Call It Magic

by Janet Chapman

  He definitely recognized the name Oceanus but had yet to meet the owners of the two biggest resorts in town. “Are both Oceanuses here? I thought their names are Mac and Olivia?”

  Katy blinked at him, then frowned. “Not Mac—Titus. He’s here with Rana. His wife?” she clarified at his blank look. “Your former boss, who also happens to be—” She stopped and straightened away. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you’ve only been here a few weeks and don’t know everyone yet,” she added with a glance at Jake, who didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t blatantly listening as he chewed his own mouthful of popcorn.

  Gunnar went back to studying the men as he tried to recall anyone named Titus Oceanus ever hiring him. He sighed, guessing it must have been in his former line of work, when he’d seen and done . . . something that had involved a lot of travel.

  Katy surreptitiously pointed at a small group of people twenty yards away across the campfire. “Titus is the tall white-haired gentleman talking to Duncan MacKeage.” Her eyes lit with amusement. “I believe Duncan introduced himself to you before I arrived?”

  He definitely recognized Duncan, only this evening the Scot had a one-year-old boy sitting on his shoulders—with what looked to be its identical twin held by a pretty blonde woman standing beside him—as well as a four- or five-year-old boy tugging on his hand while pointing at a group of children of varying ages sitting at a—

  Gunnar stiffened. Where in hell had the picnic table come from? And when? No, two tables. What he’d thought were people sitting on benches made of planks and stumps when he’d come out earlier were actually picnic tables, each one at least ten feet long and painted bright red. Then he noticed all the lights strung overhead in the trees, casting a soft glow over the small patch of woods now that the sun had dropped behind the mountain.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he stood and slowly turned in a circle. “They’ve turned this place into a rec center.” There were even two rope swings hanging from a pine branch up toward the parking lot, and nearly a dozen blazing torches stuck in the ground all over the lawn. Gunnar kept turning, then stilled when he saw a . . .

  No, there was no way they could have moved in a concession stand—Spellbound Falls Grange painted on its side in big bold letters—without him knowing about it. But people lined the sidewalk in front of— Christ, a little old lady just leaned out the window, took the money out of some guy’s hand, and replaced it with two hotdogs and a longneck bottle of beer. “How in hell did they get that trailer wedged in between those trees?” He looked over when Jake started laughing. “It’s not funny, Sheppard. Instead of stuffing your face, you should be arresting them for selling booze on town property. The council wouldn’t give them the station, so they took over our freaking yard.”

  “That’s what the Grange ladies do,” Jake said through his laughter. “If they can’t get something they want through normal channels, they just wait until no one is looking and take it. How do you think the town got the recreational trail? When the train stopped running years ago, the women simply claimed the railbed as town property, tore up the tracks from ten miles north of here all the way down to Turtleback, and built the park at the base of the waterfall.”

  “And nobody ever tries to stop them?”

  Jake snorted. “Five of the seven councilmen are married to Grange ladies.”

  Which explained why Duncan MacKeage had been the one to shoot down their attempt to get the fire station at the meeting. Gunnar gestured at the quarter-acre of woods that now had at least fifty people scattered around it. “They can go set up shop in the park they already have, because unlike the railroad bed, the fire station is still in operation.”

  “The way I heard it,” Jake drawled, his amusement growing in direct proportion to Gunnar’s obvious indignation, “they didn’t want to spoil the aesthetics of their park.”

  “But they don’t mind cluttering up a multimillion-dollar working facility?” Gunnar grabbed Katy’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “I want you to introduce me to Titus,” he said as he led her around the fire pit. He snagged Welles on his way by, cutting off whatever the boy was saying to someone. “Come on, Ingersoll-Hoffenmyer, you have an apology to give.”

  “Wolfe.”

  Gunnar stopped and turned to see Jake standing and holding a hand to his ear, only to flinch when the station alarm suddenly blasted from the speaker just inside the middle bay door. Everyone froze, their startled cries drowned out by the long series of tones that followed. Jake was the only one moving, listening to dispatch on his earpiece as he cut through the trees toward town and immediately broke into a run when he reached the sidewalk.

  “Attention Spellbound Falls Fire & Rescue. You’re asked to respond to 355 Sunrise Point for unknown number of patients in and out of consciousness, possibly drug related, with at least two people unresponsive at this time. Law enforcement already en route. Acknowledge Spellbound Falls Fire & Rescue; 355 Sunrise Point, unknown number of patients, at least two unresponsive. Law enforcement en route. Piscataquis out, nineteen-forty-nine.”

  The ensuing silence was shattered by Captain Russo barking orders over the sudden wail of a police siren coming from the center of town. “Everyone rolls!” he shouted as he ran toward the station, the other three firefighters, Katy, Welles, and Gunnar following. “Mason on Engine One; Higgins and Conroy in Bus One; Bean and MacBain in Two,” he continued as Gretchen ran forward from the rear of the station. “Welles, you’re riding with me.”

  Russo stopped in the center bay doorway facing in. “Hey!” he snapped, making everyone freeze beside their respective trucks and look at him. “Nobody leaves their vehicle until I give the okay,” he ordered, even as he stared directly at Gretchen. “Got that, Conroy?”

  “Sure do, Captain.”

  Russo then turned to face out. “Clear the driveway!” he shouted, even as Gunnar saw several firefighters from other shifts already herding people onto the grass. “Grindle, put out that—” Russo stopped when a second siren suddenly sounded nearby.

  Gunnar looked through the trees to see Niall MacKeage’s black pickup with flashing blue lights pull out of the camp road on the other side of the church and head toward town.

  “Grindle, put out that fire before you leave!” Russo repeated to one of the off-duty firefighters. He then looked over and flashed Gunnar a grin. “You’re welcome to tag along, Chief,” he said before turning and running to the captain’s pickup parked in the end bay.

  Deciding he didn’t need to add another vehicle to the parade, Gunnar ran to Engine One and climbed in the front passenger seat, not about to miss a chance to ride in a speeding, light-flashing, siren-blaring fire truck.

  “Buckle up,” Skip Mason said with a laugh as he hit the lights and siren and rolled out of the station to fall in behind the captain’s pickup.

  Gunnar glanced over at the still stunned crowd, seeing some of them cover their wide-eyed children’s ears when Mason sounded the air horn as he pulled onto the main road toward town. Yup, nothing like making every cell in their bodies scream to let the townspeople know exactly where their hard-earned tax dollars were going. Hell, if he didn’t know better, he might think their new citizen liaison had called in a false alarm merely for effect.

  * * *

  * * *

  “I just realized this is MacBain’s first official run,” Skip said loudly over the blaring siren as he tailgated Russo, apparently trying to push the captain down the road faster.

  “Yup,” Gunnar grunted more than said, rather occupied pressing both feet down on the imaginary brake on the floorboard. He shot Mason a tight grin. “Assuming Conroy doesn’t run around touching all the patients and calling dibs.”

  Mason grunted back.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Gunnar grabbed the door handle as they took a sharp curve at—hell, he was pretty sure the gauge with the needle pointing slightly past
fifty was the speedometer.

  “That’s Russo’s job,” Skip said as he gestured out the windshield. “My job is to follow that pickup straight into hell, then do whatever the captain tells me to do once we get there.” He snorted. “There’s not a piece of equipment I can’t run or a fire I can’t read, but I’ve never made captain because apparently nobody wants to follow a guy into hell who gets lost driving to an apartment he’s lived in for three years.” He flashed Gunnar a grin. “I blame getting dropped on my head as a kid for screwing up my sense of direction.”

  “Back off my ass, Mason,” Russo snapped over the radio. “Okay, boys and girls, we’re turning left in half a mile onto a camp road. Our scene is a quarter mile in on our right. It appears this might be quite a party, so if things turn ugly, you get the hell out of the way and let the guys with the guns be the heroes. Cut the sirens when we turn,” he added as they rounded a curve to be greeted by flashing blue lights in the opposite lane. A deputy sheriff stood beside his cruiser, holding back oncoming traffic while directing SFF&R to make the turn.

  Gunnar reached over and flipped off the siren, then braced himself again when the large engine swung onto the dirt road. He still bumped his head on the side window when the truck violently rocked back and forth over a series of large, shallow potholes. Mason added his own curse to Gunnar’s at the sound of tree branches scraping along both sides and the top of the truck, only to slam on the brakes with another curse when they heard a loud thump half a second before an overhead branch snapped with the force of a gunshot.

  “This is logging country, for chrissakes,” Mason snarled. “Doesn’t anyone on this road own a freaking chainsaw?” He reached for the radio mike at the same time he glanced at his side mirror. “Higgins, you stop and pick up whatever that goddamn tree knocked off my engine.”

  “Don’t have to,” Paul Higgins returned with a chuckle. “I’m pretty sure my roof strobes caught it. Looked like one of your rear floodlights.”

  Mason let go of a heavy sigh and reached forward and patted the dash. “There, there, Lucinda, don’t you fret none. Skippy will make you all pretty again before he turns in tonight.”

  Gunnar looked out his side window to hide his grin, noting the low-hanging sun filtering through the trees now that they were out of the shadow of the mountains but quickly sobered when Mason bought the engine to a full stop.

  “You’ll fit,” Russo said over the radio, causing Gunnar to look beyond the pickup to see half a dozen vehicles parked on either side of the road at staggered intervals, leaving a crooked, even narrower path to the flashing blue lights a hundred yards ahead. Hell, a couple of people had plowed down small bushes and driven straight into the woods to park.

  “If we’d brought the rescue truck instead,” Mason said as he expertly threaded the engine through the obstacle course, his eyes constantly darting from one outside mirror to the other, “we could have plowed some of them out of our way. For chrissakes, what moron drives a Mercedes into the bushes?” He stopped his darting long enough to shoot Gunnar a grin. “They must be handing out some really good shit at the party.”

  “Most of the license plates are from out of state.”

  Mason snorted. “About the only Maine plates I’ve seen on any vehicle costing over twenty grand belong to that fancy resort on top of Whisper Mountain. The locals don’t like spending money on anything potholes and road salt are just going to eat. The day after I moved here from Dallas, there was a two-foot snowstorm in freaking April. Where’d you say you’re fro—”

  “Slide the engine in that open driveway this side of MacKeage’s truck,” Russo said over the radio. “You buses can have the road but pull beyond our party driveway.” The mike keyed off then back on again. “Remember, unless we see flames coming out of windows or kittens stuck in trees, this is law enforcement’s rodeo. And wait on my go.”

  Gunnar unfastened his seat belt when Ike pulled in across from the two police pickups parked on either side of what he assumed was the party driveway—leaving it clear. Mason pulled Engine One into the driveway on the left, then undid his own seat belt and jumped out. Gunnar scrambled out his door and ran to the back of the engine to find the firefighter already standing on the bumper checking out the tree branch damage.

  “That’s going to leave a permanent mark,” he muttered, jumping down. He grabbed the backpack he’d set on the bumper—which Gunnar recognized was one of the triage kits all the trucks carried—then walked to the end of the driveway.

  “Sure is quiet for a party,” Skip said when Gunnar walked up beside him, both of them looking toward the flashing blue lights and red strobes of their ambulances. Russo was speaking with Niall MacKeage in the driveway as Katy and Gretchen stood beside the rear ambulance with jump bags slung over their shoulders. Both women appeared ready to bolt the moment the captain said go, along with Bean and Higgins, who stood beside them.

  Mason glanced over at Gunnar. “You got any medic training or at least up to speed on administering Narcan? ’Cause I’m thinking everyone’s passed out.” He squinted through the trees at Bottomless and chuckled. “Or they heard the sirens and are swimming for it.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can jab a needle into someone,” Gunnar said, returning his grin, “as long as they aren’t moving.”

  “So long as you’re moving after. I’ve had some guys wake up throwing punches.” Mason shook his head. “It apparently pisses them off when you bring them back from the brink of death.”

  “We’re good to go, people!” Russo called out as he walked back to the road, freeing Gunnar and Mason to jog over to him. “Conroy. MacBain. You’ve got an unresponsive man and woman on the far side of the camp. A deputy is giving CPR to the man beside the shed, and the woman is down on the beach!” he hollered to their backs as they hurried down the driveway.

  Ike sighed and turned to his firefighters. “We’ve got Chief MacKeage on scene, along with Jake Sheppard and an off-duty cop from Turtleback in plain clothes, and two county deputy sheriffs—one here and the other one out at the main road. Niall said there appears to be a wide variety of drugs; anything from alcohol and good old-fashioned weed to heroin likely cut with fentanyl—which would explain the two possible overdoses. He also said there were maybe fifty partiers here twenty minutes ago, but most of them left either by boat or on foot through the woods when they heard someone had called 911. So our job is to search the grounds and interior of the camp as well as the neighboring yards and any outbuildings for anyone else that may be passed out. If you come across anyone merely high on weed, tell them there’s a blond guy wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt on the porch handing out cookies. If you find anyone drifting in and out of consciousness or acting confused, escort them to the porch and leave them with Spider-Man. He’s Cole Wyatt, the off-duty cop. He’ll keep everyone corralled until Conroy or MacBain can check them out.”

  Gunnar clenched his jaw. He’d managed to go for weeks without seeing that son of a bitch Wyatt, but now wasn’t the time to chew on old grudges.

  Ike squinted at the darkening woods. “Higgins, grab some flashlights out of the engine because I think we’re going to be here awhile.” He looked at Mason. “You’re not licensed in Maine yet to do more then put a Band-Aid on anyone, so take that jump bag to Conroy or MacBain. They may need an extra Narcan kit. Okay,” Ike added with a grin, rubbing his hands together, “let’s go hunt us down some stupid people. And whoever finds the most gets a prize.” He slid that grin to Gunnar. “Anything you want to add, Chief?”

  “How does eight hours of comp time sound for a prize?”

  “Works for me,” Skip Mason said, grabbing a flashlight from Higgins and heading down the driveway, followed by Bean. Higgins handed out the other flashlights, then jogged after them.

  “Whoa,” Russo said, grabbing Welles when he started following. “You’re with me.”

  “Aw, come on, Captain.”

 
“Rule number one,” Ike said, slapping a hand on Welles’ shoulder and guiding the kid down the driveway, “never question a captain’s orders on scene. Ever. You got a gripe, you take it up with him after.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gunnar clicked on his flashlight and swept the powerful beam back and forth through the woods as he ambled along the driveway, reminding himself not to go anywhere near the porch. It wasn’t that he expected he could put off seeing Wyatt indefinitely. He simply preferred not to have any witnesses to their . . . happy reunion.

  Keeping an eye out for both vertical and horizontal partiers, he went on to wonder if he could mark this down on Gilmore’s stats sheet as multiple runs, since they had multiple patients, or did he have to list it as a single call? Because he was pretty sure the more runs he could show, the easier it would be to justify their worth to the good citizens of Spellbound Falls. Not that it was any of his business, since he didn’t intend on being around for next year’s budget meeting.

  That brought him to an abrupt halt.

  So where exactly did he intend to be a year from now? Or even three months from now? In another dark alley or stinking jungle chasing power-hungry assholes? Or maybe trying not to die from a gunshot wound in some third-world hospital that never even heard of antibiotics? Honestly, none of that sounded appealing anymore. And he knew he couldn’t count on another Markov Lakeland coming along and pulling him out of the ocean the next time he got run over by an aircraft carrier while fleeing for his life.

  He sighed and resumed looking for partiers. Some Renaissance man. Even Sheppard and Wyatt had enough intelligence to get out of the game before someone permanently took them out.

  Gunnar really couldn’t see himself being a cop, though. Hell, he’d probably spent more on jet fuel just getting here than they now earned in a year. Not that he was worried the bastards were living paycheck to paycheck, figuring they hadn’t kept exact records of all the contraband they’d handled. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn Jake had paid for that well-equipped home right on Bottomless with solid gold ingots.