Miranda's Revenge (15 page)

She raised her eyes again to the sky, that endless, extraordinary sky. It made her life and fears seem very small. She thought of her sisters, and her parents, and of James.

James.

The truth was, she wasn't particularly bothered by his youthful, indiscreet affair. The divine, it was said, moved in mysterious ways, and that was not a man who should
ever
have thought of the priesthood.

She was, however, bothered by her reaction to him. She hardly had known him a week and it was as if he'd filled up a thousand little yawning holes in her, as if something in her had taken one look at him and said, “Finally.”

Love at first sight was not real, though.

Was it?

And what if she gave him her heart and it turned out to be one more of her missteps? What if she made a fool of herself and he didn't really love her in return? What if she—

Something cracked in the forest, and Miranda jumped. Stop mooning around, she told herself. She could think about James later. For now, a dog needed his blanket, and it was her job to take care of it.

Her job. As she scurried toward the cabin, laughing at herself for her nervousness, it occurred to her that she was feeling a lot of pride in becoming a member of the tribe that held her sisters and their husbands. It felt good to have a place, if she wanted it. For the first time in her life, she really felt like she did belong. Here, amid the art community in Mariposa. Here with her sisters and their families. Here where she would have a chance to spoil nieces and nephews. Here where she might, in the peace and quiet, discover where her art would next take her.

As she unlocked the front door, the wolves howled again, and Miranda was sure she heard a rustling in the trees. Urgently she shoved open the door to the cabin and slammed it behind her, still laughing at her own silly nervousness. She found a light switch and flipped it to turn it on. Nothing happened, but there was enough starlight—who knew it would illuminate so well?—that she could make her way to the little lamp near the door, and turned that on. It gave a small, yellow pool of light into the world, and Miranda spied the blanket, right where she remembered it.

She picked it up and looked around. The rooms smelled a little stale, almost like mothballs or something like that. She inhaled, trying to identify the scent, but gave up. Probably just musty from being closed up in the heat the past few days, or maybe it was some ointment Desi used on the dogs.

Was there anything else Desi might want while she was here? She reached for her phone and realized her purse was in the car. Oh, well.

Feeling good about herself and her ability to do what other people needed her to do, she turned off the light, headed outside and made sure the door was locked behind her. She stepped off the porch and was nearly to the truck when the explosion knocked her down.

H
er body flew forward, and she crashed into the ground, but the blanket cushioned the landing. Stunned, she didn't move for a moment, hearing a roar behind her.

The smell of wood burning yanked her from the shock of the landing. Scrambling to her feet, she whirled around and saw that the cabin was on fire.

“Oh, my God!” She flew to the door of the truck and threw the blanket inside, scrambling in her purse for the phone. With shaking fingers, she punched in 911, and waited, but the call didn't go through. She tried it again.

Flames licked at the back of the house, but Miranda could see the fire was not very well established. Something had blown up—maybe a propane tank or something?—but it was only at the front of the house right this minute. Bringing the phone with her to repeat the phone call, she rushed around to the kitchen side of the house, where a small garden water pump stood near the back porch. She scrambled for something to put water in, and could see nothing.

The front of the house was on fire, but not the back. She took a calculated risk and kicked open the back door. Smoke billowed out, and she had a bewildered moment of trying to figure out how something blew up at the front door when the propane tanks were in the side yard, but there wasn't time for trying to sort it out this minute. Coughing, she covered her face with a scarf by the door and flung open the cupboards, looking for a fire extinguisher or a big pot to put the water in. In a moment of inspiration, she plugged the kitchen sink and turned on the water full force, then ran to the bathroom and did the same thing, turning on the shower, too, and racing back out.

Back outside, she started filling a kitchen pot with water, then saw a hose coiled up neatly beneath the kitchen window, and chortled happily. She attached it to the pump, which was hooked to the reservoir, and flung open the nozzle and headed around the house, breathing hard, her eyes stinging with smoke. She redialed the number, and it rang once, but she lost the signal.

“Damn!” she cried.

The hose wouldn't reach this way. It shot water just short of the burning front door. She dragged it to the kitchen door, and with some regret for the water damage, shot the stream right at the front door. Steam and smoke billowed out from the spot, but in a minute, it did seem to be working.

Her eyes streamed with irritation. She ducked her face into the crook of her left arm, holding the hose with the right. Steam and the sound of water spitting against heat comforted her. She'd get most of it out and then head down the mountain and get some help, though sooner or later she was bound to get through to 911.

She punched the redial button, and there was a long pause, then a mechanical voice said, “Connection lost. Redialing.”

The smoke and the sound of the fire were getting more intense, and Miranda couldn't see very well. She kept the phone to her ear, coughing, her eyes streaming.

When something slammed into her from the side, she screamed, thinking at first that it was a part of the roof falling down to trap her. She reared back, the hose flying out of her hands to soak the air, soak her head and shoulders. The edge of it slammed into her forehead, and a hard shot of water filled her nose and mouth. She gagged. The phone went flying.

Only then did she realize that it was a body that had knocked her down, a body with hands that reached for her neck. Blinded, Miranda flung an arm up, connecting with something she thought might be ribs, which gave her time to scramble away. A hand grabbed her ankle and Miranda kicked backward, urgently wiping at her eyes, coughing hard in the smoke. The body landed on her, hard, smashing her against the floor, and Miranda's hands landed on something burning hot. With a howl, she pulled away, scooting in the other direction, aware of hands trying to hold her, a body attempting to weigh her down.

A part of her screamed,
this is not fair!
She slammed her arms into the body, wished she could see, kept her body in motion, trying to imagine herself as slippery as an eel.

The body grabbed her hair and yanked hard, and Miranda's neck jerked backward painfully, and then there were hands around her throat, squeezing. She couldn't breathe, couldn't seem to shift her body to get free, and the more she struggled, the more she struggled for air.

Time shifted. She saw flashes of Desi, and her own awkwardness in hugging her even when she was hurt. There was a flash of Juliet's wedding, conspicuously empty without her. She saw her father trying to make conversation with her, and smooth things over with their mother, and generally, always, trying.

And she saw James. So good and clear and honorable, so handsome and good to her. They had had a chance to make something real and lasting and Miranda had run away in pride.

Pride.

Always her stiff-necked pride, getting in her way.

The edges of her vision started to blacken and every cell in her body screamed for oxygen and there was fire licking at the soles of her feet. The body on top of her was heavy, crushing.

The horrifying truth came home. She would die if she didn't win this struggle. Die!

Hands burning, eyes streaming, lungs bursting, she focused everything she had to knock the body off of her. She tried to kick, but her oxygen was depleting and she didn't have much strength left. She opened her eyes, hoping to have a chance to make a connection, but the light was murky, red. Everything was on fire now, all around them, things popping and burning and the big, heavy figure over her.

And suddenly she remembered the rules of a self-defense class she'd taken at Juliet's insistence. When faced with a stranglehold, go limp, then lift the arms between the attackers, and break the hold by flinging your arms outward.

She went limp, not as easy as one would imagine under the circumstances.

Her attacker eased his hold slightly.

Miranda swiftly lifted her arms between his, flung them outward. Her rigid arms slammed into his elbows and they buckled, then she was abruptly free. Gagging, coughing, sucking in air, she rolled sideways, and scrambled away as fast as she could, sliding and splashing on the water that pooled on the floor. She realized she could see, maybe because her tears had cleared her vision, or perhaps the smoke had shifted.

Whatever. Hearing her attacker come behind, she rushed to find anything that could be used as a weapon and grabbed the only thing at hand—the hose. She swung it, the water pouring out, and smacked him with the hard end. He staggered, and the water hit him full in the face, and he skittered backward, slamming into the post of the front door that was on fire. In a flash, his sleeve was afire, and he screamed, trying to shed it as fast as he could, but his body weight, slamming into that burning post, knocked the loosened threshold down and he was trapped. He screamed as another fiery beam fell, and then he was silent.

For a long minute, she leaned on the porch step on her hands and knees, water pouring out of the hose to make a puddle at her feet. Her throat burned and her lungs felt as if they'd been turned inside out, and she heaved suddenly, choking on smoke and terror and injury.

She fell in the cool grass, body exhausted, and stared up at the sky full of stars, aware that the fire was out of control, that she needed to get up and see if she could find the phone, or get back in the truck and get down the mountain, but she couldn't move. Not one muscle.

Far in the distance, she heard sirens. And that was the last she heard for a good long while.

When she did surface, it was to the unpleasant sensation of a cold liquid entering her veins through her left arm. She startled, rearing up ready to fight, disoriented by time, terror, location. Arms captured her, around the shoulders and at her head. “You're safe,” a woman's voice said in a soothing tone. “Honey, you're safe. He's dead.”

Miranda sucked in a big gasp of air and coughed, the sound deep and ragged. She felt like she'd cough up her guts. The woman made soothing noises. “It's okay, it's all right.”

Blinking at the light overhead, Miranda tried to talk and found she couldn't utter a word. It was as if her throat had been scrubbed free of a voice box. She put a hand to her throat and tried to find the woman who was speaking.

Her face came into view, a kind, youngish face with red cheeks and curly black hair. “Don't try to talk. Between the smoke inhalation and the strangling, your voice is going to be a little raw for a few days.”

Miranda peered at the surroundings. She widened her eyes in a question.

“You're in an ambulance. We're transporting you to the community hospital. You have burns on your hands and arms and some pretty serious bruising on your throat.”

Now Miranda could feel her palms. Stinging in a deep and highly unpleasant way. She wanted to raise them to look at them, but the woman shook her head. “Let's let them fix them up a bit first.”

She nodded. She wanted to ask a thousand questions—where was the guy who tried to kill her? Was the house a loss?

Suddenly, she remembered the blanket. In a ragged, ragged voice with barely any sound, she said, “Blanket in the back of the truck for a dog. Need it.” The words scratched her throat like nails. “Important.”

“Okay. I'll have somebody fetch it. The truck is fine.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. House? she whispered, but it was barely audible and the woman didn't seem to hear.

Juliet was at the hospital emergency room when Miranda arrived, and sat with Miranda as she was examined, head to toe. Miraculously, aside from some smoke inhalation, the bruised throat and badly burned palms, she was not injured.

A firefighter brought the blanket in just as they were getting ready to go. “Here you go,” he said. “It's a little damp, but not otherwise messed up.”

Miranda bowed her thanks, putting gauze-wrapped hands together in a prayer position. “Man?” she mouthed, point at her throat.

“Dead. We don't know who he is but we'll find out.”

Communication was difficult, between the bandaged palms and sore throat. “House?” she croaked out.

“Gone,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

They drove back in silence, taking two minutes to go by Helene's house to drop off the blanket. Juliet said, coming back to the truck, “He curled up right on it, so happily.”

She nodded.

Juliet drove them home. “He almost killed you, honey,” she said. “I am so sorry I didn't go.”

Fiercely, and without hesitation, Miranda hugged her sister. “No,” she whispered. “I'm okay.”

“I'll let you sleep in tomorrow morning.”

Again Miranda was fierce.
No.
There was a lot that had become clear to her as she'd struggled in that smoky world. Nearly all of it could be addressed by going to that race tomorrow.

Hell or high water.

James rose at five and showered as was his ritual. He put on his favorite running shorts and singlet, and wrist bands. Barefoot, he drank a cup of coffee and ate half a bagel smeared with peanut butter, then sat out on the balcony and recited the whole of the rosary, methodically clearing everything out of his mind but the coming race. When that was finished, he ate the other half of his bagel, filled a plastic bottle with water, another with energy gel and put them in their special belt, then put on his shoes and went down to the race registration, a big tent just off the main drag.

He loved the somehow hushed, focused spirit that gathered in the air on race starts. Runners stretched and jogged loosely and did quick sprints. They wore jogging pants and sweats, T-shirts and running bras and singlets like his own. This was a mountain run, so there were more than the usual number of eccentrics—a man with a beard to his waist running without shoes or shirt, but gloves on his hands, an old woman in neon-orange who'd probably kick a good bit of butt by the look of her rangy legs, a good cross-section of adventure racers who trained in the mountains.

James didn't talk to anyone. He didn't see anyone he knew, either, which wasn't surprising. He got his number and pinned it on, then stretched a little and just jogged very slowly around the perimeter, turning his focus back to himself. To the race.

The sun was just coming up as the gun went off and the racers surged toward the trail, running in a thick pack down Black Diamond Boulevard to the first of the big climbs, the first one to sort the men from the boys, as it were. James let himself flow into it, focusing on keeping his pace absolutely steady, knowing within an hour who he'd be fighting for the finish. He kept running, smooth and steady. Sometimes in the lead, sometimes running in a small knot. At mile eleven, they lost a young turk who pushed too hard over the rocky ridge. James passed him, limping along with ragged breathing. He'd hit the wall.

James kept running.

To Miranda, waiting at the end.

The newspapers were full of Renate's murder the next morning. Miranda woke up feeling stiff and without much energy, but she was absolutely determined not to be kept from her appointment, especially because her cell phone was gone—lost to the fire.

She showered, careful to keep her bandaged hands dry, and dressed equally carefully in a pretty skirt and top. In the mirror, she looked a little tired, but not terrible. Her hair had scorched a little at the ends, but the dousing with the hose had saved it. Her face was a little bruised along her chin, but not noticeably.