HF01 - Almost Forever

by Deborah Raney

  “Is Brennan around?” he asked, after he’d made as much small talk as he could stomach.

  “He was out in the south bay a few minutes ago.” A young guy—a rookie Garrett didn’t know—pointed toward the station’s three-bay garage.

  Garrett found Peter Brennan with his head under the hood of the station’s ambulance. The fire chief wiped his hands on an oily rag, tucked it in his pocket, and shook Garrett’s hand.

  More sympathy, more stab wounds, but thankfully Chief Brennan didn’t linger on the subject for long. “What can I do for you, Garrett?”

  Garrett sucked in a breath and blew it out. “What are they doing about finding this Downing guy?”

  Brennan narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Downing’s just a theory, Garrett. For now, all their energy is going into finding out what caused the fire.”

  “And what do they think did start it?”

  The chief lifted his shoulders and shook his head. “They haven’t finished their report.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “Have you seen the burn site?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s been two weeks. If they haven’t found anything by now, what makes them think they ever will?” He fought to keep his voice down.

  “They’re working on some leads. They know the fire started on the second floor and—”

  “The Courier reported that the morning after the fire. They’ve surely got more than that by now.”

  “They’re doing everything they can. We’ve got one of the best inspectors in the Midwest working on this. They don’t always release everything they know to the public.”

  “So you know something you’re not telling?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Brennan yanked the rag out of his pocket and twisted it between his hands. “Listen, I can assure you we are doing everything humanly possible to find out what—or who—started that fire.”

  Garrett nodded, forcing himself to calm down. “I know . . . I know. Sorry. I just . . . It’s eating at me, you know?”

  “I know.” Brennan clapped him on the shoulder, started to say something, then seemed to change his mind. But after looking around the bay, he lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I know they’ve been talking to some other shelters—homeless shelters—from here to Minnesota. Places that guy—Downing—stayed. But apparently he never stayed in one place too long. It was his MO to up and disappear without notice, without checking out of a place. Supposedly he was crazy”—he spiraled his index finger at his temple—“like most of ’em.”

  “Thanks, Chief. I appreciate it. You’ll let me know if anything else comes up?”

  “If I can, I will. You have my word.”

  It was all Garrett could ask of the man.

  The November air was crisp, so Garrett pulled up the hood on his sweatshirt. He might soon wish he’d worn a heavier jacket, but the sun was bright and it felt good to be outside. He leaned to one side, stretching, unable to quit thinking about his conversation with Chief Brennan that morning. The red tape was going to drive him straight up a wall. At the rate this investigation was going, that loser—Downing—would be in Canada by the time they finally caught up with him.

  He set out at a jog, but it didn’t take him long to realize he was sadly out of shape. He’d missed several weeks of the pickup basketball games he and some of the other male teachers played in the gym after school three days a week.

  He slowed to a walk, no destination in mind. Anything to keep from sitting at home like a zombie. The apartment he and Molly had rented for the past two years was only a block from the river—a tributary of the Gasconade—and the spot where the “falls” of Hanover Falls were purported to be. According to the city’s website, the bluff where the water descended was blasted when the railroad went through and thus ended the namesake of Hanover Falls. A few years ago the city had built a riverwalk on the tributary to serve as a walking/jogging path. He and Molly had walked there almost every evening when she was off duty.

  Habit led him in the direction of the river now, and he fought off a swell of intense loneliness. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that Molly was gone. That he’d never see her again this side of heaven. He did believe in heaven, and that offered him the only comfort he’d found these past days. But now he shook off the thought. He didn’t want to think about that today . . . any of it. Not even Molly. He was drowning in memories of her, and if he didn’t break the surface and think about something else, he wouldn’t make it.

  He took off jogging again. That was something different. Molly always insisted their walks together should be leisurely strolls. “Walkie-talkies,” she called them. Garrett smiled at the remembrance. She could have jogged the distance without breaking a sweat, though. Molly had worked out with the guys at the station and was in better shape than Garrett ever hoped to be—basketball or no.

  He lengthened his stride. There he went again, thinking about her. How would he ever cure that?

  A shout from behind him left the question unanswered. He turned to see a woman some distance away rounding the corner, arms stretched out in front of her as she tried to keep up with the muscular black Labrador on the end of the leash she clutched in her fist.

  “Heel! Heel!” she yelled. If anything, the dog sped up at the command.

  Molly would have nudged him and winked, saying, “Oh, look. A dog walking a woman.” Garrett laughed out loud, the sound of his own voice causing him to start. How long had it been since he’d laughed? But he knew the answer to that question immediately. Two weeks tomorrow. Since the day Molly died. The memories had started to come like a flood the past couple of days—simple everyday memories of the short life they’d shared together. Mostly he welcomed the reliving. At least until the inevitable moment when he’d be startled again by the realization that Molly was gone. Forever.

  The runaway dog came closer, and Garrett shut his mouth, hoping the woman hadn’t heard him laughing at her expense. Wait a minute. He took a closer look. Wasn’t that Bryn Hennesey? Adam’s wife?

  When the dog came closer, Garrett bent and coaxed the animal to come to him. “Here, boy. Come here . . .” Thankfully, the dog obeyed, yapping and yanking at the leash, then putting its paws on his shoulders and trying to dance with him. He drew the line when the brute tried to lick his face. Molly would have been delighted. She’d been begging him for a dog since before they were married.

  “Who’s walking who here?” Garrett looked up at Bryn and smiled. “Ah. It is you. I thought I recognized you.”

  Bryn Hennesey stood in front of him, shoulders heaving, drawing in hard breaths.

  “You’ve got a frisky one here.”

  She looked up at him from under the fluffy stocking cap she wore. “Thank you for rescuing me.” Her shoulders hunched in relief. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to let go of him.”

  Garrett patted the dog’s head. “Settle down, boy.” He turned to Bryn again. “What’s his name?”

  “Sparky. But I’m thinking of changing it to Killer,” she deadpanned. She turned to shake an index finger at the animal. “Bad dog, Sparky.”

  “I noticed he wasn’t paying much attention to the ‘heel’ command. Obedience school dropout?”

  “Apparently.” She rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile hid behind them.

  His mind raced. He should say something about Adam. How sorry he was. How terrible it all was. But then she’d feel obligated to say something about Molly, and he’d be right back to where he was when he left the house to escape all that. So he said instead, “How old is Sparkles?”

  “Sparky,” she corrected, a wry smile tilting her mouth. She shrugged. “I really don’t know. He belonged to one of the guys at the shelter. You probably heard they relocated everybody to Springfield? Anyway, Charlie couldn’t keep Sparky, so I volunteered. Temporarily.”

  Garrett knelt in the grass beside the sidewalk and stroked the Lab’s thick black coat, surprised at the calming effect his affec
tion seemed to have on the dog. “I’d guess he’s still got some puppy in him.”

  “Well, he’d better grow out of it in a hurry because I can’t take these so-called ‘walks’ much longer.”

  Garrett laughed, then turned serious. “So . . . how are you doing?”

  She looked at him, and he felt something pass between them. They were members of a survivors club. He had a pretty good idea what her life had been like these last two weeks.

  “I’m hanging in there,” she said. “How about you?”

  “The same.” He looked out over the water, fighting off a new swell of grief. “It . . . feels good to get out of the house.”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  He glanced up at her, methodically stroking the dog. “This your first time out?”

  “Monday. That’s when I got Sparky.”

  “Ah . . . you’re a couple days ahead of me, then.”

  “Today’s your first day to get out?”

  He nodded and rose, brushing shreds of brown grass off the knees of his warm-ups. He reached for the leash. “Can I help you handle this beast?”

  “That would be wonderful.” She turned the leash over to him, her smile making him glad he’d offered.

  Sparky pranced around the two of them until Garrett started walking. Bryn fell in step beside them. They continued along the riverwalk just a hair above walkie-talkie pace. He had to keep a tight rein on the leash to keep Sparky from racing ahead, but when the dog figured out that Garrett wasn’t going to give an inch, it seemed to accept that and trotted happily ahead of them.

  The smooth surface of the water reflected blue-gray sky and against it, the tracery of naked tree branches that hung over the banks of the river. A skein of geese trailed overhead, their distant honk honk honk taking up the silence.

  He and Molly had hung out with Adam and Bryn a couple of times last summer—and sometimes with the Morgans, Jenna and Zach. Now Zach was gone, too. It was surreal.

  He had a feeling Bryn was having some of the same thoughts beside him, and he scuffled to land on a lighter topic.

  She saved him the trouble, looking up at him with affected exasperation on her pretty face. “Why is it this stupid dog is being an absolute angel for you, but he’s Satan incarnate when I’m holding the leash?”

  Garrett smiled. “I think he knows he can push you around.”

  “Well, he’s got that right.” She shrugged. “Thanks again.”

  Two joggers came toward them, and Bryn slipped behind Garrett while they passed on the narrow sidewalk. He slowed his pace until she caught up again. They were approaching one of the entrances to the riverwalk, and from the corner of his eye, Garrett noticed a van in the small parking lot across from the riverwalk. There was a logo on the side door he couldn’t quite make out, but he’d seen enough similar trucks in the days following the fire—on television and outside his apartment—to make an educated guess about the passengers’ intentions.

  He lowered his voice and touched Bryn’s arm. “Don’t be too obvious, but does that van look familiar?”

  She snuck a glance and gave a low growl. “It’s that reporter from the Courier,” she whispered. “The guy has been trying to get an interview since the funeral. Do you think he saw us?”

  “I don’t know, but how about if we do a quick about-face and jog for a few minutes?”

  She took his arm lightly, whirled in her tracks, and took off at a graceful lope. The dog was delighted with the change of pace and shot off like he was after a rabbit.

  Garrett risked a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, brother . . .” The van was turning around in the lot.

  Bryn followed his line of vision. “It looks like they’re trying to follow us.”

  Garrett panned the horizon, scrambling to think where they could go to get away from the invasion that was sure to follow if the occupants of that van had figured out who they were.

  There was a little shopping center with a coffee shop and some office buildings a block or two back toward downtown, but they risked crossing paths with the van before they could get there. Besides, they’d be sitting ducks if the reporters followed them to the coffee shop.

  Then he remembered a wooded path that ran behind an apartment complex on the other side of the river. He made a visor of his hand and scanned the road. The van had disappeared behind a hedgerow.

  “Come on!” He motioned for Bryn to follow him in the direction they’d come from.

  The fabric felt warm

  and soft against her skin and

  smelled of wood smoke

  and something

  masculine and piney.

  It smelled like Adam . . .

  7

  Bryn let Garrett pull her along until they rounded a curve in the sidewalk. She stopped to catch her breath and pan the area, looking for the van that had appeared to be pursuing them.

  There it was, back in the parking lot where Garrett first noticed it. “Look!”

  Garrett followed her line of site. Just then the passenger side door of the van opened and a long-haired man jumped out and jogged to the edge of the parking lot. He had a camera with a monster lens strapped around his neck, and he cradled it in one hand as he ran.

  Bryn turned her face away from the camera.

  Garrett pointed to the footbridge that spanned a narrow segment of the river. “Follow me.” Yanking on Sparky’s leash, he jogged across the bridge, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “I’m right here,” Bryn assured him.

  She stuck close behind as Garrett ran up the sidewalk on the opposite side. He darted between two apartment buildings, yelling over his shoulder. “I know where we can go.” Panting, he led the way behind the easternmost building in the complex and into a wooded area.

  “There used to be a walking path back here—before they built the riverwalk. It’s probably pretty overgrown, but they can’t get back here in the van, and I’m betting they won’t try to follow us on foot.”

  Bryn rolled her eyes. “Don’t count on it.”

  “Well, then maybe we need to keep walking.”

  She nodded her agreement and trudged after him, grateful she wasn’t trying to handle Sparky in the dense undergrowth. A carpet of old leaves squished under their feet, and the pungent scent of moss and decay rose up from the mash.

  When they’d gone about fifty feet into the woods, Garrett stopped and did a slow 360. “I know there’s a better trail here somewhere. At least they won’t be able to see us from the road now. You want to just hang out here for a while . . . until we’re sure we’ve ditched them?”

  “Sure.”

  He slowed the pace, letting Sparky stop to sniff every tree and explore the undergrowth. Without the sun to warm them, it was chilly in the shadows of the towering trees. Bryn rubbed her arms briskly.

  “You cold?” He unwound the black wool scarf from around his neck and held it out to her.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “No. Take it. I’m fine.”

  She did so, just to save an argument. The fabric felt warm and soft against her skin and smelled of wood smoke and something masculine and piney. It smelled like Adam. She gulped in a breath and tried to push the thought aside. “So, have reporters been hounding you, too?”

  “At first. I finally just quit answering the phone.”

  “Me too. I don’t know what they want us to say.”

  He shrugged. “They’re just after something that will keep this story going. It’s the biggest thing to happen in Hanover Falls since the tornado of 2003.”

  “Have you heard anything new? About the fire?”

  He stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his warm-ups and watched Sparky sniff at a clump of mushrooms. “You mean if they figured out what caused it?”

  She held her breath. She’d broached the subject without thinking.

  “I doubt they ever find anything conclusive. With that kind of damage, they don’t have a lot to go on. They’d be lucky to get
a conviction even if they were pretty sure the guy did it. Did you know him?”

  “Zeke?” She shook her head. “I was there a few times after he started coming to the center, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. I’m not even sure I could pick him out of a police lineup. He had a scruffy beard, and he wore a stocking cap all the time.”

  Garrett gave a little snort. “Sounds like me . . . well, until this morning anyway.” He ran a hand over his clean-shaven face.

  She grinned, remembering how awful she’d looked when Dad dropped by the other day. But her mind was chewing on what Garrett had said. They don’t have a lot to go on . . . doubt they’d get a conviction . . . His words added a layer to the veneer of consolation she’d built up. There really wasn’t any reason to think she had been responsible for that fire. No one—from the media to fire officials to those who were actually there that night—had suggested the possibility that the fire had been started by a candle. Surely they would have known if that were the case.

  Maybe she could finally stop racking her brain for that elusive memory. Blowing out a candle was like turning out a light or unplugging the curling iron before you left for work. You did those kinds of things without even thinking. Especially if you were married to a firefighter. That had to be why she couldn’t seem to come up with a lucid memory.

  “Are you warming up a little?”

  Garrett’s voice turned her thoughts back to the moment.

  “I’m fine. Thanks again.” She touched his scarf at her throat.

  “I’d suggest we go get a cup of coffee if I wasn’t afraid we’d run into our reporter friends again.”

  She gave a little shake of her head. “No. I don’t want to risk that either.” She opened her mouth to invite him back to her place for coffee, but the image of him sitting in her kitchen played, and she stopped herself. That would just feel too weird.

  “I could really go for something hot to drink about now,” he said.

  “Mmm . . . me too . . .” She closed her eyes and felt herself warm at the thought.