Page 7 of On Fire

A siren cuts off and he turns his head. This is a good sign his hearing is returning. Unmarked cars are parking and there's fire trucks and police and men and women in uniform swarm.

“This is a fucking hate crime, isn't it?” Jackson says working his jaw, trying to unclog his ears. I save swearing for very precise moments, strategically placed. This was not one of them. Obviously, it was a hate crime.

“It looks that way.” There’s one more person I need to make certain made it out, but I don’t want to leave Jackson. I drop my face down to his again.

“No one else hurt?”

Jackson shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”

Behind us a black Lexus pulls up—it’s Finn’s car from the Colton Security fleet. Finn chats with a couple of officers setting up yellow tape lines and then gets the go-ahead and trots over to where we three are stationed.

Finn’s first concern is Jackson. He kneels down.

“How are you doing?”

Jackson shakes his head and pops his ears a few times still working his jaw.

“It'll come back. I promise.”

“I can hear you pretty well from my left ear—it’s the right. It’s all shut down.” Unaware of how loudly he’s speaking Jackson goes on, jutting a finger toward me. “This guy's awesome. He knew exactly where to put the bomb. How did you know there was a bank safe in there?”

Finn instantly rises and puts a hand on his shoulder, yelling “Medic!”

In moments, a paramedic steps up, a short young woman, probably Japanese, with a sweet face and black hair neatly pulled into a tight bun. She unties my handiwork while I avoid a glance from Finn.

The pit in my stomach is starting to grow. This can't be happening. Not to the Blue Wave. Not in Boston. Not three blocks from where I live. Then the stoic in me says of course it can. This happens all the time. Don't leap to conclusions. You don't know what this is, and you don't know if it's a hate crime.

Basically, I’m trying to tell myself don’t go there. Thinking it’s automatically a hate crime ignites a buried, visceral fear I don’t want to uncover—again.

Finn asks Jackson a question and he pulls out his phone and speaks with someone for a quick moment. He turns to me. “I called Tory. She's going to be here in about forty-five minutes to pick him up.”

“He may need to be seen by an audiologist tomorrow,” the efficient paramedic says, smoothing the white gauze bandage over Jackson’s arm.

Jamal finally speaks up. “Um. I think people want to talk to you, Jackson.”

We all watch as a plainclothes detective approaches. The guy is short, fortyish, and except for a slight paunch, in good shape. “Paul Remos,” he says shaking Jackson’s good left hand.

It’s a bit awkward.

“The two guys from the kitchen told me you saved the building.”

Jackson shakes his head. “I brought legs to the game. I just did what I was told and ran like hell.”

“And who told you to stash it in the vault?”

“My boss.”

I step forward and shake the guy’s hand. Firm grip. I expect more questions, but it turns out he’s saving those for later and turns back to Jackson.

“What, exactly happened?”

Jackson begins a story of how a cook from the kitchen stepped out to the bar and displayed anxious behavior. He was whispering to the servers and they, in turn, looked worried. When trained in security, you are always on alert. Jackson walked over, asked a couple of questions, showed them his ID, and they took him back to the kitchen. Then one of the cooks pointed to the bomb on the shelf under the stove top. Jackson calls me while telling Jamal to turn off the gas.

“And you are?”

“Nic Silvano, CEO of Colton Security.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Colton from Boston? Maine? You guys have been in the news a lot.”