Fireproof

by Alex Kava

  “Sure.”

  She watched him set out an antipasto plate with olives, cubes of cheese, and Genoa salami. Then he worked the corkscrew and poured two glasses of wine.

  “You went all out,” she said, plucking up an olive and popping it into her mouth.

  “Hey, I know you’re trying to be nice and calm about Jake, but the truth is I should have paid closer attention. You’re allowed to be mad as hell with me.”

  He handed her a glass of wine. She gulped almost half of it like she was chugging water. Patrick stopped, surprised. He hadn’t seen this side of Maggie. He suspected that she was being careful and selective in what she let him see.

  “It isn’t your fault, Patrick. He’s done it when I’ve been here. Sometimes immediately after I’ve let him into the yard. I see my fenced fortress as security. Jake sees it as a prison.”

  She emptied the rest of her glass before Patrick even took a sip of his.

  CHAPTER 30

  “This is the longest he’s been gone,” Maggie told Lucy Coy over the phone.

  “Jake’s used to taking care of himself. He always ran off for days when he was with me.”

  “But that was in the country, where he had the forest and cornfields and fresh rabbits. He doesn’t know about traffic and neighbors with guns.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice. She wasn’t sure why this upset her so much. Maybe it was simply that she was exhausted. Too little sleep. The fire, the stitches, her strange adventure down in the sewer. Jake escaping and not coming back was just the break point in a long day.

  “Jake saved my life,” Maggie said, “and how do I repay him? By taking him thirteen hundred miles away from everything and everyone he’s ever known.”

  “You’re taking his leaving as an affront.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “He’s checking out his surroundings.”

  “It’s been almost four months. They’re not that new anymore.”

  “Marking his territory. Staking his claim, if you will.”

  “Escaping from the prison I keep him in.”

  Lucy Coy laughed that melodic sound that came rarely but, when it did come, sounded natural and heartfelt. It was also contagious, and Maggie laughed, too.

  She rubbed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Yes, she was being melodramatic and ridiculous. The physical exhaustion of the day had spilled over into her mind. It had taken twenty minutes in the shower to get the smell of smoke, hospital antiseptic, and the sewer removed from her skin, out of her hair.

  “We cannot tame the wild spirit that lives within Jake.”

  This was the philosophical side of the woman that had mesmerized Maggie while she was a guest in Lucy’s home in the Sandhills of Nebraska.

  “Is it possible,” Lucy continued, “that you find it so unsettling because you wrestle with the same nonconforming spirit within yourself?”

  Maggie smiled and attempted to shake that “aha” feeling that Lucy so often triggered. Her preintroduction to Lucy Coy was a county sheriff who called her “that crazy old Indian woman.” The retired death investigator for the Nebraska State Patrol was nowhere near crazy or old. Instead, words like “graceful,” “contemplative,” “disciplined,” and “wise” beyond her sixty-plus years better described the woman whom Maggie recognized as a kindred spirit. When Lucy mentioned Maggie’s nonconforming spirit, Maggie took it not as an accusation but as the compliment it was meant to be.

  “Didn’t you tell me there’s a stream that runs behind your property?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like the perfect hunting grounds for him.”

  It was one of the reasons Maggie bought the place. The steep ridges on both sides of the stream made it a natural barricade, almost like her personal moat.

  Lucy’s voice and manner had started to soothe and calm Maggie until she heard the tap-tap of rain begin to hit the glass of the patio door. Immediately she was on her feet, Harvey beside her, looking out into the dark backyard. Leafless trees waved skeletal branches.

  “It’s starting to rain,” she said. “It could be sleet by morning.”

  “I remember him being out last winter all night after a snowfall. It must have been freezing. I have no idea how or where he kept warm.”

  “And when he came back he was okay?”

  “Brought back a half-eaten rabbit and left it on the front porch for me. Sharing’s never been an issue with him. In fact, I think it was his peace offering.”

  “You make him sound as if he has supernatural powers.”

  There was silence. Maggie had grown accustomed to Lucy’s contemplative pauses.

  “Go ahead and get some rest, Maggie. Jake will be fine.” And then she added, “And so will you.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Just prepare yourself for whatever peace offering he brings back. Let’s just hope it’s not the arm of your gun-toting neighbor.”

  She smiled. Tapped the phone’s End button. But before she could put the phone down, it started ringing.

  It was Racine. Maggie’s body tensed at the thought of the arsonist hitting again so quickly.

  “Do we have another fire?” Maggie asked without a greeting.

  “A different kind of fire. Turn on CNN.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “Where did he get all these photos?”

  Maggie didn’t feel angry as much as betrayed and a little sick to her stomach.

  “What’s the cocktail-dress occasion?” Racine had stayed on the line and they watched together as Jeffery Cole revealed Maggie’s life for the world to see. He even had a photo of her father and mother.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress,” Racine said when Maggie failed to answer.

  “It was a New Year’s Eve party for my ex-husband’s law firm. They were congratulating me that night, welcoming me to the firm. Greg got me a job as their claims investigator.”

  “You wanted to investigate lawsuit claims?”

  “No, not at all. I had no idea. It was supposed to be a surprise. Greg hated my being an FBI agent.”

  “Maybe he just hated your playing rough-and-tumble with killers.”

  “He hated that he couldn’t control me, keep me neat and tidy like the rest of his life.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  “You look totally hot in that little black dress.” Racine’s attempt at humor only made it worse.

  Years ago Julia Racine had made a pass at Maggie. Somehow they had managed to get past it and become friends. Part of their journey to friendship had to do with Racine saving Maggie’s mother from a suicide attempt and Maggie saving Racine’s father from a killer. Both women had grown up without one parent; perhaps it was this absence, this sense of loss that continued to bring them together.

  Now that Maggie thought about her mother she couldn’t help wondering if that’s where Jeffery Cole had gotten some of the photos.

  “Why do you suppose he’s doing this?” Maggie asked.

  “You ruffled his feathers. Piqued his interest. I didn’t know you were a forensic fellow at Quantico. Impressive. They don’t even have that program anymore, do they?”

  “Is this legal? Can he do an exposé like this on an FBI agent?”

  “Your ex-husband might know.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny. He might actually know.”

  “It’s too late. They’re already airing it.”

  “Yeah, but it could stop part two.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “No, really. Tomorrow night is part two. The whole thing runs back-to-back this weekend. I figure I’ll tape it.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “So here’s something interesting.” Racine must have sensed it was time to change the subject. “Cornell Stamoran used to be an accountant with Greevey, Miles and Holden up until eleven months ago. They’re one of the major financial consulting firms in the District. Their client list r
eads like a who’s who directory.”

  “So how did he get his passport stolen?”

  “Don’t know. He wasn’t home to ask. Landlord said he ducked out on his rent months ago. Nobody at the consulting firm knows where he is either. Greevey said he just didn’t show up one day. Said he had a bit of a drinking problem.”

  “Any chance it’s his bashed-in skull that was found inside?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  Maggie’s phone beeped.

  “I have another call coming in. Autopsy still on for the morning?”

  “Stan said nine o’clock. I’ll see you there.” And Racine clicked off.

  Maggie checked her caller ID, saw that it was Benjamin Platt, smiled, then connected.

  “Do you still have that little black dress?”

  It wasn’t exactly the greeting she expected. She felt the annoying but pleasant flip in her stomach.

  “Racine already beat you to that punch line.”

  “Goes to show we both have impeccable taste.”

  She thought about telling him how sexy he looked this morning in his dress uniform. For some reason she stopped herself, stood up, and began to pace the living room. She glanced out the patio door, the glass still rain-streaked. It was coming down harder now.

  “How are you holding up?” Ben asked.

  Of course, Maggie realized, he was worried about her. That was the real reason for his call. Not such a bad thing, she reminded herself.

  “Jake got out again this afternoon,” she said, changing the focus from her. “He hasn’t come back yet.”

  “You want me to take a look around for him?”

  “Patrick checked all over for him.” Suddenly it occurred to her that Jake probably wouldn’t come to Patrick’s voice or command. Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? Maybe if she went out and called for him. “It’s late,” she told Ben. “And it’s raining.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “I can be there in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  From the patio window Maggie could make out the ridge at the back of the property, beyond the privacy fence. Pine trees stood like sentries guarding the corners. Streetlights didn’t reach back that far. Her subtle landscape lighting was only enough to create shadows.

  “Lucy says he’ll be fine. That he’ll come back on his own. I can’t keep racing after him and dragging him home.”

  A spot of light flashed on the other side of the fence. She could see it through the wood slats. It flickered, then moved along her property line. As suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

  Maybe it was a reflection? Maybe her imagination was playing tricks on her.

  She rubbed the back of her neck, fingering the sutures. Patrick’s wine had actually settled the throbbing in her head. It was quiet, contained for the time being, but her neck ached.

  “Lucy’s probably right,” Ben finally said, only Maggie had already forgotten what it was that Lucy might be right about.

  She shut off the lamp and paced from window to window, trying to see the light again. The house was dark except for the muted television. Red and blue reflections of her life according to Jeffery Cole lit up the corners of the living room. Maggie moved to the kitchen and the back door. That’s when she saw another flash.

  “I’ll have to call you back,” she told Ben. “I need to check something.” She clicked off before he could ask any questions.

  The spot of light bounced behind the fence and skipped a path to the edge of the ridge. Despite the mist, Maggie could see the silhouette of a person following the beam of light.

  “What’s going on?”

  Patrick’s voice made her jump. He stood in the entrance to the kitchen in pajama bottoms, nothing else.

  “Someone’s out there,” she whispered, noticing that her heart had already started hammering in her chest.

  Patrick was looking over her shoulder before she said, “It’s probably nothing. Someone looking for a lost dog.” The exact thing she was contemplating doing just minutes before.

  “Or that asshole neighbor tracking Jake.”

  He spun around and darted for the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting on some clothes and shoes.” He stopped halfway up the stairs just long enough to add, “Bring your gun.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Jeffery had begged Sam to get the photos he needed for part two of his profile piece and have them ready for him first thing in the morning. She should have done it earlier but Otis P.’s tall tale, whether fiction or fact, had freaked her out. She couldn’t help wondering if there was some poor woman’s body stuffed in a culvert, her orange socks hidden by mud and leaves.

  When they left the prison all Sam wanted to do was go home. All week she had gotten home late, after her mother and son were already in bed. After Otis P.’s tale, Sam wanted to be with her family. She had decided to go home instead of straight out to get the photos Jeffery ordered. For once she’d put work second.

  She had dinner with her mother and son, almost like a normal family. Then she cuddled up next to little Ignacio, or Iggy as most of his friends called him. He read to her as they snuggled in his bed, roles reversed. They both fell asleep. When her mother woke her, Sam wanted to stay put. The day had already been a long and crazy one, but she had promised Jeffery.

  She was used to his giving her a laundry list for background photos or footage that he absolutely had to have. She had given up asking questions a long time ago. She’d clock the extra hours and he’d make sure she was compensated. These days she could use the extra cash, and taking photos at all hours was still better than waiting tables, which is what she did for too many years while she went back to school. She’d never have been able to do any of it without her mother taking care of her precious son.

  Rained slowed interstate traffic. By the time she arrived at the address Jeffery had given her it was late. On nights like this one, crawling out of a warm bed and going out into a cold driving rain made it a bit harder to remember that this was her dream job.

  She slipped the plastic covers over her equipment and zipped up her rain jacket, pulling the hood over her head. The rain had let up a bit. She parked two blocks away from the housing development on Jeffery’s directions. There was no way she could leave her car on the street and not be noticed. It was a neighborhood that was used to BMWs, Lexuses, and Mercedes-Benzes. Her ten-year-old Chevy would have had the local sheriff checking it out and maybe even towing it before she got back.

  She followed a path behind the huge fenced-in lots alongside a steep drop-off. She flicked on a flashlight to get her bearings, then turned it off. Now that the rain had changed to a steady drizzle, she could hear water rumbling over the rocks below. She caught a glimpse of the stream and the rocky walls.

  She paused and squatted down, resting her camera bag on the wet grass. She’d prepared her equipment in the car, pulling on rain sleeves, though her camera was supposed to be waterproof. The hood over the lens and the infrared strobe were expensive additions, courtesy of Jeffery.

  When he had given her the new pieces she joked about turning her into a paparazzo. Jeffery didn’t find it amusing. He was an award-winning journalist, soon to be anchor-slash-host of his own daily news show—or at least that was his hope. Sam wondered if he realized he was getting too old to run with the young bulls in this industry.

  He’d come a long way from what he called his humble beginnings as a high school teacher. Sam didn’t know why this wasn’t enough for him. But his own show had become yet another obsession. He seemed determined to make it happen no matter what he had to do. No matter what Big Mac demanded. He didn’t care how many hurdles Sam had to jump, because he knew her future had become intertwined with his.

  She just wished she could make him understand why requests like this one, in particular, certainly made her feel like a paparazzo. He was doing this sort of thing more and more. The line began to blur between real journalism and sensational reality TV. If
only he could see her now.

  Sam was fumbling in her pocket for her flashlight when she noticed a beam of light ahead of her about a hundred yards. The shadow of a man followed.

  Sam froze.

  Maybe it was a resident walking his dog, though this was much too bumpy and steep to be a walking path. And she didn’t see a dog. The man seemed focused on the house on the other side of the fence. The brim of his baseball cap pointed in that direction.

  Who was Sam to judge? Here she was, late at night, sneaking around to get photos of that very same house.

  Twigs snapped in front of her. Something stirred in the tall grass that lined the ridge. She slipped to her knees and held her breath. She tried to reassure herself that wildlife probably lived down closer to the stream. It was probably a beaver or raccoon. Whatever it was, it was moving away from her and in the direction of the man.

  She eased her camera up, slowly, quietly, keeping her eyes on the grass. The zoom lens made the camera heavy enough that she had to use both hands. She started to raise it to eye level.

  “Put down the gun.”

  The voice from behind startled her so much she jumped. But instinct made her grip the camera tighter. At first she thought the warning was meant for the man ahead of her, but when she looked up for him, he was gone.

  “Put it down.” The woman’s voice came with measured breaths.

  “It’s not a gun.” Sam’s hands shook but she kept them from moving, from flinching under the camera’s weight. Would the woman really shoot her? In the back? “It’s a camera,” she tried to explain. “I’d rather not put it in the grass.”

  Oh God, she couldn’t believe she’d said that. Jeffery would certainly say she had grown a pair of cojones.

  “What the hell are you doing back here?”

  “Wildlife photography,” Sam said without missing a beat, realizing Jeffery had taught her to be an instinctively good liar. “There was something in the grass.” Not entirely a lie. Even her mother would agree that lying for self-preservation was forgivable.