The paramedics pushed the stretcher into an ambulance. The driver yelled at someone. I could see his problem. He was stuck. There was a fire truck in front of him and three police cars beside him. Men in uniform were standing around, doing nothing. He walked from group to group. At each one he pointed at his vehicle. It was almost funny, but it wasn’t.
Five minutes later the fire truck left. The cops in uniform climbed into their cars. They turned around and left. Things were winding down.
The ambulance made its way around the remaining vehicles. It drove off at a slow, steady pace. Its emergency lights and siren were off. There was no need to hurry. It was going to the morgue, not the hospital. The streetlights came on. It was beginning to get dark. The crowd started drifting away. Only a handful of curiosity seekers were left. What were they hoping to see? More bodies?
A woman came running up the street toward the house. Her black coat flapped behind her in the wind. Her hair was blowing across her face, getting in her eyes. She saw the little crowd of people and slowed down, gasping for breath. She pushed back her hair and bent over. Someone from the emergency team walked over to her and patted her shoulder. She straightened up and said something. He shook his head.
The streetlight was shining full on her face now. It was Susanna, Cheryl’s daughter. But where was Cheryl? I hadn’t seen her in the crowd. She should have been home by now. Maybe she was next door. Susanna buried her face in her hands. The man patted her shoulder again. She moved away from his touch and reached into her pocket for a tissue. Then she turned and stared at the remains of the house.
What she was thinking? Poor Susanna. The building had been her home for all twenty-six years of her life. There wasn’t much left of it now. I started walking toward her. I needed to find out what had happened. But I stopped. What she needed was someone to comfort her. This was not a good time for asking questions.
I slipped away before she saw me.
* * *
I walked into the hotel and headed for the elevator. But what was I supposed to do in my room? Sit on the bed and watch television? I turned and went into the bar. In this neighborhood late afternoon was a dead time for selling beer. The bar was almost empty. Four men were sitting at a round table whispering to each other. Setting up a deal, I thought. But it wasn’t my business. Not at the moment. The waitress came by carrying a jug of cold draft and four glasses on a tray. It looked good.
“Coffee,” I said. “And a glass of water.” I wanted to keep a clear head.
The television above the bar was set to the local news channel. Half the screen flashed pictures. Another section was giving the local traffic report. But with no sound, none of it made any sense. The waitress set down my coffee and glass of water.
“Two-fifty,” she said.
I dropped a five on her tray. She reached for change.
“It’s yours,” I said. “And could you turn up the sound?”
“Those guys asked me to turn it down,” she said.
“I’ll move closer. Just turn it up a bit.”
“You’re the boss,” she said.
I moved to the table next to the bar. I was just in time for a Breaking News flash. An excited-looking young reporter was standing on the street outside Cheryl’s house. She pointed at the ruins and told us the house was beyond saving. Then she tried to get the neighbors to talk.
“It’s terrible,” said one.
“Was there someone in the house?” asked the reporter, looking around.
“Dunno,” said the first neighbor.
“The owner,” said someone else. “Poor woman.”
“Did you know her?” asked the reporter.
“Everyone knew Cheryl,” said another. “Sort of.”
The reporter smiled, nodded and turned to the camera. “The fire that may have killed the popular woman who lived in this house started between two thirty and three this afternoon. One neighbor has told me that she heard an explosion. Whatever might have caused the fire, the house is beyond repair. We know that at least two bodies have been recovered from the ruins. Their identities are being withheld until their families can be notified. The owner of the house is believed to be one of the dead. The second victim may be a tenant who lived in the basement apartment.”
“Thanks,” I said to the waitress and stood up. “You can turn the sound off again if you want.”
* * *
I figured Susanna would still be somewhere around the old neighborhood. One of her friends or her mother’s friends would have taken her in. I headed back to the site of the fire.
I stopped on the sidewalk to check things out. Three men were setting up huge outdoor lights. New teams of firemen and police were poking through the rubble. Susanna was standing on the porch of a house two doors away. She was clutching the porch railing. She was so still she looked like a statue. Her eyes were fixed on the men working in the ruins. I walked over to the porch stairs.
“Hi,” I said.
She turned her head and looked straight at me. There was no expression at all on her face. I don’t think she even saw me standing down there.
“Susanna,” I said. “It’s me, Rick. I just heard about the fire. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
She stared at me.
“My god. Rick? Is that you? But you were killed in the fire!”