But I’m in luck because after a couple of rings, a drowsy, thick male voice slurs, “Langley.”
I blink.
I’m used to 911, what’s your emergency?
But after a moment I say tentatively, “Um…is this the police? The Heart’s Edge PD?”
“Sure is. Sheriff Langley at your service, Miss, and I’m guessin’ you’re one of the out-of-towners if you don’t know that.”
“Yeah.” I smile wryly. “Listen, my van broke down and it’s kind of on fire—”
“Fire? I ain’t the one you need, then, but lemme get you right on over to the main man.”
I don’t even get to protest Wait! before there’s a weird buzzing sound.
It’s like…the line’s not disconnected, but he’s not there.
I wait a second, listening to the idle murmur of voices from the radio. There’s a rattling, a clicking, and a different male voice comes on the line.
“Fire and rescue.” Deep, crisp, business-like. “What do you need?”
Wait.
Why do I hear his voice twice?
The second time, it’s coming from my van in this weird half-second delayed echo.
But I try, “Um, hi, my name is Peace and my van broke down and caught fire.”
Now I’m hearing it again.
The echo, only this time…
Oh, crap.
That’s me.
And it’s coming from the radio inside the van.
I’m live on the air with the advice line guy, who’s apparently also the emergency responder for the town’s fire team.
“Um,” I fumble again, then continue, “I called the sheriff’s office and the second I said fire, he routed me to you.”
“Where? How much fire we talkin’?” the man snaps off quietly—Blake. I think that’s what the other guy on the radio said his name was.
His friendliness is gone, replaced by an authoritative calm. His tone eases a little knot of nerves I hadn’t even realized I was holding on to until it started to relax.
“I’m not sure…a little flame, a lot of smoke.” I don’t like the echo of my voice coming from the radio, when I sound way more scared than I really want to be, but I’m kind of stuck here. Helpless. “I’m from out of town, and I was just driving around to check out the woods and mountainsides—”
“Can you see the town from where you are?” he asks.
I turn slowly, scanning. Just sky, forest, road, and a break in the trees, but no lights of the town. “Nope.”
“What can you see?”
I step closer to the edge of the trees, pulling my thickly felted peacoat tighter, my breaths icy on my tongue and puffing out in front of me. I squint through the narrow trunks, the spindly leafless branches.
“Through the trees…there’s a valley.” I squint, looking down at dry slopes of red earth dotted with half-dead scrub and a dark chunk of rocky slope with what looks like the remnants of a pretty big building in front of it. “And what looks like some old, damaged abandoned place. Ruins?”
“Paradise Hotel. Gotcha. Direction?” he barks.
That I can answer a bit more confidently, looking up and scanning the sky. The North Star twinkles just bright past the building clouds that are gathering way too fast for my liking. But it’s still there, brilliant and white against the deep blue.
“East,” I say.
“Any other nearby landmarks?”
I rack my brain, trying to remember the things I’d passed by in the shadows. “Yeah, think I passed a hunting shack on the side of the road, about a mile and a half back?”
“I know where you are.” I can hear rapid movement both on the radio and over the phone, and on the line he goes a little distant with a murmur. “Take over, Mario. I’m heading out.”
Then his voice growls stronger again, aimed at me. “Stay put, lady. I’m coming. Keep your distance from the vehicle in case a gas line catches.”
I nod as if he can see me.
Then curse myself for being an idiot.
I bite my lip, stuffing the hand not holding my cell into my pocket, curling it together for warmth. I hadn’t brought gloves since I hadn’t expected to be outside. “Blake? That’s your name, right?”
There’s a pause, then an oddly quiet, “…Yep. How’d you know?”
I smile faintly. “I was listening to you on the radio before my van went boom. I just…I think it’s going to start snowing soon.”
Another long silence passes before his crisp tone gentles. His voice is so expressive, and I get why anyone in town would tune in to listen to him. It’s like he can lead you with his voice, this slow, rolling cadence of baritone roughness that wraps you up like velvet and carries you in and out of whatever feeling infuses those rich words.
I’m a music nerd; it’s in my bones.
And his voice is like music, even when he says something as simple as, “What’s your name?”
“Peace,” I answer. “Peace Rabe.”
He lets out a soft, husky laugh, and something tightens in my chest. “Rabe? Like a rabe of broccoli?”