“What is it?” she said.
The fax was from Greg Schroeder, and it listed the addresses and phone numbers of a couple of dozen men named Nicholas Hendel. Most of them lived in Chicago. There were also a few in Skokie, Oak Park, Cicero, Winnetka, Arlington Heights, Ashton, Joliet, and more.
“A needle in a haystack,” I said.
A moment later, the lobby was filled with the whoop and wail of a fire truck siren. It started low, increased in volume, and then decreased as the truck passed the hotel’s large windows. Seconds later, another truck passed.
“Volunteer fire department,” Sharren said. She rushed to the window and looked out. As she did, Evan, the blond bartender, backed into the lobby through the front door, watching the trucks pass as he did.
“What’s going on?” Sharren asked him. “Do you know?”
“It’s the Dannes—Rick and Cathy—over by the high school. Their house is on fire.”
By the time I reached the site, the eight-man volunteer fire department was already hard at it. I could see them clearly in the high-intensity lights that they had trained on the building. Two two-man crews were hosing down the side of the house where the fire was visible, while a third team cautiously crossed the roof. One of the firefighters powered up a chain saw. He carefully cut a hole in the roof to release the intense heat while the second gave him a steadying embrace. I wanted to help, but I didn’t even know where to begin, so I stood back like a couple of dozen other gawkers, staying out of the way as best I could.
The flames licked one side of the house, but the opposite side had remained untouched. A fire ladder was set against that wall, and the two men who had used it to reach the roof now scrambled back down. A firefighter with an ax smashed a window on the ground floor, and smoke began billowing out, rising until it disappeared into the night sky. A moment later, he smashed another window.
A woman screamed. I followed the scream to the front of the house, where Rick Danne was holding tight to his wife, trying to console her. It didn’t seem to do any good. She writhed in his arms as if she wanted to run into the burning building. I wondered if someone could be trapped inside until I heard a voice announce, “No one was home when it started.”
The flames cast frightening orange shadows against Cathy’s face and white shirt. Her sorrow and fear and rage were agonizing to watch. It reminded me of those times when I worked traffic control at fires when I was a cop in St. Paul, sometimes having to restrain residents from braving the fire to recover some cherished heirloom. I knew what she must have been feeling, what other fire victims felt—the terrific sense of loss. It wasn’t just her belongings that were going up in smoke; it was the nourishing routine of her life. After all, shelter isn’t that hard to come by. Clothes, furniture, appliances, the house itself—those all could be replaced. Wedding photos could not. Nor could music collections, books, childhood mementos, the little black dress that fit just so, the comfy chair that was just the way we liked it, the mug we reached for whenever we wanted a cup of joe, or the prized souvenirs of a life lived long and well. They were the things that anchored us to our lives. Without them, we were like kites cut loose from their strings.
I found myself moving far out of Cathy’s sight line for fear that seeing me would cause her even greater pain—and because I wanted to spare myself the reproachful stare and accusatory oaths that I knew I deserved. There was no doubt in my mind that Church had caused this fire, as he had so many others, to get back at the Dannes and to get back at me, to make a joke of my vow to protect them. I also had no doubt that Cathy Danne would blame me for this outrage, and she would be right to do so. The fire would not have happened if I had kept my seat in the Café Rossini, if I had not insisted on standing up to Church, if I had not been so quick to impose myself on someone else’s life.
There was a hole deep in my stomach now, and it was slowly filling with the black bile of guilt. I didn’t like the feeling it gave me, and I wished it would go away. I wished there were something I could do to make it all right. I wished I could put out the fire and rebuild their home, and I wished I could do it in seconds. The more I wished, the angrier I became.
A moment later, the hoses were shut down. Yet the fire still burned. The flames, hot against my face from the beginning, gained in intensity. The wind—the wretched wind had not stopped blowing since I arrived in Libbie—swirled the smoke and blew it into my eyes. I blamed the smoke for the tears that came suddenly. I wiped them with the back of my hand and eased farther away from the fire until I was across the street.
“What the hell?” I said.