by Shawn Grady
“How, Aidan? How is this fire one bit different from that fire with me? From that fire with Hartman?”
“I know what I need to do now.”
“Push in too far, until it’s too late?”
“No,” I said, louder this time. I looked ahead. Still no one visible in the void, only the yellow python in the cloud.
I saw the Mexican doctor, his outstretched hand. It became Hartman’s grasping mine from his hospital bed.
Clark manifested in orange reflective letters at the edge of the smoke, glinting from the back of Timothy’s coat.
I met up with him. “I’m going to head upstairs and do a primary search.”
He pulled on the hose with both hands. “You think that’s . . . where the seat is?”
“This one may have multiple starts.” The hint of a glow shone toward the back of the first floor. “You’re headed the right way. Knock that down and meet me at the stairwell.”
Concern crossed his face. “You sure?”
“We can’t let it burn beneath us.”
“All right. We’ll catch up with you.”
“Keep your radio on the tactical.” I patted him on the shoulder and moved past them.
I proceeded through the haze, wandering deeper until, like murky ocean floor images, came an antique helmet cabinet, the old chemical wagon, the Gamewell telegraph dispatch board, and then the broad wood-spoked wheels of the 1917 ladder truck. I ran a glove along its side until I came to the cab, squeezing a rail.
For my father.
I turned in the direction of the stairs, following the path as I knew it in my mind. With no hose slowing me down, my boot soon kicked the bottom step.
Above, at the crest of the stairwell, beyond the double doors to the upper showroom, brilliant flames tripped the light fantastic.
The temperature rose with every step. I held my father’s axe with both hands like a weapon rather than a tool, tightening and relaxing my grip on the handle. The doorway grew larger, brighter, until the top of the stairs had me crouching before the mouth of a furnace. A wall of flame stood guarding the door.
I turned, gritting my teeth. Even with a hose line up there, the water would only increase the intensity.
I couldn’t see him. But I knew he was in there.
How, with the heat?
From the belly of hell, my father’s murderer mocked me.
I moved to the right along the showroom wall, about ten feet from the doorway, and sounded out with the flat end of the axe until I found a space between the studs. There had to be another way in.
I struck hard. Plaster cracked. I struck again. And again, cracking through lath, busting through the void space until I breached the wall.
The same lightning brilliance met me at the hole. I unwedged my axe and pulled it back, the steel head hot even through my gloves.
No access there.
I tried the same strategy on the far left side of the door, swinging and grunting and busting through, only to find flame throughout.
My shoulders heaved. I fought to catch my breath, brimming with frustration.
The whole room couldn’t be on fire. I was too close to turn back. He was in there. I was sure of it, but not for much longer. He would slip away, making his untraceable escape the way he had so many times before.
I crouch-walked back to the doorway.
Think, Aidan. Think.
It was the only natural way in or out of the showroom. Had he burned himself into a corner? He could exit any number of ways if he broke through a wall, or the ceiling, or the floor. And in the chaos of the fire scene, who would know?
Simple words, prophetic and holy, resounded in my mind.
“When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned . . .”
I saw my father’s open Bible, the words alight on the page.
“Nor shall the flame scorch you.”
The doorframe flashed. Fire rippled up the lintels, lapping at the ceiling.
I was baptized with conviction.
I stood upright. The wall of flame raged. Burning buzzed at my clothing edges, grating my skin through the layers. My helmet shield warped.
“When you walk through the fire . . .”
Death and hell taunted.
“. . . you shall not be burned . . .”
The price had been paid.
“. . . Nor shall the flame scorch you.”
There was one way to end this. One way to overcome.
I gripped the axe tight at my side. I straightened my helmet and took one . . .
Last.
Deep.
Breath.
Then I stepped into the wall of fire.
CHAPTER
49
H ow do I describe it?
Passing through the flame felt like walking through a curtain of light.
Heat had no effect.
Weightless. Dynamic. Paranormal.
Emerging was not unlike coming from the harried backstage preparations for a play, through the curtain and into a broad but empty auditorium, rows of seats accentuating its vacuity.
The blaze retreated, and the hollow of the room fell into focus. The eye of the tempest. Smoke waved thin, the center of the showroom lit by a glowing circumference.
And at its fiery heart stood a man with his back to me, wearing a set of old Reno turnouts.
My father’s murderer. The one responsible for numerous deaths and injuries and the massive destruction of personal property. His time had come.
I cleared my throat.
His head tilted. He started to turn.
My heart beat like mad. “You’ve already killed one O’Neill.
I’m afraid you won’t be able to make it t—”
Cormac showed his face, grinning. “Make it what, Aidan?
Three?”
Air left my lungs. I stepped backward, off balance. I tried to form words, but my head felt heavy and unhinged. The wall of flame streaked across my vision like flashbulb lines. I set my axe on the floor to steady myself.
Why didn’t I see it before?
Cormac stepped toward me. “I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”
“Come to what?” My voice broke. “What are you . . . You killed Dad!”
He shook his head, opalescent waves warping across his face-piece. “Your father, like you, had a special knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“He was doing his job!”
“He was never a target.”
“A target?” I pulled the radio from my coat. “Command, Engine—”
He darted for my axe. I dropped the radio and grabbed the handle. We arced upward, locked like steers. His height advantage gave him leverage. He shoved the hickory into my chest. I planted my feet.
“James’s death was unexpected. That’s all, Aidan.”
Surging adrenaline pounded through my legs. I yelled and drove him back, the two of us falling in a tumbling mass. We smacked the floor. The axe flew free, spinning toward the wall of flame. I twisted to my feet, Cormac soon after.
He shook his head. “I wanted to humiliate. Not kill. You understand that? Your dad got caught in the middle, that’s all.”
“He was your brother!”
“It’s not my fault.”
“You’re a murderer!”
“Survival of the fittest, Aidan.”
We revolved around the room, the smoke and flame forming a dynamic border. He’d been Esau to my father’s Jacob. Now he was Cain to his Abel. Distant groans echoed overhead. Smoke swirled down from the ceiling.
“You’re diseased with jealousy,” I shouted. We circled in our predatory merry-go-round. “Why now? What brings you back? Grandpa’s dead. Dad’s dead. You want to finish me off? Is that it?”
He squinted. “Don’t think I haven’t tried.”
I saw the ocean and the wave that drew me up. I felt the water surge beneath me, and saw anew the expression on the man who stood the closest. No concern. No f
ear.
Just sick pleasure.
“You let that wave overtake me.”
His lips curled. “Exploitation is a natural consequence of the will to live.” He tightened the distance between us. “You think I came back just for you?” He took another step in. “If your friend hadn’t been snooping around in the first place . . .”
“Who? Blake?”
“His investigator came a little too close to Cardenas.”
Our pace quickened like mercury. Walls of smoke closed in.
“So you framed him. What’d you use? Potassium from the mines?”
His eyebrows rose. “I’m impressed.”
Lumber crashed outside the showroom. The smoke level lowered.
He drew closer. “You know, Aidan, let’s cut to it. Only one of us can make it out of this.” Lengthened creaks let out overhead. Fire ignited and quelled in the smoke above. A quick flash of fear crossed his face.
He wasn’t supposed to be there. He’d messed up somehow. “So what happened, Cormac? Try to set two fires in one place? Trip the system too quick?”
His cheek twitched, eyes darting around the room. My low-pressure bell sounded. He noticed and smiled. He reached into his side pants pocket and with one hand pulled out a long, black semi-curved object.
With his opposite hand he unfolded a glinting steel blade.
The room darkened. Coal-colored smoke encroached like fog. It dressed his shoulders like a cloak, as if he owned the room, the fire and the darkness his stewards. I glanced at my axe. The tip of the handle pointed toward the center of the room, the head lay square in the base of a now-enshrouded and dimming fire.
The potassium had a burn period. That’s what Cormac had been waiting for, his opportunity to jump past the wall of flame.
He held the knife in his fist, pointing with slicing motions as he spoke. “So many ways to disable an air pack. Cut that line there. Or that one. Vaya con Dios, Aidan-boy.”
He sprung.
I dove for the axe, sliding across the floor.
He passed over me, staggering and then regaining his balance, inverting the knife in his fist. He started back after me.
I scrambled for the handle, one chance to lunge. One chance before the cold flint of his blade drove down into me.
I made for it with a guttural yell.
My hand met the handle.
I whipped around on my back, thrusting the hickory out in front of me. The steel flathead, warped by the heat, let loose from the end and flew through the air, hitting Cormac’s mask with a sonorous crack. He stumbled backward, planted his feet and looked back at me. A jagged five-point fissure stretched over his facepiece.
His expression changed from surprise to anger to unadulterated panic. I shifted up off my elbows and made my feet, watching, aghast, as the inside of his mask filled with smoke.
He charged with his knife, but I shifted aside, pushing him to the floor. He scrambled to his feet and spun around. We crouched low, the smoke thickening and banking. He hacked and choked, then attacked again.
I grabbed his wrist and held the knife away. He clasped my throat with violent strength. I fought his grip and we stumbled backward, spinning like a wild gyroscope. My back hit the wall. We bounced and turned and collided with the doorframe. His hand worked from my throat up to the edges of my mask. I strained to keep him from dislodging the seal. His opposite wrist twisted under my hand, breaking free and sending the sudden stinging burn of his blade into my thigh.
I shouted and pushed him. We struggled through the doorway, his fingers digging under my mask.
Air leaked out, squeaking past my chin. We scuffled and shifted near the stairwell crest.
The stairs.
I took his weight and propelled mine with it, driving us down the open staircase. We flipped end over end, tumbling and smashing. We slammed to the floor, my helmet knocking over my facepiece.
And his grip was gone.
I lifted my helmet brim and felt my thigh. No blade, just a searing wetness. I scanned the floor and the smoke around me. No sign of Cormac. I made my knees and felt around with my gloves.
Nothing.
I reached for my radio pocket.
Empty.
My pack rang incessantly with the low-pressure alarm. Hot blood spilled from the wound in my thigh. And somewhere, swimming in that sea of black, my kinsman killer lurked.
CHAPTER
50
I stumbled to my father’s refurbished ladder truck and hung onto one of its side-mounted ladders. Hobbling through the darkness, I found the hose line and knelt by a coupling to feel for the lugs. The muscles in my thigh tightened and seized. I held pressure on the wound and moved forward. The bell on my pack slowed to an intermittent ring. Only a few breaths left.
I made for the sound of fans in the distance, skip-breathing.
Breathe.
Hold . . . Hold . . .
Breathe.
Hold . . . Hold . . .
The illumined entryway met me like the surface of water. I emerged into the open air and ripped off my helmet and mask. The fire scene spun with lights and activity. Everyone was around but no one was near. I put my helmet back on, loosened the air-pack straps and belt, and shook it to the ground.
A pike pole leaned against the doorframe. I grabbed it and supported my weight, scanning the parking lot.
No Cormac.
Only one other way out.
I limped around the corner of the building, through the shadows, dragging my foot over broken asphalt. The outer layer of my turnout pant leg was soaked through with blood. I grunted with every movement, pushing off the pike pole like a gondolier.
Beyond the back corner, a motor idled. I propped myself against the wall and peeked around the edge. A white van sat on the loading ramp, lights off, exhaust steaming from the tailpipe. The rear door beside the dock hung ajar, smoke rising out and up along the building side.
I held the pike pole in front of me and worked my way to the front of the van. Biting wind burned my cheeks. My skin numbed. My resolve set. The pike pole had become my harpoon, Cormac my white whale.
The driver’s seat was empty. I worked my way around the front, half expecting the van to drop into gear. But the passenger compartment looked vacant. I moved back toward the building, toward the smoke-belching door, then halted and tensed.
The door moved. Outward. Only an inch.
A scuffling sound grated inside.
The door moved again.
I couldn’t let him get away. Never mind that he was my uncle.
Forget that he was my father’s brother.
My flesh.
My blood. Akin to that which flowed hot and viscous, coating my leg as it had coated my palm.
As it had coated the palms of Love himself.
I lowered the pole.
The door shifted.
I straightened. This had to end.
The back of a turnout coat emerged. A firefighter duck-walked, pulling something heavy. The name across the jacket bottom read Sortish. His arms were under those of another firefighter, who lay limp. A firefighter with old Reno turnouts and a cracked mask.
I dropped the pike pole.
Timothy Clark appeared carrying the legs. They struggled out the door and set Cormac flat on the concrete porch.
Timothy held up his radio. “Command, we’ve located O’Neill. We need medics on the C side of the building.” He tore off his helmet and mask and ripped off his gloves. “Check for a pulse, I’ll get airway.”
Sortish unzipped Cormac’s coat. “Strong carotid.”
“His breathing’s shallow. Come on, Aidan.” Timothy pulled the face mask off and froze, staring at Cormac’s moustached face. “Who . . . Where’s O’Neill.”
“Right here.” I shuffled to the porch and stopped. “And right there.”
Timothy’s face showed surprise, then confusion and an eyebrow-knitting concern. “Aidan. You’re bleeding bad.”
I touched my saturat
ed pant leg. “It’s all right.”
The paramedics and a truck company charged around the corner.
“All of it,” I said. “It’s all right now.” Adrenaline receded like water in the sand. The ground started to wave.
Loss stopped.
Redemption mine.
My legs gave out, and what seemed like a dozen hands took my weight, lifting away my burden and yoke.
I awoke to see light bending in rainbows through large fluid bags hanging from IV poles. They were tethered by tubing to my arms. A third hung from a separate pole, shadowy sanguine and labeled A Pos in slanted cursive. A larger object eclipsed the light and came into focus.
Captain Mark Butcher.
I strained to sit up.
He put out a hand. “Sit back. It’s okay.”
Pushing down on the mattress to take the weight off my hip, I shifted upright anyway.
“You’re as stubborn as James ever was.” His affect softened.
Something had changed in those chiseled lines, so often etched with anger. “Aidan . . . I am sorry about your uncle.”
A sick feeling bored inside me. “Is he . . . Where is he?”
He swallowed and shifted his weight. “Look, you’re recuping, and I probably shouldn’t even be here right now.”
“Cap . . . Mark. Just tell me.”
“They think he’ll make it. He’s intubated on a vent. They’re going to fly him to a hyperbaric chamber.” He ran a hand down his whiskers, rubbing the ends of one side between his fingertips.
“Prevention investigated the van. Loaded with evidence. They’ve got more than enough to pin him with serial arson.”
I nodded. “And murder?”
“Sounds like the D.A. is working for multiple charges of first-degree murder.” The radio on his hip squawked. He turned it down. “I’m half tempted to go pull the plug on that ventilator myself.” He stared at the bed rail, then looked up. “Your father would be proud of you.” He patted the bed rail. “Heal up quick. We’ll miss you downtown.”
Butcher turned to leave and nodded to Ben Sower, who walked in, shoulder mic clipped to his coat.
Ben smiled with his eyes. “How’s the leg?”
“Feels like the worst charley horse ever.” I shifted in bed.
“They got you all doped up?”