her stick out like a sore thumb. Of course, given the size of this place she’d probably stick out anyway.
She felt like an alien, but that was something she was fairly used to. Always being on the road kind of created that feeling.
She reminded herself that arson was arson no matter where it occurred. Still, when she’d been told to come to Conard City, she’d envisioned a much larger place. Flying in on a four-seater Cessna hadn’t concerned her, and she hadn’t really thought about it when she climbed into a rental car that wasn’t new enough to have a GPS mapping console.
Only now, driving down Front Street toward what she hoped would be the fire station, did she get a clear picture. The houses were all older Victorian and Craftsman styles commingling contentedly. The leafy trees looked as old as the houses, and for a main street this one struck her as awfully narrow, narrow enough that parking was allowed on only one side. She’d been in some older neighborhoods in Atlanta like this, but if this was the whole town...oh, boy.
She was a city girl in rural territory, and immediately she began imagining all kinds of problems with the locals who’d probably resent the heck out of her. She had traveled the world throughout her entire life and knew that outsiders were rarely welcomed. Looking into a big industrial fire often only drew flak from the owners. In a place this small she might draw flak from the entire community. But she always drew flak, some of it potentially dangerous. She’d been threatened more than once.
She shook herself and continued the slow drive. She’d manage. She wasn’t here to be liked, merely to protect her insurance company against fraud.
The firehouse was near the town square, she’d been told at the airport. Couldn’t miss it. Well, she hadn’t passed anything resembling a town square yet so...
Just then sirens penetrated her thoughts. She pulled over immediately to the curb, and soon a fire engine came racing by. Behind it was a red SUV with flashing white-and-red lights. She hesitated, then figured that in a burg this size it was unlikely the chief would still be at the station. He’d probably be out helping.
So she pulled an illegal U-turn and followed the truck. Might as well see how this department operated in action. That could sometimes be useful to her investigation. An ambulance, horn blaring, raced past her, forcing her to the curb again.
She kept to the speed limit, unlike the trucks, but soon reached them. They had pulled over on a side street, already being blocked by police to traffic. Two men in yellow firefighting gear were heading indoors as flames leaped out one lower story window. There must be a potential victim inside, as they didn’t wait for the hoses. Others were hooking up hoses to the truck and a nearby hydrant. Not bad yet. It was clear where the fire was, and apparently the window had been open. She studied it with a practiced eye.
One guy stood out, mainly because of his white helmet, the word Chief stenciled in black on it. He was clearly directing operations, his arms and hands moving as he pointed where he wanted things.
She stopped against the curb outside the cordon. After a minute, she climbed out and joined concerned neighbors across the street who had either been ordered out of nearby houses or were gathering out of interest. “She’s got a baby!” one of the onlookers shouted, trying to be heard over the racket of the pump truck, other vehicles and raised voices. “Upstairs, bedroom on the right.”
The chief turned, gesturing that he’d heard. He pulled up his flash hood, donned his face mask and, moments later, he ran into the house, to rooms that had to be right above where flames spewed out the open ground floor window. He went alone, seeming to ignore the two-in, two-out rule. Another firefighter saw and raced after him.
Yet another two stood near the truck, ready to run in if any firefighter ran into trouble. The two out.
Charity felt her heart speed up. She didn’t know these people, but she hated fires, hated what they did, and was intimately acquainted with the dangers for those who fought them. Her career of investigating arson wasn’t just a job, it was a mission. Preventing fraud was one thing. Stopping people who killed and hurt others was even more important to her, though it wasn’t often she had an opportunity to do that.
“Who are you?” one of the onlookers asked her. She glanced over and saw a man of about seventy, thin and a bit bent.
“I’m here to see the chief,” she answered quietly. “Business.”
“Oh, no!” someone cried.
Charity looked at the house again and saw flames had reached the second story. The beehive of firefighters began to swarm even more rapidly. A hose doused the outside wall of the house. One was aimed right inside the lower floor window. The roof, too, was getting its share of water. Another truck pulled up and in seconds was fanning water over the neighboring roof and side wall to prevent the fire from spreading. That must be a constant danger with the houses so close.
She knew all the dangers. Fire spread fast enough, but when combined with the gases it created, it could turn into an instant conflagration at the point of flashover. That was why windows were giving way to axes even though the fresh air would fuel the fire. It would also dilute the explosive gases and flammable black smoke that was roiling out the front door.
She’d lost track of how many firefighters were now in the house. Her heart was slamming like a trip-hammer.
Then one came out of the house carrying a woman. His buddy followed close on his heels. Others immediately went to help him, quickly putting her on a stretcher and turning her over to EMTs. Two more firefighters ran in to battle the blaze, but already the flames were shrinking from the side window. The smoke coming out the front door was turning gray. The water was doing its work.
Where was the chief?
Almost in answer to her silent question, he burst out through the front door, carrying a tightly wrapped bundle. Ignoring everyone else, he threw off his respirator mask and helmet, then knelt on the grass, unwrapping a baby.
Charity’s heart nearly stopped. The infant looked pale, almost blue. She raised her fingers to her lips, trying to hold in the anxiety. Not a baby. Please, not a baby.
“Oxygen,” the chief shouted. He bent close to the child, listening for breath, then feeling for a pulse. An EMT rushed over and joined him. The infant’s color improved within seconds after the oxygen mask was placed over its face. The child was swiftly moved to the ambulance.
Relief nearly caused Charity to sag. Leaving the spectators, she returned to her car, watching the scene unfold. She’d seen this many times. Too many times. She’d even trained with firefighters and had volunteered so she could understand.
Now she understood too much.
* * *
An hour later, the scene had quieted. While firemen, including the chief, moved through the house, axing open walls to make sure they concealed no fire, others rolled up the hoses. The house still stood, but it was a mess. The outside wall was covered with soot, two window frames charred black. Inside, everything would be ruined by smoke, ash and water. She wondered how much these poor people would be able to salvage.
Pulling out her cell phone, she went to her company’s site, logged in and tapped in the address. Her company covered that house. She scanned the firefighters and realized the chief was once again outside, occasionally speaking to his crew. The small crowd of onlookers still lingered, talking to each other. Already she heard plans to help the family. Good people.
No
