Where There's Smoke.... Barbara McCauley
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across to the single table lamp she’d turned on when she came in. She stood in the dark, listening, heard a quiet shuffling sound, then nothing. Slowly she moved toward the closed blinds over the small copy-room window and peeked out through the side. She’d left the outer lights off, but she could see the outline of a tall, thin man at one of the desks.
She gasped as the man turned. Dear God! It was Derrick!
When he glanced in her direction, Emily jumped back. She’d never been a good liar. If he found her here, she knew she’d never be able to talk her way out of this mess. He’d only have to look at her face to know what she’d discovered, and he’d be furious. She couldn’t confront him yet, not until she talked to Uncle Carlo.
Pressing her back to the wall, she waited, then finally heard the outer door close. Slowly she released the breath she’d been holding. To be sure he’d left the plant, she’d wait a while before she came out. She could take no chances that he might return and find her putting the file back in his desk, or discover her on her way out with the copies she’d made.
After several minutes, there were still no sounds, except for the soft ticking of the copy-room wall clock and the beating of her own heart. The office was quiet. Thank goodness. She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d wait two more minutes and—
Once again she froze. And sniffed.
Smoke?
She flipped on the lamp again and glanced down. Thin ribbons of wispy gray smoke curled up from underneath the door.
Oh God, no…
She shoved the blinds apart and looked out. Flames shot up from the middle of the office and were spreading quickly across the room.
Why hadn’t the alarm gone off? And why hadn’t the sprinklers come on? Unless Derrick—
No! She couldn’t believe that he would do such a terrible thing. Selling secret formulas was one thing, but arson was another. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—commit such a heinous crime.
She grabbed her purse and both files. There’d be no time to replace the original back into Derrick’s desk, but she couldn’t think about that now. She had to get out quickly, before the fire completely engulfed the office. Since there was no window to the outside from the copy room, she had no choice but to make a dash across the outer office and hopefully skirt the flames. If she could get to the windows overlooking the street two stories below, she could attract someone’s attention. If worse came to worst—and she prayed it wouldn’t—she would have to jump.
She gulped in air, then threw open the door and ran. A blast of heat made her stumble, but she recovered and kept going. In the distance she heard the wail of sirens and the sound gave her hope. They’re coming, she thought as the wail and the deep sound of horns grew louder. They’re almost here.
The fire crackled around her, sparks flew, singeing her face and bare legs. The smoke burned her throat and her eyes. But she made it to the window, was reaching for the handle when the sound of a loud crack from behind her made her whip her head around. She watched in horror as the heavy steel bindings that supported the dropped ceiling gave way. Like a giant zipper opening, the ceiling ripped apart, raining metal and plaster tiles. Frantic, Emily turned back to the window, but the crack overhead rushed toward her like a hideous, furious monster.
Helpless to stop it, she went down.
“This is Hemming Taylor from KLRT.” The pretty blond reporter held the microphone close as she spoke to the television cameraman. “First on the scene and reporting to you live from Brookline, Massachusetts, where behind me a fire rages inside one of the buildings that make up the Baronessa Gelati manufacturing plant. It appears that flames have already consumed the third floor of the plant’s main offices, and as you can see—” Hemming pointed with one hand and the camera swept up to catch a full shot of the building “—the fire seems to have spread to the second floor, as well. Firefighters already on the scene are working valiantly to douse the flames, and an unconfirmed report of a woman inside the building has heightened the tension among the firefighters and onlookers alike. We’re told that the call came in approximately ten minutes ago and—”
An explosion from the third floor had the reporter and crew running for cover. Car alarms blared from the streets, and firefighters working outside the building dropped to protect themselves from flying debris.
Inside the building, in the smoke-filled stairwell between the first and second floors, the blast from overhead threw Shane Cummings to his knees. He recovered quickly, stood and glanced back at his partner, Matt.
“You okay?” Shane yelled over a second, smaller explosion.
Matt lifted a hand, gave Shane the go-ahead sign, then pointed to the door leading to the second story.
As a unit, Shane and Matt moved up the stairwell. Shane knew they were quickly running out of time, that they should get out now, but the security guard working the building across the street had insisted he saw a woman in a second-story window that faced the street. Two minutes, Shane told himself as he kicked the door open with his boot. Two minutes and they were out of here.
“We’ve entered the second story from the stairwell.” Shane had to yell into his radio headset over the crackle of flames and crashing debris. “The room is approximately forty by fifty, charged with heavy smoke, the ceiling is down. Female reported at east window and we’re heading there now.”
“Negative, Cummings.” Chief Griffin’s raspy voice crackled over the radio. “The third floor is engulfed. Get your butts out of there now.”
“Five minutes.” Shane glanced back at Matt, who nodded. “Then we’re outta here pronto.”
“No heroics, Cummings,” Griffin barked. “That’s a command, dammit. Get your ass out of there now.”
“Two minutes,” Shane negotiated. “Get a ladder at the window and we’ll come through there.”
While Chief Griffin erupted into a litany of expletives and threats, Shane hunkered down under the cloud of smoke and pressed forward. Matt moved with him.
Adrenaline pumped through Shane’s blood as he edged around a wall of flames, then spotted the windows across the rows of desks in the office. Between the rubble and the smoke, it was impossible to see if anyone was lying on the floor. He made his way across the room, then spotted a pair of long, bare legs protruding from under a pile of ceiling tiles.
“Found her,” Shane yelled back to Matt, then spoke into his headset again. “This is Cummings. I’ve located the female approximately six feet from the east window. She may be unconscious. Do you copy?”
The hiss of static came back, then Griffin said, “We copy, Cummings. Get her and get the hell out of there.”
“My plan exactly. Over.”
Dropping to the pile of rubble on the floor, he pitched broken tiles and chunks of plaster until he finally uncovered the woman’s still body.
She was young, probably early twenties, Shane noted as he scooped her up into his arms, and he doubted she tipped the scales past a hundred pounds. Though dust and soot covered her, he saw no evidence of burns on her clothes or her bare arms and legs.
When he stood, her hair fell away from her face and her eyelids fluttered open. He saw the confusion and fear in her eyes as she looked up at him.
“I’ve got you,” he yelled. “Is there anyone else in here?”
He couldn’t hear what she said, but he hoped like hell her answer was no. Another explosion from somewhere overhead made him stumble backward. Shane gritted his teeth and held the woman close while debris rained down on them. She buried her head against his chest.
“We have to go out through the window,” he yelled over the thunderous roar of the fire. “Can you hang on?”
She nodded, then slid her arms up and circled his neck tightly.
Holding the