Embers

by Carina Alyce

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” Poor ‘Jonathan’ picked his jaw off the floor and hurried to ring up Hank. The poor kid would have let her rename him whatever she wanted.

  Hank took the clothes and hit the bathroom. He bundled his flannel and jeans in a bag. They were salvageable with a solid washing. He’d seen a lot worse. His boxers were still dry, same as his socks. Good thing too because it was too intimate for a stranger to buy him those.

  Jonathan was happily eating out of Abby’s hand when Hank came back out. The sudden temptation to place his hand on Abby’s back caught him by surprise. They’d met four hours ago, and she’d been more than clear that she was not interested.

  Neither was he, but the instinct was there all the same.

  “Bye, Gio!” Abby waved. “Keep working on those Italian classes. I can’t wait to see your application.”

  If the guidance counselor in high school had an ounce of Abby’s charisma, Hank would have enrolled in college and stayed for a PhD.

  Abby unloaded her cart into the backseat. She’d bought twenty beef jerky strips and more potato chips than were needed for a Super Bowl party. Fast metabolism was the way for some people.

  One of her purchases was a case of water. He picked it up and started to set it on the back seat.

  “Stop!” she yelled. He froze, and she pulled a black bag off the seat. It had almost blended into the upholstery. She clutched the bag tightly and made a visible effort to calm down. “Thank you.”

  He watched her carefully place the bag on top of the water and didn’t ask any questions. They got back in the car, and Abby took them back onto the freeway.

  When she got back on, she gunned it to eighty. True to her prediction, not one cop car tried to pull her over.

  “How far are we from Cleveland?” she asked.

  “I’d guess forty-five minutes, but you might get there faster.”

  She was tenser now, despite having found ten minutes to convince Jonathan/Gio to pursue higher education with minimal effort. By his guess, there was a problem with a family member. Hank didn’t personally have any family to speak of that counted, but he’d seen this enough in his own crew. A few of his guys got distracted after arguments with their wives, but others got more driven. She’d said there wasn’t a husband, and her tension didn’t give off a ‘boyfriend’ problem vibe.

  “Your job as admissions counselor… I’m guessing you do more than push paper.”

  “’Counselor’ is more of an honorific. I’m pretty much a coach.”

  “There are admission coaches?”

  “I coach people on how to get into college. Look at Gio there. I doubt he wants to be working at Kmart when he’s thirty-five.”

  “Wasn’t his name Jonathan?”

  'Gio' means Jon in Italian. He told me about his dream of seeing the Coliseum."

  “Isn’t that in Rome?” Hank asked. As a lapsed Catholic, he had a vague memory of his grandma praying, getting him baptized, and lighting candles for his future.

  “Pretty much. Rome is in Italy. It’s the capital. You’re thinking about the Vatican, which is also inside Rome, but is its own country,” Abby said, likely having learned all sorts of college admission essay tidbits.

  “And Rome will convince him to go to college?”

  “If you’re talking with me, you want to go to college already. The problem is getting in,” she said.

  “And you are gentle with their college dreams?” He doubted it.

  “Nah. By the time you fail at getting into a public university like University of Wisconsin, you’re desperate enough to do whatever I ask.”

  That was rather cynical of her, which he guessed was the worry getting to her. Cynical wasn’t her watchword—irrelevant and humorous was more her.

  “How do you coach them?”

  She didn’t answer directly. “Animal, mineral, or vegetable?”

  “Come again?”

  “Animal, mineral, or vegetable. We’re playing Twenty Questions.”

  That was an abrupt shift. He tried to come up with something and scanned the car. “Okay. Mineral.”

  “Two. Does it appear on the periodic table of elements by name?”

  Hank thought for a second. “Does not.”

  “Three. Solid, liquid, or gas?”

  “Solid.”

  “Four. Is it a biological obscure protein or something like that?”

  “No.” Hank didn’t play Twenty Questions much, but that was a detailed question.

  “Five. Is it something I would see regularly? Not a specialized construction material?”

  “You would use it every day.”

  “Six. Is it primarily decorative?”

  “No.”

  “Seven. Can it kill Superman?”

  “No.” He thought about the earlier questions. “Isn’t kryptonite on the periodic table?”

  “No. Kypryton is on the periodic table. It’s a noble gas. Kryptonite is imaginary and a pretty common attempt to cheat, which smart-aleck kids try all the time. Eight. Is it pencil lead?”

  That was a surprise. “Yes. Graphite. How did you know?”

  “You looked at my right hand.” She held up her hand, displaying the evidence of a desk job. “People have a tendency to name things in the room with them when they aren’t picking ‘unicorn.’”

  “People pick ‘unicorn’?”

  “Yes. If you picked 'animal,' my first question would have been if it were imaginary or not. Girls almost always pick unicorns. Boys, for some reason, pick woolly mammoths or saber-tooth tigers.”

  “Those are real.”

  “Because saber-tooth tigers are everywhere. The next question would be if the animal is extinct.”

  “What do you usually pick?”

  “I have ten old favorites I rotate around. It's better than my brother who always picked a tribble.”

  “What is a tribble?” Hank asked, noting she’d shared a piece of actual personal information.

  “It's this furry circle thing from Star Trek. I think it giggles and reproduces quickly.”

  “I can’t say I watch Star Trek, though isn’t there a new one coming on?”

  “No idea. It’s more his thing than mine.”

  “So you have a brother. Older or younger?”

  “Younger,” she said.

  “How much younger?” Hank wasn’t sure how far to press this.

  “Fifteen years. I practically raised him. We’d play Twenty Questions while I got him ready for bed, and he loved picking tribbles. You have any brothers or sisters?”

  “God, I hope not. I'm surprised my parents touched each other long enough to make me.”

  “Child of divorce?”

  “They didn't get married. Probably better that way because they’d have fought over the ownership of their pile of nothing.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Why? I’m thirty years old. Can’t be a man if you spend all your time whining about your parents not being there for you. Nobody wants to date a guy who’s still working out his mommy and daddy issues.”

  “How very Freudian of you. It’s every girl's dream—single with daddy and mommy issues.”

  “I'm single, but that's not why,” Hank said. They’d broken up because of a monogamy deficiency on her part.

  “Killed your last girlfriend with your hook hand?” Abby teased.

  “How many times did you watch Urban Legend?”

  “A lot. Someone had to keep N— my brother from sucking face with his new girlfriend on the couch.”

  “Wait, how old is your brother? He sounded ten.”

  “Nineteen,” Abby answered and inched her speed up another five miles per hour.

  “You’re thirty-four?”

  “Yep, you’re a young’un compared to me.”

  “You’re not gonna go all soap opera and tell me he’s your son that your mom passed off as hers?” Hank teased her back, since humor seemed to be one of her favorite methods of interacting.

  �
�I wish. You think I’d have bigger boobs if that happened. Nope, he was a big surprise, Mom was forty-nine back then.”

  “Forty-nine?”

  “Yeah, and Dad’s even older by fifteen years,” Abby said.

  Quick math told Hank that her mom was about seventy by now and her dad in his eighties. This implied whatever the Cleveland issue was, it was related to her brother.

  “Must have been a lot, baby boy like that.”

  “He was the skinniest, quietest, geekiest kid you ever saw. Nose in a book or glued to a Star Wars poster at all times. When he wasn’t at the chess club, he was building models with his nerdy friends."

  "Sounds like a smart kid."

  "The smartest. Crazy smart. He took college classes on and off for the last two years of high school at U of W and graduated valedictorian with a full year and a half of college done."

  "Very smart." Hank agreed. He'd scraped by with his work-study high school program in construction to have an income after graduation. Abby's brother must have been in college on a free ride if she was telling the truth.

  "Major nerd all the way. I wasn't sure he was ever going to get a date. Hormones did kick in on his poor, skinny, geeky self."

  "I see. What's he doing now?" Hank asked.

  "Working," she said as a non-answer.

  Interesting. Past brother was normal conversation, current brother led to clamming up. He must have dropped out of college.

  Or was in jail.

  They entered the outskirts of Cleveland, and Abby said, "I can drop you off at a bus station. Should be one by the city center."

  Hank believed women were able to make their own choices and decisions, but if Abby's brother was in trouble, it would never hurt to have someone in her corner. Hank bet Abby hadn't bailed many people out of jail. The high school version of her brother wasn't exactly the type.

  "Nah, I can wait. Make sure you see your brother first."

  "Suit yourself," Abby said evenly, not even questioning his assumption that they were going to see her brother.

  They got off I-80 and started driving through Cleveland. Hank had never been in Cleveland before, but he was surprised at how narrow the streets were. They passed the Cleveland Browns Stadium, Jacob's Field, and Gund Arena.

  As sports were a regular topic on a construction crew, Hank was more than familiar with the Cleveland Brown's situation. They'd been reactivated a few years back after their team moved to Baltimore. They were supposed to play Hank's team, the Lions, this week, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. Two days ago, it had been a big deal. Today, not so much.

  Abby headed south. Despite it being around five in the afternoon, there was less traffic than expected for the hour.

  "Is he in the hospital?" Hank asked, seeing signs pointing in opposite directions for the Cleveland Clinic and University hospitals. Her path followed signs due south toward Metro General Hospital.

  "Better not be," she said.

  They passed the hospital by about four blocks, and she pulled into Firehouse 15. By Hank's professional assessment, the two-story place had had a face-lift in the past few years or so. Strangely, the firetruck parked outside was labeled Firehouse 13, not 15.

  Abby parked to the side of the three large garage doors and went right to the public entrance.

  "He's a firefighter? I thought you said he was a skinny, geeky kid."

  "Even skinny kids can be firefighters," Abby said without making eye contact and went in. Hank followed.

  Chapter 3

  Abby entered the reception area and saw the desk manned by a woman with a shock of bright red hair. She wore a button-down Cleveland Fire Department navy blue uniform top with a single bar on either side of her collar. A TV behind her head was turned onto continuing coverage of Ground Zero in New York City. The plane crash and the collapse repeated endlessly in slow motion. Abby stared at it, frozen, before the woman dragged her out of her reverie.

  "Present your ID's and state your business," the woman said in greeting. According to the insert in her brother's graduation invitation, one bar was lieutenant, two bars was captain, and any bugle or trumpet was a chief.

  "ID? We need ID?" Abby asked. Hank was already taking out his wallet.

  "Yes, everyone has to present ID. I'm sure you will understand, considering the situation." The woman's tone allowed no argument.

  Abby stifled her annoyance and took out her driver's license. The woman, whose name tag read McClunis, examined them. "Wisconsin and Michigan? What brought you two here? Are you reporters?"

  "No, why would we be reporters?" Abby said, getting annoyed. This was a firehouse, not a police station.

  Lieutenant McClunis chose not to answer that question. "If you are not reporters, state your business. How can the Cleveland Fire Department help you today?"

  "We're looking for a firefighter named…" Hank stopped when he realized he didn't know who Abby was here for.

  "Noah. I need to see my brother, Noah Baker. He was assigned here for his rookie year. I need to talk to him."

  McClunis kept her face carefully blank. "I am currently substituting from Firehouse 13. I am not at liberty to discuss any locations of our firefighters beyond that Firefighter Baker is not in the firehouse today."

  "Where is he?" Abby asked.

  The lieutenant's hazel eyes flashed, but she contained herself. "Miss Baker, due to the current unstable situation, I am not allowed to release information on the assignments of our firefighters."

  "Does that mean you don't know where he is, or you won't tell me? Did he get fired or something?"

  "I am not at liberty to discuss department business. Are you his next of kin or emergency contact?" McClunis said emotionlessly.

  "No. My mom is."

  "Perhaps you should call your mother, and she can request information. I'm sure the captain would be happy to send her a fax."

  "Leslie, stop it," a voice said further down the hallway. A man in his early forties approached with a school-aged girl. "Anyone who looks that much like Noah is not here to blab to the press."

  "Probably not, but the Chief said we couldn't—" McClunis said.

  "I know what the Chief said," replied the man who wore the double bars of captain and a nametag of Soto. "And I understand his thinking, but whether it is wise remains to be seen."

  The red-headed lieutenant didn't betray her thoughts. "If you would like to conduct this in private, I can put Luna in the lounge."

  "Yes, please." His eyes were watching the loop on the nearby TV before coming to rest on McClunis. "I'd prefer she watch the Princess Bride rather than Monty Python or the Godfather again. Definitely not live TV. Follow me."

  Soto passed a gym and various supply rooms to a glass walled office with a large desk. McClunis left with the girl, turning off the TV for now. Once the office door was closed, the captain shook Abby's hand, "I am Captain Matteo Soto. By the looks of you, Noah Baker is your brother."

  "That's correct. He's my little brother."

  "And you?" Soto asked Hank with a faint Spanish accent on his words. Abby would have bet it was Puerto Rican from what she knew of Latino applicants from Cleveland.

  "I'm Hank Finster, Abby's… friend," he said easily and placed an arm on Abby's lower back. In most cases, Abby would have viewed this as presumptuous, having met him this morning. However, explaining the situation to Soto, who seemed to be an old school protective man, was unlikely to be well received.

  "I must apologize for Lieutenant McClunis back there. It's been a difficult time. We had a bomb threat yesterday."

  "Some places are having much worse days. I'll feel a lot better after I talk to Noah," Abby said. "Where is he?"

  "I don't know. Not officially."

  "What does 'not officially' mean?"

  "Your brother is no longer assigned to this firehouse. His rookie year ended two months ago, and he is in the midst of his transfer to Firehouse 33. He cross-covered here for Labor Day weekend and is on vacation." So
to’s expression was clouded.

  Abby had plenty of experience with people not telling the whole truth. "Vacation?"

  "Yes, he's been gone for almost a week."

  "Where did he go?"

  "I thought you would know where he went, being his sister and all," Soto said.

  Abby flushed. "He's a grown man who doesn't carry a cell phone and dislikes his sister badgering him about his plans. He hasn't checked in with me or my parents. Have you heard from him?"

  "Not precisely." Soto took something out of his desk. "Please understand, I haven't had much contact with him since he finished his tour with us. I wasn't here Labor Day weekend, and I have my hands full with my niece Luna."

  "Not your daughter?" Abby said sharply, failing to see how that had any bearing on his lack of information on Noah’s whereabouts.

  "My sister's daughter. Her parents died in a car accident this year. We received this in the mail this morning." Soto gave her a postcard.

  It was a postcard of Time's Square with a postmark of Saturday September 8th, New York, NY 10001. Broadway tonight with The Producers. You should see our hotel! It has a running track with a huge pool on top and breakfast in bed. Way better than your cooking, Jimbo.

  The bottom fell out of Abby's stomach and hit her feet. "Did he check in? Anything?"

  "Not that I know of. He has friends here, but I didn't hear anything from them yet."

  "Let me talk to them."

  "I can't."

  "Can’t or won't? Are you going to give me bullshit about this being classified information?" she accused.

  "No! I'm not hiding anything about Noah."

  "Then tell me what the hell is going on!"

  Soto sighed. "That's the critical information the Fire Chief wants protected. His friends aren't here. In fact, we've had an unprecedented number of firefighters call in sick."

  "Where is Engine 15?" Hank asked suddenly.

  "Officially, out for repairs. Unofficially, it left this morning with multiple members of 15 and 13."

  "Your firefighters took a fire engine to New York City?"

  "Per the Fire Chief's orders, I cannot answer that question."

  "Do they know about Noah?" Abby pressed.