Текст книги "Tin City Tinder"

Автор книги: David Macinnis Gill

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

WEDNESDAY

1

After my morning classes, I did my weekly volunteer work at the homeless shelter. For two hours, we ladled out bowls of vegetable soup and stale bread toast covered with slices of processed cheese food. For desert, there was apple pie donated by a local grocery chain. The families at the shelter were grateful for the meal. I felt guilty thinking about the steaks Cedar and I had eaten the night before. Especially when I remember the slice of chocolate torte we’d wasted.

Cedar was right about it being a perfect date, even if it did cost me a pair of dress shoes. That’s why when she texted me with the message: OMG, I didn’t mind replying: DITTO.

I was still grinning at her text when I got back home, where more work was waiting. The stalls had to be mucked, the barn raked, and the straw replaced. When I finished, I was starving, but it was the kind of hunger that could be sated by one thing:

 Snickerdoodles.

Mom’s snickerdoodles, to be exact.

Which given the fact that she was mad at me, I had little chance of getting. There was only one solution. I would have to make my own. Cooking was like chemistry, right? You get a list of ingredients, follow the procedure, and eureka! Cookies.

“Cookbook, cookbook.” I scanned the shelf above the stovetop. “Who knew there were so many books on preparing fish?”

It made sense, actually. Cookies were naturally appealing. Making fish edible took a high level of culinary skill.

Fish!

I snapped my fingers. It was the one species I’d not included in my blow fly maggot experiment. All of my subjects were mammalian because humans were mammals. But wouldn’t it be interesting to see how insects responded to non-mammalian tissue samples?

“Mental note: Add fish.”

After staring at the shelf for another minute, I settled on the Fanny Farmer cookbook because the name Fanny made me smirk. I looked up cookies in the table of contents and was delighted to discover a recipe for snickerdoodles.

“The mystery is solved.”

The recipe was simple: Butter, sugar, cream of tartar, eggs, vanilla, flour, and cinnamon. The instructions were straightforward like a science lab. What was the big deal here? With directions like these, what could go wrong?

An hour and twenty minutes later, I took a pan of cookies from the oven and set it on the stove top next to the three glass bowls I’d used for mixing, The bowls were stacked next to a metal dish I’d used for working the butter, as well as the decanter of sugar I spilled on the counter when I burned myself putting the raw cookies in the oven.

I poured a tall glass of milk.

With a thin spatial, I gently lifted the cookies from the pan and arranged them on a clean, white plate. I sprinkled cinnamon on twice because there’s no such thing as too much cinnamon and put the plate next to the milk glass.

Taking a bite of the crisp cookie, I waited for the rich, buttery flavor to fill my mouth, for the warmth to spread over my tongue, and the cold of the milk to harden the dough so that it crunched satisfyingly between my teeth.

“Oh my god!” I spat cookie everywhere. “Paste! I tastes like paste!”

I emptied the glass. Refilled it and emptied it again.

The cookies were totally fibered.

It made no sense. I had followed the recipe precisely. I held a snicker doodle in the light, turning it over and over. The shape was right, the consistency was right, but the texture was all wrong. It was lumpy and grainy, like congealed cream of wheat. The flavor was worse than the jar of paste I’d eaten in kindergarten.

I carried the plate to the porch and flung the cookies into the yard. “Bon appetite, birds!” The crows would eat them for sure.

Bzzt. My pager went off.

The call codes indicated a house fire in Nagswood, a wide place in the road on Highway Twelve. Only ten miles away. Nobody had a chance to get there before me.

“No heroics this time,” I admonished myself as I started the truck. My turnouts were on the floorboard, and the hooligan tool was on the gun rack. “Rules and regs, just like Lamar wanted. You’ll even follow the speed limit. Sort of.”

I radioed Julia, who was working dispatch. “I’m 10-76 and running 10-39. ETA, ten minutes.”

“You’re first responder,” Julia replied through the static. “You know the drill. Status report only. Don’t take action till the Captain has boots on the ground.”

“Roger that.”

“I mean it, Possum.”

“So do I. Out.”

I swerved around a fresh load of horse apples in the middle of the dirt road. If I needed any motivation to behave, the apples were there a reminder of all the stalls I’d have to muck if I screwed up again.

There was nothing like a pile of steaming manure to inspire you to do better, even when you knew in your heart that you hadn’t learned your lesson.

2

Like the Tin City and Duck properties, the house in Nagswood was set well off the highway, down a mile long dirt road that was so overgrown with cedar trees and white pines, it was difficult to navigate. If not for a For Sale sign marked SOLD from Landis Commercial Real Estate, I might have driven past the road, and I definitely would’ve missed the sharp left turn through a hedge row, even though there was a thick column of smoke already rising into the blue sky.

A stream cut the boundary between properties. The ground was scorched. The yard was lined with electrified wire and two large signs warning trespassers that violators would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. No Trespassing signs were ubiquitous in this part of the county. The growth of the towns in the east had forced wildlife west. Hunters followed along behind, and property owners found their quiet weekends destroyed by the baying of Treeing Walkers, a dog breed known for their ability to flush out small game by making enough racket to wake the dead.

“Number Seventeen reporting in. Julia, I’m on site.”

“Roger that.”

I parked next to an old tobacco barn a hundred yards from the house. There was another truck already on site, a half-ton pickup with dual rear wheels. Three firefights stood beside the truck. They were dressed in yellow turnouts with orange piping. Atamasco Volunteer Fire Department was stenciled across their backs.

How had they gotten there before me?

“Atamasco VFD’s already on the scene,” I told dispatch.

“That’s real quick,” Julia said. “Lamar called in right before you. He says to radio in a status check.”

“Roger that.” I pulled on my turnouts. Grabbed my helmet and the hooligan. Walked across the patchy grass field toward the other firefighters.

The leader spoke to the other two vollies, and they moved toward the house. They wore hand-me-down turnouts and sweat-soaked T-shirts. Their hair was stringy and hung down past their necks, and unless I was mistaken, they were twins.

They split up and took either side of the building.

Something didn’t seem right.

“Y’all got here quick,” I said. “Thought I’d be first responder.”

The leader sported a mop of black hair and a threadbare beard. He wore a blood-red shirt under his unbuttoned fire coat. His head barely reached my chin, but he was broad and stump-shaped, which made him seem bigger. There was something familiar about his face, the way his teeth jutted forward from a pronounced prognathism.

“Looks like you thought wrong.”

“Atamasco’s a long way from here.”

“We’re out hunting the Black River. Not that it’s any of your goddamned business.”

“How’s the hunting?” I offered my hand. “Boone Childress, Allegheny VFD.”

“I know who you are, Possum. My kid brother is Dewayne Loach.”

That explained the animosity. The brothers looked nothing alike, except in the shape of the mouth. That’s why he had seemed familiar.

I faced the fire. “What’s the situation?”

A deserted farmhouse. An isolated location. A fire burning so hot and fast, it was a loss before the first responders reached it.

Two times is a coincidence.

Three times is a pattern.

Loach spat tobacco juice at my boots. “Farmhouse is engulfed. Going to be a total loss.”

Nobody could walk up to a house that looked like ground zero and instantly assess the extent of the situation. Maintain professional decorum, I reminded myself. “My captain asked for a visual assessment.”

“Don’t waste your time. The house’s been empty since forever.”

“You know the owners?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Not everybody,” I said. “You must know this area pretty well?”

“Ronnie! Donnie! Y’all done yet?”

“You just said—“

“Shut it up, Possum. Let us professionals handle the assessment.” Loach spat tobacco juice again.

It hit my boot.

“Too slow, Possum.”

I kicked the wad of tobacco back at him. “This is a pitiful excuse for an assessment, if you ask me.”

“Didn’t nobody ask you.” He grabbed my turnout and tried to push me away. “How ‘bout you sit in the truck till your daddy gets here.”

“How about you take your hands off me instead.” I sidestepped, rolled my arm over his, and pushed hard on his straightened elbow. “I’m not in the mood for dancing.”

“Hands off me, ass wipe!”

"Gladly." I let him go. “No hard feelings?”

He looked my hand over like it was leprosied. “Wouldn’t shake your hand if you was a native-born President of the United States, you goddamn liberal.”

“Liberal? Are you trying to insult me, because I don’t get it.”

“Donnie! Ronnie! Y’all come on back. Mr. Possum’s going to put this here fire out all by his lonesome!”

“I never said that.”

“No you didn’t.” Loach reloaded another plug of tobacco in his jaw. “But I did. Do what you want, but don’t expect us to lift a finger to help.”

3

With Loach and the twins watching, I finished the visual inspection. I returned to my truck and radioed Julia.

“Got an ETA on the tanker?”

“They’re still ten minutes out. Cap says for you to call him on the radio.”

I stood on my truck sideboards and radioed Lamar. “Got your status update, Captain.”

“What’s the situation on site?”

“We’ve got a level three burner on a single residence. Stick built. Approximately one thousand five hundred square feet with multiple stories.” I stretched out the mic cord. “Fire has spread to all four corners. Flames coming through the roof in three, check that, four different areas.”

“Exterior fuel sources? Heating oil tanks? LP?”

“That’s a negative, sir.”

Firefighters feared LP, liquid propane. A pinhole leak and a random spark could create an explosion strong enough to blow down a house. A LP tank for a barbecue grill could swell to twice its size and become a poor man’s claymore, blowing jagged chunks of shrapnel straight through your body, turnout gear be damned. Most of the houses in Allegheny County used LP for heating and had huge tanks sitting right next to the structure. It was enough gas to make a crater deep enough to swallow a fire truck.

“How many occupants?”

“None. According to Atamasco VFD. They were first responders. They state that the house is abandoned.”

“Atamasco is half way across the county.””

“That’s an affirmative.”

“Is their captain on site? Their tanker?”

“That’s a negative.” More static. “This is a suspicious situation.”

“Roger that. Our ETA is now eight minutes. Do not engage until we arrive. Roger that.”

How was I supposed to engage without a tanker? “Roger. Childress out.”

I tossed the mic onto the seat. Nothing to do but wait. Just like Loach and the twins, who were parked on their butts in the shade of an oak tree, passing around a pack of Camels.

Hat and hooligan in hand, I walked toward the back of the house. It was typical of farmhouses built in the early twentieth century. It had narrow windows, high ceilings, and an attic. Two doghouses protruded from the roof. Flames danced behind the windows in both of them.

Across the roof, the fire had opened holes the size of a manhole cover, and acrid smoke poured out. I could hear the pop and crackle of the dried-out rafters as they exploded from the heat. In my mind’s eye, I saw splinters as long as my arm flying like jagged arrows in all directions.

I heard a high-pitched squeal, and the window of the high doghouse blew out.

“Look out!”

Glass flew ten, maybe fifteen yards, raining down on the ground. I pulled an arm across my face, dropped to one knee, and heard a scream coming from the doghouse.

The same doghouse that was engulfed in enough heat and smoke to roast a man alive.

“There’s somebody in there!” I waved for Atamasco company to join me. “I heard a scream. There! Another one. Someone’s calling for help!”

Loach and his boys didn’t budge.

“Y’all going to help or not?” I yelled.

The twins, Ronnie and Donnie, turned their backs to me, and Eugene Loach just cupped a hand to his ear.

“Can’t hear you.” Eugene blew cigarette smoke through his nose. It curled around his face so that he looked like a bearded Chinese dragon. “Must be that boomer stopped up my ears!”

“Assholes.”

I bounded to the front porch. Turned the knob and put my shoulder to the heavy paneled door.

No give at all.

The dead bolt was thrown.

I drew the hooligan tool back like a spear and rammed it through the door panel. The wooden cracked in half, and when I yanked the head of the tool out, the panel came with it, followed by a blast of heat and smoke that drove me down the porch steps.

“What’re you doing?” Loach yelled.

“Somebody screamed!”

“There ain’t nobody screaming, you dumb ass. It’s just gas releasing or something!”

Loach and the twins stood five yards behind me. Their fire coats were unbuttoned, and their mattocks were stacked against the oak tree.

“Don’t go in there!” Loach yelled. “You ain’t got the right equipment.”

“Then cover me. Ronnie and Donnie can back us up. Two in, two out.”

“Dream on! Ain’t no way we’re risking our lives to rescue some charcoaled pole cat.”

I knelt on the floor and turned on my breathing tank. Heat rose from the planking, and I could feel it through my Nomax pants. It gave me pause. If the porch was already hot enough to heat up my fireproof pants, what would it feel like to walk into a blast furnace? What if Eugene was right, and the sound turned out to be another possum? How would I explain that to Lamar?

No.

It wasn’t a possum.

Wild animals don’t scream, help me!

I reached inside the door. The deadbolt was an old-fashioned twist bar, and I pulled it down. With a screech, the bolt withdrew, and I kicked the door open.

A wall of heat engulfed me.

Inside, the living room was a wall of flames. Through the smoke, I could make out a pile of furniture and an old sideboard on the opposite wall. The floor seemed intact, as least as far as the stairway, which was about ten feet to the right of the door. I couldn’t see any hot spots there, so it would be my first target.

I crouched, ready to make my first move.

Loach grabbed my mask and pulled it away from my face. “Hold up, Possum, you ain’t going in! It’s suicide!”

I yanked my mask out of Eugene’s hand. “Let go of my equipment!”

“There ain’t nobody in this fucking house!”

Help me! Por favor!

“It came from upstairs!”

“It’s just a fucking cat!”

“That speaks fucking Spanish?”

Every second he wasted, the fire got worse. By opening the door, I had let in a massive pipeline of oxygen. But Loach was having none of it. He hooked my left arm. Ronnie grabbed my breathing tank and lifted it, trying to rock me off my feet.

I brought the hooligan down on Loach’s arm. “Back off!”

“Goddamn!” Loach howled. “You about broke my arm!”

Bent at the waist, I lifted Ronnie off the ground and dumped him unceremoniously on his ass. Before they could stop me, I leapt inside, ducking the mass of heat above me.

The stairwell was functioning as a chimney. It drew smoke from the first floor to the second. There were still no visible hotspots, but I knew that the fresh oxygen from the front door was sucked upstairs, too.

It would only feed the fire.

Lamar had repeatedly warned me about second stories. You had to worry about the ceiling and the floor. Both could give way without notice, and you’d be sandwiched between a ton of superheated material.

“Childress!” Loach yelled.

The three men squatted beside the back door. They beckoned for me to come back. Their coats were still unbuttoned. Proof they had no intention of rendering aid.

“This is suicide!” Loach yelled. “Don’t be a hero!”

“It’s not being a hero! It’s doing what’s right!”

 With the end of the hooligan, I jabbed the steps. The sharp tip found solid wood, so I took each step before stopping to check the next until I reach the second floor.

Inside the turnouts, I felt my sweat sizzling against the fireproof fabric. I had to get out fast. The suit could protect me from flash hits, but the material itself could scald my flesh.

Inside the foyer, smoke bloomed across the ceiling and flowed down the walls to the floor, where it formed a stew of toxic fumes. One breath of that stuff, and I’d be a dead man.

“Don’t be dead.” I stayed low, turning my head to the right and left, trying to hear the screams again. But what if it really was another possum? What if I hadn’t heard anything at all?

Three doors ahead.

One was open. In the room, I could make out the clawed feet of an antique bathtub. The other two doors, on either side of the foyer, were closed. One of them had to lead to the attic. That’s where I’d heard the voice because there was no sound until the doghouse window blew out.

But which way? Opening a door in a fire was like throwing lighter fluid on a lit charcoal grill. If I chose wrong and opened a unburned room, it could result in flashover, causing the whole area to simultaneously combust.

Both doors looked exactly the same in the thickening cloud of smoke. The visibility was only a few feet now.

I couldn’t afford to wait.

Crack!

A chunk of plaster longer than me fell from the lathing. It slammed onto the floor.

“Shit!”

A second, deeper crack opened. A beam ripped loose from the ceiling and collapsed on the landing, scattering fiery debris. Sparks shot through the smoke and coated my turnouts in embers.

The floorboards shuddered under my weight. The floor was going to collapse and swallow me whole.

Crack!

A second joist collapsed, and the lathing broke free. The mass swung down like a pendulum, smacking my head before I could react.

My helmet flew off.

My mask was knocked aside.

Noxious gas filled my lungs.

Gasping, I clawed at the mask and took a step back into space. My foot searched in vain for solid ground, and I felt myself teeter. Spit and panic flew out of my mouth, and my arms lashed about like a pinwheel twirling in the wind.

“Oh fuck.”

The stairs welcomed my fall.

4

I heard a beeping sound from far away. I thought it was the alarm clock, and I lifted my hand to smack the snooze bar. The hand wouldn’t move. My eyes wouldn’t open, either. The paralysis should have bothered me, but I didn’t have a care in the world. My head felt fuzzy and soft, and there was a warmth in my belly that made me want to sleep forever.

When I heard the beeping again, I knew it wasn’t the alarm clock. The sound was higher pitched and rhythmic. It was starting to annoy me, but the soft feeling was still in my belly.

I fell back asleep.

The third time I heard the beeping, it felt like a chime in my brain. It was sharp and unpleasant, and there was a bitter taste in my mouth. Something was crushing my hand, and my eyes wouldn’t open. I wanted to tell someone, but my lips wouldn’t move. My tongue was a swollen thing too big to fit in my mouth. I might have gone crazy if it hadn’t been for the sound of Lamar’s voice nearby. It was low, and he was telling a story.

“The worst fire I ever fought?” Lamar said. “It was about a year before I met you, I reckon. I was still working for the Greenville Fire Department. We’d run out into the backwoods on a call. It was a four-alarm fire, and we were to be relief. When we got there, an old church was ablaze. There was a tank alongside the house, and it glowed as red as our pumper.”

Somebody else spoke, asked a question that I couldn’t make out. Lamar stopped talking, and I felt a flash of anger. Lamar never told stories, and I was afraid that if someone interrupted the flow of his words, the stream would dry up.

“Turns out,” Lamar continued, “we weren’t the ready team, we were the strike team, and our target was that heating tank. The captain ordered me to open up with a quarter inch hose to cool off the tank. Steam from the spray condensed my mask and blistered my hands through the gloves. But I couldn’t take the hose off the tank for fear that it’d blow all to kingdom come. That’s when they hit me in the back with soaker spray. It was touch-and-go for the better part of an hour, me soaking the tank, them soaking me.”

“What happened? Did it blow?” Mom asked.

“I’m here.” Lamar’s voice trailed off. “Ain’t I?”

The next time I heard the beep, I woke up soaked in sweat. Light flooded in as I cracked opened my eyes. Mom stood near the doorway of the hospital room, chart in hand, conferring with a man in a white coat. It was our family doctor. The man who once had happily given me a tetanus shot after I gouged myself with a rusty screwdriver caked with turtle poop.

On the opposite wall, the TV was tuned to MythBusters, one of Cedar’s favorites. Lamar sat in a green vinyl chair. A book was opened on his lap. He was wearing reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. They were about to slide off.

Abner stood looking out the window. His hands were clasped behind him. He was fiddling his wedding ring, a nervous habit.

I struggled to blink. The brightness stung my eyes. I tried to swing an arm across my face, but the IV catheter taped to my hand hurt. I yelped softly but loud enough for Mom to hear.

At the sound of my voice, she passed the chart to Dr. Tetanus and rushed to my side. Her mouth opened wide, and she smiled so big that her chubby cheeks turned her eyes into slits decorated with curling eyelashes.

“Hey, Boonster.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “How’s my boy?”

“That’s Petty Officer Boonster to you,” I said but it sounded nothing like that. My tongue was thick and my throat too raw.

Mom had no trouble translating. “You had us so worried. All of us.”

She pointed at Lamar, who had nodded off in the chair near the foot of the bed. The ledge of the long window behind Lamar held several large “Get Well Soon” flower arrangements.

“This looks like a funeral home,” I tried to say. It came out as “Dis wookie wikes funnel ohm.”

“Looks like what?” Mom said.

“A funnel dome.”

“A funeral home?” Mom said. “Boone! Don’t say such things.”

Lamar stirred in the chair. “It almost was just that. Those boys from Atamasco saved your life.”

“Shh,” Mom said. “He's not ready for that yet.”

“How long’ve I been out?”

“Seven hours, give or take a few minutes.”

“I feel weird.”

“It’s the narcotics,” Mom said. “You were hurting earlier, so they gave you a little something.”

“It must be working.” I tried to sit up, but a needle of pain shot from my bellybutton to my left scapula. “Ow.”

Mom used the controls to lift the bed. “Take it easy. You’re lucky to be alive. What were you thinking, Daniel Boone Childress? You rushed into an empty house. The other firefighters said you risked your life for another possum.”

“Possums don’t scream in Spanish.”

“Lamar warned you to follow procedure,” Mom said. “Those procedures are in place to save your life, you know.”

“Can we do this later?” I said. “When you don’t sound like you’re talking through a can at the end of a string?”

“Even with bruised ribs, you’re still a smart aleck.”

“That’s a good sign, ain’t it?” Abner wore hiking sandals, canvas pants, and an angler’s vest over a T-shirt, and my hair looked more unkempt that normal. He shooed Mom away from the bed. “You’re talking to a grown man, not a child.”

She sat in a straight back chair next to the bed. “Dad, he’s my son.”

“He's also my grandson, which makes you my daughter.”

“He also did what he knew was wrong.” Lamar cut in. "He put himself and the other men in danger.”

Abner stared Lamar down. “I guess it depends on your interpretation.”

“Rules and regulations aren’t open to interpretation, Dr. Zickafoose.”

“Sure they are.”

“Not mine.”

I tried to whistle to shut them up, but I only managed to dribble spit down my gown. “What happened after I got hurt?”

“Tell him,” Abner said. “He’ll just keep asking.”

“The structure was a total loss,” Lamar said. “The house was in the Allegheny VFD’s district so we had containment duty. No other injuries were reported, only yours. I completed preliminary reports on the—”

“Anybody search the site for victims?”

 “We did a visual search,” Lamar said. “The fire marshal is following up.”

“Just a visual? You only looked around?”

Lamar shook his head slowly, as if to say, will this boy ever get it through his thick skull? “The debris wasn’t stable enough to risk it.”

I wanted to know how Eugene and his boys had arrived so soon, but between the meds and Lamar’s bad mood, I decided not to press the question.

For now.

Mom pinched my chin and gave it a shake. “Let it go, Boonster. You’re hurt. Your body’s got a lot of mending to do, and it will happen faster if you set you mind at ease. Doctor’s orders.”

“Mind not calling me Boonster?”

“It’s better than Possum.” She straightened the blankets at the foot of the bed. “We do have a dilemma. You’ll need to spend the next couple of days resting. Lamar and I have work, so we need someone to watch over you.”

“A babysitter?”

“More like a day nurse.”

“I’ll be fine by myself.”

“Think again,” Mom said. “Once the meds wear off, you’ll be in some serious pain. We need someone to check your vitals, feed you, and control your dosages.”

“How about putting a cone of shame around my neck?”

“That can be arranged,” Mom said, “if you don’t stop chewing on me.”

 “I’ll check in on him.” Cedar walked into the room. “Since Boone went to so much trouble to get out of a date with me.”

“Yeah!” I pumped a fist. Then I groaned. Sudden moments were a terrible idea. “Mom, this is Cedar—“

“No need to introduce her,” Mom said. “Her beagle’s one of my patients.” Mom exchanged a quick look with Lamar. “Thanks for the offer, Cedar, that’s very kind of you.”

“Dr. Zickafoose,” Lamar rose from his chair. “How about a Pepsi?”

“I’m a Co-Cola man myself.”

“I’m buying.”

“Let me get my coat.”

He grabbed his jacket, and they exited to make room for Cedar, who sat on the side of the bed.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked her.

“I didn’t. At first,” Cedar dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I was already in the waiting room, and the nurses were talking about a cute but stupid firefighter who got hurt. I knew it had to be you.”

“Why were you in the waiting room?”

“Luigi’s in the hospital, too. He was attacked last night walking home.”

“Attacked? By who? When? After the hospital thing?”

“Slow down and I’ll tell you. He was beaten up by Nixon, Reagan, Bush, and Clinton.”

“Have you been dipping into my meds?”

“Hush a let me talk, okay?”

 After he left us last night, she explained, Luigi had set off down Highway Twelve. A car came speeding around the bend. The driver flicked the lights from low beams to high. Luigi was blinded and stepped off the shoulder.

The driver slammed on the brakes. Luigi thought they were stopping to help. Then he saw three doors open and four people piled out. They were carrying plastic baseball bats and wore Halloween masks with presidents’ faces.

“Look boys,” Richard Nixon said. “The pork chop fell down and can’t get up. Stupid Mexican.”

“I am Japanese,” Luigi said.

“It don’t make a rat’s ass,” Ronald Reagan said. “All y’all look alike to us.”

Reagan took the first swing, a wild strike that Luigi was able to block with his backpack. His only hope was to fend them off long enough for another car to come by. But the punks attacked all at once.

Luigi fought them off as long as he could. It was not long enough, and they left him bleeding on the side of the road. A few minutes later, a passing driver found him and took him to the emergency room.

Cedar was crying again. Mom passed tissues to her. She dabbed away the tears and then blew her nose.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“Bruises, mostly. He's got a goose egg the size of a tennis ball behind his ear. On that thick boney part.”

“The mastoid process,” Mom and I said in unison.

Cedar smiled. “That’s what I get for talking to a family of bone hunters. But the doctors say he’s going to be okay. They’re keeping him for observation for a few more hours. Truthfully, he’s doing better than the host family. They feel awful about calling Luigi’s parents in Osaka. Hello, Mrs. Hasagawa, your son got beaten up by a bunch of Presidents. I couldn’t do it.”

“Did they call the cops? Does he know who did it?”

“Luigi just gave the sheriff a statement. He didn’t see anything. It was dark, and their masks covered their faces. He only remembered that one of them was short.”

I sat up. “How short?”

Cedar shrugged. “I don’t think he had a meter stick on him. It was dark? His ankle was twisted?”

“How about the car? Did he get the make and model? The license plate? Even if he caught a partial number, it would help.”

“It was dark. His ankle was twisted. Were you not listening?”

Mom put her arm around Cedar’s shoulder. “No, he was not listening. He's as bad as my daddy. Always trying to fix things, always wanting to be the hero.”

"There had to be witnesses," I said. "Or tire tracks left beside the road."

“I don’t think he’s listening to you, either,” Cedar said.

“Let me put it in terms that you understand, Daniel Boone Childress.” Mom tucked the covers under my chin. “You will let the sheriff investigate Luigi’s assault. You will leave Luigi alone about it. You will not harangue him for information. You may be his friend, but only to give emotional support. You will stay at home to recuperate. Do you understand?”

“Huh?”

Mom waved a hand across my face. “Earth to Boone. Did you hear a word I said?”

“No haranguing and no fun.”

“Providing emotional support can be fun,” Cedar said.

“Not as much fun as haranguing.”

Mom began an explanation of why I would be a greater help to Luigi as a friend, but I was already tuned out, planning my escape.