Code of Honor

by Kathryn Shay

  Santori confessed to one seventy-five, Jake to two hundred.

  “I weigh one ninety,” Huff said.

  Jake picked up on Huff’s point. “How much do you think our victim weighs, Whitmore?”

  “Easily two hundred. He was short but fat.”

  Huff said, “Guess that dispels that worry. I told you at the scene it was good to know you could handle him. I meant it.”

  Quiet for a moment, as if she was deciding how to handle the point, Chelsea finally said, “I guess it’s normal that you’d question my ability. For the record, I was a competitive weightlifter for years, and I still compete in some strength contests. I can carry my weight, so to speak.”

  “Maybe you can beat Scarlatta at arm wrestling,” Mick teased. “Nobody else can.”

  Arching an impish brow, she glanced at Jake. “Probably.”

  The guys razzed Jake with whistles and catcalls until he quieted them.

  “Anybody else have a comment about the night?”

  Chelsea said, “I do.”

  Jake scowled. He hoped she didn’t blow the good mood.

  “The old guy was tough to handle. It got me thinking about dealing with elderly victims and patients. Since we’re so near Dutch Towers and since they seem to need us so often—” she nodded in Jake’s direction “—I wondered if we should have some training on rescuing the elderly.”

  Her insight impressed Jake. Her interest in the Dutch Towers clientele—his own special cause—warmed him like aged brandy going down smooth. When everyone agreed, he said he’d talk to Reed about setting up some training.

  Soon the morning shift sauntered in and buzzed about the fire. With the requisite embellishments, the night crew held court with the day shift. Jake excused himself to shower and take care of paperwork.

  An hour later, exhausted and ready for bed, Chelsea crossed the parking lot and unlocked the door to her candy-apple red Camaro just as Jake exited the firehouse. As he came toward her in the bright morning sunlight, birds chirping cheerfully around them, she noticed he’d exchanged his uniform for jeans and a blue-and-black checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. His feet were clad in Docksiders and no socks. “Just leaving?” he asked when he reached her. Briefly he scanned her denims and oversize top. Suddenly the sun felt midsummer hot.

  “Uh, yeah. I got cleaned up, then talked with Mick for a while in the bay. He’s been great to me.”

  “Everybody loves Mick. He’s our resident peacemaker.”

  Studying the lines of fatigue in his face, Chelsea thought about his role in the events of the night. “And you’re a good leader.”

  He gave her a show-stopper smile. “Hey, thanks.”

  “I’ve worked with a lot of officers. Insisting on the ladders was wise.”

  “I’ve taken guff about it from other companies.”

  “You’re right to do it.” She looked over his shoulder, remembering his calm reactions. They’d made her feel confident. “And you were so cool, even when things went wrong.”

  “Can’t panic in a fire. It’ll kill you.”

  “Just the same, I admired what you did.”

  He held up his hand. “Stop. I’ll get a big head, as my father used to say.”

  Watching him for minute, she wondered what sort of father he had. What sort of father he was. “We never got a chance to finish our conversation this morning.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  His expression became shuttered. “Maybe.”

  She felt the chill form between them like a newly built wall. One he erected. She started to turn away.

  He grasped her arm, tugging her around. “You did good, Whitmore.” His hand was big and muscular on her bare skin.

  “Thanks.”

  “I told you it was gonna work out here.”

  “It’s not over till it’s over,” she said, but she smiled at the familiar quip. Before he let go, he squeezed her arm gently.

  With a quick smile of her own, she opened her door and slid into the front seat. She reached for the handle, but he grasped the top of the door, holding it ajar, and peered at her. The sunlight glistened off his hair, highlighting chestnut strands sprinkled here and there with a few gray ones. His eyes were warm with amusement as he patted the hood. “Nice car.”

  “My baby.”

  “It suits you.”

  “It does? How?”

  He ran a hand over the roof. “Sleek on the outside.” He swept the entire chassis with his eyes. “Strong enough to hold up on the road.” He perused the interior. “Kind of cushy on the inside.”

  “You think?” she asked, struggling to conceal how rattled his assessment made her. There was something about the tone of his voice….

  “Yeah, I think.” Giving her a half smile, he slammed the door shut. “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too.” She started the car and pulled away.

  In the rearview mirror, she could see him give her a mock salute and told herself not to make too much out of his…friendliness. His interest was purely professional, as his goodbye gesture indicated.

  There was, and never would be, anything personal between them.

  JAKE STROLLED into the firehouse two nights later, their third on the night shift, satisfied with the way things had gone on Chelsea’s first stint with them at night. Despite the initial tension, and because of her firefighting ability, her sense of humor and her refusal to take any guff from them, Chelsea had made strides with the guys.

  And with me, too, he thought as he approached the office. It wasn’t so bad having her around. She was even kind of fun.

  And real easy on the eyes.

  He thought about how vulnerable she looked curled up in her sweats on the kitchen chair that first night before the fire call came, like a little china doll who needed to be handled gently.

  Yeah, right. An hour later that china doll hefted two hundred pounds of dead weight down a fourteen-foot ladder.

  There hadn’t been a repeat of that early-morning encounter, for the next night, she’d been on watch when he awakened at four. He often went out and kept the person who’d drawn the late watch company, but this time, he’d read in the common room. He was avoiding the intimacy.

  His foot connected with something on the floor, and he bent down to pick it up. It was a stuffed animal. A cat.

  Diaz. The guy was always buying his kids things and bringing them in to show the rest of them. They razzed him mercilessly but knew Diaz had had a rotten childhood and craved stability and family like a junkie. He must have dropped his most recent purchase. Thinking briefly about Chelsea’s comments about her cats, he put it on the desk and looked at the bulletin board. Staring him square in the face was an eleven-by-fourteen blowup of…Jeez, was that Cat Woman? Yep, it was Julie Newmar, from the old TV show. He remembered drooling over the scantily clad half-feline. Who the hell had done this, and why?

  “Jake?” Group Two’s lieutenant, Ken Casey, stood at the doorway. A small, wiry man with body-builder muscles, he had a face that was a road map of lines.

  “Hi, Ken. Tough day?”

  “Yeah. Here’s a list of the runs.” He handed Jake a clipboard. “I’m outta here. I gotta take my kid to little-guy soccer tonight.”

  “Ken, what’s with the poster?”

  Group Two’s lieutenant eyed Cat Woman like any good twelve-year-old boy might. “Don’t know. Pretty hot stuff, though.” As he headed for the door, he was smiling.

  Jake made his way down the hall to the kitchen. When he walked through the doorway, he stopped abruptly. Chelsea was in the corner fixing salad. Diaz was at the table drinking coffee with Santori, and Mick was fiddling with a boom box in the corner.

  And all around the room were computer-generated cat things—pictures of cats, cat food, cat toys.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Jake asked.

  Peter stood at the stove and shrugged. “Don’t know. Somebody in Group Two must have done it.�
��

  “Funny, Casey didn’t seem to know about Cat Woman.”

  Everyone turned at once. They were as straight-faced as funeral directors. Finally Chelsea folded her arms and said, deadpan, “I guess the cat’s got our tongues.”

  Suspicion curled inside him. He narrowed his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” Huff put in. “Maybe we should let the cat out of the bag.”

  All five of them chuckled. Then Diaz held out the morning paper. It was folded open to Letters to the Editor, and one of them was circled with a red magic marker. Jake glanced at the signature but didn’t recognize it. “Edward P. Parker, former city school English teacher.” He read the letter.

  Dear Sir,

  It is with both sadness and pleasure that I write this letter from my hospital bed to commend our city firefighters. On May 28, my house caught on fire and unfortunately my beloved feline friend, Hester Prynne, succumbed in the flames. I would be left with no memories of the cat who has shared my life for many years except for the efforts of the officer—and gentleman—on duty who saved several pictures of her, and in the aftermath secured the jeweled collar I had given her last Christmas. As yet, I don’t know the officer’s name, but his sensitivity and concern for an old man’s idiosyncrasies are greatly appreciated.

  Jake’s face flushed. He knew he’d never live this one down. Though any one of them sitting here would have automatically done the same thing if they’d had the opportunity, firefighter humor insisted that they razz the daylights out of him about it.

  Cavalierly he tossed the paper onto the table, swept his group with a disinterested gaze and, deciding to ignore their antics, went to get coffee.

  It seemed to work, as they discussed training for the night, then dispersed and went about their chores. Six o’clock came, and there had been no runs.

  Hungry, Jake entered the kitchen and found Chelsea setting the table and humming a little off-key. When she put a jar full of pussy willows on the table, he threw her a scathing look. She shrugged. Apparently he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  “Chow’s on,” Peter called out minutes later. He held back a smile. “I think the officer and gentleman should go first.”

  Jake said, “Bite me, Huff.”

  “What’s the matter, Jakey baby, don’t you know we think you’re the cat’s meow?” Mick teased, giving Jake a hearty slap on the back as he walked by to take his seat.

  Jake shook his head and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them, he caught Chelsea looking at him. “Sure you want to join forces with Brutus and his gang, Whitmore?”

  “Me? I haven’t done anything.” Her Huck Finn grin said, Yet.

  Well, at least her presence kept the guys from tossing out some tasteless sexist remarks.

  After dinner, they took some training off the computer, then Jake headed to the weight room to work out with Don and Mick. Chelsea strode by just as Jake arrived and started to stretch. Stopping in the archway to the hall, she watched them for a minute.

  “What’s wrong?” Diaz asked from the Universal machine in the corner.

  “Nothing.”

  Mick snorted. “Sounds like my wife when she’s mad at me.”

  “Mine, too.” Diaz exchanged a male-fraternity look with Murphy. Jake rolled his eyes, headed for the weight bench and picked up a barbell.

  Crossing her arms, Chelsea leaned against the doorway.

  “You run a gym, don’tcha, Whitmore?” Diaz asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, Coach, tell us.”

  “I was just wondering what kind of warm-up you guys do.”

  “Just what Jake did.”

  She shook her head. “Jake stretched—he didn’t warm up. There’s a difference. Actually, stretching should be done after the exercising warm-ups because warm muscles stretch easier—cold ones tear.”

  Diaz winced.

  Jake asked, “What should we be doing?”

  “You really wanna know?”

  All three nodded.

  She approached Jake. “Proper warm-ups prevent injury, but you already know that.” She angled her head to the treadmill. “Get on that thing.” When he jumped on, she set it at a low speed.

  “Your ability to do physical work increases at elevated body temperatures, which you need to do heavy exercising like weight training.”

  Jake nodded as he trekked slowly on the machine.

  “An elevated body temperature allows more oxygen to be freed from the hemoglobin in your red blood cells. It also reduces the internal viscosity of the skeletal muscles.”

  “In plain English?” Mick leaned against the weight bench.

  “It makes them move easier. Then the nervous system benefits, too. And it improves your range of motion—”

  “Okay, okay, we buy it,” Diaz said, straightening.

  “Just tell us what to do.”

  “First you want to reach as many muscle groups as you can in a general warm-up. So use the treadmill or the bike.” She indicated the stationary bicycle in the corner.

  “I hate those things.”

  “Then jump rope.”

  Mick and Diaz liked that better, picked up two ropes in the corner and skipped as they listened.

  “Do a little stretching after you’re through. But the most important thing is, do a specific warm-up for your next activity.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ll show you.” After another couple of minutes, she said, “Get on the bench, Jake.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stepped off the treadmill, then did as she asked.

  Chelsea crossed to the bench and towered over him, giving him an interesting view of her upper torso. “What do you usually lift?”

  “Two-fifty.” She leaned over him. He swallowed hard, feeling his temperature elevate some already.

  Like toys, she picked up two twenty-five-pound weights and put them on the barbell. “Okay, these first. Ten reps.”

  Easily Jake followed instructions. Then she doubled the weights. “Do ten more.” She addressed all of them. “This will warm up your pecs—” she swept a soft hand over his chest, and Jake’s grip faltered a bit “—the rotator cuff—” she fingered the joint on his shoulder, and he shifted on the bench “—and the delts and triceps—” she slid her hand over his shoulder and slipped it between him and the bench. Jake’s back arched involuntarily at her brief, firm touch. “It’ll also stretch your wrist and elbow.”

  “Working out will take forever that way.” Mick voiced the typical layperson’s complaint, but he kept jumping.

  “If you don’t do it, you’re at greater risk for injury,” Chelsea warned.

  Jake cleared his throat. “Physical injuries take you out of firefighting. I think it might be worth the extra time.”

  Chelsea stopped him and gave him heavier weights. She got him to two-fifty in about four minutes. Gently she swiped his forehead. “He’s broken out into a sweat. That shows he’s ready.” She glanced at her watch. “Ten minutes.”

  The guys scowled.

  She shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

  Mick grinned at her. “All right. Wanna come back and show us how to cool down?”

  “Sure, I’ll bring the ice packs for the back of your neck.”

  When all mouths fell open in surprise, she left the room laughing.

  At about eleven, after showering, Jake headed for the bunk room. Huff was on watch, and the others had gone to bed half an hour ago. Which was early for Diaz and Mick. He chuckled. Must be the extra time in the weight room tired them out. Dressed in gym shorts and T-shirt, he opened the door. He could hear Santori snoring lightly and stepped quietly inside. He crossed through the unrelieved darkness to his bed by the window and pulled down the covers. His head hit the pillow—and connected with something hard.

  “What the hell?” he sputtered.

  The lights flew on. Confused, since he hadn’t heard the tone that usually preceded the bunk room lights turning on automatically for a call, he looked ar
ound.

  Huff was by the switch, and all four of the group in the bunk room were sitting up in bed looking at him.

  His gaze shot to the pillow. There was a deep cardboard box on it. He peered inside. A tiny kitten, maybe seven or eight weeks old, stared at him with marble-green eyes. It was heather gray with white markings on its throat and paws; around its neck was a pink bow. When he lifted it out, the tag on the bow caught his eye. “Hester Two.”

  “We thought an officer and a gentleman should have only the best to sleep with,” Huff commented.

  The kitten licked Jake’s fingers. Her whole puffball body fit in the palm of his hand. “Whose is she?”

  “Yours,” Chelsea said casually.

  Jake’s head snapped up. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

  “She’s to remind you of what a hero you are,” Joey told him.

  Unconsciously Jake stroked the kitten’s fur. It was as soft as Jess’s hair had been as a baby. “Lay off.”

  The green eyes stared at him again. Pleadingly, he thought. So he stood, still holding the kitten, grabbed the box and walked out of the room. To the great pleasure of the team, he was sure, judging by the laughter he could hear as he moved down the hall.

  In the kitchen he ran some water in a bowl. After a few swipes with a tiny red tongue, the kitten mewed until Jake picked her up again. He sat at the table, holding her in his cupped hands. “What do you want, sweetheart?” The kitten angled her head and rubbed against his palm. He obliged her and curved his finger down her back.

  “She likes you.”

  Jake looked up. Chelsea stood before him in a long tailored shirt over her shorts and T-shirt. He wondered if the garment was hers or a man’s.

  Jake focused on the cat. “She’s a cutie.”

  Chelsea smiled. “She looks just like her mother.”

  “Her mother?”

  “The guys don’t want me to tell you and spoil the joke, but we don’t expect you to keep her. She’s from a litter my cat Blaze had two months ago. I’ll take her home tomorrow.” She stared at him meaningfully. “For what it’s worth, Jake, I think what you did for the old man was touching. We’re teasing you, but any one of us would have done it.”

  Jake smiled. “I know. It’s part of the mentality.” He looked at the kitten. “Blaze, huh?” His tone was amused as the kitten climbed out of his hands and edged her little white paws up his chest. He chuckled as she reached his neck and rubbed a wet nose there.