Stranger in the House (26 page)

For a moment Edward sat, stunned, in his seat. Then, he saw the doors to the squad car open. A uniformed officer climbed out of the driver’s seat. Edward recognized the plainclothes officer getting out on the passenger side. It was Buddy Ferraro, the detective who was always hanging around the Langes’. Calm down, Edward thought. Remember your position in this town. Intimidate them into letting you go. By the time they realize they’re mistake, you’ll be long gone.

Edward remained seated in the driver’s seat, composing his expression into one of icy rage.

Buddy Ferraro walked up to the window and indicated that Edward should lower it. Edward pressed the button and the window came down.

“Mr. Stewart,” said Buddy. “You were in an awful hurry.”

“And your officer was driving carelessly and recklessly. I will have your badge for this, Detective. You’ve put a big dent in my car. Now kindly get out of my way and let me pass. I will settle this matter with your superiors, I promise you.”

Buddy grimaced, and shook his head. “No, I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to do that. You see, we were on our way over here to talk to you just now.”

“To talk to me?” Edward said. “What in the world would you have to say that might interest me?”

“We have some things to discuss. Please get out of the car, Mr. Stewart,” said Buddy.

“How dare you?” Edward demanded. “You’re going to be looking for another place to work.”

Buddy looked at Edward with narrowed eyes and then glanced into the back seat where he saw the suitcases. “Are you going on a trip, Mr. Stewart?”

“That is none of your business.”

“On the contrary. I think it’s very much my business, Mr. Stewart. Now, get out.”

Trembling with genuine indignation, Edward opened the door of the car. He could hardly believe that this policeman was continuing to defy him. As if Edward’s wealth and position were of no importance. Edward knew all about people like this detective. People with humdrum lives who could only dream of the kind of life Edward had achieved. They enjoyed trying to prove that they were equals. The nobility of the common man and all that. What a sham, Edward thought. He struggled out of the car and peered at the damage to his Cadillac. Then he began to shake his head. “You know, Detective. I doubt very much if, on your salary, you’re going to be able to afford to pay for the repair of my car. I don’t know how familiar you are with automobiles of this caliber but…”

“I’m not worried, Mr. Stewart. And neither should you be. Not about that,” said Buddy. “But there is something you might be worried about.”

Instantly, Edward thought of the fire. He was worried about that, all right. He had to get away before they discovered it. He glanced over at the patrolman who was crouched down beside the police cruiser, examining the damage. The patrolman straightened up and looked around with a puzzled expression on his face. He sniffed the air. “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Not right now,” said Buddy. “Mr. Stewart. A Mr. deBlakey called the station today. He’s been trying to get ahold of me for a couple of days. He wanted me to know that he had, in his possession, a Bible that was written in by Albert Rambo during his stay at Mr. deBlakey’s motel.”

Edward rolled his eyes, and looked bored. “And this would matter to me because…?”

“Because Albert Rambo wrote your name and phone number in his Bible on the night before he died. Can you explain to me why he did that, Mr. Stewart?”

Edward felt the blood draining out of his face, and he swayed slightly. It’s nothing, he told himself. Nothing. They can’t hold you because a madman wrote your name in his Bible. But even as he was reassuring himself, he felt his confidence beginning to wobble. Could it be? Could it happen?

Buddy stared at Edward, and Edward stared straight ahead. “Mr. Stewart?”

“I don’t have to discuss anything with you,” Edward said stiffly.

The patrolman who was sniffing the air made a face. “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I gotta tell ya. I smell smoke. I think that house is on fire.”

I should never have let him go back in there, she thought. He’ll never get out alive. I’ll lose them both. I have to go after them.

Anna tried to stand but couldn’t. She couldn’t hoist herself up any higher than her hands and knees. Her head felt like a cannonball on her neck. She tried to crawl forward, toward the burning building, but collapsed almost immediately. Tom, she thought. Paul. She had to go after them.

Then she thought of Tracy. She still had a daughter, who needed her. Maybe God had left her alive for Tracy. “Please save them,” she whispered.

Anna groaned. Her arms trembled under her weight, and her wrists felt as if they could snap. She struggled up and sat back on her heels, her bruised knees digging into the ground. He had been gone too long. Too long. There were no human sounds.

The urge to go in rose in her again. Part of her wanted to plunge in and throw herself on the flames like a grieving widow on the funeral pyre. The idea was almost tempting. It would be a way to relieve the horror. “Tom,” she wailed. But she thought of Tracy again, and she knew she wouldn’t do it.

Somewhere in the distance the sirens of fire engines began their plaintive wail. Anna heard them keening, but in her distraction she did not understand that they were coming to her. The sound grew louder as they came closer, and then she realized it.

Suddenly, in the doorway of the windmill, a dark, crouching figure burst forth, carrying another. Anna let out a cry of relief at the sight of her husband, grimy and gasping for breath.

“Tom,” she cried, lurching to her feet. “Darling.”

Then she looked at the burden in his arms. The boy was utterly still, except for his head, which bobbed lifelessly as Thomas carried him from the fire. On parts of his limp body the flesh appeared to be smoking through charred tissue. His eyes were closed, his mouth thrown open as if he had been crying out for the precious air that never came.

Anna looked from the boy to her husband, and then she raised her hands as if to ward off a blow. She began to scream.

Thomas placed the boy gently on the ground and looked up at her.

“No, Anna,” he whispered, coughing hard into his hand. “He’s alive. He is. Believe me.”

Anna clapped her hands over her mouth and sank to her knees as Thomas bent over Paul’s body and began to try to resuscitate him. She watched, transfixed, as Thomas placed his mouth over his son’s and exhaled his own breath into him, turning his head to the side and listening for a response after each puff. On about the tenth breath the boy’s chest moved, and Thomas looked up and met her eyes.

“See,” he said. Anna nodded and closed her eyes. She placed one hand on the boy’s arm and the other on her husband. Thomas bent over Paul’s body again, holding his head back in preparation for breathing.

“Can you do that?” Anna demanded. “Do you have the strength?”

Thomas only nodded, not wanting to waste the oxygen. Once again he put his mouth on Paul’s and continued to breathe into the boy’s mouth, while Anna watched as the boy’s chest began to rise and fall in a steady rhythm and a semblance of color returned to his face. There was a commotion in the distance now as the fire engines and ambulance which Buddy had summoned on the police radio converged in the Stewarts’ driveway.

“Tom, look,” said Anna as Paul’s eyes opened and rolled around to her. Thomas straightened up beside her. They both looked worriedly down at the boy and smiled at him.

“You okay?” Anna asked softly. The boy nodded and then began to cough as if he would choke. “Tom,” said Anna, grabbing his arm, “I think he’s choking.”

“No, he’s got to get the smoke out.” Thomas gripped Paul’s hand as he coughed until the spasm ended. “He’ll be all right. You’re stubborn, right? You’re a fighter.”

Paul managed a feeble smile and wrapped his fingers around his father’s. Tom smiled at Anna. “I think he gets that from you.” Tom lowered his head to the boy’s ear and spoke softly. “We’ll get you to the hospital in no time, don’t worry.” Even as he spoke, the fire trucks and the ambulance came screeching up over the Stewarts’ well-manicured grounds.

Paul nodded and closed his eyes, which were bloodshot and still tearing from the smoke. Tom gazed down, studying his son’s haggard face. “I wonder what he gets from me,” he said with a sad sigh.

Anna put her arm around him and watched her son’s steady breathing. “Everything there is,” she said gently. “Every good thing there is.”