Blue Smoke (8 page)

“No, let go. I have to call.”

“You come and sit.” He snatched the water pitcher before she dropped it, shoved it at Mia.

“He's coming to dinner. He might even have left already. Traffic—” She began to shake as Xander pulled her into the prep room.

“Sit down. Do what I tell you. Gina, are you sure? There's no mistake?”

“I heard from Jen. A friend of hers lives in the same building. She—her friend lives right down the hall from Josh. They took her to the hospital.” Gina wiped at tears with the back of her hand. “She's going to be all right, but she had to go to the hospital. Josh . . . It started in his apartment, that's what they said. They couldn't get to him before . . . It was on the news, too. My mother heard it on the news.”

She sat down at Reena's feet, laid her head in Reena's lap. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

“When?” Reena stared straight ahead, saw nothing now. Nothing but gray, like smoke. “When did it happen?”

“I'm not sure. Last night.”

“I need to go home.”

“I'm going to take you in a minute. Here.” Xander handed her a glass of water. “Drink this.”

She took the glass, stared at it. “How? Did they say how it started?”

“They think he must've been smoking in bed, fell asleep.”

“That's not right. He doesn't smoke. That's not right.”

“We'll worry about that later. Gina, call my mother, and can you wait here until Pete gets down? We're going home, Reena. We'll go out the back.”

“He doesn't smoke. Maybe it wasn't him. They made a mistake.”

“We'll find out. We'll call John. When we get home,” Xander said as he drew her to her feet. “We're going to go home now.”

The sunlight and June heat struck her. Somehow she was walking, putting one foot in front of the other, but she couldn't feel her legs.

She heard children playing as she turned the corner, calling out to one another the way children do. And car radios, turned up loud, to stream music out as cars drove by. And her brother's voice murmuring to her.

She'd always remember Xander taking her home, both of them still wearing their aprons. Xander smelling of flour. The sun was bright and hurt her eyes, and his arm stayed strong and firm around her waist. There were some little girls playing jacks on the sidewalk, and another sitting on the white marble steps holding an intense conversation with her Barbie doll.

Opera—
Aida
—poured out of an open window and sounded like tears. She didn't cry. Gina's tears had been so big, so fast, but her own eyes felt painfully dry.

Then there was Mama, rushing out of their house, leaving the door open wide behind her. Mama, running down the sidewalk to her, as she had once when she fell off her bike and sprained her wrist.

And when her mother's arms came around her, tight, tight, tight, it all became real. Standing on the sidewalk, held by her mother and brother, Reena drowned in tears.

S
he was put to bed, and her mother stayed with her through the next storm of tears. And was there when she awoke from a thin and headachy sleep.

“Did John call? Did he come?”

“Not yet.” Bianca stroked Reena's hair. “He said it would take some time.”

“I want to go see. I want to go see for myself.”

“And what did he say about that?” Bianca asked gently.

“That I shouldn't.” Her own voice sounded thin to her ears, as if she'd been sick a very long time. “That they wouldn't let me go inside. But—”

“Be patient,
cara.
I know it's hard. Try to sleep a little more. I'll stay with you.”

“I don't want to sleep. It could be a mistake.”

“We'll wait. It's all we can do. Fran went to church to light a candle and pray so I could stay with you.”

“I can't pray. I can't think of words.”

“It's not the words, you know that.”

Reena angled her head, saw the rosary her mother held. “You always have the words.”

“If you need words, you can say them with me. We'll start a rosary.” She put the dangling crucifix in Reena's hand. Taking a breath, Reena crossed herself with it, then moved up to the first tiny bead.

“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth.”

They prayed the rosary, her mother's quiet voice blending with hers. But she couldn't pray for Josh's soul, or the grace to accept God's will. She prayed it was a mistake. She prayed she'd somehow wake up and find it all a horrible dream.

When Gib came to the bedroom door, he saw his daughter lying with her head in his wife's lap. Bianca still held the rosary, but she was singing softly now—one of the cradle songs she'd sung to all the children when they were fretful at night.

Her eyes met his, and he knew she saw what was in his because grief passed over her face.

“John's here.” He waited, felt the pang when Reena turned her head, looked at him with such naked hope. “Do you want him to come up, baby?”

Reena's lips trembled. “It's true?”

He said nothing, just crossed to her, laid his lips on her head.

“I'll come down. I'll come down now.”

He was waiting in the living room with Xander and Fran. If she'd read sorrow on her father's face, it was grim sympathy she saw in John's. She would stand it, somehow she would stand it, because there was nothing else to be done.

“How?” It came out in a croak, and she shook her head before he could speak. “Thank you. Thank you for doing this, for coming to talk to me. I—”

“Ssh.” He stepped forward to take her hands. “Let's all sit down.”

“I made coffee.” Fran busied herself pouring. “Reena, I got you a Pepsi. I know you don't like coffee, so . . .” She stopped, lifted her hands helplessly. “I didn't know what else to do.”

“You did just fine.” Bianca led Reena to a chair. “Please, sit, John. Reena needs to know whatever you can tell her.”

He pulled his thumb and finger down his nose, sat. “I spoke with the company officer, and the investigator called in, and some of the firefighters, and the police. The fire's being considered accidental, caused by a cigarette.”

“But he didn't smoke. Did you tell them I said he didn't smoke?”

“I went over that with them, Reena. People who don't smoke habitually might have a cigarette from time to time. Maybe someone left a pack at his place.”

“But he
never
smoked. I—I
never
saw him smoke.”

“He was alone in the apartment, with no sign of forced entry. He was . . . It appears he'd been sitting or lying in bed, possibly reading or writing. A dropped cigarette on the mattress. The point of origin and
the progress of the fire is pretty clear and straightforward. Started with a smoldering fire, in the mattress, caught the sheets. He must've woken up, been dazed and confused by the smoke. He fell, honey. Fell or rolled out of bed, taking the sheets with him. It worked as a trailer. The, ah, medical examiner will be running tests, and the fire examiner will take another look as a professional courtesy, but at this point there's no reason to suspect it was anything but a tragic accident.”

“They'll look for drugs. Do a tox screen looking for drugs or alcohol. He didn't do drugs, and he didn't drink all that much. And he didn't smoke. What time did the fire start?”

“Around eleven-thirty last night.”

“I was with him. At his apartment. I was there until nearly ten. I went there with him after the wedding. We—I'm sorry, Daddy—we made love. He asked if I could stay the night because his roommate was out of town, but I thought I should be home. If I'd stayed—”

“You don't know anything would have happened differently if you'd stayed,” John interrupted. “You don't smoke.”

“No.”

“Odds are he knew that, and it's possible he didn't want to smoke around you.”

“Did you examine the scene? Did you—”

“Reena, it's out of my jurisdiction. It's Prince Georges County, and the people in charge are competent. I took a look at the scene pictures, the sketches, the reports—again because they gave me professional courtesy. I'd have come to the same conclusions on this. Honey, you've dealt with arson firsthand, and you know about malicious fire-setting. But you're studying this kind of investigating and you know that sometimes this sort of tragedy is just an accident.”

“Pastorelli—”

“Is in New York. Just to cover bases, I asked the local cops to check. He was in Queens last night. He's got a job as a night janitor, and it looks like it checks out. He couldn't have been in Maryland and gotten back to New York to clock in at twelve-oh-six. Which he did.”

“So it just . . . happened? Why does that make it worse?”

“You're looking for answers, and there aren't any.”

“No.” She stared down at her hands and felt a little piece of her heart break off and shrivel to dust. “Sometimes the answers aren't the ones you're looking for.”

How tough could it be? Reena circled the innocuous-looking trailer, dubbed “the maze.” Maybe it had earned an almost mythical rep within the department, but it didn't strike fear in her heart. Sure, she'd heard the stories, the jokes, the warnings about what a recruit faced inside that box, but really, wasn't it just a matter of staying focused?

She'd handled the training in burn buildings right here at the Academy. She'd dealt with the physical stress. Climbing ladders, rappelling walls—in full gear. She'd worked shifts—mostly ride-alongs, true—but she'd done stints as a nozzleman in two residential fires.

And manning a live hose wasn't for the weak or the faint of heart.

She was a cop now, wasn't she? And proud to wear the uniform. But if she wanted to climb up to arson investigator, to carry a shield for that unit, she wanted to understand fire from the inside out. Until she could do what a firefighter did, until she
had
done it, she wouldn't meet her personal goal.

Not just in the lab, not just simulations. She wouldn't be satisfied with less than hands-on.

She was in good shape, she reminded herself. She'd worked hard to sculpt muscle onto a bony frame. The kind that could carry her in full turnout gear up and down five stories at a jog.

She'd earned this rite of passage, and the respect she'd gain from the men and women on the front line of the battle with fire.

“You don't have to do this, you know.”

She turned, looked at John Minger. “Yeah, I do. For me. And it's more to the point that I can do it.”

“Hell of a way to spend a pretty Saturday morning.”

He had her there. But this was her mission, and in a way she couldn't explain, her reward.

“Sun'll still be shining when I get out. Birds'll still be singing.” But she'd be different. At least she hoped. “I'll be okay, John.”

“You're not, your mother's going to have my head.” He shifted his stance, studied the maze. He was nearing sixty.

The squint lines around his eyes were deep.

He trusted the girl, had a father's pride in her accomplishments and her dogged pursuit of her goals. But with pride came concern.

“I've never seen anyone train as hard as you.”

Surprise flickered over her face, an instant before her smile. “That's nice to hear.”

“You've crammed a lot into these past few years, Reena. The training, the study, the work.” And he wondered if what had lit in her eleven years before had gone active and hot the day the boy she'd cared for died in fire. “You move fast.”

“Any reason I should move slow?”

Hard to explain to a girl of twenty-two how much life there was, not just to live but to savor. “You're young yet, hon.”

“I can handle the maze, John.”

“I'm not just talking about the maze.”

“I know.” She kissed his cheek. “That was a metaphor for the life I'm heading into. It's what I want. What I've always wanted.”

“Well, you've made plenty of sacrifices to get it.”

She didn't think of it that way. Summers spent working, studying, training were investments in the future. Added to it was the rush, the adrenaline spill she experienced when she put on her uniform, or when she heard someone call her Officer Hale. The heart-hammering,
stomach-tightening thrill she knew when she was surrounded by fire, pitched in that battle.

Or the absolute exhaustion that came after the war.

She'd never be Fran, serenely content to run a restaurant, or Bella, juggling salon appointments and luncheons.

“I need this, John.”

“Yeah, I know that, too.” Hands in pockets, he nodded toward the maze. “Okay. It's rugged in there, Reena. You don't want to go in cocky.”

“I won't. I'll just come out cocky. Here comes a couple of smoke eaters.” She lifted a hand in greeting, and regretted she hadn't bothered with makeup.

Steve Rossi, dark and wiry with eyes like a cocker spaniel, was Gina's current hot item. That simmer had been coming to a boil since Reena had introduced them six weeks before. But his companion, the buff, bronzed Adonis in jeans and a BFD T-shirt, had a great many possibilities.

She'd shared a meal with Hugh Fitzgerald—and a kitchen full of other firefighters—at the station. They'd played poker, had a couple of beers. And, after some major league flirting, had done the pizza and a movie routine, followed by several very juicy kisses.

Even so, it seemed to her that more than half the time he thought of her as one of the guys.

Hell, in turnout gear and Fire Line boots,
she
thought of herself as one of the guys.

“Hey,” she said to Steve, “what did you do with my roommate?”

“She's sleeping like a baby. Couldn't budge her to come out for this. You up for it?”

“Ready to go.” She looked at Hugh. “Did you come to watch?”

“Just finished my shift, thought I'd swing by in case you need CPR.”

She laughed, began to don her turnout gear, stepping into the protective pants, adjusting the suspenders. “The two of you got through it, so can I.”

“No doubt about it,” Hugh agreed. “You're as tough as they come.”

Not exactly the sort of description a woman pined for from a potential lover, Reena thought. But if you were going to work in the boys'
club, you often ended up one of the boys. She tied her long, curly hair back into a tail, donned her hood.

No, she'd never have the innate femininity of her sisters, but, by God, she'd have a firefighter's certification before the end of summer.

“Maybe we can catch a meal after you're done,” Hugh suggested.

She fastened her coat, heavy in the heat of August, and lifted her eyes. His were like lake water, she thought, somewhere fascinating between blue and gray. “Sure. You buying?”

“You get through the maze, I spring.” After helping her on with her tank, he gave her shoulder a friendly pat. “You bail, you buy.”

“Deal.” She sent him a smile as sunny as the day, put on her mask and helmet.

“Radio check,” John ordered.

She checked her radio, her gear, gave John a thumbs-up.

“I'll be guiding you through,” he reminded her. “Remember to regulate your breathing. Panic's what gets you in trouble.”

She wouldn't panic. It was a test, just another simulation. She breathed steady and normal, waited for John to click his stopwatch. “Go.”

It was dark as a tomb and hot as the seventh layer of hell. It was fantastic. Thick black smoke smothered the air so she could hear her own breath, wheezing just a little as she drew oxygen from her tank. She oriented herself, put the points of the compass in her head before she felt her way along, hands, feet, instinct. Found a door.

She eased through it. Already, sweat slicked over her face.

There was some sort of blockage. She tried to see it through her gloved fingers, located the low, narrow gap and bellied under.

There could be people trapped inside. That was the purpose of this exercise. She was to search the “building,” find any survivors or victims and work her way out again. Do the job. Save lives. Stay alive.

She heard John's voice, strange and foreign in this black hole, asking for her status.

“Good. Fine. Five-by-five.”

She felt her way up a wall, then was forced to squeeze through a narrow opening. She was losing her bearings, paused to try to orient herself again.

Slow, steady, she ordered herself. Get in, get through, get out.

But there was nothing but black and smoke and unspeakable heat.

She dead-ended, felt the first trickle of panic in her throat, heard it in her quick, gasping breaths.

John's voice told her to keep calm, to keep centered. Watch her breathing.

Then the floor dropped away beneath her.

She grunted on impact, lost her breath, felt her control slip another notch.

She was blind, and for a terrifying moment, she was deaf as the blood buzzed in her ears. Sweat was rivers now, pouring off her face, down her body under the smothering turnout suit. Her gear weighed a thousand pounds, and the mask was gagging her.

Buried alive, she thought. She was buried alive in smoke. Survivors? No one could survive this suffocating black hell.

For a moment, she fought a desperate need to rip away the gear, free herself.

“Reena, check your breathing. I want you to slow your breathing and give me your status.”

I can't.
The words were nearly out. She couldn't do it. How could anyone do it? How could she
think
when she couldn't see or breathe, when every muscle in her body was screaming from the strain? She wanted to claw her way out, through the floor, the walls. Just get out into the light, into the air.

Her throat was on fire.

Had it been like this for Josh? Tears burned her eyes now because she could see him. No compass points in her mind now, but that sweet face, that shy smile, that curtain of hair when he dipped his head. Had he been conscious long enough to be blinded and choked by the smoke before the fire took him? Had he panicked like this, struggling, struggling to find enough air to call for help?

Oh God, had he known what was coming?

That, of course, was one reason she was here, in this hideous hole of heat and misery. To know what it was like. To understand. And to survive it.

She got shakily to her hands and knees. She wasn't dying, she told herself, even if it seemed like she was in her own coffin.

“I'm okay. Hit one of the drop floors. I'm okay. Moving on.”

She pulled herself up, crawled. There was no sense of direction now, just movement. Another door, another dead end.

How could the place be so damn big?

She climbed through a window opening. Every muscle trembled now and poured sweat like water. Time and space clogged. Her eyes strained to see—to see anything. Light, shape, shadow.

Smoke and disorientation, panic and fear. They killed as insidiously as the burn. Fire wasn't just flame, hadn't she learned that? It was smoke and vapor, weakened floors, caving ceilings. It was smothering, blinding panic. It was exhaustion.

She hit another drop floor—the same one?—and was too tired to curse.

She felt another wall. What sadist had designed this thing? she wondered. She pushed her body through yet another opening, found yet another door.

And opening it, stumbled out into the light.

Dragging down her mask, she pulled in air, braced her hands on her knees as her head spun.

“Nice job,” John told her, and she managed to lift her head enough to see his face.

“Nearly broke a few times in there.”

“Nearly doesn't count.”

“Taught me something.”

“What's that, hon?”

She took the bottle of water he offered, drank like a camel. “Any doubts I had about going into investigation instead of smoke eating have been put to rest. That's not how I want to spend my time.”

He helped her off with her tank, patted her on the back. “You did good.”

She drank again, then set the bottle on the ground to once again brace hands on knees. A shadow crossed her, bringing her head up again as Hugh joined her. He mimicked her position, grinned into her face.

She grinned back, and though she heard her own breath huffing, felt the laugh bubble out. One as much from relief as triumph.

He laughed with her, and caught her helmet when she shoved it off.

“She's a bitch, isn't she?”

“A big one.”

“Looks like I'm out the price of the breakfast special at Denny's.”

She laughed again, and let her head dangle between her knees.

T
hen I get inside, into the showers, and see myself in the mirror.” Reena winced, shifted the shopping bag—a score from the personal reward of an afternoon at White Marsh Mall with Gina. “My hair is nothing but frizzy strings smelling of sweat. My face is black from the smoke. And I stink. Seriously stink.”

“He still asked you out,” Gina reminded her.

“More or less.” She paused, distracted by a pair of sexy red shoes in a display window. “Breakfast at Denny's, and we had some laughs. And we're going to go hit some balls tomorrow. It's not that I don't like an hour in the batting cages, Gina, but I wouldn't mind a fancy dinner now and then. The kind where I could justify buying those shoes.”

“Oh, they're fabulous. You have to.”

As was her duty as best friend, Gina dragged Reena into the store.

“They're eighty-seven dollars,” Reena said as she looked at the price on the sole.

“They're shoes. They're sexy,
red
shoes. They have no price.”

“They do on a rookie cop's salary. But I want them. They should be mine.” Reena clutched the shoe to her breast. “No one else should have them. But they're just going to sit in my closet.”

“So?”

“You're right.” She found a clerk, gave him the shoe and her size, then sat with Gina and their bags. “They'll be my reward for surviving the maze. And don't say the outfit I just bought was supposed to be my reward.”

“Why would I?” And the genuine surprise in Gina's voice had Reena grinning. “That was your reward twenty minutes ago. This is your current reward.”

“I love you.”

She cocked her head to look at her friend. Gina had let her hair grow, and it was now a tumbled mass of ebony waves. “You look all dewy.”

“I feel all dewy.” Gina hunched her shoulders up, wrapped herself in a hug. “Steve is all . . . He's tough and strong and sweet and smart. Reena, he's the one.”

“
The
one?”

“And only. I'm going to marry him.”

“You—Gina! When? We've been shopping over an hour, and you just drop this now?”

“He hasn't asked me yet. But I'll work him around to it,” she added with an airy wave. “I think we should get married next May. Or maybe wait until September. I'm thinking maybe September because then I could use all those wonderful fall colors. You'd look great in burnt gold. Or russet.”