Playing With Fire (20 page)

Well, if it was no big deal, why was her heart doing a fair imitation of a sledge hammer?

Lindsay groaned. Nothing here that she could see. No box, no package, no bag. Standing on tiptoes, she patted the overhead shelf with the flat of her hand. Bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

She planted her hands on her hips and stared at the unyielding closet. “What gives?” All at once, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

She wasn't alone in the bedroom.

Someone had come in through the connecting bathroom.

Slamming the closet door shut, she wheeled about, then went weak with relief. “Oh, it's you."

"Disappointed?” Dennis strutted into the room.

Hiding her unease, she asked, “What did you say Matt left? I can't find anything in the closet."

"Is that so?” He scratched his head. “I could have sworn that's where he told me he put it."

"Never mind. It's not important.” A sixth sense warned her something was amiss and to make tracks. She turned toward the door, but didn't get far.

"What's your rush?” Dennis stepped in front of her. For a bulky man, he moved quickly.

"Whatever game you're playing, I don't want any part of it."

"Sweet thing, you have no idea. But I'd like to tell you.” His huge hand closed around her arm, and he yanked her close. Unprepared, she stumbled straight into him. “Better yet, why don't I show you?"

He tried to kiss her, but she twisted her head to the side. His lips missed hers and grazed her cheek. Instinctively, she recoiled. “Quit it, Dennis. This isn't funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny."

His second attempt to kiss her was also thwarted. “Get away from me!” She shoved at him, her anger mounting and also, to a lesser degree, her fear. “I'll scream."

Dennis laughed. “You can't blame a guy for trying. Now that Callahan's out of the picture, I figure you're looking for a replacement."

She knew then he'd tricked her. And both the trick and her falling for it infuriated her. “You lied. Matt didn't leave me anything in the closet."

"You're smart. I like that in a woman.” His hands settled on her waist. “Among other things."

Lindsay simply reacted. She didn't think, she didn't analyze, she didn't worry that someone might hear them. Thrusting her hand into his groin, she grabbed and squeezed with all the force her five fingers could muster.

Squawking in pain, Dennis released her and doubled over. “What the hell..."

Lindsay maintained her paralyzing hold on him. His complexion darkened to a brilliant crimson, and he wheezed like a sick, old man. Placing her lips to his ear, she said, “Don't you ever touch me again. Do you understand?” Sucking air, he nodded. “If you do, I'll file a sexual harassment suit faster than you can say misconduct."

With one more squeeze for good measure, she let him go and stepped back.

Stooping over, Dennis cupped his privates. “You're really a bitch.” He grunted. “You know that?"

"No, I'm a firefighter.” She squared her shoulders. “And a damn good one."

On that final note, she exited the bedroom.

There was something to be said about standing up for oneself. It rated right up there with bubble baths and Baby Ruths. Lindsay felt better than she had in days.

After a brisk fifteen minute jaunt along the concrete walkway looping through the park, Lindsay and Booter neared the one mile marker. On the other side of a grassy embankment was a small construction site, cordoned off with neon orange webbing. Tall orange and white posts topped with blinking yellow lights secured the webbing. High mounds of dirt had been piled along what looked like a deep trench. Signs warned of possible danger and ordered passersby to stay clear.

Lindsay veered far to the left. Booter, who, so far, had been satisfied to walk calmly by her side, suddenly strained at the leash, pulling hard in the direction of the trench.

"Come on, boy.” She firmly, yet gently, guided him back. “Can't you read? That keep out sign refers to dogs, too."

Booter continued fighting the leash, digging his feet into the sidewalk and choking himself on his collar.

She commanded him to sit, but he disobeyed and started barking. “Quiet, boy."

Placing her fingers on his muzzle to silence him, she listened for any noise out of the ordinary. There was none. She again attempted to lead Booter away, but he refused to budge, standing like a stone statue, his gaze riveted on the trench.

For no reason other than intuition, she dropped Booter's leash. He immediately ran up the embankment. Nose to the ground, he circled the orange web fence until he found an opening, then crashed through. Lindsay gave chase. She caught up with him on the opposite side of the dirt mound. He stood at the edge of the trench, staring into the wide hole and whining.

She approached cautiously, unsure what Booter had found but knowing instinctively it wasn't good. Looking down, her heart caught in her throat. At the bottom of the ten foot deep trench, next to a length of exposed pipe, lay the still body of a child.

Several inches of muddy water pooled around him. Something dark, possibly blood, covered one entire side of his head and his right leg stuck out at an unnatural angle. In the dim light, Lindsay couldn't tell if he was breathing or not.

She wasted no time finding out. Sitting on the edge of the trench, she hung her legs over the side and pushed off. Numbing pain radiated all through her when she hit bottom. She shook it off and yanked her cell phone from her belt, dialing 9-1-1. As the call went through, she kneeled down to examine the child. To her vast relief, he was breathing, though it was shallow and irregular.

A woman's voice came on the line. “What is the nature of your emergency?"

Lindsay identified herself, then described the accident and their location.

"I've dispatched an emergency response team,” the operator said. “They're on their way. Does the child have any visible injuries?"

"He's unconscious and appears to be in shock.” Lindsay answered the operator's questions to the best of her ability, giving as much information as she could before disconnecting. She was careful not to move the child or touch him, except as necessary to determine his condition. At the first sound of a siren in the distance, Booter started howling.

Two minutes later, Rebecca hollered at Lindsay from topside. “Lindsay? Good Lord, is that you?"

A beam of light flashed in Lindsay's face, temporarily blinding her. “Yes, it's me,” she hollered back, shielding her eyes.

"What have you got?"

"A boy. He's alive, but barely. Head trauma. Shock. Possible broken leg and internal injuries."

"Get ready. We're dropping the stretcher."

Along with the stretcher came help. Dennis was also lowered into the trench. Their eyes met briefly and the mutual message was clear. A life hung in the balance. Now wasn't the time for personal differences.

They worked speedily. Dennis handled the heavy work while Lindsay attended the boy. As soon as he was strapped in and the lines in place, Rebecca and the other firefighter lifted him out.

Lindsay and Dennis were next. By the time the two were safely topside, the boy was being loaded into the waiting ambulance. A sizeable crowd of onlookers and emergency personnel had gathered.

"Do you think he'll make it?” Lindsay asked Rebecca while absently patting Booter's head. The two women watched the ambulance pull away from the curb and disappear into traffic.

"He's alive and that's something. Thanks to you."

"Thanks to Booter.” Lindsay smiled at the dog, and he wagged his tail. “He's the one who found the boy. I just made the call."

"Don't underestimate yourself, Lindsay. Another person might have ignored their dog and walked away. You didn't. You investigated. And that one small decision changed the entire outcome."

The crowd thinned, leaving behind a few stragglers. The firefighters packed up their equipment and gear while policemen and city workers secured the construction site. A TV cameraman filmed a pretty blonde reporter as she interviewed an excited witness.

Lindsay and Booter rode back to the station in the engine. On the way to her car, Dennis stopped her.

"Nice work back there."

She studied his face for any trace of insincerity and found none. “You, too."

"Look. I just want to say ... Well, I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I was out of line."

Wow. An apology. It was the last thing she expected from him, and it rendered her speechless. She remembered the remark Rebecca had made at the scene about one small decision changing the entire outcome of something. How she responded to Dennis could, and likely would, affect the future of their working together.

One decision.

Lindsay made up her mind.

"Apology accepted."

"Great.” He shoved his hands in his front pockets and shuffled his feet. An awkward lull stretched between them, which Dennis broke. “I'll see ya later, then."

She tugged on Booter's leash, and he obediently followed. “Night."

His Highness detested Booter on sight. Impersonating a Halloween cat, he arched his back into a hairpin curve. With fur standing on end, he hissed and spit and struck out at the intruder with claws extended. Booter, delighted with the prospect of a new playmate, initiated a game of tag-you're-it. He lost, earning a nasty scratch in the process. The two new roomies retreated to opposite corners of the living room, each sulking for different reasons.

It had been a long, physically exhausting, emotionally-packed day. Lindsay should be in bed, fast asleep, but her mind kept replaying the day's events at a hundred miles an hour.

She wanted to call Matt. More than that, she wanted to see him. But even if she worked up the courage to contact him, it was too late. Past ten o'clock at night and past the point where they had any chance of resolving their problems.

Or was it?

She and Dennis had reached an understanding of sorts and after the incident at the station. She'd have thought that impossible. It happened because they'd put aside their personal relationship for the sake of the job—that, and Dennis taking the first step toward reconciliation by apologizing.

Why couldn't she and Matt do the same? Admittedly, they'd failed at separating their personal and business lives. But that didn't mean they couldn't if they tried—if
she
tried. Matt had been willing that day in the station laundry room. She'd been the one to walk out on their relationship. Could she now take that first step toward reconciliation? Matt still loved her, of that she was sure. She'd seen it in his eyes today while they sat outside the Habitat for Humanity house.

One small decision could change the outcome entirely
.

Lindsay picked up the phone and dialed Matt's home number, quickly before her nerve deserted her.

Joey answered. “Hello."

"You're up late."

"Hey, Lindsay. Something wrong? You sound funny."

"No. Everything's fine.” Hopefully. Her jaw ached from clenching it. “Is Matt available?"

There. She'd done it. And the ground hadn't opened up and swallowed her whole.

"No, he's not."

Disappointment cut deep. “I see."

"He's in Tucson. I thought you might be him calling when the phone rang.” Joey paused to draw a breath. “His dad's in the hospital."

"The hospital?"

"He's had a heart attack. A bad one. He may not last the night."

Chapter 12

In his line of work, Matt saw countless people hooked up to tubes, wires, and monitors. But none of them had been someone he knew. Someone—much as he tried to deny it—he cared about. The jolt from walking into the hospital's critical care unit yesterday afternoon and seeing his larger-than-life father reduced to a pale shadow of his former self had yet to wear off.

Matt checked the heart monitor on a stand near his father's head as he did every few minutes. The green blip continued to spike and dip at regular intervals, giving him a small measure of comfort.

There'd been a time last night when the screen hadn't blipped. In its place had been a long, flat line and piercing alarm.

Everett Callahan's heart had stopped beating.

For a moment, so had Matt's.

Doctors and nurses came running. They formed a human wall around the hospital bed. Matt and his mother were shuffled out into the hall where they waited, clinging to each other. The next few minutes had stretched into an eternity.

His mother's prayers were answered. Everett Callahan revived, but there were no guarantees. His weakened heart might yet quit again.

No matter where the hospital,
Matt thought as he left his mother to walk around his father's bed,
critical care units were all alike,
t
he same equipment, the same compassionate staff, the same worried expressions on the faces of friends and loved ones.

Only two visitors were allowed in the room at one time. Matt and his sister took turns staying with their mother. When not with her, they made phone calls, catnapped in the waiting area, or grabbed a bite to eat in the cafeteria. The death watch, as one callous teen with tattoos and pierced eyebrows had called it. Matt hoped the kid was wrong.

Everett Callahan turned his head and lifted his right arm as if reaching for something. Because he was closest, Matt grabbed his father's hand. It was, he realized, the first time they'd touched in years.

June Callahan leaned forward and cupped her husband's face. “Can you hear me? Are you in pain?” She glanced worriedly at Matt. “Do you think he's in pain?"

Matt looked down at his father's smooth, ghostlike face. “I doubt it. He's heavily medicated."

Everett Callahan roused and muttered a few unintelligible words.

"I don't understand you, dear.” Mrs. Callahan put her face close to her husband's.

"He's thirsty.” Matt couldn't explain how he knew. He just did.

Mrs. Callahan picked up a plastic pitcher from the nightstand and poured a small amount of water into a cup. She placed a straw in the cup, then held it to her husband's lips. “Here you go."