Lifelines: Kate's Story (44 page)

Socrates
whimpered. Insecure, the dog must be insecure.

Mac
rubbed his hands together and rolled onto his side.

He
heard scratching.

Dog
probably needed to take a leak. Mac needed air, himself. He’d worked up a hell
of a sweat, facing death in Peru, with ghosts, talking dogs, and the dam about
to burst.

He
rolled out of bed, hit something with his toe and cursed.

Socrates
yelped.

“Where
the hell are my shoes?”

The
only response he heard was breathing, and a sort of rumble. That, and Mac’s
feet felt hot. “Jesus, it’s hot in here.”

The
pitiful sound Socrates made sent a shiver over Mac’s skin.

Too
damned hot. In the dream, he’d smelled smoke, and falling stars burned his
clothes and skin. Now the pressure of his feet on the floor made the heat so
sharp he stumbled and landed in a tangle of bedding.

The
wall behind the head of the bed was glowing! The floor ... heat ... fire under the
floor. He fought free of the blanket, felt fire bite into his arm.

Socrates
started barking.

Mac
shook the blanket away, but something still stuck to his arm. He stumbled into
the bathroom, turned on the tap by feel and shoved the plug into the drain,
found a cloth and shoved it into the overflow. He grabbed and found towels, wet
them in the sink.

“Gotta
get out, Socrates ... smoke ...” Eyes burning. No damned wonder he couldn’t
breathe. Smoke in his eyes, his throat.

He
yanked the towels out, dripping, and left the tap running. When the water
overflowed, it might douse some of the fire, but he and Socrates needed to get
out of here before it did. Otherwise, they’d be steam-baked when water hit that
burning floor.

The
bed tilted away from him and suddenly the whole room glowed. He rammed one of
the wet towels over his mouth, bent down to tangle his fingers in Socrates
collar. He tried to put the other wet towel over Socrates nose, but the dog was
frantic.

The
whole floor could break out in flames any minute.

Mac
stumbled with the dog, reached up and opened the door. Halfway through, he was
caught by a paroxysm of coughing. Socrates pulled on his arm and they fell into
the office together. Socrates didn’t stop when he landed, just kept pulling towards
the outside door.

“Hold
on—” Mac felt for the edge of the bedroom door and slammed it closed behind
them. “Gotta contain the fire.”

Socrates
barked sharply.

“I
know. Let’s go.”

They
crashed into the outside door together, but the door didn’t give. Mac yanked on
it, but it stuck firmly.

The
window.

No.
Too small, too high. Why hadn’t he put in a bigger window? Security. Small
windows, hard to break in. Shit. He yanked on the door again, heard fire growl
through the wall behind him.

Gotta
smash the door. What did he have in the office—chair? No, not heavy enough.
Desk ... could he ram the desk right through the door?

He
had tools in the storage area through another door in the back wall of the
office, but with fire consuming the wall of the bedroom, the storage area
itself must be in flames.

He
flung himself against the door to outside, but it was an exterior door, solidly
mounted. He grabbed the doorknob with one hand, missed. He grabbed again, and
missed, but his fingers closed on the deadbolt knob.

The
handle was straight up and down.

Locked.

No,
couldn’t be. Smoke made him confused, because ... locked ... fumbled, but the lock
wouldn’t release. Socrates scratched at the door as Mac yanked on the lower
knob to release pressure.

The
bolt slid smoothly open.

He
yanked open the door and pulled Socrates out, shoved the door closed behind
them. When he let go of Socrates collar, the dog wouldn’t move away from Mac.

“Don’t
worry. I’m not going back.”

Socrates
pulled towards the truck. Gravel bit on Mac’s bare feet.

“Yeah,
you’re right. We need to get the truck away from the building.” Except he’d
left his keys in his pants pocket, inside the building. He doubled over with
another coughing attack as he tried to reach for the truck’s door. He must have
passed out coughing, because the next thing he knew Socrates was licking his
face, and his arm was on fire.

Socrates
whimpered.

“Yeah
... I know ... cell phone.”

Adrenaline
or shock must have masked the pain until now, because agony suddenly pulsed
through his arm, up into his shoulder, and he couldn’t seem to use his right
arm at all. He used his left, got the door open and grabbed the cell phone from
its holder. Then he let Socrates lead him away from the building, but the fire
in his arm grew and spread to the soles of his feet. He fell, but didn’t lose
his grip on the cell phone.

He
concentrated on the numbers.

9-1-1.

T
he
jackhammer behind Mac’s eyes wouldn’t stop. The painkillers they gave him at
the hospital dimmed the pain in his arm, but his feet and head wouldn’t stop
throbbing. The doctor told him he’d earned the headache sharing air with the
fumes and smoke, and he was damned lucky he hadn’t ended the night in a coffin.

Mac
said, “I’m alive because a dog named Socrates woke me up.”

When
a nurse asked for the name of a relative to call, he gave Denny’s number.
Earlier, he’d told the firemen to take Socrates to Denny. In due course, Mac’s
foreman turned up, carrying a bag of his own clothes, because all Mac had was
what he’d slept in—which was nothing. Denny’s shirt crowded his shoulders, but
the borrowed jeans fit, and luckily the running shoes were a couple of sizes
too big—room for the dressings on his feet.

At
Denny’s place, he managed a couple of hours sleep on the sofa with Socrates on
the floor beside him. When he woke, Denny’s wife Jocelyn tried to feed him
spaghetti, but he couldn’t keep it down. He didn’t try the coffee she offered.

He
slept again, then woke around noon when the cops turned up with questions. He
couldn’t tell them much. He managed to drink a glass of milk after they left,
and asked Denny to give him and Socrates a ride to the construction yard where
he was to meet the Fire Marshal.

At
the yard, Denny offered to stay, but Mac didn’t want witnesses while he looked
at the carnage. He used the cell phone to make some calls, then he spent some
time sitting on the ground against the wire fence, while Socrates leaned
against him as if to give needed support while Mac waited.

From
outside, he couldn’t see anything except a couple of broken windows. Yellow
crime scene tape stretched all around the building, and the whole place stank
of soot. He and Socrates had walked a futile circle around the building, with
Socrates making sounds like he’d made the night before when he woke Mac. After
one circuit, Mac’s feet wouldn’t take any more and they settled against the
fence to wait.

He
said, “We better prepare ourselves for a shock inside,” and the dog grunted
agreement.

“The
fire didn’t get to the outside walls, but the wall between the storage and the
bedroom is destroyed. Ditto the wooden floor, but the concrete underneath will
be OK. Heat probably trashed the computer.”

Socrates
seemed to agree.

“Structural
damage to the building. At the very least, the main wall and the floor.”

Socrates
lifted his head.

“Yeah,
I heard it. Truck coming.”

Captain
Sam Cikkens looked like a man who’d seen a lot of fires. He ushered Mac into
the storage area. When Mac told Socrates to sit outside the door, the dog
whimpered once, then settled outside the door.

“Power’s
off,” said Sam. “You’ll have to get an electrical inspector in before you can
turn it back on.” They walked along shadowy piles of lumber, guided by Cikkens
flashlight. “Your dog was pretty upset when the ambulance took you away this
morning.”

“He
woke me up. If he hadn’t, I’d be dead now.”

“Here’s
where it started.” Sam stopped at a plastic ribbon stretched across to make a
barrier some five feet from the end wall. “Can you tell me what was on that
wall?”

“Four
shelves.” Mac gestured to the remains of the top shelf, the only one remaining.
The lower three shelves had collapsed into a heap of rubble. “Down the left
side, here, about a dozen gallons of paint—gypsum board primer and white paint
mostly. A few quarts of paint thinner, unopened. We don’t store thinners or
paint in here once they’re opened. On the upper shelves above the paint: paint
trays, sanding blocks. Rollers on the top two shelves. All unused.” Mac pointed
as he listed the contents of the shelves. When he got to the bank of shelves on
the right side, he paused.

“A
variety of tools here: nails, electrical connectors. Electrical wire—four
spools, I think—stacked on the floor under the bottom shelf. Also on the
shelves ... wire pullers ... ah, sander—no, that’s in the toolbox in the back of my
pickup.

“We
just finished a job, so what’s here are tools we use in the early stages of
construction. Grinder, two power saws. One miter box—the other is in my pickup
bed. Oh, yeah, the big chain saw.”

“What
do you use that for?”

“The
odd time we need to take down a largish tree. Mostly I use the eighteen inch
saw. I keep it in my pick-up box for cutting beams, anything that’s too big for
a power saw or bench saw.”

“You’d
have a gas and oil mix in the chain saw?”

“Not
in here. Last time I used the saw in here was in December, and I flushed it out
afterwards, before I put it on the shelf. I don’t store fire hazards in here.”

“Paint
rags?”

He
shook his head. “Come on; I’ll show you.”

Sam
followed him outside and, limping, Mac led the way to the vented box against
the fence, some ten feet from the building. “Here’s where we put anything
that’s a fire hazard.” He gestured to paint tins, used brushes, partial bottles
of paint thinner. Then he pulled out a galvanized bucket fitted with a lid.
“This is where we keep paint rags.”

Sam
lifted the lid and examined the rags.

“When
we put the chain saws in here, they go there, on the top shelf. Gas and oil
goes here. We’ve got a couple of gasoline generators we use on sites where we
don’t have electricity. They go at the end here.”

“Where
are they now?”

“One’s
in the back of my truck. I’ve got the other at home.”

Sam
studied the enclosure as Mac closed it up. “Nice set-up.”

“The
insurance inspector thought so. The whole thing’s vented—vents in the back,
steel mesh floor. Fumes can’t build up. I insulated the top and painted it
white, so the sun doesn’t make it too hot inside.” Mac put the top down and
locked the doors. “You look like a man who’s got some idea what started my
fire.”

“You
didn’t mention a can of gas inside.”

“There’s
never been a can of gas inside.”

“One
was there last night. A red plastic Jerry can, one gallon size. Mixed gas and
oil in it, that would be chain saw mix.”

Mac
took a step back and stared at the building. “I would never put gasoline in
that building. I do everything to code. I don’t risk my life or those of the
people who work for me.”

“Who
else could have left the Jerry can in there? Who has keys?”

“Just
Denny Kaminski, my foreman. He’s been with me for three years. I don’t believe
he’d put gas in there.”

“Something
started that fire,” said Sam mildly. “Maybe oily paint rags?”

“You
saw where I keep my rags.”

“Door
wasn’t locked when the fire truck arrived. Anyone could get in.”

“I
unlocked the building to carry some tools in from my truck. I didn’t lock it
again because I was here, and I’d locked the outside gate.”

“But
the outside gate was open.”

Mac
was getting irritated. “Your guys probably cut the lock with bolt cutters.
Check with them.”

“The
gate was unlocked when the fire truck arrived; you were on the ground a few
feet from the building dressed in scorched skin. Our guys looked for a lock
before they left; they wanted to leave the place secure. Couldn’t find any sign
of one.”

Mac
didn’t like this at all. “The Jerry can you mentioned—you’re sure about it?”

“Part
of the handle fell onto the floor, plastic coating on some of that electrical
cable melted onto it. Burned rags, too, from the looks of it. If you’re telling
the truth about the gas can and the lock, we’re looking for an arsonist. I’ll
need to talk to the other man who has a key.”

“Denny’s
a good worker. He likes his job, and he just got a raise and a new baby.”

“What
about other employees? Fire anyone recently?”

“One
kid last month. I suggested he find a job that interested him, and he left. He
never had a key, and I wouldn’t think he had the energy to do this.”