Gideon had immediately driven to Denver to see her and his son, whom he saw one weekend a month and two weeks during the summer.
Whatever animus he harbored toward his ex-wife vanished when he’d seen her. Helen had aged a decade in the last few months. Her once-full figure had been whittled down to a hundred pounds, her blond hair had thinned, and her skin had turned sallow. She could barely stand. Kyle refused to leave his mother, which meant Gideon traveled back and forth for several months, staying for longer and longer stretches until finally Helen had passed on in early May.
Gideon had packed up his grieving, sullen son and driven back to Missoula. After checking in with his chief, he’d taken leave, and he and Kyle had driven north. The lack of Wi-Fi had been a shock to both their systems. The quiet had created too many opportunities to talk. And the cabin’s confined space had offered few places to hide.
That left streams to fish, trails to hike, wood to chop, and a lot of anger and emotions to untangle. They had mended some fences and distance created by the divorce, and he was almost sorry they’d had to come back. But he had a job, and Kyle needed to catch up on the spring’s lost schooling.
The car’s radio squawked. “All vehicles in the downtown area, we have a structure fire.”
“Damn it,” he muttered as he reached for the radio. “This is Detective Gideon Bailey. I’m a mile away. I’ll respond.”
“Roger that. Fire crews have been dispatched and deputies en route.”
“Roger,” he said. He flipped on his lights, did a U-turn at the next intersection, and punched the accelerator. The wails of the fire trucks’ sirens quickly grew louder as he hurried through each successive intersection. As he rounded the final corner, his welcome came in the form of flames shooting up toward a dimming sky.
He was out of his vehicle as fire trucks parked and the firefighters scrambled to hook up their hoses to the hydrants. He grabbed his flashlight and raced toward the building, praying that if there were any survivors, he could help.
As Gideon stepped onto the sidewalk, the heat from the building forced him to shield his face with his hands. He angled his body, gripped the flashlight tighter, and edged closer to the front window of the beauty shop, once a favorite of Helen’s. Through the window, he saw that the blaze was shooting from the back of the store and heading toward a woman who lay on the floor.
The fingers on her left hand twitched. Shit. She was alive.
He rammed the butt of the flashlight into the glass display window. Glass shattered and fell into the shop and around his feet. The extra boost of oxygen energized the fire, making it crackle and wail louder as it dipped down from the ceiling. He thought for a split second that he could get into the building and save the woman. But before he could put the thought into action, all hell broke loose. There was an explosion inside the building, the roof bowed, and ceiling tiles dropped. Cinders danced as heat supercharged the air into a bellowing furnace.
Forced to retreat, he backed up to the vehicle, brushing the burning sparks and soot from his jacket. The firefighters raced toward the blaze, their hoses now shooting at full capacity.
Two patrolmen hurried toward him. The first was Stuart Hughes, who was in his midtwenties and the newest to the department. Tall and lanky with red hair, he still ran almost as fast as he had on the college track team.
Steps behind him was Detective Becca Sullivan, also in her twenties. She stood a few inches over five feet and had thick black hair that she secured in a neat bun. She was one of the department’s best shots.
The officers gathered beside Gideon, each staring at the raging flames with a mixture of awe and horror.
“What the hell happened?” Stuart asked, breathless.
“I saw a woman alive inside, lying on the floor.” Gideon shouted the words as he jogged over to the fire chief on scene, Clarke Mead.
Clarke was married to his sister, Ann, and the two had recently separated. So far, Gideon had managed to stay out of their separation, which appeared friendly enough, if that was possible. His own divorce had been a nasty, tangled affair that he would not have wished on his worst enemy.
“There’s someone inside,” Gideon said. “I saw a woman on the floor, near the window. Her fingers moved.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Clarke raised the radio to his lips and spoke to his crew through their headsets as they wrestled the hose. One team shifted toward the window and sprayed cold water onto the inferno. The flames hissed and spit, not wanting to yield any ground.
“The building is fully engulfed,” Clarke said. “I can’t send anyone in there now. It would be a death sentence.”
“Clarke, she was alive.”
Clarke rested his hands on Gideon’s shoulders. “If she was, she isn’t now. No one could have survived the toxic chemicals and heat.”
He stepped back, unable to shake the image of the woman lying unconscious on the floor. “It’s like the College Fire.”
Clarke stood several inches over six feet, with the broad shoulders of a linebacker. He had short, dark hair and an angled face weathered by the sun. “Don’t do that.”
Haunting memories, never far away, rushed him. His thoughts went first to his son and nephew, who had been spending the afternoon with Clarke. “Where are Kyle and Nate?”
“They’re safe. I dropped both boys off at their friend Tim’s house.”
Gideon said a word of thanks as he stared at the blaze and prayed the woman had died quickly.
Joan settled her backpack in the room assigned to her by Ann, accepted a glass of wine, and was sent to wander around the house as Ann finished dinner. Her gaze was drawn to a picture of Ann, Clarke, and Nate resting on a large raw-edge mantel above the fireplace. The picture looked as if it had been taken a year or two ago. Clarke and Ann both looked much the same, and the boy appeared to be a mix of the two.
The Baileys’ front door burst open. Joan automatically reached for the sidearm she’d left behind in Philadelphia as her gaze shifted to the door. Two boys, who appeared to be about ten, stood in the entryway.
“Mom! I’m home! And Kyle is here!”
The child’s voice echoed up the stone walls toward the vaulted ceiling, framed by rafters and the mounted stuffed heads of deer and antelope. Joan knew the ever-watching trophies had been placed there decades ago by Ann’s father, who had built the place in the midseventies.
As she approached the boys, they skidded to a stop and regarded her with suspicion. She recognized the lean boy as Nate, from the family photo. The high cheekbones and blond hair came from his mother. Clarke’s contribution was the dark eyes, though they radiated Ann’s intelligence.
The other boy had a similar look, but he was taller and his build sturdier. His relaxed body language suggested he had been here many times and was comfortable in the Bailey home. His dark eyes looked almost familiar.
“Who are you?” Nate demanded.
“I’m Joan. You are Nate, right?”
“Yeah, and this is Kyle.”
“Nice to meet you both. I’m a friend of Nate’s mother.”
“Where’s Mom?” Nate’s voice was breathless, and his thick hair swept haphazardly over his forehead.
“She’s in the kitchen. She’s cooking dinner.”