Fahrenheit (16 page)

He shook the thoughts from his mind. He needed to focus now, plan destruction later. “Where did you see him?”

“He was working down there,” she pointed down the road to one of the restaurants lining A1A. “At the newer seafood grill. He was like the bouncer or something. You know, the guy who stands there and tells you to leave if you’re not dressed right. Before I lost my place I didn’t eat out at all, but now, living out of a hotel I can’t exactly cook dinner anymore, and the place I’m at doesn’t have a microwave in the room.”

“Did you get a name?”

“No. I was so scared I didn’t even stay to eat. I saw him. And he looked at me, and I thought maybe he knew. But he hadn’t seen me that day so why would he know right? Anyway, he had a tattoo on his arm. Simper Fi,” she ran her finger across her arm in the position where the tattoo would be on him. “That’s a Marine thing; right?”

This was getting good. Government conspiracies, Marines with bombs, cops covering it up…okay, maybe the cops really were just the idiots he thought they were, but still, a cover up would make a much more juicy story.

He wrapped up his conversation with his source and got into his car. He was tempted to go down and get a look at the guy. And as always temptation, for him, won out over patience. He would just get a look, make sure he knew what this guy looked like so he could make haste in following him, trying to see if the former Marine, if he were former and not still current, could lead him to the guy who hired him. What he really wanted to know was who was so important in that complex that the government would be willing to kill a bunch of people to get to him, or her. The place wasn’t the worst apartment complex to live in, but it wasn’t exactly the priciest place in Palm Coast either. He couldn’t see anybody of real importance living there…unless this was a witness in a murder trial hiding out in sleepy Palm Coast. Ooh, he was loving this. The thrill of the chase, the thrill of the story…excited didn’t begin to describe what he felt.

“Roll out the red carpet, New York, Daddy’s coming home.” He chuckled. This was his ticket on the New York Express and he wasn’t going to miss the train.

Chapter Ten

“T
ell me;” Eve leaned forward in anticipation. Dessert was on the table now. She had a delicious slice of lemon coconut cake in front of her and the only thing she could think about was hearing the story Adam had promised to tell her.

“I said after dinner.”

“It is after dinner. This is dessert. Dish;” her eyes widened with anticipation. He laughed.

“Okay. Well, now you have to keep in mind this isn’t my story, but one of the guy’s at the house.”

“Yeah, yeah…you told me that already.” She tried to hurry him along.

He laughed again. “Patience is a virtue, Eve.”

“I’ve been patient for the past hour. Talk Mr. Man. Talk.”

“All right,” he laughed. “Well, the story goes like this. There was a 9-1-1 call placed…one of the neighbors from the house on the street behind the house in topic called in. I think they must have been either directly behind or just slightly off center from it—”

“Okay; 9-1-1 call, neighbor; details.” She rushed him past the small details because she wanted to know the funny part of the story, not all the little details.

“Okay, calm down.” He chuckled.

“You’re making me wait on purpose.”

“No, I’m just trying to tell the story in my own way.”

She frowned. He was doing it on purpose. She could tell from the devious glint in his eyes. She sat back and waved him onward. “Okay, tell it your way.”

“The neighbor saw the glow of flames in the window of the house and they called 9-1-1. The house I work at got the alarm so the guys went, ready to put out a house fire. They got there, didn’t see a thing from the front, but when they went around back they saw the blaze and heard some yelling so they took out the window,” he started laughing hard. “Jeeze, they went in there like demolition derby and by the time they got inside all they found was a couple in the throes of hot sex with a room full of candles.”

She started laughing. “No, way does that happen.”

“Yeah, talk about embarrassing. From what I hear the woman was…well, never mind.”

“Hot?”

He laughed. “All those candles I would think so.”

She shook her head. “Okay, so the moral of the story is, when I get married never light candles and have great sex with my husband for fear the firemen will tear apart my house to get me out of it.”

“Well you’ll have your own fireman already on hand, so it shouldn’t be an issue.”

She raised her eyebrows inquisitively. “I will?”

“You will,” he assured her as he dug into his piece of cake. “You know, I never liked coconut.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have made something else.”

“No,” he shook his head. “This is good. All the coconut cakes I’ve had have been thick and stiff, but this is good.”

“Ah,” she smiled. “My secret recipe.”

“It’s good,” he smiled. “I didn’t know you were such a good cook.”

“I love to cook and bake. I used to do it all the time, but as I got older I just didn’t have a whole lot of time for all the fun recipes. I bake once every couple months now. I miss it sometimes, but life is busy enough to keep me from missing it too much.” She watched his lips, thinking about the kiss they had shared, the way he caressed her neck with his mouth, how his hands felt against her body…she really shouldn’t be thinking things like this while sitting at the table eating dessert. She had to admit, when Adam said they were going to dinner she half expected him to suggest going out to eat. Instead, he had offered to cook her dinner. She, however, had a better idea. They went shopping for food and they cooked together. She made the cake. It didn’t take that long to make it from scratch. The longest wait was letting it cool enough to frost, but that’s what the refrigerator was good for, so she put it inside for ten minutes before frosting the cake. Then, they had dinner. She liked his house. It was cute, and totally him. He had pictures of his brothers, his parents and the generations of firefighters in his family hanging on the wall. He was so proud of his family, and he loved them, she could tell that from the warmth in his voice when he talked about them.

Trent and Chase. Chase was the smokejumper, while Trent was the fire investigator. Trent had been a firefighter for several years, but his passion was in investigating the blazes, not putting them out. So, he switched focus.

“Chase,” he grinned. “Now he’s my hero. I love that he goes right into the thick of the fire and he fights it from the inside out.”

“Is that why you want to be a smokejumper; to be like your hero?”

“Partly,” he admitted. “But I’ve always loved the idea. I know the training is intense. The requirements are high. But I really want it, and I think I’ll be good at it. I know I’ll be good at it.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“All fires are.”

“True, but with a house fire you’re not…no, scrap that, you are the type of man to run into the burning building, but it’s different. When it’s a big one you go in to get somebody out, not to fight the fire from the inside out.”

He shrugged. “Still dangerous.”

“True.”

“Being a smokejumper is all I’ve ever really wanted to be; it’s why I volunteered to assist with any wildfires that arose here in the county. I had the training. I still go through training, and when resources are low I’m one of the few guys from our firehouse that gets to go help out. It’s getting me ready.”

“For your ultimate goal?”

“Yes. I want to leave by the end of the year and start training to be a smokejumper.”

“Where?”

“I’m filling out applications in three states. There’s the possibility of Vermont, but that’s back close to my brothers and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. My other option is Wyoming. But mostly I think I’m going to do California—if I get into the program.”

“Why California? Wyoming has loads of nature and wildlife.”

“Yeah, but California has a lot of wildfires.”

“I see,” she shook her head. “You’re an adrenaline junky.”

“Aren’t you? I saw your photos of what happened in Egypt. You were right there, right in front of that angry crowd. That gun in the photograph, that man had that thing aimed directly at your lens yet you took the shot not knowing if he would take another kind of shot at you.”

“Touché,” she shrugged. “I’m a McGregor. McGregor’s don’t run, we stay and we fight. I had a job to do, a story to help tell, and at that moment that man was the story; so I took the shot. For that brief moment, looking at him, looking in his eyes through the lens, I knew he would do it. I knew this could be the last picture I ever took and for some reason, instead of being afraid, instead of running away, I was determined that it was going to be the best picture of my life. So I took the shot.”

“You could have been killed.”

“You risk your life every time you’re called out to a fire.”

“I’m saving lives.”

“And I’m just telling a story,” she looked at him, trying to study the meaning behind his words. Did he think her job was less important than his because she wasn’t saving lives? “People deserve to know the truth. They deserve to know what’s happening, and if I can help tell one person’s story, to get one message across, no matter the risk to myself, then I’m going to stand and take the shot.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what,” she affirmed. “I may not be saving a life, Adam, but I am preserving a legacy, a piece of history that otherwise might not have a chance to be documented. When I went to Ireland—”

“When was that,” he leaned forward. She could tell from the look on his face that he pretty much knew it was probably around the time of the bombings. She guessed he missed that story in the paper. She had been there with Mitch, but back then her photographs weren’t as big as they were starting to become now. Her byline was so small she nearly needed a magnifying glass to see it. She knew they printed her name under the photo because they had to, but the real attention grabber was the name Mitch Decker; she never argued with that. She never cared about the social dynamics of their working relationship. She just wanted to do the job she loved, pay her bills, and tell the story the best she could.

“I think I was more afraid there than anywhere. Odd, really, because my family is part Irish so you would think I would have felt at home, like a part of my blood was still linked there, but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. When the first bomb went off I wasn’t even fifty yards from the building. But I didn’t wimp out. I got up and looked through the lens at the scenes unfolding in front of me. Four more bombs exploded and all I could do was release the shutter and get the images. Mitch was right beside me, yelling into his tape recorder about the scene in front of us. I didn’t even see the jeep coming toward us.” She had been so locked in the images of people running, and of buildings exploding, that she hadn’t anticipated that the next course of action for these “Freedom Fighters” would be coming through town with guns ablazin’. “If it hadn’t been for Mitch I probably would have taken a bullet. He knocked me flat on my back and not even seconds later the glass in the windows next to the building I had been near started shattering. He covered me, trying to protect me from the falling glass. As soon as I could push him off me I rolled over onto my stomach and started firing off pictures as the jeep sped away. Because of my photos,” she smiled. “Because of my photos the authorities got those guys. That felt good.”

She realized the entire thing probably seemed crazy to him. She was putting her life on the line to tell a story and to most people that was just insanely stupid. But for her, it was who she was. She wasn’t a military hero, a cop, a firefighter, a doctor, not even really a reporter, but she was a darn good photographer. She knew a camera better than she knew herself. She could tell anybody the inner workings of a camera, the mechanisms that allowed the picture to be imprinted on the film, or in recent cases, a digital censor. She could take a large format film camera apart and put it back together. She had even made a large format camera from scratch once! She was, if nothing else in her life, a master at her trade. Being able to combine her photographic expertise with something as meaningful as documenting the world was the epitome of her life.

She would never be able to help save the world, as her brothers had done. But she could show the world the beauty, the pain, the good and the bad, the terror and the security that surrounded them. Maybe she couldn’t help save the world, but maybe, just maybe, something in her photographs might convince the people in the world to try to save themselves. She could show them that even with the pain, even with the fear and the bad things, life was worth living, that there were good people and good things worth fighting for, worth persevering. This career, this documentation of life and death, sorrow and happiness, this was her life’s work, her passion. This was all she wanted, all she could ever imagine herself doing. She lived and breathed this passion. If somebody told her tomorrow that she would never be able to take another photograph again, that she would never be able to share with the world the images that surrounded them, she didn’t know what she would do, or how she would react because this, this passion, this career, this life she had created for herself, was all she ever wanted, all she ever imagined herself doing. There was no plan
B
, there was no back up, this—this was it for her.