Page 41 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“I’ll take the time without pay. But this is something I have to do.”

Vader looked like he wanted to say more, and maybe in earlier days he would have. He would have found some way to tease Fred or coerce the information out of him. Instead, he offered him a nod of agreement. “All right. If you need anything, let me know.”

He stood, and they shook hands. It felt weirdly formal.

“Stud, I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Vader added, tilting his head to squint at him, “but you seem different. You all right? You’re not into anything dangerous, are you?”

That might be understating it. “Everything’s cool.”

After taking what he needed from his locker, he drove home. On the way, he dialed Lizzie. “Remember how you keep saying you owe me?”

“Yep,” she said cheerfully. “I probably owe you about fifty gallons of ice cream by now.”

“I don’t want ice cream. I want a favor. You know the kids across the street? The ones with the single mom who always needs help?”

“You mean the little ninja speed demons? Oh no.”

“Oh yes. You offered, Liz.”

“I never offered babysitting!”

“It’s not babysitting. It’s … ninja sitting.”

“Can I actually sit on them? Because that would be a different story.” She giggled. “Fine. What night are we talking about?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” He explained the situation in terms as vague as possible. A two-week special project that required his USAR and martial arts training. But Lizzie wasn’t buying it; she had a sixth sense for anything related to personal drama.

“This involves a girl, doesn’t it?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it’s Courtney, count me out.”

“It’s not Courtney. I told you we broke up.”

“Yes, but I know her, and I know she wouldn’t put up with someone breaking up with her.”

“Believe me, it’s over.”

“So it’s someone different. Someone you like? A lot?”

Fred let his silence do the talking, and it seemed to work.

“So if I agree to help you, your love life might improve?”

Again, he let Lizzie think whatever she liked. But once he started working for Rachel, any personal involvement would be completely unacceptable.

“I’m taking your silence as a desperate plea for help in the romance department. And so I consent to your request,” Lizzie said graciously.

“You’re a saint.”

“As long as you let me meet her.”

“You’re a saint and a blackmailer.”

He had a much harder time explaining the situation to the Sinclair kids.

“Someone needs my help,” he told them seriously, after he’d gathered them into his practice studio. “When someone needs your help, you can’t just walk away. At least, I can’t.”

“But you help people all the time,” whined Kip. “And what about us?”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.”

They all stared at him stonily. “That’s one of those bullshit things grown-ups say,” said Tremaine bitterly.

“Hey,” said Fred gently. “I know it’s tough.” Maybe their father had said the same thing, right before shipping out for the last time. “But I’m not going off to war. I’m just going to help a friend for a few weeks. My sister’s going to house-sit and she’ll hang out with you. She knows a few self-defense moves, so you can spar with her. Maybe even teach her a few things. And I’ll call your mom every few days so you know I’m okay. How’s that?”

When he threw in ice cream sundaes, they finally seemed to forgive him.

He collected enough clothes for a few weeks and took care of some bills. Before he left the house, he did a quick Google search to refresh his memories of Rachel’s kidnapping. At that time in his life, when he was thirteen, he’d just gotten his first girlfriend and had been preoccupied with finding time to make out with her behind the half-pipe in the park.

Rachel had been going through a very different experience. She’d been snatched on her way home from a neighbor’s house. Her bike was found later, mangled in the bushes. She’d been held for almost a month. The kidnapper had taunted Kessler by sending the local media distorted video clips in which he wore a Freddy Krueger mask. One of them had shown Rachel tied to a chair, blindfolded. In the video, the masked man had brandished a pair of scissors near her face. She didn’t make a sound, not one. In the end, all he did with the scissors was cut her hair, thick black locks falling to the dirty floor.

How an eight-year-old had found the courage and daring to escape was pretty much a miracle, the reporters kept emphasizing. One article interviewed people close to the family about a year after her escape. Everyone agreed that Rachel wasn’t the same girl anymore. She didn’t talk for months after her escape, and when she did, she spoke slowly and cautiously. One doctor, who admitted he hadn’t treated her, speculated that she might have trauma-induced brain damage. The stories painted a picture of a previously boisterous tomboy who was now afraid to go outside. The fact that the kidnapper had never been caught haunted the family.

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