The Night Belongs to Fireman (30 page)

If we get out of this, sweet clover for all
, she silently told the goats. Maybe some sugar cubes and alfalfa and . . .

A weird rumbling noise interrupted her thoughts. Somebody gave her a violent shake. Somebody enormous, like the world itself. Then everything was jerking this way and that, the walls, the floor, the windowsill. Utterly confused, she pulled the trigger, saw something go winging out the window toward the treetops. She fell back onto the ground, the gun dropping from her fingers. Books were leaping out of the bookcases like rats deserting a sinking ship. The noise was horrendous, as if a freight train was hurtling through the office.

Door
. She should get to the door. Or hide under her desk or something. The desk was closer than the door, so she crawled across the floor on her hands and knees. It kept tilting back and forth, making her slide this way and that. She grabbed onto the nearest leg of the desk and hauled herself toward it. Or maybe it was careening toward her, she couldn't tell. It was like some kind of weird shipwreck with no water. Just flashing lights and rumbling and furniture going free range.

How could it still be going on? It seemed as if she'd been jolting around forever. Using all the arm strength she possessed, she swung herself under the desk, suppressing her automatic panic at sticking her head in such a small space. Now was not the time for a phobia. She glanced cautiously above her.
Pretend that's sky overhead, not the underside of a mahogany desk
. As sharp and heavy things rained onto her legs, she tried to curl into a ball small enough to fit under the desk. Then everything went black.

T
he earthquake struck while Fred was driving helter-skelter toward the Refuge. He pulled over, leaving his lights flashing so other cars would do the same. He set the parking brake and held on through the violent jarring. Out on the road, a few other cars slowed down, one crashed into a telephone pole, but most followed his lead and pulled over. His instinct was to run outside and direct everyone, but it would be stupid to get out of the car before the shaking had stopped. He counted the seconds. Thirty . . . thirty-one . . . finally, after thirty-two seconds of bone-jolting, stomach-churning destruction, the earth settled down and lay flat.

He knew the stillness wouldn't last for long. Aftershocks could be just as dangerous as the earthquake itself. Quickly, he sent Rachel a text.
Are you okay?
When she didn't answer, he tried calling; when that didn't work either, he turned on the car radio. The news announcer sounded just as shaken as the rest of San Gabriel. “Preliminary reports say this was a 6.3 on the Richter scale, centered just to the north of San Gabriel. This is the biggest earthquake San Gabriel has experienced since 1942, when a 6.5 struck at four-thirty in the morning on Easter Sunday. Damage reports are just starting to come in, but we know that several neighborhoods have been hit hard, especially on the north side of town.”

The Refuge was on the north side of town. He had to get to Rachel,
now
.

Fred turned the key in his ignition and pulled back into the road. All around him, drivers were getting out of their cars, turning to their neighbors. The streetlights had blinked off; power must be out across the city. The only light came from headlights and the peaceful, unworried stars overhead. Fred rolled down his window and cruised along the street, quickly scanning passersby for injuries. If someone needed help, he'd be in a real bind, since every second away from Rachel felt like an hour.

Everyone seemed shaken up, but unharmed. “Drive slowly and carefully,” he warned people as he sped up. “Watch for obstacles in the road. Keep your radios on.”

“Is it safe to drive?” someone yelled.

“Stay away from overpasses, ramps, anything that might have been damaged,” he called back. “Keep to surface streets and take it slow and careful. But yes, go ahead and drive home. Traffic lights are out, so stop at every intersection.”

No one questioned his instructions. He'd noticed before that in emergency situations, people seemed to naturally respond if someone stepped up and provided guidance. As he drove, he dialed the number for the station. No one answered. Even though there was nothing on the radio about fires so far, earthquakes always triggered them. The crew could be at a fire, or helping evacuate damaged buildings, or extracting victims from crushed cars. He'd be right there with them—head wound be damned—as soon as he made sure that Rachel was okay.

He contacted the USAR team next and told them he was headed to the north side of town. “I've got an unfolding situation there, but once that's dealt with, I'm all yours.”

“What's the situation?” In the background, Fred could hear the tactical channel, people shouting instructions, the controlled madness of an emergency situation. He knew where they were; all hunkered into the bunker behind the station house, with the emergency backup generators going and communications lines being set up. The entire infrastructure of San Gabriel's emergency response was swinging into action. If it weren't for Rachel, he'd be doing the same.

But right now, all he could think about was Rachel alone with a lunatic trying to set fire to the Refuge.

“I have a possible arson and assault out at the San Gabriel Refuge for Injured Wildlife on Mountain Way. I may need backup.”

“That could be tough, Breen. I have two collapsed overpasses and a fire at a shoe factory. And that's two minutes into this thing.”

“Got it.” He was on his own. “Where do you want me after this?”

“Hey. I didn't say no. You check it out and see how bad it is. You got your gear?”

“Enough.” He had work gloves and steel-toed boots, and that would have to do.

“Good luck.” And the man clicked off.

He drove on. Every block brought a new vista of destruction. Downed power lines, a few automobile collisions, a tree that had fallen onto a house. While he wanted to stop and help, his growing panic wouldn't let him. One-handed, he tried texting Rachel again, but again got nothing.

His eye lingered on her last message.
I love you
. Even though it was just a text, he could picture her saying the words. Her eyes would be wide and serious, her heart shining through. Rachel didn't let many people get close. But once someone won her trust and made their way past her shields, the most tender, passionate, softhearted, fierce-willed person awaited.
I'm coming, Rachel. Hang on
.

He also knew she must have been very, very frightened, or she wouldn't have put “I love you” in a text. That's what scared him the most.

Incendiary fury made every muscle clench. He was going to take that man apart. Just please, God, let him have the chance.

As he approached the Refuge, he saw the orange flicker of fire between the cypress trees. Sweet Jesus, the man had already started a fire. The Refuge verged on wilderness, and if this blaze really got going, it could build into a brushfire threatening scores of homes in the area. As horrified as he was, Fred forced himself to stay calm and remember his training. One thing at a time. First step: GYST. Get yourself together. Think, plan, then act. Size up the situation, make an action plan based on strategy and tactics,
keep your fucking head
.

The gate was open, and animals were pouring out in a melee of milling, bleating beasts. He spotted a few goats and an alpaca. Their panicky cries mingled with the determined crackle of flames eating through dry vegetation. Had Rachel left the gate open when she came in? Or managed to open it later? Or maybe the kidnapper had opened it to make his own escape after fucking over everyone else.

As he rattled up the drive, he saw that the usual security lights were off, and the only illumination came from the flames licking along the fence that surrounded the corral. At this point it could still be contained, but he needed to get some retardant on it, fast. Scanning the rest of the compound, it looked as if two of the compound's older buildings had collapsed, Rachel's office and the guard shack. If Rachel was in one of those . . .

He didn't see any people at all. The absence of human activity was not only eerie, but terrifying.

He stopped next to the corral fence. If Rachel's attacker was still here, wouldn't he have appeared at the sight of Fred's truck? Or would he shoot at Fred from the bushes?

Whatever the risks, he had to find Rachel.

“Rachel,” he shouted out the window.

No answer.

He jumped out of his truck, then grabbed the fire extinguisher from the backseat. After pulling on some work gloves, he stuck a flashlight in his back pocket. He wished he had a gun, but this would have to do. He glanced around again, scanning for signs of life . . . or ambush.

He tried again. “Rachel! If you can hear me, make some kind of sound.”

Nothing.

Sick dread filled him. He checked his phone, realized he had no service out here. The nearest tower must be out. Damn damn damn. With no idea where Rachel was, he didn't know where to start. Put out the fire or check her office? Her last text hadn't said, but his gut told him she'd been in her office. But what if he was wrong, and she'd holed herself up in the guard's building, with the flames beginning to feed on themselves, dance and roar and . . .

Shoving that thought aside, he ran to the fence line and activated the fire extinguisher. He sprayed the foam until the canister was empty, then kicked dirt on the remaining flames. The stench of gasoline prickled his nose. The asshole had poured accelerant around the property, the sick bastard. Why had he stopped? Where had he gone? Had the earthquake interrupted him?

When he reached the bungalow, he stopped cursing the man, because what was left of him lay splayed next to the building's shattered wall. His neck was bent at a repulsive angle, his face set in lines of horror, one side smashed to a pulp, the other intact. A chunk of roof tile lay next to him, and crumbled bits of plaster covered him like gruesome confetti. A spark had caught the lower part of his pants leg, which smoldered and released a gagging, burnt-flesh stench.

Fred kicked a big rooster tail of dirt over him to put out the fire. He knelt next to the man and felt his pulse. Definitely dead, though his skin was still warm, either from the fire he'd started, or from the dying embers of his life's breath.

“You had it coming,” Fred muttered. “I'm just sorry I didn't get a chance to kick your ass first. I will take your jacket, though.” He rolled the man onto his stomach and removed his jacket, then used it to smother the rest of the flames eating at the fence. He peered inside the darkness of the partially collapsed structure.

“Rachel?” he shouted into the void. Maybe she'd been with the kidnapper as he poured the gasoline. Maybe he'd shut her inside the bungalow, knowing how much she hated small spaces. The man was insane, Fred wouldn't put anything past him. He took a cautious step forward, eyeing the damaged wall. It didn't look too precarious, but without any way to shore up the concrete, he shouldn't go inside. On the other hand, if Rachel was in there, he didn't have a choice. He turned on his flashlight and took another step forward.

And then, amid the increasingly distant bleating of the goats, he caught a sharp yip. He stilled and listened again. Sirens in the distance, the rumbling of an aftershock racing across the terrain . . . and there it was. Greta's bark.

He swung the beam of his flashlight in the direction of the barking. It caught a slight gleam from something metallic . . . he squinted through the darkness. Rachel's rear bumper! Was Greta somewhere over there? Was she with Rachel? He ran across the yard to the Saab. The border collie was inside, scrabbling at the window. When he opened the back door, the dog launched herself at him, jumping up and clawing at his chest. “Hey, girl. Where's Rachel? How'd you get stuck in the car?”

Greta whined loudly, then took off like a shot toward Rachel's office.

As he started to go after her, an aftershock hit. He dropped to his hands and knees to ride it out. As soon as the shaking stopped, he raced across the yard, running faster than he ever had in his life. Greta was barking like crazy, but when he got close to her, his stomach dropped with a sickening plunge. The front of the guesthouse had sustained the worst damage. The roof had caved in, crushing the walls. Plaster dust floated in the air; he wished he had a face mask or even a bandanna. Greta was sniffing at a pile of splintered wood and plaster that looked as if a giant had stomped on his toys in a tantrum. How could anyone survive under all that?

But Rachel must be alive, because Greta was trembling and letting out sharp, excited barks, just like a real rescue dog. Fred knelt next to her and gripped a roof tile that perched atop the rubble like a jaunty beret. He gently rolled it down the slope of the debris pile, keeping control of its movement so it didn't trigger an avalanche.

The removal of that block opened up an air hole through which sound would travel better. “Rachel,” he called. “Are you in there? It's Fred. And Greta.”

He shushed Greta and waited for any sound from under the wreckage. It would help to know where she was. If he made a wrong move, the entire pile could collapse in an unwanted direction.

“Rachel,” he called again, urgently. “Sweetheart, it's Fred. Wake up. I need your help. I can get you out of here, but I need your help. Come on, my sweet love. I need you. Please, Rachel. Say something. Anything.”

He aimed his flashlight directly into the gap between jagged pieces of plaster. Maybe the light would wake her up if his voice didn't. Greta gave a few more eardrum-shattering barks right next to his cheek.

“Ow,” he told her. “No need to deafen me.”

But then the softest breath of sound caught his attention. “Shhh,” he told Greta, wishing he had her toy with him, the one that rewarded her for finding a victim. When her barking subsided, he bent his ear to the hole.

“Fred?” A hoarse voice floated from deep inside the pile.

“Rachel! Are you okay?”

A pause. “Uh . . . sort of? Been worse?” The upward, almost comical lilt at the end of each sentence made him want to cry from relief. But he kept a tight grip on his emotions. He had to keep his cool. She'd be following his guidance, and he needed her to keep calm.

“That's what I like to hear. Listen, Rachel, don't make any sudden movements, but can you move at all, or are you completely pinned?”

“I . . . I can move a little. My arms. I crawled under the desk.”

“You're brilliant.” He remembered exactly where the desk was situated. Now to get the rest of her office off her back. He wondered if she was getting claustrophobic, but decided it was better not to ask. Best to keep her focused on each moment and what needed to be done.

“Fred,” she called urgently. “There's a man, Officer Lee, and he's the one who—”

“He's dead,” Fred said bluntly. “Very very dead.”

“I—I didn't shoot him, did I? I was going to, but I'm not a good shot, and I wasn't even ready to shoot, but then the earthquake hit and I didn't know what was happening and the gun went off and—”

“Shhh, sweetie, it wasn't you. I saw his body and there was no bullet wound. No blood at all. His neck was broken by a flying chunk of stucco. And if that hadn't killed him, he probably would have burned to death. Earthquakes are not the best time to commit arson. Things have a way of getting out of control.”

“What about the fire? The animals?”