by Siera London
Max let out a low whine, asking for understanding rather than apologizing.
“Guess we all got called in. Can’t say I’m glad to see you, Nate, my man.” Cutler’s used car salesman charm was absent now.
Cutler’s shook his head, jaw tight with tension. “Different day, same fire.”
Nathan knew what they were thinking. How could they stop what appeared to be a string of unrelated fires? He hoped there was a witness or trace evidence to lead them to a suspect. If there was a clue he and Max would find it.
“You can say that again,” Trace responded, slamming his hand on the engine.
Noticing all the activity in the front of the building, Nathan asked about the fire containment plan. “Who covered the rear hose?”
“We doused the rear walls to limit fire exposure to the adjacent building. There’s not much back there except stairwells. The incident commander is on Engine 6.” Trace coughed, then continued. “John and Matt,” he said, gesturing to the front entrance, “are sweeping the fourth floor along with the Engine 3 crew. With the smoke and poor visibility, it’s slow going.”
Contrary to television fires, standing up in a burning building was near impossible. Most of the time, firefighters crawled around in what felt like an oven. Engulfed in heat and flame, touching walls and looking for a glow to aim their hoses at the base was an age-old practice. In larger departments, infrared scanners helped to locate the fire origin and people, making the business of fire confinement safer for all.
“No fire on the lower floors?” Nathan was curious how the crew had swept the lower level so quickly.
“Nope.”
An intentional fire didn’t change the fact that Trace was a conversation scrooge. He was training for his investigation certification. The big ox had helped Nathan out on more than one occasion with case review and research. Besides Cutler, Trace was the closest thing he had to a brother.
“Interesting,” was Nathan’s only reply. Perhaps, Trace had rubbed off on all them tonight.
The fire started in the partners’ suite? There was nothing but office suites up there, not even a kitchen. Calvin had handled the transfer of deed when Nathan purchased the house from his father.
Cutler spoke, but never took his eyes off the fire. “Had one last week at the trailer park behind the Marina.”
“Cooking fire?” Nathan queried.
“Not possible.” Cutler frowned. “The trailer was abandoned with no history of electrical power in the past two years.” Then his gaze swung higher to the dying blaze in front of them.
A pop and a hiss ripped the air, before the sound of shattering glass filled the air. Nathan dropped low, throwing a protective arm over his head. “Max, cover,” he bellowed. Firefighters sought shelter as lava-hot debris rained down around them. Could anyone trapped inside survive that blast?
***
Symphony’s obsession with fire stopped at live charring. The door leading from this private corner office to the cubicle farm out front was her only exit. The pop and hiss of the flames on the other side of the door was deafening. Symphony weighed her options. She couldn’t reach the ground floor the way she’d entered the building. This floor probably had roof access and a ladder escape. A mini-explosion had Symphony crab-walking backwards on her hands. Her left forearm made contact with heated metal. Quickly, she snatched her arm away from the source, knocking it over. Shoot. The carpet fibers caught fire. Double Shoot. The papers she’d dropped in the wastebasket ignited the plastic liner.
She glanced at the door again. Large sections of blistering wood marred the once-smooth surface.
Symphony flipped onto her hands and knees. Working her shoulders, she maneuvered her backpack down her arms and unzipped the center pouch. She snagged the portable extinguisher canister. Symphony preferred fires she could control, hence the added protection of a personal extinguisher. Pulling the pin, she dropped it to the floor, aimed at the base of the fire, squeezed the trigger, and swept over the carpet and trash can.
Symphony choked as the chemicals and the smoke mixed in the small space.
She could barely see in front of her face for the chemical cloud smoke mix. She ran to the back wall, banging on each of the windows, looking for an opening.
Tears skidded down her face as she grabbed the top-grain leather chair from behind the desk. The aluminum frame of the chair felt warm behind her palms, but it was the only piece of furniture heavy enough, that she could lift, to do any damage to the window. If she could get some oxygen in the room, her brain haziness would improve and she could think of a plan. Hefting the chair to chest height, Symphony torqued her spine like the best pro golfer and unwound her body as much as her limited bulk would allow. A strained “thwack” sound filled the room as the chair vibrated against the glass. Symphony continued pounding the glass until her chest heaved and her arms burned from overuse. She dropped the chair and collapsed to her knees. She was going to die.
The furniture in the office was indistinguishable from the floor to the ceiling. On all fours, Symphony felt her way toward the wall of mirrors. Remembering the layout when she first entered the space, she made it to the far left corner of the room, farthest from the door. Would her body be identified? With her mother and father dead, there would be no one to claim her remains. Her only distinguishing feature was the midnight blue hair hanging down her back in thick waves.
“Is anybody in here?”
Startled, Symphony jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. Her heart hammered in her chest. Busy trying to escape, she hadn’t noticed Fire and Rescue were on the scene. There was no way someone untrained could have navigated those flames to reach her. Mouth open, prepared to call out, only a stream of coughing filled what remained of her air. She tried not to panic as she inhaled more smoke. Never had she imagined she would feel this terror claw its way through her body… again. Fire was beautiful, but she couldn’t forget how close she’d come to death.
Not wanting to miss her window of opportunity, Symphony scrambled to where she knew the desk to be. Sight was impossible. Cautiously, she felt her way until her handmade purchase with what she was looking for. With ebbing strength, she palmed the wooden inbox between both hands and began to beat out a rhythm against the glass wall. If Fire and Rescue found her in time, this would mean another stint in a medication-created prison, maybe permanently this time.
Then it happened. The mirrored panel in the center moved. Fresher air entered the room. Symphony’s pulse sped up. Tossing her battering ram aside, she toed the mirrored door open. The room was warm, not hot, but she felt like lava was in her veins. Lungs hungry for air, she tried to inhale a deep breath, but her swollen airways protested.
“We hear you!” came another male voice.
Symphony recalled a fourteen-year-old memory. Flames, so much heat, her mother’s screams, the cry of help that Fire and Rescue was on the way—only everything got worse. Much worse for her and her mother.
Symphony made a decision. She entered the unknown space, pulling the panel closed behind her. She felt lightheaded. Though the air wasn’t as smoke-filled, she struggled to take in a breath. Feeling along the walls she searched for a light switch—nothing. She couldn’t go back. Shaky and trembling in fear, Symphony dropped to her knees, feeling low then higher. A knob. Gripping the handle, she came to her feet and turned the lever. What she saw brought real tears of joy to her eyes. It was a private stairwell. Thank God for attorney/client privilege. If her inheritance was as substantial as Mr. Wilfred’s office implied, she could imagine fancy pants had some pretty wealthy clients. Clients that preferred to keep their legal affairs private. Like maybe using a private entrance to a fancy attorney’s office.
The coughing worsened and Symphony found it increasingly difficult to take in a breath.
She needed the portable oxygen tank she kept in her camper, parked three blocks away in an alley between two residential streets. Henry, as she liked to call her rolling hacienda, would stick out li
ke a brunette at a Dallas Super Bowl party. Even this far off Key West’s main strip and approaching midnight, Henry was like the opposite of Wonder Woman’s invisible jet.
A lone exit sign illuminated the narrow space. There was framed artwork on the walls, though Symphony couldn’t make out any of the details.
The lightheadedness was worse than she realized. She needed oxygen.
Energy flagging, Symphony picked up speed as she hit the exit bar with her full weight. She winced when the burn on her forearm pressed against the cool bar. An alarm sounded in the distance. Pumpkin fricking pie. Would anyone hear the emergency exit alarm?
***
Nathan swung around. A siren blared in the distance. He scanned the darkness for movement, a change in color or contour. The office building and nearby shopping plaza were surrounded by an older cottage community. The streets should be deserted at this time of night.
“Do you hear that?” he asked.
An alarm sounded from the rear of the Wilfred & Calvin building. What or who had tripped the cable?
“Yeah, I hear it,” Cutler chimed in. “It could be one of the guys making a final sweep through the lower level.”
“Why? They cleared the back of the building before I arrived.”
The hairs at the back of Nathan’s neck tingled. One thing he’d learned at Dallas Fire and Rescue was to follow his instincts. And his instincts screamed something was different about this fire. The other fires had been more isolated. Nowhere near people’s home or businesses.
“Come on, Max.” His golden Labrador fell into step beside him. If there were a trace of accelerant in or on anything living or dead, Max could find it.
When he rounded the corner, there was only one door ajar at the rear of the Flagler Professional Office complex. There was no sign to indicate which office used this exit. Nathan would request a list of all the tenants occupying the office space when he returned to the office, to include the landlord. This was the break the department needed in the investigation.
“Hey!” Max took off in a heated run away from the scene. “This is not the time to be chasing the ladies. We’re on the clock.”
Unlike Max, who looked for a new love interest on every walk down Higgs Beach, Nathan wanted the kind of love with staying power. He was in a relationship with Me Phi Me, and it had grown old. Symphony’s oval face, with those kissable lips and honey-well eyes came to mind.
Nathan picked up his pace, determined to catch up with his canine partner and look through the scene before anyone else arrived to compromise any clues he could uncover about the fire and who set it.
Max had led them into the residential neighborhood surrounding the office complex. Single-story beach cottages built in the 1940s. Some had been renovated from wooden structures to stucco, but most had not.
“Slow down, Max.” The crazy dog disappeared into an alley. What the heck had gotten into him?
Nathan covered two streets, before he rounded the block of the third. The alley was empty except for a fancy recreational vehicle that looked like it belonged on the pages of a vacation magazine. Probably a rich tourist had tossed back one too many drinks on a bar crawl.
Max was at the driver’s door, his front haunches resting on the glass window.
When Nate approached the front of the vehicle, Max whined once before letting out a string of barks.
“Quiet. You’re going to wake the walking dead.”
Someone was slouched in the front seat. Nathan slowed his approach on the vehicle. He reached for the pancake holster at the center of his back that held his Glock. No need for alarm, Conchs were more laid back than a handmade Persian rug. Visitors tended to follow the tradition. But something felt off about this vehicle being parked in the alley. It blocked the through street, so it couldn’t have been here during the day.
Nate glanced down at the license plate, HPY CMPR, Texas plates. He committed the tag to memory. He’d call in a favor to get the owner’s identification through faster channels. Who knows, maybe the old boy saw something before he passed out. Max, not appreciating his hesitation, increased his call of the wild. The ferocity of the barking surprised Nathan. Max was pretty mellow until he picked up a scent.
The engine in the souped-up RV roared to life, the rattle of the cylinders vibrating through his midsection. Too late Nathan realized his mistake. He was in the path of a moving vehicle. Would he be the first casualty of the night?
***
Symphony awoke with a jarring motion. She was in her RV, unrestrained in the seat. Charred smoke permeated the air, and she smelled like a turn of the century chimney sweep.
The roar sounded at her driver’s side window, had her yelping in fright. Paws the size of her hands beat against the glass, vibrations from the impact rattling her teeth. One word entered her brain. Escape. Without looking up, she turned the ignition key and pulled down hard on the gear shift, throwing the diesel engine in drive before slamming her booted foot on the gas pedal. The RV made a giant lurch forward.
“Stoppp....”
The lion’s roar grew louder, scaling higher than the horses beneath the hood, and then a lower frequency sound joined the melee. Symphony found herself the unlucky recipient of a veritable in-stereo live concert. Her ears buzzed, unable to distinguish sound direction and sure the alley would be brimming with firefighters within minutes she gunned the engine. A “thwack” rang out followed by a few bumps, or maybe—no, she’d definitely heard a dragging sound.
She’d hit something… large.
“Stop the damn—”
She froze. Not something… someone.
A ball of dread dropped into Symphony’s stomach.
The low-pitched sound came to an abrupt end. A heavy thunk echoed against asphalt, blaring in the silence. Even the roar had ceased. Common sense arrived on the scene, Symphony threw the cab in reverse.
Please don’t be dead. Quick-like, she changed her mental message. Be alive, be alive. A very male groan was sweet music to her ears.
That was a good sign, right? She’d take groaning as a plus.
Engine off, Symphony opened the door, and scrambled from beneath the wheel. A yellow blur catapulted into the cab. It cleared the driver’s seat, landing in the open area between the two captain’s chairs. In a panic, she did the first action that came to mind. She opened her mouth and screamed her head off. Her attacker was a dog. A beautiful golden Labrador with T-Rex canines and a wicked bark eyed her. Her tombstone would read, Here lies Symphony Porter, a penniless, blue-haired waitress, mauled to death by a gorgeous kid-approved canine she pissed off in a back alley. RIP, o ye foolish woman.
No, she would make it back to the campground.
Symphony spun away from the open door, hands up in the air in full surrender. She eyed her unwanted passenger. Voice calm, she addressed the beast.
“Whoa, Cujo. First, let me apologize for mowing down your master.” Apologizing covered a multitude of sins in the human world. Hopefully, the same was true in the canine kingdom.
His response was to give her a mix of a whine and a growl.
A string of words she’d never uttered, even on her worse day, came from beneath the front end.
“Max,” came a low, but masculine rasp.
That voice. All sweet molasses and sex flowed over her. A low country boil with a touch of dark swagger.
Symphony jumped down from the RV cab. Rounding the front end, she came to an abrupt stop at the sight of him.
Nathan lay sprawled on the ground, his ink black hair rustled, his eyes closed. There was a rip in the denim fabric pulled tight across his toned thighs. He’d traded his button-down for a black T-shirt with an eagle wrapped in the American flag. His arms were tanned and defined, sporting loaded guns for biceps. Chiseled muscle covered his chest and she could rock climb on his abdomen.
At Nathan’s wounded groan, she stopped her male model stat sheet. His eyes were open, and they were focused on her.
She leaned down, low
ering herself so both knees rested on the warm asphalt, at Nathan’s right side. Tentatively, she ran her hands the length of his legs, checking for breaks, before continuing up to his torso. When she slid a hand over the taut muscles of his abdomen, his left hand shot out, encircling her wrist.
“Who are—,”
Thank heaven he didn’t recognize her.
“Does anything hurt?” she asked, disentangling her wrist to palpate his head. Her hand came away clean. No bleeding was good. Maybe she could prop him against the chain-link fence and call for an ambulance. Yes, best to capitalize on his dazed status. Decision made, she leaned in close, giving him one last looksee.
“Everything hurts.”
Though his eyes had drifted close, Nathan turned his head in her direction, and sniffed. “Little Blue,” he murmured.
At the sound of his name for her, Symphony moved to scramble to her feet. Nathan’s eyes shot open at the exact moment his powerful body came up off the pavement. His muscled arm circled her waist. Their gazes locked. Cujo started barking behind her, but she couldn’t look away.
“Lay down,” she cooed. “I’ll call for help,” Symphony assured him.
He complied, but pulled her down with him. She collapsed against his chest. Her nose buried in the soft cotton of his T-shirt.
“You stay with me, Blue. Don’t want to be alone… anymore,” he muttered.
Odd, neither did she.
He blinked several times, before his eyes closed. His arm a warm band of steel anchoring her to him. She rested her cheek against his chest, the clean scent of him, so different from her own. His breathing grew even as did hers. This was a dangerous choice she’d made, but he needed her and… she… needed… him.
Try as Symphony might to avoid Nathan, somehow she’d still managed to get caught. It struck her that she didn’t have the urge to reach for her lighter. How much time did she have before the fire reached her doorstep?