The Night Belongs to Fireman (28 page)

The kids from next door.

The three boisterous boys were bouncing around the front yard like rubber balls, careening off one another, pushing one another over, somersaulting across the grass, and generally creating mayhem. Fred was nowhere to be seen. When the boys caught sight of her emerging from her car, they sorted themselves out and scurried to the sidewalk.

The smallest one, Kip, she recalled, grabbed the handle of her door and opened it with a deep bow. Apparently he was still on doorman duty.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she told him with a princesslike nod. Greta rushed past her, running to each boy in turn to sniff and make friends.

“Welcome to the 'hood,” said one of the twins. “We been practicing our routine. Want to see?”

“I'd love to, but I'm looking for Fred—”

“What you want with him?” The second twin sidled closer to her. “He's no fun anymore. We wanted to spar but he kicked us out, said we had to play by ourselves for a while. I don't know if he's gonna want to see you.”

Rachel didn't know either, but she figured she had to take her chances. “So he's here?”

“He's inside with his sister,” said the kid. “Talk about no fun! She babysat us for two weeks and we had to do our homework every day. Every
day
. You know how hard that is? Every
day
!”

“Sounds completely inhumane.”

“And you know what? I know that word, ‘inhumane,' because she made us spell it.
Spell
it. What's the point of studying spelling when everyone's got spell-check? Even my cheap-ass phone got spell-check.” The boy's righteous indignation made her laugh.

“It sounds like she took good care of you.”

“And no Froot Loops either,” piped up their little brother.

“Yeah, she made us eat muesli. That's what she called it. Meeeyoooslee. What kind of food's named muesli? Sounds like a damn Pokemon.”

Rachel burst into laughter, which made the boys look even more disgruntled. The front door opened, and Fred stepped out, with Lizzie right behind him. The sight of him sparked tremors all the way to her core. He looked so yummy, barefoot, in a white T-shirt and black sparring pants, his dark hair just a little rumpled, his square-jawed face lit with a big smile just for her. Even though he looked tired and bruised, the eager light in his shining dark eyes still pulled her like a beacon.

That horrible, distant, hurt look he'd had during their fight was completely gone. Her heart jumped. Maybe there was hope for her. For them.

The boys were still talking but she no longer paid any attention. She took a step forward, toward the man who truly was the light of her life. Everything would be okay between them, it had to be. Once she'd explained that she'd acted out of love, he'd understand. He'd kiss her and hold her and make love to her and . . .

When a small hand grabbed her pants leg, she stumbled.

“Let me go,” she said to whoever was keeping her from Fred. “What are you doing?” When the tugging didn't stop, she finally looked down. The smallest boy held a handful of her black pants. He gestured toward her car.

“Why you have a bumper sticker on your door?”

“I don't have any bumper stickers,” she said, turning back to Fred.

“Yeah, you do. It sure is a funky one,” said one of the twins. “Says . . . To Be . . .”

She swung around, nearly sending the youngest brother flying. A bumper sticker was plastered on the passenger door of her car, at an angle, as if someone had just flung it there in passing. But it wasn't a mistake. Oh no. Not with that message.

To be continued
.

Shock fizzed from her head to her fingertips. The kidnapper was here. Or he'd been near her. He knew her car. Who knew what he was planning? Whatever it was, she couldn't put these little boys in danger. She needed to get away from here. Now.
Get out. Get out
.

Waving at Fred, Lizzie, and the boys, she called, in as normal a voice as she could manage, “I forgot I'm supposed to be somewhere. Greta, come.” Looking a bit confused, Greta trotted to the car and jumped in. “I'll call you later, Fred, okay? Bye, guys. Bye, Lizzie. Have a nice night.”

She managed to buckle herself in without giving away her panic. Barely daring a last precious glance at Fred, who was staring after her with a puzzled frown, she started up the car and pulled away from the curb.

“W
hat was that about?” Lizzie peered after the taillights of Rachel's reinforced Saab.

Fred shook his head slowly. “Maybe the boys said something to upset her. Or maybe she wasn't ready to see me yet. I was an asshole the last time I saw her.”

“Yeah, but she drove all the way over here. Why would she turn and run as soon as she saw you? I mean, that bruise is bad, but not flee-at-the-sight-of-you bad. Not even puke-at-the-sight—”

“I get it. I look like hammered shit.”

“See, I never understood that one. Who hammers shit? Why? Why would anyone—”

“Lizzie, don't you have somewhere to be? I really don't need this twenty-four-hour guard service.” His family had refused to give him a moment's peace. They called it keeping an eye on him in case he showed symptoms of concussion. He was starting to call it harassment. He hadn't even had a chance to see Rachel, even though he'd been thinking about her nonstop; now she'd disappeared right before his eyes.

“A soldier never leaves his or her post,” said Lizzie with a mock salute. “Especially a Breen.”

“Hey boys,” Fred called across the yard. “Come here, would you?”

“Oh, so now you want to talk to us?” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. One of his feet was planted on the back of his brother Tremaine, who sprawled facedown on the grass. Judging by Tremaine's out-of-breath, profanity-laced mutterings, Jackson had just flipped him. “I don't think so. You can't kick a brother out of your house and then pretend like everything's cool.”

“Stop messing around. I'm serious. I need to know what Rachel said before she took off.”

“Dude, you heard her. She didn't say nothin'. ‘Bye, kids,' or some shit like that. Oh yeah, and ‘Fred, I'll call you later!'” He mimed a sultry female voice that sounded nothing like Rachel's.

“Before all that. What happened to send her running? Did you say something? Swear at her? Make one of your age-inappropriate jokes?”

“You're saying it's all our fault? Tremaine, get your butt up. We got a problem here.” He lifted his foot and hauled his twin upright. “We're facing some unjust accusations.”

Fred stalked forward and grabbed both brothers by the scruff of their necks. “You don't need to go all Amistad on me. I just want to know what you were talking about right before she left.”

“Nothing. The bumper sticker.”

“Bumper sticker? She doesn't have any bumper stickers.”

“No, she
thought
she didn't have any bumper stickers.”

But before Fred could sort that out, their mother hollered from across the street. “Dinner, kids. Mac and cheese, while it's hot. Fred, you hungry?”

“No, thanks, Jasmine. Next time, for sure.”

She gave him a friendly wave, then opened her arms to the little boys hurtling across the street.

“Bumper sticker?” Lizzie frowned, biting at her thumbnail. “Maybe she got upset because someone put a bumper sticker on her car that she didn't like. Like a Papa John's or something. Or a political candidate.”

“Yeah.” It still didn't seem like enough of an explanation. Something strange had just happened; he just didn't know what, exactly. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. He got no answer, other than her soft, husky voice on her outgoing message. “Leave a number.” No name, no promise to call back.

Irritated, he clicked off without leaving his number; she knew it and if she wanted to call back, she would.

“You should go back to bed,” Lizzie declared. “How's your head?”

His head felt horrible, as if someone was taking a ball-peen hammer to it, striking the same spot over and over again. As if someone was trying to wake him up from
inside
his skull. “If I didn't need it so much, I'd get rid of it.”

“That bad, huh? Aw, Freddie.” Lizzie took his arm and bundled him toward the front door. “You'd better be okay. You're the only one of my brothers I can stand.”

He let her guide him through his house toward his bed, where he'd spent much of the day. Those rumpled, messy sheets looked like heaven right now. “You know that's not true. You love us all equally.”

“No, Mom loves you all equally. I love
you
best. Of course I love them too, but you're my favorite.”

“If you say it's because I'm such a nice guy—”

“Don't be ridiculous. You know something, Fred? I'm a Breen too, and I know how hard it was to stick up for what you wanted to do, even though Trent and the others teased you. You inspired me. If not for you, I probably wouldn't be getting my pilot's license. I kept thinking, ‘If Fred can tough it out, I can.'”

He squinted at her, lowering himself onto his bed. “Tough? You think I'm tough?”

“I think you're all kinds of tough. The
best
kind of tough. I know you, Fred. You're just as fierce as Trent and Jack and Zee. You're a warrior, like them, but you wanted to help people in your own way. And you did. You
still
do. I'm proud to be your sister. And I'm tired of you downplaying yourself.”

Maybe it was due to his weakened state, but a sort of warm, fuzzy sensation was spreading through him. He'd never seen Lizzie so fired up—and all on his account. He smiled at her tenderly. “Is that what I do?”

“Yes. You act like everyone else is a hero except you. But you've always been my hero. And you don't treat me like a silly child. Even when I am a silly child, like with Trevor. And Brendan.”

“And Chase.” He winked at her. If she kept up with the mushy talk, he might really embarrass himself.

“Don't mention Chase. I'm not ready.” She hovered over him, trying to settle him into his bed but managing to poke him in the ribs instead.

“Jesus, Lizzie, I'm not an invalid. It's a minor head wound. And there's no need to get all sentimental. I'm not going to die.”

She gave a soft snort, but her usual sparkling smile did nothing more than haunt one corner of her mouth. “Just . . . just let me, okay? You're always there for me, now I want to be there for you.”

Fred wanted to ask if “being there” had to mean poking him in the ribs, but instead he stayed quiet and let her pull the covers over him. Mercifully, she left him alone after that, announcing that she was going to make some grape Jell-O, their mother's surefire comfort food.

Alone at last, he bunched up his pillow to make it more comfortable.
Lizzie
. What a pistol, cheerleading for him like that. The funny thing was, before he met Rachel, he would have thought Lizzie's lecture was ridiculous, trying to convince him of his heroic qualities. But now . . . now . . . after everything that had happened, something had changed inside him. It didn't matter if he wasn't Rambo, or his brother Trent, or even Captain Brody. He didn't need to be Prince William or Bill Gates either.

He was Fred, he was a firefighter, and he was the man who loved Rachel Kessler with his whole being.

And he was cool with that.

A short sleep, then he'd try Rachel again. And maybe Marsden for good measure. Marsden always knew what was going on. He'd know if someone had defaced Rachel's car, or if the kids had imagined the bumper sticker and it was really a bumper
car
, and he'd bumped Rachel too hard against the side wall and sparks were flying everywhere, like thousands of fireflies released from a jar, and the light was so beautiful it was terrifying, and Rachel was cowering away from it, shielding her face with her arm, but it was no use, because . . .

He jerked awake. Something was wrong. Rachel was in trouble. He knew it. He didn't know how or where, but he knew it.

E
ven though Rachel
knew she'd be giving some control back to her father, she had to let him know about the bumper sticker. As soon as she left Fred's house, she called Marsden.

“You're sure it says, ‘To be continued'?”

“Of course I'm sure,” she snapped, not in the mood for silly questions. “But I don't know how long it's been there. I didn't notice it until someone else pointed it out.”

“Do we need to check on that someone?”

“No! I don't think an eight-year-old kid could be my long-lost kidnapper. Look, you know I hate to say this, but I need you. I don't even have my gun. I left it in the apartment. Are you there right now?”

“No, your father switched up the security teams since you're not living in the apartment anymore. I'm halfway to Marin, but I'm turning around right now.”

“No, no, that's okay. Is there anyone still in San Gabriel? Oh, of course! The security guards at the Refuge. Do you know who's on tonight?”

“I believe it's Mick. He's been with us for a while. Very competent. Want me to give him a call?”

“Yes. Tell him I'll meet him at the Refuge. Thank you, Marsden, that makes me feel a little better. Maybe I'll stop at the apartment and grab my gun. Two is better than one.”

“No, Rachel. Don't stop that car until you get to Mick. He can take you back to your place. The building isn't under guard right now, and whoever left that bumper sticker could be waiting for you there.”

“Crap, you're right, you're right.” Rachel pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. That bumper sticker had freaked her out so much, her thoughts were all scrambled. The sight of that message had made her realize that at some point, she'd stopped believing the kidnapper was still interested in her. Now she felt as if the world had shifted into a kind of doomsday scenario nightmare. “I'll go straight to the Refuge. Will you call my father and let him know what's happening? He's probably still mad at me, but he'll want to know about this.”

“You bet I will. He'll definitely want to know. Tell you the truth, I think he's still in shock that you haven't called begging for his help yet.”

“I hope he doesn't think that I'm begging for his help now. I don't want his money, just a trustworthy guard for the night.”

“Don't worry. Your dad will probably have security pouring back into town within a couple of hours. You'll be all right. Lock your doors, keep driving, and don't stop for any reason until you reach the Refuge. I'm beeping Mick right now.”

Relief flooded through her. “Thank you, Marsden. I feel better already.”

“Good. But don't relax. Be smart.”

“I promise.”

After she ended the call, she saw that Fred had called. He was probably wondering why she'd been so rude. Should she call him and let him know what was happening? Absolutely not, she decided. He was injured, and she didn't want him to jump into rescue mode. She could call him and try to explain away her weird behavior, but she doubted she could pull it off. Not when she was this rattled.

Instead, she sent him a quick text.
Call you later
.

Later
, when she'd found Mick and gotten the situation under control.

Fred didn't answer back. Despite her determination not to involve him while he was injured, she longed to hear his voice. What if she never got a chance to hear his voice again? What if she never got a chance to tell him she loved him?

Stop that
, she ordered herself.
No need for panic. Focus on getting your ass to the Refuge
.

Dusk was creeping in by the time she reached the big iron-work gates of the Refuge. Even though San Gabriel was a smallish city, it had rush hour traffic like anywhere else. Never had the crawl across town been so torturous. She couldn't help sneaking glances at the people in the cars next to her, wondering if anyone was going to try to cut her off and ram into her or drop a construction crane on her. But she saw nothing more than the occasional rude gesture in an intersection.

For once, she welcomed the sight of the ugly cement block walls topped with barbed wire that surrounded the Refuge. She pressed the button to alert the security guard, and turned her face toward the video camera. Unlike most video cameras, this one was her friend. This camera wouldn't allow any unwelcome visitors to enter her Refuge. When the gate had opened all the way, she drove in, more quickly than usual, checking her rearview mirror to make sure no one snuck in after her.

All clear.

She heaved a huge sigh of relief as she made her way down the driveway. Maybe it had all been a false alarm. Maybe someone from BEAST had unearthed the “To be continued” tidbit, even though it had never been released to the media. Maybe they were trying to spook her because they hadn't gotten what they wanted out of her interview with Melissa.

She caught sight of someone leaving the security shack and making his way toward her car. Must be Mick, who had the kind of physique she found very reassuring at the moment. Wide, brawny shoulders, a bit of a paunch to his belly, a no-nonsense stride. The kind of man you wanted on your side in a situation like this. After pulling into her usual parking spot, she jumped out. Not wanting to take the time to put Greta on her leash, she signaled her to stay put inside the Saab, and closed the door.

“Hi Mick. I'm really glad you're still here. Did Marsden call you? We have a potential emergency on our hands.”

“Mick's checking the perimeter,” the man answered. “I'm Officer Lee with the San Gabriel PD. I was here earlier, left my card.”

Embarrassed, she peered at him. Of course it wasn't Mick; Mick had a good thirty pounds on this policeman. “Oh. Right. Sorry, I was going to call you back, but—”

“Mick called me in, said you had an emergency.”

“Yes, um . . .” Rachel hesitated. The man wore a San Gabriel PD uniform, but should she ask to see a badge anyway? Before she could do so, he handed it to her.

“You should always ask,” he told her. “Lots of crazies out there.”

It was definitely a real SGPD badge. Relieved, she handed it back. “Thank you. And I'm glad you're here. I need someone to check out this bumper sticker on my car. Maybe dust it for fingerprints. It would be great if we could figure out where it came from.”