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“Do you have kids, Alex?”
“No,” she said, “but I do know a thing or two about them—”
“It wasn’t an accusation.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “More like a rhetorical question.”
“Could we just get started? I don’t think you’ll find our session too painful.”
“So now it’s a session,” he said, his tone ironic.
He led the way to a living room that was comfortably cluttered—a newspaper scattered on the coffee table, books with well-used bindings stacked on the shelves, a colorful rag rug with a dog bone tossed in the middle. What drew Alex, though, were the family photos tucked here and there. She drifted to the mantel and examined a picture of a much-younger Herb, his arm around a woman with soft, wavy hair. Another photo showed Colin with a strikingly beautiful brunette and a little boy who had to be Sean. Still another photograph, this one taking pride of place in the very center of the mantel, showed a cocky young man in an air force uniform. Again, the McIntyre genes were unmistakable.
Colin came to stand beside her, nodding at the first picture. “Herb and my grandmother. They got divorced a long time ago, but they’ve managed to remain friends. She’s the only person who can give him as much hell as he deserves.”
Alex moved on to the next photo. “Your wife?”
“Ex. Don’t know why Herb’s hanging on to that one.”
He didn’t sound disturbed, just indifferent. Alex studied the family grouping in the photograph: the little boy in front, about five years old, holding a toy airplane, oblivious to the camera, Colin with his arm draped casually around the shoulders of the beautiful brunette. She was turned toward him, laughing as if they were in the middle of an intimate conversation.
“Were you happy?” Alex asked. “I don’t mean the kind of happy that people put on for the camera. I just mean...were you happy?”
He remained impassive. “Is this part of being a guinea pig?”
She lifted her shoulders. “The personal life of the Type R man—believe me, that’s worth a couple of chapters in itself. But right now...I’m asking off the record.”
He gazed at the photo. “We were happy for a while, I think. At least, that’s my version. Maybe Beth would tell you different. She’d probably say I was a pain in the neck because I was always on the verge of breaking my neck.”
“Your boss was right, then,” Alex murmured. “You are reckless.”
He gave her a sardonic glance. “That’s not the only thing that drove Beth crazy. She was very good at living in the moment, taking one day at a time. I’m always pushing ahead. Always searching for something new...something different in my life.” He frowned. “Problem is, living in the moment has its drawbacks, too. If both of us had looked ahead more with Sean, we might have stopped this damned career of his before it even started.”
“Sean has a career?” Alex asked, intrigued by these glimpses into Colin’s life.
“Ever heard of Arrested Development?”
Alex nodded. “Vaguely. Television show, right?”
“I suppose,” he said gruffly. “It’s a sitcom about a police detective raising his two nephews. Sean plays the oldest kid.”
“No wonder he’s so familiar. I thought it was just the resemblance to you...but I’ve seen his face before. A couple of magazine interviews, maybe.”
“Too many,” Colin muttered. “All the publicity’s gotten out of hand. Everything’s gotten out of hand—Sean included.”
Alex picked up the photo, examined it again, then set it down.
“Sometimes,” Colin said, “I tell myself that if Beth and I were still together, Sean would be a whole lot better off.”
Alex heard the regret weighting his voice. “Hey,” she said, “it’s not like divorce is so uncommon. Seems to be happening to everybody.”
He studied her some more, and she found herself saying the rest of it. “My papers should be in the mail any day.” She tried to sound flippant but didn’t succeed. She was grateful when Colin didn’t attempt to be sympathetic.
“Married how long?” he asked.
“Eight years, if you count our anniversary last month. Not that I’m counting.” She wished she’d never brought up the subject of divorce—hers or anyone else’s. And she wished Colin McIntyre wouldn’t stand and stare at her with that quizzical expression.
“When the marriage turns bad,” he said at last, “it’s hard not to blame yourself.”
She glanced away. “Oh, I’m not that noble. I blame him plenty, too.” She went to sit on the sofa, then reached into her tote bag, drew out her tape recorder and set it on the coffee table. “We’ve gotten off track and we haven’t even started.”
“What is it we’re starting, Alex?” he asked gravely.
“Face it,” she said. “You’re curious. You want to know what it’s like to be a...guinea pig.”
He managed just a hint of a smile as he sat down in the armchair across from her. His attitude was clear: he gave her research so little credence he didn’t really care what she did next. Against her will, her gaze traveled over him. He looked ruggedly masculine in those shorts and T-shirt, his feet bare. Alex suddenly felt fussy and overdressed in her business suit.
She pulled a binder from her tote bag and flipped it open to the questionnaire she’d revised again and again. She started the tape recorder, then glanced at Colin.
“Will this bother you? Having their words on tape makes some people uncomfortable.”
“Not me,” he said.
She had the feeling that not much bothered Colin McIntyre. Of course, you couldn’t afford to be bothered by much when you risked your life for a living.
“Now,” she said, “the first thing I’d like to discuss—”
“Why rescuers?” he asked.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He settled back in his chair, looking completely at ease. “I’m just wondering why you decided to study so-called rescuers.”
She tapped a pencil against her questionnaire. “Well...if you must know, I’ve often asked myself the same question. It’s something that’s compelled me for a long time now. I don’t know why exactly.” When she realized how inadequate that sounded, she went on quickly. “I just kept wondering about people who put themselves on the line for others. You could say they do it out of altruism or heroism, but it’s a lot more complicated than that. I’ve found that a particular personality is drawn to rescue work. I’ve studied both men and women, of course, but I’ve chosen to focus on the Type R male—”
“You keep acting like I’m supposed to fit some kind of type,” Colin said.
“Let’s see...the Type R male. Arrogant, selfassured, thinks he’s invincible, doesn’t trust anybody but himself. Any of that sound familiar?”
Colin nodded. “Always wanted to be the kind who’d break the mold.”
“That’s another characteristic of the Type R man,” Alex said. She scanned her questionnaire. “Now, first off—”
“The guy you married. Was he a Type R?”
She stared at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just curious,” he said.
This interview wasn’t going exactly the way Alex had planned. “No, Jonathan is not a rescuer. He’s a lawyer, and a corporate one at that.”
Colin looked reflective. “Thought maybe you had a personal interest in the subject.”
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “Like maybe I only date firemen.”
Somehow she had to get this discussion back on Colin. Once more she reached into her tote bag; this time she brought out a videotape.
“How much stuff have you got in there?” he asked.
“This is all that’ll be necessary. Can we play it?”
He didn’t seem overjoyed at the prospect, but he popped the tape into a VCR across the room and turned on the TV. A few seconds later an image of fire and smoke flared on the screen.
Alex stiffened, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. She knew what to expect——every time she watched this video, she felt an uneasiness she couldn’t explain.
Now it was starting all over again. A news anchor was talking about the small brushfire that had set an apartment complex ablaze...then the camera was panning the building itself, several stories high, smoke billowing from the windows, flames burning orange-red...
Alex felt as though a vise had clamped itself around her. The panic was worse this time—much worse. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Easy, she told herself, but the word made no sense. Nothing made sense at this moment.
The camera swung down and centered on Colin’s face—grim, soot-covered, eyes a cold, startling blue. And the vise tightened around Alex.
She stood, scarcely knowing she had. All she wanted to do was run away, escape the fear that engulfed her. The image of Colin’s face froze on the screen. Then Colin himself came to her. He took her hands in his.
“What is it, Alex?” he asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t answer him. All she could do was stand there, gripping his hands as if only he could save her.
But how could he save her from anything, when he was the one who frightened her?
FAMILY DINNER at the McIntyre house. Lots of good food and conversation. Amendment: lots of good food—tonight Herb had broiled some steaks and served them with crusty rolls, mashed potatoes and green beans—no conversation. The three McIntyres sat around the dining room table, no sound but the clink of forks against plates. Colin told himself you couldn’t have everything.
At last Herb, pointing his fork at Sean, spoke. “You’re next.”
“Say what?” Sean muttered, slouching in his chair, a long-suffering expression on his face.
“Tomorrow night you make dinner,” Herb told him. “And then your dad’s in charge night after that. We rotate.”
“Like I cook,” Sean said.
“You’ll learn or you’ll go hungry,” Herb retorted. “I guess on that television show of yours everything’s catered. But we don’t cater here.”
Sean mumbled something.
“Sean,” Colin said, “if you have something to say to your great-grandfather, say it. Otherwise...”
“I can handle him myself,” Herb said testily. “And I sure as hell don’t need anyone calling me a great-grandpa. Herb will do nicely.”
Maybe no conversation was the better choice. Sean hadn’t seen his great-grandfather—correction, Herb—since he was ten. The intervening five years hadn’t contributed to family togetherness, it seemed.
Sean mumbled something else.
“Speak up,” ordered Herb.
Sean glared at him. “I can’t cook.”
“First lesson is tomorrow.”
“Hell,” said Sean.
“That’s enough,” said Colin.
“I told you,” grumbled Herb, “I can handle him myself. Kid, you really like people waiting on you all the time? That’s what you want?”
Sean looked beleaguered. “I work.”
“Not real work,” said Herb.
“Yeah, right,” said Sean in a long-suffering tone. “Too bad I’m not slaving in a mine.”
“Damn right.” Herb pointed his fork again. “You find out what you’re really made of when you haven’t seen daylight for twelve hours, and you’ve got a drill hammering in your ears, and the muck is clogging your nose and your eyes, and you’ve just found out you’re pulling a double shift.”
“Your family owned the mine,” Sean said. “You didn’t have to work in it.”
“I wanted to work,” said Herb. “I was glad to work. No catering for me.”
“Hell, I work—”
“Not according to your mom,” said Herb. “According to her, lately you do everything but. Out late with a bunch of jerks.”
“They’re my friends—”
“Some friends, according to your mom.”
“When the hell does she talk to you—”
“Take it easy, both of you,” said Colin. “Sean, clean up your language and speak to your great—speak to Herb with a little respect. And Herb... give Sean a break. He does have a job. Maybe it’s not the kind of work you’re used to—but it’s work.”
“Gee, thanks, Dad,” Sean said caustically.
Colin studied his son. The boy had a belligerent attitude, but there was also a strain to his features, and an unhappiness the boy couldn’t quite disguise. You shouldn’t look like that at fifteen. Colin wondered what was going on with his son—and acknowledged he’d better find out soon.
“You know, Sean,” he said, “you can kick back a little here. This is supposed to be a vacation for all three of us.”
“Right,” said Sean in a low voice. “Just the three of us. Sure.”
“Sean,” Colin said, “whatever trouble you’re having, it might do you good to talk about it.”
“Who says I’m having trouble?”
“Your mother, for one,” Colin said. “Not that she’d need to—it’s pretty obvious something’s bothering you. I’m a good listener, believe it or not. Herb’s a good listener, too, even though he’d like you to think otherwise.”
