Chapter One
The house was a total loss. Firefighter Lieutenant Jack
O'Malley shone his bright light on the dripping walls,
looking for anything that would provide a source for the
smoke he was still chasing. Second floor beams above him
groaned as the building settled. Fire had shattered what
had once been a beautiful, well-kept home. It was like
walking around inside a sarcophagus. The place felt like
it was dying.
The kitchen smelled of something nasty, the sharp smell of
burnt cleaning supplies making Jack's eyes water. Limp
bananas were now hanging over a bowl whose apples looked
like cooked mush. Coupons fluttered from the counter to
the floor, turning to a sodden mass in the standing water.
Pictures on the refrigerator had bled away color in the
heat, leaving behind the ghosts of people barely
discernible.
The big calendar on the wall beside the phone had been
reduced to darkened, curling pages. A family's life,
documented in dates and times and appointments, gone. Jack
let the light linger on the calendar, the month of
November half marked off with Xs, today's date of the
fifteenth highlighted by something now illegible in bold
red ink. Their vacation dates, he guessed. Thanksgiving
was next week and they had chosen to travel early. He was
grateful they had not been caught in the inferno.
This was so incredibly senseless. The fire looked like it
had been set.
Jack could feel the weariness wash over him again, and
behind it, building, the tick in his left eye that showed
his growing anger. He'd like to find the man responsible
for this and deck him.
A wisp of gray caught his attention as the house breathed.
Some smoke was coming through the central air ductwork.
Jack touched his radio. "Nate, check the utility room
again."
"On it."
Jack walked through what had once been the patio door,
stepping out into the night. The massive spotlights from
the fire engines in front of the house cast strange
shadows onto the backyard through holes in the house where
windows had never been intended.
Popcorn.
Jack stopped in his tracks when he spotted the white
kernels lying at the edge of the deck protected from
booted feet by the waist-high wooden railing. The building
anger surged and fury swept through him. Someone had stood
and watched the house burn, had come prepared to enjoy the
sight. It was a signature he'd seen before.
The white kernels were scattered, dropped as though
stragglers from an overflowing fistful. Jack searched the
area. A few of the unpopped grains that had been flicked
into the flames lay burnt with hulls split in two. Jack
had hoped with a passion this particular arsonist was
going to stick to his nuisance fires of grass and trash.
Instead, he'd just escalated to his first house.
Fire was supposed to be an accident, not a weapon, not
something enjoyed. Jack kicked a smoldering chunk of wood
ripped from a window frame away from the evidence. His job
was turning into that of a cop.
He hated arsonists. Painful experience from his past had
taught him how ruthless a fire starter could become.
Destruction of property. Innocent victims. Injured
firefighters. They had to find this guy before someone got
hurt.
He could fight a fire, but fighting a man ... Jack felt
like his hands were tied and he hated the feeling of being
helpless. He was an O'Malley. He wasn't a man to duck
trouble. He preferred to go after it. This was clearly
trouble. How was he supposed to go after a man who chose
to be a coward and hide behind a match?
Thanksgiving was coming, then Christmas, and he had enough
on his plate already with his sister Jennifer fighting
cancer to want to add this kind of tangle. The holidays
were like waving an invitation to make trouble. He
couldn't be two places at once. They had to stop this guy
soon. But it was tomorrow's problem.
Around him the firefighters from Company 81 were pulling
hose and shouting to be heard over the sound of a power
saw. They were aggressively searching for hot spots within
the burned-out house and trying to find the source of that
smoke still rising like a wavering cobra into the air.
Somewhere in the ruins this fire was still alive. Jack
pulled back on his gloves and looked over the ruins of the
house with an experienced eye. A decade of fighting fires
had taught him well, for it was not a forgiving profession.
Fire was an arrogant beast. If in control, it challenged
with ferocious disdain anyone who approached. If forced to
retreat, it liked to lie low, patiently waiting, then
exact a painful revenge.
They'd find it. Kill it. And another dragon would be slain.
"Cole." Jack got the attention of the fire investigator.
There were few men who could dominate a fire scene just by
being present; his friend Cole was one. Six-two, one
hundred and eighty pounds, prematurely gray at forty-two,
Cole Parker had made captain at thirty-six, a decade
before most. He now led the arson group. Jack trusted the
man in a way he trusted few outside his family.
"What do you have, Jack?"
With his flashlight, Jack illuminated the popcorn.
Cole, a big man with a big shadow, stilled for a moment,
then walked over to the deck.
"He's escalating," Jack said.
Cole bent to pick up a kernel. "We knew he eventually
would. Five fires in seven weeks, he's not a patient man."
"He's ringing fires around the new boundaries of the fire
district," Jack suggested, knowing it was at least a clue
to figuring out who the man was they had to stop. The
smaller, older fire stations had been closing over the
past months, their engines and crews dispersed to expanded
hub stations. The reapportioned equipment better reflected
the new housing construction and demographics of the area,
but nothing could change the reality that more territory
in each district meant longer response times. This firebug
knew how to take advantage of the change.
Cole just nodded. "A dangerous man playing a dangerous
game." He ate one of the popped kernels. "Salt. He's
bringing his own refreshments."
"I really didn't need to know that."
His friend rose gracefully to his feet. "I thought this
had the sound of one of his. Late at night, edge of the
district." He looked over at Jack. "Gold Shift."
The implication that his shift was being targeted hadn't
escaped Jack's attention. They worked twenty-four hours
on, forty-eight hours off, yet all the fires had been
fought by his shift, none by Black or Red Shifts. Jack
would not easily admit he'd started to sweat when the
tones sounded. It was hard to hold his trademark good
humor when someone out there appeared determined to make
sure he was going to face flames.
Cole brushed his hands on worn jeans. He'd been paged to
the scene from his home. "Tell me about this fire."
"It was in the walls."
First on the scene, Engine 81 had pulled up as smoke began
to pour from the attic vents and around the eaves. Jack
had pushed his way into the front hallway, shining his
light, and had watched the paint bubble from the heat
inside the walls. No flames had been visible, but as soon
as he had poked his ax into the wall, the dragon had
leaped out, roaring. "We had a hard time getting water
onto the face of it."
Nate on the nozzle, Bruce pulling hose, they'd lost
precious time cutting into the walls. With no moon and the
neighbors' homes a distance away, the fire had not been
reported until it already had a good hold. Jack had been
thinking it ignited because of an electrical short until
he saw the intensity of the fire. He illuminated the smoke
line and burn pattern with his light as they walked.
"Center of the house?" Cole speculated.
They slogged across the yard now turned into mud by the
hours of streaming water. Jack stopped by a dogwood
tree. "I think so. There was too much ambient heat to
assume it started on the second floor and worked down
within the walls, not enough fire scarring on the siding
to show an origin point in an outside wall."
Arson for profit didn't fit this guy's pattern-probably a
guy-Jack decided. It didn't feel like the work of a young
offender either. These fire locations were carefully
planned. And it was odd for a fire starter who did it for
enjoyment to acquire the taste late in life. "Think he's
after the press attention?"
"Bold enough to stand around after the fire starts and
flick popcorn into the flames, arrogant enough to set
fires frequently. Now escalating in the type of fires he
sets. Yes, he wants the attention-ours, the media's, and
ultimately the public's."
"We'll have a panic on our hands if we don't stop him
before the press connects the fires."
"Not to mention copycats."
Smoke twisted in their direction, the heavy ash particles
making Jack cough. "What time is it?"
Cole sent him a sympathetic smile. "Something after 2 A.M."
Two and a half hours. Jack felt like he had run a
marathon. The fire turnout coat sat heavy on his shoulders
and it stuck and rubbed at his neck as he moved. The last
hours had turned his blue uniform shirt and cotton T-shirt
under the coat into a sweaty mass. Jack knew he could
forget any idea of sleep tonight. It would be dawn before
they got the fire mop-up complete.
His left knee was still complaining about the force of the
impact earlier when he dropped from the engine to the
asphalt street with more speed than care. The initial
sight of the house with smoke beginning to pour from the
roof vents had made him push faster than safety would
dictate.
It might have appeared haphazard to the spectators
watching their arrival, but the company had executed a
well-coordinated attack on the fire. The crew from Ladder
Truck 81 had gone after the roof and ventilated the fire;
the men from Engine 81 had surged to lay hose and get
water on the face of the fire; and the crew of Rescue
Squad 81 had hit the ground reaching for air tanks, ready
to go in if people were trapped.
The drills and teamwork had paid off; no time had been
lost during the attack. There were benefits to working
with the best. And a few drawbacks. First engine on the
scene, last engine to leave.
He'd kill for a shower. The smell of smoke and sweat was a
stench he didn't mind as long as he was moving and was
downwind of himself.
"You did a good job of knocking it down."
He was pleased at the praise for Cole didn't give it
lightly. "Thanks."
Jack would prefer to be on the roof or pulling down
scorched plaster, even coiling hose, than to be the guy
tapped to manage the scene. But the captain of Company 81
had been called to the site of a chemical spill, so the
job passed to Jack.
He retrieved two bottles of ice water from the rescue
squad and handed one to Cole. As he drank, Jack scanned
the few remaining spectators-neighbors hurriedly dressed,
a couple kids entranced at the sight of the red engine and
ladder truck, local media, a cop blocking the street from
thru traffic.
Some firebugs were watchers. They acted just so the
firefighters would get called out. They'd stand and watch
the battle, their own personal entertainment. No one stood
out among those gathered.
Jack turned back to the house and watched guys turn a
nozzle back on to deal with a pocket of fire found
smoldering in the wall between the garage and the
breezeway. "This isn't going to be his last fire."
"Safe wager."
"Any ideas?"
Cole drank deeply, then shook his head. "No ideas, no
assumptions, no conclusions. You know how this job is
done."
Jack did. It took patience he didn't have. "My men are at
risk." His words were quiet because he knew the memory
Cole carried, knew how the words would resonate.
Cole reached over and squeezed his shoulder.
Jack didn't know if he ever wanted to make captain,
knowing how much the privilege and burden of command had
cost his friend. Cole had led Company 65 before moving to
head the arson group. He'd moved because an arsonist had
made it personal. Jack wanted to ask about Cassie, about
Ash, but found himself in this situation hesitant to voice
the names.
"Lieutenant?" A firefighter from Truck 81 stepped to
the open front door. "You're going to want to see this."
The heat from the floor came through his boots. Jack could
hear the fire, a rushing sound, huge, consuming. Every
step took him closer to it. The hallway turned and he felt
the stairwell post. He started up the stairs. There was
someone still in the house. They had to get her out.
The smoke was coming down in rolling waves. Fire
brightened the darkness ahead of him, surging through the
smoke in licks of vicious flames.
The heat was too intense.
The smoke was too low.
No one in this house could still be alive.
It was a grim realization that firmed with each step and
by the sixth step Jack stopped. He wanted to rush through
the flames, he desperately wanted to change reality. His
sister Rachel would be crushed at the news her friend was
dead, and Tabitha's husband-Jack couldn't change what had
already happened. He was responsible for his men's lives.
Jack put out his arm, stopping Ben, the lieutenant of
Black Shift who had taken the place of the rookie on
Jack's crew for this attempted evacuation. "There's
nothing we can do."
Bruce and Nate in the rear of the group turned at his
words to lead the way out. Ben Rohr hesitated. Jack
squeezed his shoulder. The lieutenant was the veteran of
the group, in his early forties but still had more fires
under his belt than Jack had ever seen. He understood how
torn the man was to turn back from a victim-there was no
choice. Ben headed down the stairs.
The fire roared behind Jack, reaching out to touch the
back of his heavy fire coat. It had already claimed a
victim. They couldn't afford to give it another. Jack felt
the post at the bottom of the steps and turned the corner
into the hall as the fire roared down the stairway landing
and part of the ceiling buckled.
The sound of sirens screaming outside provided direction.
Jack followed the noise toward the door they had entered.
Water slapped against the side of the house, hissing as it
turned to steam. Men rushed to meet them and clipped
shakes of heads passed the painful word. Hard hands
slapped their shoulders, counting them. "Last man," Jack
shouted. "Drown it." The firefighter on the nozzle nodded
and pulled hose into the doorway, then opened it.
Jack pushed off his gear. The night air felt cold after
the oppressive heat. They would join the fight to stop the
fire, but it would be a grim fight with no good outcome.
People, property-they had already lost both. How was he
supposed to tell his sister that Tabitha was dead? The
thought of doing so was enough to drive the sickness deep.
Neighbors, cops, and spectators had gathered to watch the
scene and Jack saw the reaction as word a neighbor had
died swept through the crowd.
"We could have made it," Ben said, staring at the flames,
absorbed in watching them.
"Going up, but we couldn't have made it back out," Jack
murmured, watching the veteran firefighter weighing the
odds of which could move faster: firefighter or flames. It
would have been a suicide mission.
"Get out of my way!"
Jack turned to see a man surging past police. Gage
Collier, the reporter a familiar face to local
firefighters and police. This was Gage's home. Gage's
wife. Jack stepped forward to meet the man before he
reached his crew. There were no words for what he
felt. "Gage, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Jack saw the punch coming but did nothing to block it.
"She was pregnant!"
Jack jerked awake, breathing hard. He shoved himself
upright to get away from the heavy, haunted sleep. The
nightmare always came after a fire now. Two years old, and
it was still a living memory. It merged with other
memories: the victims he hadn't been able to reach, the
screams of people caught in flames, the nursing home-
always the inevitable memory of the nursing home fire.
Jack loved being a fireman but the costs were building.
Did the arsonist know what he was doing? Not only
destroying property but the firefighters who battled the
fires.
Jack would have called his family, just to hear another
voice tonight besides the fading ones in his head, but the
one person who could help him the most to talk through the
trauma was his sister Rachel. And she already had to live
with the fact it was her friend who died.
He got up to pace and forced the memories down again.
They'd linger and he would live with them. Tabitha died
because they had been late to the fire.