by Loree Lough
Only everything, Ian thought.
“So what’s bugging you?”
“Leave it, son. Just leave it, okay?”
“No can do. The longer you stay in this mood, the more likely you are to go back to your old ways.” He paused long enough to let that sink in. “It’d be a shame. You just earned your five-year chip, don’t forget.”
“Thanks to you and Gladys, I can’t forget.”
How much time had to pass before the man let go of this defeatist mind-set?
“Heard from your mother lately?”
So that’s what caused this latest bout of down-in-the-mouth: He’d bet anything that his dad had been looking through the photo albums again. “She sent a card for my birthday, with a $25 gift card to Applebee’s.”
“Yeah, I remember. Cheap, self-centered witch. You’d think she’d pick up the phone once in a while, see how you’re doing. You are still her son, even if she did run off with The Uppity Professor. Bet that boy of theirs is a royal pain in the you-know-what.”
To see how he was doing? He almost laughed out loud.
“She makes one stupid decision,” Brady continued, “and you and I pay for it for the rest of our lives.”
One stupid decision.
The years had tamed his animosity toward Ruth. Seemed to Ian his dad would be a lot happier and more productive if he’d do the same.
“If you ask me, our lives are pretty good. What’s that old saying...we’ve got three hots and a cot. And each other, too. What more do we need?”
“Good grief, boy,” Gladys said, satiny skirt rustling as she swished into the room, “are you quoting The Old Hobo’s Handbook again?”
She stooped to pet Cash.
Ian grinned. “Thought the mutt and I might have to suit up to find you.”
“Don’t waste your SAR talents on the likes of me,” she teased, sliding onto the stool beside his and helping herself to a bite of Ian’s sandwich. “So how was it, being back in her arms?” she said around it.
He wanted to say horrible. Terrific. Painful. Outstanding. Instead, Ian told Gladys what Maleah had said.
Eyes wide, she inhaled a sharp gasp. “Why, the coldhearted little brat!” Dusting bread crumbs from her fingers, she added, “Oh, is she gonna get a piece of my mind next time I see her.”
Brady looked past Ian to say, “I wouldn’t if I were you. It isn’t as though you have much to spare.”
She aimed a steely glance in her brother’s direction. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.” She faced Ian. “How did you react?”
“I didn’t. Good thing, too, since it didn’t take long to figure out she was joking.”
“Jokes are supposed to be funny, nephew.” She aimed a red-taloned finger at him. “You can pretend she didn’t hurt you until the cows come home, but I know better.”
“Why didn’t you say something, son, instead of putting up with my selfish mood?”
For one thing, his dad’s mood distracted Ian from his own.
“I’m fine, you two. It isn’t like I haven’t heard stuff like that before. In a day or two, I’ll have forgotten all about it.”
It wasn’t true, but they didn’t need to know that.
Gladys yawned and stretched. “Much as I hate to admit it, I’m pooped. I’ll see you down-in-the-dumps dudes in the morning.” After giving Cash a last pat on the head, she zeroed in on Brady. “Well?”
Both dark eyebrows rose. “Well what?”
“Are you going to sit there all night, or go home and let this boy get some much-needed shuteye?”
Brady glanced at the clock. “Gee. How time flies—”
“—when you’re feeling sorry for yourself,” Gladys finished, “again.”
Fortunately, Brady chose to read the comment as a joke, and following noisy kisses, bear hugs, and sweet dreams wishes, he and his sister went home—Gladys to the apartment to the left of Ian’s, Brady to the right.
Ian cleaned up the sandwich fixings and changed into flannel PJ bottoms and a T-shirt, grateful for the tick-tack of Cash’s toenails filling the quiet, semidark rooms.
The dog nudged his fingertips, putting an end to his musing.
“Time for a treat?”
The dog answered with a huffy bark and, after handing him a small bone-shaped biscuit, Ian plopped into his recliner. It didn’t surprise him at all when Cash lay the treat beside the chair and leaned his chin on its arm.
“You’re welcome, buddy,” Ian said, scratching the soft fur between the dog’s floppy ears.
Satisfied, Cash lay down and began gnawing on the bone.
“We’ve got a pretty good life, don’t we?”
The pointer stopped chewing long enough to aim a doggy smile at his master.
“Only one thing missing...”
Cash’s eyebrows rose, first one, then the other, as if to say, But...you just said we have a good life. Make up your mind!
“Good point,” Ian said, grinning. He kicked back in the chair. “Should-a seen her tonight. Man.” Ian exhaled a sad sigh. “You’d like her...when she isn’t spouting pent-up rage.”
Cash walked away from the treat, put his paw on Ian’s knee. The moment of intense man-to-dog eye contact compelled him to lean forward and kiss the top of Cash’s head. “No need to worry about me, buddy. I’m okay.”
His calm reassurance was enough to send the dog back to crunching on his treat.
Ian grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. While flicking through the channels, he stopped on Channel 45’s late news broadcast. When the screen filled with Maleah’s gorgeous face, he turned up the volume. The icon in the corner said WASHBURNE KIDS FIRST GALA DIRECTOR MALEAH TURNER.
“Oh yes,” she was saying, “this has been one of Washburne-Albert’s most successful fund-raisers to date, thanks to hard-working volunteers like Ian Sylvestry.”
He caught himself grinning. “Well, what do you make of that?”
Cash cocked his head and looked at the TV, and promptly went back to chewing. Had a guilty conscience prompted the compliment? Or did she really believe he’d contributed heavily to the campaign’s success?
If he thought it possible to live a normal happy life with Maleah...
Ian shook his head, and when the station switched to another feature story, he flipped to a black-and-white Western.
It had been a ridiculous thought. In order to move forward with a plan like that, he’d first need to earn back her trust. But for that to happen, he’d have to earn the trust of the rest of the Turners, too. Both objectives seemed too far out of reach, and promised to sap him of more time and patience than he possessed.
“What do you think, buddy? Am I a fool to think I should I go for it?”
A bored sigh whooshed from the dog’s lungs.
“My sentiments exactly.”
But even as he said it, Ian started thinking about things he could do to work his way back into her good graces.
He’d start with an early-morning visit to see what she needed from him now that the gala was behind them.
His cell phone rang, startling him and Cash.
Dropping the footrest, his heart beat harder at the sight of the familiar SAR number in the caller ID screen.
“Sylvestry...”
“We can use you and Cash,” the incident commander said. “How soon can you be here?”
“Be where?”
“Building collapse in Cherry Hill. Dangerous neighborhood; make sure you and the dog wear the Kevlar vests...”
“Wouldn’t leave home without ’em. See you in twenty.”
Cash, sensing he had a job to do, stood, tail wagging. And Ian didn’t bother changing clothes since he’d step into protective gear once he arrived on site. “When was the la
st time we gassed up the truck?”
The dog blinked and smiled as Ian buckled the SAR collar.
“Think we have enough in the tank to make the twenty-minute drive to Cherry Hill Road and home again?”
More canine smiling and blinking as Ian secured Cash’s pocketed vest.
As it turned out, they arrived in fourteen minutes flat. He didn’t need a street address, thanks to search lights, police and fire vehicle strobes. Nearly midnight, and the place was lit up like high noon on a California beach. And oh what a place...
He’d watched news coverage of a sinkhole in the Cherry Hill neighborhood, crushing a storm drain and flooding the area, putting additional stress on the already crumbing stone foundations. Seventy-five, eighty years ago, this two-story bungalow had probably been a gorgeous home. But decades of neglect had faded the red brick to a dull rust color and peeled white paint from the window and door frames. The roof teetered on the porch, all but obliterating the wood stairs and wrought iron railings that once led to the front entrance. Somewhere beyond this jumble of smoking wood, a family had once celebrated Thanksgiving dinners and grandkids’ birthdays.
“Glad you’re here, Sylvestry.”
Ian shook Alex McDougal’s hand.
“So what’s the deal, Mack?”
“Neighbors say it’s a husband and wife in there. In their eighties.” He pointed at a young family, huddled behind the police tape. “They gave us this. Belongs to their mother. Lucky for us, the lady forgot her coat in the daughter’s car.”
Real lucky, Ian thought, bending to allow Cash to get a snout full of the scent.
After donning a thick fireproof jumpsuit, gloves and helmet, Ian checked Cash’s gear. Satisfied that his partner was protected, he said “Let’s get ’er done, buddy.”
As always, the dog trotted alongside Ian.
“Take care in there,” Mack called after them.
Oh, he’d take care, all right. A couple thousand gallons of water swirled around fallen, still-sparking lines, and that wasn’t good. Not good at all.
Firefighters had prepared a pathway of sorts, using axes and pry bars to move lumber aside. It was small comfort, knowing they’d stick close by, ready to deal with sparks that might flare into flames as Cash’s nose led them to the elderly couple.
The men walked in a crouch, their flashlight beams crisscrossing the darkened interior.
When they’d been inside about ten minutes, the guy out front said, “Missing floorboards here.” Then, the near-silence was shattered by Cash’s barking.
He’d found the couple.
The team followed the steady yapping to the stairs, and halted their approach.
“No way that’ll hold all of us,” one of the men said.
“Probably won’t hold any of us,” said another.
Ian moved forward. “I’ll go.”
The others didn’t argue. It made sense, after all, since Ian knew best how to read Cash’s signals.
Concerned as he was about the condition of the people trapped up there, Ian made his way up cautiously. If they were alive—doubtful, since neither had called out for help—he’d need help carrying them back downstairs and outside to the waiting ambulance, one at a time. If they weren’t, they’d still have to make the same trek.
Cash met him at the top, tail straight out and ears up. The ceiling height made it necessary for Ian to crawl as the dog led the way. He’d only gone a few feet when he heard soft moans, a woman’s voice, weak and thready.
Despite being blanketed with plaster, splintered boards and loose nails, she managed to croak out, “Oh thank God. Thank God.”
“Don’t talk,” Ian said, crawling up beside her. He took her pulse. It, too, was weak and thready. No surprise there, considering the amount of blood she’d lost.
He grabbed his radio. “Top of the stairs,” he said into it, “eight feet back, six to the right. Woman alive; still looking for the man.”
A voice crackled a reply: “Sending up a backboard.”
Ian carefully removed debris from the lady’s chest. With her hands and arms now freed, he said, “Ma’am, can you point out where your husband is?”
One knobby-knuckled finger aimed left, toward a huge mound of rubble in a corner. Sure enough, a bloodied hand poked out from beneath the mess. If the guy survived that, it would be a miracle.
Creaking floorboards interrupted the morbid thought.
“The place is weaving and bobbing like a drunk,” the firefighter said, “and there’s barely a breeze outside.”
Ian had felt it, too. If they didn’t get out of here, and fast, they’d all perish in this dismal place.
Working together, the men eased the woman onto the backboard. “Husband’s over there against the back wall,” Ian said. “But we can’t risk bringing another guy up here.”
“Right. Let’s take her down and come back for him.”
Their bulk, added to the weight of the now-unconscious woman, caused the staircase to squeal and screech. Ian knew the sound...nails, working their way out of the boards. The men kept moving down the failing staircase, Cash close on Ian’s heels.
“Took you long enough,” Mack teased when they reached fresh air.
“Bite me,” a firefighter joked back. “That place is like a house of cards. Somebody so much as sneezes, it’ll flatten like a pancake.”
Once he and Ian handed the woman off to paramedics, Cash sat beside Ian. “You’re done for the night, buddy,” he said, squatting to scratch the dog’s ears. “Good job. Real good job.” Straightening, he faced Alex. “If I don’t make it out, take him to my dad’s place.”
Mack winced. “Aw, shut up. You’re coming out.”
But everyone within earshot knew that wasn’t a given.
The firefighter made a move to lead the way inside, but Ian stopped him.
“You’ve got a wife and kids at home, dude. Besides, I know right where he is.”
“I’ll wait here until you reach the top.”
Ian read the message loud and clear: no sense taking the chance that their combined pounds might rip the already-loosened nails from the ragged risers and bring down the entire staircase.
As before, he moved slow and steady, making sure his steps didn’t cause more damage to the already unstable treads. At the top, he got onto his hands and knees, and crawled until his pant leg got caught on a shard of wood. He pulled gingerly, praying with every tug that his movements wouldn’t finish what the collapse had started.
The beam of his flashlight landed on the mound in the corner. The bloodied hand was in the same position it had been earlier...palm up and fingers curled inward, like a spider on its back. Fingertips pressed to the wrist, Ian hoped for a pulse.
Nothing.
He sat back on his heels, thinking This is no way to leave the world.
“All clear up there, Sylvestry?”
Ian took a moment to collect himself. Yeah. Poor ol’ guy’s gone.” The floor trembled slightly when his partner’s boot hit the bottom step. Trembled again on the next one. “Take your time. The whole place is rockin’. And go easy when you reach the top. There’s sharp stuff pokin’—”
A loud, terrifying groan drew his attention up, just in time to see the ceiling careening toward him. Crooking an elbow over his eyes, Ian braced himself for the impact. It hit hard and fast, and in the seconds that followed, he thought of the elderly man—barely a foot away—killed by his own home.
...no way to leave the world...
It didn’t hurt nearly as bad as he’d expected. The hardest part was remembering to inhale, exhale, inhale...
How ironic. Because he’d come close to meeting his maker a time or two at Lincoln. Had a few near misses while riding the Harley. Pulled through a couple of close calls during other SAR
missions. Heck, he’d even survived losing Maleah, the most painful, regrettable experience of his life.
It was ironic, all right; just a few hours ago, he’d decided to figure out how to win her back.
“Sylvestry... Sylvestry?”
He tried to open his eyes, and failed. “You’re in the ambo, on the way to Hopkins.”
Whose voice is that?
“Hang in there, kid. Hang in there.”
Ah, it’s Mack...
“Get his phone, find his dad’s number.”
Hey, you’re supposed to hook Cash up with him, not separate them...
The light was so bright, he could see the glow through his closed eyelids.
Voices, half a dozen or more, merged into one.
A needle prick. Feeling woozy.
Was this it then? The end?
When they tell her I’m gone, will she cry?
Ian hoped not. He’d only seen her cry once, on the day they carted him off to Lincoln. Because he’d caused her tears, and the admission shamed him, even now.
If the powers that be decided to give him one more chance, he’d make things right.
Somehow, I’ll make things right...
CHAPTER TWELVE
SORE MUSCLES AND achy bones had kept him awake most of the night.
That, and thoughts of Maleah.
Ian rolled onto his side and bit back a groan. Last time he’d checked, the bedside clock read five forty-three. Now, as steely gray light glowed through the blinds, it said seven thirty-seven.
He’d pulled a lot of all-nighters over the years. Ordinarily, after two solid hours of deep catch-up sleep, he’d wake refreshed and raring to go. But lying immobile for that long had intensified every ache and pain. Tempting as it was to remain huddled under the covers, he levered himself up, tossed back the covers, and eased his legs over the side of the bed. Cash stirred, then got to his feet, eyebrows raising and lowering as Ian struggled into his faded flannel robe.
“Don’t look so worried, buddy,” he said, leaning into the walker, “I’m okay.”
The scent of coffee lured him to the kitchen, where he found Gladys, reading the morning paper at the big island that separated the rooms.