Page 18 of Love Again

Keller’s confirmed there are no occupants in the building. The shout for water comes. I turn the cap and start back to the first rig. Keller hands me a nozzle. The second hose is already on the ground. I run toward the house, facing the fire. Within fifteen feet of the flames, I yell, “Water!” and brace my arms.

The feeling of water surging though a hose is a rush, every single time. I grip the hold with my left hand and adjust the nozzle for a targeted spray. With wildfire, I worked with smooth bore nozzles. These automatic spray nozzles aren’t really automatic, and it took a little trial and error on my part to learn how to use them correctly.

The heat is extreme, even for a house fire, and I have to step back five feet or so. I leave my SCBA off as flames turn to billows of dark-gray smoke, boiling out of windows and the front door. I want to save my bottle of oxygen for the walk through—that’s when there’re chemicals in the air.

It appears as if there’s no orchestration—shouting, men hurrying, zipping hoses, lines draped on the ground crisscrossing each other—but this is all part of an organized effort to kill it.

And we do. Literally, in a matter of minutes.

But the damage, I know, will be devasting.

When the worst is over and Keller says we can enter the structure to look for hot spots, I turn on my SCBA, which is like scuba gear, and hear myself breathing.

They all think I’m a wuss. But I took bio chem and inorganic chemistry. I know what’s in the air post-fire: everything that will give you cancer or scar your lungs.

Two hours later, I pull off the respirator, shove my face shield up, and walk around to the back of the building to find Keller.

He’s crouched down, a tablet out, taking pictures.

Glancing up, he waves me back. “Watch it from above. The fire started here and shot up the exterior side to the roof. There might be crap falling down. Look at this,” he says and points to a cylinder about the size of a hubcap but is less than a foot deep. “There are two of these.”

I kneel down.

“Don’t touch.”

“I’m not,” I say. “You going to call Carlson?” Detective Jack Carlson of the Rockland Police Department and I have some history, and he helped Laurel last fall. He’s a good guy, but he thinks I take risks I don’t need to. He may be right.

Keller nods. “Yep, this was set. Just like the other one last month and the one last summer. You know the one.”

I do. An infant died of smoke inhalation. I held the body. I also ended up seeing a counselor—for the second time. Keller urged me to see a psychologist. He was smart to force my hand because I never would have gone on my own.

“You think it’s the same person?”

He scratches his forehead. “We don’t have arson much around here. This is different.” He points to the rings. “But setting it in the backyard, in broad daylight, using rags and some sort of ignition switch . . . that’s identical. So yeah. Chances are, same person.”

We stand at the same time, and this moment of unity makes my heart unclench for a moment. “Listen, Keller. I did not handle myself well Saturday. I’m grateful you kept all that stuff about Luke and me to yourself. Thanks.”

He grins at me. “What stuff?”

΅

The remainder of my shift is dead. Except for one call for a possible wall fire that turned out to be nothing. “I think I smell roasted garlic,” Dirk noted.

I stay holed up in my room at the station. It’s Tuesday morning, before six, when there’s a tap on my door.

Expecting Keller, or Dirk, who borrowed a sewing kit from me two shifts ago, I’m not prepared to see Luke.

I’m also not prepared to have him standing so close to me.

I stop breathing. It’s an automatic reaction.

He looks nervous, but it’s still dark out and the hallway isn’t lit.

“Can I come in?”

“I’m not supposed to let anyone into this space.”

“I’m sure Keller will understand.”