Flash Fire Read online

  “How?” asked Elisabeth reasonably.

  I’m a stuntman in a movie about vacations for insane people, thought Hall.

  Geoffrey was actually exhibiting excitement. He hopped up and down, seat belt long gone, and silence a thing of the past. “Lookit, lookit!”

  Hall scooped a kitten out from under the accelerator and then looked. A cactus, the fat-armed spiny type, was filled by heat like an air balloon. Suddenly it deflated, and the cactus sagged down on itself like a dead thing. “I see it, Geoffrey!” Hall honked the horn, in honor of the cactus and Geoffrey’s speech.

  The Severyn House

  4:24 P.M.

  BEAU HAD MADE IT to the atrium when the house split in half.

  It shook the ground like the earthquakes they so often felt. It fell too slowly for reality, its beams hanging on, its bolts not yielding. But gravity was stronger.

  The smoke lifted momentarily. All around him the fire was savage and terrible. But on the canyon rim, the fire had burned itself out. The top of the hills were burned and black and dead.

  If he wanted to live, Beau had to pass through the flames and up to where the flames were no more. Pinch Canyon above the Severyn house was very steep. He couldn’t run up. He could only crawl. Pinch had nothing to hold onto. Its gravel, dried mud, dead weeds, and rocks looked solid, but came off in the hand.

  It was so hot now the soles of his sneakers were melting.

  Don’t think, just go, he told himself. And if you die, remember Michael is there waiting.

  Well, that wasn’t rational. Michael wasn’t anywhere waiting. Michael just plain wasn’t.

  He draped the sopping blanket over himself, cuddled the box to his chest as if it were an ally and not a burden, and began.

  The noise increased. Beau was beneath the landing patterns of jets or standing at the juncture of freight trains. The noise was immense and encompassing and he could not get away from it, yet he could not see the fire making this immense sound.

  The air was literally hung with soot. Would his lungs endure ten seconds or thirty seconds or sixty seconds before they disobeyed him and took the last great sucking breath that would kill him with its heat and its poison?

  The Studio

  4:24 P.M.

  “I WONDER WHERE THE fires are right now,” said Mrs. Press.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Press, “but it’s nothing to do with us. Danna or Hall would have phoned if there was anything to worry about.”

  The Severyn House

  4:25 P.M.

  THERE HAD BEEN QUITE a while, twenty minutes, maybe even half an hour, in which the fire had struggled. Eaten a little here, a little there. That was over. Something — the gas line, probably — had given it the strength of war.

  Nature was all: sheets of fire ten or a hundred feet high, the fury of the fire whipping through the narrow slot of Pinch like an angry spouse hurling plates.

  Beau held the box in his teeth and crawled up the rock, and it was so hot it burned the skin off his palms but that sort of thing didn’t matter anymore; what mattered was the top, the crest, the hill.

  Getting the car and Elisabeth out had been a narcotic: He’d been drugged with joy at finding out he was brave and did the right things. And so he had moved past that, thinking he would be even braver and better and finally superior.

  But he wasn’t.

  He was dumb and he was trapped.

  He clung to the cardboard box, although its contents had already burned once and could not burn again, but would just blend in with the deaths of trees and houses and Beau.

  Beau had lots and lots of time for thinking, even though he had very very little time left for living.

  The bear went over the mountain, thought Beau, singing the nursery rhyme in his head, knowing that he was becoming confused; he was sinking. The bear went over the mountain, to see what he could see. The other side of the mountain, the other side of the mountain…

  That can’t be all, thought Beau. There has to be more there than just the other side of the mountain. There has to be safety.

  And water.

  Please.

  Pacific Coast Highway

  4:25 P.M.

  SWANN’S MOTHER WAS ELATED.

  They had some fabulous jewelry. Some great silver. A really incredibly gorgeous thing, they did not know what it was, cut-edged crystal, glittering with diamonds. And even more albums. The Eight-Car family had spent their lives taking pictures of each other.

  The photograph albums they threw in the street.

  Laughing, they drove back toward their motel.

  “Great state,” said Swann’s dad.

  “I love California,” agreed Swann’s mom.

  The highway patrol officer who pulled them over also thought California was a great state. He thought it was very interesting that people would toss the photographs for which they had just risked their lives. He thought it was real interesting that tourists wearing obscene T-shirts were bedecked in pearls and diamonds. He thought maybe they needed to talk about this.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Swann quickly. “It was them.”

  Grass Canyon Road

  4:26 P.M.

  IT WAS ACTUALLY A very short drive.

  Hall had thought he would journey for hours, but it was barely even minutes, because he turned left on Grass, and in a quarter of a mile, hit the great line of fire trucks and firefighters.

  It was another world here, because of all the officials. Such a reassuring beautiful world: vivid red and neon yellow and ice white vehicles of safety and rescue. All those people in their yellow fire-resistant outfits. All those adults.

  Hall sort of expected a brass band or a television interview, certainly a round of applause.

  But through traffic and smoke and confusion and fear, nobody noticed the addition of another vehicle, even when that vehicle was coming from the fire side.

  Here the land opened up, and he could see the horizons, the fire visible in the hills. Soaring black and orange in the sky, Halloween colors, the fire seemed a very distant enemy. Hall had learned the hard way that distance was deceiving, and yet immediately he believed in it again.

  In this area, a mild fire had already passed through. Beside the Suburban was a row of palm trees like diamond-sided telephone poles, with tiaras of graceful leaves. Every one was black. No leaves remained. The fire had eaten only the skin, lost interest, and passed on.

  The beautiful land was desolate and terribly ugly. It was hard to look at anything very long.

  In the driveway next to where Hall parked, there must have been a garage, but now there was absolutely nothing but a Sears Craftsman toolbox, no longer red, bent in the middle like a cheap wire clothes hanger, its little drawer knobs melted.

  “We made it!” yelled Geoffrey.

  His little failure-to-thrive neighbor was thriving. Enjoying himself. Talking and waving.

  Maybe he just needed action, thought Hall.

  Maybe it was all that sitting at home. This is a guy who needs to be out in the world.

  Hall could hardly wait to tell Mr. and Mrs. Aszling about the transformation. He was already full of plans for how to teach the Aszlings to be better parents, not that they had been interested in Hall’s suggestions before. But they would be now, and now that he was a hero, and had rescued the whole neighborhood, he’d have clout and they’d —

  But it was not the Aszlings he recognized through the chaos.

  It was Mr. Severyn, hopping down off a huge flatbed trailer that carried an immense yellow bulldozer, waving good-bye as casually as if leaving the airport after a routine flight. He wore a suit but not a tie, and looked as if he had a meeting scheduled here in the fireplace of Grass Canyon.

  There would be meetings.

  But not with Beau.

  Los Angeles General Hospital

  4:27 P.M.

  MATT MARSH WAS TURNING the hospital sheets black from his ash. He wasn’t in pain; they’d medicated him pretty heavily; it
was a strange loopy feeling and he didn’t know why he wasn’t asleep. Perhaps he was asleep and couldn’t tell.

  I made a real save, he thought. An honest-to-God, lifesaving save.

  He wondered what that meant — honest to God. And he decided that he had been honest with God, and God had been honest with him.

  “Darling, you must quit now,” said Matt Marsh’s mother, horrified by his wrecked face, kissing his sooty hair. “Surely you see now how dangerous and terrible it is to be a firefighter.”

  Matt Marsh loved his mother. He even loved how little she understood.

  I was brave enough.

  I moved fast enough.

  I am good enough.

  “Mom,” he said, smiling through the burns, “try to understand. It was great. I’d do it again in a hot second.”

  Grass Canyon Road

  4:27 P.M.

  I’M NOT A HERO, thought Hall. He deflated like the heat-killed cactus. I let Beau go. I let him go without even a fight.

  And now I have to tell his father…Hi, well, at least I got one of them, but the other one? The boy? He was nice while he lasted, but these things happen, Mr. Severyn, you win some, you burn some.

  It sickened Hall that even in this, he started and finished flippant.

  Halstead Press swallowed, and his tongue was dry and painful on his cracking lips. He looked at Elisabeth, who had seen her father, and was staring at him with a sort of deep apprehension. She didn’t call out either.

  The ways in which he had failed hit Hall like a slug in the jaw.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Elisabeth,” said Hall. He couldn’t even use Beau’s name. The name, like Beau, was probably over. “It was my fault. Your father won’t be mad at you.”

  “Mr. Severyn,” he called finally, because he was the oldest here. He, for better or for worse, was in charge.

  He knew right away that Mr. Severyn did not recognize him. They were that kind of parent. “I’m Halstead Press, I live down the road from you. I have Elisabeth.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Severyn, and he opened the door of the Suburban and closed his eyes with relief and lifted his little girl onto his shoulder. “Oh, honey! You’re black from smoke. Your pant leg is burned off! Are you all right?”

  Mr. Severyn did not appear to notice that Elisabeth’s legs had been straddling a sobbing Danna on the car floor. He did not even glance at the other three occupants of the back of the Suburban. What does that mean? thought Hall.

  Elisabeth’s father stroked the black streaks on his daughter’s cheeks and arms. “You’ve been crying,” he said, kissing her tear stains. “Everything’s okay now, honey.” He hugged her hard, and hugged her again, and with each squeeze Elisabeth looked safer and better. “You’re okay,” crooned her father. “You got out. Now where’s Beau?”

  Grass Canyon Road

  4:27 P.M.

  “I KNOW YOU!” CRIED Wendy Severyn, grabbing at Chiffon’s blackened clothing.

  I’m caught, thought Chiffon. They’re going to know now that I abandoned the baby. She felt as sick as if Mrs. Severyn had put handcuffs on her. She felt as sick as if she were entering a women’s prison. She tried to think of a way to lie, to extricate herself from this, but nothing came to mind.

  Mrs. Severyn was the most beautiful of the beautiful people, even in sweat, even in smoke. But she wasn’t quite sure who Chiffon was. “Aren’t you — I think — don’t you work for somebody in Pinch Canyon? What’s happening? Where are my children?”

  She doesn’t know me, thought Chiffon, elated, hopeful. Smoke wafted around them, like a scarf, but you could not take smoke off. Chiffon looked around for an escape route, and saw one. “Over there!” she pointed. “Look! There they are. I lost them in the smoke.”

  She grabbed Mrs. Severyn’s shoulders and pointed her toward the Suburban, in whose window, amazingly, Geoffrey stood, and in front of whose doors, amazingly, Mr. Severyn hugged Elisabeth.

  “Thank God!” breathed Mrs. Severyn. “You take care of this burned person. He needs an ambulance. I’m sure there’s one somewhere.” Mrs. Severyn transferred a crispy hand into Chiffon’s and rushed over to the Suburban.

  The hand clenched Chiffon’s in pain, and she recoiled in horror. The burn had left the hand literally toasted, dry and hard as if you should spread butter on it.

  Chiffon yelled for a firefighter, and this time one of them came. She transferred the crispy fingers to his glove, and he took them, and knelt beside the creature, and Chiffon beat it. This was why you paid taxes, to have people around to do the ooky things, and Chiffon herself was done with ooky things.

  She had some of Mr. Aszling’s money in her purse, and if she hurried she could get to an ATM to draw out the rest of her own money, and then she was hitting the road. Coming up with a good excuse for leaving Geoffrey was beyond her, and the thing to do was get beyond punishment. Now.

  Grass Canyon Road

  4:28 P.M.

  WENDY SEVERYN’S FIRST, AND most terrible thought, was that she did not have to feel guilty after all. The difficult child was okay, and she did not have to lie awake the rest of her life wondering if she should have done something else. Her husband still held Elisabeth, so all Wendy had to do was peck her on the cheek. For form’s sake, she said, “Elisabeth, darling, you’re all right.”

  All Elisabeth wanted to know was whether she could have a kitten. It seemed to Wendy Severyn that every conversation with Elisabeth was like this — pointless and nothing to do with anything. The world was on fire and Elisabeth wanted a pet?

  “Yes, you may have a kitten,” she said, because what did it matter now? Then she got to the point. “Where’s Beau?”

  The car was very quiet.

  Even the fire and the vehicles and the volunteers seemed to get quiet for that question.

  Elisabeth said nothing.

  Danna on the floor said nothing.

  Halstead Press said nothing.

  Nothing. It was the worst thing in the world, that the only answer about your beloved son was nothing.

  “Where’s Beau?” screamed Wendy Severyn.

  Grass Canyon Road

  4:28:30 P.M.

  IT WAS WONDERFUL TO be standing next to official vehicles. The bright colors, immense letters, crackle of radios, the piles of equipment — so reassuring. Elony loved America that way, the way they had so much stuff. The way they hurled themselves at things, always believing they could conquer anything, even nature.

  In the huge outside rearview mirror Elony saw herself black with smoke. She stank. Fire smelled bad and so did its victims.

  She was grateful to Beau for bringing the Suburban down to the road before he became a fool and went back into the fire. She was grateful to Hall for driving them out. She had a debt. And nobody would get mad at her for telling the truth.

  She said in her surprising new English, “Beau went back into the fire. Back into the house. Even though it had fire. We couldn’t wait for him. The house burned. It fell off the canyon.”

  Grass Canyon Road

  4:29 P.M.

  BEAU’S FATHER HAD NEVER had an employee capable of delivering such a succinct message. It was very well done, that summary of Elony’s. It included everything except the conclusion.

  Beau’s death.

  Mr. Severyn turned to stare at the hills of sphinxes that were the rims of many canyons. They were dark and kept their secrets. “No,” he whispered numbly. “What would he do that for? He’d gotten out! And gotten Elisabeth out! Why would he go back?”

  Nobody answered him.

  “No!” screamed Mrs. Severyn. “He has to be all right.” She left running and shrieking, pounding on the shoulders of firefighters, telling them that her son was in danger, they had to go now, and save her son. Nothing else mattered.

  How clearly the words rang in the sooty air.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Elisabeth had known that, but until now, she had had hope.

  Her father stood very s
till and very silent. He had to close his eyes to stay inside his thoughts instead of running screaming after Wendy. There was absolutely nothing in that house that Beau had cared enough about to go back for.

  Except…

  Could one brother really have died to save the ashes of the other? It was too hideous.

  Aden Severyn felt like a character in an ancient Greek tragedy. There was no escape from the dreadful darkness of fate. Fate came.

  Just because I was a lousy father to Michael, he said to Beau, doesn’t mean anything. I needed space back then. I wasn’t ready to be a parent. I had to give myself room. And Michael placed unfair demands on me. And when he died…

  “If Beau is dead,” said Mr. Severyn dully, “it’s my fault.” He found that he was still holding Elisabeth. He tried to figure out where they were, how they had gotten there, what he should do next.

  “No,” said Hall. “It’s Beau’s fault. It isn’t anybody’s fault but Beau’s.”

  Grass Canyon Road

  4:29:30 P.M.

  “OKAY, SWEETIE,” SAID THE fireman, smiling down at Danna. All she could think of was painkillers. Would he give her something? She didn’t have to wait to reach the hospital, did she?

  They were doing things to her broken leg that Danna didn’t want to watch, and she desperately didn’t want to scream, either. Mrs. Severyn was screaming for a dead son, so how could Danna do exactly the same thing? Steal that cry? Use up a scream on a mere bone?

  She had heard of Wailing Walls in Israel, and she heard Mrs. Severyn standing at her own Wailing Wall, the place where you screamed in helplessness for the dead you wanted back.