Before the Storm. Diane Chamberlain

through the men’s room window.”

       “What?”

      “And she says he’s going to be fine.”

      I couldn’t speak. I managed to turn off the phone, then struggled to keep control of the pickup as the road blurred in front of me. As nerve-racking as the fire had been, it hadn’t scared me half as much as those last couple of minutes on the phone.

      Now that I knew Andy was going to be okay, I was royally pissed off. The fire was arson. I had been on the first truck out and done a quick walk around. The fire ring was even on all four sides of the building. That didn’t happen by accident.

      I understood arson. I’d been the kind of kid who played with matches and I once set our shed on fire. I tried to blame it on Jamie, but my parents knew their saintly older son would never be that stupid. I don’t remember my punishment—just the initial thrill of watching Daddy’s oily rags explode into flame on his workbench, followed by terror as the fire shot up the wall. So I got it—the thrill, the excitement. But damn it, if some asshole had to start a fire, why a church filled with kids? Why not one of the hundreds of empty summer homes on the island? The building itself was no great loss. Drury Memorial had been on a fund-raising kick for years, trying to get the money to build a bigger church. So, was that just a coincidence? And was it a coincidence that the lock-in was moved from the youth building to the church? Whatever, it felt good to be thinking about the investigation instead of Andy.

      Ben Trippett and Dawn Reynolds were coming out of the E.R. as I ran toward the entrance. Now there was a guy who could call himself a hero. As much as I wanted to see Andy, I had to stop.

      “There’s the man!” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.

      “Dude,” Ben said, with a failed effort at a smile. He leaned against Dawn and in the light from the entrance I saw her eyes were red.

      “How’s the head?” He’d been crawling in front of me in the church when something—a joist or a statue or who knew what—crashed on top of him, knocking off his helmet. In the beam from my flashlight, I’d seen blood pouring down his cheek.

      “Seventeen stitches.” Dawn pressed closer to him. “Maybe a concussion.”

      “You saved at least one life tonight, Trippett,” I said. “You can have my back anytime.”

      Truth was, I hadn’t liked going in with him. Ben had been a volunteer for less than a year, and I was sure he wouldn’t last. He had the desire, the ambition and the smarts, but he was claustrophobic. He’d put on the SCBA gear, take that first breath through the face piece and freak out. Full-blown panic attack. The guys razzed him about it. Good-natured teasing at first, but when the severity of the problem became clear, the taunting turned ugly, and I couldn’t blame them. No one wanted to go into a fire with a guy they couldn’t trust. Ben had been ready to quit. Ready to leave the island altogether. But he finally made it through the controlled burn during a training session, and a month or so ago, he told me he was ready to go live.

      “You sure?” I’d asked him. “There’s a huge difference between a controlled fire and a live burn.”

      “I’m sure,” he’d said. He hadn’t been kidding. He was ahead of me tonight, inching on his hands and knees through the burning church, when his low-air alarm sounded. We’d both started out with full tanks, but nerves made you chew up the air faster and he was running on empty.

      “Let’s go!” I’d shouted to him, the words muddy from behind my mask. He heard me, though. I knew he did, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, he kept moving forward and I thought he was losing it. I heard the dull thud of whatever hit his helmet. Heard his grunt of pain. Saw the streak of red on his cheek. “Ben!” I’d shouted. “Turn around!” But he kept right on going.

      I called into my radio. “I’ve got an injured man with low air,” I said, but through the murk, I suddenly saw the screen of his thermal image camera. There was someone in front of us. He was going after one of the kids.

      The girl had crawled into her sleeping bag and somehow found an air pocket. Ben grabbed her, and together we dragged her from the church. She was unconscious but alive.

      “Your boyfriend’s a stubborn SOB,” I said now to Dawn. “But there’s a girl who’s lucky he is.”

      “I know,” Dawn said.

      “I heard some kids didn’t make it,” Ben said. “I should’ve stayed. Maybe we could have—”

      “You couldn’t stay, man.” I gripped his shoulder. “Your head was split open.”

      Ben pressed his sooty fingers to his eyes. He was gonna come unglued any second.

      “It’s okay, buddy,” I said. “You did good tonight.” The hospital lights fell on his dark hair and all of a sudden, he reminded me of Jamie. That brawny bulk of him that made me feel scrawny by comparison. Big man with a soft heart.

      “Do you hear him, Ben?” Dawn turned to Ben, one hand on his chest. “You did all you could, sugar.” She looked at me. “Do you know how it started?”

      “Arson, most likely.”

      “Who would do something like that?” Dawn asked.

      I shook my head. “Y’all happen to see my nephew inside?” I looked past them through the glass doors of the E.R. “Andy?”

      “He’s there.” Dawn touched my arm. “He’s okay.”

      Andy sat cross-legged on a bed in the E.R., looking like a skinny little Buddha with a bandaged forearm, and my throat closed up. Laurel sat next to the bed, her back to me, black hair falling out of a barrette. Maggie was curled up at the end of the bed, hugging her knees.

      Andy spotted me as I opened the glass door.

      “Uncle Marcus!” he called.

      I reached the bed in a few strides and leaned past Laurel to hug him. His back felt boyish and narrow—a little kid’s back, though his muscles were tight from swimming. I inhaled the smoke from his hair, unable to speak. Finally, I got a grip on myself and stood up.

      “Good to see you, Andy.” My voice felt like sandpaper in my throat.

      “I’m a hero,” Andy said, then glanced quickly at Laurel. “Can I tell Uncle Marcus that?”

      Laurel chuckled. “Yes,” she said. “Uncle Marcus is family.” She looked at me. “I told Andy that he shouldn’t brag.”

      I put an arm around Maggie and hugged her to me. “How’re you doin’, Mags?”

      “Okay,” she said. She didn’t look okay. Her face was waxy. Beneath her eyes, the skin was purplish and translucent.

      “Don’t worry,” I said, squeezing her shoulders. “He’s okay.”

      “Who’s okay?” She was definitely out of it.

      “Andy, babe,” I said.

      “Oh, I know.” She leaned forward, rubbed her hand over Andy’s knee.

      “How about you, Marcus?” Laurel asked. “You’re a mess. Are you okay?”

      “Fine,” I said. “But I’d like Andy to tell me why he’s a hero.”

      There was no place to sit, so I leaned against the side of Laurel’s chair, hands in my pockets. Andy jumped into the story with a zeal that made me forget my anger at Laurel for not calling me. He was suddenly a storyteller.

      Laurel glanced up at me as Andy spun his tale. Our eyes locked for about half a second. She was quick to look away.

      Andy was on a roll. “So, I clumb out the—”

      “Climbed, sweetie.” Laurel stroked her thumb over his hand.

      “I climbed out the boy’s