Page 17 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

Vader stared at him. “I know you’re speaking English, but nothing’s making sense. Back to the part about dog therapy. Does this have anything to do with a girl?”

Yup, Vader definitely didn’t miss a trick. Fred nodded cautiously.

“Is the girl Courtney?”

Fred shook his head.

“Then go. Have fun. Stan, be a good wingman, just like I taught you.”

Stan reluctantly got to his feet and padded over to Fred. “Thanks, Vader. I’ll have him back in no time.”

Vader waved him away. “Just make sure to feed him a lot. You know he gets cranky without regular snacks.”

“You’d make a great dad, you know that?”

Vader shot him a sharp glance. “Why do you say that? Do you know something I don’t know? Cherie tell you something? Did she take the test yet?”

Fred backed away, flinging his hands in the air. “Why would she tell me anything? I was just making an observation.”

“Girls tell you shit. They can’t help it. It’s that magic nice-guy—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Fine. You’re an asshole. Get the fuck out of my office,” said Vader good-naturedly as he turned back to the computer. Fred went, Stan trotting dutifully at his side.

They drove to the far edge of town, where Sabina had said Rachel’s dog therapy practice was located. He’d debated long and hard about making this visit, but he couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind. And shouldn’t he thank her for the generous gift? It was only polite. By bringing Stan, he figured the whole thing would look more natural, as if he’d just happened to run into her while trying to do something for his dog.

He found himself at a wooded park surrounded by a concrete wall with loops of barbed wire on top. A discreet sign announced it to be the San Gabriel Refuge for Injured Wildlife. An ironwork gate barred the entrance, which was watched over by two security cameras. Sure seemed like a lot of security for a wildlife refuge. He leaned out of his truck and pressed a button on the small intercom.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to see Rachel Allen. I was referred to her for my dog. He’s been having some issues.” That’s what you were supposed to say, right? A mounted video camera angled toward the car, and he indicated Stan, who sat next to him in the front seat, not looking one bit traumatized the way Fred had asked him to.

“Park in the north lot,” said the disembodied voice. The gate opened and he drove past, down a long, curving drive lined with eucalyptus trees. He gave a slow whistle. A lot of money must have gone into this place. Some wealthy donor’s vanity project, no doubt.

He reached a collection of beige stuccoed buildings with a Spanish hacienda feel. A more modern barn and aviary looked as if they’d been added later, along with a fenced-in corral. Fred spotted a llama and some goats munching grass inside the corral. The place had the atmosphere of a spa or some sort of meditation center, but it smelled and sounded more like a zoo. He located the north lot and discovered that it sat next to a cute little guesthouse with the word “Therapy” painted on a sign over the door.

“You ready for some therapy, boy?” Fred asked Stan. “You must have something wrong with you. That time you swallowed the gel pack still giving you nightmares?”

Stan merely cocked an ear at him.

“Seriously, do you have to look so well-adjusted?” Fred grumbled. “You’re going to blow my cover.”

As he opened the front door of the little building, Stan scampered between his feet. The beagle had a thing about entering a room first; come to think of it, maybe he needed therapy for that. The space, which was set up like a waiting room, was empty and simply furnished. A jewel-toned Turkish rug, a large mahogany desk the size of a small ship, a comfortable-looking armchair arrangement, and that was about it. A closed door led to the rest of the guesthouse; that must be where the actual work got done.

“Hello?” he called.

“One minute!” A little thrill ran through him at the sound of Rachel’s voice. Uh oh. Thrills weren’t good. He hadn’t come here for thrills. Then what did you come here for?

The door opened and there was his answer. She immediately filled his vision as if nothing else was present. Her thick, curly hair was held back at her neck with a clip, and she wore simple black pants and a tunic top with an embroidered neckline. He made a quick check. Yes, her eyes were exactly as he’d remembered, that deep, velvety purple like the heart of a pansy. Or was it a petunia. Anyway, it was the spark in her eyes that really got to him, and beyond that, the shadow of something sad.

“Fred the Fireman?” She looked astonished. “What are you doing here?”

Good question. He shouldn’t be here. He should be sparring. Painting his sister’s apartment. Anywhere but here, pretending to need therapy for a dog that wasn’t even his.

“It’s Stan,” he said, tugging on Stan’s leash. “He’s been having some problems.”

Her expression instantly transformed into one of concern. She came forward, crouched in front of Stan, and murmured, “Well, aren’t you a fine-looking dog? Will you let me pet you? Do you mind?”

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