P. Alderman: A Killing Tide

No. Can't black out.

Gripping the heels of his boots, she threw her weight backward. He slid a few inches toward the stairs. She sank onto her knees beside him, head hanging, ears roaring.

Hands grabbed her from behind and yanked her to her feet. He floated out of the haze above her, an apparition in a black oxygen mask, black coat with yellow stripes, and boots. When he pulled off his facemask, she saw that it was the new guy.

…Chapman, that was his name.

"We've got to get out of here!" he yelled.

No.

She heard a roar and looked up. Blue flames streamed across the ceiling from the engine room, reaching for her. Chapman dropped beside her, dragging her down, and covered her face with his arms. "Hang tight, they'll hose it down." He brought his face close to hers, pushing his mask over her mouth, and she gulped the oxygen greedily. Water rained down, scalding her scalp. She heard someone whimper and realized that it must be her.

Water began to fill the cabin—she was lying in several inches of it. Gary's facedown in this. She shoved at Chapman, hard.

He grunted and shifted sideways, and then rolled her with him, pulling her out of the stream of the hose. She pointed toward Gary. "My brother," she managed, but her voice broke.

"…cave-in! Move it!" He pulled her to her feet and dragged her toward the stairs.

Kaz fought him, but he simply wrapped an arm around her middle and walked backwards, hauling her with him. She rammed her elbow into his solar plexus, and he slumped forward, his grip loosening.

Staggering toward the berths, she fell over Gary's body. She heard Chapman swear, but then he seemed to catch on. He ran a hand along both berths next to her, then knelt and hauled Gary up over his shoulder. Above him, the ceiling sagged with a splintering crack .

Taking hold of her arm, he threw her toward the stairs. "Dammit, move ."

He propelled her up the stairs and through the door as burning timbers fell behind them, showering them in roiling sparks.

He didn't let go of her until they were off the boat and several yards away. She dropped to her knees on the dock, coughing and retching. Firemen raced past them, dragging hoses.

Chapman laid her brother down several feet away, ripped off one of his gloves, and felt for a pulse. Then pulled back an eyelid.

She crawled toward Gary. No, no, no.

Behind her, the rest of the deck collapsed. Sparks flew on the night wind, and from the adjacent dock, the sea lions barked excitedly.

Before she could reach Gary, Chapman pushed up his mask and threw out an arm to block her. She shoved it aside.

He turned then and gripped her shoulders, hard. His face was grim. "I'm sorry. He didn't make it."

She sobbed, pushing at him with both hands. "I have to go to him—" She froze, staring over his shoulder.

The man lying on the dock wasn't her brother. It was Ken Lundquist, their crewman.

~~~~

Chapter 3

Kaz sat on the back steps of an aid car, breathing oxygen from a mask attached to a portable tank. Her throat was raw, her skin hot and prickly. Flashing lights from emergency vehicles illuminated the wharf and marina in rhythmic sweeps, hurting her eyes. Occasional gusts of wind caused the boats' rigging to clank like gunshots, adding a syncopated unreality.

To keep the growing crowd at bay, Chapman had roped off the wharf with yellow crime scene tape strung between sawhorses and the wooden railings. Fire hoses twined around each other as they snaked down the steel grate ramp leading to the Anna Marie .

Kaz used a trembling hand to wipe her eyes and felt grit smear across her cheek. In spite of the heat from the fire, she couldn't stop shivering.

In the three generations her family had been on the water, they'd never lost a crewman, never had a fire on one of their boats. The importance of fire safety had been drilled into her at an early age—she and Gary never took chances. Never.

Perhaps electrical wiring had deteriorated—somehow sparking near the fuel. The Anna Marie was rigged for drag fishing and frequently out of port, so she hadn't been on the trawler lately to assess its state of repair. Still, it would have been suicidal for Gary to let something as critical as bad wiring go unnoticed—a fire at sea was every waterman's worst nightmare.

Kaz frowned as a new thought occurred to her. Ken never spent time on the trawler when it was in port. He usually had a beer or two at the Redemption and then went home early to Julie and the kids, particularly now with Bobby so sick from the chemo treatments. So why had he been on board at this time of night?

She needed to talk to Gary, to see what he knew. Setting aside the oxygen mask, she stood and scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Nothing. Surely he knew about the fire by now. Why wasn't he here? Increasingly uneasy, she begged a cell phone off the EMT.

No answer at home. She left a message on his cell phone, then disconnected.

Hugging herself, she turned back to the fire scene just in time to watch the Anna Marie's spool of fishnet and winch disappear in an explosion of flames.

#

After ordering the nozzle man to redirect his hose to the bow of the trawler, Michael turned and studied the Jorgensen woman. Her naturally pale complexion was washed of all color, and she looked unsteady on her feet. He wasn't surprised, given what she'd just been through.

Civilians always thought they could handle a fire, but they couldn't, dammit. In any blaze, there were enough toxic chemicals to take out even the strongest person. His jaw clenched. He doubted he'd ever forget the breathless panic he'd felt when he'd seen her dive into those flames.

He didn't like what he was seeing with this fire. It was burning way too hot. That would've screamed 'suspicious' to him, even if he hadn't hauled a body out of the hold. According to one of the firefighters, Kaz and her brother co-owned the boat. And the brother was on parole for assault—the near-brawl Michael had witnessed in the tavern evidently hadn't been out of character. He'd also seen Gary Jorgensen going at it with the guy who was now lying on the dock, dead. And his sister was the first person on the scene of a suspicious fire.

He frowned as he noted a look of renewed determination on her face that spelled trouble. When she started walking toward the dock, he stepped into her path, placing a hand on her arm. "Sorry, but you can't go any closer."

She gave him a brief, impatient glance, her expression distracted. "She's taking on too much water. You'll sink her."

Touching her was like touching a door with a raging inferno behind it. Disconcerted, he stepped back, removing his hand. "I'm keeping an eye on the water level," he assured her, only to have her shake her head.

"I need to talk to the firemen myself."

"Can't let you do that." He started to pull out a pencil and a small pad he kept with him for taking down notes. "Why don't we go over what happened here tonight."

Her expression was perplexed. "That's ridiculous—I have the right to protect my boat."

"She's a crime scene, for now. No one goes near her except authorized personnel."

"Excuse me?"

"That fire was deliberately set." Her face blanched of all remaining color, and he shot an arm around her slender waist. "Whoa. Maybe you'd better sit—"

"That can't be," she whispered, staring in the direction of the docks.

He studied her closely. Most people weren't that good at acting, but he'd seen all kinds. "I'm afraid it's a very real possibility."

After taking several deep breaths, she seemed to pull herself together, stepping away from him. Recognizing the pride and fierce self-control behind the move, he let her go.