Fireproof

CHAPTER 2

NEWBURGH HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA

Maggie O’Dell tried to push through the black gauze, her head heavy, her mind still swimming. There had been flashes of light—laser-sharp white and butane blue—before the pitch black. A steady throb drummed against her left temple. Soft, wounded groans came out of the dark, making her flinch, but she couldn’t move. Her arms were too heavy, weighed down. Her legs numb. Panic fluttered through her.

Why couldn’t she feel her legs?

Then she remembered the electric jolt—the memory of searing pain traveling through her body.

More panic. Her heart began to race. Her breathing came in gasps.

A gunshot blast and her scalp felt on fire.

That’s when she smelled it. Not cordite, but smoke. Something actually was on fire. Singed hair. Burned flesh. Smoke and ashes. The sound of plastic crinkled under fabric. And suddenly at the front of the darkened room Maggie could see her father lying in a satin-trimmed coffin, so quiet and peaceful while flames licked up the wall behind him.

She had had this dream many times before but still she was surprised to find him there, so close that all she had to do was look over the edge of the lace to see his face.

“They parted your hair wrong, Daddy,” and Maggie lifted her hand, noticing how small it was but glad to finally be able to move it. She reached over and pushed her father’s hair back in place. She wasn’t afraid of the flames. She concentrated only on her fingers as they stretched across his face. She was almost touching him when his eyes blinked open.

That’s when Maggie jerked awake.

Flashes of light, tinged blue, came from the muted big-screen television. Maggie’s eyelids twitched, still heavy despite her desperate attempt to open them. She pushed herself up and immediately recognized the feel of the leather sofa. Still, her head and heart pounded as her body pivoted, looking for shadows, expecting the embodiment of the wounded moans in the corners of her own living room.

But there was no one.

No one except Deborah Kerr, who filled the TV screen. Deborah’s face was as worried and panicked as Maggie felt. She was running on a beach in the middle of a storm. Somewhere Robert Mitchum was hurt, injured.

Maggie had seen this movie many times and yet she felt Deborah’s panic each time. Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison. It was one of Maggie’s favorites. She had just defended it to her friend Benjamin Platt during one of their classic-movie marathons. Which had prompted her to pull it out. But tonight she was alone. At the moment, it was just her and Deborah.

She sat up. Leaned back against the soft leather and rubbed her left temple. Sweat matted her hair to her forehead. Her heartbeat started to settle down but the familiar throb continued. Under her fingertips she could feel the puckered skin on her scalp. The scar no longer hurt even when she pressed down on it like she did now. But the throbbing continued. All too predictably it would lead to a massive headache, a pain that started as a sharp pinpoint in her left temple but would soon swirl around inside her head.

Eventually it would settle at the base of her skull, pressing against the back of her brain, a steady dull ache threatening to drive her mad. Even sleep—which came infrequently and often in short bursts—gave her little relief. She had no idea if the insomnia was the result of her nightmares or if the threat of nightmares kept her awake. All Maggie knew was that any sleep, no matter how short, was accompanied by a film version of her memories—the edited horror edition, looped together. This newest sequel included clips from four months ago. Teenagers attacked in a dark forest, two electrocuted, the rest reduced to frightened and wounded moans.

Her fingers found the scar again under her hair. Just another scar, she told herself, and she wished she could forget about it. If it weren’t for the headaches she might be able to put it out of her mind for at least a day or two.

Last October she had been shot … in the head. Actually the bullet had grazed her temple. Perhaps it was asking too much to forget so quickly. She did wish that everyone around her would forget it. That’s why she wouldn’t tell anyone about the headaches.

Her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, already thought she was “compromised,” “altered,” “temporarily unfit for duty.” So far she had managed to avoid and put off his insistence that she go through a psychological evaluation. Her only leverage in delaying it was that Kunze felt responsible for sending her on the detour that resulted in her almost being killed. Not that he would admit responsibility. Instead he let her off the hook, claiming he had a soft spot for the holidays. Funny, when she thought about Kunze and Christmas, Maggie could easily conjure up the image of the Grinch who stole Christmas. But now that the holidays were long over, she expected Kunze would push for the evaluation.

Deborah Kerr found Robert Mitchum just as Maggie realized she could still smell something scorched and sooty. Was the smoke not a figment of her nightmare? Could something in the house be on fire?

In the dark corner of the television screen she saw movement. Not flames but a flicker of motion that was not a part of the movie. A reflection. A figure. A man walking across the doorway of the room behind her.

Someone was in her house.