Diane Chamberlain - Before the Storm

“Seventeen stitches.” Dawn pressed closer to him. “Maybe a concussion.”

“You saved at least one life tonight, Trippett,” I said. “You can have my back anytime.”

Truth was, I hadn’t liked going in with him. Ben had been a volunteer for less than a year, and I was sure he wouldn’t last. He had the desire, the ambition and the smarts, but he was claustrophobic. He’d put on the SCBA gear, take that first breath through the face piece and freak out. Full-blown panic attack. The guys razzed him about it. Good-natured teasing at first, but when the severity of the problem became clear, the taunting turned ugly, and I couldn’t blame them. No one wanted to go into a fire with a guy they couldn’t trust. Ben had been ready to quit. Ready to leave the island altogether. But he finally made it through the controlled burn during a training session, and a month or so ago, he told me he was ready to go live.

“You sure?” I’d asked him. “There’s a huge difference between a controlled fire and a live burn.”

“I’m sure,” he’d said. He hadn’t been kidding. He was ahead of me tonight, inching on his hands and knees through the burning church, when his low-air alarm sounded. We’d both started out with full tanks, but nerves made you chew up the air faster and he was running on empty.

“Let’s go!” I’d shouted to him, the words muddy from behind my mask. He heard me, though. I knew he did, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, he kept moving forward and I thought he was losing it. I heard the dull thud of whatever hit his helmet. Heard his grunt of pain. Saw the streak of red on his cheek. “Ben!” I’d shouted. “Turn around!” But he kept right on going.

I called into my radio. “I’ve got an injured man with low air,” I said, but through the murk, I suddenly saw the screen of his thermal image camera. There was someone in front of us. He was going after one of the kids.

The girl had crawled into her sleeping bag and somehow found an air pocket. Ben grabbed her, and together we dragged her from the church. She was unconscious but alive.

“Your boyfriend’s a stubborn SOB,” I said now to Dawn. “But there’s a girl who’s lucky he is.”

“I know,” Dawn said.

“I heard some kids didn’t make it,” Ben said. “I should’ve stayed. Maybe we could have—”

“You couldn’t stay, man.” I gripped his shoulder. “Your head was split open.”

Ben pressed his sooty fingers to his eyes. He was gonna come unglued any second.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I said. “You did good tonight.” The hospital lights fell on his dark hair and all of a sudden, he reminded me of Jamie. That brawny bulk of him that made me feel scrawny by comparison. Big man with a soft heart.

“Do you hear him, Ben?” Dawn turned to Ben, one hand on his chest. “You did all you could, sugar.” She looked at me. “Do you know how it started?”

“Arson, most likely.”

“Who would do something like that?” Dawn asked.

I shook my head. “Y’all happen to see my nephew inside?” I looked past them through the glass doors of the E.R. “Andy?”

“He’s there.” Dawn touched my arm. “He’s okay.”

Andy sat cross-legged on a bed in the E.R., looking like a skinny little Buddha with a bandaged forearm, and my throat closed up. Laurel sat next to the bed, her back to me, black hair falling out of a barrette. Maggie was curled up at the end of the bed, hugging her knees.

Andy spotted me as I opened the glass door.

“Uncle Marcus!” he called.

I reached the bed in a few strides and leaned past Laurel to hug him. His back felt boyish and narrow—a little kid’s back, though his muscles were tight from swimming. I inhaled the smoke from his hair, unable to speak. Finally, I got a grip on myself and stood up.

“Good to see you, Andy.” My voice felt like sandpaper in my throat.

“I’m a hero,” Andy said, then glanced quickly at Laurel. “Can I tell Uncle Marcus that?”

Laurel chuckled. “Yes,” she said. “Uncle Marcus is family.” She looked at me. “I told Andy that he shouldn’t brag.”

I put an arm around Maggie and hugged her to me. “How’re you doin’, Mags?”

“Okay,” she said. She didn’t look okay. Her face was waxy. Beneath her eyes, the skin was purplish and translucent.

“Don’t worry,” I said, squeezing her shoulders. “He’s okay.”

“ Who’s okay?” She was definitely out of it.

“Andy, babe,” I said.

“Oh, I know.” She leaned forward, rubbed her hand over Andy’s knee.

“How about you, Marcus?” Laurel asked. “You’re a mess. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “But I’d like Andy to tell me why he’s a hero.”

There was no place to sit, so I leaned against the side of Laurel’s chair, hands in my pockets. Andy jumped into the story with a zeal that made me forget my anger at Laurel for not calling me. He was suddenly a storyteller.

Laurel glanced up at me as Andy spun his tale. Our eyes locked for about half a second. She was quick to look away.

Andy was on a roll. “So, I clumb out the—”

“Climbed, sweetie.” Laurel stroked her thumb over his hand.

“I climbed out the boy’s room window and onto the metal box with Emily and then went back in and got everyone else to follow me out.”

“Unreal,” I said. “Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”

“Who’s that?” Andy asked.

“The Pied Piper is a man from a fairy tale, Andy,” Laurel said. “Children followed him. That’s what Uncle Marcus meant. You were like the Pied Piper because the children followed you.”

“I thought it was rats that followed him,” Maggie said.

I groaned. “Never mind. It was a bad analogy to begin with.”

Laurel looked at her watch, then stood up. “Can I talk with you a minute?” she asked.

I leaned toward Andy, my hands on the sides of his head as I planted a kiss on his forehead. Breathed in that stench of fire I never wanted to smell on him again. “See you later, Andy,” I said.

I had to run to catch up with Laurel outside the room. She was a jogger—a vitamin-chomping health nut—and she didn’t walk as much as dart. Now she turned toward me, arms folded—her customary posture when talking with me. That was the way I usually pictured her in my mind—arms across her chest like a shield.

“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” I asked.

“Everything happened so fast,” she said. “And look. Keith Weston’s here somewhere.”

Whoa. “Keith was at the lock-in, too?”

She nodded. “He was airlifted. Sara left the fire about the same time I did, but I haven’t seen her.”

“Come on.” I started walking toward the reception desk.

“An ATF agent was here talking to Andy,” Laurel said.

“Good.” They were moving fast. That’s how I liked it.

“He said three people were killed. Do you know who?”

“No clue.” I knew she was scared Keith was one of them. So was I. I touched her back with the flat of my palm. “There were plenty of injuries, I know that much.”

We’d reached the desk, but the clerk was too overwhelmed to be bothered. I stopped a guy in blue scrubs heading toward the treatment area.

“Can we find out the condition of one of the fire victims?” I asked after identifying myself. “Keith Weston?”

“Sure,” he said, like he had nothing better to do. He disappeared down a hallway.

I looked at Laurel. “Is this for real?” I nodded toward the treatment room. “He led other kids out?”

“Unbelievable, isn’t it? But the agent said it was true. I think it was because he didn’t think like everyone else—you know, heading for the front doors.”