by Ruth Wind
Her eyes streamed with irritation. She ducked her face into the crook of her left arm, holding the hose with the right. Steam and the sound of water spitting against heat comforted her. She’d get most of it out and then head down the mountain and get some help, though sooner or later she was bound to get through to 911.
She punched the redial button, and there was a long pause, then a mechanical voice said, “Connection lost. Redialing.”
The smoke and the sound of the fire were getting more intense, and Miranda couldn’t see very well. She kept the phone to her ear, coughing, her eyes streaming.
When something slammed into her from the side, she screamed, thinking at first that it was a part of the roof falling down to trap her. She reared back, the hose flying out of her hands to soak the air, soak her head and shoulders. The edge of it slammed into her forehead, and a hard shot of water filled her nose and mouth. She gagged. The phone went flying.
Only then did she realize that it was a body that had knocked her down, a body with hands that reached for her neck. Blinded, Miranda flung an arm up, connecting with something she thought might be ribs, which gave her time to scramble away. A hand grabbed her ankle and Miranda kicked backward, urgently wiping at her eyes, coughing hard in the smoke. The body landed on her, hard, smashing her against the floor, and Miranda’s hands landed on something burning hot. With a howl, she pulled away, scooting in the other direction, aware of hands trying to hold her, a body attempting to weigh her down.
A part of her screamed, this is not fair! She slammed her arms into the body, wished she could see, kept her body in motion, trying to imagine herself as slippery as an eel.
The body grabbed her hair and yanked hard, and Miranda’s neck jerked backward painfully, and then there were hands around her throat, squeezing. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t seem to shift her body to get free, and the more she struggled, the more she struggled for air.
Time shifted. She saw flashes of Desi, and her own awkwardness in hugging her even when she was hurt. There was a flash of Juliet’s wedding, conspicuously empty without her. She saw her father trying to make conversation with her, and smooth things over with their mother, and generally, always, trying.
And she saw James. So good and clear and honorable, so handsome and good to her. They had had a chance to make something real and lasting and Miranda had run away in pride.
Pride.
Always her stiff-necked pride, getting in her way.
The edges of her vision started to blacken and every cell in her body screamed for oxygen and there was fire licking at the soles of her feet. The body on top of her was heavy, crushing.
The horrifying truth came home. She would die if she didn’t win this struggle. Die!
Hands burning, eyes streaming, lungs bursting, she focused everything she had to knock the body off of her. She tried to kick, but her oxygen was depleting and she didn’t have much strength left. She opened her eyes, hoping to have a chance to make a connection, but the light was murky, red. Everything was on fire now, all around them, things popping and burning and the big, heavy figure over her.
And suddenly she remembered the rules of a self-defense class she’d taken at Juliet’s insistence. When faced with a stranglehold, go limp, then lift the arms between the attackers, and break the hold by flinging your arms outward.
She went limp, not as easy as one would imagine under the circumstances.
Her attacker eased his hold slightly.
Miranda swiftly lifted her arms between his, flung them outward. Her rigid arms slammed into his elbows and they buckled, then she was abruptly free. Gagging, coughing, sucking in air, she rolled sideways, and scrambled away as fast as she could, sliding and splashing on the water that pooled on the floor. She realized she could see, maybe because her tears had cleared her vision, or perhaps the smoke had shifted.
Whatever. Hearing her attacker come behind, she rushed to find anything that could be used as a weapon and grabbed the only thing at hand—the hose. She swung it, the water pouring out, and smacked him with the hard end. He staggered, and the water hit him full in the face, and he skittered backward, slamming into the post of the front door that was on fire. In a flash, his sleeve was afire, and he screamed, trying to shed it as fast as he could, but his body weight, slamming into that burning post, knocked the loosened threshold down and he was trapped. He screamed as another fiery beam fell, and then he was silent.
For a long minute, she leaned on the porch step on her hands and knees, water pouring out of the hose to make a puddle at her feet. Her throat burned and her lungs felt as if they’d been turned inside out, and she heaved suddenly, choking on smoke and terror and injury.
She fell in the cool grass, body exhausted, and stared up at the sky full of stars, aware that the fire was out of control, that she needed to get up and see if she could find the phone, or get back in the truck and get down the mountain, but she couldn’t move. Not one muscle.
Far in the distance, she heard sirens. And that was the last she heard for a good long while.
When she did surface, it was to the unpleasant sensation of a cold liquid entering her veins through her left arm. She startled, rearing up ready to fight, disoriented by time, terror, location. Arms captured her, around the shoulders and at her head. “You’re safe,” a woman’s voice said in a soothing tone. “Honey, you’re safe. He’s dead.”
Miranda sucked in a big gasp of air and coughed, the sound deep and ragged. She felt like she’d cough up her guts. The woman made soothing noises. “It’s okay, it’s all right.”
Blinking at the light overhead, Miranda tried to talk and found she couldn’t utter a word. It was as if her throat had been scrubbed free of a voice box. She put a hand to her throat and tried to find the woman who was speaking.
Her face came into view, a kind, youngish face with red cheeks and curly black hair. “Don’t try to talk. Between the smoke inhalation and the strangling, your voice is going to be a little raw for a few days.”
Miranda peered at the surroundings. She widened her eyes in a question.
“You’re in an ambulance. We’re transporting you to the community hospital. You have burns on your hands and arms and some pretty serious bruising on your throat.”
Now Miranda could feel her palms. Stinging in a deep and highly unpleasant way. She wanted to raise them to look at them, but the woman shook her head. “Let’s let them fix them up a bit first.”
She nodded. She wanted to ask a thousand questions—where was the guy who tried to kill her? Was the house a loss?
Suddenly, she remembered the blanket. In a ragged, ragged voice with barely any sound, she said, “Blanket in the back of the truck for a dog. Need it.” The words scratched her throat like nails. “Important.”
“Okay. I’ll have somebody fetch it. The truck is fine.”
Miranda raised her eyebrows. House? she whispered, but it was barely audible and the woman didn’t seem to hear.
Juliet was at the hospital emergency room when Miranda arrived, and sat with Miranda as she was examined, head to toe. Miraculously, aside from some smoke inhalation, the bruised throat and badly burned palms, she was not injured.
A firefighter brought the blanket in just as they were getting ready to go. “Here you go,” he said. “It’s a little damp, but not otherwise messed up.”
Miranda bowed her thanks, putting gauze-wrapped hands together in a prayer position. “Man?” she mouthed, point at her throat.
“Dead. We don’t know who he is but we’ll find out.”
Communication was difficult, between the bandaged palms and sore throat. “House?” she croaked out.
“Gone,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
They drove back in silence, taking two minutes to go by Helene’s house to drop off the blanket. Juliet said, coming back to the truck, “He curled up right on it, so happily.”
She nodded.
Juliet drove them home. “He almost killed you, honey,” she sa
id. “I am so sorry I didn’t go.”
Fiercely, and without hesitation, Miranda hugged her sister. “No,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”
“I’ll let you sleep in tomorrow morning.”
Again Miranda was fierce. No. There was a lot that had become clear to her as she’d struggled in that smoky world. Nearly all of it could be addressed by going to that race tomorrow.
Hell or high water.
James rose at five and showered as was his ritual. He put on his favorite running shorts and singlet, and wrist bands. Barefoot, he drank a cup of coffee and ate half a bagel smeared with peanut butter, then sat out on the balcony and recited the whole of the rosary, methodically clearing everything out of his mind but the coming race. When that was finished, he ate the other half of his bagel, filled a plastic bottle with water, another with energy gel and put them in their special belt, then put on his shoes and went down to the race registration, a big tent just off the main drag.
He loved the somehow hushed, focused spirit that gathered in the air on race starts. Runners stretched and jogged loosely and did quick sprints. They wore jogging pants and sweats, T-shirts and running bras and singlets like his own. This was a mountain run, so there were more than the usual number of eccentrics—a man with a beard to his waist running without shoes or shirt, but gloves on his hands, an old woman in neon-orange who’d probably kick a good bit of butt by the look of her rangy legs, a good cross-section of adventure racers who trained in the mountains.
James didn’t talk to anyone. He didn’t see anyone he knew, either, which wasn’t surprising. He got his number and pinned it on, then stretched a little and just jogged very slowly around the perimeter, turning his focus back to himself. To the race.
The sun was just coming up as the gun went off and the racers surged toward the trail, running in a thick pack down Black Diamond Boulevard to the first of the big climbs, the first one to sort the men from the boys, as it were. James let himself flow into it, focusing on keeping his pace absolutely steady, knowing within an hour who he’d be fighting for the finish. He kept running, smooth and steady. Sometimes in the lead, sometimes running in a small knot. At mile eleven, they lost a young turk who pushed too hard over the rocky ridge. James passed him, limping along with ragged breathing. He’d hit the wall.
James kept running.
To Miranda, waiting at the end.
The newspapers were full of Renate’s murder the next morning. Miranda woke up feeling stiff and without much energy, but she was absolutely determined not to be kept from her appointment, especially because her cell phone was gone—lost to the fire.
She showered, careful to keep her bandaged hands dry, and dressed equally carefully in a pretty skirt and top. In the mirror, she looked a little tired, but not terrible. Her hair had scorched a little at the ends, but the dousing with the hose had saved it. Her face was a little bruised along her chin, but not noticeably.
Her throat, on the other hand, looked shockingly bad. Enough that it would make people uncomfortable to look at her. She dug through her suitcase and found a soft, long scarf knitted out of a metallic shimmer lace. She looped it twice around her throat, loosely, and it covered it fine.
Juliet was waiting in the kitchen. “Good morning, brave girl. Can you talk yet?”
“I can whisper, but even that hurts a little.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve been on the phone with the sheriff and it appears that the house was rigged to blow when the light switch was flipped. Luckily it didn’t quite go off the way it was supposed to, so you got lucky.”
“Who is it?”
“He has a record for theft and arson, but they haven’t tracked it all down yet.”
Miranda nodded. “Does Desi know?”
“Oh, yeah, and she is fit to be tied.” She grinned. “At this very moment, she’s meeting with the Ute tribal council, to see if they want to make a bid on the land.”
With a grin, Miranda pumped the air. “Brilliant,” she whispered. She glanced at the clock, and pointed. “I’m going to ReNew for some chai. See you later?”
“Absolutely.”
Miranda bought the newspapers in front of ReNew, which was insanely crowded with relatives and friends of the runners. A part of her wanted to be annoyed with them, taking up space in her restaurant, but why was it any more hers than theirs? She squeezed into a corner with her chai and cinnamon twist to read about Renate Franz’s murder.
Even the Denver papers carried the story, laden as it was with big-name Olympic sports and layerings of the art world, and speculations about business. In a sidebar in the Denver Post, there was a photo of Desi and Tam from an earlier news story, along with news of the fire.
She grinned to herself over Desi’s move to sell the land to the Utes. So smart! It benefited the tribe in ways the casinos never could, something that was important to Desi, and the tribe would likely take care of the land more responsibly. And it would mean Desi would finally be out of danger.
Although not yet cleared. The newspaper still called Desi “a person of interest in the murder of her husband, Navajo artist Claude Tsosie.”
According to the article, the police didn’t have any leads in the shooting of Franz. But suddenly, Miranda wondered how Elsa was taking it. Might be worth finding out.
It would be even better if the whole thing just died a natural death. If Desi were let off the hook, the land went to the Utes, and whoever killed Claude fell over a mountain somewhere.
And they could all just live happily ever after.
She certainly intended to. The air this morning seemed freshly washed, sparkling with possibilities. She felt she’d been given a reprieve, a chance to throw off the shackles of her control and cynicism and live a freer, fuller life. In memory, she kept seeing the expanse of that bejeweled sky, the distance and hugeness, and her sense of her own small importance in it.
And yet, each star sparkled, each one added its own light. She would do what she could to make sure she added hers instead of hiding it.
After she finished her coffee, she headed over to the race tent. The day was painted in blues—blue sky, blue mountains, blue and white tent. A small crowd milled around, looking at the jewelry and paintings offered by the booths set up to take advantage of the people drawn by the race. Miranda drifted by them, admiring blown glass beads and intricately laced ribbon bracelets, and the omnipresent flower crowns woven with ribbons that seemed to show up at festivals everywhere. Miranda thought of Glory and her very long hair, and bought one made of tiny rose pink rosebuds. “Will this fit a five-year-old?” she asked in her ruined voice.
“It will.” The woman, well into her sixties, with sun-worn skin and irregular teeth, said, “You need one for yourself, dear. All that hair.”
Miranda smiled, shaking her head.
The woman held up one woven of vivid blue bachelor buttons and sprays of white baby’s breath. It was almost the exact color of her sari, and impulsively, she thought, why not. “Okay,” she whispered, and paid for them both. Glory’s went into a little bag. Her own went on her hair. On her hair, her beautiful hair, which had almost been burned off. She would never apologize for it again.
She looked at her watch. Not quite ten. The first runners wouldn’t be back until just after eleven, probably. She really needed to be here when James came down that mountain. Restlessly she walked circles around the block, thinking.
Renate, Christie, Elsa, Claude. The land. Claude’s paintings. Somehow it was all connected, she could feel it.
As she came around the corner the third time, she saw her mother sitting on a bench, a white hat shading her face. Dressed crisply in white capris and a turquoise top and white shoes, she looked ready for a day on a boat. Her lipstick was coral. She’d brought a magazine with her.
Miranda froze. Did she go sit with her mother or keep walking around the block?
As if someone shoved her from behind, Miranda took a stumbling step forward. Fine. She’d go sit w
ith her mother. Tossing back her hair, she hoped her hicky showed.
“Good morning, Mother,” she said, taking the seat next to her.
“Hello, Miranda.” Her mother gave her a quizzical glance. “What’s wrong with your voice? And your hands?”
“Long story.”
“Hmm. Your hair looks pretty like that.”
Surprised, Miranda said, “Thanks.”
“Did you see your young man off this morning?”
“He’s not really my young man, but no way. I think the race started at six-thirty or seven.”
“He seems a nice fellow. You and your sisters have all gone for such dark men, my goodness! Between Desi and Juliet, we’ll have three or four nationalities covered!”
Miranda told herself to just breathe through her annoyance. “Well, that’s America for you these days. I bet Desi and Tam will have linebacker children.”
“You never know. Look how different you girls all are.”
“Mother, please.”
“Please what? You are all quite different.”
“I have a different father. That might account for some of it, huh?”
“What are you talking about, Miranda?” Back to her mom’s old denial routine.
“Mom, I was there, the whole year when you and Daddy were fighting. I heard you tell him I was not his child.”
“Oh, that.” Carol waved a hand. “Big lie.”
“So he is my father?”
“In every way that matters.”
Miranda gritted her teeth. “So he isn’t?”
“Let it go, honey.” She shaded her eyes with a hand. “Anyway, look at the top of the mountain. There’s a runner.” Same mother. Same denial routine. Miranda wondered why she continued to even bother. Seeing the runner, she couldn’t help but think of more important things…like James.
“Oh, my gosh!” Miranda looked at her watch. It would take a while for that runner to get to the bottom of the trail, but still, the time was going to be a very, very good one. It was a lone runner, out in front. Way out in front, and it was impossible to tell much detail. He wore a white singlet and blue shorts and had dark hair.