Vertical Burn by Earl Emerson Page A

boat, but he soon found himself living on the boat and treasuring the cat, testicles and all. The battle-scarred Manx followed him everywhere just like a dog. He was fearless, and Finney loved him for it.
    Since Leary Way, Finney had been stalled out in the middle of remodeling the houseboat. It would have been embarrassing if he’d ever had any visitors. As things stood, it was possible to launch one of his kayaks from the spare bedroom by stepping out past the blue plastic tarp hanging over the unfinished outer wall. Currently, he owned three kayaks and was building another from a kit. Kayaking was his one interest that continued unabated since Leary Way.
    He went back inside and pulled a small tape recorder off the nightstand. His hands were shaking. This was one of the hardest things he could do, but he was helpless to stop himself. In the beginning he’d listened to the tape at all hours of the day, but now it seemed to beckon only when he couldn’t sleep. The recording had been copied from the master tape the dispatch center kept of all radio transmissions made during the fire.
    On tape Cordifis’s tone was surprisingly calm, almost nonchalant: “I want to say a few things while I still have a clear head. Emily, I love you. You are my life. I don’t know how I ever got so lucky thirty-four years ago. There has not been a day that I regretted meeting you. Heather, you’re the youngest, and I’m afraid we spoiled you. I’d do it again. I hope you have that child you want. Marge, you just go ahead and do whatever you think is right. I’ve always trusted your judgment. Ever since you were little, you knew what you were about. Linda, I hope you and the kids get through this divorce and come out happier on the other side. You girls and your mother are what make my life worth living. And the crew of Ladder One. You’re all great. I love you guys. I don’t think I’ve ever had a crew member I didn’t think of as family.”
    (There was a sound that might have been gasping.)
    “I know I’m not getting out of here tonight, so I’m telling you right now, I don’t want anyone feeling bad over this. None of us get out alive. It’s just a question of when and where and how we do it. I’m at peace with this. I knew when he left, the odds of John getting back with help were zero. God bless him, though. He really thought he was going to make it. I’m sure he’s out there busting his gut. I only hope you’re not in trouble your own self, and I pray that you make it, John. You and I both know you only strike out once in this game.”
    (At this point there was a pause and then the tape grew scratchy. The next sound was Cordifis coughing. He hadn’t been wearing his mask.)
    “The smoke’s been down on the floor for a while, but this is
hot
. . . . John, I want you to know something about tonight . . .”
    (More coughing.)
    The tape ran on for a few moments before it ended with a clicking sound. Most people figured it had simply stopped, but Finney knew from the noises in the background that the fire had been pushing in on him, that Bill had deliberately shut off his transmission to spare the feelings of his friends and loved ones—that he didn’t want anybody to hear him die.
    Finney had endlessly speculated as to what Cordifis’s last words to him would have been had he been able to get them out. Probably not to feel guilty, that he knew it wasn’t Finney’s fault. Probably not to let this night ruin the rest of his life. Finney often wondered if it would have made a difference to have heard the words. Every time Finney heard that last click he felt as if his heart were trying to beat without any blood in it.
    For a month after they extracted Cordifis’s body from the rubble, Finney holed up on the houseboat and pickled himself in alcohol, sobering up only long enough for infrequent visits to his doctor and sometimes not even then. It was his brother who, one afternoon, found him in a pile of dirty laundry on