wobble…but it was wobbling in the right direction. The chief outstretched his arms. He was wide open. The defense was all up field. Thousands watched from the stands. The chief’s young wife, Marcy, watched from the stands. If he completed this play, he’d become legend. If he dropped the ball, or tripped, or if half a dozen other common errors occurred in the next ten seconds, he’d be jeered forevermore.
The chief ruminated every day about the game. He ruminated about it now, as they passed Amarillo High on the left. The aquarium was within view, but the chief glanced over at the high school stadium. That’s where he really wanted to be. That’s where he’d caught that wobbling pigskin and sprinted forty-six yards to score the winning touchdown. Him. The little rookie.
The chief loved firefighting and had numerous accolades and recommendations but when he died, he knew what would appear in the first paragraph of his obituary.
“That’s why everyone called him Catch,” Jed Danvers told Tom Piper. Danvers had been a rookie, too, during that game (for the other side). Now he was lieutenant governor of the state. Jed and Tom were sipping coffee on the fifth floor of Baptist St. Anthony’s on Wallace Boulevard, not far from the crime scene. For security reasons, they’d made sure to get Catch a room here all by himself. Two Texas Rangers were posted outside his door.
Catch’s head was double-wrapped in gauze. His eyes were shut. Tubes were glued every which way to his arms and face. He still hadn’t awakened, and thus was unaware he was the sole survivor and only witness to what had happened.
Station 13 had arrived in front of the glass-and-brick structure at 10:09 p.m. Plumes of gray-white smoke tunneled from the roof into the sky, but so far the fire appeared contained. The aquarium didn’t have many windows—like most museums (and casinos), the architectural objective was one of timelessness, and this meant blocking the outside world. However, there were a few narrow panels along the stairwell. The panels appeared intact.
Daniel McIvey and his son Brian were the first out of the engine, followed by Roscoe Coffey and, lastly, Lou Hopper. Daniel and Brian looked like a project in time-lapse photography; same moppy red hair, same ruddy fat cheeks, only the father was a little taller, a little heavier, had a few more lines on his brow. Like twins they spoke in shorthand.
“Do you want to…?” asked Daniel.
“Yeah,” Brian replied. “I’ll get the thing. I’ll meet you where you’ll be.”
Brian hustled together two Halligan pickaxes out of the truck while Daniel met up with the chief, who was interrogating the aquarium’s security guard.
“…was just doing my job!” wept the guard. Big man named Cole. Six foot six. 300 pounds. Bawled. “I smelled the smoke and checked the monitors and that’s when I called you! I swear!”
The chief nodded, feigning sympathy, and then asked the most important question of all: “Is there anyone left in the building?”
“The night janitor…name’s Emmett Poole…I didn’t abandon him! But I think he’s still on the third floor…”
Daniel and Brian were the designated rescue team. Brian handed his father one of the Halligans and they rushed into the building. They knew the layout of the aquarium. They went here every summer. Family outing. Daniel and his wife Margie. Brian and his wife Emilia. Brian and Emilia’s twins.
Roscoe and Lou grabbed a pair of extinguishers and ran in after them. Soon they were in the lead, and heading up the stairwell. Roscoe illuminated their path with a flashlight. By the time they reached the second floor, the yellow emergency lighting kicked in. By the time they reached the third floor and smelled the smoke, they knew they’d arrived.
Brian touched the door.
“We got a cooker,” he said.
Roscoe and Lou readied their extinguishers. All four men were swathed in fire retardant bunker gear, but still—fire was fire. Prometheus stole it out of heaven and it’s been pissed ever since.
Outside, Bobby Vega sat by the radio. If the chief gave the word, he’d call the boys left at the station to get the ladder truck. They always always always left at least two men at the station. Reinforcements were the saviors in any war. The two boys back at Station 13 had changed the station on the fifty-two-inch LCD from the boring debate and were now watching something more relevant: a WWE title bout. Not that they were lounging; relaxation wouldn’t be an option until their brothers returned from the battlefield.
Cole, the aquarium’s gigantic night watchman, leaned against the fire truck and wiped wet salt from his eyes. He’d taken this job as a low-stress alternative. His life coach told him his chi couldn’t deal with anxiety. His life coach told him fish were supposed to bring good luck. The next day, Cole saw the job opening at the aquarium.
He steadied his breath with a yoga exercise. What had he done so wrong in a past life that his karma would be so toxic? Had he been a serial killer? Cole blew his nose on his sleeve.
Back inside the aquarium, Roscoe and Lou were foaming the third floor, to little effect. Although the fire appeared localized to knee level and lower, residual smoke clogged all visibility.
“Mr. Poole!” called Daniel.
“Mr. Poole!” called Brian.
The third floor was arranged like a glassy labyrinth. The four firefighters crouched their way through the maze. They had no idea where the point of ignition was and they saw no sign of Emmett Poole. Lou offered his usual uninformed hypothesis.
Then one of the exhibits exploded.
Its water (and exotic fish) spilt onto the conflagration. Instead of being extinguished, though, the fire tracked the water back to its source and filled the exhibit orange-green.
This was a chemical fire. Class B.
“Shit,” said Roscoe.
The four men quickly backed out of the third floor. They needed different equipment. Roscoe radioed the chief with their status. No response. The old man was probably dealing with the cops, the press, who knows what. Roscoe took the lead and the firefighters hustled down the stairwell to the lobby.
Daniel and Brian thought about their previous trip to the aquarium. The twins adored the seahorses. What floor had the seahorses been on? Please. Not the third.
Lou Hopper thought about his knees. He needed to lose weight. Running up and down these stairs was taking its toll.
Roscoe thought about nothing at all. He operated purely on instinct and muscle memory. Otherwise he probably would have been concerned that the chief still hadn’t replied on the radio.
The four men ran out of the lobby into the open air and went down like ducks in a gallery. Roscoe, Lou, Daniel, Brian. Pop—pop—pop—pop. The bullets easily pierced their helmets, muscles, and, yes, cartilage.
Bobby Vega sat hunched over his beloved steering wheel. His blood puddled on the dash.
Cole the giant lay sprawled on the pavement.
The chief, full name Harold Lymon, nicknamed “Catch,” had tried to push Cole out of the way of the gunfire, then had run to save Bobby when the bullets found him. Catch, though, had been an object in motion. Hard to stop. Just as in 1982. The bullet grazed his left temple and left him bleeding and, mercifully,
