Dana Mentink - Flashover

She tapped lightly on door 6H. “Moe? It’s Ivy. Are you home?”

There was no sound, but that was not unusual. Sometimes it took the man a few minutes to decide to open the door. She knocked again. “Hey, Moe. Your mom asked me to check on you. I wanted to talk before your shows. I know you watch them at two o’clock. I promise I’ll make it quick.”

The door opened and Moe peered at her, blinking behind his thick glasses. “Ivy? Is that you?”

“Yes, Moe. Are you doing okay?”

He nodded.

“Can I come in?”

“Okay.” He moved to the side so she could get by. His apartment was tidy, Spartan almost, with a couch and padded chair the only furniture in the front room, along with a TV. The tiny kitchen opened up onto the space, and she could see he’d already removed the plastic from his microwave-popcorn package and laid the bundle neatly on the counter, ready for popping. His bottle of water sat next to it, carefully wrapped in a paper towel.

“Here’s another can for you.”

He nodded and added it to a bag near the door. “Thank you.”

“How have you been, Moe?”

“Okay.” He sat on the sofa, hands folded in his lap.

“Good. Your mom said if you need anything to let me know. Do you remember where my apartment is?”

“Apartment A, floor six, northwest corner of Ash and Finley streets.”

“Ah, yeah. Wow. That’s it all right.” The last time she’d talked to him he’d rattled off a string of bus schedule information. “I wanted to know about your friend Cyril.”

Moe stiffened and began to rock slightly back and forth.

Ivy watched his brown eyes as he stared at a spot on the far wall. “Moe, why were you at his house the night of the fire?”

Moe shook his head but did not answer.

Ivy sat down next to him. “I know that he’s been missing, Moe. Was he into some trouble? Did he tell you anything about a problem he was having?”

The man began to rock more violently.

“It’s kind of important.”

“Apartment A, floor six, northwest corner of Ash and Finley streets.” He stared into space and repeated the phrase three more times.

Though she felt a surge of frustration, Ivy put a hand gently on his arm, which trembled slightly under her touch. “Okay, Moe. We don’t need to talk anymore right now. Why don’t you pop your popcorn and watch your show? I’ll come back later.”

She waited until he had prepared his snack and settled himself into the chair with the remote. He did not turn his head as she said goodbye.

Back in her own apartment there was a message from her mother inviting her to come over. Ivy shuddered. She could not face the idea of sitting at the kitchen table hearing her mother try to encourage her to change careers or find a nice man to settle down with. She had probably already been busy scanning the church directory to look for any eligible men she could find to coerce into taking Ivy on a date.

“I’m a firefighter, Mom,” she’d said many times, more frequently since the Antonio debacle. “That’s who I am and all I want to be.”

She tried to flex her shoulder until the pain stopped her. What was she now? What if she couldn’t go back to her beloved calling? The thought froze her insides.

Well, I’m not just going to sit here until I get my job back. She grabbed her keys and headed for the elevator, determined to solve the mystery about Cyril before it got Moe’s friend into deeper trouble.

In the car, she turned on her radio pager, listening hungrily to the chatter. The guys were en route to a fire at an office building. Probably nothing major, but listening to the captain radio their ETA made her feel like crying. She could almost feel the quiver in their stomachs as they climbed onto the rig, the rush that came with the chance to knock down a fire. She fought back tears as she turned the key.

Tim saw Ivy standing on the sidewalk near the burned house, body tense and rigid. It filled him with a desperate desire to lift away her fear, some way, any way. When she didn’t hear him speak, he put a hand on her shoulder.

Whirling, she lost her balance and he caught her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. What brings you here? What’s wrong?”

She leaned her head against his chest for a moment. Then she straightened. “Nothing. I’m fine. I was just…I don’t know.”

“Remembering?”

“Oh, never mind. How did you find me?”

“I figured it wouldn’t take too long before you defied the doctor’s orders and drove somewhere. I kind of guessed you’d be back here.”

She filled him in on Doug Chee’s revelation.

He whistled. “So the door was wedged closed? Kinda shoots down the notion that Cyril torched the place for the insurance money. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to try to kill the guy.”

“Or Cyril tried to kill someone and make it look like something else.”

“Either way, something didn’t go right for somebody.” He gave her a sideways look. “I take it you’re not going to leave this up to Chee and the police?”

“No. I did talk to the police this morning, though, because some jerk tried to steal my purse last night.”

His mouth dropped open. “After the game? What happened? Are you hurt?”

She related the whole story, except the part when Antonio asked her to go hiking with him. At the mention of Antonio’s name, Tim’s brow furrowed and a dark expression crossed his face.

“Good thing Antonio was there,” he said in clipped tones.

“Yeah. Anyway, I figured I’d look into a few things, that’s all. While I’m off, I mean.”

He smiled. “Well, how about I take you out for some ice cream and we can talk some more?”

“You don’t have to entertain me.”

“Believe it or not, I like hanging out with you. Usually you’re surrounded by people wearing Nomex, and I can’t get close unless I happen to be on fire or something.” The bitter thought rose before he could stop it. Even with Antonio gone, you’re still out of reach. He squelched the thought and opened the passenger-side door. “I’ll drive.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he propelled her into the seat.

On the way to the ice-cream shop, Ivy asked Tim to stop at Corner Street Bookstore. “I’ve got to ask Mr. Evans about Cyril. Madge said Cyril worked at the bookstore.”

The bookstore owner, Sergei Evans, greeted them with a smile. “Good afternoon.”

The shop featured wooden shelves crammed full of books of every description and a long ladder that rolled between them. There was a small section with new bestsellers, but most of the volumes were older, with an occasional antique sprinkled in.

“Hello, Mr. Evans,” Tim said.

The man piled his papers in a tidy stack next to the cash register and came around the counter. “Hello. Can I help you find a book?” He looked at Ivy closely as he slipped on wire-rimmed glasses. “I would say you are not the kind who would like to read about needlework or floral arranging.”

“You got that right on the money,” Tim said as he thumbed through a sports magazine. “The only needles she uses are the kind to administer an IV.”

Tim smiled at the look Ivy shot him as they followed Mr. Evans around the small shop.

He pulled a book off a high shelf and handed it to Ivy. “Perhaps a memoir by a blind man who climbed Mt. Everest?”

She took the book and read the back. “That’s interesting, but…”

He handed down another. “And maybe a story of Peary’s expedition to the North Pole?”

“That sounds great, Mr. Evans, but that’s not why we’re here,” Tim repeated. “Do you happen to know a man named Cyril?”

“Cyril?” He frowned. “A short man, rather fragile-looking?”