The Rebuilding Year (29 page)

“Yep. I needed some library time, and I figured you could give me a ride home.”

“You bought that new car, and it sits in the driveway.”

“I like riding in with you in the mornings. And the car eats gas.”

“So does my truck.”

“Yeah, but
you
pay to fill up the truck.”

John glanced at the closed door, and then kissed Ryan firmly. “I like having you around too.”

“Funny how that works.” Ryan returned the kiss, slower and more thoroughly. “Does that door happen to lock?” He rubbed his pelvis against John.

“I’m not having sex in my office,” John said firmly.

“No?” Ryan’s mouth was warm and rough on his neck, teeth scraping over stubble.

“Um, no.”
Okay, that didn’t sound very convincing.

“You’re sure?”

He wriggled loose and stepped back. “I told Mark to call if his band practice ran late. He might just come by.”

Ryan smiled. “Okay. I can wait. Some.”

John pulled out his cell phone to check for missed calls, and to help himself resist the temptation to wipe that smile off Ryan’s face in the best way.
I wonder if this floor is too hard for him to kneel on.
There were no misses on his phone, but it rang as he was pocketing it.

“Speak of the devil,” he said. “Hey, Mark.”

“Dad.” His son’s voice was a harsh whisper. “I need help.”

John glanced over at Ryan and toggled the phone to speaker. “What’s wrong?”

Ryan stepped to his side to listen.

“He’s out there, with a gun. And he’s burning stuff!”

“
What!
Who? Where are you?”

“Dr. Crosby’s lab. I think it’s him. Dad, I’m scared.”

“Look,” Ryan said loudly. “If someone has a gun, you need to call 9-1-1, now!”

“I’m really scared he’ll hear me,” Mark breathed. “I think he shot Patrick.”

Ryan snatched his own cell phone out, and was dialing 9-1-1 even as John said more softly, “What building are you in? Where’s the lab?”

“I think it’s Smythe,” Mark whispered. “I’m on the sixth floor.”

“That’s probably right. Smythe has seven. Most others are lower.” John yanked open his office door. “Mark, we’re coming.” They hurried out, leaning together over the phone.

“Oh Jesus,” Mark moaned. “He’s lighting the walls on fire.”

“You need to get out,” Ryan said urgently, toward the phone in John’s hand.

“I can’t. He’s out there.”

John stared at Ryan. They were climbing the basement stairs at Ryan’s pace. Ryan put his own phone to his other ear. John ground his teeth. Smythe was two buildings over.

“Go,” Ryan said. “I’ll catch up. I’m on with 9-1-1.”

John ran.

The door to get out of Croft Hall was bolted, now that regular hours were over. He had to pause to wrestle it open, and left it swinging behind him. The paths were ice-free, and he bolted flat-out toward the looming bulk of Smythe Hall. It was late enough that the sky was fully dark, and the streetlights were on. The windows up in Smythe were all dark, at least on this side.

“Stay safe,” John told Mark into the phone pressed to his ear. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“Patrick ran out and the man went after him,” Mark said on a soft breath. “I heard popping, like shots, and then he…Dr. Crosby came back. I’m behind the counter. He’s out in the other room. He’s got, like, a blowtorch or something. He’s muttering to himself and lighting up everything.”

It didn’t make sense.
Ignore the backstory for now.
John focused on the essentials. “Is there another door you can use to get out?”

“No.”

“A window?”

Mark’s whisper was panicked, “I’m on the sixth floor. And I don’t think they open.”

“You can always break one.”

“It’s too high!”

“I’m coming,” John said. “I’m almost there. Where on the sixth floor? Where’s the lab? What do you see out the window?”

“I’m hiding on the floor. I don’t want to stand up. I don’t see anything. I don’t even know which side of the building it is.”

“I’m at the front door.” John reached out. He expected the door to be locked, but it opened to his pull. For an instant he hesitated, wondering if he should make a quick run around the building, to look for the lighted lab.
Fuck it, I’ll find it from inside.
He stepped in. The lobby was dark, even for after hours. Only the emergency lighting was operating. The air felt heavy and still, as if the power was off.

The elevator was just to the left of the main entrance. John stabbed at the button, and then paused.
In case of fire, do not use the elevator.
In any case, the button stayed dark. He whirled and headed for the nearest stairs. The door was heavy. The staircase was dim, and as he pounded up the first flight, there was a light scent of smoke. But there was silence, no alarms, no sprinklers.

“Mark, talk to me,” he said, swinging around the post and up the next flight. He had to press the phone to his ear, as suddenly the klaxons of the fire alarm began to go off.

“Dad.” He could barely hear Mark. “The alarm started. I can’t tell if he’s still out there.”

“Do you have sprinklers?”

“No. No water. Just noise.”

“Can you look out and see if he’s still there, carefully?” He passed the third-floor landing and headed for the fourth.

“I think he’s gone, but there’s so much fire.”

John was concentrating on his son’s voice, and barely stopped in time to avoid tripping over the crumpled form on the landing between the third and fourth floors. “Damn!” He knelt beside the body and looked closer. It was the kid from the band, Patrick. He lay facedown, dark blood pooling on the floor under him.

John bent over the boy. The dim light made it hard to see, but the boy lay so still. His eyes were closed. John was reaching for a pulse when the boy groaned and moved an arm.

“I’ve found Patrick,” he told Mark over the phone. “He’s on the stairs.”

“Is he dead?”

“No.”
Not yet.
He eased the boy onto his back. Blood soaked the front of his shirt just above his jeans, and trailed down his legs. John lifted the soaked fabric gently. The skin of the boy’s abdomen was torn open in two ragged holes, which oozed blood. “But I think he’s been shot.”

Patrick’s eyes opened. He looked up at John and muttered something.

“Don’t talk,” John told him. “You’ll be okay.” He shot an agonized glance up the stairs toward Mark, and then set down his phone and struggled out of his jacket and shirt. He wadded up the shirt and pressed it over the wounds on Patrick’s body, trying to control the bleeding.

Patrick said, “Hurts,” and then coughed.

“I know,” John said, and then found himself coughing too. He looked up again. The door to the fourth floor was propped open, and dark wisps of smoke were drifting through. Most of it was spiraling up the staircase in a nebulous cloud, but some was seeping down. From beyond the door, he thought he saw an ominous flicker of light.

That’s just the fourth floor.
He held the makeshift dressing with one hand and grabbed his phone again. “Mark, you said sixth floor, right?”

“Yes, sixth.”

“Damn. There’s fire on the fourth floor too.”

“Dad?” Mark’s voice was high and thin over the speaker. “How do I get out?”

From behind John, Ryan’s voice said loudly, “Stay by the window and stay low. The first responders will be here any time now.” He turned to John. “We have to grab this kid and get out. Seriously. Right now.”

John turned to him in disbelief. “That’s Mark up there. I’m not leaving.”

“Shit.” Ryan wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “John, you know what we used to call guys who ran into a burning building without gear?”

“Stupid?” John bent to try to wrap the makeshift bandage around Patrick.

“Dead,” Ryan said in a harsh voice. “I know it’s Mark. But it does him no good to have you dead out here when the guys arrive to get him through the window.”

“Do you hear sirens?” John clamped his phone between his shoulder and ear as he tied a knot in the shirt sleeves, already wet with the boy’s blood. “I don’t hear any. I’m not leaving Mark alone up there.”

Ryan leaned in to speak into John’s phone, their cheeks brushing. “Mark. Is there fire in the actual room you’re in?”

“Nooo, but the next one.”

“Close the door in between. You hear me?”

“He’ll notice.”

“If there’s open flame, he’s either long gone or too busy. Close the door and block the crack. Then go over to the window and wait. Don’t open it or break the glass unless you can’t breathe. Stay low.”

“Okay.” There was a pause. Then Mark’s voice in John’s ear said breathily, “I closed the door but I’m scared.”

Ryan spoke over John’s automatic reassurance. “You’ll be fine. Stay on the phone with me and do as I say. You hear me, Mark?”

“Yeah.”

John looked back and forth between the boy on the floor and the stairs that led to Mark. Still no sirens. Where was the damned fire department?

“Come on,” Ryan said. “Let’s get Patrick out of here. Now!”

John gritted his teeth. “You go. I’m going to get Mark.”

“You fucking can’t.” Ryan’s fingers bit into John’s arm. “You can’t help him that way. Trust me.”

John just shook his head. If he turned around now, and something happened to Mark, John would never survive that anyway.

Ryan stared at John, his eyes wild. And then said, “Fuck. I’ll get him.”

John remembered the way Ryan came up the last few steps, hauling himself with a hand on the rail. “You can’t,” John said. “Two and a half more flights. I need to…”

“This kid can’t stand, but he’s still alive.” Ryan laid his fingers on Patrick’s pulse, confirming it. “And this building is going bad fast. I can feel it. John.” He looked intently into John’s face. “I can’t carry Patrick out. Not down stairs. You have to get him out while I go after Mark. If one of us has to, then it should be me. I’ve got a fucking hope in hell of knowing how to do it and living to tell the tale.”

“But…” John’s head whipped around to look up, at the streamers of smoke ascending. He wanted to change his mind, say no, tell Ryan to get out with him now. He didn’t want both of them at risk up there.
Mark is up there.
“Please…” It was a whisper.

Ryan’s hand landed hard on John’s shoulder, as he levered himself upright again. “Get Patrick out and safe, fast,” he said. “And then, John, for God’s sake,
don’t come back in.
That’s a firefighter’s worst nightmare—people who are out, going back in. Direct the rescue guys, tell them about me and Mark. Warn them about a guy with a gun. Have them get ladders and the net for a sixth-floor rescue. Then get clear and stay clear. Promise me. And trust me with your son.”

If you die doing this then I’ve killed you.
But he still heard no sirens, just the alarms. And only knowing Ryan was going for Mark would let John turn around himself, even with Patrick’s life in the balance. “I can’t let you go. Not if it’s that risky. But I…”

“Hey, unlike you I’m a pro. I’ll be fine.” Ryan gave a short shake of his head. “We’re ten minutes out and still no trucks. You’re right. One of us needs to get Mark. And it has to be me.”
That’s my son up there.
Every fiber of John wanted to head up those stairs, now. But this kid, Patrick, was whimpering and trembling under his hands. And if there was ever a moment to trust Ryan, this was it. “Yes,” John said.
No choices.
“But you damned well keep yourself safe too, you hear me?”

“Got it.” Ryan switched phones with John. “I’ve got Mark. You’ve got 9-1-1. See you on the outside.” He headed up the stairs again, bent to stay low below the smoke, before John could respond. John could hear his uneven footsteps on the treads, even after he passed around the bend and up out of sight.

For one more instant John hesitated. From the floor, Patrick whispered, “It was all for nothing. And then out of the dark, but the sign was there too.” His voice wavered, and John didn’t even bother to try to make sense of it.

He bent to the boy, hauling him up in a fireman’s carry. He was heavier than he looked, and long-legged. He made an awkward burden. His random motions, not struggling but not helpful either, complicated the job. John steadied himself against the rail, and then began a slow, careful descent with his burden. Patrick wailed and whimpered as he was jostled over John’s shoulder. John gritted his teeth and headed downward. Above him, the clanging alarms began to be muffled in a crackling roar. The stairwell was getting brighter.

Ryan and Mark were above that. God help them. There was nothing he could do except keep moving.

At the front door, he staggered into the arms of a familiar campus cop. Caldwell caught their combined weight without falling, and helped bring Patrick down the front steps. Sirens finally competed with the fire alarms beating against John’s ears. There were two patrol cars parked nearby, and another approaching through the gloom. But he didn’t see the fire trucks.