On A Night Like This (The Callaways), page 5
"Not yet anyway."
"My uncle said the building is clear."
"Your uncle?" he echoed, then shook his head. "How many Callaways are there in the fire department?"
"Enough to make it run extremely well," she retorted.
He gave her a half smile. "That's not what I've heard."
She wanted to ask him what he'd heard, but she knew when she was being baited, and she decided to take the high road. She turned to the witness. "What is your name, sir?"
"Freddie Juarez," the man said.
"You reported the fire?"
"Yes," he replied. "The fire—it is very big."
As he gazed at the fire, he seemed to be almost in a trance, struck dumb by the intensity of the heat.
She wondered if he was more than just a witness. It wouldn't be the first time someone had torched their place of employment and stuck around to watch their handiwork.
"Can you tell me when you first realized there was a fire?" she asked, drawing his attention back to her.
"Smoke. I started coughing. Then I looked out the window and saw the flames. I ran outside and called for help."
"Did you see anyone or hear anything?"
He shook his head. "I was working and listening to music," he said, holding up his earphones.
Before she could ask him another question, a woman and a young girl ran up to them, throwing their arms around Freddie.
She stepped back as the three began speaking to each other in very excited Spanish and turned to Max. "Did he tell you anything else?"
"No."
"Do you have his contact information?"
"I do."
She sighed. "Great. Anything else you care to share? Like why you're here?"
"One of the teachers was reported missing last night by her roommate. There was a trace amount of blood found in the garage of their apartment building. We didn't have enough to launch an investigation, but when I heard the call come in about the fire, I wondered if there was a connection."
"Who's the teacher?"
"Margaret Flannery."
"Sister Margaret?" she asked in surprise. "She's missing?"
"Sounds like you know her."
"I went to school here. Sister Margaret was my fourth grade teacher, and she has taught at St. Andrews for forty years. I can't believe someone would try to hurt her. She's a sweet, wonderful person. What else can you tell me about her disappearance?"
"Nothing. It's an ongoing investigation."
"Come on, Harrison. We're working together, aren't we?"
He gave her a short smile. "Are we? I'll remind you of that when I ask you for information on the fire scene."
"I might be able to help you," she said, ignoring his comment. They could both be territorial when it came to information.
"All right. What else can you tell me about Sister Margaret?"
"Well, she's a popular teacher. She runs all the carnivals. She's a huge part of the school and church community."
"What can you tell me about her roommate, Ruth Harbough?"
"She's the school secretary," Emma replied. "The two women have been friends for years."
"Just friends?" he queried.
She frowned. "I don't know. I never thought about it. Does it matter?"
"Just asking questions."
She glanced around the schoolyard. Half the neighborhood was hovering on the street watching the flames. Arsonists loved to watch their handiwork. Was the perpetrator somewhere in the group?
Harrison followed her gaze. "Quite a crowd," he muttered.
"Yeah." She turned her head as her uncle called her name. "Time to get inside before all the evidence is destroyed."
"The fire is still strong," Max said with a frown.
"It's under control," she said, walking across the playground.
He followed. "You're not short on guts, are you?"
"It's part of the job. Fear only gets in the way."
"Sometimes fear can save your life."
"Or kill you," she returned. "Focus and fear don't go well together. I learned that a very long time ago."
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing important."
"I doubt that."
She shrugged. "Maybe someday I'll tell you."
He smiled. "I'm going to hold you to that."
His lazy grin made her skin tingle. She forced herself to look away. Max Harrison might be hot, but as far as she was concerned, he was off limits. They had to work together, and she did not mix business with personal relationships.
As she headed toward the burning building, she tried to clear her mind of all distractions. Even though the fire was under control, she would never make the mistake of underestimating its power to leap back to life.
* * *
The monster grew larger and larger, taking up every inch of the sky, a raging creature of heat devouring everything in its path. Tall trees crackled with flames, then crashed to the ground one after the other, the smoke so thick it was impossible to see two feet ahead.
A terrible fear ran through Aiden as the firestorm enveloped him. It was too big, too fast, too much. He'd waited too long to retreat.
"Kyle," he shouted, seeing the hazy figure in front of him. "Come back!"
The fury of the fire threw his words back in his face.
What the hell was Kyle thinking? Why was he going up instead of down? Why wasn't he retreating? Had Kyle become disoriented by the smoke? It had to be the explanation. If he could just get to him, he could turn him around.
But the ravaging fire had other plans. He jumped back as a flaming branch landed just inches from his body.
Within seconds the forest around him was blazing with a new line of fire. In the light he could see Kyle twenty yards ahead. Kyle had stopped, pulled off his helmet, his head turned toward the sky as the fire grabbed hold of the sleeves of his coat.
"Kyle," he screamed again.
He ran toward his friend, jumping over rocks, dodging flames, moving so fast he was almost flying, and then he was completely airborne.
He didn't know how long he flew before he hit the ground and then tumbled down the mountain.
His last thought was that he was going to die. Mother Nature had finally beaten him.
But when he woke up in the hospital hours later, he was alive, and Kyle was dead.
Aiden's eyes flew open. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding, his body dripping with sweat, the nightmare in his head so real he could smell the smoke and feel the heat. Drawing in gulps of air, he tried to calm his racing heart. It was just another one of the bad dreams that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
In this dream Kyle hadn't looked at him with accusation, hadn't asked him why the hell he hadn't called for retreat when the winds changed. Not that Kyle had said that to him on that terrible day. At least, Aiden didn't think so, but his memory had been fragmented by the concussion he'd suffered during his fall. The fall had actually saved his life, literally throwing him out of the path of the fire.
Afterwards, he'd tried to put together the events of that day from other's accounts, but there were still gaps and questions that continued to elude him. Had Kyle really taken off his helmet? It seemed unthinkable. Kyle was a trained firefighter, one of the best in the business. He knew what to do and what not to do.
Maybe his dreams were distorted. His memories didn't jive with the accounts given by the rest of the team, some of whom said they'd seen him and Kyle together and didn't understand how they'd gotten separated. Hawkins' cousin had told the investigators that Aiden was too cocky, too reckless, too determined not to let the fire win that he'd lost his ability to reason.
He'd heard those criticisms before. He did push his team and sometimes the limits, but his gut told him that something else had happened that day. He just didn't know what. But he did know that Kyle had been distracted days before the accident, but he hadn't shared what was on his mind, and Aiden hadn't pushed. He should have pushed. But since Kyle had gotten married and become a father, they weren't as close as they used to be.
If only the fire had waited another day, Kyle would have been in San Francisco with his wife and baby son. They'd recently bought a condo in the city after several years of living near the base in Redding. With the new baby, Vicky had wanted to be closer to her family. Kyle hadn't appeared to be as happy with the decision, but he'd gone along with it, saying that marriage was about compromise, and it was something he had to do.
Aiden sighed and rolled over on his side, wondering if he was just rationalizing what had happened. Was his subconscious trying to find a way to shift the blame off his shoulders to someone else – maybe even to Kyle? Hell of a friend that made him, trying to blame the victim instead of himself. He'd been in charge of the crew. It was his responsibility to bring everyone home. He'd failed.
Knowing he wouldn't sleep anymore, he slid out of bed and got to his feet. A glance at the clock told him it was two o'clock in the morning. He had a long time to go before dawn. He moved to the window. His room over the garage looked into the Davidsons' backyard. The familiar sight brought back more memories, but these were much sweeter.
He'd stood at this window many times in his teen years, often watching Sara trying to turn her backyard into a wonderland of flowers and waterfalls. Her mother used to help her in the garden, and the sounds of their laughter had often drifted through his open window.
Sara had been happy in her garden, far happier than in the house where her father ruled with an iron fist. He was a little surprised that she'd come home to visit her father. They'd never had much of a relationship, and as far as he knew she hadn't been home to visit in at least eight or nine years. It had been easier for him when she moved away. She was a distraction he didn't need.
A light suddenly came on in the yard. It appeared to be coming from the back patio. Why would Sara be wandering around outside at two o'clock in the morning?
Without thinking, he threw on a shirt, jeans and shoes and walked down the stairs. There was a gate right next to the driveway.
When he entered the backyard, he saw her sitting in a chair at the patio table, a bottle of wine by her elbow. Sara wore black leggings and a t-shirt with a big, thick sweater. Obviously, she couldn't sleep either. But that didn't mean he needed to talk to her.
He was going to retreat, but he was too late.
She jumped to her feet.
"Who's there?" she demanded, grabbing the nearest thing for a weapon, which happened to be a pillow from the wicker chair.
"What are you going to do with that?" he drawled. "Tickle me to death?" He moved into the light.
"Aiden?" she asked sharply. "What are you doing out here?"
"I saw someone in the yard. Thought I'd check it out."
As he said the words, he realized how familiar they sounded. He'd shared more than a few late night conversations in this garden with Sara. They'd both been night owls for different reasons. Sara had usually stressed herself out with worry over school or grades or her father. And he'd usually been coming back from some party and not ready to call it a night.
"Couldn't you sleep?" he asked.
Sara lowered the pillow and sat back down. "The house is stuffy. I needed some fresh air."
"You should have gone to a hotel." He took the chair across from her.
"I didn't want to leave the house empty."
"Then you should have armed yourself with more than a pillow if you were going to stand watch."
"Funny. You can go now, Aiden."
"I could," he agreed, but he made no move to leave. He was too restless to sleep and pacing around his small room seemed far less interesting than talking to Sara. "Did you talk to your dad again?"
"I called the hospital before I went to bed, but he was sleeping. I guess that's good—if anything about this can be called good. The house is a disaster."
"I'm sure your father has insurance. If you need a construction bid, you should talk to my Uncle Kevin. He's a contractor. He won't take advantage of you, and I'm sure he can give you a good price."
"I will. Thanks."
Silence fell between them. He wasn't in a hurry to fill it. It had been ten years since he'd seen Sara, and he couldn't help but appreciate the beauty he'd always known was there. As a teenager, she'd hid her body in big clothes and worn her hair in a tight ponytail, not a bit of make-up on her face. She'd been awkward and clumsy, and he'd enjoyed teasing her just to see the light come on in her eyes and the red blush of embarrassment flood across her cheeks.
He'd always known that there was a spark inside of her. He'd seen glimpses of it on a few occasions, but while he'd been intrigued by the idea of bringing her out of her shell, some self-protective instinct had usually kicked in, reminding him that Sara wasn't a girl to play around with. She was his sister's friend, the girl next door, and her parents were friends with his parents. There was no way he could get involved with her. He didn't do serious, and Sara was as serious as they came.
But as much as he'd tried to look at her as an honorary big brother, he'd never really seen her like a sister, or even like a friend. She was more like a challenge, a girl he knew he wouldn't be able to impress with his usual lines. And one night, he'd let things go a little too far.
"You're staring at me, Aiden," she said tersely.
Her face was stiff, her body tense, her obvious dislike of him palpable, which for some reason made him want to linger. He had enough people who hated his guts these days; he didn't really need any more. But this was Sara, and he'd wondered many times over the years if they'd ever meet again. He hadn't expected her to still be so pissed off at him. Obviously she hadn't forgotten their last encounter.
"You've grown up," he said after a moment. "I like the long hair." He liked a lot of other things, too, like the way her breasts moved against her t-shirt, and the way her eyes sparkled. Was she pissed off or turned on? He decided not to ask. Instead, he said, "What's up with you?"
"What do you mean?" she said quickly.
"What's happening in your life?"
"Why do you care?"
"We used to be friends."
"Were we?" she asked. "I thought I was just the irritating friend of your sister."
"That, too," he conceded. "But we had some good times."
"And some bad," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
He knew exactly what she was referring to. "That was a long time ago."
"Tonight, it doesn't seem that long."
"You still blame me for sending you home after the concert, don't you?"
She gave him an incredulous look. "Is that how you remember it? You sent me home after a concert? There was a lot more to that night than that."
"We had fun. And we ended things before they got complicated. That's what I remember."
Her look of amazement deepened. "Seriously?"
He knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't stop himself. "How do you remember it?"
She hesitated. "It doesn't matter."
"Apparently, it does."
Anger flickered in her eyes. "You humiliated me, Aiden."
"No," he said quickly. "I protected you. I stopped you from making a bad decision, one you would have regretted."
"I didn't need your protection."
"Yes, you did. You were innocent and naïve. And you'd been drinking. You should be grateful I called a halt."
"And should I be grateful that you told everyone I wanted to have sex with you, but you said no – you, the guy who would sleep with anyone? How do you think that played out for me?"
He tipped his head, acknowledging her point. He'd forgotten the rumors. "That wasn't me. Jim saw us together. He's the one who told people."
"You didn't try to stop him."
"I didn't think it was that big of a deal."
"Well, I did."
He gazed at her for a long moment, wanting her to look at him, but she was picking a piece of imaginary lint off her sweater. "I'm sorry, Sara. Sorry that I let it go as far as it did. I shouldn't have kissed you in the first place. You were three years younger than me, and you were my sister's friend. I get that you were embarrassed, but things would have been a lot worse if we'd kept on going. I did the right thing." He was truly surprised she didn't see it that way now. "There have been a lot of moments in my life where I did the wrong thing, but not that night, not with you. That's the one time I got it right."
"Oh, just shut up," she said. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."
"I hate to think that you've been pissed off at me for the last decade."
"Don't flatter yourself. I haven't thought about you at all." She cleared her throat and shot him a pointed look. "I'm not carrying some torch for you, if that's what you think. That flame died a long time ago. There have been lots of other men in my life."
"I'm sure. We've both grown up, changed."
She gave him a doubtful look. "I'm not sure you've changed. So far today I've seen one man punch you in the face and watched your brother and father come close to doing the same. Care to explain what's going on with you?"
"No. Let's talk about you instead. What brought you back home after all these years?"
"I told you—my father's sixty-fifth birthday. I bought him that bottle of wine," she said, pointing to the unopened bottle on the table. "It cost over four hundred dollars."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's quite a present. Are you rich now?"
She uttered a short, little laugh. "Hardly. But I wanted to do something special, something to show my dad that our relationship has value, that it's worth saving. My grandmother died a few years ago and it's just my dad and me now. We need to find a way to connect."
"That's a lot of expectations to put on a bottle of wine."
"Too many," she admitted. "I thought at the very least it would open up some communication. When I gave it to him, my dad said it was nice, and set it on the table without even looking at the label. Then he told me I shouldn't have come home without being invited."
Aiden shook his head in disgust. He'd never liked Stephen Davidson. The man was as cold as the inside of a freezer. "Your father was always an ass."
"But he's my father. I have to try to love him."
