Charles - Oscar Wilde; Irish poets and poetry of the nineteenth century. A lecture delivered in Platts Hall, San Francisco on Wednesday, April fifth, 1882

Julian

A dark cloud hangs over the Holy City, eclipsing the waning moon. Charleston has been burning all day. Its as if the Underworld is celebrating the ascension of its leader.

Smoke permeates every molecule of air, and even with the windows up, the ghastly odor wheedles its way into the car. Its all I smell as Antoine weaves through downtown toward The Gatehouse, Gabrielles hotel.

I dont have any information about Gabrielle. Not a fucking thing.

The fire marshal isnt taking my calls, and neither the police chief nor the mayor has anything useful to offer. Nothing.

I try her again, but the call goes directly to voicemail. Rafe and Gus arent answering their phones either. What kind of two-bit security is Smith running for me?

Antoine, turn up the volume. I cant hear a thing back here. The news accounts are sketchy, and the reporters at the scene keep repeating the same bullshit: The fire department has been working overtime today. Theyre spread so thin that reinforcements from the surrounding areas have been called in to assist. Everyone was evacuated from the hotel immediately after the fire started, but those reports are unconfirmed. Blah, blah, blah. Nothing. Theyve got nothing.

I scroll through my phone, searching for answers. Hoping theres been some mistake. Hoping its another building with a similar name, or a structure nearby thats engulfed in flames. But the Internet is too wrapped up with the inaugural crap to care much about the Charleston fires. What the first lady wore. What a handsome couple the president and his wife make. How the country is embarking on an exciting new path.

Right. A new pathstraight to hell. And the roads not paved with a single good intention.

My father. Hes behind this. Somehow, hes behind it.

Not on Inauguration Day, JD. No, he wouldnt want the focus off him today. And he wouldnt burn an entire section of the city to get back at mewould he? Gabrielles hotel, yes. Hed torch it without a second thought. But the warehouses? Theyre too damn important to the success of our business.

My brain wars with itself, the logical versus the illogical. But my gut knows its him. Just like it knows that no matter how many investigations they conduct or how diligent the investigators work, theyll never find anything definitive that points directly to him.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I bang on the car roof, but all it does is punish my hands.

I cant allow myself to get bogged down in unfounded suspicions tonight. It zaps too much energy and makes me too angry to function optimally. There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now, I need to focus on finding Gabrielle.

The ride from the airport to downtown normally takes Antoine twenty minutes, but tonight we make it in ten. The longest ten minutes of my life.

Were still a few blocks away, but the smoke is thicker. I cant tell if its coming from the Port of Charleston where the warehouses are still burning, or the French Quarter, where The Gatehouse is located.

As we round the bend onto Broad Street, a smattering of flashing lights illuminates the crowd gathered in the road, mesmerized by the deep orange flames licking the night sky. Pull over, right here, I instruct Antoine. Youll never get the car closer.

Before he fully brakes, Im on the cobblestone street racing toward the flames.

Dozens of onlookers watch the blaze from across the road, some are barefoot, using scraps of cardboard as makeshift rugs shielding their feet from the cold ground, others huddle in thin pajamas with their arms wrapped around one another for warmth. They likely are hotel guests, but theres not a familiar face among them.

The scene is becoming chaotic as people push their way into the crowd to get a better look. I glance at the burning building. The fires wrath is uncontained. My stomach starts to heave. She could still be inside. No. No! Keep looking, JD. Dont stop looking.

There is a swarm of police cars, but only one fire truck in front of the building. Where are all the fucking fire fighters? Panic propels me forward, as I scour the growing crowd for Gabriellefor her security detailfor anyone who can tell me a damn thing. Every dark-haired woman gives me a boost of hope. Hope thats dashed again and again, taking a piece of my soul each time I realize its not Gabrielle.

I cant find her. I cant fucking find her!

If she were here, this is where shed be. Front and center, staring into the flames in disbelief. Watching in horror. Im sure of it. Dammit, where is she?

I scan the area again quickly, my eyes rest on the spot where she should be standing. I picture her barefoot on the sidewalk, arms wrapped tightly around her body. The image I conjure has an almost translucent quality with a fog of gray smoke surrounding her. Shes wearing a white cotton nightgown thats billowing in the breeze, making her seem like an apparition. Its a mirage. It has to be. I dont allow myself to focus on the vision for too long. Dont allow myself to think about premonitions. I force my eyes away, my mind away, and keep searching.

Finally, I spot Rafe in the parking lot across the street. Hes sitting on a stretcher receiving oxygen.

When I reach him his skin is gray, his face smudged with soot and sweat. I yank the mask away. Where is she? I scream. Where is she?

Hey! The paramedic tries to grab the mask from my hand. You need to calm down, buddy.