Page 94 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“Perfect. Greta and I will be in my office.”

“Very good. Oh, a police officer stopped by earlier. He questioned the staff and he wants to talk to you too.”

She sighed. “Thanks, I’ll call him back tomorrow.”

As soon as the outer gate slid shut with a firm click, and the night sounds of the Refuge—the soft whistles of the mockingbirds, the snuffling of dreaming animals, wind playing in the treetops—surrounded her, a sense of peace descended on her soul. She and Greta spent the night curled up on the loveseat, moonlight slanting through the windows.

She didn’t sleep much; too many thoughts kept running through her head. The Refuge staff was probably wondering what was going on, especially if they’d seen her interview and heard about Dale/Kale. They wouldn’t ask, of course. They were used to keeping their distance and doing what they were told. She rarely interacted with the staff, being more occupied with her dog therapy practice. For three years she’d floated in and out of their sphere, with them, and yet apart from them. And she’d never really questioned it before now.

But this place was her creation, her baby. Shouldn’t she start acting like she was in charge, not just some distant, untouchable figurehead?

The next morning, after all the workers had arrived, she called a staff meeting. The guards, she noticed, had reported for work as usual. Maybe they hadn’t gotten the message that Kessler Tech was no longer involved with the Refuge. Everyone gathered under the big oak tree in the front yard, three security guards and five staffmembers, whom she barely knew.

With Greta at her side for moral support, she faced the small group.

“Hi,” she said, clearing her throat awkwardly. The faces before her showed no expression other than wariness. “As you all know by now, one of our techs, Dale, has been arrested for kidnapping. You’ve probably already been questioned by the police or maybe interviewed by the media, so I thank you for your cooperation.”

From the corral, a goat bleated. Out with it, Rachel.

“Also, I … um, in case you missed my interview on Channel Six, I’m actually Rachel Kessler, not Rachel Allen. I apologize for the deception.”

No response from the group. Maybe they didn’t care what last name she used. Maybe they already knew. Maybe she was making a big deal about nothing.

“Now that the word is out, it’s quite likely things will change around here. Actually, scratch that. Things are definitely going to change.”

Finally, a reaction. One of the techs, a young woman with her hair in two braids—Becky?—raised her hand. “Rumor has it you’ll be closing the Refuge.”

“Who said that?”

She shifted back on her heels, hands in her back pockets. “There was an e-mail from Kessler Tech that got people talking.”

“We’re not closing down. It’s true that Kessler Tech will no longer be one of our donors. But we don’t need them. We have plenty of other means of raising money.”

Tolliver, a leathery-skinned older man who was as good with birds as she was with dogs, spat into the dirt. “Be straight with us. Without Kessler’s dough, you can’t guarantee our paychecks, can you?”

Paychecks. Rachel pulled the skin of her lower lip between her teeth. Of course the staff wanted to know how they were going to get paid. Since she’d never drawn a paycheck herself, she hadn’t even thought about that detail. “I can’t give you a firm answer until I see where our finances are,” she admitted.

A groan rose from the group, and Tolliver turned away with a gesture of disgust. “Then what are we even doing here? Why are you wasting our time?”

“Wait! Wait, don’t leave yet. Please.” Rachel dug her heels into the dirt. She’d worked so hard to build this place. Now she’d have to work even harder to keep it going. Anchored by the solid ground beneath her, she said, “Here’s what I can promise you. We have other donors, and I’ll be working with all of them to make sure they stay on board.” Well, maybe with the exception of Bradford Maddox IV. “Right away, while the media is still interested in my story, I’ll be doing a major media outreach myself.”

Was anyone listening anymore? They were looking this way and that, at their feet, at each other. Maybe they were already mentally updating their résumés.

“Please give me your attention for just a little longer.” That didn’t work either. Becky was checking the messages on her phone. Tolliver stuffed another wad of gum in his cheek and looked at the sky above.

Momentum was definitely not going her way. Crap. If the staff members left, the animals would be put at risk and the whole place would degenerate before she could hire anyone else. And she liked this crew; they did a good job. She couldn’t let them abandon the Refuge. She had to be … She looked down at Greta, who sat patiently by her side, the way Rachel had trained her to. Why? Because she, Rachel, was the leader of their little pack of two. People were social animals, just like dogs, she reminded herself. They responded to strength, to decisiveness, to leadership.

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