Suspicious Origin

by MacDonald, Patricia

  Smoke billowed out the door of the house, and then, another firefighter came trudging out, his arms locked in a bent position as if he were pulling a wheelbarrow. Several feet behind him, a second fireman was visible in the same hunched stance. Suddenly, Ray realized that there were legs hooked over the forearms of the fireman in the lead. The second fireman had his arms under the same person’s shoulders. The figure of a soot-covered man in parka, boots and pajama bottoms hung hammocklike between them, his head lolling to one side. EMTs surged forward. The fireman who had been carrying the girl tore off his mask and cried out, “Get a backboard. He fell down the stairs, trying to carry the girl out.”

  “Is that Alec?” Ray cried.

  “I don’t know,” said Sam.

  A backboard was quickly produced. One of the EMTs was already examining the stricken man as the others strapped him to the board. “Was he conscious when you found him?” the EMT asked.

  The fireman who had come out with the child tried in vain to wipe soot off his face with his glove. “Probably overcome by the smoke. You can’t see your hand in front of your face in there.” The fireman sighed. “I hope he’s not paralyzed or something.”

  The EMT frowned. “Is he secured? Let’s get him to the hospital.” Ray and Sam edged closer as they lifted the man on the board and carried him to the ambulance. “Who is that?” Ray asked, as they passed in front of him. “That’s not Alec Lynch.”

  Sam shook his head. “Maybe it’s the neighbor. I heard he ran in to try and save the people inside.”

  Ray grabbed the yellow rubber sleeve of one of the passing fireman’s jackets. “Did you see anyone else in there? Alec Lynch, or his wife?”

  The fireman was about to answer when suddenly there was a crack and a roar and he let out a yelp. Ray turned around just in time to see the right side of the roof, where the fire was worst, cave in, sending up a star shower of embers followed by flames as the fire vented itself through the roof. The fireman began to run toward the blaze.

  “Kevin,” screamed a woman’s voice behind Ray. He turned and saw a slender young woman wearing slippers and a parka pulled on over a nightgown. Her mass of tumbling, amber curls framed a cameolike face now contorted by fear. “My husband,” she cried.

  Ray took her arm and tried to calm her. “I’m Chief Stern,” he said. “You’re looking for your husband?”

  “Yes,” she said, shivering, tears running down her face. “We live over there.” She gestured toward lights in the distance, holding her coat closed with the other hand. “My husband saw the fire. He ran over here to try to help. Is he still in there?”

  Dean Webster approached, wielding the mike. “Chief Stern,” he called out. “I need a word.”

  Ray angrily waved him off. “Not now,” he snapped. He turned back to the distraught woman. “I think they just brought your husband out. Let’s go see.”

  “His name is Carmichael. Kevin Carmichael,” she said miserably

  “Okay Mrs. Carmichael. You hang on to me.” Propelling her toward the ambulance, Ray was able to part the crowd, exchanging brief nods with the men who were dragging hoses toward the towering blaze. Their boots crunched on the slushy, icy ground and there were shouts in the darkness, the sound of slamming doors, the screech of tires and the wail of a siren as one ambulance revved up and sped off from the scene.

  “Is he in there?” Caroline cried.

  “I don’t think so,” said Ray. “I think they took him into the van over there.” They arrived at a second ambulance, as the EMTs were hooking up IVs to the man strapped to the backboard. Kevin Carmichael had regained consciousness, but his eyes were only half open as the painkillers the workers administered raced through his veins. Despite the oxygen mask and the soot on his face, Ray suddenly recognized the man. He was an attorney, new to Coleville. Ray had seen him in court a couple of times, sleekly groomed and wearing expensive suits the likes of which they rarely saw in Glace Mountain County Courthouse. Ray wished he could ask the man if he’d seen Alec Lynch or his wife in the house, but the man’s nose and mouth were covered with an oxygen mask.

  “Kevin, oh my God,” Caroline cried and rushed to try to embrace him.

  An EMT roughly blocked her way. “No, ma’am, don’t touch him. He may have a back injury. We’re not sure how bad it is, yet.”

  “I need to be with him,” she pleaded.

  “You can stay with him,” the EMT said. “You can ride in the ambulance with him. Just don’t jostle him.”

  Caroline nodded obediently and approached her husband, looking him in the eye and gently taking his hand. “I’m here, darling,” she said.

  “He’s groggy,” said the EMT. “He was in a lot of pain so we gave him something.”

  Kevin gazed at his wife. He mumbled something, but it was incomprehensible through the mask.

  “Don’t try to talk,” Caroline murmured. “You’re gonna be okay.”

  Ray leaned over Caroline’s shoulder and looked the man in the eye. “I’m Ray Stern, the police chief. That was a very brave thing you did, Mr. Carmichael.”

  The man’s gaze shifted slowly to Ray’s face.

  “The little girl’s on her way to the hospital,” the EMT said in a loud voice. “I think she’ll be fine. We need to get you there, now, Mr. Carmichael.”

  Taking the hint, Ray stepped back out of the way as one EMT helped Caroline climb into the ambulance, while another slammed the bay doors closed.

  As Ray turned away from the departing ambulance he saw Annabel, standing at the edge of the crowd, staring at the burning house as blackened sections of the walls began to crack and implode. He strode over to her.

  Annabel looked up at him. “That must have been Greta’s daughter. Was that man her husband?”

  Ray shook his head grimly. “A neighbor. He went in to try and help. Brought the little girl out but he fell on the stairs and got banged up. I don’t know how bad.”

  “God bless him.” Annabel shook her head and looked back at the house. “What about Greta and her husband? Tell me they’re not still in there,” she said fearfully.

  “I’ve been trying to find out. They had an oxygen mask on the neighbor, so I couldn’t ask him,” said Ray. “I’m going to go talk to Chief Shepard. He’ll know. Are you okay here?”

  “Good Lord, don’t worry about me,” she said.

  Ray nodded and pushed his way through the crowd of emergency workers until he reached the fire chief. Jim Shepard was shouting and gesturing to the men around him. Ray waited until he paused.

  “Jim…“he said. “What can we do?”

  The fire chief shook his head and sighed. “You’re doing it. All we can do now is keep people away. I just ordered all my men out of there. We’ve lost it. It’s a surround-and-drown situation now”

  “Was there anyone else…?”

  The fire chief nodded. “Apparently the child’s mother was on the second floor. It looks like the fire started in her bedroom. By the time we got here, that half of the second floor was fully involved. They could see her but there was no way to reach her. We tried going through the windows, but we couldn’t get to her.”

  “Oh God, no.” Ray glanced over at his wife who was watching him worriedly.

  “No sign of the father,” Jim continued. “I’ll tell you. It’s horrible to have to leave someone in there.”

  Ray shook his head. “You did all you could.”

  The fire chief stared at the inferno. “It went up so damn fast.”

  Suddenly, a midnight blue Mercedes roared up and screeched to a stop, narrowly missing a cluster of onlookers in the darkness. A dark-haired man in a leather jacket jumped from the car and ran toward the burning house. Ray recognized Alec Lynch.

  “Stop him,” Ray yelled, as Sam Boudreau and his partner, Randy Porter, seized the man and pulled him back to where the chief stood.

  “Greta,” Alec Lynch cried. “My daughter is in there. My wife Ray grabbed the man by the upper arms.

  “Alec,
” he shouted. “Listen to me. They got your daughter out of there.”

  The man peered at Ray as if he did not comprehend the words. “Zoe is safe?”

  Sam Boudreau nodded. “She’s in the ambulance already.”

  “She’s gonna be all right,” Ray assured him. “One of the neighbors pulled her out. She’s already on her way to the hospital.” Ray could hardly bear to see the panic, the disbelief in Alec’s eyes as he stared at the hellish glow of the fire. “Your little girl is all right,” he repeated. “She’s in the ambulance. They’re taking care of her.”

  “Are you sure?” Alec whispered.

  Ray nodded. “I saw them taking her myself.”

  Alec stared at the blaze. Then he looked at Ray. “Greta?” he asked.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t look like…” Ray said, feeling like a coward for not wanting to repeat what he’d heard. “Alec, I’m afraid… I don’t think she made it out of there.”

  Alec’s knees buckled, and Sam and Randy Porter rushed to prop him up. Alec began to shake his head. “No. No. It can’t be.”

  Ray pressed his lips together. This was the worst duty in the world, he thought. Having to tell people that their loved one was gone. It was always so sudden. So horribly unexpected. It was the kind of news you never got used to delivering.

  “It’s possible it wasn’t Greta,” Ray said. “But the firefighters saw a woman…”

  Alec’s eyes widened. “No,” he pleaded. Then he tried to pull away from Ray. “Greta,” he started to yell at the burning house.

  Alec Lynch was shorter than Ray, but heavier, and very strong. Ray was glad when Sam Boudreau rushed to help restrain him. Ray couldn’t have held him back by himself. Randy Porter joined them and together, they encircled the grieving man who was striving to break free and enter the inferno.

  Ray felt a hand on his elbow. He turned and saw Annabel’s pale face in the dark.

  “Is it Greta?” she whispered fearfully.

  “It looks like it,” he said. Ray looked back at the fire. There were half a dozen hoses trained on it now, smoke belching from every window and door, and stubborn flames continuing to spring up in defiance of the wall of water.

  “It’s not her. I’d know it if it were her,” Alec was insisting.

  Ray nodded, recognizing the illogical reasoning of love. “I know.”

  “Let me go. I want to go in there,” Alec cried.

  “No one can go in there now,” said Ray, gripping him firmly.

  Annabel’s lip trembled, and he could see that her eyes were bright with tears. “Mr. Lynch, I’m so sorry,” she said. She tried to put a comforting hand on Alec’s forearm but he recoiled and glowered at her.

  “No,” Alec Lynch insisted. He looked back at the burning house in disbelief. He began to shake his head furiously as if he could shake off the terrible news.

  “Such a tragedy,” Annabel said.

  “Noooo… it can’t be.” Alec Lynch’s cries rent the smoke-filled air. He covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders began to shake. The police officers released him, as he crumpled under the realization of his loss.

  Ray gazed sorrowfully at the stricken man. Sam Boudreau looked questioningly at Ray. “Should I take him to the hospital, Chief? His little girl probably wants to see him.”

  Ray nodded his approval. “That’s a good idea,” he said. He spoke softly into Alec’s ear. “Alec,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do here. Officer Boudreau will take you to see your daughter at the hospital. Come on now,” he said. “You have to be strong for your little girl. She needs you.”

  Alec nodded slightly, staring at the ground. He did not try to shake off Ray’s comforting hand. Sam stepped forward and took his arm. “Come on, Mr. Lynch. I’ll drive you.” Alec Lynch allowed himself to be led away, still hunched over from the shock. The TV newsmen hovered at a discreet distance from the distraught husband.

  Ray watched Alec, his own heart filled with a sympathetic anguish. He pulled Annabel’s arm through his and held her hand tightly. “That poor soul,” Ray whispered to his wife. “He’ll spend the rest of his life torturing himself… wondering if he could have saved her, if only he had come home sooner.”

  Chapter Three

  Checking her watch and her clipboard, Britt Andersen hurried into the office across from Studio Three, Nancy Lonergan, a trim grandmother of three with frosted hair and carefully applied makeup, was gazing over the top of her tortoiseshell half glasses at a computer screen. On the monitor behind her, Donovan Smith was introducing a commercial, and mentioning the name of his next guest, a Massachusetts congressman, who would be the last guest of the night on his live talk show. “Nancy,” said Britt, handing her a note off her clipboard. “Can you search this? Donovan wants to know how this guy voted on the gun control bill.”

  Nancy sighed and studied the note. She was used to these rush queries while the show was in progress. If a question occurred to Donovan during an interview, he expected the information right away. “Give me a minute,” Nancy said, and began to rattle the keys on her computer, her fingers a blur.

  Britt was always amazed at the lightning speed with which this widowed Boston matron could surf the Net. Nancy had worked as a researcher for Donovan when he was a columnist at the Boston Globe, and had joined him when he moved to network television. “It was a godsend,” she had once told Britt. “It happened just after my husband died, so I could work nights rather than sit home in an empty house.” While Nancy impatiently urged her computer on, Britt stood beside her desk, and gazed absently at the framed photos of Nancy’s late husband, Milt, her daughters and granddaughters. Britt had seen the photos a thousand times, but had never met any of the people in them. She and Nancy often stepped out for a glass of wine or a bite to eat, but Britt resisted any effort Nancy made to include her in family events and holidays. Just last week she had begged out of Thanksgiving dinner, saying she had to work. Britt preferred to think of her friend as just another single woman. Shaking her head, Nancy drew in a noisy breath. “Here we go. I’ll print it out for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Britt.

  The laser printer spat out the sheet and Nancy quickly highlighted the sought-after information.

  Britt lifted the page from Nancy’s fingertips, ready to rush to the set when one of Donovan’s assistants, an exotic, dark-haired beauty in a midriff-baring top, opened the door to the office and whispered, “Donovan really needs that voting record.”

  Britt handed her the page. “Why don’t you run it out to him,” she said coolly. Britt watched on the monitor as Donovan thanked the girl, with a lazy smile, and then, at a signal from the floor assistant, began his introduction of the congressman, smoothly incorporating the information into his remarks.

  “Phew, I’m getting too old for this,” Nancy said.

  “Not you,” Britt said. “Never.”

  “Really,” Nancy insisted. “I’ve been with him for seventeen years and it never fails. At the last minute, he needs something more. I don’t know why I even poured this.” She indicated a mug on her desk with a tea bag string and label drooping over the side of the cup.

  “Really,” said Britt. She opened a bottle of water and took a swig. “Luckily, that wraps it up for the night.”

  Nancy picked up her mug of cold tea and lifted out the depleted tea bag. “I shouldn’t complain,” she said. “So many widows my age sit home at night, wishing the phone would ring. Me? I’m grateful for peace and quiet when I get home.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Britt wryly. “This job is perfect if you have no social life.”

  “Well, you,” Nancy chided her. “You’re young. You should be out there having fun and meeting nice, available men.”

  “When would I fit it in?” Britt asked airily.

  “Now Britt, you know what I think. You should get out of here. Get away from him.”

  “Wouldn’t you miss me?” Britt asked.

  “No,” said Nancy firmly. “Because we wo
uld still be friends. But this job isn’t good for you, Britt.”

  Britt glanced at her reflection in the mirrored wall. She was wearing the black turtleneck and khaki pants that were her work uniform. She had not combed her honey-blond hair since this morning, although a good haircut kept it in place fairly well. There were bluish circles under her large brown eyes. She had a wide jaw and features that looked great with makeup. She just never had time to apply any. “You’re probably right,” she conceded with a sigh. “I just don’t have time to look for another job.”

  “Oh fiddlesticks,” said Nancy. “You’re making excuses. Taking care of Donovan has become a bad habit with you.”

  “You, too,” Britt countered, trying to deflect her friend’s advice.

  “I’m not young and pretty and keeping myself out of circulation,” Nancy reminded her. “I want to see you happy.”

  Britt sighed. “I am happy,” she said firmly, wanting to change the subject. She had met Donovan Smith when she was seated next to him at a luncheon in San Francisco about three years ago. At the time, she was running the news department of a local TV station. Donovan was dazzling, and before the luncheon was over he had convinced her to move to Boston and take the producer’s job for his TV talk show, a favorite with night-owl intellectuals in Boston. Their affair had started her second week on the job. Of course he was married, but at first she didn’t care. It was heady and exciting. By the end of the year it was disillusioning. During her second year on the job, Donovan had started another affair with Britt’s student intern. She should have quit then, but she didn’t. She told herself it was a good job and she wasn’t going to give it up over a failed romance. She could still work with him, and forget the personal stuff. At least that was what she told herself.