Lewis Cole 08 Fatal Harbor by Brendan DuBois

Author:Brendan DuBois [DuBois, Brendan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: USA
Publisher: Pegasus
Published: 2014-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Not much of a memory of getting to Tyler Beach from Exonia. Remembered borrowing Kara’s Subaru again. Remembered a short length of time on the highway to the beach, Route 101.

There was a traffic jam on Route 1-A, also known as Atlantic Avenue, up by where most of the hotels and cottages thinned out. It was one lane of traffic and, after putting up with the long crawl, I pulled into the parking lot of the Lafayette House, trembling with fearful anticipation of what I was going to see next.

From the parking lot of the Lafayette House, I first noticed the smell of wood burning, then the low rumble of the pumper trucks from the Tyler Fire Department at work. There was a lawn in front of the old Victorian hotel, and in the summer white lawn chairs and wicker furniture were spread out so guests could sip their expensive drinks and watch the ocean at play.

Not much furniture today, just a few guests huddled in small groups watching the smoke billow up. Not much of a view, just the smoke billowing up, so I went down the lawn and dodged through the traffic. A fire hose had been stretched from the Lafayette House across the road, with lengths of lumber on either side so vehicles could slowly drive over the hose without damaging it.

I went into the hotel parking lot, the smell of smoke stronger, the engine noises louder. A fire truck from the Tyler Fire Department was parked at the top of my dirt driveway, another fire hose snaking its way down to the fire. Smoke was rising up hard from my house. Two Tyler cops were keeping the onlookers at bay, and I went to the left, scrambled up on some rocks, looked down, and, for the third time in my life, my heart was broken.

The shed to the right of the house was gone, a pile of burned timber and roof collapsed on top of my destroyed Ford Explorer. Flames were billowing up from the center of my house, going through the near windows. A trio of firefighters pushed ahead, spraying hard with a hose. Smoke and steam rose up. They backed away. Two firefighters rushed forward, axes in hand, and broke open the front door. With oxygen to feed on, the flames and smoke grew wider and larger. But now the firefighters had access, and hunkered down, they blasted in with their fire hose. I thought of my television and fireplace and collection of books and old Oriental rugs on the first floor, how the smoke and fire and water were burning, staining, and soaking everything.

My hands were shaking. I put them together. A crashing sound as the sliding glass door on the second floor, where my bedroom and a small deck were located, blew out. Flames roared out like a torch.

The second floor. My office. My books. My computer. The few mementoes I had from my parents, my high school and college years, even my years of service at the Department of Defense.

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