Weren’t there alarm boxes on the street? There’d been one a few houses down. Once upon a time, Joelen had decided it would be fun to see what happened if she pulled it.
Deirdre struggled to get out to the street, wishing a police cruiser or media van were still parked out there. She focused on the tip of her crutch, feeling the vibration up her arm each time the rubber tip connected with the sidewalk, each time she took a step, dragged her leg, and moved forward again.
The alarm box was right where she remembered, three houses down. For a second Deirdre just stood before it, panting for breath, her throat burning. Then she pulled down the handle. And waited. Was something supposed to happen? A click? A whirr? She tried to remember, but was pretty sure that she and Joelen hadn’t hung around to find out. They’d taken off running and hidden behind some bushes in a neighbor’s yard.
Deirdre heard the whump of an explosion and turned back toward the house. Another loud pop sounded. Deirdre felt paralyzed as she watched a plume of black smoke rise, thickening and hanging over the garage like a swarm of bees. Where were the sirens? Should she rouse a neighbor? Borrow a phone? Borrow a fire extinguisher?
Finally, in the distance, she heard a siren’s wail. Then another joined it. Thank God.
Deirdre arrived back at the house at the same time that a hook and ladder truck pulled up. “It’s the garage!” she cried, pointing up the driveway, though with all the smoke where would have been obvious to anyone. “My brother might be up there. Please, hurry!”
Another fire truck pulled up in front of the house. Neighbors on both sides had come out of their houses and were on the sidewalks watching. A police cruiser screamed up, lights flashing, and parked sideways, closing off the end of the block.
As firefighters in dark turnout gear swarmed from the trucks, Deirdre drifted up the driveway after them. She stared up at where smoke was seeping out from between the louvers in the second-floor windows, barely able to breathe. Henry was not up there, she told herself. He couldn’t be. What she’d seen had to have been the shadow of a bird. He’d told her himself he never went up to Arthur’s office.
“Stay clear!” a firefighter coming up behind her barked. He was carrying a fire hose. A smaller truck and a Fire Rescue van screamed up to the house. When Deirdre looked back toward the garage, the overhead doors had been flung open and the interior was engulfed in flame. Moments later, flames shot through the roof. Heat pulsed, driving Deirdre back into the street. She was sobbing. Henry could never get out of there in one piece.
At last water gushed from the fire hoses. With the water pouring on full force, the flames were quickly tamped down. A firefighter strapped on an oxygen tank, adjusted the mask over his face, picked up an ax, and waded in through the smoke, disappearing into the shrouded stairwell. Deirdre imagined him climbing the stairs to the second floor in smoky darkness. Would he have to break down the door to her father’s office, or was it unlocked as the downstairs door had been? Would he find Henry laid out on the floor? Unconscious in a closet?
She felt seconds ticking by as she waited for a yell. Or a wave from the window. A signal of some kind. Any kind.
Finally the firefighter who’d gone upstairs appeared in the doorway. He unstrapped his silver tank, shucked his coat, and wiped sweat from his face with the back of his arm. Deirdre tried to read his expression. Was he getting ready to deliver bad news?
“Deeds?” Henry’s voice was loud behind her.
She whipped around. Thank God. “You idiot!” she screamed.
Chapter 20
What happened?” Henry asked.
Deirdre gave a helpless gesture toward the garage. “It . . . I . . . And I thought you . . .” Her voice was rising.
“What did I do now?”
It was too much. Just too much. Deirdre’s world kaleidoscoped and her legs buckled. Her crutch slipped away as she dropped to one knee. She felt Henry lift her and put his arms around her. She buried her face, which felt as if it were twisted into a Kabuki caricature of anguish, against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, his warm breath on her hair. “I’m sorry.”
She knew it wasn’t fair. What had Henry done other than not get himself killed? She pulled away and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The hoses had cut off, and the plume of smoke rising from the garage turned into a dark cloud that hovered overhead. Sooty water that had been cascading past them down the driveway slowed to a trickle.
“You scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know where you were. And I thought I saw you—” She gestured toward the garage. Its siding had buckled. There was a blackened hole in the roof. A few window louvers hung from their frames like orphaned wind chimes. All it would take was a stiff breeze to send them crashing down.
“Why would I go up there?” He picked up her crutch and handed it to her. “It wasn’t me. I would have gotten here sooner, but they made me park a block away.”
“You scared me.”
“You scared me. What in God’s name happened?”
“I have no idea. When I got back, I smelled smoke. And then the fire exploded.” Deirdre hiccuped. “I knew I couldn’t get in and put it out. So I had to call. And then I couldn’t get into the house.” Her voice rose to a wail but she couldn’t stop. “I couldn’t get to a phone. I didn’t know what to do. I . . .”
“It’s okay.” Henry put his arm around her shoulders. They watched in silence, enveloped in charred, steamy air, as firefighters brought in portable lighting and set up orange cones in front of the garage. One firefighter ventured into the garage. In his dark gear, he seemed to fade in the interior until all she could see was his flashlight beam. More firefighters followed.
Blackened cushions and the frames of yard furniture appeared as if by magic, hurled from the garage interior. One by one they landed in a welter in the driveway. A firefighter dragged out some cardboard packing boxes, one of which collapsed and disgorged what looked like sodden linens and curtains. A tire rolled out of the garage and spiraled lazily into the grass.
The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the last streaky pink clouds were cooling. Deirdre retrieved her messenger bag from the grass where firefighters had tossed it. Trampled and soaked, it seemed like the perfect metaphor for how she felt.
From the second floor, flashlight beams were visible through the openings where there had once been windows. Deirdre could only imagine how bad it was inside the office. Literary executor? Sort and cull? That was a laugh. She’d be sifting ashes. She hoped the yellow dress had been reduced to cinders, too, and she could forget about it—just like Bunny wanted her to.
A tall figure emerged from the garage, took off his heavy coat, laid it across his arm, and looked over his shoulder. Then he turned back and started walking toward Deirdre and Henry. He was flushed, and soot was streaked across his face like war paint. As he got nearer, Deirdre realized he seemed familiar. “Deirdre? Henry?” he said. “You don’t remember me. Tyler Corrigan.”
Tyler. Of course. He used to live across the street. A few years older than Deirdre, back then he’d reminded her of Opie with his freckles, straw-colored hair, and earnestness. She used to watch him ride his bike up and down the block, popping wheelies and spinning around. A few years after that he’d been out there doing tricks on a skateboard. His family had moved away when she was in high school.
“You’re a firefighter?” Deirdre asked.
Tyler shucked a thick work glove and offered his hand. His grip was strong. “Arson investigator. But I work with the police and the fire marshal.” He offered a hand to Henry.