Fireproof (2 page)

Now, as he made his long way back to his cardboard home, he took guarded sips from the brand-new bottle. The food, though delicious, had upset his stomach. The whiskey would help. It always did; an instant cure-all for just about anything he didn’t
want to feel or remember or be. Tonight it sped up the long walk and even helped warm him as the night chill set in.

Cornell had barely turned the corner into the alley when he noticed something was wrong. The air smelled different. Rancid, but not day-old garbage. And tinged with something burned.

No, not burned, smoking
.

His nostrils twitched. There were no restaurants nearby. The brick building he kept his shelter against had been empty. It was quiet here. That’s all he cared about and usually the Dumpster didn’t overflow or stink. All important factors in his decision to take up residency here in the alley, his Maytag box sandwiched between the wall of the brick building and the monster green Dumpster.

That’s when Cornell realized he couldn’t see his cardboard box. Though hidden, a flap usually stuck out no matter how carefully he tucked it. A sudden panic twisted his stomach. He clenched the bottle tight in his fist and hurried. He hadn’t had that much to drink yet, but his steps were staggered and his head dizzy. The only two blankets he owned were in that box, along with an assortment of other treasures tucked between folds, stuff he hadn’t wanted to lug inside his backpack.

As he walked closer, the smell got stronger. Something sour and metallic but also something else. Like lighter fluid. Had someone started a fire to keep warm?

They sure as hell better not have used his box for kindling
.

That’s when he saw a flap of cardboard and a flood of relief washed over him in a cold sweat. The box was still there. It had been shoved deeper behind the Dumpster. The box, however, wasn’t empty.

Son of a bitch!

Cornell couldn’t believe his eyes. Some bastard lay sprawled inside his home, feet sticking out. Looked like a pile of old, ragged clothes if it weren’t for those two bare feet.

He took a long gulp of Jack Daniel’s. Screwed the cap back on, nice and tight, and set the bottle down safe against the brick wall. Then Cornell pushed up his sleeves to his elbows and stomped the rest of the way.

Nobody was taking his frickin’ home away from him
.

“Hey, you,” he yelled as he grabbed the ankles. “Get the hell out of here.”

Cornell let his anger drive him as he twisted and yanked and pulled. But he was surprised it didn’t take much effort. Nor was there any resistance. He didn’t stop, though, dragging the body away from the container, letting the intruder’s tangled hair sweep across the filthy pavement. Before he released the ankles he gave one last shove, flipping the person over.

That’s when Cornell saw why there had been no resistance.

He felt the acid rise from his stomach. He stumbled backward, tripping over his feet, scrambling then kicking, gasping and retching at what he saw.

The face was gone, a bloody pulp of flesh and bones. Raw jagged holes replaced an eye and the mouth. Matted hair stuck to the mess.

Cornell pushed to his knees just as the soup and grilled cheese came up his throat in a stinging froth mixed with whiskey. He tried to stand but his legs wobbled and sent him back down to the pavement right in the middle of his vomit. His eyes burned and blurred but he couldn’t pull them away from the mangled mess just a few feet away from him.

In his panic he hardly noticed the smoke filling the alley. He tried to wipe himself off and saw that it wasn’t just his vomit he’d fallen into. A slick stain trailed into the alley, as if someone had accidentally leaked a line of liquid all the way to the Dumpster.

That’s when he realized the slick stain that now covered his knees and hands was gasoline. He looked up and saw a man at the entrance to the alley, pouring from a gallon can. Cornell slipped and jerked to his feet just as the guy noticed him. But instead of being startled or angry or panicked, the man did the last thing Cornell expected. He smiled and then he lit a match.

Maggie O’Dell tried to push through the black gauze, her head heavy, her mind still swimming. There had been flashes of light—laser-sharp white and butane blue—before the pitch black. A steady throb drummed against her left temple. Soft, wounded groans came out of the dark, making her flinch, but she couldn’t move. Her arms were too heavy, weighed down. Her legs numb. Panic fluttered through her.

Why couldn’t she feel her legs?

Then she remembered the electric jolt—the memory of searing pain traveling through her body.

More panic. Her heart began to race. Her breathing came in gasps.

A gunshot blast and her scalp felt on fire.

That’s when she smelled it. Not cordite, but smoke. Something actually was on fire. Singed hair. Burned flesh. Smoke and ashes. The sound of plastic crinkled under fabric. And suddenly at the front of the darkened room Maggie could see her father lying in a
satin-trimmed coffin, so quiet and peaceful while flames licked up the wall behind him.

She had had this dream many times before but still she was surprised to find him there, so close that all she had to do was look over the edge of the lace to see his face.

“They parted your hair wrong, Daddy,” and Maggie lifted her hand, noticing how small it was but glad to finally be able to move it. She reached over and pushed her father’s hair back in place. She wasn’t afraid of the flames. She concentrated only on her fingers as they stretched across his face. She was almost touching him when his eyes blinked open.

That’s when Maggie jerked awake.

Flashes of light, tinged blue, came from the muted big-screen television. Maggie’s eyelids twitched, still heavy despite her desperate attempt to open them. She pushed herself up and immediately recognized the feel of the leather sofa. Still, her head and heart pounded as her body pivoted, looking for shadows, expecting the embodiment of the wounded moans in the corners of her own living room.

But there was no one.

No one except Deborah Kerr, who filled the TV screen. Deborah’s face was as worried and panicked as Maggie felt. She was running on a beach in the middle of a storm. Somewhere Robert Mitchum was hurt, injured.

Maggie had seen this movie many times and yet she felt Deborah’s panic each time.
Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison
. It was one of Maggie’s favorites. She had just defended it to her friend Benjamin Platt during one of their classic-movie marathons. Which had prompted her to pull it out. But tonight she was alone. At the moment, it was just her and Deborah.

She sat up. Leaned back against the soft leather and rubbed her left temple. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead. Her heartbeat started to settle down but the familiar throb continued. Under her fingertips she could feel the puckered skin on her scalp. The scar no longer hurt even when she pressed down on it like she did now. But the throbbing continued. All too predictably it would lead to a massive headache, a pain that started as a sharp pinpoint in her left temple but would soon swirl around inside her head.

Eventually it would settle at the base of her skull, pressing against the back of her brain, a steady dull ache threatening to drive her mad. Even sleep—which came infrequently and often in short bursts—gave her little relief. She had no idea if the insomnia was the result of her nightmares or if the threat of nightmares kept her awake. All Maggie knew was that any sleep, no matter how short, was accompanied by a film version of her memories—the edited horror edition, looped together. This newest sequel included clips from four months ago. Teenagers attacked in a dark forest, two electrocuted, the rest reduced to frightened and wounded moans.

Her fingers found the scar again under her hair. Just another scar, she told herself, and she wished she could forget about it. If it weren’t for the headaches she might be able to put it out of her mind for at least a day or two.

Last October she had been shot … in the head. Actually the bullet had grazed her temple. Perhaps it was asking too much to forget so quickly. She did wish that everyone around her would forget it. That’s why she wouldn’t tell anyone about the headaches.

Her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, already thought she was “compromised,” “altered,” “temporarily unfit for duty.” So far she had managed to avoid and put off his insistence that she go through a psychological evaluation. Her only leverage in delaying
it was that Kunze felt responsible for sending her on the detour that resulted in her almost being killed. Not that he would admit responsibility. Instead he let her off the hook, claiming he had a soft spot for the holidays. Funny, when she thought about Kunze and Christmas, Maggie could easily conjure up the image of the Grinch who stole Christmas. But now that the holidays were long over, she expected Kunze would push for the evaluation.

Deborah Kerr found Robert Mitchum just as Maggie realized she could still smell something scorched and sooty. Was the smoke
not
a figment of her nightmare? Could something in the house be on fire?

In the dark corner of the television screen she saw movement. Not flames but a flicker of motion that was not a part of the movie. A reflection. A figure. A man walking across the doorway of the room behind her.

Someone was in her house.

The dogs were gone.

Maggie should have noticed sooner. They were always at her feet.

Her eyes darted around the dim living room. She sank into the sofa and remained still. It was better if he thought he hadn’t been spotted. He may not have seen her. Instead, he stayed in the kitchen.

She kept the corner of the TV screen in her line of vision. If he came up behind her she’d see him.

Or would she?

As scenes changed in the movie so did the corner reflection.

Maggie tried to remember where her weapons were. Her faithful Smith & Wesson service revolver was upstairs in her bedroom. A Sig Sauer was down the hall in a bottom desk drawer. She had never before felt the need for a gun inside her home. As soon as she moved into the two-story Tudor, she had installed a state-of-the-art security system. She’d taken great care to create barriers outside as well. Not to mention two overprotective dogs who would never allow an intruder inside. And for the first time Maggie felt sick to her stomach.

Where were Harvey and Jake?

She couldn’t bear the thought of either dog injured or dead.

A quiet
click-swoosh
came from the kitchen, and the room brightened. Her intruder had opened the refrigerator.

Maggie slumped farther down on the sofa.

Waited. Listened.

She slid her body off the cushions, dropping her knees onto the floor, now wishing she had carpeting to muffle her movement. Ironically that’s why she didn’t have a shred of carpeting in the house. Not because she loved the gorgeous wood floors but because floor coverings concealed footsteps. Thank goodness she had on socks.

Maggie kept her focus on the corner reflection, her new angle giving her a new view. She saw his hunched back. He was looking inside her refrigerator. She grabbed a glass paperweight from the side table. Quietly she crawled to the doorway, sliding against the wall and hugging the shadows.

What did you do with my dogs, you bastard?

She let the anger drive her as she inched closer to the door.

She could smell him. He reeked of smoke and charred wood. So it hadn’t been her nightmare playing tricks on her imagination.

He reached inside the refrigerator, unaware of her presence, leaving himself vulnerable. She clutched the paperweight tight in her fist and swung it high, ready to bring it down on the back of the man’s head. Then she took a deep breath and charged through the doorway. He startled and spun around, and Maggie stopped her arm in midair.

“Damn it, Patrick. You scared the hell out of me.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I almost bashed your head in.”