Golden Malicious (Apple Orchard Mystery) (24 page)

“I think so.”

“Good luck, Meg. Tell Seth to get his sorry ass out of there.”

“Will do.” Meg turned back to Seth. “Art says to get your sorry ass moving.”

“I’m on it.” He stood up and wavered again. He was in no shape to trek through a burning forest—but as she’d told Art, they had no choice.

“Then drink up, wet down, and let’s get moving,” Meg said firmly.

Once they were all thoroughly wet, and carrying plastic bottles of water, Meg helped Seth to the door. Max kept winding anxiously around their legs, which didn’t help Seth’s stability.

When Gabe pulled open the door, however, Meg knew they were in trouble. The air was brownish, and there were now a number of little flickering patches of fire. Max cringed, torn between sticking with Seth and hiding from the strangely altered world outside. “Come on,” Gabe said, leading the way. Meg and Seth followed more slowly, and Max chose to stay with him.

It was beginning to get dark out, the evening dimness compounded by the smoke. At least the path was clear before them. Gabe was standing some ten feet away, bouncing impatiently. “Move! This brush is going to go up fast, any minute now,” he said.

Meg draped Seth’s arm over her shoulders and wrapped her own around his waist. “We can do this,” she said. To him or to herself?

He looked down at her and nodded. “Meg . . . you can go ahead.”

“You idiot, this is not the time to get all noble on me. Let’s just go!”

Their faces shielded by damp cloths—which didn’t stay damp very long—they began a hellish march back toward the road. All Meg could think was that they were too slow. She kept her mind busy by trying to calculate rates and distances. Say it was a mile. Say a normal walking pace was maybe four miles an hour. Their pace was nowhere near normal—more like two miles an hour. At that rate it would take half an hour to reach the road and the cars. Was the fire going to wait that long?

It looked like the answer was no. Meg could hear the fire now. She had no way of gauging how far they’d come, but evidently it wasn’t far enough. Gabe stopped and took a critical look at them, then came back and said, “Look, let me take him—we’ll move faster.”

Meg hesitated, but Gabe had to be stronger than she was. She unloaded Seth, then looked around for Max—Seth would never forgive her if she lost him. Unless, of course, they all ended up dead, but then it wouldn’t matter, would it? She swallowed a sob. Luckily Max was still sticking close to Seth, so she grabbed his collar and reattached the leash she had stuffed in her pocket. Gabe had already moved down the lane with Seth, and she hurried to catch up. At least now they were moving faster.

Behind her she heard what sounded like an explosion. “What was that?” she gasped.

“Probably a compressor on one of the fridges. Doesn’t matter,” Gabe replied. “Keep moving.”

Max was getting increasingly anxious, tugging on his lead, and Meg had trouble keeping her grip on him. Would this blasted forest never end? It was definitely getting dark now, although the darkness was punctuated with glowing orange patches of moving flame. There was a stir of wind, bringing hotter air with it, and it was getting harder to breathe.

Gabe stopped, and Meg nearly bumped into him. “We should drink now, right?”

“Yes, and pour the rest over us,” Meg said, coughing. “If we don’t get out soon, it won’t matter that the water’s gone.” Gabe parked Seth against a tree and opened up his own water bottle and drank half of it down, then poured the rest over his head. Meg followed suit.

Seth’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was labored—but then, so was hers. She opened his bottle and shoved it at him. “Drink. Now.”

He opened his eyes, then raised a shaky hand to take it. “Meg . . .”

“Don’t you dare start again. We’re going to get out of here. Drink.”

He gave her what might be a faint smile and did. She opened her bottle and drenched him with what was left. Not enough.

“Homestretch,” Meg said.

Gabe hauled Seth upright again. “Not far now. Looks like there’s a welcoming committee.”

Meg looked down the lane. At first she couldn’t see anything different, and then she realized that some of the flickering lights were not the orange of fire, but rather red and blue—police, emergency services, it didn’t matter. It was hard to tell how far away they were, but they were definitely there. Art had come through for them. “Let’s go.”

The next stretch seemed to take forever. Meg kept glancing between the flashing lights—they were getting closer, weren’t they?—and Gabe and Seth. She stumbled over tree roots and her own feet and tried to keep Max from toppling her. Finally, she saw a break in the tree line ahead, and the road beyond, thick with emergency vehicles. She didn’t see her car or Seth’s van, but maybe some intelligent officer had moved them out of harm’s way. All they needed now was to lose their vehicles to a fire—the insurance costs would go through the roof.

Irrelevant, Meg!
Her mind was drifting, until Gabe stopped abruptly and took in the gathered forces at the end of the lane. He turned back to her and thrust Seth into her arms. “You take him the rest of the way.”

“But, wait . . .” she protested, trying to keep Seth standing—he wasn’t helping much, and when had he gotten so heavy?

Gabe faced her squarely. “I can’t go through all that. I’m sorry.” He turned away and headed back the way they had come, leaving Meg with mouth agape.

Seth sagged against her. She hitched his arm over her shoulder again. “Come on, we’re almost there. If you give up now, I’ll never forgive you.”

If he heard, he didn’t say anything, but somehow she and Seth and Max managed to bumble their way forward until they could make out figures moving through the smoke-haze. Art Preston emerged from the murk.

“Jeez, you two took your sweet time. Chapin, you do the damndest things to get attention.” Art’s words were humorous, but he looked worried. “I’ll take him to the EMTs,” he said to Meg.

Relieved of the burden of Seth, Meg felt suddenly lighter, and she had to catch herself from falling when Max pulled her forward, eager to stay with Seth. She managed to hang on to him and followed Art to the road, where the Granford ambulance was waiting, along with a couple of police cruisers and two fire trucks.

Art handed Seth off to a pair of EMTs, and Meg followed. “What’s the story?” one of them asked.

“Heatstroke. I got him cooled down and got some water into him, but then we had to walk out.”

They went into what looked like a well-rehearsed dance, checking vital signs. Seth was conscious, but he sat, dazed, on the back of the ambulance. “Seth Chapin, right?” one of the EMTs asked. Seth nodded. “We need to get you to the hospital, get your electrolytes stabilized.”

“No,” he said. “No hospital.” Seth was looking at Meg.

“Seth, don’t be stupid. Let them do whatever it takes,” Meg said.

“I’m okay, Meg, really. I’d go if I wasn’t.”

Meg looked at the med techs, then took one aside. “Can he do this?”

The tech shrugged. “Probably. Keep pushing liquids and keep him down for a while. Can you handle that?”

After what she had just done, that would be a walk in the park. “No problem.”

When she got back to the ambulance, the other tech had already set up an IV drip in Seth’s arm, with a bag of clear fluid suspended above him. She sat down next to him and took his other hand.

Art materialized in front of them. “You two had us worried. Seth, what the hell happened?”

Meg spoke before Seth could answer. “Art, can it wait until morning? Right now I know I’m exhausted, and I can’t imagine how Seth must be feeling. We’ll both be a lot more coherent tomorrow. Come by for breakfast—say, eight.”
Why didn’t you mention Gabe, Meg? Do you want him to escape?
She was surprised to realize that maybe she did. She wasn’t about to judge what had happened with David Clapp, but she knew that without Gabe’s help, she and Seth would probably be dead. For that she was willing to give him a chance, however slim.

Art gave her a searching look, but in the end he nodded. “Fair enough. It’s not like I don’t have enough to keep me busy.”

“How’re the fires going?”

“Most have burned out—this is the last patch. No homes damaged, thank God. It’s been a hell of a day.”

“Tell me about it,” Meg said.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then. Take care of him, will you?” Art nodded toward Seth.

“I plan to,” Meg said, and watched Art walk away.

Seth spoke suddenly in her ear. “You didn’t tell him about . . .”

She turned to him and said in a low voice, so the EMTs couldn’t hear, “Gabe? I wanted time to think about what happened here. Gabe told me some things . . . I don’t think he was a bad person, but he got caught up . . . I just want to get my head clear before I tell the authorities anything. And talk to you about it, and now is definitely not the time for that.”

“What, I’m not my usual levelheaded self?” he said with a more authentic smile.

“Not exactly. But you’re here.” Meg couldn’t think of anything more to say, so she just leaned against him, and Max settled himself at their feet. They sat like that for a while, until the fire crew declared the last fire under control and all but one of the trucks departed.

Art came back one last time. “We shifted your vehicles in case the fire came this way—they’re down the road a bit. Meg, why don’t you take Seth’s van, and I’ll get someone to bring your car back?”

“Thanks, Art. For everything.”

“Just doin’ my job, ma’am. Although I may have to add a few things to that official job description. See you in the morning.”

The EMTs took a whole new batch of readings, then unhooked Seth from his IV. One of them said, “I won’t say I approve, but I think you’re good to go. Here—take a couple of these, and make sure you drink them tonight.”

Meg looked at the bottles that he held out. “Gatorade?”

“It’s got electrolytes—it’ll do the job.”

Seth stood up, and he seemed steadier than before, Meg noted. “Thanks, guys. Good job.”

“You still have your keys?” Meg asked. “No way I’m letting you drive.”

“No argument.” He fished a key ring out of his pocket and handed it to her.

They found their vehicles down the road, as promised. Meg let Max in the back of the van, and Seth climbed into the passenger seat, sat back, and closed his eyes. Meg started the van and drove cautiously home, fighting a sense of unreality. What had happened today? She’d told Art that she didn’t want to talk about it until she’d had time to think—but there was a lot to think about, and it was going to take time to process. Tomorrow morning might not be time enough, but they had to start somewhere. And she had a feeling that she needed to include Christopher in the conversation.

But there were still things to do. She pulled into her driveway and parked the van as close as she could get to the kitchen door. She nudged Seth. “We’re home.” Even as she said it, she realized she had never stopped to question what he had meant by “home.” She’d come straight here.

He opened his eyes and smiled. “I know.” She climbed down and came around to help him out on his side, but he seemed steady enough and managed the steps into the house. Bree was sitting at the kitchen table. She took one look at them and said, “What the hell?”

“I’ll explain, but first could you get Max out of the van? Oh, and there’re some bottles of Gatorade on the floor in front—bring those in, too, please.”

“Right,” she said dubiously, but she went out the back door.

Meg stood in the midst of her brightly lit kitchen, leaning against Seth. Or was he leaning against her? It didn’t matter much. They were alive, and they were safe. That was what mattered. It took her half a minute to say, “You need to lie down and drink that stuff.”

He nodded. “Can I get a shower in?”

“I think that would be okay. But I’d better be there in case you feel weak. Wouldn’t want you to pass out and fall down now, would we?” They leaned together for a few more seconds. “Are you hungry?”

“Nope.”

Bree returned, Max in tow. “I let him do his business. You said something about an explanation?”

“I think that’s going to have to wait until tomorrow morning. By the way, Art’s coming by for breakfast. Hand me those bottles, will you?”

With a puzzled expression, Bree handed over the bottles.

“We’re going upstairs. See you in the morning.”

The stairs seemed endless, and Meg was beginning to feel each and every muscle. And here she’d been thinking she was in pretty good shape. She guided Seth toward the bathroom and sat him down on the commode. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror she nearly burst out laughing: Bree had shown admirable restraint, because between the sweat, soot, and, yes, even a few small burns from cinders that she hadn’t even felt, Meg looked like she’d been through a war. Seth looked worse.

She handed him a bottle. “Here, drink this. Then shower.” When Seth had drained the bottle, she had to help him out of his boots and unbutton his shirt, and somehow together they managed to get him undressed and under the tepid shower. She leaned against the wall, her eyes shut.

“God, that felt good,” he said afterward, finally drying himself off.

Meg laid her hands on his chest—his temperature felt almost normal. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, and she found she was fighting off sobs.

“Are you crying?” Seth said into her hair.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. Oh, Seth, I was so scared, and I couldn’t even admit it to myself, because then I couldn’t have done anything at all, and I knew I had to do something . . .” She was babbling against his wet neck.