Heaven's Fire (35 page)

Simon had just reached the armpit, which, appropriately, was a depression where neither his cell phone or radio worked.

He kept walking.

*****

Jake checked the time on her console. 20:29:46.
"
Showtime, people, in ten, nine...
"

George:
"
Welcome to TV8’s presentation of the Refresh Yourself Fourth. I’m George Eagleton and with me is Neal Cravens. Martha Malone is out on the Lake Mist, and she's lucky to be there because we're told that by boat is the only way to get here, Neal.
"

Neal:
"
That's right, George, the sheriff's department has closed the roads leading to Shore Park, because of
crowding
.
. ."

Speaking of
crowding
:

"Kate,"
Jake said to the floor director,
"
watch Neal’s side, we have people pressing into the shot. Luis, stand by."

As Jake waited to give him his cue, she glanced back at the monitor for the seawall camera. Now, in addition to the hordes passing by in search of someplace to sit, there was another line heading the opposite way, toward the portable toilets. People waiting for porta-potties didn't make for good video.

"Camera Three, can you reset your shot? Try to keep the toilet lines out of it."

"I'm trying, but it keeps growing." The camera operator backed up and to the right a bit. Just as he was set again, a man walked into the shot and stopped.

Jake sighed. "Luis, in five, four, three..."

*****

Pat Firenze was checking the connections on the squibs, the small electric igniters that would detonate the lift charges. Tonight's show was going to be fired electronically, so if the damn shells exploded in the mortars, it wouldn’t much matter. None of them--not him, not Tudy, not Angela, not any of their guys--was going to be near enough to get hurt.

After making sure the squibs were secure in the lift charges, he straightened up. Beyond him, to the west, he could see TV8’s camera, but he was leaving that all to Angela. This time, Pat wouldn’t concern himself with anything but shooting the show, and shooting it safely.

After checking out his father's computer, Pat didn’t know if Pasquale’s death had destroyed the company or saved it. Or maybe something in between. But Pat had turned over what he’d found to Simon—let him decide. In the meantime, it was Pat’s job to pick up the pieces and rebuild Firenze Fireworks.

Pat followed the black electrical wires from the squibs to the control board behind the barricade they’d erected. A half-inch of plywood didn’t sound like much, but it was enough to protect them from flying debris.

Tudy came back from checking the far mortars.
"
We’re good, kiddo. Can you give me a hand with Big Blue?
"

The old man was looking better, probably because he was busying himself with fireworks the way Pat's mother busied herself with cooking.

"
How about Security,
"
Pat asked, as they walked toward the end of the finale. "Are those guys staying back?
"

"
Yeah, yeah, I told them. They said they don’t want to be no closer than we want. Some’ll stay here with us, and some out by the lake. I chased that camera guy out, too."

Pat nodded. They needed the security, but you had to make sure people didn't come clomping through, disconnecting wires. If Ray...

Tudy gestured toward the lake.
"
I'm worried about that fog, boy.
"

Pat looked. The haze was getting thicker as the light died, but it didn’t seem to be moving inland toward them.
"
I don’t know, it looks to me like it might stay put.
"

"Do we make the call, go or don't go?"

Pat was really hoping no one would have to make that call, he wanted to get this over with. "Bryan Williams. He‘s making the call."

"Yeah, like that
stonato
knows anything about fireworks or weather,
"
Tudy said.
"
All he knows about is money."

He shook his head and stopped at the last mortar.
"
You just never can tell on this lake, your dad always said. The weather blows in, the weather blows out. You just say your prayers, and you light your fuse.
"

Amen to that, Pat thought. He and Tudy had dug in the mortar for the last shell--Big Blue, as Tudy called the shell Pat's mother had insisted they make as a tribute to his father--so all but a foot of the cardboard casing was safely below the ground. Despite Pat's misgivings about the shell, he figured the setup was as safe as fireworks and explosives could ever be.

Which wasn't all that safe.

"C'mon, boy," Tudy said, standing above the sixteen-inch shell. "Let's load this."

And, together, they lowered Pasquale Firenze's shell into the ground.

*****

Angela was running late, but she was very nearly finished. Using the hood of her car as her table, and a blanket as the tablecloth so nothing would get dirty, she carefully rolled a sheet of white stationery and tied a blue ribbon around it. Fastening the other end of the ribbon to the neck of the wine bottle, she ran the edge of a nail file down the length of the ribbon to curl it, and she was done.

Angela checked her watch. She was due soon at TV8 to talk about her father. Or so they wanted her to believe. But Angela was no fool. She knew that once she got there, that Neal Cravens would ask her about Ray over and over again, until she was forced to leave.

That was why she'd written the tribute to her father and attached it to the wine bottle. So they could read it for her if she ran out of time.

She had made the wine with her own hands, and it was her father's favorite until he had decided the red would be better for his health. Angela had helped her father in that, as she had in everything else. She’d kept his secret until now, when it was no longer necessary to keep.

Angela stepped back from the hood of the car and surveyed her work. Perfect. Along with the words on the paper and the shell Pat and Tudy would fire, it would be a fitting memorial to Pasquale Firenze.

Angela tucked the bottle into her bag, careful not to crush the note. Then she folded up the blanket and placed it neatly in the trunk, before setting out for the TV8 stage.

As she went, she pictured the display in her mind. The finale would go, all noise and white light. The strobes so rapid and so bright, the salutes so loud and so long, that the people would be stunned into silence.

And before they could catch their breath, before they could start clapping and cheering, there would be one final shell.

A blue shell, a blue so pure and so brilliant, it would be like the heavens had opened up above them.

*****

The trek from the armpit to the wrist had taken Simon longer than he'd expected. Right above the elbow, his radio had kicked back in.

The sun had set so Simon was taking the long way around, following the seawall, so he wouldn't trip over the firing wires in the dark. He had no intention of either breaking his neck or dislodging something essential to the show.

The Firenze workers didn't have the same qualms, they were crossing and re-crossing the wires as they made final adjustments.

Simon saw Angela coming his way, and looked around uncomfortably for an emergency exit. None was forthcoming, other than the one over the seawall into the lake. He'd have to stop and talk to her.

"Simon, is everything all right?" Angela asked, her eyes scanning his face.

"Fine," he assured her. "I just need to check in with Pat and Tudy."

"You must hurry," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "The show will start very soon. And I must hurry, too. I am to be on TV8 in less than twenty minutes." She looked out over the rapidly darkening park. "Jake said to come to the stage, but I can't quite..."

"See the lights on the bluff?" Simon pointed, turning away from her as he did so. "Head for them."

Angela thanked him and started off in the direction he'd indicated. Simon, relieved the conversation hadn't needed to go beyond the mundane, to Ray and all the rest of it, had already begun walking when he heard her call his name.

He turned back to her.

Her eyes were big and dark and, Simon thought, hopeful. "I would like to talk to you tonight." He started to shake his head no, and she just said, "Please?" and waited.

"Angela, I--"

"It's about my father and about Ray. He knows." The last words were barely a whisper.

Before Simon could respond, Angela looked at her watch. "I need to be back here at ten o'clock for my father's shell. Please meet me where the snow fencing joins the seawall."

She squeezed his hand, and then she was gone, picking her way expertly over the wires as she ran.

Simon continued in the opposite direction, taking in the thick black cables that led to the truck-size generator dead ahead. It would be ridiculously easy disrupt the electronically fired show. Disconnect the right cable--the equivalent of pulling a plug out of an economy-sized outlet--and everything would stop.

But if that was all Ray Guida had in mind, Simon wouldn't be that worried. The fact was, though, Simon didn't know what Ray had in mind.

Nor Angela, for that matter.

*****

George:
"
We are less than twenty minutes away from the start of these fireworks...
"

Forty minutes into the broadcast, and Jake was still having trouble concentrating. She was directing on autopilot, following the rundown and calling shots more out of habit than anything else.

Most of her attention--her conscious attention--was on the monitors. The Ray watch. Would he show up in the porta-potty line, or in Callie’s lens, or Dave’s, or out on the boat with Pete? Would he sneak up behind the backs of the police and the ATF and in front of the camera lens? Maybe remove a lift charge? Or light a fuse? Nonsensical as it was, she kept watching and waiting.

She picked up her cup of coffee and took a sip. Stone cold, perfect for clearing her head. It was almost fireworks time and she needed to get back into the game.

She set the coffee down, and thumbed the switch on the radio, thinking about Luis. "Dave?"

"Yeah, Jake?"

"Assuming we have time, we're going to be coming back to you and Luis just before the first shell. Make sure he's prepared okay?"

"Hey, that wasn't my fault--" Dave protested.

"I know. Just do me a favor, and keep an eye on him."

Jake had believed Luis yesterday, when he'd sworn he had nothing to do with Pasquale's death, she really had. But tonight, with the fog crouching out on the lake, and the crowd restless and expectant on the shore, anything seemed possible.

They were coming out of the break. Jake checked her rundown. Next up was an interview with the father of the family Neal had interviewed last Friday. Twice. And here he was back for more. These people were gluttons for punishment. Or publicity.

Jake could hear Callie give the countdown, and then Neal, George and Mr. Jenson were on-camera.

Dang.

Mr. Jenson. And the blonde guy Jake had seen coming in and going out of the Y. And the Croc.

All the same person.

Now what were the chances of that?

*****

Luis was standing just inside the restricted firing area, where the line of fencing met the lake.

"So what do you think, Dave? That first one went pretty good, huh?"

Dave, who was on his radio, just grunted at Luis and walked away.

Fame. It was a lonely place to be.

They were inside the firing area, though the Firenzes had suggested that Luis "stay the hell away from us." Which he'd do for the time being at least. Personally, Luis thought his taped package on the explosion had been pretty good. His live intro had been a little rough, but--

"Jake says to try to get it right this time," Dave said, coming back to where Luis stood near the fence. "Pasquale Firenze is the dead one. Pat Firenze is the son. He's still alive. So far. Tudy's the father of the missing guy, whose name is
Ray
, by the way."

This time it was Luis who waved Dave off and walked away. It wasn't like it was Luis's fault: everybody's name sounded the same. Pasquale, Pat, Ray, Tudy. If you didn't want that kind of confusion, you should name your kid something totally different. Like Ferdinand or something.

But Luis knew what was really eating Dave. He was jealous, and who could blame him? Luis would be jealous, too, if it was Dave reporting and Luis was
his
camera operator.

Yeah, like that would ever happen. Dave didn't have the drive, or the imagination. Case in point: the minute the show started, Luis was heading for the mortars, no matter what the Firenzes said.