Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  “Yes, you did,” I said, shaking my head as I shed tears on Chance’s ethereal face. “You did it. You are amazing, Chance. You’re the most amazing man I have ever known.”

  Chance winced and blinked. For a moment, a fleeting shadow from the world flickered over us.

  “Remember me . . .” he whispered with ragged breaths. His gaze faltered and faded into sorrow as it grew distant. “You . . . good . . . mom.”

  “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” Fear ravaged my heart. “I love you, Chance—I need you.” I covered his face with kisses that tasted like salt from my tears that had mingled to become one with his—just as our souls had done on our wedding day.

  Chance coughed and gasped. His face clenched, and then he smiled and let go, his words trailing from this world into the next. “I . . . You . . . Paige . . .”

  Then the sun blinked, and I was swallowed by a great darkness.

  CHAPTER 41

  At last, I understood Paige. I didn’t need to keep asking people why she would have killed herself. I popped another pill and considered—why only one? If one pill can erase a little pain, then perhaps the entire bottle . . .

  There was nothing left for me in the land of the living. My only desire was to be with my husband, my father, and my mother. Life was too painful. It lasted too long.

  My last memories were fleeting—shadow dances on a wall in my mind. The chamber filled with tension and fear, sorrow and suffering. I remember four people backing out of the room through a third door. Logan—who got away again. The albino called Miasma. The black woman holding a knife to Quincy’s throat. And Quincy . . . whose helpless shrieks still throbbed in my head with terminal velocity.

  Would the stain of Chance’s blood ever be washed away? I think not. Would the warm breath of his last words be erased from my memory? Not possible. I was soaked in blood and memory.

  Strong arms lifted me, pulling me away from that which I could not let go. Forrest carried me up the tunnel and at some point, I was no longer looking into his eyes but into the streaming eyes of Travis. I heard mumbled words from a distant world. They had nothing to do with me. Words like dead, shock, and hospital. The paramedics gave me an injection.

  Evil had triumphed. Law enforcement recovered much more than guns. The bust was considered a major breakthrough—a bust of historic proportions. For along with crates filled with automatic weapons, they did not find nose-candy crank as I had thought but printing presses that cranked out both Mexican and American money. Lots of money. Boxes that totaled nearly a million dollars between the two currencies.

  Still, evil had won. Those who worshiped evil and perpetrated the most heinous of crimes against humanity had escaped with their victim. Of what value were guns, drugs, or money when purchased with lives of children?

  Mac was there, standing by my bed, and for a moment I thought I was in church. Then I remembered that it was not possible, as I hadn’t been to church for the longest time. Mac looked tired. I could read it on his face and in his posture. His steel-blue eyes had faded, or perhaps they were blurred by tears. His or mine, I didn’t know. Perhaps Mac was like me and had seen too much death. Nonetheless, he was my friend and pastor.

  “Hello, my sister,” said Mac. “I’ve come to take you home.”

  “Am I dead?” I asked.

  Mac squeezed his eyes tight, holding back a torrent of emotion. “No, my dear. Not you.” Several heartbeats passed, both his and mine drumming in unison. “Chance, you know . . . Chance died from his injuries.” Mac took a deep breath and straightened. “Later on, when you are ready, we will talk about the funeral.”

  I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of my heart. It continued to beat, but I was no longer connected to the force that kept it going.

  “No funeral, Mac. I mean it. I’m done with funerals.”

  An extended, weighted silence hung like a deadfall between us before Mac spoke.

  “Many years ago, as I was leaving the hospital, I walked into the hallway and saw a young man sitting there alone, his face buried in his hands, crying. He said he had killed his father’s best friend in a hunting accident and he didn’t think he would ever get over his guilt. He didn’t think that life would go on.” Mac reached over to place a gentle hand on my shoulder. “But he did. He went on to be a soldier, and as a soldier he took lives. But he also went on to be a rescue worker. He even studied to be a pastor and dedicated his life to saving that part of man that continues beyond the grave; saving souls.” Mac dropped his gaze and gently squeezed my shoulder. “It’s not how long we live, but how we use the time we are given.”

  “You’re talking about Chance.”

  Mac nodded. “That is his legacy.” Mac bent over and kissed me, his lips pressed tight against my forehead until the message of love came through, and then he left.

  I was relieved not to be burdened with the usual benign platitudes like “He’s in a better place now” or “He is with the Lord.” As a Christian, I knew my husband was in heaven, but there was nothing in words that could begin to fill the vacuum that Chance’s death had left behind.

  Ashley wouldn’t leave me alone. I woke the next morning to find her sleeping on the recliner. The sofa would no longer hold the three of them. Poor Ashley, I thought, feeling a sad solace in knowing that I would never have to suffer the miseries of pregnancy.

  I went through the motions of making breakfast for four; make that five—no, six of us. Kissme and Mercy patiently waited at the entrance to the kitchen. I started the coffee maker and let them outdoors, just as I had done a thousand times before.

  How was it possible that a new day had arrived? Overhead, the sky was dark and threatening. Somehow I found the impending storm comforting and wrapped my bathrobe more tightly around me. I didn’t understand how it was that I was alive and breathing when half of me lay cold and dead in the county morgue.

  Mercy’s cold nose bumped my hand, and Kissme was standing on her back legs scratching at the back of mine. The air was frigid, and the dogs wanted inside.

  Oh—right. Food. I got out the frying pan and cracked eggs, one at a time, and watched them fall.

  “Sunny?”

  I turned to see Ashley looking like a tired punch ball, round and full, yet sagging from one too many hits.

  “Sunny—you’re breaking eggs into the sink.”

  I looked at the sink, and she was right. The frying pan was full of shells, and eggs were staring at me from the bottom of the sink, like sets of watchful eyes waiting to see what I would do next.

  The next thing I knew, I was holding a sobbing Ashley. For all of her bulk, she was as fragile as the freshly fallen oak leaves that were scattering before the storm.

  Sometime later over bowls of steaming oatmeal, Ashley rubbed her tired red eyes and sniffled. “At least Chance is in a better place now. He is with the Lord,” she said.

  Ashley went home when I told her that I needed some time alone. She left, and sometime in the afternoon, Mark Anderson arrived. He stood at the door looking older than I remembered. Perhaps it was the burden of being sheriff. Only last year Mark had still been an undersheriff. As head of law enforcement, all the glory and all of the blame for the events in the tunnel had fallen directly on him.

  A chill wind slipped in behind Mark as he entered the house. I trailed him into the living room, still wearing the pajamas I had worn home from the hospital. My hair was snarled, and teeth had not been brushed. I cared not. My face was as dry and desolate as a windswept desert.

  Mercy ran past me, jumping on Mark, who knelt down and wrapped his arms around her neck, hugging her the way I thought he might have held me. I was not offended but suspected I was witnessing a secret part of the world of men—men who trusted canines with their hearts because people had disappointed, while their dogs remained steadfast and trustworthy. Mercy frequently stayed with Mark when Chance was away. Perhaps . . . since Chance was gone . . . it would best if she went home with him.

  “Sunny
.” The word came out with great effort. It was all Mark could manage before his voice cracked. I took him by the hand and led him into the living room. Once an advocate, always an advocate. It seems that it is my life’s duty to comfort others.

  Turning, I held Mark in my arms while he cried. A big man, a leader, an influential figure who now stood shaking and trembling like a lost child in my arms. My arms are a safe place. When Mark had calmed, I parked him next to a box of tissues and used the excuse of getting him some coffee to give him time to recover.

  After the predictable “I am so sorry” and “He was a good man,” Mark concluded by saying, “Pastor Mac said he’d stop by later on to help you with the funeral arrangements.”

  What was not predictable was my reply. “No. No more funerals. I am done with funerals.”

  Mark stood there, puzzling for a moment as though I had spoken in a foreign language. “I know this is hard for you. That’s why I’m sending Mac. He’s more than a police chaplain; he’s your pastor and friend. He wants to help you.”

  “I’ve already seen him and sent him home. You heard me, Mark. No funeral.”

  Mark rubbed his hand across the base of his neck. “I understand.” Mark was done crying and back to his role as sheriff. Wetting his lips and nodding, he said, “I got it. You need a little time. These things don’t need to happen right away. It’s just that I need to notify other agencies across the state. We don’t have to have the funeral soon, but I do need to send announcements with a date as soon as possible. Mac and the funeral home can help you with that.”

  My face froze and hands white-knuckled around the half-empty cup of coffee that I clutched, my attitude growing colder than the plummeting temperatures outside. Drawing a slow, steady breath, I said, “You’re not listening. ‘No funeral’ does not sound like ‘later’ to me. It sounds like ‘no funeral!’”

  “Uh, yeah. Well . . .” Mark stood to leave and I rose with him. We embraced; awkward, clumsy.

  “Take Mercy with you, Mark. Please. Just for a while. I can’t look at her without seeing . . . without thinking . . .”

  Mark’s mouth was drawn down, and his brows pinched in consternation. “No, no. I get it. It’s okay. I can do that.” He turned to go. “Come on, girl.” Mercy jumped to her feet and whined eagerly. Mark seemed relieved to have something that he could control, or at least relate to. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, kissing me on the cheek on his way out the door.

  Mercy turned back expectantly, whining and looking at me with her intelligent brown eyes.

  Reaching down, I hugged her goodbye and whispered into her thick warm ear, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of everything.”

  The storm moved in by nightfall. Warmer and kinder, an end-of-winter storm for California; the kind that speeds new growth and invites memories indoors to curl up next to you and pass the time. Still, I was cold, shivering as I huddled under a warm throw in front of the soapstone heater with a hot cup of tea to warm my hands.

  Putting the cup aside, I petted my dog, not wanting tea, the company of people, or intrusive memories.

  All I had lived and worked for. Everything I had dreamed and hoped would come to pass. Gone. Or perhaps it had been fading all along and I had been too blind to see it. I could hear my mother’s refrain, “Try not to be stupid, Sunny.” Maybe I should have listened. She was probably right. After all we had been through, Chance had spent his last breath whispering the word, “Paige.”

  Thunder rumbled and boomed overhead, rattling windows as it echoed through the mountains. Through the sliding glass door, lightning flashed, sizzling and searing as it ripped the sky in half. Dusk was approaching, and I stared, awestruck, wondering if I had ever really experienced the fullness of life or if I was merely an observer, looking through a window . . . for there was a film, a haze, between what was real and where I sat. And there—a spider lurking in the corner—was waiting to catch me unaware.

  A great sadness flooded in. Tears fell. Outside, the sound of rain.

  CHAPTER 42

  Kissme barked and launched off the couch at the sound of uninvited knocking on the door. Morning arrived to spite me, and the only lingering threat of a storm was the one brewing between my ears.

  “Go away!” I complained, pulling the pillow over my head.

  Why can’t people leave me alone?

  The knocking paused, then resumed, louder and more insistent. Kissme escalated into a barking frenzy.

  “Kissme—quit it!”

  The knocking turned to pounding, and my voice rose three notches as I bellowed, “I said ‘Go away!’”

  The door opened. “I didn’t buy all this food to eat it by myself.” Travis walked in with is arms loaded with paper bags, kicking the door shut behind him,.

  By now Kissme was in a veritable lather.

  “Kissme—shut up!” Travis and I shouted in unison. Kissme froze, looking hurt and defeated. She dropped her tail and slunk into the kitchen at Travis’s heels.

  Travis set bags and cups on the island between the two rooms and bent down to pet the dog, observing, “You look like hell.”

  My hand flew to my face, and I turned away, aware and embarrassed of my scars.

  “What are you doing?” Travis demanded as he walked over to the couch and pushed my hand from the scars. Then he took my face in his hands and looked into my eyes. “I was talking to your dog,” he said.

  I pulled away, rolling my eyes as I cleared my throat. “She hasn’t been to the groomer in a while.”

  Travis rolled his eyes back at me. “She’s not the only one. What is this—the third day? Nah, the fourth day, and you’re wearing the same clothes you had on in the hospital. No shower, no decent food.”

  “I ate some oatmeal.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want?” I asked, challenging him as I sat upright, putting my feet on the floor for the first time in forever.

  “Something healthy. Go take a shower and get dressed while I make breakfast. And, Sunny,” Travis said with a pained expression, “do something with your hair.”

  The man knew how to push my buttons. I gave Travis a dirty look, tossed my dirty clothes in the laundry, and hauled my stnking booty in the shower.

  Is that steak I smell? At nine o’clock in the morning? My mouth was watering by the time I dressed and returned to the kitchen, drying my hair with a towel.

  “Is that really beef? You hardly ever eat meat.”

  “You’d be surprised at what I eat.” Travis winked.

  I was both deeply offended and completely relieved that Travis could be his old pain-in-the-butt self. It was reassuring that somewhere in the universe the state of normal still existed. Somewhere, life continued. I was starved.

  Seasoned steak, herbed potatoes, and the last of the eggs—it was a feast that I picked at.

  I was still clearing the table when Travis announced, “I found the albino.”

  The room resounded with the sound of shattering dishes and a chair scooting back as Travis rushed to my side. “I’ll get that,” he said as he bent to pick up the pieces.

  “Babe, sit down. “Here.” He pulled out a chair, planted me back at the table, and continued to pick up the remains of shattered plates.

  “Quincy?”

  Travis paused from sweeping up the glass to look up with a searching glance and then shook his head, no. “She was gone. But we found the body of Angelo Ortiz.”

  “I thought you said you found Miasma, the albino.”

  “We did. Miasma was his biker name. Angelo, Angel Ortiz, is our albino.”

  “A Hispanic? Is that possible?”

  “Rare alright. But not unheard of. Forensics said it’s something like one in over fifteen thousand.”

  The world seemed to shrink for a moment.

  “Sunny. Where’s the trash can?”

  I pointed without looking, and Travis stopped what he was doing to pull me out of the chair.

  “Focus. I n
eed you to help me figure this out.”

  I stepped back. Unwinding the towel from my hair, I shook my head. Wet hair fell like last night’s tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don't apologize,” Travis said, in a soft, urgent voice. “Just work with me.”

  “You said you found him. You didn’t say that you arrested him.”

  “That’s my girl.” A flicker of relief softened his expression. “I convinced the owner of the motorcycle shop that it was in his best interest to remember what kind of vehicle they drove. ‘They,’ referring to Angelo and what we now know is his girlfriend, the black woman, Deirdre Jarreau. We pulled an address from DMV. The vehicle was still registered to the previous owner living in the Bay Area. The seller said the buyers paid cash for it and described them as ‘a very white man and a very dark woman.’”

  The shadows of grief receded a little as Travis shed some light on the aftermath.

  “We put out an Amber Alert on the vehicle, plus a BOLO to California, Oregon, and Nevada law enforcement.” He gave himself a congratulatory smile. “Can’t be too careful,” he said. “Got a tip two hours later. The vehicle was spotted outside of Guerneville.”

  I knew Guerneville—a scenic little town north of the Bay Area. “Then what?” I asked.

  Travis’s dimples deepened, and his smile stretched from ear to ear. “Drones,” he said. “The end of free democracy as we know it, but one hell of a tool for law enforcement. We tracked the car to Jenner and made a raid.”

  “Jenner?” Jenner. And Jarreau. The names were ringing faint bells in the back of my brain when there should have been a flourish of trumpets. The puzzle pieces were all nicely laid out in front of me . . . and they looked so familiar. I was just too exhausted to put it together. “What happened at the raid?”

  “We found Angelo. He’d been executed with a double-tap to the head.”

  “And the woman . . . Deirdre?” Deirdre—Deirdre—Deirdre.