Come Morning (35 page)

“Hi, Chris,” Briana called through the back door as she grabbed her jacket. “Looks like we can’t make coffee without electricity, just when we could really use some caffeine.”

“I had a Coke before I left. Want me to go get you two some?” His red hair stuck up in tufts as if he’d slept on it funny or had spent a rough night finger combing it.

Slade came out holding two flashlights and held the screen door while Brie locked up. “Nah, we’ll catch something later.”

He led the way around front, gazing at a gray sky streaked with pale yellow clouds. The ocean waves were thundering in to shore as always, only slightly more foamy than usual. Seaweed was clumped along the edges of the sand like ragged fringe on the hem of a dress. Bobbing around out aways were pieces of debris, what looked like a wood garage door, some kind of child’s toy that gleamed bright red, and a sailboat that had capsized. Seagulls dipped and rose, searching for breakfast as if it were a normal day. “Almost like it never happened,” he commented.

Stunned at the comparison of last night to this morning, Brie gazed around. “It’s barely chilly and there’s hardly a breeze, much less a wind. Amazing. Oh, I should’ve tried the radio.”

“I had the shortwave on,” Chris said as they began walking. “Lots of damage downtown, mostly to storefront windows. A few rooftops and one or two old buildings collapsed. Over by the airport, a small private plane got picked up by the wind and flipped right on top of a hangar.”

Slade glanced over the rooftops toward the direction of new sirens. “Listen to that. I wonder how many fires are still burning.”

“Quite a few,” Chris answered, “according to the news report. The problem is that many of the streets are water damaged and impassable so emergency vehicles can’t get through.”

“Hey, look over there!” Briana saw a group of people gathered around the side yard of Irma’s house. “Oh, no. I hope Irma’s all right” She broke into a run.

Right behind her, Slade and Chris followed. Slade reached the back area first circling the small crowd and pushing through. His face grim, he peered at the broken boards and siding that had once been Irma’s back porch, now neatly severed from the rest of the house as if sliced by a very large, very sharp knife. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

“Oh, my God,” Briana said, her hand going to her mouth. The side wall of Irma’s house had collapsed in on itself, causing a gaping hole in the floor of the kitchen. The opposite wall was still standing, but it was engulfed by flames and curling black smoke. Broken bricks from her corner fireplace were scattered everywhere, interspersed with the jagged edges of the ruined plank flooring. The tiny basement beneath could be seen through a cavernous opening, as well as severed pipes leaking water. “Tell me Irma’s not in there.”

“‘Fraid she is, Briana,” a thready voice said at her elbow. Jake McGrath, his bony face a maze of worry lines, leaned on a bent stick as he stared into the fiery rubble that was Irma’s place.

“What happened?” Chris asked.

“There was a funnel cloud that came along with the hurricane,” a tall stranger with a bushy mustache explained. “Happens sometimes. The thing swept along here, looks like, hitting things randomly. Chopped off this porch and when that happened, it broke the foundation of the house at the rear. See up there,” he added, pointing to the next block. “It must’ve whirled through the yard between those two houses, knocking bricks and roofing every which way. Then it went on down toward the sea, apparently, ‘cause the ground looks kinda scorched across the way.”

“Where is Irma?” Briana wanted to know.

“Inside, trapped on the floor of the kitchen over that way,” Jake answered, pointing. “We had a firefighter here couple of minutes ago. He tried going in after her, didn’t get far before another section of the floor fell down to the cellar. He crawled back out and said he was going for more help, but with things the way they are, he didn’t know when he’d be back.”

“Irma,” Slade called out, “can you hear me?” Listening hard, he stepped closer to the wreckage of the porch, peering over as he shone his flashlight in an arc around the kitchen area.

“I just don’t know …” a woman in a raincoat began.

“Shush, will you?” Jake told her. “Let the man hear.”

“Irma?” Slade called again. “It’s Slade. If you can hear me, call out so I know where you are.”

They waited for what seemed a long while before at last a weak voice could be heard. “Over here.”

Slade swung the light in what he thought was the right direction, but didn’t see her. “Again. Yell out again.”

“Over here, Slade.”

Finally, the light found her, but Slade didn’t feel much better. She was trapped, all right, lying in an awkward position on her side in the far corner near where the kitchen sink had once stood. Several thick boards had her pinned in and it looked as if one had her legs caged. “I see you. Are you hurt?”

“My one foot, a little,” came the shaky reply.

“Irma,” Briana called from alongside Slade. “Hang on. Help’s on the way.”

Yeah, but when would it arrive? Slade wondered. Something caught his eye and he flashed the beam over to it. “Damn,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Briana wanted to know.

“See where those flames are trailing slowly along? They’re heading in the direction of that gas line. There has to be a break somewhere.”

“Yup, that’s what it is,” Jake chimed in. “Firefighter fella said his guys have been trying to get to the main gas line to shut it off, but hadn’t managed to yet. That’s another reason he came back outta Irma’s place. Said if those floorboards gave way, that gas line could blow the place sky high.”

“So how does he plan to get Irma out of there?” Chris asked.

Jake rubbed a trembling hand over his unshaven chin. “He didn’t say.”

Because he couldn’t say, Slade thought. Getting Irma out would take a miracle, what with the precarious way the back section of her house was now situated and the additional threat of a fire explosion.

He’d no sooner completed the thought than they heard the unmistakable sound of a blast coming from the street over. Flames shot into the sky, followed by billowing smoke. Grinding his teeth, Slade knew they were looking at the forerunner of what Irma’s place could be in short order. Those patient flames were inching along steadily.

“Someone’s got to do something,” Briana murmured. “We can’t just let her die in there.” She grabbed hold of the dangling end of the broken porch, testing its strength. “Why don’t I crawl in there? I’m lighter than that fireman who was here, I’ll bet, and …”

“No!” Slade’s voice was low but firm. Hadn’t he known the moment he stepped over here that it would come to this? To wait for the firefighter to come back was to waste valuable time. He would have to go, yet could he do it?

He felt sweat drip down his back despite the chill morning air. What if he failed, what if he set off the explosion and sealed Irma’s fate by taking things in his own hands, by not waiting for the proper authorities? What if Briana and this whole town blamed him for yet another death? He wasn’t afraid for himself, but rather afraid of mishandling the rescue. Was his judgment any better now than a few months ago?

Maybe not. But looking into Briana’s tortured eyes, he had to try. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t. “I’ll go,” he told her.

If anyone could do it, that man would be Slade, Briana knew. She wanted him to try, but what if she lost the both of them? Yet there was something in his eyes, something that told her there was more involved here than the rescue of one woman. It was a test he needed to take, for himself.

Reaching up, she touched his cheek and felt her heart lurch when he turned his face into her palm and placed a kiss there. No words were said. None were needed.

Chris Reed wanted in on the action. “I’ll go with you.”

“Can’t risk the weight of two men, and I’ve done this sort of thing before. You can help by getting as close as you can and shining the light exactly where I tell you.” Slade would need his hands free to climb over the rubble, and the flashlight was big and awkward. What he wouldn’t give for his gloves, an ax, his mask.

“Right, just tell me where.” Chris took the flashlight Slade handed him.

The fire crackled and climbed the far wall, the smoke thick with bits of charred debris flying about. With careful, measured steps, Slade climbed over the wreckage of the porch and stepped gingerly onto the rim of the kitchen flooring. The gaping hole was just to his left. He’d have to circle it and cross over the exposed gas line. Fire sputtered from the area of the uprooted stove. He gave it a quick glance only. “Over here, Chris.”

The wide beam of light showed the hole into the basement more clearly. Slade began inching around it. “Hold tight Irma. I’m coming.”

“No, Slade. I’m an old woman. If I die here in my home, it won’t be so terrible. Don’t risk your life for me.” It was a long speech for someone hurt and frightened.

“Save your strength.” Testing each board as he stepped ever so carefully, he moved slowly, coughing as the smoke swirled around his head. He crouched, ducking lower as heat shimmered in great waves. One step, then another. Then … his foot skidded on a slippery section where water had seeped. Sliding to the edge of the hole, he managed to hold on, to catch himself before going over, but just barely. The creak and moan of the old house told him he didn’t have much time, as the weight shifting was loosening things even more.

Despite his best efforts, his memory took him back to another fire, inching along that smoldering floor, trying to find a little girl. There’d been smoke then, too, and a sizzling, scorching heat. And fear. Just like now.

What if he failed again?

“Slade, are you all right?” Irma asked, barely able to see through the smoke and without the glasses she’d lost in the fall. Not only that, but her wig was turned around and hanging crookedly, her best black one. She knew crying wouldn’t help, but she felt like it anyhow.

Regaining his footing, Slade continued on his path, climbing over a broken maple chair. “I need some light over here, Chris.” The beam raced along the floor and finally he could make out Irma’s form. “There you are.”

“A sight for sore eyes, right?”

“You fishing, Irma?” he asked, grabbing hold of the section of fallen beam that had one of her legs trapped. Damn if it wasn’t wedged in there good. Kneeling so he could put his upper body weight into hefting the beam, he got a good grip. “When I give you the word, you see if you can move your leg out, okay?”

“Okay.”

It took three tries, but Slade raised the beam perhaps half an inch. “Now!” Irma’s leg moved, but not enough. Grimacing, Slade held on, knowing if he dropped it back, he could sever her foot or break her ankle. “Okay, once more,” he said, grunting with the effort, and lifted it higher. Nervous sweat trickled into his eyes, but he saw her leg pull completely free. Muscles straining, he lowered the beam slowly, trying not to cause the floor to shift.

It shifted anyhow, sending chunks of debris hurtling into the cellar while bits of the ceiling rained down on them. Placing his hand on Irma’s ankle reassuringly, Slade held perfectly still till everything was once more quiet, then he cautiously inched closer. “Okay, what hurts, anything?”

“My ankle like the fires of hell and maybe my pride,” she confessed. “Can’t believe I let myself get in this mess.”

“Hurricanes aren’t anyone’s fault, Irma,” Slade commented drily. This was no time to debate. Still on his knees, he glanced over his shoulder. The wall fire was gaining ground. When the structure was weak enough, the remaining wall would fall right on them. He prayed they had enough time to make it out before that happened.

Slade brushed at the sweat pouring into his eyes with the back of a sooty hand. There was no way he would be able to pick her up and carry her out the way he’d come in, knowing the precarious floor wouldn’t hold their combined weight. A long rectangular window was just to the left. It would be tricky, getting her to it over the fire line that was lazily hissing and sputtering. But there was no other way.

“Chris, can you find something to knock out that window with? I’m going to have to hand her through to you. Can’t risk backing up with the two of us. Floor’s gonna give any minute.”

“Right.” Glad to be able to do something more constructive than holding a flashlight, the young man carefully made his way over and, using the solid end of the heavy flashlight, began smashing the glass out. He did a thorough job, scraping off the jagged edges. Then he turned the flashlight beam back to where Slade knelt alongside Irma, who was now sitting upright. “All set.”

“Do you think you can stand, Irma?” Slade asked.

“I will, or die trying.” Holding on to him, she slowly pulled herself up.

But as she did, the boards under their feet shifted, a large section breaking off. Irma cried out, fear causing her heart to pound.

“Hold on to me!” Slade yelled. Oh, God, he couldn’t lose her now, not when they were so close. Had he misjudged yet again?

A shower of ceiling rabble fell onto both of them, battering them with chunks of tile, covering them with gray dust. Irma almost stumbled to her knees, but the iron grip of Slade’s hands held her, kept her with him. “Don’t move,” he told her.

The waiting was wearing, but he didn’t budge, not until he felt sure the shifting had stopped. He could hear the hissing of the fire raging behind him, inching closer. Carefully looking down, he saw that they had no more than a foot and a half of board left to stand on. He couldn’t waste another second. Over his shoulder, he saw that the other fire trail had snaked itself across the room and was now perilously close to the main gas line.

“Chris,” Slade said, “I’m going to pick her up and hand her out. You ready?”

“Ready,” Chris answered, propping the flashlight beam so it would provide some light. Overhead, the sky was beginning to clear, but inside Irma’s house, it was dim and dank. He held out his arms, waiting.

Trying to be careful of her injured foot, Slade picked Irma up, realizing that although she was tall, she probably weighed no more than a hundred pounds, all skin and bone. Still, that weight added to his could send them plummeting to the basement, where chances were they’d never get out again.