Sacrifice
Page 13
“No,” said Chris.
“They’re lucky,” Marshal Faulkner said from behind him. “I understand two of you kids pulled a family of five out of . . .” He consulted a notepad, then pointed at a burned pile of rubble. “. . . that house.”
“Me and Nick,” said Gabriel. “They were right by the door. I guess that makes them the lucky ones.”
His words were sharp edged, a reaction to authority, and it was almost enough to make Michael snap at him. But he heard the fear beneath Gabriel’s snark, and he understood the reason behind it.
It gave Michael the answer to one question: his brothers hadn’t been trapped in the house at all. He’d crawled through smoke for nothing. He’d lost consciousness and started an earthquake for . . . nothing.
He swallowed his own self-doubt before they could see it. “Anyone who’s still sitting up and talking is lucky. Can you guys wait here for fifteen minutes while I check the house?”
“Where else are we going to go?” said Nick.
His words weren’t snarky at all. It was a genuine question.
“I’m working on it,” said Michael. “Sit tight.” And then he started walking.
Hannah and Marshal Faulkner were right on his heels, but he needed to get some distance from that ambulance before his brothers figured out that he didn’t have a clue about what to do or where to go. He didn’t even know the right answers to keep himself out of a police station.
When he hit the grass in front of his house, however, he stopped. The sidewalk was destroyed, but from what he could tell, the damage didn’t reach far below the surface. All the front windows had been smashed out, and the boards of the porch looked warped. The front door was hanging open, half off its hinges. Splintered wood surrounded the area around the lock and the knob.
“Wow. You really did break in,” he said to Hannah.
“Yeah.” She paused. “It’s procedure. The windows—we have to let oxygen in—”
She sounded guilty, and Michael shook his head. “I’m not blaming you, Hannah.”
“People blame the fire department all the time,” said Marshal Faulkner. “Broken windows are the least of their worries.”
His tone sounded conspiratorial, but Hannah’s earlier warning had Michael on edge. Was this a ploy, to get him to talk? Or just his girlfriend’s dad cutting him some slack?
Michael kept his mouth shut and climbed the steps.
A rapid cracking sound echoed from inside the house. Michael stopped short at the doorway.
Marshal Faulkner clicked on a flashlight and didn’t seem concerned.
“Is someone already in here?” said Michael. Some part of him rebelled against it. This was his house. No one had a right to be in here.
Then again, the shattered windows and broken door wouldn’t do much to keep out vandals. He’d need to board the place up. He started making a mental list.
“Someone is checking the walls,” said Hannah. “Making sure there’s no fire left.”
Gabriel would know for sure, but Michael couldn’t think of a reasonable way to ask for him to join them. When they stepped through the door, he automatically reached for the switch, then told himself to stop being an idiot.
“We killed the electric for the street,” offered Marshal Faulkner. “Gas and water, too.” He swept his flashlight across the foyer floor.
Michael almost wished he hadn’t. All the wide beam showed was a cone of smoke and dark dust swirling in the air. The light found the stairway bannister: all black. The carpeted steps, too.
“Jesus,” Michael whispered. He was glad his brothers weren’t here.
The flashlight beam moved higher. “We can’t go upstairs,” said the fire marshal. “I don’t like the look of those steps.”
Michael thought about what that meant. He had his phone in his pocket—if it had even survived the swim in the creek. The case was water resistant—an investment he’d made after losing a phone in a koi pond once. He checked now and found it working. Did his brothers have theirs? What about clothes? Schoolbooks?
Identification? Car keys? His own wallet was plastered inside his back pocket, but his ID and credit cards seemed intact. He had no idea what his brothers might have on them, if anything.
Marshal Faulkner hadn’t waited for a response. He’d moved into the dining room. Michael watched the flashlight beam play along the floor, the walls, then the table.
Everything had a fine layer of soot.
The marshal stopped at the far side of the room, until Michael couldn’t see him through the haze, just the bouncing beam of his flashlight. “How long did the fire burn?”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“When we broke in, we didn’t see anything actively burning,” Hannah said. “The place was hot and full of smoke.”
The fire marshal’s flashlight stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. “Do you remember stopping the fire?”
“No.” Michael suspected Gabriel had, but it wasn’t like he could say that. His brother certainly wouldn’t have used a fire extinguisher. But Michael had no other explanation. If he admitted not being here when the fire started, would that look better or worse? He didn’t know.
Then his eyes followed the light beam as it stopped on the door at the opposite side of the kitchen, leading to the garage—where he kept all his landscaping equipment and supplies.
“They’re lucky,” Marshal Faulkner said from behind him. “I understand two of you kids pulled a family of five out of . . .” He consulted a notepad, then pointed at a burned pile of rubble. “. . . that house.”
“Me and Nick,” said Gabriel. “They were right by the door. I guess that makes them the lucky ones.”
His words were sharp edged, a reaction to authority, and it was almost enough to make Michael snap at him. But he heard the fear beneath Gabriel’s snark, and he understood the reason behind it.
It gave Michael the answer to one question: his brothers hadn’t been trapped in the house at all. He’d crawled through smoke for nothing. He’d lost consciousness and started an earthquake for . . . nothing.
He swallowed his own self-doubt before they could see it. “Anyone who’s still sitting up and talking is lucky. Can you guys wait here for fifteen minutes while I check the house?”
“Where else are we going to go?” said Nick.
His words weren’t snarky at all. It was a genuine question.
“I’m working on it,” said Michael. “Sit tight.” And then he started walking.
Hannah and Marshal Faulkner were right on his heels, but he needed to get some distance from that ambulance before his brothers figured out that he didn’t have a clue about what to do or where to go. He didn’t even know the right answers to keep himself out of a police station.
When he hit the grass in front of his house, however, he stopped. The sidewalk was destroyed, but from what he could tell, the damage didn’t reach far below the surface. All the front windows had been smashed out, and the boards of the porch looked warped. The front door was hanging open, half off its hinges. Splintered wood surrounded the area around the lock and the knob.
“Wow. You really did break in,” he said to Hannah.
“Yeah.” She paused. “It’s procedure. The windows—we have to let oxygen in—”
She sounded guilty, and Michael shook his head. “I’m not blaming you, Hannah.”
“People blame the fire department all the time,” said Marshal Faulkner. “Broken windows are the least of their worries.”
His tone sounded conspiratorial, but Hannah’s earlier warning had Michael on edge. Was this a ploy, to get him to talk? Or just his girlfriend’s dad cutting him some slack?
Michael kept his mouth shut and climbed the steps.
A rapid cracking sound echoed from inside the house. Michael stopped short at the doorway.
Marshal Faulkner clicked on a flashlight and didn’t seem concerned.
“Is someone already in here?” said Michael. Some part of him rebelled against it. This was his house. No one had a right to be in here.
Then again, the shattered windows and broken door wouldn’t do much to keep out vandals. He’d need to board the place up. He started making a mental list.
“Someone is checking the walls,” said Hannah. “Making sure there’s no fire left.”
Gabriel would know for sure, but Michael couldn’t think of a reasonable way to ask for him to join them. When they stepped through the door, he automatically reached for the switch, then told himself to stop being an idiot.
“We killed the electric for the street,” offered Marshal Faulkner. “Gas and water, too.” He swept his flashlight across the foyer floor.
Michael almost wished he hadn’t. All the wide beam showed was a cone of smoke and dark dust swirling in the air. The light found the stairway bannister: all black. The carpeted steps, too.
“Jesus,” Michael whispered. He was glad his brothers weren’t here.
The flashlight beam moved higher. “We can’t go upstairs,” said the fire marshal. “I don’t like the look of those steps.”
Michael thought about what that meant. He had his phone in his pocket—if it had even survived the swim in the creek. The case was water resistant—an investment he’d made after losing a phone in a koi pond once. He checked now and found it working. Did his brothers have theirs? What about clothes? Schoolbooks?
Identification? Car keys? His own wallet was plastered inside his back pocket, but his ID and credit cards seemed intact. He had no idea what his brothers might have on them, if anything.
Marshal Faulkner hadn’t waited for a response. He’d moved into the dining room. Michael watched the flashlight beam play along the floor, the walls, then the table.
Everything had a fine layer of soot.
The marshal stopped at the far side of the room, until Michael couldn’t see him through the haze, just the bouncing beam of his flashlight. “How long did the fire burn?”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“When we broke in, we didn’t see anything actively burning,” Hannah said. “The place was hot and full of smoke.”
The fire marshal’s flashlight stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. “Do you remember stopping the fire?”
“No.” Michael suspected Gabriel had, but it wasn’t like he could say that. His brother certainly wouldn’t have used a fire extinguisher. But Michael had no other explanation. If he admitted not being here when the fire started, would that look better or worse? He didn’t know.
Then his eyes followed the light beam as it stopped on the door at the opposite side of the kitchen, leading to the garage—where he kept all his landscaping equipment and supplies.
