FireWatch: A Jack Widow Thriller

by Scott Blade

  Widow stood still, watching the police cruiser fade away until it was lost to sight. He lowered his hands, pocketed his passport, and walked into the Korean grocery.

  CHAPTER 3

  INSIDE THE KOREAN STORE, Widow found it to be much bigger than he had expected. There were dozens of aisles with shelves of snack foods and quick-grab items. There were stacks of food items out in the front aisle. In the first row were automobile items like lubricants and motor oils and windshield wiper blades and knickknacks that hung off rearview mirrors, and there was a shelf with actual rearview mirrors. Ready to grab. Ready to buy. Ready to glue onto a vehicle’s windshield.

  To his left, there was a long counter, half-barred for protection. There were cheap metal racks in the front of a single open window with no glass. There were various candy bars, and magazines, and condoms, and cigarette lighter packs, and various other impulse buys.

  Widow saw the back side of a cash register. As he walked past, he noticed it was all the way open. It looked empty. Next, he saw a stool, also empty.

  Widow stepped farther into the store. That’s when he saw why the cops had been there. At the other end of the store, it looked like a torpedo had been fired into their glass coolers. The entire wall had built-in cooler doors with racks of beer and milk and water bottles and soda cans and energy drinks. Some of which Widow had never heard of. The entire thing was destroyed.

  There was broken glass everywhere. All over the floor. Widow saw broken beer bottles. Long, unbroken bottles rolled across the tile, over streams of spilled beer and milk and soda and energy drinks. All of it souped together, streamed down the cracks and trenches between the tiles of the floor.

  Someone had come into the store and vandalized it. That was obvious. That was why the cops had been there. They had been called after the fact, because they came out of the store with no one in handcuffs.

  What were they going to do about it? Maybe something. Maybe nothing.

  Then again, what could they do about it? In busy cities, vandalism wasn’t high on the list of major crimes that cops tended to focus on.

  Off to the left, at the end of the counter, Widow saw two people, hunched over. Sobbing and crying. Speaking Korean. The tone was anger and frustration and a hint of fear, all rolled into one conversation. Widow could piece together the gist of it.

  He walked in, slowly. He made wide, heavy steps to help make his presence known. He stepped around the edges of spilled drinks and avoided the broken glass as best he could.

  Maybe not the best time to be here, he thought. But sagacious curiosity and the need to know and a sense of duty guided him in moments like this.

  He changed tactics and stepped directly on broken glass. Crunching it. Loud in the silence. There was no avoiding it. It was everywhere. It looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to every structure built with glass. The floor was covered with it in all shapes and sizes.

  He cleared his throat as he neared the two-huddled people.

  The woman was the first to hear him. Her head shot up, her eyes opened wide, and her jaw dropped open.

  “Are you one of them?”

  Widow asked, “One of who?”

  The other figure kneeling on the ground was a man. He craned his head back and looked up at Widow. His nose was bloody, but not bleeding. His cheeks were pumped full of blood because they were flushed. He looked like someone had roughed him up, and good. Not the worst thing Widow had ever seen. His nose had bled, but it didn’t look broken. There were tears in his eyes, but no black eyes. No bruises on his face. No contusions. No discolorations.

  Besides the blood-filled cheeks. There was nothing permanent. Nothing severe. The damage done here looked like a first-time warning, like a shot across the bow, like a first and only threat.

  The woman said, “We closed now.”

  Widow nodded and he almost retreated. But he stopped in his tracks. That compelling need to help froze him. That voice in his head of better angels nagged at him. Nothing he could do. He wasn’t the kind of man who turned his back on people in need. No matter what. Just then, he was reminded of a SEAL motto, one of many.

  The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.

  The meaning of this adage was not created for this situation. It was meant to hold meaning about training hard or being prepared. But like a lot of the SEAL mottos, he found deeper meanings all the time.

  In this case, his Jiminy Cricket brain was saying, “Hey! If you turn your back on people who don’t train like you, they will be the ones who bleed for it.”

  Widow stopped and looked back at her. In a kind voice, he said, “I can help. What happened?”

  The man started to speak, but the woman interrupted.

  “I say. We closed now.”

  But Widow did not budge. He watched her shoulders slump and sag, like the fight was out of her. Like she had nothing left to push her to argue.

  The man tried to get up. Widow stepped closer. His hands out. Palms exposed and friendly.

  He stepped up to them and offered help to the man on the ground. The man took it and grabbed Widow’s forearms. His nails were long and probably hadn’t been trimmed in months. Widow felt them dig into his arm. He did not protest.

  He helped the guy to his feet and the woman followed. She moved in and acted as a crutch for her husband to lean on. Although he may not have needed it, he took her assistance.

  “I’m Chung. This my store,” the man said. At full height, he couldn’t have been more than five-foot-one.

  The woman cleared her throat with a low sound that was intended for only the man to hear. A reminder to her husband that she was there.

  Chung said, “This my wife. Su-jin.”

  Widow stuck his hand out and said, “I’m Jack Widow. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

  She looked at her husband, like she sought permission to shake his hand. He nodded, a slight gesture. She took Widow’s hand and shook it. She was taller than her husband by about a half an inch. Which Widow figured was because the hair on the top of her head was thick enough to give her at least two inches. Whereas Chung’s hair was more inclined to travel down and away from a balding region on the top.

  “What happened here?”

  “Nothing,” Su-jin said.

  Silence for a moment. A car drove by out on the street and the sound echoed through the store. It rattled a shelf of lightweight plastic cases near the front door.

  “I saw the police here. They didn’t do anything to help you?”

  “They not help,” Su-jin said.

  Chung said, “Don’t say that. He stranger.”

  Chung turned to look up at Widow. He added, “Not much they can do.”

  “It’s okay. I met them outside. They weren’t the friendliest cops I’ve ever met. I’m sure if they had something to go on, they will take action.”

  “We told them criminal name already,” Chung added.

  Su-jin interrupted and asked, “You want to buy something?”

  “Actually, I came in for directions, ma’am.”

  Su-jin muttered something that was either inaudible or Korean or both. Either way, Widow got the sense that it wasn’t a sign of approval.

  “I’m looking for a bus station. I believe I missed it.”

  They said nothing.

  “I’m lost.”

  Chung twisted at his waist and surveyed the damage, pinched his nose with his right hand. He took a long moment to look over the store before he responded.

  Su-jin said nothing. She stood next to him. Waiting.

  Chung spoke again as if he was just returning to the conversation. He said, “It south about a mile. You see it on left. One street over.”

  “Thanks very much. Is it possible to get a cup of coffee?”

  “We got coffee,” Su-jin said.

  “Is it fresh?”

  “It freshest around here.”

  “I can buy a cup from you.”

  She nodded.


  Chung said, “There’s a table. Back there. In corner.”

  He pointed at the back corner of the store, which was near a window looking out onto the street, near an aisle displaying motor oil and windshield cleaner.

  “Sounds good.”

  Chung put his head up and pinched his nose, changing hands. Blood trickled out, but it wasn’t much. He took precautions anyway.

  “Su-jin, get him some coffee. I clean up.”

  Widow asked, “You want help cleaning up?”

  “Not the mess. We take pictures first. For insurance company. They cover damages.”

  “You have insurance for that?”

  “We got insurance for everything.”

  “That must be pretty high?”

  “It is high. Besides local hooligans pinching us for money, the insurance is almost as bad.”

  “Sounds like the real criminal here is your insurance agent.”

  Chung chuckled and smiled and pinched his nose harder because the laughing made it worse.

  He said, “I clean nose and face. You enjoy coffee.”

  “Come talk with me after.”

  Chung said, “Sure. Okay.”

  Su-jin said, “You go there. I get coffee.”

  Widow did not argue. He headed down one aisle and threaded over to the next one and stopped at a table.

  It was a foldable metal table. Metal legs. Two metal chairs. He sat in one with his back to the wall. He could see the entrance, a clear view, and an old habit.

  He waited and a couple of minutes later Su-jin came around the corner with a hot cup of coffee in her hand. It was a paper cup. No lid.

  Widow saw the steam sweltering out the top like smoke from a volcano on the verge of eruption. She placed it in front of him. It was black and hot and fresh—perfect.

  He took out a wad of cash money, slipped out a five and handed it to her.

  “I…,” she started to speak. But she sighed first, and said, “I no change you.”

  Widow thought back to seeing the cash register when he came in. Drawer popped open. Cash slots empty. They had no cash to change anything.

  “Keep it. No change needed.”

  Su-Jin smiled and thanked him.

  “Listen, what happened here?”

  “No, sir. Do not think about that.”

  “Is there an ambulance coming?”

  “Ambulance?”

  “Yeah. For your husband?”

  “No. He fine. We clean up. It all be fine.”

  She backed away and nodded and smiled. He watched her disappear around the motor oil. He sat back, stared out the window. That nagging little voice in his head. It might as well have been saying, “Do the right thing”—over and over.

  CHAPTER 4

  SHERIFF PORTMAN WAS THE FIRST TO ARRIVE on the scene. His old patrol car was just about over the hill. It was a Ford Crown Vic. He knew that he would probably die with that car. The county would be burying him in it. No question. There was no way the county administration was ever going to buy him a new one. Not as long as the old thing ran. The only money that they would throw at his department was barely enough to cover new tires every five years. The ones that the car sported currently were about due for replacements. And even then, he did not hold out hope that they ever replaced his tires with actual new ones. He was almost sure that all they did was replace them with used tires from LAPD.

  Portman was fine with the old patrol car. He was fine with the low salary. He was even fine with only having a total of two deputies under his command. The one thing that he wished was better was his pension. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t something to brag about. It was just good enough for him to stay employed because at his age, what was he going to do? Start a new career?

  Last year his wife left him. Which surprised him. It surprised everyone. The whole department. The whole town. The whole county. No one saw that one coming.

  One day she was there when he left for work in the morning. Then she was gone before he came home.

  He knew why. It was because she had had enough of their quaint little life. Thirty years, and they were in their thirtieth year. That was the icing on the cake for her. That was what pushed her to walk out on him. Enough of the same daily rituals, the same daily routines, had been enough for her. She couldn’t take any more.

  The reason she left was more than just his tiny, little salary. It was more than their quaint life. He figured it out the day he came home. The whole thing was because she wasn’t getting any younger.

  They had stayed still for so long that one day she saw her future had shriveled and shortened right underneath her feet. She did not want to spend another day standing still.

  It wasn’t anything to be mad about. He wasn’t mad at her.

  But, they haven’t spoken since he came home two weeks ago to find her gone.

  That was the thing that hurt him the most. She hadn’t called him. Not once. But she left a note. Which was nice. He figured that he would call her sooner or later. Check up on her. He figured she was either with her sister in Chicago or with her other sister in Miami or with her half-sister in Little Rock. Any of them was a good choice for her. Three cities. She had been tired of the rural life. She went to one of the three.

  Portman got out of the old Crown Vic and shut the door behind him. He was the first to arrive on the scene, which meant no firemen. Not yet.

  He pulled his car up into the drive, but parked it up between two oak trees, leaving plenty of room for the fire truck to pull in.

  He stared at the structure that was engulfed in flames.

  The smoke was thick and black. The stars above were completely blacked out.

  His heart filled with dread when he realized whose house it was. He had not been out there in a long time. But he knew the owners. He knew them well. He felt bad for not realizing where he was.

  He took a flashlight out of his car and jogged up the hill, past several thin trees and up to a safe perimeter far away enough from the fire, but close enough to search the house.

  Parts of the exterior stood upright still. They remained uncompromised by the intense heat.

  Flames covered the entire first floor and the front porch.

  He called out the names of the residents. A sense of worry filled him. He liked the wife. He had known her since she was a little girl. Hell, he had been the local sheriff since she was barely a teenager. In a way, she had been like a daughter to him. He was basically her godfather. Not in actuality. Her real godfather had been an uncle that he had never met.

  Portman walked counterclockwise, following the driveway. He stayed a safe distance. He wasn’t going to run into the fire. He knew that. There was no way to get in from the front, even if he was young enough or fit enough to dare it. The only way he was going in was if he got an answer from someone who was trapped inside.

  He called out the wife’s name. And waited. No reply. He continued walking up the drive, circling, angling his trajectory.

  He called out her name again. Loud. No response.

  The side of the house looked better than the front. It was less damaged. Less burned, so far. He could make out window frames on the second floor. One of them still had the glass intact.

  Just then, several huge balls of fire raged out of the several windows and landed on the roof. The shingles seared and blistered. The smoke doubled and plumed.

  Nearing the back of the house he saw a detached garage. Slivers of fire burned on different parts of its roof. But, for the most part, the garage was still safe. Still standing as if nothing had harmed it. He approached, hoping someone was alive. Hoping the wife was still alive.

  Maybe they got out. Maybe they’re in the garage. Maybe they aren’t even home, he thought. He hoped.

  The garage door was wide open. He saw a black Chevy Tahoe with government plates, parked nose in. Next to it was an old Ford Bronco. It looked like a 1970s model. It was not in pristine condition, but pretty damn close. The wax shone like the owner had a lot of
love for the car.

  He called out the wife’s name again. No answer.

  He stepped into the garage and flicked on a wall light switch. A big, overhead light pinged to life. The electricity in the garage still worked. He looked around. No one was there.

  He called out the family name again. No answer. He turned back and walked out of the garage. He started toward the back corner of the house, when he heard a low voice call back at him. Like a whisper.

  The fire crackled and roared, drowning out the voice.

  He heard it again, another whisper.

  “Portman,” the voice said.

  He rotated ninety degrees and shone the flashlight over to the backyard woods, behind the garage.

  He saw a small figure standing there. It was a woman. Half-naked. She hid among the trees. She stepped forward and out into the beam from his flashlight.

  She said, “Portman.”

  He called out the wife’s name and said, “What are you doing in there? Are you all right?”

  She whispered to him like she was scared. She said, “Is anyone else out there?”

  “Come on out,” Portman called back.

  “Is anyone else there?”

  Why did she ask him that?

  “No, darling. I’m the first. No one else is here yet.”

  She paused a beat and asked, “You didn’t see anyone else?”

  “The fire truck is on the way. Nothing to be scared of now. Come on out.”

  “You didn’t see anyone when you pulled in?”

  “Who? See who?”

  “Just. Anyone?”

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  She said nothing. Instead, she came forward a couple of paces and looked right, looked left. She ignored the fire. Ignored the heat. She looked back down the driveway. She looked toward his car. She put her hand above her eyes like a visor from the intense light of the fire.

  She asked, “You’re alone?”

  “I done told you. The fire truck is on the way. I radioed for paramedics too. But you know they’re thirty minutes out.”

  He paused a beat and then he asked, “Where’s your husband?”