Rush (22 page)

There is little left of the dad I grew up with, the man I spoke with days ago. Vacant eyes, slumped shoulders. He looks at me, I think. It's hard to tell if he sees.

“Do you mind if I drop off my bike? It needs work. I thought maybe I could spend time in your garage and—”

“I've been waiting for you,” he whispers.

It's the one response I'm not ready for, and I run hands through my hair and nod. Dad turns, leaves the door open behind him, and vanishes. I unstrap the dirt bike and follow close behind.

I walk into the dining room and stop. The house is a dump. But there's no junk. Old trunks full of Mom's pictures and letters, report cards of mine and Scottie's. His old blankie, my stuffed animals.

“I was just . . . going through some things. Your mom's. Both of you boys'.”

I walk around, pick up pictures of Scottie and me. Our family and the Lees. Salome and me holding hands when we were three.

I hold it up. “Can I keep—”

Dad smiles. “Yeah.”

I nod. “I just stopped in to say I know I made a mess of things. That accident was totally my fault. I can't blame it anyone else. I thought it through. I mean, Salome agreed to it.” I blink. “No. She agreed to
me
.”

He inhales slow. “I want you home. Both of you boys. It's the right place, you know.”

“It's probably not going to happen. Scottie isn't talking to me, unless it's under his breath. But the offer is great.”

Dad nods. “How about you, then? I don't know where you've been these days since the accident, but I'd sure love to have you around.” He pauses, forces a smile. “I don't know that I can shut Brockton up. I can't fire everybody.” He smirks. “This town can be brutal. But if anyone can take it, I figure it's you.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I'll stay. Least for now.” I walk to the window. Outside it's calm, but dark. Too dark for daytime. “What's the word out there?”

“That you hurt Salome to get back at Scottie. That asshole Mox spread that one right up until his suspension, right up until he disappeared.” He shakes his head.

“And the guys? Where'd they all end up?”

“Most Brockton bucks are staying with their parents, and a bunch of folk are putting up the out-of-towners, just until the investigation's over and things get back to normal.” He joins me at the window. We rub shoulders and stare at nothing, at least I don't.

“So this club. Everything Scottie tried to tell me was true?”

“Everything Scottie said was true.” I open the window, sniff, and look at Dad.

“The Grasston blaze. If we had wind, she'd be on our doorstep. They'll knock it down. It's eighty percent contained. You haven't been following it?”

“Time does funny things sitting in a hospital room. I'm heading back there.” I hold up the yellowed photo. “Thanks for the picture.” I shuffle toward the door.

“Say hello to Carol and Jacob for me,” Dad says.

I know I should get to the hospital, but I plunk onto the steps in my house and turn the journal over in my hands. Maybe I am the star of the show, but Salome never offered me a peek; in fact, she slammed it shut more times than I remember. I'm more frightened than eager to read it. I know how each entry will sound to my ears.

I stand and press the journal against my nose. Her scent is gone, there is only the pine-tinged sweetness of smoke. Inside, I start to tingle.

I walk out to my car as the Lees' garage door rises.
Crap.

“Jake?”

No way can I look him in the eyes. I slip my hands and the journal behind my back, then kick the ground. “Mr. Lee.”

He jogs over and gives me a hug I don't know what to do with. “Heading to see Salome?”

I nod. He must catch a view of the journal, and he pulls my arm in front of me. We both look at her words in my hands.

“She loves to write.”

“Always,” I say.

Mr. Lee looks up, closes his eyes, and groans. It's a frustrated groan.

“Got room for me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

He closes his garage door, rejoins me by my car. “I'm glad we get some time alone.”

I risk a peek at his face. His wrinkles are deeper, but they hold no rage. They still mark him only when he smiles. But those eyes, they sear with something new. Determination, I guess. They've always been tough to look at—now it's darn near impossible.

A hot gust carries the smell of a burn, and light flakes whisk between us. We both look up.

“Can you see that?” he says. “It's getting closer.”

“There's not enough wind. Tonight, I bet the clouds will open up.” I force a smile. The smell ignites dry tinder inside me, and my body grows tense.

“The radio is talking possible evacuation.” He hops in the car. “They've already lost twelve homes in Grasston.”

“That's a ways off. Clearing Brockton would be paranoia.”

We pull out. Mr. Lee sets his hand on the journal that rests between us.

“Have you had a chance to read this yet, Jake?”

I wonder what to say, what to hold. “No,” I lie. “I mean, I can't . . . open it.” My leg bounces against the Volkswagen wheel. “More paranoia.”

In the distance, a siren sounds. The wicked one. Firefighters up. Brockton's crews get ready for dispatch, wherever you are. Men, women, the feds need all hands on this blaze.

But inside me, all is quiet; I'm drawn to a different emergency.

The hospital in Chisel Falls is half an hour from Grasston—not far enough. I peek at Mr. Lee. He nods.

“Floor it.”

 

AT THE HOSPITAL, ORDERLIES
and nurses talk quick and quiet and flash nervous smiles. They don't fool a soul. It's California. It's the season, and even these vented halls fill with the scent I know so well.

Scottie is still there. He reads a book to Salome. I think he'll make a mighty good husband, to somebody else.

“Hey, Scottie,” I say.

“Mr. Lee.” Scottie rises, goes and pats Jacob on the back.

I walk toward the bed, lean over, and whisper to Salome. “If you come over again, I promise I'll beat him to the door.”

“Guys.”

I know the voice, and my gut twists. The voice isn't here; it can't be. I slowly peek over my shoulder, straighten, and face it.

Scottie grabs a chair to steady himself. His knuckles redden, then whiten, then stretch and fist, and soon Salome won't be the only one lying down. Mox shifts his weight and fiddles with the hat in front of him.

He can't be here. There's no way.

“We've been called. Everybody's been recalled. Active, suspended. It's comin' this way via Brockton. There are high winds and hot spots all around us, and they're throwing the world at it.”

Scottie rushes at him, grabs him by the jacket, and pins him against the door frame. Mox is limp, a rag doll. “See her? Do you see what you did?” He rears back.

Mr. Lee grabs his arm. “Let him go.”

“He took Kyle and Drew. He took Salome. Don't you know who this is?”

Mr. Lee gentles Scottie away from Mox, turns, and stands in front of Mox's expressionless face. “Salome is my daughter. Do you bear any responsibility for her lying here?”

Mox shifts. “Yeah, I do.”

Mr. Lee nods. “You're an honest man.”

“No.” Mox swallows. “I'm not.”

Mr. Lee's gaze has him pegged.

“Do you know what it's like to see your daughter day after day, but not hear her voice. Not hear her say, ‘I love you'?”

Mox looks down, his rasp barely a whisper. “No.” Mox has disappeared, and this is the shell of a man I haven't met.

“You could lose your daughter if we can't stop this fire.” Mox's eyes plead. Mr. Lee turns, and his gaze falls on Salome. He moves slowly toward her, bends over, and rests his forehead on hers. His words come barely audible.

“I know you hear all this. Don't worry, Jake won't let it near you.”

I clear my throat, and Mr. Lee gazes up at me, before straightening, his voice clear and strong.

“Boys, bury it.”

 

MOX, SCOTTIE, AND I SPEED
toward Brockton. The air hangs hot and heavy and unnatural, and a series of charcoal plumes crested with orange rise from the horizon.

In the Jeep, sandwiched between two men who likely hate me, makes for a quiet ride.

We meet Fatty near the villa, gear up, and buddy-check en route to the airport and our waiting copter. Troy's already been dispatched, but along with Fez, we're five strong with three packs in tow.

Scottie's gaze fixes on me. He trained to rappel, but he's never done it live. He looks scared and angry, and I don't know how to help him—speak up or shut up. So I give him a tight-lipped nod. He can do this. For her, he can do it.

We reach the port and leap out. Fatty and Fez stare at Mox. The blaze in his eyes—the crazy look that pumps us up and tells us it's showtime—is gone. His feet drag over the tarmac, barely carrying him toward the sound of rotors.

He's always the IC, always in charge. But not now.

“I'm taking IC.” I shove Mox into the copter. “Any problems with that?”

Silence.

Mox reaches me the radio. “It's your show, kid.”

I grab it, glance around the copter at nervous eyes. “Dispatch, Helicopter Five Hotel X-ray.”

The gravelly voice fights through the noise. “Incident number four-four-three in Township Sixty-seven North. Landmark Carver's Gorge.”

“Five Hotel X-ray is off the ground with five souls on board and showing ten minutes out.”

There is silence. More gravel from the radio, then Lorna from dispatch's voice resounds.

“Who is this? Mox?”

“Negative. Jake.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

Scottie turns toward the window. “Well, that was encouraging.”

 

WE HAVE OUR ORDER.
If all goes well, we'll set back fires three miles out of town, along the top rim of the gorge. If it jumps the gorge, game over. It's a fueled sprint to Chisel Falls, where Salome lies.

Mox gently knocks his head against the glass, Fez and Fats look lost, and Scottie mutters. What a team.

“Don't worry, Scottie.” I scoot over beside him. “They're evacuating Salome right now. I'm sure of it. You saw the nurses—”

“This doesn't change what you did.”

He's right. It changes nothing.

I ZIP DOWN THE LINE
toward the top of the gorge, the gang of four close behind. It is near. Very near. We land near the lip, establish the safety zone, and peer down into the crack.

Wood splinters and cracks, and I whip around.

A dozer. My best friend right now. The hulking machine crunches up, and Keith Garrison leaps out. The right side of his face is charred black.

“I cleared her back from the lip. She's hot.” He kicks the dozer. “Baby almost melted.”

Steam hisses from the machine. “Give her a rest,” I say. “We'll cut 'er and light her back.” I slap Mox's back, and he nods. His head swivels from side to side, that once-fierce gaze doesn't snag on anything.

“Snap out of it, Mox.” I kick his boot. “No time. No time!”

We secure our packs, and the five of us grab chainsaws and dash toward the inferno, across the trampled path the dozer cleared. Scottie winces, pulls up when he reaches the standing brush line. “Here!” he shouts.

“Closer.” Mox looks up. “No use here. Push her back.”

“Here!” Scottie rips the cord on his saw, and it snarls to life. The boys glance at Mox, then to me.

“Follow Scottie.”

Saws roar and chew branches and stumps and leftovers Keith's dozer missed.

“Lots of food here!” Mox slaps my back. “This won't do. She'll reach here and speed-run to the gorge.”

“And then?”

He points to the other side, at Brockton's second dozer hauled in and waiting for the dozer crew on the far side. “Thirty feet from here to there. One gust and she'll jump.”

“What would you do?”

A pinecone explodes at his feet. “Cut in another hundred feet here. In its teeth.” Mox points to the other side of the ravine. “Just to buy time for
that
dozer to clear.”

I nod, pause. “You wanted to kill Salome.”

“No.”

“You thought I'd make her jump?”

“She did.”

Around us, trees heat and blister. Mox stares at them. We're not so different, he and I. The adrenaline that surges through us, the love of the rush. We're not so different. We could be brothers. Friends. In some other life, where fires and family and good and evil didn't exist.

“Let's knock it out,” I say.

His eyes narrow, and the gleam returns. The wild flash that terrifies and comforts transforms his face, and he smiles.

“Fats!” he yells.

From in front, a whoop goes up, and Fatty and Fez tramp toward us. “You're back!”

Mox scans. Each smoking log and firebomb, every wind shift and surge of heat—it all goes into his head, twists and rearranges like the sculptures do in mine. He blinks hard; the plan's made. “Where's Scottie?”