Hazardous Duty

by Christy Barritt

  The dress slipped out of my hands.

  “At least they have your murderer behind bars,” I mumbled stepping back.

  My fingers closed over the door handle, and I started to push it shut. A spot of red on the carpet made me falter. I squinted, staring at the stain. How did that get in the closet? There wasn’t blood anywhere else on this side of the room.

  I slipped my gloves back on and pushed a couple of shoeboxes to the side. Mindful of carpet tacks, I tugged at the berber shag. It came up with surprising ease.

  I dragged the piece of carpet into the middle of the bedroom and went back to pull up the padding. I checked the sub-flooring, to see if the stain had soaked through. It looked okay.

  Just as I was about to stand, an abnormality in the wood caught my eye. In the back corner of the closet, the sub-floor was different from the rest. A small square had been cut out and replaced.

  Could it just have been a leaky pipe replacement?

  I moved toward the spot.

  My breath caught.

  A speck of blood stained the wood.

  There hadn’t been any on the carpet in that same area. I was sure of it.

  Taking a knife from the belt at my waist, I pried under the wood. The board lifted.

  With shaky hands, I pulled it back. Tucked between the floorboards, I saw a metal box.

  I pulled out the container as if it were a priceless, fragile piece of art. Its contents clanged in the previous silence.

  It was heavy. Too heavy for jewelry and trinkets.

  Leaning down until my face was even with it, I clicked the latch open. With a squeak, the box opened.

  Chapter Two

  A gun.

  My heart rate quickened. The murder weapon had never been found. Could this be it?

  But why would the intruder stow his gun inside the Cunningham’s closet? In fact, how would he do it if he shot at the husband while climbing out the window? It didn’t make sense.

  Unless the intruder didn’t shoot the wife.

  Unless there wasn’t an intruder at all.

  A minute ago I’d been sweating inside my haz-mat suit. Now I shivered. The room temperature felt like it had dropped to sub-zero.

  Buying a gun to kill your wife: $3000.00.

  Hiring Trauma Care to clean afterward: $1500.00.

  Having that same cleaner uncover evidence that frames you: priceless.

  I latched the box and stripped out of my suit. The sweatshirt and jeans I wore underneath were much more comfortable. I would worry about the rest of this job tomorrow morning. Right now, I had to get to the police station.

  I placed the box into a bag normally used for waste material. At the last minute, I grabbed the board with the blood on it. It needed to be tested, to see if the blood was the wife’s. I slid it into the bag and started toward the door.

  The sound of glass shattering stopped me cold.

  What if it was the killer, coming back for the gun? My heart thudded, vibrating my entire body.

  The suspect’s behind bars.

  But what if it’s the wrong suspect?

  Standing in the brightly lit room, I felt naked with nowhere to go.

  My stomach tightened.

  Without carpet on the stairs, surely I would hear someone coming up.

  Wouldn’t I?

  There was no sound. No more glass breaking, no footsteps.

  I sniffed.

  What was that smell? Was someone burning leaves outside? Maybe the smell had drifted in through a now broken window.

  You have to get out of the house.

  My astuteness never failed to astound me. I didn’t get straight A’s in high school for nothing.

  My grip tightened around the bag.

  Desperate to be concealed, I flicked off the light switch. The utter darkness paralyzed me. I decided I’d rather see trouble coming and fumbled with the switch until the white bulb flared.

  Moving quickly, I darted across the room and found a flashlight in my toolbox. I sprinted back to the door, evidence still in hand.

  Sweat beaded on my forehead. At least I was getting warmer. My cold chill had dissipated.

  After turning on my flashlight, I flicked off the lights again. A white beam cut through the darkness, calming my racing heart.

  I didn’t want to go downstairs.

  Gutless. You want to solve crimes and you’re scared of your own shadow. It’s probably nothing. A kid who hit his baseball through the window. Besides, it’s been at least ten minutes since it happened and you haven’t heard a thing since then.

  I hunted around until I found my backbone then stepped from the room. My gaze swept the hallway along with the beam of the flashlight.

  Nothing.

  C’mon, go, move. Don’t just stand here.

  At least ten doorways stood between the stairway and me in the expansive hallway. Any of them could be a potential hideout for an intruder. Why did the Cunningham’s bedroom have to be at the back of the house, so far away from the front door?

  I smelled something that reminded me of a gas station. Could it be . . . ?

  A light danced in the recess of the stairway. Or was it my own shadow?

  The flashlight trembled in my hands, but I forced myself to keep going. My eyes darted from doorway to doorway. I waited for one to jerk open and a masked intruder to attack me.

  An orange finger beckoned from the stairs.

  My throat went dry.

  No wonder I wasn’t cold anymore.

  The house was on fire.

  The flashlight dropped from my hands and bounced against the carpet. It teetered with a final thud and flickered out. Eerie, smoldering darkness swallowed me. I had to get out of this house like the Van Trapps had to get out of Austria.

  Flames blocked the stairway in front of me. A house this size had to have two stairways. It was just a matter of finding the other one before the fire found me.

  Clutching the bag, I raced down the hall.

  I darted up two steps at the end of the hallway and pushed open the door. This should be the room over the garage. I dodged a pool table and scrambled across the carpet toward a door on the other side. I stumbled into it, fumbling with the knob. Finally, I pulled the door open.

  Stairs.

  Taking them by twos, I practically flew to the first floor. My hand covered the door handle. Searing pain caused me to jerk back.

  My hand blistered.

  I dropped the bag containing a gun I might potentially die for. Ignoring the blistering ache of my left hand, I pulled the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my right hand and twisted.

  The door swung open and roaring orange and yellow flared in my face. I staggered backward, tripping over the stairs as white hot smoke seared my lungs. I fell, my chest heaving.

  The fire greedily reached for me, consuming anything in its path.

  In the distance, a siren squealed, a mellow, whining cry that underscored the crackling roar of the blaze. Fire trucks. But would they be too late?

  For the first time in years, I wished I believed in prayer. But I knew better. I only had myself to rely on.

  I spotted another door on my left. I grabbed my evidence and, on my elbows and knees, crawled to my escape hatch and opened it.

  The garage. Flames danced around the walls, but a pathway straight in front of me was clear.

  Taunting, greedy voices mocked from the raging flames behind me.

  “No!” I slammed the door shut. But the wooden block wouldn’t hold the flames back for long. I had to keep moving.

  I stumbled to my feet and, clinging to the bag, staggered into the garage toward the outside door. Smoke crept inside and blinded me. I coughed, trying to get a deep breath.

  My knees buckled.

  I dropped to the ground, coughing.

  Only a few more steps.

  I pulled my sweatshirt over my mouth and nose. On my hands and knees, I dragged myself over the rough cement floor. I lurched forward, inch by inch. Glowing as
h sizzled in the reddish glow of the fire as it devoured the wall beside me.

  I glanced over my shoulder to ensure the bag remained intact. My eyes burned from the gritty air. The plastic started to melt. The metal box poked through. I swung it around and hugged it to my chest.

  Two more steps, Gabby.

  The house crackled around me, groaning with the fire. The devilish, ravenous flames were winning.

  My head started to spin. I couldn’t breathe. The flames around me began to blur.

  Chapter Three

  No, you can make it, Gabby. Keep going.

  My hand connected with a wall. Clinging to the box as if it was a lifeline, I reached upward and felt a doorknob. Using my last ounce of strength, I twisted it, feeling the burned flesh on my palm rip. I tumbled outside and sprawled face first on the sidewalk along the side of the house. I gulped in the fresh air.

  Keep moving, Gabby. The fire’s licking your heels.

  I pulled myself off the ground and stumbled onto the lawn. The whole house howled with demonic fury that I’d gotten away.

  Fire trucks. Help. I reeled toward the sound.

  “Someone’s coming out of the house,” a voice yelled in the distance. Hands grasped my arms, holding me up. “Is there anyone else inside?”

  I coughed, the words smoldering in my throat. Finally, I shook my head.

  “It was just you?”

  I nodded.

  Paramedics rushed toward me and strapped an oxygen mask over my face. I was lowered onto a stretcher, still hugging my bag, and whisked to a waiting ambulance.

  ***

  An hour later, my hand was bandaged and my breathing had returned to normal. The EMTs had wanted to take me to the hospital, but I insisted I’d be fine. I climbed out of the ambulance and stared at the scene.

  Firefighters, paramedics, and neighbors mingled in the front yard. Ash, gritty and sulfurous, rained down like blackened snow. It filled my senses until I could taste it. The flames were now out, but orange still glowed in the remains.

  A shudder rippled through my body. Someone had set the house on fire with me inside.

  I’d been in some tough scrapes before. Like in seventh grade, when I was young and naïve, and I got my science experiments mixed up at a slumber party. I somehow convinced the girls to brush their teeth with baking soda and to rinse with vinegar. I later heard that was the solution used to unclog toilets. Needless to say, half of them went to the emergency room when the concoction started sizzling and exploding like a volcano inside their mouth. At least their teeth were sparkly white as they told the doctors what happened.

  Okay, so maybe that didn’t compare to this situation. I’d almost been grilled like a hot dog at a cookout. None of my past experiences even began to touch the fact that I’d almost died in the line of duty.

  “Are you the woman who came out of the house?” someone asked behind me.

  I turned and sucked in a deep breath. When had Brad Pitt moved to Virginia Beach? I swallowed. “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Detective Parker. We heard someone was inside the residence and since this is a former crime scene, we need to question you.” His dark eyes looked me over, as if sizing me up. “What were you doing in the residence?”

  I straightened my shoulders. “I’m a crime-scene cleaner.”

  He nodded and lowered his head, but I saw the slight twitch of his eyebrows. He clicked his pen against his pad of paper. “Working late?”

  I shrugged. “I like to get the job done right and quickly.”

  “You always work alone?”

  “No, my assistant left about an hour earlier.”

  “I’ll need his name.”

  I gave it to him.

  The detective’s eyes traveled to the bag in my hands. “Souvenirs?”

  “Evidence.” My gaze locked with his.

  Parker put a hand on his hip and cocked an eyebrow up in disbelief. “We searched every corner of that house.”

  “You sure about that?” I dangled the bag.

  His eyes narrowed and he took my arm, leading me toward a sedan parked haphazardly on the side of the road. “Let’s talk in my car. Reporters are already starting to swarm.”

  I climbed in the passenger’s side, the smell of smoke assaulting me. It was a different vapor from the scent outside, but equally as grimy and thick. Cigarettes.

  Parker plopped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out some gloves and snapped them on. “Let me see what you found.”

  I opened the bag, careful not to touch my buried treasure. “This board on top has a speck of blood on it. But, there wasn’t any blood on the carpet above it.”

  He dipped his head in a side nod. “It could be old.”

  “It could be new.”

  His gaze met mine. “I can’t argue with that. How do you know so much about this?”

  “I went to college. Just because I spend my life cleaning doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.” I reserved the part about dropping out only one semester away from graduating, and turning to this job because it made me feel like the forensic specialist I had studied to be.

  His jaw twitched. “Of course.”

  He took the board and studied the bloodstain. “I’ll have it tested to see who it belongs to, though I don’t know how much it will tell us about the case.”

  “That’s not the best part,” I said. Only touching the metal box with the plastic, I held it up.

  The detective raised a brow. “What’s this?”

  “This is what was under the bloodstained wood in the corner of the closet. There’s a gun inside.”

  “A gun?”

  “Maybe the murder weapon.”

  He shook his head. “That wouldn’t make sense.”

  “Have you found the murder weapon yet?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I have.”

  He sighed. “Look, Nancy Drew. This isn’t your case. There’s nothing wrong with a couple hiding a gun in their closet. It sounds like a safe thing to me.”

  “First of all, I’m not Nancy Drew. I’m Gabby St. Claire, crime-scene cleaner. Second, I believe I’ve stumbled on some evidence you missed, detective. Even if it is the family gun, your search should have turned it up, which makes me wonder what else your crime scene unit missed. And blood splattered near a gun is always suspicious.”

  He studied me a moment before nodding. A grin spread across his face, and I relaxed my shoulders.

  “Well, Gabby St. Claire, you’ve established that you are indeed a professional.” He held out his hand, some of his earlier formalities gone. “Why don’t you call me Chip?”

  After contemplating a moment, I awkwardly took it with my unbandaged hand and pumped up and down. Gracefully, of course.

  As I pulled away, I dared to ask my next question. “What kind of gun was the murder weapon?”

  He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “You are not an official part of this investigation.”

  “Oh, come on. I’ll find out eventually.”

  When he opened the metal box, I had my answer.

  He glanced up at me, his gaze containing a shadow of hidden emotion. “You’re going to have to tell me exactly where you found this.” He pulled a note pad out of the breast pocket of his dark suit.

  I recounted what had happened, all the way up until I escaped from the burning house. He nodded and grunted, jotting quick notes.

  “You have any enemies?”

  I tilted my head, wondering where he was going with the question. “Why?”

  “Someone tried to kill you tonight, Gabby.”

  I shook my head. “No, someone tried to burn down a crime scene.”

  The detective clicked his pen and sighed. “Anyone you can think of who might want to hurt you?”

  “No. My being there was an accident. Whoever did this didn’t know I was inside.”

  “You’re going to be around in case we have more questions, right?” the detective more
stated than asked.

  “Of course.”

  He looked me over. “You’re free to go. I’ll be in touch.”

  I nodded, reluctant, for some reason, to leave the evidence I found. For a moment, I’d felt like part of the investigation, like I was on the case. Like I was really someone instead of just a house cleaner.

  I climbed out of the car and ambled across the street, my eyes focused on the scene around me. The flashing lights. The smoldering flames. Men in uniform milling around, mumbling theories to each other. Reporters trailed by TV cameras, trying to get the inside scoop. The smell of smoke, thick and choking.

  That house could have been my grave.

  Just a couple hours earlier, things had seemed so normal. I was just doing my job. Now, I was thankful to be alive.

  I circled to the back of the house, toward my white business van. I tried to park it out of sight to give people privacy. Most people didn’t want to remind others of what had gone on in their home. Besides, it paid to be discrete.

  I halted as my five month-old van came into sight. It stood on four melted tires and the front windshield was shattered. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Everything okay?” A fireman came from behind, and looked between me and the wrecked vehicle. As soon as I saw the man, I wanted to duck. I would never forget that face. He looked like someone had grabbed his nose, pulled it and the rest of his face had molded like play dough with the action. His teeth were perfectly straight . . . and yellow, just like a cob of corn. Yep, this was the same firefighter who had visited my high school that dreadful day after my experiment caught it on fire.

  “No, everything’s not okay.” I pointed toward the remains of my only wheels. “That’s mine.”

  “We figured as much. It’s not in any condition to be driven.”

  I made sure I was looking away when I rolled my eyes. I pulled my arms over my chest. The edges of my sweatshirt were singed. White ash coated me. I probably looked like death.

  What did it matter? At least I was alive.

  Then I realized that all of my equipment was gone. I would have to start over.

  I would deal with that later. Now I had to find a way home. The detective seemed like a good person to ask. As I went back toward his car, I saw he was still inside. He didn’t see me approaching, as he chatted on his cell phone, holding the metal box in his hands.