Fireproof (33 page)

“How is she?” Racine asked, standing up beside Maggie.

“I gave her something to help her rest. She asked not to see anyone right now. She’ll be groggy, but in an hour or so I think it would be a good idea for one or both of you to sit with her for a while. You’re welcome to stay here in the meantime or go home and come back. There’s coffee in the reception area outside of the ICU. Cafeteria’s downstairs.”

He went on to tell them how to contact him and what to expect. Maggie tuned him out. She’d heard the litany too many times before.

He left and Maggie and Racine had just sunk back into the sofa when a dog—a brown-and-white corgi—sauntered in.

Maggie looked up to find Dr. James Kernan with two foam cups, which he handed toward them, arms stretched out in front of him.

“Coffee’s awful,” he told them, “but it helps pass the time.”

Sam had the camera set up on a tripod. It made interviewees less nervous when she stood beside a stationary camera than when she held it and pointed it at them. She and Jeffery had found the door unlocked and the house empty except for some trash in a corner, a stack of newspapers, and something that looked like a tray of rat poison on top.

Only one lamp on a timer lit the interior from the middle of the living room floor.

Sam had switched on a ceiling light only to have Jeffery flip it off immediately.

“We’re going to need more light. I didn’t bring backup lighting.”

Still, he insisted she keep it off.

She finished the rest of the coffee Jeffery had brought for her. She hadn’t needed the caffeine. Her adrenaline was enough to keep her going. But for some reason she felt a bit blurry, unfocused. It was funny she hadn’t even noticed Jeffery’s pacing. It was odd that he might be nervous to the point of a sweaty forehead and a tie let askew. This would be a big interview but the two of them had done bigger—several prime ministers, a congressman
on the eve of his resignation, and a couple of Taliban leaders.

“I know that you figured it out, Sam.”

Her hands stopped. She thought her heart may have, too.

“Nadira told me about you taking the tapes from the warehouse fires.”

His voice remained calm, but he continued to pace.

Had Jeffery closed all the blinds or were they closed when they came in? She tried not to panic. So what if he did know it was Wes Harper? But maybe he and Jeffery had a deal. He wanted his own show so badly and he was so close to getting it. This one huge feature exclusive could seal his fate.

“What tipped you off?” He was still pacing.

“You knew about the fires so quickly.” He didn’t seem enraged; instead he was almost too calm. “I figured someone had to be tipping you off.”

He stopped in front of her and cocked his head as if he didn’t think he had heard her correctly. His hands had balled up and there was a brown stain that covered one.

“Tipping me off?”

“I saw Wes Harper at the warehouse fires. In the crowd after the second blast.”

He stared at her. His eyes hard, cold blue. And suddenly he laughed. “That’s what you saw on the tapes?”

“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone he was in touch with you. But how can you be certain he won’t? Especially if he’s ready to talk.”

He laughed again and shook his head. “Sam, Sam, if only you hadn’t turned your back on me Saturday night.”

“I know you don’t think you can trust me, but this interview—”

“There’s no interview, Sam.”

“But Harper—”

“There’s no Harper. The reason I knew about the fires, my dear Sam, is because I started them.”

Sam had not even thought about Jeffery.

How could he have started the fires?

“This isn’t funny, Jeffery,” she told him while she gulped lukewarm coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in and dissolve her blur of exhaustion.

“No one tipped me, Sam.” He was pacing the room, checking the windows. “I stumbled upon a ratings bonanza. Why wait for some huge news story when I simply could create one?”

He couldn’t be serious. The room tilted and Sam leaned against the tripod. She closed her eyes for a second, waited for her head to stop spinning. It had to be a joke, a prank.

“Big Mac kept wanting bigger and bigger stories,” Jeffery was saying. “We interview dictators. Not good enough. We almost get killed in the middle of those crazy-ass protests in the Middle East. Not good enough. We get awards for that Afghanistan exposé, and yet nobody thinks that’s good enough.”

She opened her eyes, only her eyelids were heavy and for some reason she was seeing three of Jeffery. She blinked several times but she still couldn’t focus.

“Otis taught me a hell of a lot in those rambling letters of his.
He gave me the idea. I thought you figured it out that night with Harper. I screwed up and said something about chemical reactions.”

“But how …” Her thoughts slipped away.

“You knew I taught high school. What you didn’t know was that I taught chemistry. Basic stuff. Kid’s play. It was so incredibly perfect,” he continued his rant. “I could time it. Control it so we had every exclusive. But then you—you, Sam—you fucked up.”

She felt her body sliding. Saw the tripod fall. She tried to put out her hands to brace herself but they didn’t work.

“The biggest fire of all and you decided to have a little Chinese with Mama and Sonny Boy. You shut me out.” His voice sounded hard now, like staccato punches. “A whole family died and I missed the exclusive of a lifetime. I had to sit on the fucking sidelines because of you.
You
, my dear Sam.”

The coffee
. He must have put something in her coffee. She stared up at him from a heap on the floor. Her body had become paralyzed, her vision swirled, and her mind screamed because her mouth couldn’t.

Her cheek lay against the cold tile while he paced. All she could see now were his shoes, shiny leather. That was Jeffery, so neat and clean. He was still lecturing her but the words were getting garbled. Something about opportunities he had given her. How he couldn’t let her ruin things for him.

He had a plane to catch. Nothing made sense. His voice came to her in a low monotone, muffled and slurred. She caught words and phrases. A story to cover in the Middle East. He’d miss not having her with him. But he’d make sure everyone saw him grieve when he heard the news about her unfortunate demise.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Jeffery was saying, but she had no clue who he was talking about.

What was that smell?

“They’ll think you were lovers. That you were both targeted. Especially since his house is on fire, too. Poor Patrick Murphy. Even his famous FBI sister couldn’t save him.”

Through a blur she watched Jeffery pour the liquid on the tray of purple crystals. The trail of smoke was so pretty.

She didn’t even hear him leave. Sam had no idea how much time had passed when she saw the white flash of light. The tray sparked and in seconds the stack of newspapers underneath became engulfed in flames.

Whatever drug Jeffery had used, it relieved her of panic. It weighed her down, glued her to the floor. Her vision was blurred, her mind a pleasant haze, almost as if she were dreaming. She simply watched the red and yellow dance up the walls. Even the heat from the flames soothed her, like a warm breeze on a cool day.

Sam closed her eyes. Listened to the crackling and
swoosh
filling her ears. And she thought about Iggy in those silly red suspenders.

Maggie hardly noticed her headache. The rest of her body felt completely drained of energy. So deep was the exhaustion that she drove home with the windows rolled down, hoping the cold night air would keep her awake.

Seeing Dr. Kernan had certainly put things in perspective. The curmudgeon had actually been sweet and gentle with her. He had heard that a Kathleen O’Dell had been admitted and checked to find out if she was Maggie’s mother.

“I practically live here, so if you need anything, you let me know.”

He didn’t need to explain why he rarely went home. Two months ago his wife of forty-seven years had gone into a medically induced coma. Maggie hadn’t asked any questions and he wasn’t ready to share more details.

This was one of those times when nothing made sense in the world and she was too exhausted to do anything about it. Racine had left an hour ago, after getting some information on Wes Harper. Tully had called to see how Maggie was doing and to tell her Ganza and his crew had left State Patrol officers to guard the
site until morning. There was too much to process to do it in the middle of the night.

All Maggie wanted right now was to go home. Patrick had offered to wait up and she ordered him to bed, promising she’d let him know if she needed anything. And she had finally called Ben. They talked for thirty minutes about how much James Kernan reminded her of Spencer Tracy and then went back and forth with lines from Tracy and Hepburn movies. To others it would be nonsensical and trivial, but it was exactly what she had needed.

In her frenzy to get to the hospital she had parked in the facility’s garage without paying attention to the level, let alone what corner, she had left her Jeep. Now she wandered the cold concrete building, which was quiet as a tomb. She thought she remembered being on Level 2, but after a walk clear around the dimly lit area she knew she had to be mistaken. She took the ramp up to Level 3. More cars here and yet she couldn’t find hers. Again, complete silence at this time of night. Not even a car door slamming or an elevator binging.

Maybe it was the opposite corner. She turned to circle back and caught a shadow disappearing between cars. Her hand immediately dug into her jacket as she sidestepped and then backed against a wall.

Her pulse raced as she listened. Somewhere above she could hear a faint sound of an engine starting. She stayed close to the wall and started slowly toward the area where she had seen the shadow. She weaved around car bumpers and almost stepped on a discarded fast-food bag. She didn’t let her eyes leave that area even as she let them dart around.

There was no one there. Only a doorway, an exit to the stairwell.
Could someone have escaped without her hearing the
whoosh
of the door? Maybe she had imagined the shadow.

She continued to the next level, her fingers on the butt of her revolver. By the time she found her Jeep and locked herself inside she was convinced that exhaustion was simply playing havoc with her. She tried to calm herself. Turned on some music and eased her vehicle into the flow of interstate traffic.

When she heard the first siren, she pulled to the side of the road and waited for it to wail past her. The closer she got to home the more sirens she heard, and her insides clenched. Her hands gripped the steering wheel. With the windows down she thought she could smell smoke. More flashing lights behind her. She jerked the car to the side just in time for the fire and rescue unit to screech by her.

She followed it. Every turn it made was like squeezing her heart, tighter and tighter, a fist in her chest. Each turn took her closer and closer to her neighborhood, inside her neighborhood, up her street. Barricades kept her from driving to her house. She jumped out of her car so quickly she didn’t realize she hadn’t put it in park until the vehicle started rolling. She slid back inside and slammed the gear shift, crushed the parking brake into place.