Читать книгу The Widow's Protector - Stephanie Newton - Страница 9

ONE

Fiona Cobb sliced open a box of books in the storage room of The Reading Nook. This was the last box, and by the clock on the wall, she had exactly twelve minutes before she had to leave to get her son to school.

Thankfully, Betsie, who owned the Sweet Shoppe two doors down, had stopped by half an hour ago to see if Sean wanted to taste test her new cinnamon rolls. Her son had bounced out of the storeroom after Betsie with a constant stream of conversation, their two dark heads nearly touching as he pulled Betsie close for a six-year-old secret. Quite the lady’s man, her Sean. Fiona shuddered as she imagined what life would be like at sixteen.

Ah, well, with four brothers—three of them cops—and a passel of cousins who were firefighters, she had plenty of experience with alpha males.

Fiona loaded her arms with the stack of books on gardening in preparation for the Happy Diggers Club meeting. In April in Fitzgerald Bay, everyone’s mind would be turning to spring flowers, even if they were still buttoning up their winter coats in the early morning hours.

In fact, someone nearby must be burning a fire this morning to take the chill off. She carried the books to the round display table near the front window. The Happy Diggers tended to be early and she wanted them to have plenty of books to browse through…and buy on their way out.

She glanced at her watch. Betsie had saved her skin again. Five minutes until she had to pick up Sean to walk him to school. Maybe enough time for one more stack of books?

If possible, the smell was even stronger back here in the storeroom. Most people loved a fire, but for Fee, a burning fire wasn’t cheerful and the aroma of smoke wasn’t reassuring. All it did was remind her of what she’d lost. A husband, Sean’s daddy, a happy united family.

She looked up. A curl of smoke came through the vent in the ceiling. For a few seconds, she stared at it, frozen.

Smoke in the vent meant fire—not the warm your hands kind of fire, but real life-stealing fire.

Fiona grabbed her cell phone, pressing the numbers 9-1-1. She ran out the back door, looking both ways down the back alley. Smoke poured through the seams of the building over the Sweet Shoppe. She ran down the alley, toward the back door. Oh, dear God, please, not again. Please.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Fire. At the Sweet Shoppe on Main Street. I think there are people trapped inside.” More smoke swirled in the alley behind the confectionery as she hung up the phone.

“Sean!” She pounded on the door. She couldn’t hear anything. “Betsie!”

A faint yell came from inside. Oh, God, no. They were still in there. She reached for the door handle. It wasn’t hot, but the door wouldn’t budge. She pulled again, putting her foot against the wall on the other side. It wasn’t moving. “Betsie!”

Her phone rang in her hand. She fumbled it, nearly dropping the handset before she answered it.

“Fiona! There’s something jamming the lock. And there’s fire blocking our way to the front door.” Betsie’s voice was calm for Sean, but there was the edge of panic lacing it. Fiona saw Hunter Reece’s familiar old navy blue truck slam to a stop down the street and in the distance, finally, she could hear sirens.

She looked at the solid wood door. Even if she had the tools, she wouldn’t be able to get it open in time. The small storage room window was their only option.

“Bets, open the window. If it’s painted shut, find something that you can break it with. I’m going to get something to stand on.” Fiona looked around the alley. A couple pine fruit boxes were stacked behind the market. She wasn’t sure they would take her weight, but it was all she had to work with.

“Okay, okay. I think I’ve got something.” Betsie coughed. “Sean, it’s gonna be okay. Mommy’s right outside waiting for you. Fiona, stand back.”

The window burst out in a shower of glass. A can of shortening came rolling to a stop at Fiona’s feet. “Great job, Betsie. Okay, you’re going to have to hurry. Get Sean up there, fast.”

She stuck the phone in the pocket of her slacks and stacked the fruit cartons one on top of the other next to the window. Climbing on, she stripped off her jacket and threw it over the ragged edge of glass on the bottom of the window. Sean’s head appeared in the opening, his small face streaked with soot and tears. “Mommy!”

“Stretch your arms out, Sean. You can do it.” Tears streamed from her own eyes. He was still her baby.

Strong, steady hands gripped her waist, stabilizing her balance. Hunter. Thank God.

“Come on, Sean. Just a little farther.” Her boy extended his arms as far as he could. She could barely touch one hand.

“Mommy, I can’t reach you!”

From behind her on the ground she heard Hunter’s deep voice. “You can do it, L.J. Just a bit farther.”

Hearing Hunter’s words and the nickname, Sean’s little face hardened into determination and his fingers closed around hers. She gave one huge jerk as Betsie pushed from the other side. Sean slammed into her and she tumbled back.

Hunter’s arms closed around her as she caught Sean against her chest. She pulled him tight against her, feeling his solid weight. She couldn’t get a breath in, but she didn’t care. He was safe.

The fire engine wailed to a stop down the block at the end of the alley. Thank you. Thank you, God.

Fiona dug the phone out of her back pocket as Sean scrambled into Hunter’s arms. “Betsie, are you there?”

Betsie coughed into the phone. “It’s bad in here, Fee. The fire’s getting hotter and there’s no way my curves are squeezing through that window.”

“Hang on, babe. Hunter’s here and the fire trucks just got here. Get down on the ground, as low as you can.” She turned to look at Hunter, her eyes connecting with his steady brown ones. That was Hunter, strong and steady. Always there when she needed him. He nodded. “You just hang in there, Betsie.”

She didn’t have to say the words. Hunter knew. She jerked in a breath that was more like a sob as Hunter passed Sean back to her.

“Get him to safety. Let me work on the door.” Hunter was already sizing up the door with a metal crowbar he’d brought from his pickup. “Tell Liam we need the irons.”

“You don’t have gear.” Terror choked her words.

“I’m fine. Get him out of here, Fee.” He turned back to the building and slammed the sharp end of the crowbar into the small crack between the door and the wall.

Hitching Sean higher on her hip, she ran for the engine. The first firefighter swung off onto the ground, pulling up his hood and slamming his helmet into place. As he turned to look at her, his Fitzgerald blue eyes were unmistakable. Her cousin Danny.

“Betsie’s trapped inside in the back storeroom. Danny, there’s not much time.” She tried to catch her breath, failed.

“Don’t worry, cuz. We’ll get her.” He shouldered the ax and Halligan tool—the irons Hunter had asked for—before running toward the building, his partner Nate Santos close behind him.

The fire chief’s red truck pulled in as the other two firefighters began rolling hose to the hydrant.

Fiona stopped at the curb and just held on to her son, feeling his sturdy little body against hers. He was safe, thanks to Betsie. She closed her eyes, only to open them again as Sean squirmed his way to the ground, clearly not as traumatized as she was.

Her cousin Liam, the officer on A-shift, was talking into the radio. “Fire-Rescue One is on scene at a two-story attached building at a working fire. We’re hand-jacking a line, initiating search and rescue. We’re in offensive strategy, requesting the balance of the First Alarm and one ambulance.” He glanced to the side as his father strode up beside him. “Fire Chief Mickey Fitzgerald is Main Street Incident Command.”

Fiona looked down at her shirt. It was red with Sean’s blood. Where was he hurt? He was glued to the action as Liam passed the clipboard to his dad—Fiona’s Uncle Mickey—made sure the hose was run properly, and beelined toward her and Sean with a medical kit. “Sean was inside?”

At her nod, he dug a stethoscope out of the bag. Everyone on the small crew was cross-trained for medical response. Sean’s dad had been an EMT, too. “Is he having any trouble breathing?”

“No, not that I can tell. He—he has a cut from the glass.” Her gaze darted back down the alley, where Betsie was fighting for her life. As if to emphasize that fact, an ambulance stopped in middle of the street, the medics grabbing their trauma kits and running toward the fire scene.

“I can breathe good, but not when there was all the smoke. It was really smoky. My arm hurts a little.” Sean, clearly over the drama, dropped to the curb, where an ant was making its slow way down a crack.

On Main Street, the volunteer firefighters had arrived and begun to work at the fire from the other side. Hunter had told her once that a fire scene was like a well-choreographed dance. Everyone knew their part and when they all did it right, it was a beautiful thing. She couldn’t see it.

She couldn’t see anything. Where were they? They should have Betsie out by now.

A police cruiser came wailing to a stop on the street, blocking the small side street from people who wanted a closer look. Her sister, Keira, bailed from the car, a determined look on her pixie face, not quite panic, but close. “Fiona?”

“It’s okay. We’re fine. Betsie’s still inside. They’re trying to get her out.”

“I’ll be here if you need anything.” Keira drew in a deep breath and gave Fiona a quick, fierce hug. She ran toward Main to block off the area, keeping it clear for emergency vehicles.

“So it was really smoky?” Liam unbuttoned his turnout coat so he could sit beside Sean on the curb. He turned up Sean’s face. “How close were you to the fire, bud?”

Fiona didn’t want to hear this, yet every nerve ending seemed focused on Sean’s answer, the hustle and bustle of the fire scene fading into the background.

“Really close, just like you when you fight fires. Just like my dad did.”

“You were brave, too, just like your dad.” Hunter walked up behind them, and when she turned, his eyes were on hers, over Sean’s head. He looked so good to her, calm and competent. Safe.

“Betsie?” Fiona’s voice was hoarse and she cleared her throat. “Is she—”

“We got her. Medics are working on her.” He rubbed a hand through sun-shot brown hair and soot rained down. “The chief’s commanding the scene. Everything’s under control.”

He knew she would want to know the bottom line. Everything under control. She took a deep breath, thankful she was able, and said a silent prayer for Betsie.

Liam pulled a penlight out of one of his many pockets. “All right, Sean, open up and let me see those shiny teeth.”

Sean giggled and looked at Hunter. “I don’t have any in the front.”

“I know, ace. Come on, now. Let Liam have a look at your tonsils. He wants to make sure you’re okay.”

Sean obediently opened his mouth. One of the dangers of a hot fire was breathing in the smoke, not from lack of oxygen—it was obvious Sean was thinking straight—but from the danger of swelling.

“Okay, Fiona, I think his throat looks good for now. They’ll check him again in the E.R. just to be sure.” Liam took a look at the cut on Sean’s arm. “I’ll patch this up with some gauze, but I think it’s going to need S-T-I-T-C-H-E-S.”

Sean flicked accusatory blue eyes up to meet his cousin Liam’s. “I can spell. I’m in the first grade.”

Fiona laughed and ruffled Sean’s black curly hair. Thank God he was okay. He was still her little spunky, funny boy. “It’ll be fine. You’ll have a war wound to share at show-and-tell tomorrow.”

One of the paramedics rolled the gurney toward the ambulance. Betsie was buckled on it. Danny walked alongside, carrying an IV bag as the other paramedic breathed for Betsie with a bag valve mask—she’d inhaled so much more smoke than Sean. And she’d been so brave, getting him out.

Could Fiona survive if fire took another person that she loved? She watched as Danny helped load the gurney and slammed the door of the ambulance with her friend inside. All around her people were in motion. Firefighters tried to stop the flames from spreading. Cops directed traffic around the scene. Emergency medical personnel treated minor casualties.

She spun around. “I have to get Sean to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive you. I’m off duty all day.” Hunter dug in his pocket for keys.

Fiona pulled away, shook her head. “I need some time.” They’d been friends since childhood. He knew her, better than most of her family, probably. He would understand why she needed to get away from this.

She took Sean’s hand and started for her car, making it about three steps before she remembered that her keys were in the storeroom at The Reading Nook. She took a deep calming breath through her nose and blew it out through her mouth—in her opinion the one good thing she’d learned in labor and delivery class. She turned back around.

Hunter’s slow smile spread across his face, showing that one dent in his left cheek. He held out his keys to her. “Take mine.”

Sometimes he knew her so well she wanted to punch him. Instead, she snatched his keys and gave him a quick hug. “Thanks.”

“No problem. But hey, didn’t you tell me yesterday you were prepping for Garden Club? I can stick around if you want and we’ll trade back tonight.”

Garden Club. She’d completely forgotten it. She chewed the corner of her lip. “I owe you already. If you have to deal with Garden Club I’ll owe you dinner.”

“Especially if Mrs. Davenport shows up. She always brings lemon squares and I hate lemon squares.”

Fiona laughed, for real this time, and lifted her son into her arms—grateful, so grateful—to be standing here with him in the sun. Her eyes locked with Hunter’s. “This…just brings back so many memories, you know?”

“Yeah.” He did, if anyone did. He was the one who’d been there for her in the days after Jimmy died. He was the one who’d continued to come by, when even her family thought she should be beyond it. He grieved for Jimmy, too.

She put Sean in and buckled him in. “I thought when the fires stopped after Jimmy died that it was over. Now we’ve had two in two weeks.”

“We’ve had other call outs in the past two years. What makes you think these are different?”

She shrugged. “A feeling, I guess? We’ve had brush fires, fires started by faulty heaters. A fire from a cigarette left in the bed. Not this kind.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Did you get your hands on incident reports, Fiona Cobb?”

“My uncle is the fire chief. My dad is the police chief. This kind of stuff is Sunday dinner conversation. Come on, it’s not that hard.” She walked around the front of his truck.

He walked to the near side and stood opposite her. “I don’t know if this fire’s different. But I promise you, I’ll find out.”

She nodded, her throat tightening, threatening to close up on her. But she managed a small smile for his sake.

If the arsonist was back, Hunter was going to be right in the line of fire.

* * *

Hunter walked Mrs. Davenport to the front door of Fiona’s bookstore. She was the only one of the ladies of the Garden Club who had run the gauntlet of emergency vehicles to get to The Reading Nook. He suspected she’d come more for the gossip than gardening club. News of the fire had spread more quickly than the flames. Fiona’s phone had been ringing like crazy.

At the door, Mrs. Davenport turned back to him with a sudden crafty gleam in her eye. “You should probably take that plate of lemon squares over to Fiona when you leave here.”

He had to smile at her transparent maneuvering. “Thanks for stopping by, Mrs. D. I’ll be sure to let Fiona know you were thinking about her.”

With one more pat on his shoulder, she was out the door. She’d been his third grade Sunday school teacher. And when his dad had lost his job, he’d caught her leaving bags of groceries on the front porch. He would never forget her kindness. If one of the challenges in a small town was that everyone knew each other’s business, maybe that was also one of the blessings.

A haze of smoke lingered over Fiona’s cheery tables of books. It would be a while before things were completely back to normal, but Fiona would manage. She always did. She kept everyone coming to the bookstore for one activity or another, even using the empty apartment upstairs for scrapbooking. The little store was a hub of activity in their small town, with Fiona its warm center.

“Hunter, you in here?” A gruff voice called from the back room. Mickey Fitzgerald walked into The Reading Nook through Fiona’s office. The fire chief headed toward the counter, taking off his helmet and rubbing his gray hair with one flat hand. Coordinating the effort between the Fitzgerald Bay firefighters and the volunteer companies that rolled when they sounded the alarm was a complex job. But today’s effort had been successful. “Liam told me you were helping out Fiona while she’s at the hospital with Sean. Is he okay?”

“Thanks to Betsie’s and Fiona’s quick thinking, he’s going to be just fine. Can I do something for you, Chief?”

“I’d like to get your opinion on something if you have a minute.” Fiona’s uncle, still strong and fit enough that he sometimes filled in when they were short a man, was uncharacteristically subdued. “B-shift will be on tomorrow and I want you up to speed. I know the cops are going to be taking a look at this, but firefighters know fire.”

“Sure.” Hunter followed Mickey down the block and into the back door of the Sweet Shoppe, the one he’d torn down just a few hours earlier to get to Betsie.

Black sooty water dripped off every surface, the stench of smoke and fire permeating the rooms. Hunter looked around the small shop. The firefighters’ fast attack on the fire had not only saved Betsie’s life, but also saved the rest of Main Street.

Danny Fitzgerald, the fire chief’s younger son, shoveled debris onto a tarp. “Got an extra shovel on the rig for you, pal.”

Hunter looked at the shovel and then down at his hands. “Aw, gee, Danny, I would, but I just got my nails done.”

“Nice job on the door this morning.” Nate Santos looked up from where he was pulling wallboard.

Hunter walked toward the front of the shop, but looked back at the guys with a grin. “Anytime A-shift needs my help, I’m happy to oblige.”

Danny held up the shovel again.

“Except for that.”

Nate Santos elbowed Danny. “He’s too good for that kind of job now that he got promoted.”

“You got that right, Santos, but I’ve always been better than you. I’ll show you when we haul hose next week in training.” Hunter threw the words over his shoulder as he followed the chief.

“Loser buys lunch.” Santos pulled off another sheet of soggy wallboard and tossed it into the growing pile on the floor. The cooling building popped and creaked. Every surface that might hide a smoldering ember had to be breached. The ceiling tiles and wallboard were the first to go.

Hunter looked back, grinned. “Deal.”

Photographs would’ve already been taken and bits of wallboard and ceiling collected for testing. He wasn’t sure what the chief wanted him to see. Mickey Fitzgerald waved him to the ruined remains of a glass display counter, along with the A-shift officer, Liam. “Over here.”

On the surface, Hunter saw a board with melted plastic on it. Some wiring ran out of it. He glanced up at the chief, a knot of nausea settling in his stomach. “Remote detonator?”

“Yeah. And it was wedged right where there was plenty of fuel. This place went up in a hurry.”

Liam took off his gloves and tucked them under one arm. “We pulled another one of those from the crawl space above the storeroom. There was some insulation up there that kept it smoldering, which is why that side of the shop burned slower. All in all, they were lucky to get out with their lives.”

Hunter tried to keep his mind on the rational, keep the emotional out of it. But they were talking about a six-year-old boy. “The arsonist could’ve called from anywhere. I’m sure these are burner phones, but we can try to get serial numbers off them and find out what we can from the call logs.”

The chief nodded and pulled another evidence bag from his pocket. “This one came from the Sugar Plum.”

The setup was the same, but it wasn’t as melted because the fire at the inn last month hadn’t burned as hot. The sick feeling intensified.

Hunter reached for the board and turned the phone on its side. He found what he was looking for. He didn’t know this arsonist’s name, but he knew the signature—a curl in the wire leading to the vibrating electrode in the side of the phone.

It was the signature of an arsonist who had killed before. Brother, father, cousin, husband. This same arsonist had taken the life of firefighter Jimmy Cobb.

Anger iced into determination. The killer had gotten away once.

But not again. New evidence, new chance for Hunter to bring in this criminal. Hunter wouldn’t rest until this guy was behind bars where he belonged.