Duck the Halls

Chapter 1


The buzzing noise woke me from an already restless sleep. In my dream, it was Christmas morning. We were opening presents and all the boxes I’d wrapped so neatly had suddenly become empty. Or worse, they contained odd, inappropriate objects, like bottles of vodka for my four-year-old twin sons and a subscription to Guns & Ammo for my cousin Rose Noire, who couldn’t even stand to see anyone use a flyswatter for its intended purpose.

“What interesting choices,” Mother was murmuring, holding up the power drill that had been in her box. Where had the drill come from? And why did she keep turning it on and off, on and off, making that irritating noise?

Just then I woke up. I fumbled on my bedside table for my phone. It was a little past 4:00 A.M. December twenty-first, not the twenty-fifth.

“Only a dream,” I murmured.

The buzzing wasn’t coming from my phone and I could still hear it. Not a power drill. It appeared to be coming from Michael’s side of the bed, from under the pillow. Some battery-operated toy, perhaps, that the boys had dropped while Michael had been reading them How the Grinch Stole Christmas before bedtime?

Michael stirred.

“Blast.” His voice was sleepy and annoyed. Then he sat bolt upright and began searching frantically under his pillow.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My pager.” He found the offending object, pressed something, and the buzzing stopped. A female voice took its place.

“Box fourteen oh four for the structure fire. One thirteen Clay County Road. Engine companies fourteen and two, truck twelve, rescue squad two, ambulance fourteen respond. Oh four fourteen.”

I recognized the voice of Debbie Ann, the local police and emergency dispatcher. And the “oh four fourteen” part must be the time. As for the rest—

“We have a call!” Michael sounded excited and leaped out of bed.

My stomach clenched. Ever since Michael, in a burst of civic zeal, had joined the Caerphilly Volunteer Firefighters, I’d been dreading this moment. The pager had been his constant companion since he’d finished his training a week ago. And now here it was: His first fire.

The address sounded familiar, too. I had the feeling if I were a little more awake, I’d remember exactly what was located at 113 Clay County Road.

Michael dove into the walk-in closet.

“Maybe you should wake Rob,” he called over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t he have a pager, too?”

“You know Rob.”

Yes. My brother—also a newly fledged firefighter—was capable of sleeping with a brass band rehearsing at the foot of his bed. I got up and winced when my feet hit the cold floor. It was in the twenties outside, and didn’t seem much warmer inside. Not a night for running around barefoot or in pajamas. I threw on my clothes, then raced out into the hall, and headed up the stairs to the third floor of our overlarge Victorian farmhouse, where my brother lived in one of our many spare rooms.

On my way upstairs I passed my cousin Rose Noire who occupied yet another third-floor spare room.

“Rob’s awake,” she said. “His pager woke me from across the hall, so I woke him. I’ll make them some coffee.”

I could hear thuds and exclamations from down the hall. Rob was in motion. Had the noise awakened my twin sons? They’d only recently moved to separate bedrooms. Although it had been their own request and they were vastly proud of their new solo lairs, they were both still a little anxious when awakened in the middle of the night and prone to creeping into our room or each other’s.

I went back down and peeked into Josh’s room first. A few less beloved stuffed animals were scattered across the royal blue sheets and blankets on his bed. Both boys were fast asleep in Jamie’s room, curled up together beneath the bright red bedding. I pulled the door closed to make sure they didn’t wake when Rob came thundering down the stairs in full gear, including the world’s noisiest boots. He’d probably have tried sliding down the banister for greater speed if the polished oak hadn’t been completely swathed in evergreen and tinsel. Then when the noise died down, I slipped out again. Rob was standing in the hallway outside Michael’s and my bedroom door.

“Where’s Michael?” he stage-whispered.

“Here.” Michael stepped out of our room, still fastening bits of gear. “I’ll drive.”

“Right,” Rob said. “Meet you out front.”

I pitched in to help Michael with his gear. Rob clattered the rest of the way down to the front hall, where Rose Noire was standing beside the Christmas tree, holding two travel coffee mugs.

“It’s only instant,” she said as she handed one to Rob. “So I added just a hint of nutmeg.”