Before the Storm (6 page)

what—crashed on top of him, knocking off his helmet. In the

beam from my flashlight, I’d seen blood pouring down his

cheek.

“Seventeen stitches.” Dawn pressed closer to him. “Maybe

a concussion.”

“You saved at least one life tonight, Trippett,” I said. “You

can have my back anytime.”

Truth was, I hadn’t liked going in with him. Ben had been

a volunteer for less than a year, and I was sure he wouldn’t last.

He had the desire, the ambition and the smarts, but he was

claustrophobic. He’d put on the SCBA gear, take that first

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breath through the face piece and freak out. Full-blown panic

attack. The guys razzed him about it. Good-natured teasing at

first, but when the severity of the problem became clear, the

taunting turned ugly, and I couldn’t blame them. No one

wanted to go into a fire with a guy they couldn’t trust. Ben

had been ready to quit. Ready to leave the island altogether.

But he finally made it through the controlled burn during a

training session, and a month or so ago, he told me he was

ready to go live.

“You sure?” I’d asked him. “There’s a huge difference

between a controlled fire and a live burn.”

“I’m sure,” he’d said. He hadn’t been kidding. He was ahead

of me tonight, inching on his hands and knees through the

burning church, when his low-air alarm sounded. We’d both

started out with full tanks, but nerves made you chew up the

air faster and he was running on empty.

“Let’s go!” I’d shouted to him, the words muddy from

behind my mask. He heard me, though. I knew he did, but he

didn’t turn around. Instead, he kept moving forward and I

thought he was losing it. I heard the dull thud of whatever hit

his helmet. Heard his grunt of pain. Saw the streak of red on

his cheek.“Ben!” I’d shouted.“Turn around!” But he kept right

on going.

I called into my radio.“I’ve got an injured man with low air,”

I said, but through the murk, I suddenly saw the screen of his

thermal image camera. There was someone in front of us. He

was going after one of the kids.

The girl had crawled into her sleeping bag and somehow

found an air pocket. Ben grabbed her, and together we dragged

her from the church. She was unconscious but alive.

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“Your boyfriend’s a stubborn SOB,” I said now to Dawn.

“But there’s a girl who’s lucky he is.”

“I know,” Dawn said.

“I heard some kids didn’t make it,” Ben said. “I should’ve

stayed. Maybe we could have—”

“You couldn’t stay, man.” I gripped his shoulder. “Your head

was split open.”

Ben pressed his sooty fingers to his eyes. He was gonna

come unglued any second.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I said.“You did good tonight.” The hospital

lights fell on his dark hair and all of a sudden, he reminded me

of Jamie. That brawny bulk of him that made me feel scrawny

by comparison. Big man with a soft heart.

“Do you hear him, Ben?” Dawn turned to Ben, one hand on

his chest.“You did all you could, sugar.” She looked at me.“Do

you know how it started?”

“Arson, most likely.”

“Who would do something like that?” Dawn asked.

I shook my head. “Y’all happen to see my nephew inside?”

I looked past them through the glass doors of the E.R.“Andy?”

“He’s there.” Dawn touched my arm. “He’s okay.”

Andy sat cross-legged on a bed in the E.R., looking like a

skinny little Buddha with a bandaged forearm, and my throat

closed up. Laurel sat next to the bed, her back to me, black

hair falling out of a barrette. Maggie was curled up at the end

of the bed, hugging her knees.

Andy spotted me as I opened the glass door.

“Uncle Marcus!” he called.

I reached the bed in a few strides and leaned past Laurel to

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hug him. His back felt boyish and narrow—a little kid’s back,

though his muscles were tight from swimming. I inhaled the

smoke from his hair, unable to speak. Finally, I got a grip on

myself and stood up.

“Good to see you, Andy.” My voice felt like sandpaper in my

throat.

“I’m a hero,” Andy said, then glanced quickly at Laurel.“Can

I tell Uncle Marcus that?”

Laurel chuckled. “Yes,” she said. “Uncle Marcus is family.”

She looked at me. “I told Andy that he shouldn’t brag.”

I put an arm around Maggie and hugged her to me.“How’re

you
doin’, Mags?”

“Okay,” she said. She didn’t look okay. Her face was waxy.

Beneath her eyes, the skin was purplish and translucent.

“Don’t worry,” I said, squeezing her shoulders. “He’s okay.”

“
Who’s
okay?” She was definitely out of it.

“Andy, babe,” I said.

“Oh, I know.” She leaned forward, rubbed her hand over

Andy’s knee.

“How about you, Marcus?” Laurel asked. “You’re a mess.

Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “But I’d like Andy to tell me why he’s a hero.”

There was no place to sit, so I leaned against the side of

Laurel’s chair, hands in my pockets. Andy jumped into the

story with a zeal that made me forget my anger at Laurel for

not calling me. He was suddenly a storyteller.

Laurel glanced up at me as Andy spun his tale. Our eyes

locked for about half a second. She was quick to look away.

Andy was on a roll. “So, I clumb out the—”

“Climbed, sweetie.” Laurel stroked her thumb over his hand.

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53

“I climbed out the boy’s room window and onto the metal

box with Emily and then went back in and got everyone else

to follow me out.”

“Unreal,” I said. “Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.”

“Who’s that?” Andy asked.

“The Pied Piper is a man from a fairy tale, Andy,” Laurel

said. “Children followed him. That’s what Uncle Marcus

meant. You were like the Pied Piper because the children

followed you.”

“I thought it was rats that followed him,” Maggie said.

I groaned.“Never mind. It was a bad analogy to begin with.”

Laurel looked at her watch, then stood up. “Can I talk with

you a minute?” she asked.

I leaned toward Andy, my hands on the sides of his head as

I planted a kiss on his forehead. Breathed in that stench of fire

I never wanted to smell on him again. “See you later, Andy,” I

said.

I had to run to catch up with Laurel outside the room. She

was a jogger—a vitamin-chomping health nut—and she didn’t

walk as much as dart. Now she turned toward me, arms

folded—her customary posture when talking with me. That

was the way I usually pictured her in my mind—arms across

her chest like a shield.

“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” I asked.

“Everything happened so fast,” she said. “And look. Keith

Weston’s here somewhere.”

Whoa.
“Keith was at the lock-in, too?”

She nodded. “He was airlifted. Sara left the fire about the

same time I did, but I haven’t seen her.”

“Come on.” I started walking toward the reception desk.

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“An ATF agent was here talking to Andy,” Laurel said.

“Good.” They were moving fast. That’s how I liked it.

“He said three people were killed. Do you know who?”

“No clue.” I knew she was scared Keith was one of them.

So was I. I touched her back with the flat of my palm. “There

were plenty of injuries, I know that much.”

We’d reached the desk, but the clerk was too overwhelmed

to be bothered. I stopped a guy in blue scrubs heading toward

the treatment area.

“Can we find out the condition of one of the fire victims?”

I asked after identifying myself. “Keith Weston?”

“Sure,” he said, like he had nothing better to do. He disappeared down a hallway.

I looked at Laurel. “Is this for real?” I nodded toward the

treatment room. “He led other kids out?”

“Unbelievable, isn’t it? But the agent said it was true. I think

it was because he didn’t think like everyone else—you know,

heading for the front doors.”

“And he has no fear,” I added.

Laurel was slow to nod. Andy had plenty of fears, but she

knew what I meant. He had no sense of danger. No real understanding of it. He was impulsive. I thought of the time he dove

from the fishing pier to grab a hat that had blown off his head.

The guy in scrubs came back.“He’s not here,” he said.“They

took him straight up to UNC in Chapel Hill.”

Laurel covered her mouth with her hand. “The burn

center?”

He nodded. “I talked to one of the medics. They induced a

medical coma on the beach.”

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“Is he going to make it?” Laurel’s hand shook. I wanted to

hang on to my anger at her, but that trembling hand did me in.

“That I don’t know,” the guy said. “Sorry.” His beeper

sounded from his waistband, and he spun away from us, taking

off at a run.

“Is his mother with—” Laurel called after him, but he was

already halfway down the hall.

Laurel pressed those shaky hands to her eyes. “Poor Sara.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just thankful Andy’s okay.”

“Oh, Marcus.” She looked at me. Right at me. More than a

half second this time. “I was so scared,” she said.

“Me, too.”

I wanted to wrap my arms around her. I needed the comfort

as much as I needed to comfort her. I knew better, though.

She’d stiffen. Pull away. So I settled for resting my hand on her

back again as we headed toward the treatment area and Andy’s

bed.

1984

JAMIE LOCKWOOD CHANGED ME. For one thing, I could

never again look at a man on a motorcycle without wondering what lay deep inside him. The tougher the exterior, the

greater the number of tattoos, the thicker the leather, the

more I’d speculate about his soul. But Jamie also taught me

about love and passion and, without ever meaning to, about

guilt and grief. They were lessons I’d never be able to forget.

I was eighteen and starting my freshman year at the University of North Carolina when I met him. I was pulling out

of a parking space on a Wilmington street in my three-monthold Honda Civic. The red Civic was a graduation present from

my aunt and uncle—technically my adoptive parents—who

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57

made up for their emotional parsimony through their generosity in tangible goods. I checked my side mirror—all clear—

turned my steering wheel to the left, and gave the car some

gas. I felt a sudden
thwack
against my door and a meteor of

black leather and blue denim streaked through the air next to

my window.

I screamed and screamed, startled by the volume of my own

voice but unable to stop. I struggled to open my door without

success, because the motorcycle was propped against it. By the

time I escaped through the passenger door, the biker was

getting to his feet. He was huge pillar of a man, and if I’d been

thinking straight, I might have been afraid to approach him.

What if he was a Hells Angel? But all I could think about was

that I’d hurt someone. I could have killed him.

“Oh my God!” I ran toward him, moving on sheer adrenaline. The man stood with his side to me, rolling his shoulders

and flexing his arms as if checking to see that everything still

worked. I stopped a few feet short of him. “I’m so sorry. I

didn’t see you. Are you all right?”

A few people circled around us, hanging back as if waiting

to see what would happen.

“I think I’ll live.” The Hells Angel unstrapped his white

helmet and took it off, and a tumble of dark hair fell to his

shoulders. He studied a wide black scrape that ran along the

side of the helmet. “Man,” he said. “I’ve got to send a testimonial to this manufacturer. D’you believe this? It’s not even

dented.” He held the helmet in front of me, but all I saw was

that the leather on his right sleeve was torn to shreds.

“I checked my mirror, but I was looking for a car,” I said.

“I’m so sorry. I somehow missed seeing you.”

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“You need to watch for cyclists!” A woman shouted from

the sidewalk. “That could have been my son on his bike!”

“I know! I know!” I hugged my arms. “It was my fault.”

The Hells Angel looked at the woman. “You don’t need to

rag on her,” he said. “She won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Then, more quietly, he spoke to me. “Will you?”

I shook my head. I thought I might throw up.

“Let’s, uh—” he surveyed the scene “—let me check out my

bike, and you back your car up to the curb and we can get each

other’s insurance info, all right?” His accent was pure Wilmington, unlike mine.

I nodded. “Okay.”

He lifted his motorcycle from in front of my door, which

was dented and scraped but opened with only a little difficulty,

and I got in. I had to concentrate on turning the key in the

ignition, shifting to Reverse, giving the car some gas, as if I’d

suddenly forgotten how to drive. I felt about fourteen years

old by the time I managed to move the car three feet back into

its parking space. I fumbled in the glove compartment for my