The way the townhomes were situated caught my eye. A row of connected families, held together by kindling. At seven a.m. all three were most likely occupied.
“911, what's your emergency?”
“Detective Austin Glass,” I rasped out.
“Are you injured, Detective?”
“Yes.” This time I was louder, pushing as much sound into my voice as possible, which resulted in a choked coughing fit. The problem was I was trying to make my way from the alley all the way around to the front with a burning pair of lungs. I also had something wet sliding down my legs, a chest bloodied from scratches, a jerking flea-ball in one hand and my cell in the other. “Fire. Detroit Street. 1400 block.”
I repeated the address, hanging up before the operator could ask questions. At townhouse-door-one, I began kicking with the shoe that wasn’t slick with blood. I couldn’t scream, but eventually someone came to the door.
“Get out. Fire.” It was all I managed to say before the world swam out of focus. I stumbled forward, caught in a pair of chubby arms—or breasts, it was hard to tell.
I heard yelling from all sides and inside the house. Begone slipped from my fingers. Didn’t see which way she went but I tried to get out words to the effect of “Hope you get run over by the fire truck. Fucking cat.” What actually came out of my mouth was, “Ho tk fkcat.”
“Oh, dude! You’re bleeding,” a heavily accented voice said. I blinked up into a blurry face with skin the color of toffee, only then realizing I had crumpled to the cement walkway. “We gotta move you, dude, ‘kay? Just don’t go all whacked.”
Fingers attached to my wrist and the waistband of my pants and pulled. I wasn’t moved so much as dragged/scooted over the grass. With a wedgie severe enough to permanently add two octaves to my vocal range, I waited, bled and moaned on the sidewalk with a slowly growing community of indistinct faces surrounding me.
The entire world was speaking in rapid Spanish, huddled in a circle around me as if preparing for a beat down. Someone pushed me to my side and jerked down my sweatpants. As Peter’s neighbors discussed my ass in a language I didn’t understand, someone put that goddamn cat against my stomach. It squirmed its way under my t-shirt to hide.
Why couldn’t you hide under the fire truck tires?
I heard sirens and banging, most likely from the fire department. The sea of people opened to allow two paramedics in, then reclosed behind the kneeling attendants. I couldn’t see where I was situated on the block, until firemen started to move people away. The skyline revealed itself. I looked past a grey haired EMT to see I was three houses from the inferno that engulfed Peter’s home.
As a mask was being slipped over my face, and my sweatshirt was being cut open, the cat attached itself to me once again. I groaned, hissed and mentally promised the EMT my babies as he pulled the thing away.
“Can you tell me your name?” He asked calmly, as if he hadn’t just removed a furry demon from my stomach like an Aliens re-enactment.
I breathed in a heavy dose of fresh oxygen. “Austin,” I replied, resisting the urge to add Darth Austin at hearing the sound of my muffled voice.
“Austin, I’m Jase. Are you the officer who called in the fire?”
“Yes. Bleeding in back.”
“Maureen’s got you.”
I processed another set of hands flitting down my back and over my ass. If this many people were going to be seeing that part of my anatomy, I was going to have to start using a Stairmaster.
Jase flashed a pen at my eyes and checked my pulse with two fingers. “Did you fall or hit your head?”
“No.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“Any allergies?”
“No.” He continued asking me questions pertinent to medical history. I answered for a minute or two, but as the cognizance of what happened finally pushed through, I began to panic.
My phone was still clutched in my hand. I batted away Jase’s fingers in order to dial Peter’s cell. It rang twelve times before a voice came on to tell me that user was not answering. I hung up, dialed again. As the phone continued to just ring, I grabbed the EMT’s sleeve and twisted it in my fist. “Get a patrol car to my house. Now!” Big mistake yelling. Huge. It was nearly impossible to get the address out between the coughs that followed.
Jase’s face twisted in confusion, wrinkles becoming more obvious as he frowned.
“Fire was deliberate.” My voice was hoarse, but it wasn’t as difficult to breathe. Talking hurt, but wasn’t impossible. “The people staying at my house live in that tinderbox over there.” The slow slacking of his features gave me hope he understood what I was saying. He picked up his handheld radio and called in to emergency dispatch.