Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
brODIE
Call me paranoid, but I’m too scared to switch on my phone. Like the moment I swipe it open, a homing beacon will alert Savannah’s father to my whereabouts.
Hence, it’s buried in my bag. And I’ve worked all morning on a public computer in a small community library out in Burnaby. Spending so much time checking over my shoulder I’ve developed a cricked neck.
I cast a final, furtive look to the left and right, and then quietly duck through the back door of Mom and Dad’s.
Thankfully, there’s no sign anyone has followed me here.
Dumping my backpack containing a spare set of clothes, my toothbrush, and the electronics I’m not willing to switch on, I head to the kitchen, where I know I’ll find Mom.
She comes to with a start, looking up from the pot she’s stirring on the stove. “Brodie, honey. You came back.” Dropping the spoon, she wraps me in a tight hug before pulling back, peering at my face. “What’s happened?”
“I need to speak with Dad.”
She frowns. “I don’t think that’s the best idea. He’s still—”
“I don’t want to talk about the other night. Is he in the den?”
She nods and before she can say anything else, I head past her and down the set of carpeted stairs at the rear of the kitchen.
Since us kids left home, the den has become Dad’s sports cave.
Huge flat-screen television. Comfy recliner couch.
A mini bar and beer cooler. He looks up when I appear, and then adjusts his surprise to a glare that could slaughter on sight.
I feel Mom’s presence behind me, and his narrowed eyes dart to her.
I clear my throat. “I wanted to speak to you.”
Mom’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Brodie—”
“It’s fine, Maggie. Let the boy in. Very happy to go a second round.” Dad swigs from his bottle of Molson, lets out a loud belch, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Six minutes until the second period. Give me your worst.”
I fight the internal bristle at him still referring to me as boy and perch on the couch. Mom hovers as if she’s questioning whether to go to war.
Dad shoots her a look, and she disappears upstairs.
I nod to the TV. “How are we doing?”
“Battling. Two nothing to them. Wolves are playing dirty. Thank Christ for Korhonen, otherwise we’d easily be down four.” He mutes the TV but keeps his eyes focused on the screen.
I shift in my seat. He isn’t going to make this easy. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“I got that, son.” His eyes remain glued to the television. “And I have a hunch you’re not here to discuss the ’Cades’ defensive line.”
Here goes. “I’m trying to piece together some information about a fire you attended in April 2010.
” I swallow, my voice catching on the date.
He’s attended a lot of fires during his career, but I have a hunch he’ll remember this one without too much prodding.
I’ve exhausted all my journalistic skills at the library, digging into every hole the crappy computer could get me into.
It took some work, but I eventually found what I was looking for.
An inquest into the fire that killed Savannah’s mother and a probie firefighter.
And, as Aiden Archer shared, my father was the lieutenant in charge at the scene.
I sense him stiffening. “I thought you wanted to talk about the other night.”
“No.”
“April 2010, you said?”
I nod.
“I’ve attended hundreds of fires, Brodie. What makes you think I’d remember something from fifteen years ago?”
“This was a big one. Two fatalities including a member of your crew.”
He glares at me, realization dawning in a flicker of his eyes. “What’s this for? You writing a story?”
“No, Dad. Nothing like that. I’m interested, that’s all.” It’s been a long day. I’m tired and hurting, but getting frustrated isn’t going to help. I work to soften my voice. “Is there anything you can share about the circumstances?”
His head dips and then he reaches for the TV remote.
The second period’s about to start and I think he’s going to unmute to continue watching the game.
Instead, he turns the television off. “We were still over in South Cambie then. I was based out of Fifteen. There was a house fire in Shaughnessy. A mother and girl were trapped. We evacuated the girl from her bedroom. The mother died at the scene. As did one of my crew.” He looks over at me with an expression so foreign it takes a moment for me to decipher it.
Eyes drawn. Cheeks hollowed. He’s hurting. “Why are you asking about this?”
“You know anything about the woman? Or the little girl?”
“No.” He shivers, just slightly. “I completed the necessary paperwork and moved on. It’s the only way to handle something like that.”
I take a ragged breath. “Dad, the little girl was Savannah.”
“Savannah?” He frowns, thinking, and then his face drains of color. “As in the girl you got all worked up about the other night?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Let me get this straight. The girl you dated in college, and who is now working with Brock at Eight, is the same girl who was in that house fire?”
I nod, experiencing the weirdest urge to comfort him.
“Does she know?”
“That the firefighter in charge that night was you? No.”
“I don’t understand. How have you found this out?”
“Her dad. Turns out he has a vendetta against me because he blames you for the loss of his wife. It’s why he warned me off Savannah when we were in college. And it’s why he’s been tailing me these past few weeks, preparing to warn me off her all over again today.”
“Jesus. I…” He shakes his head. “He’s had you tailed? Who the hell is he, the fucking mafia?”
“Savannah’s dad is Aiden Archer. CEO of Arch Holdings.”
Dad’s eyes bug. “The big media guy who does those telecoms commercials?”
“One and the same. Although he wasn’t famous at the time of the fire.”
“Holy mackerel.”
“Yep.” I take a moment to gather my thoughts. And for Dad to do the same. “What happened that night, Dad? Why were there the fatalities?”
He lets out a sound like he’s in pain. “I need something stronger. You want something?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
Dad stumbles to a cabinet at the rear of the room and picks out a bottle of whisky. I let out a chuckle. Like father, like son. No wonder whisky’s my drink of choice when distressed.
He pours two generous glasses and hands one to me. It’s another first. I can’t remember Dad even offering me a glass of water before.
Taking a seat, he knocks back a mouthful with a shudder, looking smaller than he ever has before. The heavy burden of his lifelong devotion to the fire department suddenly laid bare.
“It was a big fire. Smoke and flame active on arrival. We approached it as any other fire. All the same steps.” He blinks, like he’s reliving the experience.
“Like I said, we rescued the kid… Savannah, I guess… first. She was in a bedroom upstairs suffering from smoke inhalation. Moments after, the fire transitioned to flashover in her mother’s bedroom.
The firefighter who died was a young probie called Peterson.
Flashover is always instant. The entire third floor was gone in seconds, the rest of the house in a matter of minutes. ”
“So there was no hope for Savannah’s mom?”
“No. It’s a miracle we got Savannah out alive.
Flashovers are always the most dangerous fire event we face.
When the switch from high heat and rollover is that quick, it’s impossible to predict.
” He meets my gaze and I’m seeing another alien expression.
Like he’s talking to me as an equal. “Looking purely at the facts, we could never have saved her mom.”
I picture it. A suburban Vancity home eaten up by flames.
The bright blue eyes of little nine-year-old Savannah, watching from an ambulance.
And my father, in charge at the scene, at the center of the tragedy.
A tragedy he’s carried ever since. I once again have the urge to share some kind of comfort with him. This time, I don’t stop myself.
Reaching over, I pat his shoulder. It’s the tiniest of gestures. Fairly cursory. Many would say lacking in feeling. But it’s a huge step for me and Dad.
He bristles for a moment like he isn’t sure how to react, but then he sighs. “You know, you remind me of him.”
“Who?”
“Mitty.”
“The probie?”
He nods. “Not so much looks, but attitude. A kind of playful zest for life. He also had a habit of acting first, thinking later. Maybe that’s why I’ve been hard on you all these years.” His voice cracks. Swiping at his nose, he gulps the rest of his whisky.
I sit frozen to the spot.
It’s the closest I’ve ever come to an actual explanation for the hell he’s put me through this past decade.
I look over at him, caught somewhere between wanting to shake him for never telling me before and give him a hug because of the pain he’s so clearly carrying. “Have you ever spoken to anyone, Dad?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, a therapist or something? Doesn’t the fire department lay that on? This can’t be the only tough experience you’ve ever had. Talking about it with someone could help.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. It’s in the past now. And I don’t need any of that lame-ass talking shit. I had my crew. We got through it together.”
“Did you though? Really? Because the way I see it, you just bottled it up and used it as ammunition against me.” Wow. I get a rush of pride at how calmly I’ve just backed myself.
Dad opens his mouth but immediately closes it again. His gaze drops to his empty glass.
A silence stretches out between us. I bite my tongue so as not to give him an out.
Eventually, he looks over, eyes a little bloodshot. “Yeah. Maybe you’ve got a point.”
I’ll take it. Probably the closest I’m getting to an actual apology, at least for now. “You should get back to the hockey.”
He glances at the TV. “What about you? You gonna talk to your girl about all this?”
“Oh, uh… no.” Talking with Dad has been a decent enough distraction. For a moment there, I’d almost forgotten that my heart has been entirely torn in two.
Dad’s hand lands on my knee. “What’s going on?”
“Any chance I can stay here a couple of nights?”
“What’s wrong with your fancy Downtown apartment?”
“I live in the West End, not Downtown. You know that.”
“Same difference.”
I look away. “I need to keep a low profile for a couple of days.”
“Why? What’s going on?” His voice is softer. Not exactly warm, but definitely less abrasive than usual. “This got something to do with Savannah’s bigshot father?”
“He doesn’t want me in her life. Seems I have a habit of reminding people of others and I don’t come out of it too well.”
“He doesn’t want you in her life because of me?”
I shake my head. “No. He doesn’t want me in her life because of his own unprocessed grief. You’re not the only one who might benefit from talking with someone.”
“That sounds like his problem, not yours. It’s certainly no reason to break up with Savannah and go into hiding.”
“It’s not as simple as that. I gave my word I’d stay away so that’s what I have to do.”
“But why? I know you said he was tailing you, but surely he can’t actually send a hitman. This isn’t the movies, son.”
“No, guess not.” I don’t let on that I’m not entirely sure about that.
“But this is about something far bigger than just me at this point. He’s threatening Savannah’s career by taking aim at the fire department.
A deft campaign in his papers and Hall Eight will be shut down.
I can’t do that to her, or Brock, or the rest of the crew there, Dad. The ladder’s too important.”
He looks at me, his eyes shrewd, searching my face. Then he nods, slowly, as if he’s truly seeing me for the very first time. “You really love her?”
I nod.
“Okay. Tonight, we’ll drink beer and watch hockey. But tomorrow, we’re gonna sort this out. I’m not having you or anyone else suffering because of something from my past.”