White Fire

41

Corrie Swanson eased the rented Explorer into the driveway, and looked up at the cold, dark house. Not a light was on, even though Stacy’s car was in the driveway. Where was she? For some reason, Corrie found herself worrying about Stacy, feeling oddly protective toward her, when in fact she had hoped the opposite would happen — that Stacy would make her feel safe.

Stacy had probably gone to bed, even though she seemed to be a late-to-bed, later-to-rise person. Or maybe a date had picked her up in his car and they were still out.

Corrie got out of the car, locked it, and went into the house. The kitchen light had been turned off. That settled it: Stacy was asleep.

A helicopter flew low overhead, then another. During her drive up the canyon, there had been a lot of chopper activity, accompanied by the faint sound of sirens coming from the town. She hoped it wasn’t another house burning down.

Her date with Ted hadn’t quite ended as she’d hoped. She wasn’t sure why, but at the last minute she’d turned down his request to come back with her and warm her cold bed. She’d been tempted, exceedingly tempted, and she could still feel her lips tingling from his long kisses. Jesus, why had she said no?

It had been a wonderful evening. They’d eaten at a fancy restaurant in an old stone building that had been beautifully renovated, cozy and romantic, with candles and low lighting. The food had been excellent. Corrie, feeling famished, had consumed a gigantic porterhouse steak, rare, accompanied by a pint of ale, scalloped potatoes (her favorite), a romaine salad, and finished off with a brownie sundae that was positively obscene. They had talked and talked, especially about that jackass, Marple, and about Kermode. Ted had been fascinated — and shocked — to learn that Kermode was related to the infamous Stafford family. Having grown up in The Heights, he had known Kermode a long time and come to loathe her, but to learn she was part of the heartless family that had exploited and squeezed the town during the mining days really set him off. In turn, he told her an interesting fact: the Stafford family had originally owned the land The Heights had been built on — and their holding company still owned the development rights to the Phase III portion, slated to launch as soon as the new spa and clubhouse opened.

Putting away these thoughts, Corrie stepped out of the kitchen and into the central corridor. Something made her uneasy — there was a foreign feeling she couldn’t quite pinpoint, a strange smell. She walked through the house and headed to their rooms to check on Stacy.

Her bed was empty.

“Stacy?”

No answer.

Suddenly she remembered the dog. “Jack?”

There hadn’t been any barking, leaping, crazy little mutt to greet her. Now she was starting to freak out. She went down the little hall, calling the dog’s name.

Still nothing.

She headed back into the main portion of the house. Maybe he was hiding somewhere, or had gotten lost. “Jack?”

Pausing to listen, she heard a muffled whine and a scratching sound. It came from the grand living room — a room that had been shut up and which she’d been strictly forbidden to enter. She went to the closed set of pocket doors. “Jack?”

Another whine and bark, accompanied by more scratching.

She felt her heart pounding. Something was very, very wrong.

She placed her hand on the doors, found them unlocked, and slowly pulled them apart. Immediately, Jack rushed out from the darkness beyond, crouching and whining and licking her, tail clamped between his legs.

“Who put you in here, Jack?”

She looked about the dark room. It seemed quiet, empty — and then she saw a dark outline of a figure on the sofa.

“Hey!” she cried in surprise.

Jack cowered behind her, whining.

The figure moved a little, very slowly.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Corrie demanded. This was stupid. She should get out, now.

“Oh,” came a thick voice out of the blackness. “It’s you.”

“Stacy?”

No answer.

“Good God, are you all right?”

“Fine, no problem,” came the slurred voice again.

Corrie turned on the lights. And there was Stacy, slumped on the sofa, a fifth of Jim Beam half empty in front of her. She was still bundled up in her winter clothes — scarf, hat, and all. A small puddle of water lay at her feet, and watery tracks led to the sofa.

“Oh, no. Stacy!”

Stacy waved her arm, before letting it fall to the sofa. “Sorry.”

“What have you been doing? Were you outside?”

“Out for a walk. Looking for that mother who shot up your car.”

“But I told you not to do that. You could have frozen to death out there!” Corrie noticed that Stacy was packing, a .45 holstered to her hip. Jesus, she would have to get that gun away.

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I do worry about you. I’m totally worried about you!”

“Come on, siddown, have a drink. Relax.”

Corrie sat but ignored the offer of a drink. “Stacy, what’s going on?”

At this Stacy hung her head. “I dunno. Nothing. My life sucks.”

Corrie took her hand. No wonder the dog had been freaked out. “I’m sorry. I feel the same way myself sometimes. You want to talk about it?”

“My military career — shot. No family. No friends. Nothing. There’s nothing in my life but a box of old bones to haul back to Kentucky. And for what purpose? What a fucked-up idea that was.”

“But your military career. You’re a captain. All those medals and citations — you can do anything…”

“My life’s fucked. I was discharged.”

“You mean…you didn’t resign?”

Stacy shook her head. “Medical discharge.”

“Wounded?”

“PTSD.”

A silence. “Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry, I really am.”

There was a long pause. Then Stacy spoke again. “You have no idea. I get these rages — no reason. Screaming like a fucking maniac. Or hyperventilation: total panic attack. Christ, it’s awful. And there’s no warning. I feel so down sometimes, I can’t get out of bed, sleep fourteen hours a day. And then I start doing this shit — drinking. Can’t get a job. The medical discharge…they see that on a job application, it’s like, oh, we can’t hire her, she’s fucking mental. They’ve all got yellow ribbons on their cars, but when it comes to hiring a vet with posttraumatic stress disorder? Outta here, bitch.”

She reached out to take up the bottle. Corrie intercepted her and gently grasped it at the same time. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

Stacy jerked the bottle out of her hand, went to take a swig, and then, all of a sudden, threw it across the room, shattering it against the far wall. “Fuck, yeah. Enough.”

“Let me help you get to bed.” She took Stacy’s arm. Stacy rose unsteadily to her feet while Corrie supported her. God, she stank of bourbon. Corrie felt so sorry for her. She wondered if she could slip the .45 out of its holster unnoticed, but decided that might not be a good idea, might set Stacy off. Just get her into bed and then deal with the gun.

“They catch the fuck shot your car?” Stacy slurred.

“No. They think it might have been a poacher.”

“Poacher, my ass.” She stumbled and Corrie helped right her. “Couldn’t find the bastard’s tracks. Too much fresh snow.”

“Let’s not worry about that now.”

“I am worrying!” She clapped her hand to the sidearm and yanked it out, waving it about. “I’m gonna smoke that fucker!”

“You know you shouldn’t handle a firearm when you’ve been drinking,” Corrie said quietly and firmly, controlling her disquiet.

“Yeah. Right. Sorry.” Stacy ejected the magazine, which she fumbled and dropped to the floor, scattering bullets. “You’d better take it.”

She held it out, butt-first, and Corrie took it.

“Careful, there’s still one in the chamber. Lemme eject it for you.”

“I’ll do it.” Corrie racked the round out of the chamber, letting it fall to the floor.

“Hey. You know what you’re doing, girl!”

“I’d better, since I’m studying law enforcement.”

“Fuck, yeah, you’re gonna make a good cop someday. You will. I like you, Corrie.”

“Thanks.” She helped Stacy along the hallway toward their rooms. Corrie could hear more choppers overhead, and, through a window, a spotlight from one of them trained on the ground, moving this way and that. Something was happening.

She finally got Stacy tucked under the covers, putting a plastic wastebasket next to the bed in case she puked. Stacy fell asleep instantly.

Corrie went back to the living room and started cleaning up, Jack trailing her. Stacy’s drunkenness had freaked out the poor dog. It had freaked her out, as well. As she was straightening up she heard yet another chopper flying overhead. She went to the plate-glass windows and peered into the darkness. She could just see, over the ridge in the direction of town, an intense yellow glow.