Читать книгу The Fireman's Son - Tara Taylor Quinn - Страница 17
ОглавлениеTHERE’D BEEN A house fire over the weekend. Reese completed his inspection report on Tuesday. Faulty wiring. No gasoline on the premises.
While he hated to see anyone go through the trauma of losing irreplaceable belongings, he’d been relieved to know that arson wasn’t involved.
On Tuesday, he got the report back from LA regarding Friday night’s fire. He’d been planning to process the evidence himself, but with the weekend fire he’d been unable to do so. The fleck of shiny white he’d pulled out of the small pile of burned ash turned out to be paint that had flaked off from something.
What kind, he didn’t yet know.
But it was something else to add to size-ten tennis shoes. Something else that taunted him, dangling just out of reach when he had trouble sleeping at night.
Still, thoughts of the arsonist were preferable to thinking about Faye Walker. Or her son.
On Wednesday, he ran into her in the station’s kitchen. He’d been leaving with a cup of coffee in hand. Dressed in black Lycra shorts, a black tank bra and a white muscle shirt over top, she’d clearly just come from the fitness room. Her hair was pulled back, her skin was flushed, her forehead covered with beads of sweat.
He was swamped with memories. Specifically, a vision of her after making crazy love with him on a pool table in a frat house. She’d been visiting him for the weekend. They’d found the house empty after a bike ride along the coast. She’d been dressed pretty much the same—she’d hoisted herself onto the table, scooted back and dared him.
In less than ten seconds, he’d pulled her shorts down to her ankles and had brought her to almost instant satisfaction.
Had he been nuts? Had she been?
“Did you find out where your son got the matches?” He blurted the words to cover up the rest of what was going on in his mind.
He didn’t want to know any more about the boy. Didn’t even want to think of him.
Pictures of what might have been, of Faye and her son at home, in the kitchen, watching a movie, on the sand at the beach—would only make life messy. And hard.
She’d been backing up, as though to turn tail and run. But stopped and looked at him.
He didn’t get her expression. Had never seen the doubt and uncertainty mixed in with her usual strength.
“No,” she said. That was all. Nothing else.
She turned to go. He wanted to call her back.
To say what? To what end?
They were strangers. Had nothing to discuss. House rule.
Because this was his house.
* * *
FAYE WAS STILL shaking inside from her encounter with Reese when she lay in bed that night. On call for another eight hours, she didn’t dare take so much as an aspirin to help her sleep. What she needed to do was relax.
Not think about how close she’d been to throwing her arms around Reese when they’d had their near collision that morning.
He’d asked about Elliott and her heart had started beating such a fierce tattoo she’d thought she might have to sit down.
Did he think about them? Did he care maybe even a tiny bit about her and her son?
She couldn’t want him to. Didn’t dare want him to.
And yet...
No. It was only latent feelings from her pre-abused days. Going back to muscle memory from when she was emotionally undamaged.
Sara had warned her. She was vulnerable.
She had to stay aware. Keep control of her feelings through strong mental determination. Not let herself be convinced by a psyche that yearned for easier, happier times.
She would not let that happen. She’d die first.
Her son had barely spoken to her when she’d called him at bedtime, as she did every night she was at the station before he went to sleep. He’d said enough to keep Suzie from calling him out, but that was it. He was withdrawing from her. She could feel it and she was panicking.
Eyes closed, she concentrated on a series of mental relaxation techniques she’d learned over the years. Not just because of Frank, but because she worked a high-adrenaline, high-drama job. Finding and maintaining her center was paramount to being successful in her career.
“Let me out!”
Faye was out of bed before her eyes had completely sprung open, through her open door and across the hallway to her son’s room.
Elliott stood at the barred window, clawing at the curtains. “Let me out!” he screamed again.
It took everything she had not to wake him. To bring him back from whatever hell he’d sunk into. To hold his arms to his sides until the panic within him calmed.
Standing back, watching for any sign that he could hurt himself, she prayed for his angst to end, for peace to settle over his young soul and lead him gently back to bed.
“Let. Me. Out!” The growl was not a sound Faye recognized. It was as though the body standing there did not belong to her son. He grabbed the curtains, pulling at them as hard as he could. Yanking as though to pull the rod off the wall. “Let. Me. Out!”
She couldn’t just stand there. Crossing the room, she took hold of the curtain, just above Elliott’s desperate clutch. She withstood his jerks, a countermeasure to the damage he could do. Her arms ached but she didn’t know what else to do.
She hoped that he was going to grow out of the nightmares—brought on, his counselors agreed, by the fact that Frank had abused her at night. The sound had woken their son, who’d lain alone in his bed and listened to every vile word as Frank described what he was doing to her. And told her over and over that she liked it.
After another couple of yanks—during which she was thankful for the fitness training her job required—Elliott let go of the curtain. As though he’d merely been up to go to the bathroom, he moved sleepily back to his bed. Lay down. And continued to sleep.
Gently pulling the covers from beneath him, Faye arranged them around his small body, smiling at the car pajamas he’d chosen. She’d been afraid, when she’d bought them, that he’d think they were too childish for him. Instead, they were his go-to choice.
Her little boy was still in there.
They just had to find a way to set him free.
* * *
A BAD ACCIDENT occurred on the freeway just above the Santa Raquel exit in the very early hours of Thursday morning. Reese heard about it from Brandt, who called him just past six—Reese was already out of the shower, in the middle of shaving.
“Three cars, all guys, mostly college aged,” he said. “Looked like maybe they were drag racing. Alcohol was clearly a factor...”
Santa Raquel Police Department’s issue, not his, thankfully.
“Any fatalities?”
“Two. And one injured, non–life threatening. That’s actually why I’m calling...”
He’d wondered. Every crash was newsworthy—a fatality more so. But it would wait until he got into work. He and Brandt were pretty good about respecting time off. Everyone had to have downtime. Time to regroup.
“Faye was on call...”
His heart sank. If she’d screwed up, been unable to get there, he’d have no choice but to take measures.
“The fatalities were pretty clear and she went straight for the injured...”
She’d made it to the scene.
No reason for him to feel relief to know that one of his employees had made it to work.
“The guy was clearly under the influence and scared out of his wits. We got him out of the car and on a stretcher, but he went for Faye when she was starting an IV in the back of the bus...”
In his bathroom, with shaving cream on his face, Reese stopped cold. Stood there looking at the man in the mirror, not recognizing the fear in his eyes.
“You’re telling me Faye was hurt?” And it hadn’t been the first words out of Brandt’s mouth?
“No, boss, of course not. You’d have been called at the scene...”
Of course he would have. It was protocol in the event of an employee injured on the job. He nodded to the guy in the mirror.
“She handled it like the pro she is. But he swung at her a couple of times. Connected once just below her left eye, but she said not with much force. I just thought you’d want a sit-down, especially with her being new and all...”
Any time a member of his team dealt with something tougher than usual, he called for one-on-one meetings. Firefighters were trained to be tough. He wasn’t going to send his people off to the shrink every time they had a hard day. But he did insist on his own personal assessment, just in case someone needed to seek help.
“Is she still at the station?” he asked.
Of all people to be with a violent victim, it had to be Faye? A woman who’d survived years of partner abuse and come out on the other side? Taking charge of her life. Moving on. Helping people. Raising a little guy all on her own? An at-risk little guy...
“Yeah, she’s here,” Brandt said.
He swallowed.
“Have her set up a meeting with me for later today before she leaves.”
It’s what he’d do with any of his crew.
Just not something that normally consumed his thoughts until it happened.
* * *
PRETTY MUCH THE last thing Faye wanted to do on Thursday was have a private meeting with her boss.
Hard to imagine that Reese would want to meet with her alone.
Surely he wasn’t going to fire her for having an altercation with a victim? The man had been flailing—fighting off her attempts to save his life. She’d had no choice but to forcibly restrain him.
But all the way back to the station that afternoon after seeing to Elliott, she played the scene over in her mind. Had she been too tired? She’d barely fallen back to sleep after Elliott’s nightmare when the call had come in.
Adrenaline had kicked in as it always did when she was on the job. She’d followed protocol.
Reese’s truck was in his parking spot as she pulled in. She took a last glance in the rearview mirror, checking to see that her makeup completely covered the bruise forming under her left eye. She’d had a couple of hours’ sleep before taking Elliott to the Stand that morning.
Not sure what to wear for the inquisition, she’d gone in to change when she dropped off Elliott, opting for black pants and a white, somewhat dressy button-down top, made of silk and tight at the waist with a flare to the hip. She hoped it spoke of strength. And success. More than that, she liked how she looked in it. At the moment, how she felt mattered most.
Because she was off shift as soon as she finished her meeting with Reese, she’d left her hair down and ran her hand through it now, throwing it back over her shoulder as she approached his door.
She still had a job. If, in an hour, she didn’t, she’d deal with that then.
Heart thumping, she raised her hand to knock. On Reese’s door.
Her Reese’s door.
Hand suspended, she stopped.
How cruel could fate be to bring them to this moment?
She reminded herself that she was vulnerable. That her psyche, in its effort to heal, would catapult her back and make her think something was real when it was just a figment of her imagination.
Shaking her head, she knocked.
