Page 106 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“They got out? Was the gate open?”

“Yes. I’m guessing that Lee guy opened it so he could make a quick getaway after he torched the fence.”

“What a jerk,” she said, with a touch of bemusement. “Then the earthquake hit. I can’t believe it. Why now? In the middle of all this?”

“Earthquakes happen when they happen. We get them all the time, but this is a big one.”

Greta bumped his arm, scrabbling at a hunk of metal—a light fixture? “Greta, your job is done. I got this.” But the dog refused to stay still. Instead she danced around him, digging at the debris until her paws bled, leaving streaks on the broken sheetrock. “You sure have heart, girl,” Fred murmured as he helped her with a stubborn piece of two-by-four. “You’d make an awesome search and rescue dog.”

“What?” Rachel asked, her voice sounding just a little clearer, as if he was unearthing it with each piece of rubble he discarded.

“I was telling Greta she has heart.”

“You know what I was thinking about, down here?”

“What’s that?” Keep her talking. The more she spoke, the easier it would be for him to follow her voice.

“I was thinking that all this time, there’s something I overlooked about dogs. I’ve been working with them, training them, helping them, interpreting their body language and their behavior. And I did a good job. I really can connect with dogs. But that whole time, I should have been acting more like a dog.”

“How? Have a bigger appetite? Get more excited about walks?”

She gave a wheezy laugh, which made him nervous. Why was she wheezing? Was something resting on her chest? Was she starting to lose her cool? Talk about a confined space. It didn’t get much worse than being under a desk piled high with rubble. Even though his shoulders and chest were burning from the effort of shifting the heavy joists and sheets of ripped plaster, he picked up the pace.

“No, no,” she continued. “The thing about dogs is, they always bring their whole selves to whatever they’re doing. Have you noticed that? They try their best, every time. They love completely, even if it’s just a silly little chew toy. They’re a hundred percent alive, every moment, until they die. And you know, Fred—”

Through his shock at that word, “die,” Fred heard the telltale rumble of another oncoming aftershock. “Hold on tight, honey. Here comes another one.” He reached for the trembling Greta, huddling his body around her, and braced himself.

The earth shook again. Fist-size pieces of debris tumbled toward him. Dust rose in a choking blur. When it cleared, and he called again for Rachel, he got no answer.

Chapter 31

Rachel was in the middle of saying something very important when everything started shaking again and she passed out. When she came to, her mouth was full of plaster dust. At least she hoped that’s what it was. To keep a lid on her simmering panic, she refused to think about other possibilities. After the horrible jolting stopped, she spent a few minutes unclogging her throat and spitting out the nasty stuff.

She heard lots of noise from overhead. Greta’s barking, the sound of a helicopter’s blades, strange voices shouting. She heard Fred saying, “Rachel! Rachel!” over and over again, and though she tried with all her might to make sounds come out of her mouth, it was too dry and she was too out of breath to manage more than a dull groan. It felt like one of those nightmares in which she was trying to run and scream, but no matter how hard she worked, she was stuck in the same place, unable to make a peep.

Carefully, keeping her mouth tightly sealed, she turned her head to look up at the spot of light—not so much light as a slightly paler gray. Fred must be doing something else with the flashlight. When he’d first aimed it down the hole he’d made, it had shone like a ray of heavenly light, a shaft of hope lifting her heart. Now she couldn’t see much at all. Maybe the aftershock had shifted the debris and blocked her air hole.

And just like that, she was back in that place where all her nightmares began. Back in the cage inside that windowless warehouse, where the only light came from a door propped open during the day. At night, her prison went completely black. Her hearing would get super sharp at night, when everything was quiet. The only sounds were made by Inga, the stray dog who skulked around the warehouse. She knew when he was curling up to sleep, when he was gnawing at the fleas on his rump, when he was slurping water from a tin can.

At night, in the blackness, she would dream. She’d dream of her mother, who had just died the year before. Of the way she smelled, like the rosemary she grew in big planters on the terrace. The way she smiled, wide, so her mouth stretched all the way across her face. Of the way she scolded when Rachel was too wild, which was often. Of the fairy houses she used to build in the stand of redwoods at Cranesbill. Of the crumbling cliff that looked over the Pacific, and the gazebo where she blew bubbles. Of how she’d watch to see how far out to sea they’d float before popping. Of her favorite blue Schwinn, and the freedom she felt racing down the road to the beach.

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