On A Night Like This (The Callaways) (6 page)

Chapter Five

Emma felt a familiar rush of adrenaline as she pulled up in front of St. Andrew's Elementary School. She'd been responding to fires for seven years, but she still felt a sense of amazement every time she saw the flames, felt the heat, smelled the smoke. Not that she'd ever share that information with anyone. She'd fought too hard and too long to earn the respect of her fellow firefighters to act like a "girl."

She couldn't afford any show of emotion when she was on a job, and for the most part she managed to contain herself, but some scenes, like this one, felt personal. She'd spent nine years at St. Andrews from Kindergarten to eighth grade. This school had been a second home, and it saddened her to see that the fire had already engulfed at least two classrooms.

The scene was similar to the fire last month at the local high school, another one of her old stomping grounds. Was it the beginning of a pattern? The high school fire had been smaller, and based on the sloppy ignition point of a gas can and some rags, they'd attributed the arson to vandals, most likely teenagers. The same person or persons could have set this fire, but it was too soon to make that conclusion. She needed to get inside, examine the point of origin, but she would have to wait until the incident commander deemed it safe enough to enter.

She put on her gear and walked across the schoolyard. The commander on the scene was in fact her Uncle Tim.

"What have we got?" she asked.

"Still trying to figure that out. Two points of origin and a hell of a lot of accelerant," he said. "The building was empty except for the night janitor who was working in the other wing. He called it in. He's over there." Tim pointed to a middle-aged man standing by one of the trucks. "He doesn't speak much English."

As she followed his gaze, her heart sank. The janitor was not alone. He was talking to Max Harrison, a homicide inspector with the police department. Max had transferred from Los Angeles three months earlier, and they'd butted heads while working together on a case that had included murder and arson. What was he doing here? From what her uncle had said, there was no one inside the building.

Looking away from Harrison, she turned back to her uncle. "Can I go in?"

"Not yet," Tim said sharply. "You wait for my order, Emma. I'm not in the mood for a rescue."

"Would you say that to one of my brothers?" she challenged.

"Hell yes," he said. "But the only one who would probably listen would be Burke."

Tim moved away from her as he radioed orders to the firefighters inside the building. She could tell from the intensity of the flames and the color of the smoke that she wouldn't be getting inside for a while, so she headed across the yard to talk to the witness.

Max's gaze met hers as she crossed the playground, and she felt her stomach clench. Every time she was around him, she felt unsettled, and she didn't like it. Since her last romantic break-up, she'd sworn off men for at least a year. She didn't need the complication of love or lust in her life, and she reluctantly had to admit that Max inspired a fair amount of lust. He was in his mid-thirties with blondish-brown hair and sharp green eyes. There was a confidence to him that reminded her of her brothers and probably at least half the men she worked with, which was why she should not let him rattle her. She was used to cocky, arrogant, know-it-alls, who didn't trust her skills. She'd prove him wrong the way she'd proved the rest of them wrong. And she was not going to sleep with him, she reminded herself.

"Callaway," he said as she joined them.

"Harrison," she returned on a cool note. "What are you doing here? I don't see any bodies."

"Not yet anyway."

"My uncle said the building is clear."

"Your uncle?" he echoed, then shook his head. "How many Callaways are there in the fire department?"

"Enough to make it run extremely well," she retorted.

He gave her a half smile. "That's not what I've heard."

She wanted to ask him what he'd heard, but she knew when she was being baited, and she decided to take the high road. She turned to the witness. "What is your name, sir?"

"Freddie Juarez," the man said.

"You reported the fire?"

"Yes," he replied. "The fire—it is very big."

As he gazed at the fire, he seemed to be almost in a trance, struck dumb by the intensity of the heat.

She wondered if he was more than just a witness. It wouldn't be the first time someone had torched their place of employment and stuck around to watch their handiwork.

"Can you tell me when you first realized there was a fire?" she asked, drawing his attention back to her.

"Smoke. I started coughing. Then I looked out the window and saw the flames. I ran outside and called for help."

"Did you see anyone or hear anything?"

He shook his head. "I was working and listening to music," he said, holding up his earphones.

Before she could ask him another question, a woman and a young girl ran up to them, throwing their arms around Freddie.

She stepped back as the three began speaking to each other in very excited Spanish and turned to Max. "Did he tell you anything else?"

"No."

"Do you have his contact information?"

"I do."

She sighed. "Great. Anything else you care to share? Like why you're here?"

"One of the teachers was reported missing last night by her roommate. There was a trace amount of blood found in the garage of their apartment building. We didn't have enough to launch an investigation, but when I heard the call come in about the fire, I wondered if there was a connection."

"Who's the teacher?"

"Margaret Flannery."

"Sister Margaret?" she asked in surprise. "She's missing?"

"Sounds like you know her."

"I went to school here. Sister Margaret was my fourth grade teacher, and she has taught at St. Andrews for forty years. I can't believe someone would try to hurt her. She's a sweet, wonderful person. What else can you tell me about her disappearance?"

"Nothing. It's an ongoing investigation."

"Come on, Harrison. We're working together, aren't we?"

He gave her a short smile. "Are we? I'll remind you of that when I ask you for information on the fire scene."

"I might be able to help you," she said, ignoring his comment. They could both be territorial when it came to information.

"All right. What else can you tell me about Sister Margaret?"

"Well, she's a popular teacher. She runs all the carnivals. She's a huge part of the school and church community."

"What can you tell me about her roommate, Ruth Harbough?"

"She's the school secretary," Emma replied. "The two women have been friends for years."

"Just friends?" he queried.

She frowned. "I don't know. I never thought about it. Does it matter?"

"Just asking questions."

She glanced around the schoolyard. Half the neighborhood was hovering on the street watching the flames. Arsonists loved to watch their handiwork. Was the perpetrator somewhere in the group?

Harrison followed her gaze. "Quite a crowd," he muttered.

"Yeah." She turned her head as her uncle called her name. "Time to get inside before all the evidence is destroyed."

"The fire is still strong," Max said with a frown.

"It's under control," she said, walking across the playground.

He followed. "You're not short on guts, are you?"

"It's part of the job. Fear only gets in the way."

"Sometimes fear can save your life."

"Or kill you," she returned. "Focus and fear don't go well together. I learned that a very long time ago."

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing important."

"I doubt that."

She shrugged. "Maybe someday I'll tell you."

He smiled. "I'm going to hold you to that."

His lazy grin made her skin tingle. She forced herself to look away. Max Harrison might be hot, but as far as she was concerned, he was off limits. They had to work together, and she did not mix business with personal relationships.

As she headed toward the burning building, she tried to clear her mind of all distractions. Even though the fire was under control, she would never make the mistake of underestimating its power to leap back to life.

* * *

The monster grew larger and larger, taking up every inch of the sky, a raging creature of heat devouring everything in its path. Tall trees crackled with flames, then crashed to the ground one after the other, the smoke so thick it was impossible to see two feet ahead.

A terrible fear ran through Aiden as the firestorm enveloped him. It was too big, too fast, too much. He'd waited too long to retreat.

"Kyle," he shouted, seeing the hazy figure in front of him. "Come back!"

The fury of the fire threw his words back in his face.

What the hell was Kyle thinking? Why was he going up instead of down? Why wasn't he retreating? Had Kyle become disoriented by the smoke? It had to be the explanation. If he could just get to him, he could turn him around.

But the ravaging fire had other plans. He jumped back as a flaming branch landed just inches from his body.

Within seconds the forest around him was blazing with a new line of fire. In the light he could see Kyle twenty yards ahead. Kyle had stopped, pulled off his helmet, his head turned toward the sky as the fire grabbed hold of the sleeves of his coat.

"Kyle," he screamed again.

He ran toward his friend, jumping over rocks, dodging flames, moving so fast he was almost flying, and then he was completely airborne.

He didn't know how long he flew before he hit the ground and then tumbled down the mountain.

His last thought was that he was going to die. Mother Nature had finally beaten him.

But when he woke up in the hospital hours later, he was alive, and Kyle was dead.

Aiden's eyes flew open. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding, his body dripping with sweat, the nightmare in his head so real he could smell the smoke and feel the heat. Drawing in gulps of air, he tried to calm his racing heart. It was just another one of the bad dreams that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

In this dream Kyle hadn't looked at him with accusation, hadn't asked him why the hell he hadn't called for retreat when the winds changed. Not that Kyle had said that to him on that terrible day. At least, Aiden didn't think so, but his memory had been fragmented by the concussion he'd suffered during his fall. The fall had actually saved his life, literally throwing him out of the path of the fire.

Afterwards, he'd tried to put together the events of that day from other's accounts, but there were still gaps and questions that continued to elude him. Had Kyle really taken off his helmet? It seemed unthinkable. Kyle was a trained firefighter, one of the best in the business. He knew what to do and what not to do.

Maybe his dreams were distorted. His memories didn't jive with the accounts given by the rest of the team, some of whom said they'd seen him and Kyle together and didn't understand how they'd gotten separated. Hawkins' cousin had told the investigators that Aiden was too cocky, too reckless, too determined not to let the fire win that he'd lost his ability to reason.

He'd heard those criticisms before. He did push his team and sometimes the limits, but his gut told him that something else had happened that day. He just didn't know what. But he did know that Kyle had been distracted days before the accident, but he hadn't shared what was on his mind, and Aiden hadn't pushed. He should have pushed. But since Kyle had gotten married and become a father, they weren't as close as they used to be.

If only the fire had waited another day, Kyle would have been in San Francisco with his wife and baby son. They'd recently bought a condo in the city after several years of living near the base in Redding. With the new baby, Vicky had wanted to be closer to her family. Kyle hadn't appeared to be as happy with the decision, but he'd gone along with it, saying that marriage was about compromise, and it was something he had to do.

Aiden sighed and rolled over on his side, wondering if he was just rationalizing what had happened. Was his subconscious trying to find a way to shift the blame off his shoulders to someone else – maybe even to Kyle? Hell of a friend that made him, trying to blame the victim instead of himself. He'd been in charge of the crew. It was his responsibility to bring everyone home. He'd failed.

Knowing he wouldn't sleep anymore, he slid out of bed and got to his feet. A glance at the clock told him it was two o'clock in the morning. He had a long time to go before dawn. He moved to the window. His room over the garage looked into the Davidsons' backyard. The familiar sight brought back more memories, but these were much sweeter.

He'd stood at this window many times in his teen years, often watching Sara trying to turn her backyard into a wonderland of flowers and waterfalls. Her mother used to help her in the garden, and the sounds of their laughter had often drifted through his open window.

Sara had been happy in her garden, far happier than in the house where her father ruled with an iron fist. He was a little surprised that she'd come home to visit her father. They'd never had much of a relationship, and as far as he knew she hadn't been home to visit in at least eight or nine years. It had been easier for him when she moved away. She was a distraction he didn't need.

A light suddenly came on in the yard. It appeared to be coming from the back patio. Why would Sara be wandering around outside at two o'clock in the morning?

Without thinking, he threw on a shirt, jeans and shoes and walked down the stairs. There was a gate right next to the driveway.

When he entered the backyard, he saw her sitting in a chair at the patio table, a bottle of wine by her elbow. Sara wore black leggings and a t-shirt with a big, thick sweater. Obviously, she couldn't sleep either. But that didn't mean he needed to talk to her.