The Night Belongs to Fireman (31 page)

“Fire's out. And there's a whole gang of goats heading for the highway.” He propped his flashlight on the pile so he could work faster, plucking more chunks of plaster from the pile.

“They got out? Was the gate open?”

“Yes. I'm guessing that Lee guy opened it so he could make a quick getaway after he torched the fence.”

“What a jerk,” she said, with a touch of bemusement. “Then the earthquake hit. I can't believe it. Why now? In the middle of all this?”

“Earthquakes happen when they happen. We get them all the time, but this is a big one.”

Greta bumped his arm, scrabbling at a hunk of metal—a light fixture? “Greta, your job is done. I got this.” But the dog refused to stay still. Instead she danced around him, digging at the debris until her paws bled, leaving streaks on the broken sheetrock. “You sure have heart, girl,” Fred murmured as he helped her with a stubborn piece of two-by-four. “You'd make an awesome search and rescue dog.”

“What?” Rachel asked, her voice sounding just a little clearer, as if he was unearthing it with each piece of rubble he discarded.

“I was telling Greta she has heart.”

“You know what I was thinking about, down here?”

“What's that?”
Keep her talking
. The more she spoke, the easier it would be for him to follow her voice.

“I was thinking that all this time, there's something I overlooked about dogs. I've been working with them, training them, helping them, interpreting their body language and their behavior. And I did a good job. I really can connect with dogs. But that whole time, I should have been acting more like a dog.”

“How? Have a bigger appetite? Get more excited about walks?”

She gave a wheezy laugh, which made him nervous. Why was she wheezing? Was something resting on her chest? Was she starting to lose her cool? Talk about a confined space. It didn't get much worse than being under a desk piled high with rubble. Even though his shoulders and chest were burning from the effort of shifting the heavy joists and sheets of ripped plaster, he picked up the pace.

“No, no,” she continued. “The thing about dogs is, they always bring their whole selves to whatever they're doing. Have you noticed that? They try their best, every time. They love completely, even if it's just a silly little chew toy. They're a hundred percent alive, every moment, until they die. And you know, Fred—”

Through his shock at that word, “die,” Fred heard the telltale rumble of another oncoming aftershock. “Hold on tight, honey. Here comes another one.” He reached for the trembling Greta, huddling his body around her, and braced himself.

The earth shook again. Fist-size pieces of debris tumbled toward him. Dust rose in a choking blur. When it cleared, and he called again for Rachel, he got no answer.

R
achel was in the middle of saying something very important when everything started shaking again and she passed out. When she came to, her mouth was full of plaster dust. At least she hoped that's what it was. To keep a lid on her simmering panic, she refused to think about other possibilities. After the horrible jolting stopped, she spent a few minutes unclogging her throat and spitting out the nasty stuff.

She heard lots of noise from overhead. Greta's barking, the sound of a helicopter's blades, strange voices shouting. She heard Fred saying, “Rachel! Rachel!” over and over again, and though she tried with all her might to make sounds come out of her mouth, it was too dry and she was too out of breath to manage more than a dull groan. It felt like one of those nightmares in which she was trying to run and scream, but no matter how hard she worked, she was stuck in the same place, unable to make a peep.

Carefully, keeping her mouth tightly sealed, she turned her head to look up at the spot of light—not so much light as a slightly paler gray. Fred must be doing something else with the flashlight. When he'd first aimed it down the hole he'd made, it had shone like a ray of heavenly light, a shaft of hope lifting her heart. Now she couldn't see much at all. Maybe the aftershock had shifted the debris and blocked her air hole.

And just like that, she was back in that place where all her nightmares began. Back in the cage inside that windowless warehouse, where the only light came from a door propped open during the day. At night, her prison went completely black. Her hearing would get super sharp at night, when everything was quiet. The only sounds were made by Inga, the stray dog who skulked around the warehouse. She knew when he was curling up to sleep, when he was gnawing at the fleas on his rump, when he was slurping water from a tin can.

At night, in the blackness, she would dream. She'd dream of her mother, who had just died the year before. Of the way she smelled, like the rosemary she grew in big planters on the terrace. The way she smiled, wide, so her mouth stretched all the way across her face. Of the way she scolded when Rachel was too wild, which was often. Of the fairy houses she used to build in the stand of redwoods at Cranesbill. Of the crumbling cliff that looked over the Pacific, and the gazebo where she blew bubbles. Of how she'd watch to see how far out to sea they'd float before popping. Of her favorite blue Schwinn, and the freedom she felt racing down the road to the beach.

Inga the dog had helped her escape. But before then, her dreams had saved her. No one could take those away. Not the mean man with the mask, not the stupid guards, not even her own fear. Because at night, the dreams would come and she'd feel strong and free and invincible.

Now, buried under rubble, a different dream shimmered across her vision. There was a man out there who loved her. A man so true and kind and strong that nothing in this world was going to keep her from him.

Ignoring the pain, she maneuvered her hand to her face and clawed the rest of the gunk out of her mouth. “Fred,” she croaked. The sound barely penetrated the dense silence under the desk. Desperately she worked up more saliva and spit out more dust. “
Fred
,” she said, louder.

“Rachel?” From the wild hope in his voice, she knew he'd heard her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She spat again, feeling as if she were spewing out years of blockage. This time, her voice came out more strongly. “I was about to tell you that I love you so much and I don't think we should let anything get between us. It doesn't matter whose daughter I am or how much money he has. I don't care about any of that stuff. And I'm sorry I didn't leave it up to you to rescue yourself from Kale. I should have known you'd think of something . . .”

“No, Rachel, I was wrong. I was completely wrong!” He broke in, as if he couldn't hold back another moment. “I had my head up my ass. I was too worried about myself, and trying to prove something. I shouldn't have gotten mad, I should have been grateful, and I hope you can forgive—”

“Stop it, Fred! This is my time to babble! You know I have to babble when I'm feeling claustrophobic. You can talk when I'm done.”

She became aware of a loud mechanical noise nearby. But she still had so much to say, so she just raised her voice and talked over it.

“What I'm saying is, I don't regret doing the interview, I'd do that again in a heartbeat. It worked out for the best anyway. The part I'm sorry about is the money, because it's my dad's money and I'm used to money solving everything, but sometimes it makes things worse. And then I tried to protect you again when I saw the bumper sticker at your house, but I should have just told you and you probably would have thought of something, instead, now look at us . . . what
is
that sound?”

“I've been trying to tell you. It's a compressor. We're going to inflate a couple of air bags to create some space. The helitack team choppered them in.”

“Air bags?”

“The air bags will lift the pile enough so I can crawl in and dig you out. Here we go with the first air bag.”

She heard a short drone, then a slender crack of light appeared. Bright light; there must be more flashlights out there, or maybe spotlights. A sudden thought struck her. Was she getting special treatment, once again? “Doesn't the fire department have a lot more urgent problems than me?”

“You're trapped, Rachel. That's urgent. We have crews out all over San Gabriel, but this area was hit the hardest.”

“My father didn't have anything to do with this?”

“No, this is the San Gabriel Fire Department doing its job.” She heard the pride in Fred's voice. “But your father is on his way.”

“That's good.” She wanted to see him. No matter how suffocating his eccentric ways, her father loved her, and she loved him. With her whole heart—like a dog.

“We're deploying another air bag.”

The crack grew bigger, until artificial white light was filtering in. The space grew wider, almost as wide as her body. Surely she could just crawl through.

“I'm coming out,” she called to Fred.

“No. Don't move. It's safer if I come in and get you. I'm handing in a helmet. Put it on if you can. There might be more loose pieces and we don't want you getting hit on the head.”

About to protest, she snapped her mouth shut. Hell no, she didn't want more brain trauma. She had too much to say, too much to do. There was the Refuge to rebuild, fund-raisers to plan, investors to woo. And most of all, Fred to love.

An object blocked the light, passing haltingly through the crack, which was now as wide as the heating vents at Cranesbill. It must be the helmet Fred was pushing toward her. When it was close enough, she painfully stretched out an arm and snagged it. By dint of much careful twisting and maneuvering, she managed to get it on her head, but the effort exhausted her.

“I'm coming in,” Fred announced. She didn't protest this time, knowing she needed his help. Now that she could see the outside, taste the night air on her tongue, the craving for freedom nearly made her lose her cool.
Out, out, she wanted out
. A dark lump blocked a large portion of the light, and she knew it was Fred. Strong, true-blue Fred, coming to her rescue.

“What should I do next?” she asked him.

“How badly do you think your legs are pinned?”

She tried to move her legs, and managed about two inches. “I can move them a tiny bit. I just don't have any room.”

“I'm going to dig you out then. Hopefully there's enough loose stuff to get you some space.” A light was now shining directly in her eyes. She squeezed them shut. The sounds of grunting and digging kept her company. When she opened her eyes again, Fred was there, his dear, wonderful, smudged, exhausted face so close to hers that tears began flowing down her cheeks.

“You're here,” she said weakly.

“Yup.” His cheerful tone left no room for the hysteria that threatened to burst free. “I missed you. Thought I'd drop in for a visit.”

“Don't make me cry too much,” she warned. “Because if I start I won't stop.”

“Please don't do that, the last thing we need down here is mud.”

She smiled, making cracks in the dust that coated her face.

“I want you to hold this flashlight for me,” he told her. In one hand, he held a slim flashlight and a hand shovel. “Can you do that?”

“Of course.” Mildly insulted, she took the flashlight into her trembling grip, then used both hands to steady it.

“You're lucky your father buys such expensive office furniture,” Fred said, eyeing the cracked mahogany overhead.

“He didn't. This desk belonged to my mother.” That reminder made more warm tears trickle down the sides of her face. Her mother's desk had saved her life. So had Inga. So had Fred. So had her father, and Marsden. So much had conspired to save her; never again would she waste a single moment being anything less than fully alive.

“Hey. No crying. It looks like there's plenty of soft stuff around your legs. I'm going to pull myself forward so I can dig at it. Keep the flashlight aimed at your feet and keep trying to pull your legs free. As soon as you can, we're headed out. Got it?”

“Got it.”

He inched forward, his body pressing against hers. Maybe it ought to make her feel even more claustrophobic, since the two of them were wedged together in an incredibly slim slice of space. But it didn't. “Fred?”

“Yeah?”

With her voice roughened by plaster dust—or deepest truth—she whispered, “There's no one else in the world I'd want to be in a confined space with. Only you.”

At first he didn't answer. When he did, the words seemed to be ripped straight from his heart. “Well, that settles it, then. You'd better marry me.”

“What?” Little shockwaves of elation traveled from her heart through every bruised limb of her body. “You want me to marry you?”

“More than anything.” He gave a little cough, as if trying to clear dust from his throat. “Funny how I can barely see a foot in front of me, but everything else is perfectly clear. I love you, Rachel, and I'd rather stay under this desk with you than be anywhere else without you.”

Her throat closed up over a swell of emotion. She couldn't speak, couldn't answer.

Fred filled the silence. “I'm even on my knees. How many guys propose while they're flat on their stomachs under four feet of rubble?” He inched further forward, so his lower ribs were pressed against her face. She tilted her head so she could breathe and, more importantly, not miss a single word that he said. “I probably should have picked a different moment. Like with flowers instead of a shovel.” Grunting with effort, he moved his arms above his head to jab at the debris with the shovel.

“No.” She felt his body flinch. “I mean, no, it's the perfect moment.”

“Your face is shoved into my stomach. How can it be the perfect moment?”

“Because we might not have another one.” She hurried past that possibility. She and Fred were going to have lots of moments. Her headstrong side would make sure of it. “And because the answer is yes. Yes, I want to marry you. As soon as possible.” She rubbed her face against his belly. “How's it going down there? Are my limbs intact? I'd really like to be able to walk down the aisle at my wedding.”

“Already planning the wedding, huh?” He grunted with the strain of digging with no leverage. “Women.”

“Hey, I've got to think about something while I'm lying here like a sardine in a can.”

“Try thinking about moving your legs.”

She tugged her right leg toward her chest. It came free easily, but more debris tumbled down to fill the space. Wincing, she felt some of it collide with her other leg. “Better keep digging unless you want a one-legged bride.”

“I'll take you however I can get you,” he told her between grunts. “But you're not losing a leg on my watch. Your dad would kick my ass. He might refuse to let me marry you.”

“Oh no. Dad has nothing to do with this. Did you know that I told him I'm not taking his money anymore? I'm no longer a rich girl. I'm on my own. I really think I can make the Refuge work and pay myself a salary. It might take me a little while, but I know I can do it.”

“Of course you can. Anyway, I can support us. And if we live at my house, the Sinclair kids can take care of security.” She giggled, thinking that sounded like pure heaven. Fred loosened some of the debris still pinning her left leg. His body felt so good against hers, so alive and warm and
breathing
.

Starting to feel a little faint, she took as deep a breath as she could manage. She wasn't sure what was happening, why she was so dizzy, but she wasn't going to take any chances. “I love you and I want to marry you. Don't forget. Whatever happens, don't forget.”

And then a black river was sweeping her away in its fast, swirling current.

A
fter Rachel fell
silent, the flashlight dropping to an unhelpful angle, Fred worked as quickly as he could. He could feel the shallow rise of her chest against his torso, which was enormously reassuring. He dug away as much of the debris as he could, then wormed his way back toward the opening, enough so he could drag her right leg out of its confinement. He had to tug hard, but finally she was free.

“I'm going to pull you out now,” he whispered. “Hang on, my sweet girl.”

He arranged her arms over her head, took hold of her wrists, and began working his way backward past the inflated, Teflon-coated air bags, pulling her along, slowly but surely. Behind him, at the entrance of this narrow, makeshift tunnel, the rest of the crew stood waiting to grab his feet and pull him free. Before him, gripped tightly in his hands, he held his future. Nothing, not the sprays of dust that kept cascading onto him, not the aftershock that sent his heart into his mouth, not the scrape of exposed nails against his forearms, would stop him from bringing Rachel out safely. Four more feet . . . three more feet . . . two more feet . . . Sweat dripped down his neck from pulling both himself and Rachel. His muscles screamed for relief. His vision wavered, going sparkly around the edges.