Twilight

by Kristen Heitzmann

  The man was a stranger, dressed in an oversized wool tweed overcoat with a black muffler at his neck and a cell phone sticking out of his pocket. He pulled a pipe from between his teeth and said, “I didn’t. I came over the hill and saw him lying there.”

  “Were you alone on the road?”

  The man took a puff. “I’m not saying it’s connected, but a way back, I was passed by a black sports car—”

  “A Firebird?” Cal interrupted, and Danson frowned.

  “Could have been. I didn’t notice the model, but he was late for wherever he was going.”

  Danson asked, “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “Only that it was a man …” He eyed Cal. “About your age. I think there were others, at least one in the passenger seat. But like I said, I didn’t see them having anything to do with this.” He dropped his gaze to the corpse in the ditch. “What was he doing out here on a day like this?”

  Cal shook his head as Danson searched the body for identification and came up empty. No name, no identity. Cal looked up and down the ditch for the parcel or pack vagrants usually carried. Except for the liquor bottle, the ditch was uncluttered. Not much to show for a life passing there.

  Not much of a crime scene either, as far as he could tell. But that was Danson’s job. Officer Tate finished taking down everything the motorist said, then radioed the coroner, Dr. McGill, who was also the mortician. Cal doubted McGill would find anything surprising in his autopsy. Alcohol in the blood, and death by blunt trauma.

  “Will there be anything else?” The motorist emptied his pipe onto the powdery frost at the edge of the road.

  Danson scowled at that fouling of the crime scene. “As long as we know how to reach you.”

  “The officer has my cell number.” The man walked back to his car. With one more glance at the victim, he climbed in and drove away.

  Cal stood with Danson. There was nothing more he could do. It was in the hands of criminologists now, such as Montrose had. Rarely did they deal with homicide, even vehicular. He turned to leave.

  Danson stopped him. “What’s this about a black Firebird?”

  “One ran me off the road night before last.” Cal touched the stitched gash.

  “You might have reported it.”

  Cal shrugged. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. Maybe a macho desire to handle it himself, maybe more. But now they were talking vehicular homicide, with no witness. For all they knew this poor, drunk fool was weaving down the street or fell in front of the guy’s wheels. That still made it hit-and-run, but it was a stretch to think anyone had hit the old guy on purpose. They had no I.D. on the vehicle. Not for sure. The old guy just got in the way of someone’s errand, someone who didn’t much care who got knocked down.

  Cal hung the handy-talkie back on his belt and headed for the truck.

  “Morrison?”

  He turned.

  “I want to know if anything else happens, you hear?”

  “Yep.”

  The pie was exceptional. He ate it ravenously as he filled out the report. Nothing like a good dessert for covering a bad taste, and that hit-and-run had left a bad taste. He’d seen death, God knew. Even senseless death. But not deliberate. Not out here where folks still lived by the golden rule. He swigged the cider and it warmed him.

  What was he thinking? They had no proof that guy’s death was anything but an accident—freak accident of two objects following the same time-space continuum. For that matter, his run-in with the Firebird could be the same thing, so why was he even connecting the two?

  The claxton device jarred him, jangling him worse than the first time. He answered the hotline and heard, “Uh, we got a cat poled at 1440 Walnut. Repeat—”

  “Yeah, I got it the first time. That’s Ida Blair’s place, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry I don’t …”

  Some of the volunteer dispatchers were less adept than Frieda, who handled the higher volume times with ease.

  “Engine two responding.” Cal hung up. Where else in the country did the fire department still rescue poled cats? It was the chief ’s unnatural fondness for the fur balls that kept them at it. He pulled on his department-issue coat and once again took the rescue vehicle to the scene. As he drove, he tried not to think of the old guy in the ditch.

  If he’d reported the Firebird incident before, would the man be dead now? Maybe. Probably. Chuck Danson could no more act on a sketchy, half-seen complaint like his than on a hit-and-run with no witness. Still, it hadn’t been professional to keep it quiet. It had been personal.

  He’d assumed that the Firebird was somehow linked to Laurie. Okay, maybe he was paranoid. Maybe he still looked for an excuse, a reason why she needed him. But that broken window could have been more than she let on. He’d mishandled that. He should have forced answers from the start. Even if it pushed her away, as he knew it would.

  He swung the corner wide and headed down First Street. He slowed at Walnut and took in the scene. Ida Blair, wrapped in a quilt, stood under the electrical pole with a saucer in one hand and a stuffed mouse in the other. Her hair looked as though she’d already made contact with the wires. He pulled the truck to a stop across the street parallel to the pole and got out.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Blair.”

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. Bootsey’s got herself in a real fix. A real bad fix.”

  Cal looked up the pole at the gray-and-black tiger whose eyes gaped like an owl’s. She was scared all right, but what did the stupid animal expect? “I’ll fetch her down for you.” He reached into the truck for his spiked boots and pulled them on.

  Snapping the strap to the belt at his waist, he hooked it around the pole and attached the other end to the belt. Then grasping the ends of the strap, Cal dug the cleats of his boot into the pole and started up. With each dig, the cat’s eyes grew wider and she tightened herself into a ball, nails impaling the wood. “Hey, there, Bootsey. Remember me?” He neared the top.

  The cat growled low in her throat.

  “Oh, you do remember.”

  The cat hissed.

  “Come on, now …” He reached for the nape of her neck. Like a taut spring she launched herself over his head and sailed to the ground with a thud, then dashed to the back door Ida had left open.

  “Oh! Oh, my baby, my poor Bootsey!” The milk from the saucer sloshed up her arm as Ida Blair followed her inside.

  Cal slacked his weight against the strap and hung there. “You’re welcome,” he muttered, then let himself down. But he couldn’t blame Ida. From the looks of it, she had no one but Bootsey to spend the holiday with.

  He drove back to the station. It was empty and cold. When had it gotten so dingy? It needed paint. It needed light and bodies and laughter. He missed the camaraderie, the roughhousing. He missed talking through the trauma, knowing the others felt the same.

  He shook his head. He’d changed all that … for himself, anyway. He’d pushed them away, kept it in. No one, not one man there had broken through the wall, not even Rob, especially when the booze made Cal wild enough to use his fists. He gripped the doorjamb and went inside.

  His footsteps echoed up the stairs and, entering the office, he thumbed through the reports. Car alarm, poisoning, dog bite … gasoline fire, just a shed. No one injured, thankfully. Gasoline went bad fast, too fast. He stared at the wall, remembering his training, not just the fire fighting, but the chemistry of extinguishment, CPR trauma injury, EMT and paramedic certification, his red card that interfaced wild land fire and urban …

  He was more highly trained than anyone besides Frank; he made and ran the training videos for the whole area. And what was he now? A clown. He dropped the reports to the table. “I can rescue cats. There’s no better cat-nabber alive. So what if they hate me?” He rubbed the shoulder that was pulling a little from the climb. “And now I’m talking to myself. Not a good sign, Cal.”

  The silence hung like fog. Even the phone stayed quiet. The hours dragg
ed. He spent them doing housekeeping, cleaning out cabinets, sorting, filing. He even washed down the walls. One call came in, a choking, but before he could respond, the victim expelled the obstruction, and he could hear everyone in the background cheering. He readied to go out anyway and check the choker’s ABC’s—airway, breathing, and circulation—but the victim got on the phone and spoke clearly and strongly. She was fine.

  Daylight faded and evening drew on. He wished he could get the old drunk out of his mind. What a way to go. Alone and senseless, out on some road like an animal, road kill. There should be more to life, more than checking out with no one around to care. He felt morbid and depressed thinking about it.

  Cal stretched, loosened his shoulders and back. Fifteen hours and he’d be home free—if nothing worse happened. The phone jarred him from his thoughts. His heart started to race, worse than before, worse than normal adrenaline alertness. Too many possibilities. Too many chances to screw up. He started to sweat and forced down the panic.

  He lifted the receiver, braced for emergency. Laur ie’s voice brought a rush of relief, and he realized dispatch had not toned this call out. The claxton device had not sounded. He was getting careless. Details like that used to be automatic.

  “Mildred told me you were there.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, giving him nothing to go on. No fear, no contrition, only the sweet sound of her voice.

  “I’m here till eight tomorrow morning. All by my lonesome.” What was he trying to prove?

  “Can I come by?”

  His rush accelerated, the feelings he’d held at bay threatening again. “Sure.” An unexpected overture. Especially after their tangling last night. He hung up and prayed the phone would stay silent. “Over the river and through the woods, to the firehouse she comes …” He strode to the mirror by the lockers and ran a comb through his hair. “She knows the way to make my day …” The phone rang, and he kicked the wall.

  “Fire station.”

  “Cal? I forgot to ask if you’d eaten.”

  He let out his breath. Did one pumpkin pie count? “Not to speak of.”

  “Good. Be there in a minute.”

  He pressed the receiver home and held it there. If Mr. Dispatch ruined this …

  Cal opened the door and stood outside to wait. The emergency tone would sound out there as loudly as within if he were needed. Laurie pulled up and climbed out of the car even as he reached for her door. She held a foil-covered plate balanced on a paper-wrapped package and looked as though her day hadn’t been much better than his. “Mother’s efforts. She let me cut and chop but didn’t risk more than that.” She followed him inside and set the plate, more like a platter, on the table in the lounge.

  He just drank her in with his eyes, afraid one word might make her disappear. After all, he’d hallucinated before. And his mind was muddled enough after last night’s fiasco. What was she doing there? Hadn’t he let her go?

  “Well, eat it while it’s hot.”

  The aroma wafted into the room when she pulled the foil off. He tried not to drool as he snatched a fork from the drawer and sat down. She took the chair opposite, holding the package clutched to her chest.

  He nodded toward it. “What’s in there?”

  “Something for you. Just something I had.” She pushed it across the table to him.

  She’d come bearing gifts?

  “I’m sorry about last night.” She looked sincere, biting her lower lip.

  He didn’t say anything to that. It was so un-Laurie to bring a reconciliation gift, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He set down his fork and reached for it, pulled the paper off the book and read, “Selected Poems. Uh …”

  “I know it’s poetry, but there’s some in there I think you’ll like. Robert Frost’s. I always think of you when I read him.”

  “And you think it’s time I got past The Cremation of Sam McGee?”

  She smiled. “Like you, Frost loved the woods and … well, the road not taken.”

  What was she saying? The road not taken … their road? Better not go there. With Laurie it was never good to assume. Take things at face value. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She leaned back in her chair while he savored the turkey and stuffing and green-bean casserole, and suffered through the yams. “This is really good.” Between bites, he relished her. Just having her across the table was so unexpected, a bonus he would never have anticipated.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She looked cute in the turtleneck and oversized flannel shirt. It reminded him of when she used to wear his.

  It had amused her to knock around in his clothes. First his letter jacket, then his class ring, then his flannel shirts. Maybe he’d thought wrapping her in his trappings would somehow hold her. He’d been wrong, though.

  She folded the foil into a compact square. “So … give me a tour?”

  He wolfed down the last bites and wiped his mouth, then led her out of the lounge to the garage. He walked her around the ladder truck. “You saw this baby seven years ago. Remember we went for a spin?”

  “I remember.” She rubbed the fender.

  To celebrate receiving one of the four paid positions with the department, he’d hijacked the engine and picked her up. She hadn’t been overly impressed. “Volunteering’s fine, but why not learn a real profession?” By that she’d meant something that paid better, required a suit maybe, diplomas on the wall. The things that mattered to her.

  He turned. “That one’s for search and rescue, medical emergencies. It takes the brunt of the load these days, except for fires. Still need the ladder for that.” Something quivered inside. Don’t go there. Don’t picture or imagine. Don’t remember. “Here’s where we bunk.” He dragged his thoughts back and swung his arm toward the adjoining sleeping quarters, a small eight-by-eight square with two bunks and a clothes rack. No good lingering there either. He headed up the stairs to the office and conference room.

  “This is where we do business, training, that sort of thing. I’m in charge of the new recruits. I take them green and turn them out seasoned and ready for action.” Right. As though anyone is ever ready.

  “What else do you do?”

  “Wanna see some magic?”

  “Magic?”

  He motioned to the stairs, and she preceded him back down.

  “I won’t do the costume if you don’t mind. If a call comes in, I don’t want to respond in clown makeup.” She laughed. “I’d guess not.”

  “Take your seat, ma’am. I’m about to dazzle you with feats of cunning and sleight of hand, wonders of such magnitude as never before seen within these walls.” And that was true. He never did his act for the guys. He pulled down the box of puppets while she took the chair in the lounge. He positioned the wooden-headed fireman on his left arm and worked the lever to the mouth. “What’s this, Cal? We get to play for this babe?”

  “That’s right, Rocky.” He used his straight radio voice to respond.

  “Wow!” The puppet rocked back. “Beats those runny-nosed kids any day.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “So … is there remuneration?” Cal lurched the puppet toward her and worked the eyebrows up and down.

  She rested her chin on her fist, elbow to the table. It was obvious she wouldn’t encourage him. But then, she never had.

  He pulled the puppet back. “Nope. This is a free performance.”

  “I didn’t mean money, bonehead.”

  “Who are you calling bonehead?” Cal rapped his knuckles on the wooden skull.

  Laurie laughed.

  “Hey, cut that out.” The puppet ducked away.

  “You sit here and behave yourself.” Cal settled Rocky on the edge of the table and pulled out an aluminum pan full of wadded paper and an oversized lighter. He’d start with his best trick. “Now, then, would you be so kind?” He handed her the lighter.

  She ignited the paper. It had taken him a while to work into this trick, but he didn’t sh
ow it. He clamped on the lid. “Grease fire. Think quick; reach for the …”

  “Baking soda.” Laurie pointed to the box he held up.

  “You hear that, Rocky? The lady’s a sharp one.”

  Cal reached for the puppet with one hand and worked the mouth. “Pretty too. Brains and bod—what a combination.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that line goes over well with the kids.”

  “Watch your mouth, Rocky. You can’t insult an audience of one.”

  “It wasn’t an insult.” The eyebrows worked up and down. “Cal likes the brains. I prefer the—”

  He yanked the puppet up by its neck. “One more word, and it’s back to the box for you.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.” He clapped the wooden mouth shut with a snap.

  Laurie shook her head, laughing. He fed on that laugh.

  “Now, then. Pour the baking soda into the pan.” He turned the vent in the lid, and she shook in the baking soda. “That’s good.” He spun it shut again. “Say the magic words.”

  Laurie said, “Abracadabra.”

  “No, no, no. We do fire magic here, lady. The magic words are stop, drop, and roll. Help me out, now. Stop …”

  She spoke the words, and he flung open the lid to reveal the white mice scampering inside. She leaned forward. “How’d you do that?”

  “Ah, ha, ha. That is the question. But I’m—”

  The claxton toned.

  “Grrr. Don’t move.” He ran for the garage extension, picked up the hotline, and listened to the dispatch. No getting around it. “Engine two in service.” Cal hung up, snatched his coat, and met her in the doorway. “I gotta go.”

  “Go.”

  He leaped for the smaller truck, triggered the garage door and the emergency signal, and fired the engine. “Watch your ears!” He started the siren. Glancing in the rearview mirror as he pulled out, he saw her standing in the doorway, hands to her ears like a little girl. He wished he could just hug her.

  Laurie watched until the lights and siren were gone. Turning back, she searched the big sterile room that held the trucks and gear. Cal’s place, his work. More than work, his identity. As long as she’d known him this was what he wanted to do. But she’d been surprised when Mildred said he was there today.