On the heels of the parade came Old-Fashioned Fireman’s Day. The competition among the fire companies was fierce, testing their skills in driving, hose handling, strength, and even aim. Younger spectators lived for the water target competition. The goal of the event was to knock down three targets with a water stream, a task that looked much easier than it really was. Each team’s aim was a little wild at first, drenching gleeful kids (and their parents) with hundreds of gallons of high-pressure water.

The carnival was next, running concurrently with the City-Wide Cook-Out. Even as the Tilt-a-Whirl set undigested lunches in motion, hundreds of barbecue grills were fired up in the baseball field. Families, friends and strangers all mingled together in a patriotic cooking frenzy. At any given moment, parents had no idea where their children were, but it didn’t matter. Bad things just didn’t happen in Brookfield.

Only a dozen or so rockets into the display, Warren’s pager vibrated in the pocket of his tennis shorts. Annoyed by the interruption, he brought the two-inch box—his leash, he called it—in front of his face where he could see it. The green luminescent display showed his office number, followed by “9-1-1,” indicating that it was urgent.

“Oh, shit,” he grumbled, pulling his arm from around his wife. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know yet. I just got paged.”

“Oh, no,” Monique moaned, mostly out of sympathy for him. “Not tonight:’

Warren swung his legs over the fender and slid to the ground, pausing to nod his approval of the latest starburst. “For Jed to call me during the fireworks, it can’t be good.”

Warren scooted quickly into the front seat, conscious of nearby spectators and the glare of the interior light. He removed his cellular phone from its charger on the cruiser’s center console, flipped it open, and punched a speed-dial button.