Ellen James - The Rescuer

“What is it we’re starting, Alex?” he asked gravely.

“Face it,” she said. “You’re curious. You want to know what it’s like to be a...guinea pig.”

He managed just a hint of a smile as he sat down in the armchair across from her. His attitude was clear: he gave her research so little credence he didn’t really care what she did next. Against her will, her gaze traveled over him. He looked ruggedly masculine in those shorts and T-shirt, his feet bare. Alex suddenly felt fussy and overdressed in her business suit.

She pulled a binder from her tote bag and flipped it open to the questionnaire she’d revised again and again. She started the tape recorder, then glanced at Colin.

“Will this bother you? Having their words on tape makes some people uncomfortable.”

“Not me,” he said.

She had the feeling that not much bothered Colin McIntyre. Of course, you couldn’t afford to be bothered by much when you risked your life for a living.

“Now,” she said, “the first thing I’d like to discuss—”

“Why rescuers?” he asked.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He settled back in his chair, looking completely at ease. “I’m just wondering why you decided to study so-called rescuers.”

She tapped a pencil against her questionnaire. “Well...if you must know, I’ve often asked myself the same question. It’s something that’s compelled me for a long time now. I don’t know why exactly.” When she realized how inadequate that sounded, she went on quickly. “I just kept wondering about people who put themselves on the line for others. You could say they do it out of altruism or heroism, but it’s a lot more complicated than that. I’ve found that a particular personality is drawn to rescue work. I’ve studied both men and women, of course, but I’ve chosen to focus on the Type R male—”

“You keep acting like I’m supposed to fit some kind of type,” Colin said.

“Let’s see...the Type R male. Arrogant, selfassured, thinks he’s invincible, doesn’t trust anybody but himself. Any of that sound familiar?”

Colin nodded. “Always wanted to be the kind who’d break the mold.”

“That’s another characteristic of the Type R man,” Alex said. She scanned her questionnaire. “Now, first off—”

“The guy you married. Was he a Type R?”

She stared at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just curious,” he said.

This interview wasn’t going exactly the way Alex had planned. “No, Jonathan is not a rescuer. He’s a lawyer, and a corporate one at that.”

Colin looked reflective. “Thought maybe you had a personal interest in the subject.”

“Right,” she said sarcastically. “Like maybe I only date firemen.”

Somehow she had to get this discussion back on Colin. Once more she reached into her tote bag; this time she brought out a videotape.

“How much stuff have you got in there?” he asked.

“This is all that’ll be necessary. Can we play it?”

He didn’t seem overjoyed at the prospect, but he popped the tape into a VCR across the room and turned on the TV. A few seconds later an image of fire and smoke flared on the screen.

Alex stiffened, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. She knew what to expect——every time she watched this video, she felt an uneasiness she couldn’t explain.

Now it was starting all over again. A news anchor was talking about the small brushfire that had set an apartment complex ablaze...then the camera was panning the building itself, several stories high, smoke billowing from the windows, flames burning orange-red...

Alex felt as though a vise had clamped itself around her. The panic was worse this time—much worse. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Easy, she told herself, but the word made no sense. Nothing made sense at this moment.

The camera swung down and centered on Colin’s face—grim, soot-covered, eyes a cold, startling blue. And the vise tightened around Alex.

She stood, scarcely knowing she had. All she wanted to do was run away, escape the fear that engulfed her. The image of Colin’s face froze on the screen. Then Colin himself came to her. He took her hands in his.

“What is it, Alex?” he asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t answer him. All she could do was stand there, gripping his hands as if only he could save her.

But how could he save her from anything, when he was the one who frightened her?

FAMILY DINNER at the McIntyre house. Lots of good food and conversation. Amendment: lots of good food—tonight Herb had broiled some steaks and served them with crusty rolls, mashed potatoes and green beans—no conversation. The three McIntyres sat around the dining room table, no sound but the clink of forks against plates. Colin told himself you couldn’t have everything.

At last Herb, pointing his fork at Sean, spoke. “You’re next.”

“Say what?” Sean muttered, slouching in his chair, a long-suffering expression on his face.

“Tomorrow night you make dinner,” Herb told him. “And then your dad’s in charge night after that. We rotate.”

“Like I cook,” Sean said.

“You’ll learn or you’ll go hungry,” Herb retorted. “I guess on that television show of yours everything’s catered. But we don’t cater here.”

Sean mumbled something.

“Sean,” Colin said, “if you have something to say to your great-grandfather, say it. Otherwise...”

“I can handle him myself,” Herb said testily. “And I sure as hell don’t need anyone calling me a great-grandpa. Herb will do nicely.”

Maybe no conversation was the better choice. Sean hadn’t seen his great-grandfather—correction, Herb—since he was ten. The intervening five years hadn’t contributed to family togetherness, it seemed.

Sean mumbled something else.

“Speak up,” ordered Herb.

Sean glared at him. “I can’t cook.”

“First lesson is tomorrow.”

“Hell,” said Sean.

“That’s enough,” said Colin.

“I told you,” grumbled Herb, “I can handle him myself. Kid, you really like people waiting on you all the time? That’s what you want?”

Sean looked beleaguered. “I work.”

“Not real work,” said Herb.

“Yeah, right,” said Sean in a long-suffering tone. “Too bad I’m not slaving in a mine.”

“Damn right.” Herb pointed his fork again. “You find out what you’re really made of when you haven’t seen daylight for twelve hours, and you’ve got a drill hammering in your ears, and the muck is clogging your nose and your eyes, and you’ve just found out you’re pulling a double shift.”

“Your family owned the mine,” Sean said. “You didn’t have to work in it.”

“I wanted to work,” said Herb. “I was glad to work. No catering for me.”

“Hell, I work—”

“Not according to your mom,” said Herb. “According to her, lately you do everything but. Out late with a bunch of jerks.”

“They’re my friends—”

“Some friends, according to your mom.”

“When the hell does she talk to you—”

“Take it easy, both of you,” said Colin. “Sean, clean up your language and speak to your great—speak to Herb with a little respect. And Herb... give Sean a break. He does have a job. Maybe it’s not the kind of work you’re used to—but it’s work.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” Sean said caustically.

Colin studied his son. The boy had a belligerent attitude, but there was also a strain to his features, and an unhappiness the boy couldn’t quite disguise. You shouldn’t look like that at fifteen. Colin wondered what was going on with his son—and acknowledged he’d better find out soon.