Prodigal (Lost and Found Book 1)

by TA Moore

  “Shay?” he called again. “C’mon, man, where are you.”

  The groan was slightly more responsive this time, and Boyd saw something move in the smoke as Shay rolled over.

  “Stay where you are,” he barked. “I’ll come to you.”

  He used the hooligan to test the floor ahead of him as he picked his way around the apartment. The back of his neck, under his helmet and collar, itched with each step.

  “What’s…. What the fuck?” Shay said. He coughed and propped himself up on his elbow. He lifted one hand to touch his head, and he winced. “Boyd, what’s going on?”

  “Guess,” Boyd said. In his ear, Harry’s voice snapped out a rebuke, and Boyd tried again. “There’s been a fire, Shay. Everything is under control—”

  “Is my… is my shop on fire?” Shay spluttered as he tried to get up. “That’s not under control. That’s on fire. What the hell happened?”

  Boyd held up his hands. “Shay, I mean it, please don’t move. I’ll come to you.”

  He poked the floor with the metal butt of the hooligan, and it disintegrated, chunks of carpet and hot embers bright as they dropped to the ground on the floor below. Boyd staggered, toes on the edge, and caught his balance.

  “Boyd,” Shay gasped.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Boyd said. “I know what I’m doing, remember?”

  He did, but it never felt that way when you saw a floor collapse. Just for a second, he always felt, quite clearly, that he was insane to do this. Luckily he never had time to worry about it. He gave the glowing edge of the hole wide berth as he worked his way around to Shay.

  “Can you stand up?” he asked as he offered his hand. The leather gloves were charred across the palms and in the creases of the fingers. “If you can’t, I can carry you.”

  “Fuck off.” Shay grabbed Boyd’s arm, dug his fingers into his sleeve, and hauled himself up with a grunt. He staggered and had to grab Boyd’s shoulder for balance. His weight was mostly on that, and his breathing was ragged and hangover sour. The smoke caught his throat, and he coughed into his elbow. “I’m okay.”

  Boyd caught Shay’s wrist and twisted his arm around. Blood coated it like a glove from fingertips to elbow. His stomach sank as a few drops of fresh blood dripped off Shay’s thumb and stained Boyd’s glove.

  “Shay—”

  “I didn’t,” Shay said as he pulled his arm away. He X-ed over his heart with one bloody finger. “I broke a glass in the bar last night and cut myself. Then I guess I passed out and split it open again…. Oh hell, did I do this, Boyd? Did I set my own garage on fire?”

  Boyd put his hand over Shay’s mouth to shut him up before he panicked any more. If he had, the fire investigators would work it out. They always did. But “Did I do this?” was the sort of question insurance companies liked to hear. They could chew on that for a nice, long time.

  “That’s not important right now,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Shay grimaced behind his glove, but he nodded. There was a new bruise on his cheekbone and a cut on his ear that Boyd assumed was from whatever fight he’d been in. He clung to Boyd’s shoulder with his good hand as Boyd cautiously picked his way back toward the door. Under them the fire crackled as it ate its way through the rest of the floor.

  A jab of the hooligan crumbled away a long section of floor, and ashes scattered down onto the char-pocked roof of a convertible. Shay groaned behind him as he saw it.

  “My cars are trashed,” he said. “I’d just sold the Impala. It was mint.”

  “You’ve got insurance,” Boyd said. He paused midstep when Shay didn’t answer. “Right?” he pressed.

  “Yeah,” Shay said. He coughed again and had to brace himself against Boyd’s back. “Cheap insurance.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  Boyd got to the door and pulled it open. Fire roared up the staircase, wreathed through the metal steps, and charred the concrete walls. He shoved Shay back and slammed the door shut again. Flames licked under it, wicked along the carpet threads, and glowed through the cracks.

  “What now?” Shay asked. He leaned back against the wall and coughed against it, his face flushed under the coating of smoke and ash. “Boyd, what I said the other day—”

  “We’re not dying.”

  Shay slid down the wall into a crouch and dangled his hands between his knees. “Dude, I felt like I was dying before the fire started. I’m still sorry.”

  “Me too,” Boyd said. “Jessie. If I give the mark, can you get the ladders around?”

  There was a pause, and then Jessie snorted. “Of course, but I don’t see any windows up there.”

  Boyd hefted the hooligan bar with both hands and judged the weight of it. “Yeah, I know. I’m going to make one.”

  He shifted a few feet down from Shay and felt the dangerous bounce of the floor under him as the supports downstairs burned away.

  “Head down,” he said. “Cover your head.”

  It was a half-assed renovation to start with, just drywall and plaster against the single-skin brick wall outside. It was why it was always cold in here in winter. Boyd tightened his grip on the shaft of the hooligan, his palms raw as blisters split and rubbed, and swung it at the wall. Paint chips and plaster dust flew as he cracked it open and peeled it off the wall. Shay scrambled to his feet and ignored Boyd’s order to stay down as he pulled chunks of plaster off and away.

  The wooden frame underneath had already started to burn, and smoke eddied up from below and glowed sullenly in the struts. Boyd licked sweat off his upper lip and flicked the hooligan around in his hand so he could use the pick on the wall. The brick dented and chipped with each blow, and chunks of it bounced off his jacket and mask. A shard caught Shay on the jaw, flicked out a divot of skin, and stuck. Shay flinched and stepped back as blood trickled down his jaw. He pulled up his T-shirt and coughed into the folds of fabric.

  A brick cracked and fell out of the wall.

  Boyd’s shoulders ached, and his head throbbed in time to the blows. His hands were wet inside his gloves and he could feel them slip with each swing. He paused for a second to fix his grip and adjust his feet.

  “Boyd,” Shay said hoarsely. “You like Morgan, huh?”

  “I… do. Like him,” Boyd agreed raggedly. He used the hook of the hooligan to catch the edge of the bricks and wrench them out of the wall. Broken halves and chunks piled up around his feet. “Not really the time, though.”

  Water sprayed in from the hoses directed their way from outside, droplets wet on the scarred metal. Boyd’s breath steamed the front of his mask.

  “Yeah, well,” Shay said. “You might wanna tell him that. He’s not planning to stay.”

  Boyd used the hooligan like a hammer to loosen the sagging bricks, and then someone from the other side barked for him to back up. He dropped the hooligan and stepped back so he could lean over and brace his hands on his thighs to catch his breath.

  A grappling hook caught on the edge of the hole he’d battered in the wall. Someone yanked it twice to settle it in place.

  “Clear below,” Jessie yelled, his voice strained, and then the motor of the winch coughed to life. The wall held for a second but then groaned and fell apart. Bricks shattered and rained down on the street below. The flood of fresh air fanned the fire, and flames spat up through the holes in the floor.

  Boyd grabbed Shay and hauled him over to the hole. Cold water from the hoses splattered them both, and the ladder was nearly swung back into place. Jessie hung on to his as it moved, one hand stretched to grab Shay for support as he swung his legs out over the edge. His foot caught on the rung of the ladder and slipped.

  “Shit,” Shay yelped as he dropped.

  Boyd grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up so he could try again. This time he got both feet on the ladder and slid awkwardly down, his body sandwiched between Jessie and the ladder. He walked his hands along the rungs as he went down. Boyd waited until they were halfway down,
fire hot against his back, and climbed out after them.

  He slid down the ladder as fire crawled up the walls behind him. If it was the same arsonist who had run them from one end of the town to the other, they’d put more work into this fire. Boyd climbed down to the ground and slouched back against the truck as he pulled his SCBA off.

  His eyes had been fine in the heart of a blazing fire, but now that he was outside, the smoke irritated his contacts. He rubbed the back of his wrists over his eyelids.

  Harry, gray hair plastered to his skull with sweat, grabbed him by the forearm and pulled his arm down to check out the singed leather gloves.

  “These aren’t your assigned gear,” he rasped out.

  Boyd winced and pulled away so he could peel off the gloves. “I left them at the last fire,” he admitted. “My fault.”

  “I’d write you up, but we don’t need to feed that fire,” Harry said. “One free pass. Don’t make a habit of it. And get someone to clean your hands up. Good job.”

  He slapped Boyd on the shoulder and strode off. Boyd leaned his head back against the truck and grinned to himself.

  Yeah. He was good at this, wasn’t he?

  Someone grabbed him and yanked him roughly off the truck and forward. Boyd got his hands up and braced against the broad chest in a familiar hoodie. And then Morgan kissed him. He scraped his mouth impatiently over Boyd’s as he pulled him into his body.

  “You’re an idiot,” Morgan grumbled into Boyd’s mouth as he let go of his jacket. He reached up and cupped Boyd’s face in his hands. “You could have been hurt.”

  It was not at all professional, but Boyd didn’t care. He leaned into the kiss, his mouth curled into a smile under Morgan’s.

  “It’s my job,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  Morgan pushed him back into the truck and touched his forehead to Boyd’s, their breath warm where it mingled. “What if you weren’t?” he asked. “It’s a stupid fucking job. Quit.”

  “No.” Boyd cupped his hand around the nape of Morgan’s neck and kissed him back. All he could taste was smoke and rubber, but he could imagine the taste of Morgan instead. He savored that for a second until someone wolf whistled at them. That was probably enough. He turned his head into Morgan’s hand, pressed a kiss to his palm, and pulled away. “Why are you here, anyhow?”

  A shadow flickered over Morgan’s face, and he stepped back. The corner of his mouth turned up in a bitter grin. “I’ll let Mac fill you in on that,” he said. “He’s old. He hasn’t got much joy in his life. But… I’m glad you’re okay. It scared the crap out of me when I realized you were in there.”

  Boyd laughed and bumped his shoulder against him as he stepped by. “You knew I was a firefighter. What did you think I did?”

  “I don’t know, ride around in the truck all day?” Morgan said. He shook his head in self-directed mockery. “Rescue the occasional cat and be home in time for dinner.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” Boyd said. “The rest of us have to put out fires. I should get back to work. I’ll see you later. If Mac needs me, he knows where to find me.”

  He started to walk away, but Morgan’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “Whatever he tells you, it’s probably true,” Morgan said. “You know that. You know me. What he says about us, though, that ain’t true. You’re the only thing I’ve got that matters to me.”

  Maybe Boyd had wanted to hear the word love or like. It didn’t matter, though. They had today, maybe tomorrow, and Boyd wasn’t going to sour that over word choice. So what if Morgan didn’t say or feel exactly what Boyd wanted. Boyd had the memory of his hands on his face and the desperation in his kiss to know what he meant.

  “Good,” he said. “And next time you come to town, I’ll definitely dump my next boyfriend for you.”

  The humor didn’t quite strike the right note. Morgan didn’t laugh. He just looked rueful as he let go of Boyd’s shoulder.

  “I should get out of the way,” he said. “Just remember what I said… about us. I’ll see you later.”

  Boyd watched him walk away. For a second, he thought about going after him, or maybe he’d find Mac and ask him to explain, but before he could decide, a panicked voice yelled for a paramedic.

  They’d tell him eventually, he decided as he shoved the question to the back of his mind and jogged over to the panicked man and his unconscious wife. Until then—Boyd checked the woman’s pulse and rejected the helpful offer of a glass of whiskey—he had work to do.

  “WHAT DO you think?” Donna asked Boyd. She sat on the blue leather chairs in the hospital’s family room and chewed on her already raw cuticle. The nurses had taken Shay to irrigate his eyes—he’d had an allergic reaction to something in the smoke—and she’d reluctantly agreed to relocate her planned meeting with Sullivan to the hospital. A folder of printouts lay in her lap, story after story of fakes and mistakes Sullivan had collected for her. “Should I do it? Would you do it?”

  A week ago that was an easy answer. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He’d told Morgan it wouldn’t change anything if he was or wasn’t Sammy. It wouldn’t change Boyd’s feelings. That didn’t mean other things wouldn’t change. He’d be an exhibit, pinned for dissection by every true crime enthusiast with more enthusiasm than empathy.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Sullivan gave him an exasperated look for that sudden reversal, and Boyd avoided his eyes. He still wanted to know, but he also didn’t want anything to change. Stripped out of his gear to black trousers and T-shirt with the Cutter’s Gap station badge, Boyd shrugged and leaned back in the chair.

  “I don’t need to know.” Boyd edited his own answer. “And I don’t get a say in this anyhow. I’m not family. So—”

  “You’re family,” Donna corrected him. She took her thumb away from her mouth and wrapped her other fingers over it to avoid temptations. The initial shock of the fire had worn off, but she was wiped and gray. The last time Boyd had seen her like this—not grieving, not angry, not in denial, but just done—was when they called off the search for Sammy. Her mouth twisted in a pale attempt at a smile. “His family. You were always his family. All this time, all this pain, and the two of you are still joined at the hip.”

  Boyd felt his neck sting as he flushed and desperately tried not to think about exactly how he’d been joined to Morgan that morning. He didn’t look at Sullivan.

  “I don’t know if that’s true, Mrs. Calloway. We’re—”

  “It’s true,” Donna said. She leaned over the arm of her chair and gripped Boyd’s hand with her damp, cold fingers. “You know him better than anyone. What would he want?”

  That sounded romantic, but it probably wasn’t true. Boyd loved Morgan, but that didn’t mean he knew if Morgan was a cat or a dog person, what his favorite TV show was, if he’d rather have pho or pizza for dinner. Although he might have learned that tonight if everything hadn’t gone tits up.

  Besides, he might have run out of selfless. He didn’t know if he could separate what was best for Morgan from how much Boyd wanted “the best” to be him.

  “I… I don’t know,” he repeated. He took his hand back and turned it over to look at the blisters that ran in raw bumps under his fingers. “Morgan doesn’t need me to speak for him, anyhow. He already gave his permission. This isn’t about him. It’s about you… and Shay.”

  Donna flinched and absentmindedly started to chew on her thumb again. Blood speckled her lips as she got down to the quick.

  “Shay thinks we should send him packing,” she said. “Maybe I should. Is that what you mean? Pick Shay for once, even if it means—”

  “Shay needs to know, one way or the other,” Boyd said. He braced his elbow in the low arm of the chair and awkwardly pushed himself up. “He doesn’t think he does, but he can’t live with not knowing either. Do the test, Donna. That’s what I think.”

  She stared up at him for a second and then passed her hand wearily over her eye
s.

  “I don’t want to lose my son again,” she said roughly from behind the shield of her fingers. “But if I don’t, I might lose them both.”

  Sullivan leaned forward. “Does that mean you’ll do it?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  She cracked a laugh as she dropped her hand. “No, but I haven’t been much of a mother. One gone. One ignored. So this isn’t for me, it’s for them. Do it.”

  Sullivan went to get up, and Boyd gestured for him to stay where he was. “I’ll tell Mac,” he said. “One of the nurses can do it. Donna, I need to head back to the station. I’ll check in on Shay later.”

  She nodded stiffly and waited until he was almost out the door to say anything.

  “Thank you for saving Shay,” she said quietly. There was still no anger in her, just a heavy weariness that dragged at her words. That seemed to make it worse, when the words couldn’t be blamed on anything else. “I know you’re a good boy. I do. And I wish I could be… kind… about everything. I just can’t. Even after today, even though I’m grateful, I don’t think I can ever forgive you.”

  Boyd stared at her for a second. What did she think he was going to say to that? Was there any way to respond that would fix this?

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He closed the door behind him. It felt like it might be for the last time on Donna. No matter who Morgan turned to be—Sammy or not—Boyd didn’t think he needed to wait for Donna to say he’d atoned enough for being alive.

  Chapter Twenty

  THREE DAYS. That’s how long Mac said it would take to get the DNA analysis back from the lab. That was two days ago.

  Morgan slouched down in the uncomfortable gray leather chair, legs sprawled in front of him, and watched Judge Nathan Fernfield be pointedly busy with something more important. It was the sort of power play Morgan supposed would work on lawyers or journalists, the great and the good who got past Fernfield’s stern red-haired assistant and into his office, but it didn’t work so well on someone like Morgan. He’d grown up poor and in the system. He’d hung around in ERs while his latest foster mom got her arm/his arm/the other kid they had stacked in the house’s arm set and plastered. He’d been cuffed to tables in police stations while he waited for the social worker, and he’d stood outside in the rain while he waited for the latest “uncle” who got horny when he drank to pass out.