The Rescuer

Colin looked reflective. “Thought maybe you had a personal interest in the subject.”

“Right,” she said sarcastically. “Like maybe I only date firemen.”

Somehow she had to get this discussion back on Colin. Once more she reached into her tote bag; this time she brought out a videotape.

“How much stuff have you got in there?” he asked.

“This is all that’ll be necessary. Can we play it?”

He didn’t seem overjoyed at the prospect, but he popped the tape into a VCR across the room and turned on the TV. A few seconds later an image of fire and smoke flared on the screen.

Alex stiffened, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. She knew what to expect——every time she watched this video, she felt an uneasiness she couldn’t explain.

Now it was starting all over again. A news anchor was talking about the small brushfire that had set an apartment complex ablaze...then the camera was panning the building itself, several stories high, smoke billowing from the windows, flames burning orange-red...

Alex felt as though a vise had clamped itself around her. The panic was worse this time—much worse. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Easy, she told herself, but the word made no sense. Nothing made sense at this moment.

The camera swung down and centered on Colin’s face—grim, soot-covered, eyes a cold, startling blue. And the vise tightened around Alex.

She stood, scarcely knowing she had. All she wanted to do was run away, escape the fear that engulfed her. The image of Colin’s face froze on the screen. Then Colin himself came to her. He took her hands in his.

“What is it, Alex?” he asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t answer him. All she could do was stand there, gripping his hands as if only he could save her.

But how could he save her from anything, when he was the one who frightened her?

FAMILY DINNER at the McIntyre house. Lots of good food and conversation. Amendment: lots of good food—tonight Herb had broiled some steaks and served them with crusty rolls, mashed potatoes and green beans—no conversation. The three McIntyres sat around the dining room table, no sound but the clink of forks against plates. Colin told himself you couldn’t have everything.

At last Herb, pointing his fork at Sean, spoke. “You’re next.”

“Say what?” Sean muttered, slouching in his chair, a long-suffering expression on his face.

“Tomorrow night you make dinner,” Herb told him. “And then your dad’s in charge night after that. We rotate.”

“Like I cook,” Sean said.

“You’ll learn or you’ll go hungry,” Herb retorted. “I guess on that television show of yours everything’s catered. But we don’t cater here.”

Sean mumbled something.

“Sean,” Colin said, “if you have something to say to your great-grandfather, say it. Otherwise...”

“I can handle him myself,” Herb said testily. “And I sure as hell don’t need anyone calling me a great-grandpa. Herb will do nicely.”

Maybe no conversation was the better choice. Sean hadn’t seen his great-grandfather—correction, Herb—since he was ten. The intervening five years hadn’t contributed to family togetherness, it seemed.

Sean mumbled something else.

“Speak up,” ordered Herb.

Sean glared at him. “I can’t cook.”

“First lesson is tomorrow.”

“Hell,” said Sean.

“That’s enough,” said Colin.

“I told you,” grumbled Herb, “I can handle him myself. Kid, you really like people waiting on you all the time? That’s what you want?”

Sean looked beleaguered. “I work.”

“Not real work,” said Herb.

“Yeah, right,” said Sean in a long-suffering tone. “Too bad I’m not slaving in a mine.”

“Damn right.” Herb pointed his fork again. “You find out what you’re really made of when you haven’t seen daylight for twelve hours, and you’ve got a drill hammering in your ears, and the muck is clogging your nose and your eyes, and you’ve just found out you’re pulling a double shift.”

“Your family owned the mine,” Sean said. “You didn’t have to work in it.”

“I wanted to work,” said Herb. “I was glad to work. No catering for me.”

“Hell, I work—”

“Not according to your mom,” said Herb. “According to her, lately you do everything but. Out late with a bunch of jerks.”

“They’re my friends—”

“Some friends, according to your mom.”

“When the hell does she talk to you—”

“Take it easy, both of you,” said Colin. “Sean, clean up your language and speak to your great—speak to Herb with a little respect. And Herb... give Sean a break. He does have a job. Maybe it’s not the kind of work you’re used to—but it’s work.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” Sean said caustically.

Colin studied his son. The boy had a belligerent attitude, but there was also a strain to his features, and an unhappiness the boy couldn’t quite disguise. You shouldn’t look like that at fifteen. Colin wondered what was going on with his son—and acknowledged he’d better find out soon.

“You know, Sean,” he said, “you can kick back a little here. This is supposed to be a vacation for all three of us.”

“Right,” said Sean in a low voice. “Just the three of us. Sure.”

“Sean,” Colin said, “whatever trouble you’re having, it might do you good to talk about it.”

“Who says I’m having trouble?”

“Your mother, for one,” Colin said. “Not that she’d need to—it’s pretty obvious something’s bothering you. I’m a good listener, believe it or not. Herb’s a good listener, too, even though he’d like you to think otherwise.”