Rachel Lee - Playing with Fire

She kept to the speed limit, unlike the trucks, but soon reached them. They had pulled over on a side street, already being blocked by police to traffic. Two men in yellow firefighting gear were heading indoors as flames leaped out one lower story window. There must be a potential victim inside, as they didn’t wait for the hoses. Others were hooking up hoses to the truck and a nearby hydrant. Not bad yet. It was clear where the fire was, and apparently the window had been open. She studied it with a practiced eye.

One guy stood out, mainly because of his white helmet, the word Chief stenciled in black on it. He was clearly directing operations, his arms and hands moving as he pointed where he wanted things.

She stopped against the curb outside the cordon. After a minute, she climbed out and joined concerned neighbors across the street who had either been ordered out of nearby houses or were gathering out of interest. “She’s got a baby!” one of the onlookers shouted, trying to be heard over the racket of the pump truck, other vehicles and raised voices. “Upstairs, bedroom on the right.”

The chief turned, gesturing that he’d heard. He pulled up his flash hood, donned his face mask and, moments later, he ran into the house, to rooms that had to be right above where flames spewed out the open ground floor window. He went alone, seeming to ignore the two-in, two-out rule. Another firefighter saw and raced after him.

Yet another two stood near the truck, ready to run in if any firefighter ran into trouble. The two out.

Charity felt her heart speed up. She didn’t know these people, but she hated fires, hated what they did, and was intimately acquainted with the dangers for those who fought them. Her career of investigating arson wasn’t just a job, it was a mission. Preventing fraud was one thing. Stopping people who killed and hurt others was even more important to her, though it wasn’t often she had an opportunity to do that.

“Who are you?” one of the onlookers asked her. She glanced over and saw a man of about seventy, thin and a bit bent.

“I’m here to see the chief,” she answered quietly. “Business.”

“Oh, no!” someone cried.

Charity looked at the house again and saw flames had reached the second story. The beehive of firefighters began to swarm even more rapidly. A hose doused the outside wall of the house. One was aimed right inside the lower floor window. The roof, too, was getting its share of water. Another truck pulled up and in seconds was fanning water over the neighboring roof and side wall to prevent the fire from spreading. That must be a constant danger with the houses so close.

She knew all the dangers. Fire spread fast enough, but when combined with the gases it created, it could turn into an instant conflagration at the point of flashover. That was why windows were giving way to axes even though the fresh air would fuel the fire. It would also dilute the explosive gases and flammable black smoke that was roiling out the front door.

She’d lost track of how many firefighters were now in the house. Her heart was slamming like a trip-hammer.

Then one came out of the house carrying a woman. His buddy followed close on his heels. Others immediately went to help him, quickly putting her on a stretcher and turning her over to EMTs. Two more firefighters ran in to battle the blaze, but already the flames were shrinking from the side window. The smoke coming out the front door was turning gray. The water was doing its work.

Where was the chief?

Almost in answer to her silent question, he burst out through the front door, carrying a tightly wrapped bundle. Ignoring everyone else, he threw off his respirator mask and helmet, then knelt on the grass, unwrapping a baby.

Charity’s heart nearly stopped. The infant looked pale, almost blue. She raised her fingers to her lips, trying to hold in the anxiety. Not a baby. Please, not a baby.

“Oxygen,” the chief shouted. He bent close to the child, listening for breath, then feeling for a pulse. An EMT rushed over and joined him. The infant’s color improved within seconds after the oxygen mask was placed over its face. The child was swiftly moved to the ambulance.

Relief nearly caused Charity to sag. Leaving the spectators, she returned to her car, watching the scene unfold. She’d seen this many times. Too many times. She’d even trained with firefighters and had volunteered so she could understand.

Now she understood too much.

* * *

An hour later, the scene had quieted. While firemen, including the chief, moved through the house, axing open walls to make sure they concealed no fire, others rolled up the hoses. The house still stood, but it was a mess. The outside wall was covered with soot, two window frames charred black. Inside, everything would be ruined by smoke, ash and water. She wondered how much these poor people would be able to salvage.

Pulling out her cell phone, she went to her company’s site, logged in and tapped in the address. Her company covered that house. She scanned the firefighters and realized the chief was once again outside, occasionally speaking to his crew. The small crowd of onlookers still lingered, talking to each other. Already she heard plans to help the family. Good people.

No one hindered her passage, and she reached the chief’s side. He was preoccupied and didn’t immediately notice her. He was still talking to the other firefighters, making sure everything had been taken care of. She was certain he had a running head count going in his mind. She didn’t want to interrupt it.

His face was smudged with soot. Apparently he had wiped it a few times, probably to get rid of sweat. The gear he wore was heavy and hot, at least fifty pounds as he was dressed now, more in full paraphernalia. She had worn it and hated it even though her life depended on it.

At last a firefighter came out of the house. “Clear,” he called. The second truck, which had been hosing the adjacent structure, was already pulling away. The fire rescue ambulance had departed a while ago.

It was then the chief noticed her. His gray eyes slid over her from top to toe. “Who are you?” he asked bluntly.

“Charity Atkins, Chief. We had a meeting.”

He shook his head a little. “Wayne Camden, and the meeting has to wait a little while.”

“Of course.” She didn’t even try for a smile. She held out a card. He looked at it, pulling off one of his huge gloves to take it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Be sure the family gets it. My company insures this property, too. What happened?”

He had fully placed her now, his mind leaping from the all-important mess in front of him to her purpose in being here. “You’re the arson investigator about the Buell fire.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this wasn’t arson. Looks as if a grease fire started on the stove and was mishandled. The woman’s burned. Her husband’s out of town. You’ll have to wait to get your answers.”

“I don’t want answers. I just want them to know I’ll have an adjuster out here tomorrow if possible. We’ll cover alternate accommodations.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. I need to finish up here. You can wait for me at the station, unless there’s something else you want to do.”

“I’ll see you there.” She returned to her car and called her company to give the family a head start on their coverage.

* * *

Randy Dinkum loved fires. He always had, even though it was a relief to open that damned turnout coat and feel cool air on his skin again. As he closed the last panel on the fire truck and got ready to board for the ride back to the station, he looked one more time at the house. Tragic now, but no one had died. Poor woman was a mess, though. He might love fire, but he hated it, too.