Blue Smoke

he’d shot them, he propped them both up so they seemed to be watching. A captive audience to the fire’s majesty.
    She moved. Part of her mind stayed rooted to the spot, appalled and fascinated. But she moved, rushing the bed, risking the burn. She had to be sure. Had to be sure she was too late.
    “Get back! Get clear!”
    She turned at O’Donnell’s shout. Part of her mind registered him standing in the doorway, framed by the violent dance of flames. His face was stained with sweat and smoke, but his eyes were clear and hard.
    He’d holstered his gun and held instead a home fire extinguisher.
    “They’re dead.” She shouted it over the roar and spit of flame, but heard the dullness in her own voice. “He killed them in their own bed.”
    His eyes held hers another moment, that flash of understanding that was rage and disgust. “We save what we can.” He lifted the tank. “That’s the job.” And pulled the pin.

    The explosion knocked her off her feet, kicked her onto the bed so she lay across the dead. For an instant her mind was stunned, unable to comprehend.
    Then she was screaming her partner’s name, dragging the bloody sheet from the bed and rolling through the fire, through the door.
    She knew he was gone, knew it, even as she threw the sheet and her own body over the fire that buried him.
    Water gushed behind her, drowning fire, as others ran into her personal hell.
    H e knew I’d go up first.” Reena sat on the curb. She’d shoved aside the oxygen mask Xander had pushed on her. “Those people up there, they were nothing to him. That’s why he shot them instead of giving them to the fire. They meant nothing. But he knew I’d go up first.”
    “There was nothing you could do, Reena. Nothing you could change.”
    “He killed my partner.” She squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her face to her knees. She would always, always, see him burning, his torn body engulfed.
    That’s the job. The last words he’d spoken. Now she wondered if she had it in her to do the work that had killed him. Grief and guilt filled her belly.
    “The bastard knew I’d go up first, to the fire. He rigged that home extinguisher, figuring O’Donnell—or someone—would grab it, use it. In the kitchen, probably in the kitchen. Plain sight. You go with instinct. You grab it, you use it. If I’d waited to go in—”
    “You know better than that.” Xander gripped her shoulders, lifted until their eyes met. “You know better than if, Catarina. You did what you had to do, and so did O’Donnell. There’s only one person to blame here.”
    She looked back toward the house. The war still raged, but she was just one more casualty. She’d lost her partner up in that room. She’d lost her heart, and she was afraid she’d lost her nerve there as well.

    “He only killed them to show me he could. He only killed them so I would see. O’Donnell, he was just icing. Fucking bastard.”
    “You need rest, Reena. You need sleep. I’m going to take you to Mama’s, give you a sedative.”
    “No, you’re not.” She rested her forehead on her knees again, struggled with tears she was afraid would never stop if she shed the first of them. She wanted her anger, wanted to feel it burn through her blood, but could only struggle with an awful, demoralizing grief.
    They were young, she thought. Younger than she. He’d killed them cold and quick in their own bed, then posed them like dolls.
    The image of it would haunt her for the rest of her life. Just as the image of a good man, a good cop, a good friend, covered with flames would haunt her.
    She lifted her head again, looked into her brother’s eyes. “I told you to stay inside. I told you it was important you stay inside.”
    It could’ve been her brother, she thought. Her mother, sister, father. That was Joey’s message to her with O’Donnell’s death. He could have chosen anyone, and still could.
    “I’m the least of your worries.” Xander cupped her cheek. “One of the cops took An and the baby to Mama’s. We’ve got our own personal police force at this point.”
    He’d touched her face then, too, she remembered. Twenty years before, when she’d lain stunned and crying after Joey’s attack. Her brother had touched her face. He’d smelled of grape Popsicle.
    The grief in her heart poured out into her throat, her eyes. “Xander. He burned your clinic.”
    He lowered his brow to hers now, and her arms went around him. “It’s okay. It’s going to be