Steve Gannon - Kane

My hands still cuffed behind me, I was unable to regain my feet. Instead I rolled, trying to take Carns’s legs out from under him. At the edge of my vision I saw Travis rushing in, wielding his length of pipe. Before either of us could reach Carns, Catheryn fired a third shot. She missed.

With a scream of rage Carns fell back, teeth bared, blood from his head wound streaming down his face. Catlike, he sidestepped a blow from Travis’s pipe. His movements a blur, he crabbed left to put Travis between himself and Catheryn’s revolver. For an instant he glanced at Allison, who was struggling to her feet behind me. Then his eyes settled on the other gun in the room.

Again in a blinding rush almost to fast to register, Carns feinted a knife thrust at Travis and went for the pistol still taped to my head.

I tried to scramble away from his reach. He was too fast. I’ve never seen anyone move that quickly. An instant before his hand closed on the automatic attached to my head, Catheryn’s next shot caught him in the center of his chest.

Carns reeled, a gout of blood erupting from his mouth, painting his lips with a froth of red. Blinking like a lizard, he stood in shock, watching as his life began running out onto the carpet. He glared at Catheryn, his expression turning from hatred, to surprise, and finally disbelief. Catheryn held his gaze for a long moment. Then again the gun spoke in her hands.

She pulled the trigger until the hammer clicked on empty.

Four Los Angeles County Fire Department stations responded to the alarm. Two units from Carbon Canyon got there first. Four minutes later Engine and Squad 88 arrived from the Malibu Colony station, followed by Engine 69 from Topanga and Truck 125 from Calabasas. By then flames had completely engulfed our tinder-dry home.

And Carns’s body with it.

Favoring my injured leg, I sat on the hillside across the highway, watching as firemen fought to knock down the blaze. Illuminated by the flames, Catheryn stood nearby, our children gathered somberly around her. I regarded them without speaking, heartsick at the loss I saw in their faces. Though we were all grateful to be alive, nearly everything we treasured-photos, mementos, and a hundred other irreplaceable possessions that had chronicled the course of our life together-all of it was gone. And our home. From time to time we had all joked about our ramshackle house, but we had all loved it as well, for despite its flaws, it had been the linchpin of our lives, a communal vessel that had carried us together through the years.

Finally I turned back to the groaning, shifting inferno that had once been our home, watching as it slowly settled to a pile of glowing embers. And as sparks from the pyre spiraled into the night, I gazed once more at Catheryn, realizing with heartrending certainty that over the past days and weeks and months, I had lost something far more precious than my home.

A tropical low that had been threatening for days finally moved onshore the following morning. The storm started as a light drizzle just before dawn, changing to a steady, soaking rain by the time the first floats in the Tournament of Roses Parade headed down Colorado Boulevard. The weather map showed a second storm gathering over the Pacific, and a third behind that, portending another soggy January for the Southland.

After being released from the hospital, I drove north later that afternoon, morosely thinking that although the waterlogged cliffs skirting the coastline had yet to resume their inexorable slide to the sea, it was merely a matter of time. Mud cleared from culverts and drains lay piled on the shoulders, sandbags littered low-lying areas, and plywood barriers covered windows, doors, and garages. Business as usual in Malibu.

Shortly after three PM, I arrived at what was left of our house. Stopping across the highway, I surveyed the stark remnants, wondering why I’d come. Catheryn’s burned-out Volvo still sat out front, Travis’s charred Bronco a dozen feet behind. For some reason a portion of one wall of the house had come through the blaze still standing. Otherwise, nothing remained. With the familiar structure now gone, I could see to the ocean beyond, its slate-gray waters whipped by quartering winds.

After waiting for a break in traffic, I made a U-turn, pulling in behind an unfamiliar car parked in back of the Bronco. I cut my engine and sat for several seconds, trying to accept the reality of what had happened. I hadn’t slept, my left knee had started to throb again, and the rest of me felt like I’d been in a train wreck. With a sigh, I reached into the backseat and retrieved the crutches they had given me at the hospital. Part of me didn’t want to proceed; another part needed to.

Wishing I had brought a raincoat, or at least a hat, I climbed from the car and hobbled through the downpour to the edge of the highway embankment. Fifteen feet below, in a fire-ravaged chaos of char and ash, lay the remnants of our home.

Rain beating at my head and shoulders, I forced myself to look.

Catheryn was there.

She held an umbrella above her head, shielding herself from the worst of the storm. The canopy blocked her view of the street above. I stood unnoticed, watching as she sifted through the rubble. Piled like flotsam at the base of the embankment were several blackened items she had already rescued, including an ornate ceramic platter that her mother had given us on our wedding day, two china cups, and Tom’s division-championship football trophy-its plastic base now gone, the brass figure partially melted. Next to the trophy lay a piece of Nate’s skateboard and one of the champagne glasses Catheryn had brought back from Venice. Leaning down, she plucked another vestige from the ash, a large silver serving spoon that had been part of our family dinners for as long as I could remember.

She added it to the pile.

Soaking wet by then, I watched as Catheryn moved to an area that had once been the music room. She knelt beside the skeletal frame of Travis’s piano, its wire-strung bass and treble bridges barely visible beneath a pile of half-burned joists. Head down, she groped in the cinders. Then she stood, holding something she had pulled from the ashes.

A blast of wind ripped at the umbrella in Catheryn’s hand. She fought to maintain her grip, turning toward the gust. As she did, she glanced up, noticing me. She stared briefly, then lowered her head.

It took me painful minutes to hobble down the crumbling slope. Once on the beach, my crutches proved nearly useless in the sand. Grimacing, I resorted to hopping on one foot, trying not to jar the cast on my leg.

When I finally joined Catheryn, she was examining the most recent object she’d retrieved from the debris. It was the neck of her cello. The scroll had somehow survived, one ebony tuning peg still in the peg box, the scorched tailpiece hanging from a metal string. Not knowing what to say, I stood silently. “Are the kids all right?” I asked at last.

Catheryn nodded.

“They’re still at your mom’s?”

Again, Catheryn nodded. She appeared drained, exhausted. Wearily, she studied the stitches running the length of my right cheek. She started to touch my face, then withdrew her hand.

“Only hurts when I smile,” I said. “Not a big problem right now. The doc says it’ll probably spoil my good looks, though,” I added ruefully.

“And your leg?”

“It’s going to be okay, Kate. I may need some reconstructive surgery later, but I’ll be fine.”

“I’m glad.” Numbly, Catheryn let the pieces of her ruined cello slip from her fingers.

“Get any sleep?” I asked.

“Not much.”

“Me, neither. Kate, about last night-”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”