The department buried Jimmy Gallagher with full honors. His flag-draped casket was paraded before a throng of firefighters from all over the country. Georgia and her mother attended the funeral, which was held, fittingly, at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Margaret put on her best face. At home, she cried a lot. She’d buried two men in her life. She seemed to age overnight.
Georgia tried to think of words of comfort, but there were none. Gallagher couldn’t have lived long with the shame of knowing he was a de facto accomplice to the Spring Street fire. Or that he’d given a lifetime to saving people, yet made a choice to let Quinn die rather than risk the good name of his friend or the honor of his beloved department.
Walter Frankel wouldn’t have fared any better under the scrutiny. For his funeral, Georgia bought a wide-screen version of The Terminator and stuck it in his casket. Maybe the next world had DVD and Dolby stereo.
For both Gallagher and Frankel, giving up their lives in the line of duty was the only way they could’ve ever—in their hearts—set things right. They knew it. And so did Georgia, though it was something she couldn’t share with her mother. So she became the mother for a while, cooking and consoling and arranging activities to bring some order to her mother’s loss. One afternoon, she started taking apart the pool table to refurbish.
At first, Margaret was appalled, insisting she could never play again. But gradually, as the white, mildewed wood turned to a rich, chestnut-colored hue in Georgia’s hands, her mother began to understand what Georgia had all along: Jimmy Gallagher wouldn’t have wanted them to grow old and musty in his absence, any more than he would have the pool table.
Wine, women, and wood get better with age. Wasn’t that what he’d said? Georgia’s efforts brought her closer to her mother than she’d been in years. Gallagher would have liked that. These days, she carried her father’s key chain with her everywhere—in honor not only of her dad, but of Gallagher as well.
Ralph Finney survived, if one could call it that. He spent two months in the hospital before being released to stand trial on multiple first-degree murder and arson charges. The prosecutor wanted mandatory life in prison. The defense pleaded insanity. Nobody spoke about the death penalty, probably because a jury might be disinclined to convict a man so horribly disfigured by his own actions. He had no facial hair, no lips, and only a small, strange lump of what looked like candle wax for a nose.
He had to be in a lot of pain. But when Georgia gave her deposition and looked into that hideous face, she thought of the brave young firefighter, Sean Duffy, who gave his life to save a little girl’s. She focused on his pain, fear, and suffering, and that of Finney’s other victims who could no longer speak for themselves.
Newspapers hailed Georgia as a hero. The publicity embarrassed her. Hero. What did that mean? Heroes greeted every encounter with undaunting courage and undiluted faith in themselves and the world around them. She could never be like that.
One morning a month or so after the ordeal, on a routine investigation, she bumped into the firefighter who’d helped her lift that infant and mother out of Saint Patrick’s. She didn’t even know his name. They nodded to each other and waved across the space of several fire trucks. And then he went back to helping a chain of fellow firefighters pack up hose in the back of a rig.
Watching him, no one would’ve guessed the risks he’d taken for a woman and child he’d never meet again. There was no camera to record it, no medal to note it. He didn’t get his name in the paper. He showed up. He did his job and he asked for nothing in return.
Georgia wondered if her definition of heroism had been too simplistic. Maybe heroism wasn’t a bright torchlight in the heat of battle. Maybe it was just a steady, smoldering ember of conscience that refused to surrender. Heroes were men and women who had suffered every bit as much despair, failure, and doubt as the rest of the world. They just toughed it out one minute longer.
Michaels’s computer disk was turned over to the IRS. The agency was quickly able to match up the names on the disk with figures in organized crime and international drug trafficking, and begin the lengthy process of tracing funds and auditing records. Some of Michaels’s “clients” fled the country. Others were arrested to stand trial. With Michaels gone and his name tarnished, his empire quickly crumbled. So did Amelia. Three weeks after the ordeal, she slipped into a coma and died. Georgia read later that the Knickerbocker Plaza was being sold to a French conglomerate.
Gene Cambareri, fully recovered, was given the biggest retirement party Georgia had ever seen. Half the department—or so it seemed—showed up at an Italian social club in Gravesend Bay, Brooklyn, to wish him well, which wasn’t surprising, since he’d split a box of doughnuts or played a hand of gin rummy at nearly every firehouse in the city. The entire task force went—all except for Carter, who couldn’t make it. He’d gone down to North Carolina—by himself—to visit Cassie’s grave. He didn’t mention it when he returned except to tell Georgia that his little girl had been buried in a lovely spot overlooking an open field of buttercups, rimmed with tall pines. When Carter told her about the place, he seemed at peace.
A month and a half after the fire, the mayor hosted a luncheon to celebrate the work of the Bureau of Fire Investigation. There, Lynch and Brennan circled each other like two piranhas. Nothing had changed between the commissioner and the chief fire marshal. Yet Lynch, the consummate politician, clearly saw no advantage to bringing up departmental misdeeds when his power was on the rise. Now Georgia knew those misplaced building records would never be brought to light. Nor the shenanigans at the La Guardia Arms. Nor the gambling den in Washington Heights. Crime gets punished, but corruption and inefficiency just ramble along. There was nothing more anyone could do but move on.
Georgia tried to do the same. In the weeks that followed, she spent a lot of time with Richie—taking walks, going out for pizza, and shooting hoops in the backyard. Mac Marenko stopped by often as well. His kind and steady presence buoyed their spirits and seemed to soften the disappointment Richie felt when week after week passed with no word from his father. Georgia knew there wouldn’t be any word—knew the hurt would always be there. But she kept those thoughts to herself. Sometimes you just have to allow people a chance to be forgiven, even if they never take it. Georgia wondered if the same applied to her. There was only one way to find out.
On a cloudless Sunday afternoon in early June, Marenko drove Georgia to a two-story, vinyl-sided cape in Valley Stream, Long Island. It was a street of modest houses, tidy lawns, and the clutter of small children. In the cape’s backyard, Georgia spotted bicycles, baseball bats, and a doll’s carriage. The front door, with its oval-shaped frosted glass pane, sported a wreath of fake roses in the center. The mailbox, with an American flag etched on the side, read MR. AND MRS. P. FERRARO. It had been more than two years since Petie’s death, but Melinda had never changed the lettering.
“I can’t do it,” Georgia stammered upon seeing the mailbox.
“Sure you can,” Marenko prodded. “She’s expecting you. You can’t back out now.”
Georgia wrapped a finger around the red-and-white string securing the box of Italian pastries in her lap. “What do I say to the woman?”
“Tell her how much you liked Petie. The good stuff you remember about him. Tell her about your own childhood, growing up after your dad died. What helped you. What got your mother through it all.”
“How do I”—she swallowed—“tell her how sorry I am?”
Marenko took his hands off the steering wheel and planted them on her shoulders, giving her a little, reassuring squeeze. “Just say the words, Scout. Say them and the rest will come.”
She stared again at the door and licked her dry lips. “Will you be here when I come out?”
“You bet.”
“You won’t leave?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
She looked at him for a long moment and thought she saw a trace of panic in those sparkling blue eyes. Like he wasn’t sure what she’d say. After all they’d been through, he still wasn’t sure. She opened the car door and got out. Then she shut the door and leaned in the open window. “Mac?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want you to.”