Burning

A Pretender fanfiction

by Falcon's Hyperdrive

9-18-10

This is the first time I've met him, this Jarod. He transferred to our little firehouse from Detroit, saying he wanted to be somewhere quieter, and he'd heard we had a good track record. Ha, if only he knew . . . The truth burns inside me, begging to be let out as echos of anguished screams still ring in my mind's ear. But Calvin won't let me tell, saying it would be the end of our careers, of our freedom. "Also, if you tell," he told me soon after the incident, "then it's just you going down. There's no evidence tying me to that, and I'll be a Buddhist cow before I go to jail." Funny, I had thought, cows were the Hindu thing, and they were the best sort of thing you could be in that religion.

The word "incident" is really putting it lightly. It was all Calvin's doing, really. I had tried to stop him, but . . . I couldn't. And when it was over, me having been prevented from saving that poor mother and her son, Calvin blackmailed me into staying quiet.

"Jason, this is Jarod Atkins, the newbie. Jarod, Jason Williams." Calvin has that easygoing smirk on his lips, the one that I know can turn nasty in a matter of milliseconds. "Jarod, here, was just asking if it's true that we have a spotless record."

I know what he's wanting me to say, and I painfully obey. "Yeah, it's true. Nice to meet you, Jarod."

He shakes my hand, a smile on his lips that certainly looks genuine. "Hey, nice to meet you, too. I must say, you have great equipment here for such a small town." Brown eyes scan the firehouse, taking in the two fire engines, one of them a ladder truck. The ambulance isn't here at the moment, and its empty spot is being mopped by a rookie. I nod, still uneasy, and take in his stern but gentle features. His eyes are set deeper into his skull, making them appear darker, and dark brown hair, precisely trimmed in a style reminiscent of Vulcans from Star Trek, crowns his head. Right now, he looks so curious, as if he hasn't seen a firehouse before . . . But that isn't possible, he's just come from Detroit. Maybe he just hasn't seen a small one before.

Calvin looks pleased. Even though he's not the chief – and a good thing, too – he takes pride in our firehouse. Even if he is a murdering scumbag . . . "Why, thank you, Jarod. I guess you're used to big places, huh?"

Jarod nods in agreement. "Pretty much," he answers, and then stops. "Is that what I think it is?"

Calvin looks, and laughs. "Sure is. Yeah, the chief's wife comes and preps steaks for us to cook on that sweet grill every first Friday of the month. You're in luck, you know. That happens to be tomorrow."

I'm having a hard time guessing what's going through this new guy's mind, and that isn't calming at all. Calvin hasn't noticed, thank goodness, but Jarod is just making small talk, dancing around the subject he wants to bring up. I have an inkling what it is from the opening question, and I know, just know, that it's going to come soon. And after a bit more dancing, it finally comes.

His eyes are dark, searching, as he tries to appear nonchalant while asking. With Calvin, he succeeds, but I see . . . "I just thought of something. I heard about a fire that happened a few months back; kid and his mom died. Wouldn't that have put a spot on your guys' record?"

He asks it with such innocence, Calvin doesn't suspect a thing. The blonde simply shakes his head, hand waving in a brief dismissal. "Nah, we weren't called on that one."

"Really." There seems to be genuine surprise. "Why not?"

I shrug. "The house was off on the outskirts. No one else lives around there, since they've moved elsewhere. I don't . . . know why she didn't call."

I'm not meeting either one's gaze, but I can feel the approving look from Calvin that burns worse than the fire we make it our job to put out, and the penetrating eyes of Jarod, eyes that seem to stare into my very soul. With a start, I realize . . . he knows. He knows, and that's why he's here.

Is this my chance? Calvin doesn't have any suspicion of why Jarod is asking, no notion that he's being investigated. I could tell Jarod. Tell him all of it, everything from that night. It's why he's here, after all. And then I remember . . .

My cousin had been in a bit of trouble last year. He had been framed by a wealthy businessman, who was dead set on not being held responsible for the murder of a young woman. The only one who bothered to investigate further was a man, hired by the businessman for his company, named Jarod . . .

I know it's him. He has the same soul-searching gaze that my cousin had described, the one that sharpens with the simple narrowing of eyes upon hearing something that adds to the bigger picture. Barnett was his surname then, just like that founder of the Barnett Bank in Florida. And now, Atkins, the name of the captain of the first fire engine company.

I can trust this man, I realize, if it is him. But I can't tell him, not yet, not now, not with Calvin in ear's reach. It has to be done quietly, secretly . . .

Much later, Jarod's in the park, grinning happily as he tosses chunks of bread to the ducks. I step up beside him, hood up on my plain brown sweatshirt, grateful for the day's chill to make it seem natural. Calvin's back at the firehouse – I had called in a favor with one of the others and asked him to call me when he leaves – and it's just Jarod and me. He looks at me, surprise and recognition in his eyes, and I sigh. "You sure get around a lot," I open with, and confusion enters his expression.

"I don't understand what you mean," he confesses.

"Jonny Dalupa, Miami, Florida. He's my cousin."

Now he realizes, and stares at me, obviously unsure whether to leave quickly or to stay and hear what it is I want. "Jonny," he says slowly. "He told you?"

"You kidding?" I shake my head, smirking lightly. "You're his hero, you know. You saved him, an innocent man, from jail. Of course he would tell the guy he's closest to. We're like brothers, him and me. Neither of us have true siblings, and we grew up together. He tells me a lot, and he told me that if I ever run into you, I can trust you."

Jarod straightens, frowning. "Trust me with what?"

I give him a pointed look. "You asked about the Carter fire."

"I did. And I was told that the fire department wasn't called."

He's given a sigh as prelude to my confession. "Calvin was telling the truth on that. She didn't call. She couldn't. That scumbag cut her phone line. I was driving past on my way back from my weekend fishing trip when I saw him . . . He was just standing there, watching the house go up in flames while Joanne and Michael screamed for help. I . . ." I choke on tears, leaning heavily on the wrought iron fence between me and the pond. "I tried to help them. Calvin was faster and stronger than me, though. He threatened to kill my family if I told anyone, too. I've been so afraid . . . He has to be stopped, Jarod. And he claims there's no evidence tying him to the arson and murder. And if he ever found out I was telling you all this . . ."

"He won't," Jarod promises. His voice is firm, quiet, and determined, hiding the anger beneath the surface. His eyes have no such concealment, however, and I see what my cousin had seen: a good man, furious at this injustice. Calvin would be stopped, and my family would be safe.

I smile at him in gratefulness. "You're not really a fireman, are you?"

He blinks, startled. Then, with a grin, he shakes his head. "No, not really. But I have gotten some training."

I nod, satisfied. "A man who can become anything he wants to be . . . Those people Jonny mentioned must be real afraid of that fact to be chasing you everywhere."

Jarod's eyes darken again. "In a way, I guess they are."

Before I turn to leave, I clap him on the shoulder. "If I see them, I'll distract them."

"Thank you."

"No, Jarod." Again, I smile. "If you pull this off . . . and even just for trying . . . thank you."

I see him around the firehouse for the next couple days, including at the monthly steak grill. He's keeping a sharp eye on Calvin, who remains as oblivious as ever. Then, as I come in to work on Friday, I see a police car out front. Calvin is being led out in handcuffs, looking angry, relieved, and a little . . . singed.

I somehow manage to find Jarod quickly enough. He's watching from a corner, away from the action. "You're going to have to step forward as a witness, you know," he tells me.

I nod, accepting that. "I do know. But . . . what did you do to him?"

Jarod grins, looking smug. "I gave him a little taste of his own medicine."

"How . . .?"

"Don't ask. Plausible deniability."

"Right." I nod, and movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I had seen this group before, in a picture my cousin had taken. "You'd better go, now. Your pursuers are here."

He smiles his goodbye and slips out the back door before he's spotted. The infamous Ms. Parker stalks up to me, all stern and cold, and puts her hands on her hips. "We're looking for a man named Jarod."

"Jarod?" I raise my eyebrows. Heck, I've been acting for the past few months . . . Might as well put that practice to good use. "You mean Jarod Atkins, the new guy?"

Ms. Parker looks exasperated, and the older man with her grins, but stays silent. "Yes, him. Where is he?"

I shrug. "I think he's upstairs. He might be showering, so you'll have to wait a bit. You can go up now if you'd like."

"Please." There is no politeness in her voice, and the older man shakes his head. With another shrug of my shoulders, I lead them inside to the stairs going up and gesture to them. "Don't touch any personal belongings. And careful when coming down, the door tends to jam." Oh, how grateful I am that this is the truth.

She pauses. "You're not coming up?"

"Nope. See that guy being arrested? I have to introduce myself to the police as the witness to the murder he committed. Have fun, kids . . ."

With a snort, Ms. Parker stomps up the stairs. "Come on, Sydney," she snaps, and the older man sighs. When she's gone, he turns to me.

"He's gone, isn't he?"

I smile, and don't answer. Instead, I ask, "Do you fear his genius?"

Sydney shakes his head. "I encourage it. He's like a son to me. Oh, how I've failed him . . ."

"Then why do you chase him?"

I can tell he's taken aback by my bluntness. After a moment of recovery, he tells me, "Because men and women above me hold a power you cannot imagine."

My eyes turn to Calvin, who's glaring at me from the back of the police cruiser. "Actually, I think I can. Jarod saved my family, you know. He said it's better for me not to know how he got Calvin to confess. I don't quite understand why he does this, though."

Sydney looks more than his age now. "He feels responsible for the lives of so many. His genius . . . Neither of us knew what it was being used for, and now I realize what an awful mistake I made."

"The words of praise burn, don't they?"

He nods, then turns to go. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For understanding." And then he's gone, ascending the steps one by one to the second story of the firehouse. I pause, then shut the door firmly behind him. Jarod needs as much of a head start as he can get, and I need to talk to the cops, now. So that's where I go, knowing that Ms. Parker wil be frustrated at the door when she comes down and not caring at all.

Jarod stands across the street, watching me, and I nod once in farewell. He smiles, looks up, and is gone in an instant, even as the clattering of heels sounds across the ceiling. I turn to the officer getting into his car and ignore the hate-filled gaze of Calvin in the backseat. "Sir," I tell him, "I witnessed this man's act of murder."

The officer looks at me in surprise, but nods once. "Come down to the station," he instructs. "We'll take your statement there."

"Yes, sir," I tell him, and I leave to tell the chief what I'm doing. As I walk away, I can feel Calvin's poisonous gaze boring into my back, wishing death upon me. But, I realize suddenly . . .

It's no longer burning.

And as Ms. Parker slams against the door at the base of the stairs in an attempt to open it, I ignore the sound. Jarod is free, the orchestrator of Calvin's arrest. The fake firefighter.

The Pretender.