Читать книгу The Fireman's Son - Tara Taylor Quinn - Страница 13
ОглавлениеHIS HAND SLID across her breast. Cradling it. So soft. So tender. As though it was precious to him.
She shivered. Wondered if she was naked. If he was. In bed, but not sure how she’d gotten there, or even where “there” was, she snuggled closer to him, smelling the musky scent on his skin. Wanting to be closer yet. Finding warmth to soothe her coldness.
His departure was imminent. Fear surrounded his leaving. He couldn’t go. She couldn’t stop him. She had to stop him. Couldn’t. Had to...
Faye didn’t know where she was. Drenched, shaking, she stared into the darkness—recognized the small glow of light off to the right...
“Mom?”
Elliott!
Shooting up, she reached for him. Remembered at the last minute not to touch. She could startle him awake.
“You were crying.”
He came closer. Sat on the side of her bed. Like most nights, she was in her own room. His gaze was focused.
Touching her cheeks, she felt the wetness there. Knew he saw it.
“I...was...dreaming,” she said. Her son was awake. She had to think. Shake off the torturous dream. Convince him that she was fine.
That the years of him waking in the night to the sound of his mother’s tears were over.
God, let them be over.
He looked so young standing there...his eyes wide. Innocent. Concerned.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she said, taking his hand. Half expecting him to pull away. To see his blank expression reappear as he walled himself off from her.
Instead, he moved closer, leaning toward her until her arms couldn’t help but circle around him and pull him to her. He didn’t resist.
He was tired. She was, too. Tired of not being able to just make Elliott’s world right. Tired of being strong all alone.
Tired of avoiding Reese the past couple of days as she settled into a job that she otherwise would have loved.
Tired of all the regrets.
So she took the rare gift he’d offered her. Sliding down in the bed, she settled her son against her, laid her head on her pillow and closed her eyes.
Morning would come.
And with it, her strength would return.
* * *
ON THURSDAY, REESE pulled into the station with an infusion of energy. He’d had a bit of a hit from the LA lab results—the print from a popular brand of running shoe, men’s size ten. Maybe not enough to pursue all the way to a suspect, but it was a start.
And Faye Walker was off for the next four days.
There’d been no other fires in the area since Sunday night. So while his crew had been kept unfortunately busy with a couple of car accidents, it had been a relatively slow week, without a lot of paperwork.
That alone made for a happy day. He had a meeting with the city manager and a couple of inspections awaiting his attention as he also served as the city’s construction inspector. In departments as small as his, they couldn’t afford too many full-time employees. Part of the reason he’d been awarded the job of chief was because of his multiple qualifications.
Three members of his crew were inside the station, wiping down a newly cleaned truck. Cyrus, the only paramedic left on his crew that he wanted to be around, was checking medical supplies. By nine o’clock, all of the equipment would be checked, as it was every day, seven days a week, and then, barring calls, the men would be in the fitness room, working out.
He’d have liked to join them. If all went well, he’d make it for the afternoon session. Staying in shape was a huge part of their jobs. And a personal must for him.
“You’ve got a phone call,” Doris, their receptionist, called, the receiver still in hand. “Holding on four.”
His raised eyebrow was all the question he needed to ask. “I saw you pull in,” she said from her desk in the first office inside the door. “And I had a feeling you’d want to take it.”
She’d piqued his curiosity.
“Chief Bristow,” he said, the phone to his ear as he closed his office door.
“I’m sorry to bug you, um, sir...Chief...”
Reese pulled back and looked at the receiver. What kind of prank was Doris pulling, putting a kid through to him? Certain that his receptionist would have already determined there was no emergency, that she would never have put a kid on hold had there been one, that if there’d been one, the call would have come in through 9-1-1 and police dispatch, not the station’s number...
“Who is this?” he asked, trying to figure out the joke. It wasn’t like his men to play around at work. When it came to fire safety, he was a pretty serious guy.
But he’d already let one employee go that week—Chester Smith—the paramedic who’d been drinking while on call.
“I can’t say,” the young voice told him. “At least... I gotta know what happens, first.”
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” How well had Doris screened this call?
“Yes, um, you just said. You’re Chief Bristow. It’s...who I asked for.”
Sitting behind his desk, he glanced at the folders on top of it. His good mood rapidly dissipating, he thought about sending the call back out to his receptionist.
He wasn’t all that great with kids. Didn’t spend any time around them, but didn’t particularly want to offend one, either. Joke or not.
“What do you gotta know?” he asked, purposely using the kid’s vernacular. He assumed he was talking to a boy but wasn’t altogether sure.
“If I...confess...do I gotta go to jail right away? Or do I get to explain to my mom?”
He sat forward. And then stood. What in the hell were they dealing with here?
It had to be a joke. But the boy didn’t sound like he was kidding.
Which would make it the best kind of joke...
“You sure you don’t need to be talking to the police?” he asked, to buy himself another second or two.
“No, um, it’s you.”
He nodded and adjusted his tie. He would put on working blues later after his meeting with the city manager.
“I can’t answer your questions until I know what we’re talking about,” he said. And then, in case this was for real, added, “But if you’re under eighteen, then yes, you can talk to your mom. It’s the law. No one can question you without your mom or dad’s permission.”
Maybe this was a test. Of what, he had no idea.
Knew the thought was out there.
“I don’t got a dad.”
Or an English teacher, either, apparently.
“But you’re under eighteen.”
“I’m eight.”
The same age as Faye’s son? Not that he’d remembered or anything.
All week long, every thought had come back to her. If he ate something they’d shared in the past, he’d remember whether or not she’d liked it. After four years together, they’d eaten pretty much everything together, which meant every time he took a bite those past few days...
He stood still, putting a hand in his pocket.
“You going to tell me what you did?” Joke or no, this had to end.
“I set a fire.”
He glanced around the office as though the whole station had heard.
Did Doris know? And if so, why in the hell hadn’t she given him a heads-up?
“You did.”
“Yes.”
Was this his escalating fire threat? An eight-year-old in a size-ten tennis shoe?
He shook his head. “How many of them?”
“Just one.”
Not his threat. At least not entirely.
“Did you have help?”
“Maybe.”
They’d dismissed the idea that they were dealing with kids. Maybe too soon?
“Where did you set the fire?” he asked, thinking of the various unsolved small-fire crime scenes.
“In a trash can in the boys’ bathroom.”
Reese ran a hand through his hair. “Not outside?” he asked.
“No. Then it wouldn’t be contained.”
He hadn’t heard an “um” in a couple of minutes. And the kid’s grammar had improved. Because he was more comfortable now in speaking with him?
Or because he was repeating what he’d heard from someone else? Contained was an industry description.
“Who told you it had to be contained?”
“No one.”
“How’d you know, then?”
He had to find out the kid’s identity. Find out where he was. Send a crew out.
Heading out of his office, he motioned for Doris to get him the caller ID as the childish voice answered his question.
“My mom.”
“You mother taught you a fire had to be contained?”
“She didn’t exactly teach me. She just says stuff and I hear it.”
“Who’s your mom?”
The long silence gave him pause.
“What’s your name, son?”
“It’s not her fault. And it wasn’t s’posed to leave that black mark in the bottom of the can. They weren’t s’posed to find out.”
“But they did.”
“Yeah. This morning when I got here, there was a meeting with all the kids. And no one should hafta get in trouble ’cause of me. ’Specially my mom, too.”
Reese started to relax. He was fairly certain that the call was legitimate and that caller ID would tell them the boy was calling him from the elementary school.
Not abreast with current parenting theories, he would have to tread carefully while he tried to figure out what to do.
The boy was obviously a good kid. He’d called the fire chief to confess, after all. But he must be troubled—he’d set the fire to begin with.
Back in his office, with the door shut, he asked, “Does she know you set the fire?”
“Uh-uh.”
Still perplexed as to why he was getting this call, Reese asked, “Are you ready to tell me your name?”
“Can my mom not be in trouble?”
“Why would she be in trouble?”
“Um...’cause you’re her boss and all.”
Reese sat down. Hard.
