Fireproof (23 page)

Seven survivors. No dead bodies.

Jeffery’s immediate response: “What a fucking waste of a day.”

Sam realized she was probably just as bad as Jeffery, because her relief didn’t come from the news that everyone had escaped safely, but rather because Jeffery wouldn’t be using any of her footage. Especially not the footage she had purposely messed up of Jeffery’s exchanges with Patrick and Agent O’Dell.

“Big Mac will cut this entire afternoon to a couple of minutes,” Jeffery huffed as he yanked his tie loose and almost snapped off the top button of his shirt. “He’s already said, ‘No dead bodies, no story.’ Doesn’t even matter that it’s churches. Or that you’d need a chemistry course to time these sons of bitches.”

“Are you sure he’s not interested? Two churches in the middle of the day? And in Arlington? It’s not like the warehouses in a homeless district that nobody cares about.”

She stopped herself as she broke down her equipment. Did she
really just say that? Jesus! She really was starting to sound like Jeffery.

“I talked to him earlier. Said he needed something to keep this story alive.”

Jeffery stood watching her. Usually he’d leave her to do this by herself, but he needed a ride back to the diner where he’d left his car.

“He loved the crap out of my profile on O’Dell,” Jeffery said. “Wait till he sees the interview with the mother.”

Sam felt a momentary twitch. Would he be wanting the nonexistent footage after all? She hadn’t known about the interview. Jeffery had invited O’Dell’s mother to come down to the news station, so he hadn’t needed Sam.

“Hey, maybe I can help you out.”

She and Jeffery both startled. Neither of them had noticed the firefighter come over to them from behind the crime scene tape. He pushed back his hat and the first thing Sam noticed was how clean he was—no black smears on his face, no sweaty hair, no smoke or soot anywhere on him. Even his boots were dry.

He looked about Sam’s age—around thirty—short and muscular, though the latter was difficult to judge under his heavy uniform. He had a square jaw, a nose that looked like it might have been broken at least once, and narrow, deep-set eyes that traveled too slowly over Sam’s body. Usually that sort of thing didn’t bother her. She wasn’t sure why it did now. What was it about this guy that didn’t feel right?

“From what I hear,” Jeffery said, “there’s not much to tell.”

“I recognized you when you were talking to my partner earlier. You’re Jeffery Cole from CNN.”

Sam almost laughed. She should have looked away. She already knew what Jeffery’s response would be.

Too late.

She saw him smile and his chest practically puffed out as he straightened his tie.

“What is it you think you can help us with, Mr. Firefighter?”

“Actually my name’s Wes Harper. I’m a private firefighter with Braxton Protection Agency.”

“Private? I didn’t realize there was such a thing. That’s interesting, but I don’t think we need any more footage.”

“I saw that piece you did last night.”

Now that Jeffery had decided this guy wasn’t one of the “real” firefighters and that he wasn’t interested, he had started to shut down, like an actor done with his role and donning his own persona. Even his smile waned, polite because he couldn’t resist a compliment and would certainly wait for this guy’s, but beyond that Sam could see he was no longer interested in resuming his role as Jeffery Cole, investigative interviewer.

“I know you’d probably rather interview my partner, but since he turned you down maybe I could fill in.”

“That’s nice of you, but I think we’re good.”

“Aren’t you doing like a part two on his sister tonight?”

Sam almost dropped the lens she had taken off and was carefully putting into its sleeve.

“Excuse me?” Jeffery said, stepping closer to Harper as if he hadn’t heard him. “That young guy, that rent-a-fireman, is Agent O’Dell’s brother?”

“That’s right,” Harper said with a smile, not the least bit bothered by the derogatory remark about his occupation.

“Well, well,” Jeffery said. “It’s certainly a small world, isn’t it?”

This would be a piece of cake, Maggie thought. A disabled Kernan wouldn’t be able to see the reactions his insults and swipes registered. She saw his head tilt, his chin track up—signs of a man depending on what he heard and smelled rather than saw.

“Once again,” Maggie said, “I’m here only because my superior insisted.”

“Oh, that’s right. And they’re always wrong. Aren’t they?”

“They have rules and regulations they need to follow. I understand that.”

He leaned back and his head cocked to the side as if gauging her response. He intertwined his fingers and laid them on his thick chest. That’s when Maggie realized his tie was navy blue but his suit was dark brown. He had no one to help him dress. No one to offer advice before he went out the door. Just the dog, who although he rested in the corner, still kept his eyes trained on his master. But a dog couldn’t tell you that your tie doesn’t match your suit. And suddenly Maggie wanted to kick herself, because she actually felt sorry for Dr. James Kernan.

“But you still believe they’re wrong? That you shouldn’t be here?”

She sat back in the chair, fingers no longer clenched and now resting in her lap. She stared at him and wondered what it was like to be cunning and sharp-tongued, to be brilliant and to win every mental game, and yet be totally alone in the world. No, she didn’t feel sorry for him, she felt uncomfortably
like him
.

Was this her future? Instead of the paraphernalia from the history of psychology, she’d have strange tokens and memorabilia of the serial killers she had tracked.

Then Maggie thought of Lucy Coy, the old Indian woman she had met in the Sandhills of Nebraska. She’d be content to be like Lucy, surrounded by dogs and quiet and a beautiful landscape.

“Have you become hard of hearing, Ms. O’Dell?”

She’d forgotten to respond and now Kernan would read something into that hesitation.

“You’d much rather be shooting some killer between the eyes. Isn’t that right?”

Ordinarily that jab would have made her wince, but now Maggie caught herself smiling. Kernan’s power to intimidate and humiliate, to make her question herself—all of that was gone. The only thing she saw now was a pathetic, white-haired old man who couldn’t even see her smile.

“I’m a different person than I was five years ago, Dr. Kernan.”

“Is that right?” He smacked his lips together and did his trademark “Tis tis,” which announced he couldn’t be fooled when, in fact, he already had been.

Maggie was about to remind him that he also was a different person than when they last met, but he cut her off by asking, “How long have you been getting the headaches?”

Maggie hadn’t told anyone about her headaches. She knew it
wasn’t in the ER report. Sometimes when a person loses one sense the others become more alert. Was that what had happened with Kernan?

“How did you know?”

This time it was his turn to smile.

“You just told me,” he said.

She felt the blood rush to her face. It was the oldest trick in the book and she had fallen for it.

“Now we’re even,” Kernan said. “Perhaps we can start over. I may have lost the better part of my sight, O’Dell, Margaret, but do not underestimate me. Never underestimate your opponent, no matter what you perceive to be his disability.”

“Perhaps this would go much better if you didn’t perceive me as an opponent.” She said it out of anger, but it was exactly how she felt. Wasn’t that what this session was supposed to be about? How and what she was feeling.

She steeled herself for one of his silly, cutting word plays. Instead, he said nothing and stared at a spot over her head, his watery blue eyes magnified behind the thick lenses. He pursed his lips then blew out air, sending his lips vibrating and making a sputtering sound.

Finally his eyes came close to where they might meet hers and he said, “Fair enough.”

Sam understood exactly why Jeffery had suggested Old Ebbitt’s when he offered to treat them to dinner. The restaurant was a favorite of politicos and the District’s movers and shakers. Every time they walked through, it would take three times as long to get to their table because Jeffery had to stop and chat, shake a hand or two, or wave to anyone who recognized him. He even insisted on having a table instead of the high-backed booths that Sam loved. She wanted the quiet and privacy. Jeffery wanted to be at a table where he could be seen and be on display. But first he wanted to stop next door for a drink.

Sam understood all this. She knew Jeffery too well. She could predict and anticipate his actions. What she didn’t understand was why he had invited Wes Harper to come along with them. She didn’t like the guy. There was something about him that creeped her out.

“He’s an interesting guy,” Jeffery had admonished her. When she rolled her eyes, he added, “You could do worse.”

Of course Jeffery hadn’t noticed the lurid body swipes Harper’s eyes had been giving Sam. Jeffery rarely noticed anything that didn’t involve him. And Harper was sly enough to know that. He
had been lavishing Jeffery with compliments, laying it on thick. And Jeffery appeared mesmerized by all of Harper’s talk about fire.

Sam had agreed to have one drink, then she wanted to go home. She made it plain she wouldn’t be joining them for dinner next door, telling the men that she had spent too little time with her son this week. The comment, meant to dissuade Harper, only seemed to encourage him.

“Divorced?” he asked, not just in a hopeful tone. Instead, he made the word sound sexy, but in a naughty way. There was something about the way he stared at her with gray eyes that reminded her too much of a wolf. It made her skin crawl. Maybe he’d missed her mention of a young son. Usually that had the same effect as throwing cold water on men.

They ordered drinks and, thankfully, Jeffery steered the conversation back to the fires. He and Harper talked as though they were experts comparing notes.

“These have been intense, white hot,” Jeffery said. “Most chemical reactions are.”

“Who said they were started by chemical reactions?” Sam asked. She couldn’t recall the real experts saying a thing about chemicals.

“Someone mentioned it.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, like he couldn’t be bothered with such trivial details at the moment. To Harper he continued, “Accelerants don’t matter. You can pour all the gasoline you want but you still need a spark. A chemical reaction provides a spontaneous ignition. It’s ingenious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Harper sipped his Grey Goose vodka.

Jeffery lifted his index finger from his chin and gave a signal that always managed to get instant attention. He could get a cab
with a subtle gesture, too. It was one of the things Sam admired about him—that air of confidence that grabbed attention with a nod or a flip of a finger. A waiter arrived and Jeffery pointed to all three glasses for seconds, though Sam hadn’t yet taken a sip of her Bud Light.

“I’ve either put out or tried to light just about any kind of fire you can think of,” Harper said.

“So you like to light them as well?” Jeffery asked. “A firefighter?”

He grinned at their reactions. “My momma is very glad to know I decided to make a career of putting them out instead of starting them. But I learned a great deal from lighting fires. For instance, you know you can tell what’s burning by the color of the flame.”

“That right?”

Harper took a generous sip of the vodka while nodding and taking his time to respond. “Reddish yellow is usually wood or cloth. Yellow white is kerosene or gasoline. They burn at different temps. I still think there’s nothing prettier on a cold night than bright yellow and red flames dancing in the sky.”

The waiter delivered the drinks and Harper slung back the remainder in his old glass before he surrendered it. He pulled the fresh drink from the center of the table and set it protectively in front of him.

“It’s interesting what fire does to a body, too.”

He was looking directly at Sam now. She knew what this was—he wanted to see if he could make her squeamish. There was a whole class of assholes who liked to make women squirm over grotesque subjects, usually sexual, sometimes just violent. Harper looked like the type who combined the two.