took the ticket book from him. “I’ll take care of it.”
The deputy grimaced, but there was nothing he could do but return to his cruiser.
Hoyt and I silently watched as he hit the siren, made a sharp U-turn in the highway, and roared back toward Galax.
Hoyt whapped my arm with his ticket book. “That Pete, I tell you what. Two months on the job, and he’s written more tickets than the other deputies combined. Now, about that fire.”
“Yes sir,” I said, “that.” I’d given up being first responder. All I wanted was to respond at all.
Hoyt nodded for me to get in the truck. “Then let’s not keep the old boy waiting. You know the rules. No passing. No tailgating. And son?”
“Yeah?”
“I drive fast. Try to keep up.”
3
The dilapidated house sat atop a slight rise, next to a man-made pond. The pond had once been used for irrigation, back when the overgrown lot had been part of a family farm. Past the pond and up a rise, a half dozen tobacco barns and a derelict chicken house had been left to rot.
They were no longer rotting. They were on fire. All of them. The barns. The chicken coup. The farmhouse.
Eight plumes of smoke drifted into the cloudless sky.
The only structure not ablaze was a rusted out Airstream. The white and blue trailer had a tattered canopy, a picnic table, a TV antenna stretched thirty feet into air.
By the time I drove down the long dirt driveway to the fire, the roofline of the house was engulfed in flames. If the roof was gone, the rest of the house would be lost.
A stack of spent kindling.
The air smelled like fire, a mix of ash and burned fat that left me with a sweet taste in my mouth and a sick feeling in the gut.
I loved it.
The rest of the Allegheny VFD was already on the job. The six-person squad had set up hoses to the pumper engine. The engine drew water from an abandoned cow pond. Otto and Jimmy had trained hoses on the roof of the house, and Julia was manning the pumper.
The only woman in the crew, Julia was a fitness instructor and adrenaline junkie. She stood over five seven, had the shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, and could kick harder than a pissed off mule. The other firefighters knew that because she won every mud-wrestling match in the county.
Two other Allegheny firefighters had containment detail. They were busy smashing the windows on the left side so the hoses could reach inside.
“Lamar!” I parked beside the tanker. “Hey, Cap!”
Lamar was the captain. He was also my stepfather. He stood fifty feet from the tanker, talking to the captain of Galax VFD and Sheriff Hoyt, who had beaten me by a good three minutes.
“Julia! I’m here!” I pulled on my fire pants. Grabbed my jacket, gloves, and helmet. “What’s my duty spot?”
“Ask Cap!”
“He didn’t answer me!”
“You know the procedure!” Julia shouted over the mechanical clunk of the pumper. “Unless you need help getting dressed!”
“Very funny!”
I knew the procedure. But knowing it and doing it automatically were two separate things.
Lamar had preached the same sermon all during training: Firefighters had to know procedures so well, they could react without having to think. When a two-thousand-square-foot roof was collapsing on your head, there was no time to consult the manual.
“Lamar!” I ran over to Hoyt’s cruiser. “What’s my post?”
Lamar Rivenbark was my opposite. He stood barely five feet, eight inches tall, a solidly built man with cropped brown hair and hands as thick and coarse as cinder blocks. His hair was almost completely gray, like the stubble on his cheeks. A lifetime of farming had given him a deep tan and a slight gait, a gift from a runaway hay baler.
“Slow down now, no need to huff and puff,” Lamar said. “You don’t just rush into a fire.”
“Yes sir.” I took a deep breath. “Now, what’s my post?”
Lamar scratched his head. “Maybe you got a genius IQ, but you’re still thinking like a soldier, all nerves and guts. Like you could huff and puff and blow out the fire all by your lonesome.”
“Sailor, not soldier. I didn’t shot people in the Navy.” I surveyed the damage. Flames poured out of the windows, the doors, and through the roof near the chimney. The rafters had collapsed there, opening a gaping hole. “I can help. I’m ready.”
“Back up Julia on the pumper engine.” Lamar snapped his chinstrap. “You’ll be feeding out the lines.”
“I was hoping to work the attack.”
Lamar slapped me on the shoulder. The blow was hard enough to knock me back a step. “We’ve already rung four alarms on this job. The residence is empty. The other structures are all goners. Our job now is to wash down the fire, stomp out the sparks, and get back to the station with all our fingers and toes. Which is why, for now, you got the pumper. Get to work and don’t argue.”
I held my chin high, looked my stepfather straight in the eye, and said, “Yes, sir, Captain.”
A wise man once said that everybody has to pay his dues. I was no exception. My turn would come sooner or later.
Probably sooner.
4
An hour later, the fire was under control. Otto and Julia had soaked down the roof. They worked around the house to the kitchen. Lamar ordered me to back them up. I tied a clove hitch knot to secure a reel of unused hose I had been spooling, then went to help Julia with the blitz line.
The charged hose was as hard as concrete and just as heavy. I held it on my hip, supporting Julia as she opened the nozzle and a battering ram of water broke free. The line fought me as much as I fought it. It was like wrestling a Burmese python
that had swallowed a water tank. My turnouts were immediately soaked with backwash, and the hose hammered my chest.
“Hold tight!” Julia ordered Otto, then turned her attention to the structure. “I’m taking the hooligan to it!”
With one deft swing, she knocked the back door off its frame.
“Swing battah!” Otto yelled. “That’s how you use a hooligan!”
Julia took a step inside.
Then she froze. “Down! Everybody, down!”
Fueled by fresh oxygen, the fire came alive, and flames erupted from the door frame. They seemed to be suspended in air. A ballet dancer in the midst of a grand jeté. Then—boom! A wave of heat swept over the porch with a roaring ovation of sound and furious heat.
Julia was thrown down on the porch. She threw an arm across her face to cover the face shield. Then she went limp.
“Jules!” Otto hit the fire with a jet from the hose. “Get her, rookie!”
I dived onto the porch. Rolled under the flames. Grabbed Julia under the arms for a carry. She was solid as an engine block, but the backdraft had tossed her like a rag doll.
“Julia!” I carried her to the grass. “Can you hear me?”
“Hell, Boone. I’m not deaf.” She popped her chin strap. “Just knocked the wind out of me. Lucky I landed on my ass.”
“Yeah,” Otto shouted. “It’s got more padding than a LazyBoy!”
“Look who’s talking! Give me a hand up.” Julia got to her feet, holding her back. She pulled her helmet off. Her face was encrusted with black ash.”Hold down the fort, boys. I’ve got to have a cigarette.”
She pulled a pack of Marlboros from her turnouts. A lot of firefighters smoked. Every time I had to define ironic, I thought of firefighters with charred faces lighting up a cancer stick.
But Julia’s smoking wasn’t ironic. It was stupid and tragic. Both of her parents had died of COPD. She had nursed them both in their final days, and it had not helped her kick the habit.
“Hey!” Otto yelled. “Did y’all year that?”
“Hear what?” Julia said.
Then I heard it, too.
A scream from inside the house.
“It’s a woman’s voice!” I shouted. “Somebody’s in there!”
Julia cupped a hand to her ear. “What?”
“Inside! There’s somebody inside the house! I just heard a screamI”
“The house is empty,” Julia dropped the cigarette and reached for her helmet. “Y’all are hearing things.”
“No, I heard it—yes! There it is again! From the back of the house!”
I jumped onto the porch. Peered into the smoke-filled corridor. The way was clear.
“Hold on!" Julia yelled. "Two in, two out!”
Before she could stop me, I bounded inside and dropped my face shield into place.
“Goddamn it, Boone!”
When I got out, Julia was going to kill me. But someone was in danger. No way could I stand around waiting.
The corridor was shrouded in thick smoke. It clung to the ceiling like a thunder head. I crunched over debris, stomping my heavy boots to make sure the footing was solid. I sloshed through standing water. The water could get so hot, it boiled around your boots and steamed your toes inside.
At the first doorway, I entered a small bedroom. The windows in the room were black with smoke. The glass was so dark, no light could reach inside. I clicked my head beam on and began turning in a tight circle. I scanned the area, noting the burned-out box mattress in the corner, an open closet, and a narrow door leading to another room.
The heat rose from the floor. It seeped through my boots. Time to move. The room was still hot, although there was no open fire. The scream had come from this direction, I was sure of it.
There!
I heard it again.
A sound like a baby crying.
Behind the narrow door.
I grabbed the brass knob without thinking. The metal was as hot as a charcoal briquette. The heat seared my insulated gloves.
“Shit all!” I yelled. “That was fucking hot!”
What a stupid move. It was Fire School 101 stuff: Don’t touch anything with your body. Use a tool.
My hooligan was on the truck because I'd run straight into a fire without it. I had violated a dozen policies and procedures by rushing in alone.
Nothing to do about that now.
Just get the victim and get out!
I gave the bathroom door a roundhouse kick. The wood exploded, and the lock fell to the floor. The door swung wide on melted hinges.
“You’re safe!” I yelled.
A blackened toilet sat to the left, and the tub was to the right. It was cast-iron with high sides.
I leaned over and peeked inside, dreading what I might find.
A baby. I expected to find a baby. What kind, I didn’t know, but I definitely didn’t expect to see a large, bristling mass.
“Hiss!”
Hiss?
The quivering black mass stuck out its legs.
Then its claws.
A cat!
A freaked out, pissed off, stand-still-so-I-can-rip-your-face-off cat.
In one twisted, screeching movement, it launched itself at my face. It latched on with its claws. Sinking them into the cowl that covered my neck.
“Get off me!”
Half blinded by the critter stretched across my shield, I stumbled backward and tripped. I landed ass-first on the floor. It was covered in steaming water that turned my pants into a sauna. My crotch heated up faster than a lit bottle rocket.
The cat dug its claws in more deeply. Still screaming, it ripped the fabric gloves with its teeth, tearing out chunks of cloth.
“Boone!” Julia called from the corridor. “What’s your location?”
“Here!” I felt the floor shake with Julia’s weight. “I’m being eaten by a house cat!”
I pulled the claws free from my neck. Then tried to stand. My foot caught on a fallen joist, and I slammed into the doorframe as Julia reached the bedroom.
The ceiling rained down red-hot cinders.
“Come on, rookie!” Julia grabbed my jacket. “What in the hell’s stuck to your face?”
“A cat!”
“That ain’t no cat, you moron!”
“What is it?”
Julia laughed.
As we turned toward the kitchen, the ceiling collapsed behind us. Tons of gypsum board, cotton insulation, and two-by-eight inch rafters landed on the floor. The subfloor collapsed, opening a hole to the basement.
It quickly filled with fresh tinder for the fire.
Flames roared up from the basement.
The house began to shake.
“Move!” Julia half-lifted, half-dragged me out the kitchen to the back porch. “Hit us with the spray!”
Otto turned the hose on us. The spray knocked the heat off our turnouts. Steam filled my helmet.
The faux cat jumped off my head. It dropped to the ground, whipped a long bare tail, and hissed like it was saying, You want a piece of me?
When no one took up its offer, it bounded across the grass to an overgrown azalea bush.
“Looks like you rescued yourself a certified Carolina possum!” Julia pointed at the animal and laughed. “Charcoal colored, to boot.”
“Possum?” I removed my helmet. Sweat hit the scratches the possum had left on my neck. I winced from the sting. “Seriously?”
Otto called over his shoulder. “You about got yourself killed over a possum?”
“Thought it was a house cat,” I said.
“And why?” Lamar came up behind us. “Would you risk your life to rescue a goddamn cat? Why didn’t you just leave it there?”
Lamar was born and raised a farm boy. He had a hierarchical view of an animal’s value in the world. Humans was sacred and worth risking life and limb to save. Animals were good to have around, and you never willingly hurt one. But when it came down to it, no animal was worth the life of a human being.
“It sounded,” I said, “like a baby. How could I tell it was only a possum?”
“That ain’t good enough.” Lamar took my helmet away to examine the scratches. “Did I not tell you this house was abandoned? Did you not hear me?”
“You told me and I heard you,” I said, “but if the house is abandoned, how did all the buildings catch fire simultaneously?”
Lamar looked at the scorched possum, still frozen in fear but hissing a warning. He turned back at the fire, which radiated waves of heat. “That’s for the fire investigators to figure out. Like I told you a hundred times, we don’t ask how the fire started, just how fast we can put it out.”
“Like I told you,” I said, “I’ll never stop asking how.”
“Stick to your guns.” Julia patted my ass. “Even if you’re firing spitballs at a steel tank.”
Lamar handed my helmet back. “Find the first-aid kit in my truck and clean up that scratch. Get back to work ASAP.”
“Yes, Captain.” I headed for Lamar’s truck. I gave the possum a wide berth as it crouched in the shadows and continued to hiss. “Watch it, possum. I’ve got a pair of snips in the truck, and I’m not afraid to use them.”
“Hey, rookie,” Otto called to me. “Hold up.”
I turned to answer as Otto opened the hose full blast. A charged stream blew my helmet off, knocked me on my ass, and rolled me across the grass. Water shot up my nose and into my mouth.
I got up choking and spitting mad.
“Welcome,” Julie yelled as they all laughed, “to the brotherhood, Possum. Next time, don't be last man on site!”
5
A few minutes later, I had a tube of antibacterial ointment in one hand and a bandage strip in the other. I used the side mirror of Lamar’s truck to place the strip on my neck. My brain told my hands to go left, but they followed the mirror image instead, and I put the bandage on crooked.
I tore it off and sucked air between my teeth. “Damn! That stings.”
“Need a hand with that?” A man with a round potbelly in a white wife beater T-shirt appeared in the mirror. “Your hands are going all which way.”
“Hey, Stumpy,” I said. “Yeah, I can’t tell left from right.”
“I got that problem myself,” Stumpy tore open a new strip. “But it usually ain’t from looking into a mirror. This might sting some.”
Tin City Tinder (A Boone Childress Mystery) Page 2
