Page 87 of Angels Fall

I don’t see the sunrise.

What I see is early morning sky beginning to lighten from darkness, rousing itself from sleep, but the orange hue being cast onto the canvas of dawn isn’t coming from an emerging sun. It’s coming from something else. Something familiar.

“We’re headed west,” I mumble to myself.

“What?”

“We’re headed west,” I say louder. “That’s not the sunrise.”

“Whatayou—?” She doesn’t get out the word ‘mean’ because she can now see clearly what I’m talking about.

It’s Pete’s. Pete’s Strip Club. Pete’s Strip Club in Las Vegas, Nevada. The place that brought me and Maddie together and back into each other’s lives. Pete’s Strip Club, owned and operated by one Pete Flanagan.

Pete’s Strip Club that is, at present, being swallowed whole by what looks like a raging tornado of flame.

Oh, my God.

The inferno ahead that’s gobbling up the building belches fire and smoke into the air. It is not the dawn, but the way the fire colors the dissipating blackness of the night in a surreal red haze offers a beautiful, ghastly imitation of it.

“What the fuck?” she whispers.

I don’t say anything, just press down on the accelerator and propel us faster in the direction of the roaring conflagration.

As we approach, the swirling lights of fire engines come into view. There are four of them. All have their hoses out and aimed at the searing structure that just a few hours ago was a place called Pete’s. But not anymore.

We pull up as close as we can get before the cops also in attendance stop us. Maddie throws open the passenger door, jumps out while the car is still rolling to a stop, and is past the police and skittering by the camera crews from the local news stations before anyone can even attempt to stop her.

I throw the Defender in park, jump out, and have to push my way past a policeman who tries to hold me back. I hope he doesn’t think he’s gonna shoot me or arrest me or anything. That would totally suck. The night’s been going so well. Well, until now.

I don’t recognize the firemen I see. Looks like they’re from a different engine company than Evan’s. But then, from behind, I spy a guy in full turnout gear who apart from wearing fifty pounds of shit and walking towards death itself otherwise looks like he’s out for a stroll in the park. Not like he doesn’t care—everything he’s doing has an urgency and efficiency to it—but there’s no panic or anxiety coming off him at all. His composed stillness in the midst of the roiling mayhem all around makes him stand out like a blue marble in red sand.

“Dean!” I yell in his direction. He turns in time to see Maddie streaking toward the blaze. (What she thinks she’s going to do when she gets there, I have no idea.)

Dean steps to intercept her and stops her before she can melt her face off.

She’s shouting almost incomprehensibly.

I can’t hear what he’s saying to her from where I am, but in my mind it’s something like, “Hey, now. Relax, baby. Dean’s got it. Everything’s gonna be allllll right.” (Apparently, in my mind, Dean has become Barry White.)

As I land where they’re standing, I see that New-Guy Brandon and Baby-Face Jeff are also here. The guys at their station rotate shifts, so the fellas with them are unfamiliar to me. Faces I’ve maybe seen, but names I don’t know.

“What the fuck, man?” I ask of Dean over the cacophony going on around us all.

Maddie’s incomprehensible shouting continues.

“Dunno,” he says. “Call came in. The cleaning crew showed up to do their thing and I guess shit was already burning when they got here.”

“Thank God,” I say. “At least nobody’s inside.”

And that’s when it finally becomes clear what Maddie’s been trying to sound out. “Pete!” she screams.

Her shout draws the attention of Jeff, who trots over to hear what’s up.

“What?” asks Dean.

“Pete,” I say. “He’s the owner.” I turn back to Maddie. “What about him?” I ask her.

“He basically lives here! I know he supervises what the cleaning crew does! Where is he?”