A Cold Christmas (22 page)

“No.”

“What are they?”

“I can't tell you that. I could make a guess, but the only way to know is send them to a lab.”

“I will, but it'll take a while. Guess.”

“Okay. As long as you're not going to hold me to it. I'd say they're Halcion.”

“Not Advil?”

“Definitely not. Have you been taking these?”

“I shouldn't be?”

“Definitely not.”

“What is Halcion for?”

“Some physicians used to prescribe it for sleep, but it has heavy side effects. Nightmares, for one.”

“What kind of side effects would result if two are taken every four hours or so?”

“Good Lord, don't ever do that. This isn't a good drug. It could cause amnesia taken that heavy. Have you been taking this?” Elena studied her.

“No.”

“Whoever it is, tell her to stop immediately. Taken in those amounts, it's a wonder she didn't end up in a coma.”

“Why do you say ‘she'?”

Elena looked embarrassed. “Well, it's usually women who get sleeping pills. It doesn't make any difference. Man or woman, tell him or her to stop it.”

“I will,” Susan said. She thanked her and bought a bottle of Advil.

No wonder Caley James was so groggy all the time. How had she gotten Halcion? Given by a physician for sleep? Why was it in an Advil bottle?

*   *   *

When Caley opened the door, Susan stepped in and asked how Zach was.

“Doing great. Moving on those crutches like sixty. He zips around so fast, he scares me.”

The house was quiet and the living room neat.

Caley smiled wearily. “If you're wondering why the decibel level isn't up to the ceiling and the place isn't a pig sty, it's because they're in bed and my boss was here. Let's go in the kitchen; I've got fresh coffee.”

Susan wasn't sure she needed any more coffee this evening, but she followed Caley and took the mug when it was filled. She sat down, slipped the new bottle of Advil from her shoulder bag, and placed it on the table.

Caley picked it up and examined the label. She looked at Susan. “Was something wrong with the one I had?”

“Where'd you get it?”

Caley raked hair from her face. “So there
was
something wrong with it. What?”

Nothing slow about Caley James. “It needs to be analyzed before I'll know, but the pharmacist thinks it might be Halcion. Have you ever taken that?”

“No. What is it?”

“Apparently, a sleeping pill. You ever use anything to help you sleep?”

Caley rubbed her forehead. “Yeah, I think so, but I don't remember what. It was a long time ago. Anyway, I didn't put it in an Advil bottle.”

“How could that happen?”

“You think I'm so scattered I'd do a thing like that?” Caley looked horrified. “What if I'd given it to one of the kids?”

“Do you ever give them anything like that? For fever or flu?”

“Zach maybe. Not the other two. They're too young. I only give them children's stuff.”

“If you didn't put it in an Advil bottle, how did it get there?”

“I don't know.”

“Who would deliberately try to harm you?”

“Nobody. Why would they? Oh, maybe one or two congregation members. They think I shouldn't be playing for church services because I'm divorced. We might as well be living in the dark ages around here. Hell, it makes me want to open a bordello in this house and advertise in the Sunday bulletin.” She ran her fingers through her hair, making it stand on end.

“Your husband?”

“Ex-husband. Why? Get out of paying child support? He doesn't pay it anyway.”

“Who comes into the kitchen besides you and the children? You said Evan Devereau?”

Caley flushed. “Only recently. He's been helping.”

“Your ex-husband?”

“Yeah. I need some orange juice. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks,” Susan said. “Coffee's fine.”

Caley retrieved a carton from the refrigerator and plopped it on the table. “Does that feel cold to you?”

Susan ran a hand along it. It definitely wasn't cold.

“Shit.” Caley grabbed a tissue from the box on the countertop and vigorously blew her nose. “I was hoping I was wrong and the poor old thing would rally ‘round. No such luck. I tried putting stuff on the back porch, but … egg Popsicles.”

Oh dear. Was there any way to get help for her? Caley looked like she'd just about reached her limit. Churches? They must have funds for those who needed help.

“Do any of your neighbors ever come in?”

“Sure. Pauline, across the street. The kids let her cat in and she comes over to take it home. Ida Ruth Dandermadden a time or two. I wouldn't put it past her. She's the leader of the get-rid-of-that-James-slut-before-she— I'm not sure what it is I'm maybe doing to the unsullied minds of the congregation.”

“Why was she here?”

“She comes when I'm gone to spread her gospel. Ettie, in the interests of politeness, invites her in for coffee.”

“So Ettie would be here.”

“Sure. She takes care of the kids. Sometimes at her house, sometimes here. If they have to go to bed before I'm due home or stuff like that.”

Halcion, Ida Ruth Dandermadden, and a tampered railing? What, for God's sake, was the connection? Susan would have Ida Ruth's blood checked for Halcion.

“When did you put that bottle in the cabinet?”

Caley looked at her. “You're joking, right? I can't remember when I brushed my teeth last, let alone put a bottle on a shelf. What does the stuff do to you?”

“Makes you sleep. Gives you dreams, sometimes nightmares.” Susan didn't mention the possibility of amnesia.

Caley nodded. “Oh, boy, have I had those.”

“How often do you take something to help you sleep?”

“Mostly never. I'm usually so tired I don't need any help. I had Tylenol with codeine when I broke my leg, but I maybe never did have anything for sleep.” She poured a glass of juice and held it out for Susan. “It was cold yesterday morning.”

“No, thank you.”

*   *   *

Driving back to the department, she mulled over the Halcion in Caley's cabinet. Why was it put there? To embarrass her? By somebody like Ida Ruth? To make her fall asleep at the organ, play badly? Or to put her asleep when she was home?

Why? So he/she could get in and out of the house without her knowing? What about the kids? They'd know.

Ah, but maybe they did know. Bonnie had said that an evil prince had been in the basement moving things around. Nobody had paid any attention to her. At night the kids would be asleep, and with Halcion, Caley would never hear anyone coming in and out. Seemed very risky.

Branner Noel? To get in the basement? Pauline Frankens had seen him going in and out the basement door. The house proper? No reason for doing so that Susan could think of. The ex-husband? The kids wouldn't think anything of him coming in. Why would he want to come in without Caley's knowledge? To find something? What? If anything was hidden anywhere, the best place would be the basement. Without some clue of what she was looking for, she'd never find it. If—whether—it was still there.

Susan radioed Hazel, who said, “Nothing going on I can't handle, except the mayor. He called and wanted to know if you'd like to be a jack-in-the-box on the Santa float.”

“I just may be coming down with the flu,” Susan said darkly.

“You'd get to jump up and down the whole parade route.”

She hung up and was pulling away when she saw smoke rising from Pauline Frankens's roof, white against a black sky.

30

Susan reached for the mike and reported the fire to Hazel. While she watched, an orange glow started in the front window, then flames licked around the curtains. As she slid from the pickup she saw a small child race toward the house and disappear inside.

“Bonnie!” Susan ran after her.

It was dark inside; smoke filled the air. She coughed. Faintly, behind a great roar, she heard the child's voice call, “Ollie? Ollie?”

“Bonnie!” She was upstairs looking for the damn cat. Susan climbed the stairs. Smoke heavier up here. She followed the direction of Bonnie's voice. Smoke too thick to breathe.

She held her breath and tried to hear past the snapping crackling roar. Downstairs!

Too black to see. Stumbling through blackness so dense she lost all sense of direction, she strained to hear Bonnie through the roar. Dropping to the floor, she crawled. Bumped into a door that moved when she pushed. She felt linoleum under her hands. Bathroom. Feeling along, she found a cabinet and stood up. Faucet. She splashed water on her face and clothes. The fire's roar grew louder. Back on hands and knees, she made her way out of the bathroom. Kept crawling. Found the hallway.

Pain shot through her knees. She touched a bundle of clothes, clutched at it, and moved her hands along it until she reached a face. Bonnie.

Blind as a mole, Susan got a firm grip on the little girl. Air too hot to breathe. One arm grasping Bonnie, she scuttled along like a crippled crab.

The roaring grew louder. Screaming filled the inside of her skull. She didn't know if it escaped or went round and round, trapped inside. Panic tugged at her, urging her to drop the child and run. Run! Before it's too late.

Don't worry, Bonnie, she whispered in her mind. Smoke and heat scoured the membranes in her throat and clawed into her lungs. Hot wind slapped her face, tore at her hair and clothes. Pushing along, she fought to keep herself from leaving the child and escaping.

Keep going, keep going, she chanted in her mind. Bonnie hadn't made a sound or a struggle. Don't think about that.

A spark fell on her coat sleeve and sent up a little smolder of smoke. She tucked the arm under her body to put it out, thinking at the same time that might be stupid. She might burst into flames, a small fire waiting to welcome the large one coming.

She kept going and suddenly realized she didn't know where the door was. She was probably crabbing around in circles. She was going to die. The little girl was going to die, if she wasn't already dead.

An explosion smashed her shoulders to the floor. The roar of wind swept over her, sucking the air from her lungs, pushing the fire in. Her mouth gaped; hot air scored her chest. She clamped her teeth. Keep going.

Suddenly, she stopped. She heard the roar of God's own thunder. Flames billowed. Beautiful. Orange and red and black boiling up. Reaching out to welcome her.

A vise clamped around her ankle. No. Stop. I have to rise up and meet it. She kicked at whatever was dragging her back.

The vise got tighter. Pulled. No! No!

Her shoulders were grabbed and she was lifted. Somebody pried Bonnie from her hands. An oxygen mask was clamped over her face.

A deep breath set off a fit of coughing. She looked at the scene in front of her and thought she must be in a nightmare.

Smoke billowed up, gray against the black sky. Firemen, looking like spacemen, aimed hoses. Water hit the ground and froze. They skidded on the ice. Flailed their arms. Tried to hold each other up. They crawled with hoses snaked behind them. One man stood and fell hard on his elbow.

Flames shot up, forcing a retreat, lighting up faces of angry, frustrated firefighters trying to cope with the raw naked power of a force stronger than they were.

Susan pulled the mask from her face. “Pauline,” she yelled at the fireman nearest her. That set off such a fit of coughing, she couldn't breathe. The oxygen mask was replaced on her face.

“You believe in miracles?” he shouted back.

No, she didn't.

Her chest burned and her lips felt blistered.

In amazement and terror, she watched a scene from Keystone Kops as firefighters fell and slid and staggered as they tried to get up. The ice on the ground melted into rivulets when the fire reached it. Paramedics lifted her to a gurney and slid her into the ambulance.

*   *   *

Hours later, when the grim madness of the dark turned into a cold bleak day, a weary and dirty fireman came in to see her. “What the hell were you doing in there?”

“The little girl.” Her voice was raspy and deep, her throat raw. “I saw her go—” Coughing seized her.

“Don't talk,” the fireman said.

“Didn't think, just—” Coughing clawed her raw throat.

“You realize you're a lot heavier than the kid, and you both had to be rescued.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled. Very white teeth in a soot-blackened face. “That's what we're here for.”

“Bonnie?”

“She's here. You did a pretty good job of protecting her. She's not burned any. You, on the other hand, got your hands singed.”

Susan looked at the bandages on her hands. “Fire out?”

“Close. We're waiting to make sure.”

“Mrs. Frankens?”

He shook his head.

31

Throat still sore and raspy, voice sounding a bit like a bullfrog with a bad cold, Susan was released from the hospital on Monday afternoon. She was still subject to coughing fits, and her bandaged hands made it awkward to do anything.

Chet Mosler, the county arson investigator, was already at the Frankens house when she arrived. He was a tall, thin man with a long jaw, a lanky frame, and a heavy sense of humor. She'd worked with him before and was pleased at how good he was. A fireman, waiting to make sure hot spots were completely out, gave them hard hats and masks. “Be careful,” he said.

She intended to. The front door was open, and when she and the arson investigator went inside, the temperature seemed to drop. That made it pretty damn cold inside, and damp. It smelled of burnt wood and soggy plaster and melted materials. A dark slime covered everything.

Straight ahead was what was left of the staircase to the second floor, on the right was the living room, and on the left the dining room. The kitchen was behind the dining room. She had been to fire scenes before, but had forgotten the bleak devastation fire left in its wake.