by Kathryn Shay
“Yeah. I was keeping the French toast warm. This damned stove’s gonna kill us before the new one gets here.”
“Wouldn’t be taking so long if Huff hadn’t insisted on a fancy German model.” Mick’s voice was teasing.
“Only the best for me, Murphy.”
A man rushed into the kitchen buttoning his RFD shirt.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Jake glanced at the clock. “You’ve got a couple of minutes to spare, Diaz. Besides, Lanahan’s still sleeping.” Sometimes the night shift slept in after the morning crew arrived, especially if they’d had a lot of runs. “Everything okay?”
“We were up till dawn with the baby.”
“Which one?” Huff asked.
“The littlest.” Diaz rolled his eyes. “Jeez, no wonder my old man took off when I was young. Babies and jobs don’t mix.”
Mick clapped Diaz on the back. “This is our resident Daddy of the Year, Chelsea. He’s got four, goin’ on five, kids, and still countin’.”
“You’re just jealous, man.” In a lightning quick move, Diaz pivoted and grabbed Mick in a headlock. Then the tall, muscular man smiled at Chelsea, his demeanor degrees warmer than Huff’s or Santori’s. “You must be Chelsea. Hi, I’m Don Diaz.”
Chelsea nodded.
“Actually, I am jealous,” Mick confessed when Diaz let him go. “I wish like hell Andrea’d have another kid.”
Diaz joked, “Yeah, well, if you need instruction on how to get your peck—” He swallowed the rest of the word; everyone stilled.
Here it comes, Chelsea thought. The watch-every-word-they-say syndrome. In the past, she’d put her fellow firefighters at ease with some ice-breaker comment—like she knew all the words for the male anatomy and could teach them some—but no more.
“Chow’s on,” Jake said, breaking the silence.
Chairs scraped back. Santori was first in line. Huff followed. Mick moved behind them. “Come on, Chelsea.”
She stood and crossed to them. Mick stepped aside, and she allowed the gesture. “Thanks.” She reached the food. “Mmm, this smells wonderful.” The aroma of French toast, Canadian bacon and home fries wafted up to her. Her stomach growled loudly. She put her hand to her waist. “Oops, sorry.”
Jake, Peter, Mick and Don all chuckled. Joey did not.
There was little conversation over the meal, which the crew devoured with the gusto of lumberjacks. They made a few grudging compliments, intermittently remarked on the runs the night group had gotten. Jake told Joey his grandfather had called this morning to talk to him, and Huff asked about their training today. But that was the extent of it.
When they were done, Mick asked, “How much do we owe you, Jake?” Though some citizens thought their taxes paid for firefighters’ food, the group members all pitched in for meals.
The lieutenant shook his head. “Nothing. My treat.”
“Whoa…”
“Why?”
“To celebrate Chelsea’s arrival.”
“Hey, great.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
After each man scraped his plate, Jake made a few announcements and suggested the guys begin their chores—starting the rigs, checking the water tanks, washing any apparatus that was used in the night runs. And there was morning housework. He and Chelsea would finish cleaning up, then he’d show her around.
The men filed out, each slapping Jake on the back or punching his arm as they left. Except Joey Santori. He only stopped by Jake’s chair long enough to toss a five-dollar bill on the table, then left the room in frosty silence.
Sighing deeply, Chelsea sank back in her seat. She got the message loud and clear, just as Santori had intended.
After a moment Jake stood. Chelsea did likewise, and silently they picked up their plates and crossed to the sink. “I—” Jake began when the tone sounded over the PA system, indicating an incoming call.
And the computer in the watch room clicked on.
It was a run for Quint/Midi Twelve.
“EMS call at Parker and Thornton.”
“The Midi,” Jake said.
Chelsea raced for the door.
When she reached it, she heard, “The Midi and Quint go into service.”
Jake hurried down the hallway behind her, ducked into the watch room, ripped the work order out of the printer and scanned it.
“Damn it,” he said.
The dispatcher announced, “Multiple gunshot wounds. Police are on their way.”
SO MUCH for an easy day, Jake thought, as he checked the side mirror to see the smaller rig careering along behind him. He’d hoped for a couple of light calls to acclimate Chelsea—maybe one of the frequent stove fires that summoned them to Dutch Towers, the senior citizens’ complex two blocks away. But this was serious. The sirens screeched, and Murphy sounded the horn as he drove the big truck to the scene. Jake occupied the officer’s position next to him. Diaz and Santori were in the jump seats.
Jake listened for radio instructions. “Police are at the house now. Wait for scene clearance, Quint Twelve. Repeat, wait for scene clearance.”
“Quint/Midi Twelve en route. We’ll wait for scene clearance.” Jake let out a low whistle when he clicked off. This could be dicey.
In less than two minutes, the trucks pulled up in front of a two-family dwelling with peeling paint and rickety porch steps. It was eerily quiet in this residential section of the city. The stillness reminded him of a room before backdraft hit. A female police officer stood guard in front of the house and spoke into a radio, probably alerting officers around back that the fire department had arrived.
The six Rockford firefighters exited the trucks with the precision of trained soldiers initiating an attack. As he approached the cop, Jake saw Whitmore and Huff opening their rig’s back door and hefting equipment. Santori, Diaz and Murphy followed suit on the other truck.
“Quint/Midi Twelve is on the scene,” Jake said calmly into the radio. “Approaching the police now.”
The officer grimaced at him. “The scene is under control. Two people are down—a twenty-six-year-old-man and a woman about the same age. Proceed back but don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”
Jake nodded and turned to his crew. They were covered in goggles, face shields, protective sleeves and gloves. Chelsea held out a set for him; he slid them on. He saw Huff step up and speak to the officer. He caught up to them as they headed to a side yard littered with shards of glass, pieces of wood and broken concrete. The smell of garbage penetrated Jake’s face shield.
Behind the house, they found what they were looking for.
Two police officers stood guard, one on each side of a handcuffed man. One cop was taking notes, the other carefully eyeing the suspect. Two bodies lay motionless on the ground in an increasing pool of blood.
Jake said, “Whitmore, Diaz and Santori, the man’s yours. Huff and Murphy, the woman.”
As he headed for the officers, his crew hurried to the victims.
“You hurt?” he asked a tall, thin cop with a mustache.
“No.”
A younger one, pale but steady, said, “Me, neither.”
Jake looked at the handcuffed shooter. “Are you hurt?”
“What are ya—dressed up for Halloween?”
“Are you hurt?” Jake asked again.
The guy shook his head, sending greasy locks of hair into his wild eyes. Drugs. Dilated pupils confirmed it.
Scanning him, Jake said, “What day is it?”
“Huh?”
“Answer the damn question.” The older officer yanked on the cuffs.
“May twenty-second.” The man’s words were slurred.
Jake lifted the guy’s arms, pushed back a grungy sleeve and took his pulse, all the while questioning him. “What’s your name? Who’s the president of the United States?”
When he finished with the vitals, and was sure the officers and the shooter were not in need of care, Jake turned to the firefighters attending to the
victims. He heard the slurred words of the shooter behind him. “They deserve it. He was screwin’ my old lady.” The accusation was accompanied by several colorful obscenities.
Ignoring him, Jake crossed to the male patient and looked down. “Situation assessed?”
“Yes, sir,” Chelsea said in a confident voice. “Airways open, breathing normal, but blood pressure is low. We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
“Need anything?”
“Not at this time.”
He checked with Huff. The female victim had a superficial flesh wound, but she’d been rendered unconscious by an apparent blow to the head. Her stained pink housedress had splotches of blood on the chest, possibly the man’s. Despite how often he saw this much blood, Jake still winced.
Turning to the male patient, who was in more serious condition, he observed his crew in action. Efficiently, Chelsea elevated the man’s legs so blood would flow to the vital organs. Joey stripped off the guy’s clothing as Diaz took another set of vitals.
“Pulse is fast, decreased bp. We need the oxygen?” Don asked.
Chelsea said, “Yeah, set it up.” Jake helped Don assemble and crack the canister as Chelsea moved across from Joey. Blood oozed from the man’s shoulder, and he moaned. “Santori, check for an exit wound on his back first, then get gauze pads from the bag and apply pressure.”
She looked up and gasped. “Joe, there’s a slit in your face shield.”
Quickly Jake ripped off his own shield, moved to Joey and replaced his mask. Jake’s pulse accelerated. Possibilities of contamination to the firefighters were endless at this kind of scene, given all the blood, which could be infected.
He’d just moved to get another shield when he heard Joey say, “No exit wound.”
As Jake watched, Joey set the patient on his back again. The change of position sent spurts of blood onto him. Droplets spattered his glasses—and smeared his face shield. Right where the slit had been.
Joey packed the wound with heavy bandages, then took a quick glance at Chelsea. She was getting another set of vitals and didn’t look at him. Jake saw the young firefighter’s hands shake and his skin pale. Though only thirty-one, Joey was a seasoned firefighter and did not often have rookie-like reactions.
The injured man moaned.
“Sir?” Chelsea bent to listen to him.
“Son of a bitch—” heavy breathing “—shot me.”
The older cop approached and leaned over. “That the man?” He pointed to the suspect.
“Yeah.”
“Why’d he shoot you?” the officer asked.
“I was with his wife. Goddamned whore.”
Chelsea noticed the inside of the man’s arm. It looked like a pincushion. Jake saw it, too, and swallowed hard. HIV now topped the list for contamination.
“Are you on drugs?” Chelsea asked.
“Nah.” His voice faded and his head lolled to the side.
The screech of the ambulance sounded in the background. Jake turned to check Peter’s victim. Murphy and Huff had gotten her onto a backboard; Santori and Whitmore did the same for the man. By the time the ambulance crew made it around back, the victims were packaged and ready to go.
The firefighter EMTs gave their report to the paramedics as Jake glanced at his watch.
Only fifteen minutes had passed.
It seemed like hours.
THE MOOD WAS SOMBER when the Quint and Midi pulled into the firehouse bay. It always was after a serious call.
As they exited the trucks, Jake said, “Get rid of the contaminated material in the biohazard bags. Restock the rigs, then meet me in the kitchen for debriefing.” His tone was neutral and his eyes were hooded; Chelsea couldn’t tell what he was thinking. She helped restock the vehicles, feeling the tug of fatigue in her shoulders and the adrenaline drop in her bloodstream, similar to coming off a sugar high.
Ten minutes later, all six firefighters were seated around the table drinking coffee that by now tasted more like paint thinner.
“First, you did well,” Jake said, warm approval in his tone. “You took universal precautions, you handled the patients efficiently and—” he paused significantly “—you worked like a team.”
They nodded. Mick gave Chelsea a thumbs-up.
“So, let’s hear what you think.” Jake sipped his coffee and waited.
Huff raised cool blue eyes to Chelsea. “You did a good job, Whitmore.”
She didn’t say thanks, only nodded. She knew she had. “So did you.”
“I second that, Chelsea.” Jake’s voice was strong, pleased. It felt like a warm bath on a cold February night.
Jake pinned Joey with a purposeful stare, and the younger man coughed nervously. Though his eyes were narrowed, his pallor affirmed that he realized the danger he’d been in. “Thanks, Whitmore.”
Jake let the situation sink in. Then he said calmly, “Let’s talk about how that slit in your face shield happened.”
Huff leaned forward, sparks of animation in his formerly stony face. It made him look younger, more approachable. “Sometimes defective equipment gets by us. Once, when I was still on the police force, a bulletproof vest was missing a whole section of padding. Nobody spotted it right away.”
Chelsea cocked her head. Huff caught the gesture and explained, “I retired from the police force two years ago.”
She wondered what made him choose firefighting, wanted to ask, but this wasn’t the time. If firefighters were notoriously reticent, cops were even worse. She nodded again.
“All right.” Jake straightened. “We’ll assume it came that way from the factory. Joe, report this to the battalion chief. Tell him I want something in writing to the company. In the meantime, I’ll call them and ream them out.”
Santori nodded. “What’re the chances the guy’s—” he cleared his throat “—HIV positive?”
Jake didn’t respond, so Chelsea answered. “Pretty high, if he’s a drug user—and he appears to be.” She waited a beat. “We were protected, Joe. There’s almost no chance of your being infected with the new face shield Jake put on you.”
“Except from the lieutenant’s germs,” Mick joked.
“Who you been kissin’ lately, Jake?”
Huff and Diaz chuckled, but Joey remained dead sober. He held her gaze. “Thanks again.”
She gave him a weak smile and felt the vise in her chest—which had been here since she arrived at the station this morning—ease a bit.
“Good job, all of you,” Jake said. “I’m gonna go file the report.” He gave Chelsea a sidelong glance. “I think you can probably find your way around here.” He didn’t smile, but his voice sounded slightly amused. “After your performance this morning, I don’t think you need coddling.”
As compliments went, it was mild, but then, they usually were from the officers. She was thankful to get it.
The rest of the day progressed without drama—a call to pump out a flooded basement, a “fire” that resulted from burned food and even a run to get a cat out of a tree. There was also an EMS trip to Dutch Towers, where Jake resignedly replaced Huff on the Midi and accompanied Chelsea.
She knew that Dutch Towers was a staple of the Rockford Fire Department calls. What she didn’t know, and what Jake explained on the way over, was that years ago he had brought one of the residents back to life with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Since then, old Mrs. Lowe had viewed Jake as the son she never had; he tried to go to Dutch Towers whenever he could. Chelsea was amazed at how gentle and concerned he was about the woman’s heart palpitations this time, which had turned out to be nothing.
Between calls Chelsea explored the common area, which had huge recliners around the TV, the bunk room in the back—nothing new there—and a workout area with updated equipment. She knew this was Dylan’s station, too; he’d been reassigned to Group Four as a lieutenant. For years he’d been conducting a firefighter trivia game, the proceeds of which went to charity and to buy furnishings for the firehouse—like a new
large-screen TV. She’d have to remember to get in on the game next week.
Huff cooked his “gourmet” hamburgers for lunch. Chelsea got in line and listened and laughed as Mick told her horrible firefighter jokes. She dished up her food and didn’t mention that she generally avoided eating red meat; she’d wait until another time to drop that bomb. She managed to get half the burger down, then ate the salad and dessert with relish.
From the tension of the day and little sleep last night, Chelsea was whipped by four o’clock when her relief arrived. Her muscles felt as if she’d hauled hose up three flights of stairs. She’d just opened her locker outside the coed bathroom and was dragging out her bag when she heard someone come up behind her. She knew who it was just by his smell, a woodsy scent noticeable even after a long day.
Lieutenant Scarlatta had removed his dress shirt and was clad only in the RFD’s navy T-shirt the firefighters all wore and blue trousers. She remembered telling Francey one time, “God, I love men in T-shirts. Is there anything sexier?” Of course, that had been in her naive days, when she’d loved the sight and smell and feel of men in general.
“You leaving?” he asked, raising his arm to lean against the lockers. The T-shirt outlined his impressive pecs.
She nodded and dragged her eyes to her gear.
“The day went all right, didn’t it?”
“More than all right.” She peered at him, acutely aware of his physical presence. “Jake, I’m sorry about spouting off this morning. I guess I was more wired than I realized about starting here.”
“It’s okay.” His lips quirked. “I’ll remember to give you the straight skinny from now on—always.”
She grinned. His gaze focused on her mouth, then he pushed away from the locker and straightened. “You were valuable to us today, Whitmore.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded, jammed his hands in his pockets and strode off.
The old Chelsea, who still surfaced from time to time, would have noticed his nice gluts in addition to his pecs. But that Chelsea had gotten into trouble. The new Chelsea didn’t want her around anymore.
THE MAN LAY ON HIS BED in his cold, empty bedroom, staring into the darkness. The stillness of the night let his other side surface, the one he sometimes couldn’t control. Like Jekyll and Hyde. He should get up and turn off the air-conditioning. But the coolness helped him think better. At the station house, he only felt confused.
