Pyro (6 page)

“I think Mrs. Campbell's passed out,” someone whispers.

Mr. Campbell is sobbing—and pointing at the house. “What is it?” I hear a paramedic ask him.

“It's Gabrielle. My granddaughter. She's still inside!”

For a moment, it's as if the crowd is one person gasping for air.

The other firefighters are dousing both houses with water. But the flames that were licking at the side of the Campbells' house are making their way up to the second floor, reaching up and curling like claws around the red brick.

“I'm going in to get Gabrielle!” a voice calls through the smoke.

Mr. Campbell is sobbing and shaking his head. He's saying he won't leave until Gabrielle is safe.

“Where is Gabrielle? What room is she in?” someone shouts.

Mr. Campbell has trouble finding his words.

“I don't know what he's saying!” one of the paramedics calls out.

Though he's strapped to the stretcher, Mr. Campbell manages to wave his hands. “We need to give him a sedative,” I hear the paramedic say. His voice sounds panicky. Paramedics aren't supposed to panic, are they?

“Not yet.” The other paramedic sounds calmer. “Not until we know where Gabrielle is.”

The second paramedic leans over the stretcher. He look right into Mr. Campbell's eyes and speaks to him in a loud, clear voice. “Where's Gabrielle?”

Mr. Campbell coughs. His whole face has turned gray. “She's in the den,” he sputters. “Near the kitchen.”

The second paramedic is yelling now, repeating Mr. Campbell's words. And his words are getting repeated throughout the crowd. “Tell Terry!” I hear someone shout. “Gabrielle's in the den. Near the kitchen!”

One paramedic gets into the driver's seat. The other hops inside and slams the ambulance doors shut. The ambulance disappears into the night. More sirens. Another ambulance must be coming for Gabrielle. If the firefighters can get her out in time.

Those of us waiting on the curb huddle close. A woman drops to her knees and prays out loud for Gabrielle. “Please, Lord…”

“Do you suppose it was an electrical fire?” someone whispers.

“No way,” I say. “Can't you smell the gasoline?”

“Who would do something like this?” someone else asks.

After that, no one speaks—or even whispers. We're all watching the Campbells' house. Is that Terry's shadow moving around inside?

A car pulls up, screeching its brakes, and then there is this awful desperate crying. Someone says it's the Campbells' daughter, Gabrielle's mom. She wants to go inside the burning house, but people at the front of the crowd hold her back.

This is more emotion than I can take. I want to get away, but I also want to know what's going to happen. I've never been religious, but I'm praying in my head.
Please, Lord, let Gabrielle
be okay.

There's more crying and shouting as Terry stumbles out of the house, Gabrielle in his arms.

“I've got her!” From behind the oxygen mask, Terry's voice comes out like a croak.

Gabrielle lets out a wail, and the whole crowd cheers.

Gabrielle's mom cradles her baby. There's another paramedic on the scene. “We need to check the baby's vital signs,” this paramedic says, taking Gabrielle from her mom. People are hugging Terry and thanking him for being so brave.

“If the Montreal Fire Department doesn't give him a job now, they never will,” someone says.

The damage to the Campbells' house is serious, but no one was hurt, and the flames are finally dying down.

When Dad shows up, I slip to the back of the crowd. One good thing about being short is that it's easy to get lost in a crowd. I don't want Dad to spot me here in the middle of the night. I hear the chief of the volunteer squad filling Dad in on what's happened.

“Let me see Terry,” Dad says.

I move in a little closer so I can see what happens next. Dad hugs Terry hard. “Thanks for what you've done for our community.”

Everyone claps.

Everyone, that is, except me.

Chapter Fourteen

When I can't sleep, I google
fire
. I read about the history of fire, fire-starting tricks, fire in mythology. Tonight I'm looking at firefighting sites, and my eyes land on a word I've never seen before.
Backfire
.

It's a technique used to escape from a wildfire. Sometimes it's called back-burn or escape fire. The technique was used in 1949 at the Mann Gulch fire in Montana's Helena National Forest. Thirteen people died at Mann Gulch, including twelve guys who were parachuted onto the scene.

This guy named Wagner Dodge figured the only way to protect himself and his crew from the fire was by lighting another fire. So he burned an area of grass and ordered his crew to lie down on the scorched earth. Some of them thought Dodge had lost his mind. But when the bigger fire reached them, Dodge and his men were safe.

I'm thinking about backfires and Montana when I hear Dad come home. He's on the phone, I'm guessing with the police chief. “I'm glad you had him under surveillance. But if Bob didn't set that fire tonight, who did?”

In the morning, the smell of coffee wakes me. There are voices in the kitchen. Could Mom be back? No, the voice that isn't Dad's belongs to a man.

Who would drop by so early in the morning? Maybe the police chief.

It's 8:30, and I've got my first weeding job at nine. I throw on some clothes, make a quick bathroom stop and head to the kitchen.

Someone's in my chair. I step back when I see who it is. What is Terry doing here?

Dad and Terry must be having an intense conversation, because neither of them notices I'm standing three feet away. Dad's rubbing his temples.

“Look, Mayor Westcott,” Terry says, “it wasn't easy for me to come here this morning, but I knew I had to. He's your kid.”

“What's going on?” I ask.

Terry gets up from my chair when he sees me. “I'd better get going,” he says, without looking at me. He turns back to my dad. “So you're okay to write that letter of recommendation for me, Mr. Mayor? I'm sure it'd help a lot. I'd do anything to get a job with the Montreal Fire Department.”

“I'd be glad to write that letter, Terry.” Only Dad doesn't sound too glad. He doesn't bother getting up to let Terry out. He just takes a long sip of coffee. His eyes look tired. “It looks like we have ourselves a problem, Franklin. A big problem.”

My first thought is that Dad is finally going to talk to me about Mom's new living arrangements.

But that isn't it at all.

“Terry says he saw you at the fire last night and he reminded me that you were also at the grass fire at the old golf course. In fact”—Dad is clutching his coffee mug so tight, his knuckles are white—“he says you never miss a fire. What do you have to say for yourself, Franklin?”

It's as if my heart is beating in my throat. “I didn't start that fire last night, Dad.”

Dad puts down his mug. “How do I know you're not lying, Franklin?”

“You don't.”

I take a piece of bread out of the bag and pop it in the toaster. I hope Dad can't see I'm shaking.

Then, without even saying where he's going, Dad walks out of the kitchen and leaves the house. Could he be moving out too?

I hear the garage door open and the sounds of Dad poking around inside.

“Franklin!” Dad shouts so loud, I'm sure the whole street can hear him. “Where the hell is that canister I use for gasoline?”

Shoot! I must've left the canister at the golf course. What do I tell Dad? I don't want to lie, but I can't tell the truth either. So I do the only thing I can think of—I slip out the front door and take off on my skateboard.

I don't plan to go to Tracy's. I just end up there. Tracy's mom is outside, watering the lawn. She has the same hair color as Tracy.

“Are you a friend of Tracy's?” she asks when I skateboard up.

I shake her hand because I know adults like it when you do that. “Yeah, we're friends. From Sunday school. I'm Franklin.”

“Lovely to meet you. Tracy told us all about you. She said you walked her home last night. Thanks for doing that, Franklin. You sound like a real gentleman.”

Tracy must hear us, because she pops her head out of an upstairs window and says, “Don't you have gardens to weed?”

“Yeah. But I need to talk to you. If you don't mind.”

“How 'bout if I meet you at your first garden—in about fifteen minutes?”

I agree and give Tracy directions.

I'm weeding when she shows up. This late in the summer, there aren't too many dandelions left. I'm mostly tearing out hunks of crabgrass. Tracy wants to help.

“So what'd you want to talk to me about?” she asks as she pulls up a handful of crabgrass.

I don't look at her when I answer. “My dad thinks I started that fire last night. He thinks I started all the fires.”

Tracy puts her hand on my shoulder. “Did you?”

“I sometimes start fires,” I tell her. “But I'm not the pyro.” It's the closest I've come to telling anyone the truth. It feels better than I expected. “I'd never light a fire that might hurt someone.”

“There's always a chance someone might get hurt.” Tracy's voice is stern.

I put down my trowel and look at Tracy. She's right. Someone might get hurt. I know how it works for me. Every fire has to be bigger than the last one. What if it's the same for the pyro? “I need to catch the pyro,” I tell her.

“How're you going to do that?”

“I need to think like a pyro.”

Tracy cracks a smile. “That shouldn't be hard for you.”

Chapter Fifteen

Dad comes by at lunch. He brings me apple juice and a tuna sandwich. I don't tell him there's too much mayo in the tuna.

“I looked on your laptop, Franklin.”

He doesn't seem to feel too guilty about it. “You spend an awful lot of time reading about fires. I spoke to your mom. We want you to see someone so you can talk about your feelings.”

“What if I don't want to?”

“You have to, Franklin. Like it or not.”

I spend the afternoon weeding and thinking. If Bob didn't light last night's fire, and I didn't light it, who did? And why would someone light a fire that could hurt people?

That's when the lightbulb goes off.

Terry.

Didn't he say he'd do anything to work for the Montreal Fire Department?

When I get home, I call Tracy and ask her to meet me at 9:00
PM
.

Terry lives in a brick house on Wolseley Avenue. A bumper sticker on a garage window reads
Firefighters can take
the heat.

The garage is locked. “Too bad!” I whisper. “I wanted to see what Terry's got in there.”

“Maybe I can help,” Tracy says, grinning as she pulls out a bobby pin from behind one ear.

“You know how to pick locks?”

“Picking locks is chapter four in the
Ukulele for Beginners
handbook,” Tracy says.

“You're kidding, right?”

“Right,” says Tracy. “We've got an old garage too. Mom lost the key, so we use a bobby pin instead. Here, let me show you.”

Tracy is about to insert her bobby pin in the lock when we hear a vehicle pull up. I grab Tracy, and we duck behind some bushes.

We try to not even breathe as Terry pulls in. He gets out of his truck to unlock the garage door. Then he turns on a light. From our hiding spot, we can see the inside of the garage. There's shelving along the walls. The shelving on the far wall holds three large cans of gasoline, lined up like soldiers.

Terry looks around to make sure no one's watching. Then he grabs two cans of gasoline and stashes them in the back of the truck. After that, he goes into his house.

I gesture for Tracy to follow me. I can tell she understands what we're going to do next.

I keep an eye on Terry's front door as I help Tracy into the back of the truck. Then I hop up too. There are plenty of blankets to hide under. We get as far away as possible from the cans of gas.

“I don't get it,” Tracy whispers. “Why would a firefighter start fires?”

“If he's a big enough hero, he'll have a better chance of getting hired by the city.”

“That's sick.”

There's no telling how long Terry will be inside. I'm cramping up, and the blanket feels scratchy. There is one benefit to this. I'm so close to Tracy, I can hear her breathe.

Neither of us says anything for a bit, then Tracy breaks the silence. “Why do
you
start fires, Franklin?”

“It helps when I'm”—I stop to find the right word—“anxious.”

“You're going to have to stop.”

“I know.”

We hear Terry slam his front door shut. He whistles as he gets into the truck and starts the engine.

I try to make out where we're going from the way the truck swerves.

Are we on Westminster Avenue?

When I peek out from under the blanket, I see we're right in front of James's place. Correction. James and Mom's place.

Why would Terry start a fire here?

Oh no! I think as the answer comes to me. Terry must have figured out how I feel about James and Mom. He's going to start a fire at their apartment and pin it on me. No wonder he's whistling.

Tracy and I huddle close. I think we're both wondering what Terry will do if he finds us. But he doesn't. He grabs a can of gasoline.

I don't have to peek out from under the blanket to know what he's doing now. He's dousing the ground with gasoline.

“Let's go!” I tell Tracy. We scramble to the ground, trying not to make too much noise. We stay behind the truck so that if Terry looks around, he won't see us.

If we peer out from behind the truck, we can see him. Tracy takes out her cell phone to call 9-1-1. Her hands are shaking.