The Rescue (37 page)

"But you don't want to keep me, either, do you?"

To that, he had no response.

Once he was gone, Denise drifted like a zombie through the house, holding on to her self-control by a thread. She'd cried most of the night already, knowing what was to come. She'd been strong, she reminded herself as she sat on the living room couch; she'd done the right thing. She couldn't allow him to hurt Kyle again. She wasn't going to cry.

Damnit, not anymore.

But watching Kyle play with his Legos and knowing that Taylor would no longer be coming by the house made a sickening knot rise in her throat.

"I'm not going to cry," she said aloud, the words coming out like a mantra. "I'm not going to cry."

With that, she broke down and wept for the next two hours.

"So you went ahead and ended it, huh?" Mitch said, clearly disgusted.

They were in a bar, a dingy place that opened its doors for breakfast, usually to a waiting crowd of three or four regulars. Now, however, it was late in the evening. Taylor hadn't called until after eight; Mitch had shown up an hour later. Taylor had started drinking without him.

"It wasn't me, Mitch," he said defensively. "She's the one who called it off. You can't pin this one on me."

"And I suppose it just came out of the blue, right? You had nothing to do with it."

"It's over, Mitch. What do you want me to say?"

Mitch shook his head. "You know, Taylor, you're a piece of work. You sit here thinking you've got it all figured out, but you don't understand anything."

"Thanks for your support, Mitch."

Mitch glared at him. "Don't give me that crap. You don't need my support. What you need is someone to tell you to get your ass back over there and fix whatever it was you did wrong."

"You don't understand-"

"Like hell I don't!" Mitch said, slamming his beer glass onto the table. "Who do you think you are? You think I don't know? Hell, Taylor, I probably know you better than you know yourself. You think you're the only one with a shitty past? You think you're the only one who's always trying to change it? I have news for you. Everyone has crap in their background, everyone has things they wish they could undo. But most people don't go around doing their best to screw up their present lives because of it."

"I didn't screw up," Taylor said angrily. "Didn't you hear what I said? She's the one who ended it. Not me. Not this time."

"I tell you what, Taylor. You can go to the goddamn grave thinking that, but both you and I know, it ain't the whole truth. So get back over there and try to salvage it. She's the best thing that ever happened to you."

"I didn't ask you to come here so you can give me some of your advice-"

"Well, you're getting the best advice I've ever given you. Do me a favor and listen to it, okay? Don't ignore it this time. Your father would have wanted you to."

Taylor squinted at Mitch, everything suddenly tensing. "Don't bring him into this. You don't want to go there."

"Why, Taylor? Are you afraid of something? Afraid that his ghost is gonna start hovering around us or knocking our beers off the table?"

"That's enough," Taylor growled.

"Don't forget, I knew your father, too. I knew what a great guy he was. He was a guy who loved his family, loved his wife, loved his son. He would have been disappointed by what you're doing now, I can guarantee it."

The blood drained from Taylor's face and he gripped his glass hard.

"Screw you, Mitch."

"No, Taylor. You've already done that to yourself. If I did it, too, it would just be piling on."

"I don't need this crap," Taylor snapped, rising from the table. He started for the door. "You don't even know who I am."

Mitch pushed the table away from his body, knocking over the beers and causing a few heads to turn. The bartender looked up from his conversation as Mitch stood and came up behind Taylor, grabbing him roughly by his shirt and spinning him around.

"I don't know you? Hell, I know you! You're a goddamn coward, is what you are! You're afraid of living because you think it means giving up this cross you've been carrying around your whole life. But this time, you've gone too far. You think you're the only one in the world with feelings? You think you'll just walk away from Denise and everything's going to go back to normal now? You think you'll be happier? You won't, Taylor. You won't let yourself do that. And this time, you aren't just hurting one person, did you ever think of that? It isn't just Denise-you're hurting a little boy! God almighty, doesn't that mean anything to you? What the hell would your father say to that, huh? 'Good job, son'? 'I'm proud of you, son'? Not a chance. Your father would be sickened, just like I am now."

Taylor, his face white, grabbed Mitch and lifted him, driving him backward into the jukebox. Two men scattered off their stools, away from the melee, as the bartender rushed to the far end of the bar. After pulling out a baseball bat, he started back toward them. Taylor raised his fist.

"What are you gonna do? Hit me?" Mitch taunted.

"Knock it off!" the bartender shouted. "Take that shit outside, now!"

"Go ahead," Mitch said. "I don't really give a damn."

Biting his lip so hard that it began to bleed, Taylor pulled his arm back, ready to strike, his hand shaking.

"I'll always forgive you, Taylor," Mitch said almost calmly. "But you gotta forgive yourself, too."

Taylor, hesitating, struggling, finally released Mitch and turned away, toward the faces staring at him. The bartender was at his side, bat in hand, waiting to see what Taylor was going to do.

Stifling the curses in his throat, he strode out the door.

Chapter
23

Just before midnight Taylor returned home to a flickering message on his answering machine. Since leaving Mitch he'd been alone, doing his best to clear his mind, and had sat on the bridge where he'd plunged into the river only a few months earlier. That night, he realized, was the first night he'd needed Denise. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Guessing that Mitch had left him a message, Taylor walked to the answering machine, regretting his outburst at his friend, and pressed the play button. To his surprise, it wasn't Mitch.

It was Joe from the fire department, his voice straining to stay calm.

"There's a warehouse fire, on the outskirts of town. Arvil Henderson's place. A big one-everyone in Edenton has been called, and additional trucks and crews are being requested from the surrounding counties. Lives are in danger. If you get the message in time, we'll need your help. . . ."

The message had been left twenty-four minutes ago.

Without listening to the rest of the message, Taylor hung up the phone and raced to the truck, cursing himself for having turned off his cell phone when he left the bar. Henderson's was a regional wholesaler of housepaint and one of the larger businesses in Chowan County. Trucks were loaded day and night; every hour of the day saw at least a dozen people working inside the warehouse.

It would take him about ten minutes to get there.

Everyone else was probably already on the scene, and he'd be rolling in some thirty minutes late. Those thirty minutes could mean the difference between life and death to any number of trapped people inside.

Others were fighting for their lives while he'd been out feeling sorry for himself.

Gravel shot from his tires as he turned around in the driveway, barely slowing as he turned on the road. His tires squealed and the engine roared as Taylor punched the gas, still cursing. The truck slid through numerous turns on the way to Henderson's as he took every shortcut he knew. When he hit a straight stretch of road, he accelerated until he was traveling at nearly ninety miles an hour. Tools rattled in the back; he heard a thump of something heavy as it slid across the bed of the truck while it made another turn.

Minutes ticked by, long minutes, eternal minutes. In time he could see the sky glowing orange in the distance, an ungodly color in the darkness. He slammed his hand on the steering wheel when he realized how large the fire was. Over the sound of the engine, he could hear the distant wailing of sirens.

He slammed on the brakes, the truck tires almost refusing to catch, then fishtailed onto the road that ran toward Henderson's. The air was already thick with greasy black smoke, fueled by the petroleum in the paint. Without a breeze, the smoke hung languidly all around him; he could see the flames rising from the warehouse. It was blazing violently when Taylor made a final turn, coming to a halt, his tires screeching.

Pandemonium everywhere.

Three pumper trucks were already on the scene . . . hoses hooked to hydrants, blowing water toward one side of the building . . . the other side still undamaged but looking as if it wouldn't stay that way for long . . . two ambulances, their lights flashing on and off . . . five people on the ground being attended by others . . . two others being helped out of the warehouse, supported on either side by men who seemed as weak as they were . . .

As he scanned the hellish scene, he noticed Mitch's car off to one side, although it was impossible to make him out in the chaos of bodies and vehicles.

Taylor leapt from the truck and scrambled toward Joe, who was barking orders, trying and failing to gain control of the situation. Another fire truck arrived, this one from Elizabeth City; six more men jumped out and started unwinding the hose while another ran toward another hydrant.

Joe turned and saw Taylor rushing toward him. His face was covered with black soot, and he pointed toward the hook and ladder.

"Get your gear!" he shouted.

Taylor followed his orders, climbing up and pulling out a suit, then tearing off his boots. Two minutes later, fully outfitted, Taylor ran toward Joe again.

As he moved, the evening was suddenly shattered by a series of explosions, dozens, one right after the other. A black cloud mushroomed from the center of the building, the smoke curling as if a bomb had gone off. People nearest the building hit the ground as burning portions of the roof and building shot toward them, deadly in their aim.

Taylor dove and covered his head.

Flames were everywhere now, the building being consumed from within. More explosions erupted, rocketing debris as firemen scattered backward, away from the heat. From the inferno emerged two men, limbs on fire; hoses were trained on them, and they fell to the ground, writhing.

Taylor pushed up from the ground and ran toward the heat, toward the blaze, toward the men on the ground. . . . Seventy yards, running wildly, the world suddenly resembling a war zone . . . more explosions as paint can after paint can exploded inside, the fire raging out of control . . . breathing difficult because of the fumes . . . an external wall suddenly collapsed outward, barely missing the men.

Taylor squinted, his eyes tearing and burning as he finally reached the two men. Both were unconscious, flames lapping within inches of them now. He grabbed both of them by the wrists and began to pull them back, away from the flames. The heat from the fire had melted part of their gear, and Taylor could see them almost smoldering as he dragged them to safety. Another fireman arrived, someone Taylor didn't know, and took charge of one of the wounded men. They doubled their pace, pulling them toward the ambulances as a paramedic rushed over.

Only one part of the building was left untouched now, though judging by the smoke pouring through the small rectangular windows that had been blown out, that section was getting ready to blow as well.

Joe was motioning frantically for everyone to get back, to move away to a safe distance. No one could hear him above the roar.

The paramedic arrived and immediately knelt before the wounded men. Their faces were singed and their clothes were still smoldering, the oil-fired flames having defeated the fire-retardant suits. The paramedic pulled a pair of sharp scissors from his box and began to cut open the suit of one of the firemen, peeling it off. Another paramedic appeared from nowhere and began the same procedure on the other man.

Both were moaning in agony now, conscious again. As their suits were cut, Taylor helped to tear them away from the men's skin. Up one leg, then the next, followed by their arms and torso. They were helped into a sitting position, and their suits were stripped from their bodies. One man had worn jeans and two shirts beneath; he'd escaped largely unburned except for his arms. The second, however, had only worn a T-shirt beneath his suit-that too had to be cut away from his skin. His back was blistered with second-degree burns.

Looking up from the injured men, Taylor saw Joe waving wildly again; three men were crowded around him, and three others were closing in. It was then that Taylor turned toward the building and knew that something was terribly wrong.

He rose and began to rush toward Joe, a wave of nausea breaking over him. Drawing near, he heard the soul-numbing words.

"They're still inside! Two men! Over there!"

Taylor blinked, a memory rising from the ashes.

A boy, nine years old, in the attic, calling from the window . . .

It stopped him cold. Taylor looked toward the flaming ruins of the warehouse, now only partially standing; then, as if in a dream, he started toward the only portion of the building left intact, the part that housed the offices. Gaining speed, he rushed past the men holding the hoses, ignoring their calls to stop.