The Night Belongs to Fireman (27 page)

He fixed her with that relentless black stare of his. “He left? Get him back. You need a bodyguard more than ever, thanks to your brilliant move. Breen proved himself.”

“He never had to prove himself to anyone,” Rachel answered, irritated on his behalf. “Anyway, I can't just ‘get him back.' He had a job, and he went back to it.”

“So? We'll offer him more money. Double his salary. Quadruple it, who gives a fuck? Enough zeroes and he'll come back.”

“Dad, it's not about the money. In fact, he says he doesn't want his paycheck.”

Her father tilted his head back and let out his odd, dolphin-squeal laugh. “That's good. I like him. I like him a lot. Tell him we'll double his salary. Hell, what else does he want? A house? A motorcycle? Figure out some kind of signing bonus type thing, and throw that in too.”

The brioche dish arrived, fragrant steam pouring from the little vents in the pastry. Rachel pushed it away from her. “You don't get it, Dad. He's done with the bodyguard job.” He was also done with her, but she didn't want to mention that. It was still too painful, and her father didn't even know they'd ever been involved. Better to keep it that way.

“I'll talk to him,” he said, arrogance pouring off him the way the steam rose from the brioche. “Don't worry about it. You watch, I'll have him back at work in no time.”

“What are you going to do, Dad, kidnap him? I told you, he's
not interested
.”

“I won't have to kidnap him. I have other ways.” He tucked into his brioche, his eyes flickering shut for a moment as the flavors hit him. Rob Kessler loved his food, though he was notoriously particular. He'd probably only have one or two bites. He went for a brief dose of flavor, then moved on to the next dish. He'd once explained to Rachel that he liked to be in control of the food and not allow its savoriness to defeat his own willpower.

Her father's willpower was a force of nature.

As she watched him consume his few bites of brioche, Rachel imagined her father marching into Fred's firehouse, or maybe his little house in the suburbs, prepared to use all his weapons to bend Fred to his will. Bribery would come first. Then a threat of some kind. Maybe he'd try to make Fred feel worthless, as if he needed to be in the Kessler orbit to have any future. Maybe he'd play on Fred's fear of not being as important as his brothers. When her father wanted something, he was relentless. The only time he'd failed was during negotiations with her kidnapper.

She rose to her feet, rattling the plates and drawing attention from nearby tables. She didn't care. Her message to her father was too important to deliver sitting down. “Dad, listen to me very carefully. Manipulating me is one thing. I let you because I love you and I don't want to hurt you. But you cannot,
absolutely cannot
, bother Fred.”

Her father blinked once, then put down his fork, and waved for a waiter to remove his plate. “I manipulate you? And you ‘let me'? I don't know what you're getting at, but you're out of line.”

“You know exactly what I'm saying. If you mess with Fred, I won't go along with your rules anymore. I'll leave that apartment. I'll walk around without protection. I'll do whatever I want.”

“You'd do that?” A low, dangerous hum vibrated in her father's voice.

Even though her hands were sweating so much she had to grip them together behind her back, she held her father's snake-charmer gaze. She couldn't back down. Not now. If she gave so much as an inch, he'd take it. “I would. I don't want to, because I know how much you'd worry. I know how hard it was when the kidnapper had me. But I can't let you bother Fred Breen. It's not fair to him. I don't have a lot of leverage here, but I'll use what I have.”

“Rachel, I appreciate your concern for Breen.” He paused as the waiter set another plate before him, some sort of baked fish, its dead eyeball staring up at the two of them. “But I think you're bluffing. You've lived under my protection your whole life. You've never lacked for anything. You don't know how to survive on your own. Why would you want to? Yes, you're bluffing.”

“I'm not. I'm not bluffing.” But she
was
shaking. She willed herself to stop, so that her father didn't think she was afraid. She'd never stood up to her father in such a decisive way. She'd fought to go to a regular college, she'd fought to start the Refuge. But each time the final decision had been up to him.

This time, it wasn't up to him. She couldn't let it be.

“How do I know you're not bluffing?” Her father dug a fork in the breading that encased the fish. Juice leaked onto the plate. He tilted his head at her, as if she was providing welcome entertainment, almost as good as the fish.

“Do you love me, Dad?” she asked suddenly.

“Of course.” His black eyes flashed with outrage. “How can you ask that?”

“Then why aren't you listening to me?” She heard the helplessness in her voice, fought against it. More than anything, she hated feeling helpless. That's how she'd felt in the kidnapper's cage. And she'd felt that way, to some degree, every day
since
her kidnapping. Every day that she'd allowed her life to be dictated by someone else.

“I think I've been fairly patient.” There was her father's “soothing” voice again. “
You
did that interview. Now you need more security. Breen proved he's willing to take a bullet for you. When it comes to the issue of your safety,
I
have the final say.”

Rachel dragged in a deep breath, calling on all the grit she knew was in there somewhere, the grit that had gotten her out of that warehouse. “Well then, I'm calling your bluff. Keep the apartment. Keep your security guards.”

The red tinge creeping up her father's neck told her exactly what was coming next. She held up a preemptive hand. “In case you're about to threaten to withdraw funding from the Refuge, there's no need. I reject any further donations from Kessler Tech. I'm going to handle things myself from now on.”

S
ince Rachel wanted only to make a clear break, not give her father a coronary, she informed him she planned to stay at the Refuge until she found her own place. She also reminded him that her mother had left her some money, and even though she'd spent most of it on the Refuge, a small amount remained in her bank account. She wasn't going to be destitute.

The shell-shocked look on her father's face haunted her as she drove to her apartment building to pick up Greta and a few personal items. She hated making him worry, but how else could she get him to understand she needed a say in her own life?

In the foyer, she briefed Marsden on what had happened.

“I'll come with you,” he said promptly. “You shouldn't be on your own.”

“Of course I should be. I'm twenty-five. Everyone should be on their own at some point in their life, don't you think?” She spread her arms wide and spun in a circle, as if testing her freedom. “I can't pay you, Marsden, so you'd better stick with the billionaire who can.”

“You know he won't let you wander around unprotected,” Marsden pointed out. “He's probably already setting up a security team to tail you.”

Rachel glanced over her shoulder, into the darkness beyond the glass doors. “He might be. But you know something? He can do whatever he wants. I'm going to do what I have to do.”

“And that is?”

“I'm not exactly sure yet. It's like jumping into a lake. You just close your eyes and go.” She leaned toward her longtime guard, wondering how much a hug would freak him out. Then she stopped worrying and threw her arms around him. His familiar scent of cigar smoke and detergent made her tear up. “Thank you for everything, Marsden. You'll never know how much it meant to me that you were always nearby.”

He held her in a long embrace. “You have my cell number. Use it if you need me. I'll come, no matter what.”

“I know you would. Thank you.”

After collecting Greta, her leash, some dog food, her toothbrush, and a bag of extra clothes, she rode her elevator one last time. As she left, she gave the foyer, with its gilt mirror and elegant orchid arrangements, one last sweeping, bittersweet glance, then walked out into the murmuring, starry San Gabriel night.

Here she was. Rachel Allen Kessler. Alone at last.

She glanced down at herself, barely remembering what she'd put on her body for dinner with her father. Skinny black pants, a silky patterned tunic top with a print of gold-stitched tulips. Comfortable black flats with a kitten heel. Most importantly, her biggest purse, a black leather satchel that contained her journal, her wallet, her cell phone, her phone charger, her e-reader, her iPad, dog treats, a first aid kit tailored to animals, a packet of hair ties, and a book of matches that she'd grabbed on her way out of Castles.

She intended to hang on to that matchbook to remind her of this momentous day in her life. Something told her it was going to rank right up there with that other big day, when she'd taken her life into her own hands and run out of that cage.

Once, her therapist, Dr. Stacy, had asked her how she made the decision to escape—what had made her think it was worth the risk. She'd answered that Inga had bitten the guard's leg and she'd seized the opportunity. At eight, she hadn't calculated the risks. But now, standing there in the warm May night, with the breeze kissing her face like hope itself, she knew there was a different answer.

Sometimes you just can't do it anymore—whatever
it
is. Sometimes you reach that point where the unknown is the only choice you can make, because the known is no longer bearable.

So now what? It was almost midnight. She could find a hotel. She could roam the streets, reveling in her freedom. She could call Cindy and Liza and Feather, let them know about this seismic shift in her existence. More than anything, she wanted to talk to Fred, but she didn't want to bother him in the middle of the night.

She looked down at Greta, who was surveying the lamplit street, ears perking this way and that, clearly fascinated by this unexpected change in routine. “Let's go check out our new digs, shall we, Greta?”

The security guard on duty at the Refuge, Tony, looked shocked to see her. “Everything okay, miss?”

“Perfect. Greta and I will be in my office.”

“Very good. Oh, a police officer stopped by earlier. He questioned the staff and he wants to talk to you too.”

She sighed. “Thanks, I'll call him back tomorrow.”

As soon as the outer gate slid shut with a firm click, and the night sounds of the Refuge—the soft whistles of the mockingbirds, the snuffling of dreaming animals, wind playing in the treetops—surrounded her, a sense of peace descended on her soul. She and Greta spent the night curled up on the loveseat, moonlight slanting through the windows.

She didn't sleep much; too many thoughts kept running through her head. The Refuge staff was probably wondering what was going on, especially if they'd seen her interview and heard about Dale/Kale. They wouldn't ask, of course. They were used to keeping their distance and doing what they were told. She rarely interacted with the staff, being more occupied with her dog therapy practice. For three years she'd floated in and out of their sphere, with them, and yet apart from them. And she'd never really questioned it before now.

But this place was her creation, her baby. Shouldn't she start acting like she was in charge, not just some distant, untouchable figurehead?

The next morning, after all the workers had arrived, she called a staff meeting. The guards, she noticed, had reported for work as usual. Maybe they hadn't gotten the message that Kessler Tech was no longer involved with the Refuge. Everyone gathered under the big oak tree in the front yard, three security guards and five staffmembers, whom she barely knew.

With Greta at her side for moral support, she faced the small group.

“Hi,” she said, clearing her throat awkwardly. The faces before her showed no expression other than wariness. “As you all know by now, one of our techs, Dale, has been arrested for kidnapping. You've probably already been questioned by the police or maybe interviewed by the media, so I thank you for your cooperation.”

From the corral, a goat bleated.
Out with it, Rachel
.

“Also, I . . . um, in case you missed my interview on Channel Six, I'm actually Rachel Kessler, not Rachel Allen. I apologize for the deception.”

No response from the group. Maybe they didn't care what last name she used. Maybe they already knew. Maybe she was making a big deal about nothing.

“Now that the word is out, it's quite likely things will change around here. Actually, scratch that. Things are definitely going to change.”

Finally, a reaction. One of the techs, a young woman with her hair in two braids—Becky?—raised her hand. “Rumor has it you'll be closing the Refuge.”

“Who said that?”

She shifted back on her heels, hands in her back pockets. “There was an e-mail from Kessler Tech that got people talking.”

“We're not closing down. It's true that Kessler Tech will no longer be one of our donors. But we don't need them. We have plenty of other means of raising money.”

Tolliver, a leathery-skinned older man who was as good with birds as she was with dogs, spat into the dirt. “Be straight with us. Without Kessler's dough, you can't guarantee our paychecks, can you?”

Paychecks
. Rachel pulled the skin of her lower lip between her teeth. Of course the staff wanted to know how they were going to get paid. Since she'd never drawn a paycheck herself, she hadn't even thought about that detail. “I can't give you a firm answer until I see where our finances are,” she admitted.

A groan rose from the group, and Tolliver turned away with a gesture of disgust. “Then what are we even doing here? Why are you wasting our time?”

“Wait! Wait, don't leave yet. Please.” Rachel dug her heels into the dirt. She'd worked so hard to build this place. Now she'd have to work even harder to keep it going. Anchored by the solid ground beneath her, she said, “Here's what I can promise you. We have other donors, and I'll be working with all of them to make sure they stay on board.” Well, maybe with the exception of Bradford Maddox IV. “Right away, while the media is still interested in my story, I'll be doing a major media outreach myself.”

Was anyone listening anymore? They were looking this way and that, at their feet, at each other. Maybe they were already mentally updating their résumés.

“Please give me your attention for just a little longer.” That didn't work either. Becky was checking the messages on her phone. Tolliver stuffed another wad of gum in his cheek and looked at the sky above.

Momentum was definitely not going her way.
Crap
. If the staff members left, the animals would be put at risk and the whole place would degenerate before she could hire anyone else. And she liked this crew; they did a good job. She couldn't let them abandon the Refuge. She had to be . . . She looked down at Greta, who sat patiently by her side, the way Rachel had trained her to. Why? Because she, Rachel, was the leader of their little pack of two. People were social animals, just like dogs, she reminded herself. They responded to strength, to decisiveness, to leadership.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” she said, with enough crisp command to capture everyone's lagging attention. “I'm Rachel Kessler. There isn't a media outlet in this country—maybe the world—that doesn't want to talk to me. I can get us more media exposure than any nonprofit could ever dream of. And once those camera crews come in here and show Becky setting a splint on an injured dog's leg, or Tolliver making friends with a baby raptor, hell, we'll have so much money pouring in we can . . . build the Taj Mahal here. And populate it with elephants. The sky will be the limit. I might not have the money right now, but I promise you I will put everything I have and everything I am into securing the future of this Refuge. It means everything to me.”

The passion in her voice echoed through the yard. Even the animals in the outbuildings seemed to be listening. Surely she was getting through to the staff members. She scanned their faces, meeting each of their gazes. Mick, the big security guard, offered a nod of approval.

“The animals do, you mean,” said Tolliver in a grumpy voice.

“Excuse me?”

“The animals mean everything to you. No one doubts that. But what about us?”

Her mouth dropped open from surprise. The people? Of course the people were important. They took care of the animals, after all. Hearing that thought echo in her mind, as if listening to her words played back on tape, her cheeks went hot. Oh my God. Had she really been that neglectful of the people who worked here? Yes, she really had. She wasn't even entirely sure of all their names. These were people who put their hearts and souls into this place, just as she did. And yet she'd allowed an invisible barrier to come down between them.

That's what happened when you let fear guide you.

“I see your point,” she told him. “You guys are all dedicated, skilled, and wonderful. I'm very grateful to you. Well, everyone except Dale.”

A smattering of laughter gave her hope that she was on the right track. “I'm going to be really busy for the next couple of weeks working on raising money. But after that, I'd like to get to know you all better. And I want you to get to know me. Because if you stay on, you're investing your time and energy in me, Rachel Kessler. So what I want you all to know, right now, is this. I can be very hardheaded and willful. When something really matters to me, I fight for it. And I fight hard. Even if it means I crawl out of a cage on my hands and knees over broken glass. Even if it means I get kicked in the head so hard I couldn't speak for weeks.”

She certainly had everyone's attention now. The only sound to be heard was the oblivious twittering of the sparrows overhead. She hadn't told Melissa McGuire, Fred, or even her friends the extent of the damage she'd suffered. The memories were too harsh.

“I fought to escape that kidnapper, and after I was home, I had to survive the aftermath. It took nearly a year to get back to where I had been, developmentally speaking. I had a lot of help from my father and all the doctors and physical therapists. But mostly it was sheer, pigheaded determination. I intend to fight for this Refuge just as hard. If you stay, you're taking a bet on me. Rachel Kessler. Not my father, and not my trust fund, because there's not much left there. I don't know how long it will take to get the financial situation stable, but your paychecks will be my top priority.”

She looked from one to the other, letting them scrutinize her, giving them time to assess her seriousness and her sincerity.

“So . . .” she said finally. “Who's with me?”

No one left. It was, without a doubt, the most gratifying moment of her life.

A
fter a busy
day of setting up interviews with board members and media outlets, she drove to the South Desert Plaza Mall, where she picked up some clothes and a few other basics. She didn't want the staff members to figure out that she was staying at the Refuge. She felt safe there—at night it was impossible to get in without the security codes—but didn't want the word to get out.

From the mall she headed to Fred's neighborhood. She longed to see him. So many things kept running through her mind, things she wanted to say to him, apologies, explanations. She wanted him to know that the interview with Melissa hadn't ruined her life; instead it opened her up to new possibilities. What would he think of her decision to do an all-out media blitz? What would he think of her speech to the Refuge staff? What would he think of her break with her father? There was so much to tell him! And that wasn't even the most important thing. There was something much deeper, something she couldn't keep to herself any longer. Something private, that couldn't be shared with . . .