Heatwave (14 page)

Nothing could restore the life of their fallen brother.

Amid the squawk of radios and the redundant flash of spinning lights atop the engines as the crews rolled up, an eerie hush permeated the area. Every member of the department felt the loss. They didn’t have to work beside Ivan “Fitz” Fitzpatrick on a daily basis, or even know him personally. No man or woman wearing the uniform was immune to the myriad of emotions when one of their own was lost. The stress team would be called for a debriefing, but nothing could completely alleviate the sometimes dangerous combination of guilt and relief that easily reached clear to the bottom of the soul.

Drew understood the guilt of survival. Even the morbid sense of relief they all silently shared made sense to him. Unlike Fitz, he and the other members had been spared. It was the harboring of relief that was especially difficult and brought with it an even deeper sense of shame.

Drew looked up from the notes he’d taken after interviewing several more witnesses. Grime and soot covered Ben’s face and gear. Pain lined his brother’s face, but Drew suspected Ben’s pain ran deeper than most today.

As Incident Commander, Ben had been the one to send Fitz into a residence to perform a search-and-rescue operation for two small children and their young mother trapped on the second story. After safely handing the children through a window to the waiting ladder team, he’d gone back to search for the children’s mother.

As the lead investigator on scene, Drew had been interviewing
witnesses to the initial flames when he’d spotted heavy fire venting from the roof. He’d immediately reported the news to Ben. The structural integrity of the house had been compromised, and despite Ben’s order for a series of short horn blasts to signal immediate evacuation, Fitz never made it out. The young mother had miraculously been spared, but last thing they’d heard had been a brief radio call for help seconds before the roof collapsed. Fitz was trapped and running out of air.

Ben jerked off his helmet, his expression grim. “I told Cap we’d go see Krista. I figured you’d want to be there, too.”

“Of course,” Drew said without hesitation.

Drew and Fitz had started at Trinity Station at the same time. All the crew members shared that same unique bond so common among those who routinely put their lives on the line, but coming up together had made his bond with Fitz tighter. When Drew had been accepted onto the arson squad, Fitz had thrown a party to celebrate. An event, Drew realized suddenly, that had taken place a mere few blocks from Emily’s grandmother’s place.

A fresh stab of guilt pierced his already battered conscience, but in no way garnered enough power to alter his decision regarding his affair with Emily, any more than her arguments had done. Cutting his losses sooner rather than later hadn’t stopped him from thinking about her, though.

Or wanting her.

Or, dammit, loving her.

“How much longer you got?” Ben asked him, inclining his head toward the paperwork in Drew’s hands.

“About half an hour. Meet you back at the station house?”

Ben nodded and turned to go.

“Hey!” Drew called to his brother.

Ben stopped to look over his shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Drew told him. “It was an accident.”

Ben turned away and walked silently toward the engine. He didn’t have to say anything. Drew easily read the deep pain underscoring his oldest brother’s eyes and knew Ben didn’t believe him for a second.

A
THICK
, palpable silence accompanied Drew and Ben on the drive to the Fitzpatrick home, each of them lost in their own tortuous thoughts of the dreadful task ahead. The spouse of every firefighter, cop, even airline pilots knew of the dangers of the job, but the knowledge did nothing to avert Drew’s discomfort. Nor had the words of their captain as they’d left the firehouse, that Krista Fitzpatrick was a strong woman, a good wife and she’d survive the devastating loss. She had no choice, the captain had said. She had two sons depending on her, now more than ever.

Drew knew from his own experience that wasn’t always the case.

He thought of Emily and her brutal assault on his beliefs. No, he thought suddenly. She’d brutally assaulted the truth, forcing him to examine the past from her eyes.

None of it mattered. Not in the long run, because nothing had changed and never would for one simple reason, the past couldn’t be altered. History could not be rewritten.

The task that lay ahead only served to cement more firmly in his mind that he’d made the right decision ending their relationship, a decision that had nothing
to do with her ridiculous claim, grossly lacking in foundation. He was not afraid of being alone.

Ben parked at the curb in front of a modest suburban tract home. Drew’s apprehension grew when Ben killed the engine and dragged his keys from the ignition. He’d never had to make a visit like the one he and Ben were about to, but he had a pretty good idea of what to expect. Many of his memories of that horrible night had faded with time, but he’d never forget the sight of Ben attempting to comfort their inconsolable father, never forget how frightened he’d been as his father’s rage had flown out of control. He’d never forget how, in his rage, his father had lashed out at them verbally, laying the blame for their mother giving up the fight to live at their feet.

Joanna Perry had waited three long days to die. She’d waited until she’d been able to say goodbye.

“Do you want to wait here?” Ben asked him.

“No,” he said. “I owe it to Fitz.”

He understood Ben’s concern, knew his overprotective nature made him ask the question. Since that horrible night so many years ago, Ben had done everything in his power to shield him and Cale from life’s harsh realities. Reality didn’t get much harsher than telling a wife her husband had been lost in the line of duty.

Together they left the quiet of Ben’s pickup truck and walked quietly up the concrete walkway to the front door of the Fitzpatrick home. Drew hung back, waiting for Krista to answer once Ben rang the doorbell.

Ben reached for the bell a second time just as the front door swung open. A heartbeat later, the purpose of their visit dawned, flooding Krista Fitzpatrick’s almond-colored eyes with heavy moisture. Her thick, black hair made her appear even more frighteningly pale as the blood drained from her face. She held the edge of the door with her hand, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grip. “Oh God,” she whispered, shaking her head from side to side. “No. No.”

Ben caught Krista as her knees gave out on her. As if she were as fragile as china, he gently held her close to his side and guided her back into the house, to the family room and onto the brown L-shaped corduroy sofa.

Helplessness swamped Drew as the force of Krista’s sobs wracked her small body. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. There were no words he could offer to alleviate the horrendous shock or acute heartache. Nothing but meaningless platitudes.

The television blared as a local news station broadcast the events of the day. A steady red bar filled the very bottom of the screen, proclaiming two fatalities. A news chopper circled the area, providing viewers an aerial perspective of the destruction, courtesy a gas leak that had gone undetected. Apparently the leak had been in the gas line to a clothes dryer. When the home owner turned on the dryer, the force of the explosion had literally blown the roof off the place. By the time the first engine crew arrived on scene, the fire had already spread.

Drew scooped the remote from the coffee table and turned off the television, then took off down the hall to
the bathroom and returned with a box of tissues. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly, as he sat on the short end of the sofa to face Krista and Ben.

She stared at her hands, twisting her diamond wedding ring around and around on her finger. When she looked up at them, her eyes, usually filled with laughter, were rimmed in red. “How?” she finally asked, reaching for a tissue.

Ben glossed over much of the details as best he could. “The roof collapsed,” he finished. “There wasn’t anything anyone could do.”

“It’s been all over the news,” she told them. “They said there’d been two fatalities and one critical. They released the name of the patient and the woman who’d died, but not…When they wouldn’t say whether or not the other fatality had been a firefighter, I knew. I prayed it wasn’t…” Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. “I prayed it wasn’t anyone we knew. You know they won’t release the name until the next of kin had been notified, but you wait anyway, hoping to hear a name so you know it’s not you they’re waiting to notify.”

“Krista, what can we do for you?” Drew asked her. “Just name it.”

A tentative smile touched her lips. “Bring Fitz home,” she whispered, fighting back another onslaught of tears.

A lump the size of Chicago lodged in his throat.

She let out a deep shuddering breath. “You know, you try not to think about what could happen. You wake up in the morning, you kiss your husband goodbye and only allow yourself one very brief moment of
panic as he walks out the door. It’s all you’re allowed, because you can’t live your life in a constant state of fear. So you end up fooling yourself into believing it’ll never be you that has to hear those two horrible useless words, ‘I’m sorry.’ You know it’s all a lie anyway, the make-believe. But that lie makes the waiting for him to come home again bearable because the alternative is unimaginable.”

She offered them a weak smile. “But the unthinkable has happened, and I can’t stop thinking that this is the way Fitz would have wanted to go. Fighting fires. Saving lives. God, he loved it. A firefighter is who he was, and even now, even right this second, I wouldn’t have changed that about him even if I could.”

“I know it’s hard.” Ben’s voice was suspiciously strained. “You’re not alone. Don’t forget that.”

Drew cleared his throat. “He didn’t suffer,” he told her, because it was the right thing to say. “I hope that gives you at least some comfort.”

“It’ll be a while before I’m comforted about anything, but thank you. I appreciate you telling me. It’ll help, eventually.”

“Is there someone we can call for you?” Ben asked.

She shook her head. “No. I’ll call Fitz’s parents a little later. They’ll need to make arrangements to fly out for the…” Her voice trailed off, and she clamped her hand over her mouth, unable, or unwilling to utter that final word.

Drew handed her another tissue. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight. Why don’t you let us call your folks or your sister to come stay with you.”

“No,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got the boys and I need to be strong for them. They need me, now more than ever. Besides,” she added with another hint of a wavering smile, “Fitz would never forgive me if I fell apart on them.”

Drawing his next breath took effort on Drew’s part. Krista’s inner strength, her determination to hold it all together for the sake of her children during the most devastating event of her life sliced through nearly a quarter century of conviction. It cut apart a belief system he’d harbored and nursed and fed with care, allowing it to skew his reality until he knew nothing else.

The pain of loss was indeed devastating, he’d lived through it not once, but twice, and he’d made it his mission in life to avoid that kind of pain again at all costs. Tilly had accused him of intentionally dating women who were wrong for him. Emily accused him of some twisted form of commitment atheism.

They were right. He avoided not only commitment, but anything that even remotely resembled the concept. But the truth, the deep-seated cause, had nothing whatsoever to do with his fear of putting another through the pain of loss. It was all about his own fears of being swallowed and consumed by the incredible darkness himself.

Krista drew in a sharp breath. “Oh God,” she said. “How do I tell the boys? They’ll be home from school any minute.”

Drew reached across the small space separating them and took hold of Krista’s hands. “You tell them
their dad was a hero,” he said. “And how much he loved them.”

Words his own father had never stepped out of his own self-pity long enough to tell his own sons. Instead, he’d cast useless blame where it hadn’t been deserved and had embarked upon a selfish journey of self-destruction. Alex Perry hadn’t kept his wife’s memory alive, but had single-handedly destroyed everything she’d ever stood for or believed in—duty, honor and most importantly, the unconditional love of her children.

By the time they left, Drew understood with acute clarity that he needed to make a drastic change in his life, or, as Emily predicted, he’d end up a lonely old man—just like his father. And that, he decided, was not something he would allow to happen.

Ben followed Drew out onto the stoop, then pulled a white business card from his pocket and handed it to Krista. “For when you’re ready.”

“What’s this?” she asked.

A big yellow school bus pulled up a few doors down. The doors creaked open, following by the shouts and laughter of several children as they exited the bus.

“A support group,” Ben told her. “For surviving families of fallen firefighters.”

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?” Drew asked.

Krista tucked the card in the back pocket of her jeans. “Thanks, but no. Don’t worry,” she said, then laid her hand on Ben’s arm. “We really will be okay.”

Drew and Ben left. As they slipped inside Ben’s truck, Fitz’s dark-haired sons raced across the lawn to their mom. Drew buckled his seatbelt watching closely.

Krista greeted her boys and hugged them close, then led them into the house. Not once did she allow them to see an ounce of the deep sadness inside her.

E
MILY RIPPED
the yellow sheet of paper from the legal pad, balled it up and chucked it halfway across the kitchen into the garbage can to join her four other less-than-brilliant ideas for the hair color ad campaign. From her chair at the table she caught glimpses of the television sitcom her grandmother and Suzette were watching. She noted thankfully that there were no further news alerts recapping the hillside fire that morning.

She’d started worrying about Drew the minute she’d heard the first media report on the radio while she sat in traffic on the Santa Ana Freeway. She had no idea whether he, his brother or any of the other members of Trinity Station she’d met the night of Cale and Amanda’s wedding were involved in fighting the fire, but that didn’t stop her from racing to the car once her meeting with the architect and builder drew to a close three hours later for more news.

The announcement of two fatalities at the scene of the fire increased her worry to near panic when the press didn’t release any names. She attempted to reason with herself that Drew was probably safe, and repeated
those words over and over in her mind like a mantra.

Her grandmother and Suzette were practically glued to the television by the time she reached the house after more seemingly endless errands. If they hadn’t released a name by the time of the six o’clock newscast, she’d been prepared to call the firehouse herself and demand to know if Drew was safe. Only it hadn’t been necessary. As they flashed a photograph of Ivan Fitzpatrick on the screen, she silently prayed for his wife and children.

She’d only met Fitz and his wife briefly, but she still ached—for Krista and her children, but especially for Drew. Loss was not something he suffered well, and although she understood she wasn’t doing herself any favors by worrying about him, she couldn’t help herself. The man had insinuated himself into her heart. He’d taken up residence in her soul and to her knowledge, no legal notice to quit existed for that kind of eviction.

She tapped the legal pad with the tip of her pen, forcing herself to concentrate on hair color rather than imaginary eviction notices.

When the tapping failed to spark an idea, she stared at the blank page as her grandmother and Suzette laughed at the antics of some sitcom couple. The client wanted hip and fresh. Hips were plentiful, courtesy of the changes already occurring within her body. The blank page mocked her. Apparently fresh was sold out.

Females had been waging a war against the aging
process for centuries, and advertisers encouraged the fight with a bombardment of new and improved weapons on a daily basis. The advertising industry had already ordered women to wash the gray out of their hair, promised that blondes would have more fun, and spent billions of client dollars reminding them they’re worth it or they weren’t getting older, only better. The target audience had been sold on the concept of renewing and reconditioning, vitalizing and nourishing their hair color, rather than their souls.

Her eyebrows winged upward as inspiration struck. Time slipped away as she made notes about vitalizing the inner self and taking charge of destinies with a new look, inside and out. When she eventually ran out of steam, she had enough notes to create an entire series of ads for the client’s campaign.

Satisfied, she cleared away her notes and the few hasty sketches she’d made, then walked into the living room. Too bad her broken heart couldn’t be cured with something as simple as a change in hair color, she thought.

Her grandmother dozed while Suzette crocheted and watched a medical drama simultaneously. “I’m going to get some air,” Emily whispered to Suzette, then quietly opened the front door.

She squeaked with fright, startled to find a dark shadowy figure on the other side of the screen. She flipped on the porch light. Drew. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”