Note: Incredibly, this still isn't the last chapter yet. . . .
Chapter 26:
The Maxwells' kitchen was a large one, with French doors opening onto a deck that ran across the whole back of the house. When Betty and Mariana rushed into the front hall to see if the stairs were passable, Cat ran to the doors and outside.
Tyler was safe in her mother's arms, but the Maxwells must be upstairs somewhere. Maybe they'd gone to bed early. They sometimes did that, though she didn't know why. Their bedroom was at the other end of the house from Tyler's nursery. A dressing room and enormous master bath lay between it and the upstairs hallway. Cat thought maybe they wouldn't be able to hear the smoke detectors if they'd fallen asleep with all the doors closed.
Much as she disliked the Maxwells, Cat didn't really think they deserved to burn to death. And she was sure Tyler didn't deserve to be left an orphan.
She ran down the snow-covered deck to the shed at the far end, where the gardener kept his tools. She thought there must be a ladder there; she'd seen him using one that summer, when he was pruning the vines and roses that grew over the pergola and up the side of the house. But the shed was locked.
Cat swallowed, and looked up at the Maxwells' bedroom windows. And then she had an idea.
Flames were leaping from the windows at the other end of the house, but it was a big house. Cat didn't khow quickly a fire could move through a building, but she couldn't see any sign that this end was burning yet. And there was a lattice on the wall that the wisteria and roses climbed in the summer.
Cat checked that her book was still safely stowed in one of the pockets of Noah's coat, where she had shoved it when she was looking for Tyler, and her model boat in the other. Then she pulled her mittens on, and tugged at the trellis.
It felt sturdy. The cross-pieces and the vines that still clung to them were slick with ice and snow, but she reminded herself that pirates climbed rigging in all kinds of weather, and with the ship tossing and heaving on huge seas beneath them, too. Her arm was hurting again, and she didn't know how much weight she could put on it, but lots of pirates had just one arm or leg to climb with, and they didn't let that stop them from anything they had to do.
She used her good arm-the right one-to pull herself up onto the first cross-piece of the trellis. Then she steadied herself with her left arm, reached up with the good one, and pulled herself up another rung. A sharp pain flamed through the place where Reggie's bullet had grazed her, but she gritted her teeth and pulled herself up another rung still. Then another. And another. . . .
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François Gagnon felt thoroughly at home in the lighthouse's snug kitchen. His wife and daughters helped unpack a seemingly endless stream of covered dishes from their van, while he whipped up sauces at Donna's stove. Donna had no idea how he could possibly provide for so many guests at such short notice-he'd only been expecting to have to serve her and Josh, in his own restaurant-but he was beaming with affability and obviously not in the least put out at what he was being asked to do.
"A traditional Provençal Christmas," he told her, as he cooked. "The seven lean dishes-and a little bit more." That was accompanied by a wink. The "little bit more" appeared to include a turkey, a spiral-cut ham, and more vegetable dishes than Donna could count.
"Will we have the thirteen desserts, too?" she asked.
"Indeed. And a little bit more!"
"You're a miracle, Gagnon."
He beamed at her.
"Madam, for you and your husband, nothing could be too good-even if he were not the President. It is an honor, an honor to be asked to serve in your house."
"We're so grateful to you."
"The gratitude is ours. My family will never forget this."
Looking across the room, Donna could see Gagnon's daughters talking to Josh in the hallway. The girls were laughing about something. When she'd finished arranging candles on the dining-room table and setting out stacks of plates and cutlery-they were going to serve themselves buffet-style, as the room wasn't big enough to seat so many-she rejoined the others in the living room. As she passed through the hallway, she heard more giggling, followed by a whispered "shhh!" that seemed to come from somewhere upstairs.
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Cat was halfway up the wall when she heard a loud creak, followed by a sharp snap. The lattice swayed a little under her feet. She clung to it and wondered if she should climb down again. Then she thought about Tyler's parents trapped in a burning house, and reached for another rung above her head.
The lattice held. She tried to test each rung by tugging on it before she pulled herself up. Her shoulders were aching now, and her left arm was on fire. It felt like she'd been climbing forever and was never going to get there-but actually it took her less than a minute to reach the Maxwells' window.
Holding on was harder there. She had to get a grip on the trim around the window before she could lift her head above the sill. Then she peered in.
To her surprise, the room was empty. The bed her mother had made up that morning was still made; no one was in it, or on it. The doors to the dressing room and bathroom both stood open. By straining sideways, she could just see inside. It didn't look as if anyone was there.
She stood there, swaying a little and trying to think what to do. Where on earth could they be? Should she try to make her way sideways along the house and look in other rooms? But the lattice was groaning beneath her and she didn't think she could hold on much longer, so-reluctantly-she started to climb down.
She hadn't taken more than a few steps when the lattice pulled away from the wall.
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"Fuck you! Fuck you! I ain't no terrorist! I'm a hero, and Jesus loves me! And you're going to hell, you god-damned Jew-lover, you fucking son-of-a-bitch!"
Reggie Morton's curses were still echoing in Joe's mind as he sat at his desk in the station, filling out paperwork on the arrest. The Secret Service had taken the man off for medical attention and questioning-or maybe the other way round, Joe wasn't sure. Either way, the only daylight that guy was going to see again would be from a courtroom window or a prison cell. He wasn't going to be able to hurt anyone again.
So Joe couldn't understand why he was shaking. He couldn't seem to stop himself. His hand trembled as he filled in the forms, and shook so much when he tried to take a sip of coffee that he splattered it across the papers he'd been working on.
"Damn it!" he muttered. He pushed them aside and got up to get another set.
"You okay, Joe?" the sergeant asked, putting down the phone he'd been talking on.
Joe nodded.
"I just need some more forms. I spilled coffee on those-just when I'd finished them, too."
The older man looked at him sharply.
"You did a good job out there today, Joe."
"Thank you, sir."
"First time you've shot someone?"
"Yeah."
"He deserved it."
"He sure did."
"He was aiming at the kids, you said?"
"Yeah."
"Good thing you got him in time."
"Yeah."
"Something's bothering you, though."
"I'm all right, sir."
"What is it, Joe?"
"Just-it's just-I don't know. He looked so normal. Just like a regular guy."
"Most people do."
"I know. But-"
"Spit it out, Joe."
"How could anyone do that, sir? I don't get it. They're just little kids. And it's Christmas."
"He's a crazy, fucked-up little perp, that's how."
"Yeah."
"Don't worry about it, Joe. There's no explaining guys like him. The main thing is, you stopped him before he could hurt anyone too badly. You can be proud of that."
"Thanks, sir."
"I'm not the only one who's going to be telling you that. That was the President on the line just now."
"Yeah?" Joe's voice lightened a little.
"He wants to see you. Tonight."
A smile flashed across Joe's face.
"Really?" Then the smile faded. "But I'm on duty tonight."
"I guess the Commander-in-Chief's orders trump our duty roster." One or two of the other cops resented Joe's familiarity with the First Family, but the sergeant, who'd known him all his life, wasn't one of them. "Don't worry about it,"-Joe was making half-hearted sounds of protest-"I can manage without you. I'd doubled the manpower because of the threats, but now that we've got the guy in custody, there's no need for you to be here."
"You'll call me if you need me?"
"You can count on it."
"Thanks, sir."
The Sergeant smiled.
"You'd better go now. Don't worry about the forms; a little coffee never hurt anything too much. Go have a good meal and beer or two with your friends, and let yourself unwind. You need it-you're twisted up tight as a top right now."
"Thanks, sir. I appreciate it."
"Merry Christmas, Joe."
"Merry Christmas to you too, sir."
"I'll get that tomorrow, maybe. Tonight it's going to be me and the radio and these papers-and a lot of stale coffee."
"Are you sure you don't want me to-"
"Get out of here, Joe. You don't want to keep the President waiting, do you?"
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Cat let out a shriek as she fell. A moment later she was crashing through something hard and scratchy-the wisteria on the pergola. A little farther over and the vines would have been thick enough to stop her completely. As it was, they helped to break her fall.
Grabbing at whatever she could, Cat got her fingers into a tangle of dry vine as she slipped between two of the pergola's crossbars. She hung there for a moment, her legs swinging in the air. Then she lost her grip and fell the rest of the way to the deck.
She landed in a bank of snow that had been blown against the wall during the previous night's storm. For a moment she sat there, stunned. Then she got to her feet and staggered back into the house.
The pain in her arm was dizzying, and the kitchen was thick with smoke now. Perhaps she wasn't thinking clearly, but instead of turning left and leaving by the side door to the driveway, she turned right.
At that end of the kitchen, a door led to the basement stairs and the room she shared with her mother and Tyler. Coughing, holding her arm over her mouth and nose to try to keep out the smoke, Cat ran to her room. Her stack of precious books was by her bed. She scooped them up with her good arm and turned to leave.
She almost made it up the stairs. Then suddenly she turned again and ran back down to the basement room. Her left arm didn't seem to be working properly, so she pushed the stack of books into the crook of that arm and did her best to pin them against her chest with it, while she used her good arm to reach down into Tyler's playpen and grope around.
The smoke detectors screamed. The thickening smoke stung her eyes and filled her lungs, choking her. She coughed and coughed. At last her fingers closed around the things she was looking for.
Gratefully, she shifted the books back to her good arm and ran back up the stairs. As she stumbled out onto the driveway, a tremendous crash shook the house behind her. Part of the upstairs floor had collapsed, bringing the kitchen ceiling down with it.
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"Oh, Catalina!" Mariana clutched her daughter to her. "Oh, thank the good Lord, you are safe."
"Come away from the house, both of you!" Betty said. "Get into the car. We've got to get farther away. The whole thing could come down any minute."
"Those poor people," Mariana murmured as she moved towards the car. "Those poor people."
"The Maxwells weren't in their room," Catalina told her between coughs. "I climbed up the lattice at the back to check."
"You did what?" Her mother and Betty gasped together.
"I thought they'd fallen asleep. But they weren't there. I could see into their bathroom and their dressing room, and they were both empty."
"The Mercedes isn't here," Mariana said, suddenly realizing what she wasn't seeing in the driveway or the open garage. "They must have gone out."
"And left the baby?" Betty stared at her, shocked. "I can't believe those people. He could have been killed."
And Catalina could have been killed looking for them, she thought, but she didn't say that out loud. Mariana didn't need any more terrifying images to keep her awake that night.
There was no child seat for Tyler in Betty's car, so Mariana kept him on her lap after she got in.
"What shall we do?" she asked, shivering. The inside of the car felt almost as cold as the outside, even though it had really only been a few minutes since Betty had stopped it in the driveway after returning with Cat's scarf.
"The fire trucks should be here soon," Betty said, starting the engine. "We'd better get out of the driveway, and wait so we can tell them what we know."
Tyler whimpered as the engine started up. He'd been sniffling and crying miserably ever since Mariana had picked him off the floor of her room.
"Here, Ty," Cat said, reaching something to him over the back of the seat. "I got Binkit for you. And Effie, too."
Glancing over, Betty saw the toddler's face transform with joy. "Bink-it!" he cried happily. "Ef-fy!" He clutched at the faded blanket and small stuffed elephant, its plush worn and shiny with love. "Bink-it. Ef-fy."
"You went back for them, Cathy?" Betty asked, surprised.
"He needed them," Cat explained. "They're his favorites."
She couldn't have left without them. It would have been like leaving her own books to burn.
Betty shook her head. Mariana closed her eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks to Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and all the saints for keeping her child safe.
"Look!" Cat cried, pointing out the window. "Here come the fire trucks now."
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