There would be uncertainty over what to say around the kitchen table. Fire crews joked about what they feared, and the dark jokes about fire were legendary. She’d told a few herself during her years at the table. She knew there would be humor that would miss the mark.
For herself—she was worried about her hearing. It was difficult following conversations when she was in a noisy environment. It was acutely embarrassing to try and have a conversation with someone and have to admit she was only able to make out every other word. Concrete floors, large rooms, a constant level of background noise—the fire station was the definition of a place that would give her problems.
Most of the guys had no idea how poor her hearing had become, especially in her right ear. The first time someone called her name and she didn’t hear them— She just hoped she didn’t come across as rude if it happened.
She had one goal for this first day back on shift: surviving it.
“Morning, Cassie.”
She looked up, startled to see Lieutenant Ben Rohr, the head of Black Shift, appear. “Lieutenant.”
His smile was welcoming. “Be glad you came early. There are homemade cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
He took the two straining garbage bags he carried over to the dumpster. The trash was just one of many housekeeping chores done before the shift change. She wasn’t surprised to see him pitching in with the housekeeping. The best lieutenants led by being willing to do every job. She waited for him. Ben had seen the department through years of transitions; she was curious to know what he thought of the arson fires.
“How’s the hand?” He offered to take her duffel bag for her.
The swelling had disappeared. The blisters had begun to callus over. It was healing. “Stiff.”
“Cole is here somewhere.” He held the steel door for her. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“We cleared a locker for you. Unpack, get settled in, then come join us for breakfast. I’ll introduce you around.”
A breakfast conversation would be perfect. Ben was heading off duty with the shift change. “Is everyone already up?” She knew how precious those last hours of sleep were before the eight o’clock shift change. It was rare for a firefighter to get a full night’s sleep.
There was no getting around the fact the dorm rooms were near the equipment bays. When those massive doors rose and vehicle lights came on, sleep stopped, at least long enough to notice the time of night. Even at the smaller station where she had worked, at least one or two dispatches a night were a given.
“A car accident shortly after five woke the station.”
Cassie hung up her coat on an empty hook in the walkway. A yellow caution sign was out to remind people the hall had been mopped recently.
They passed the kitchen. Two firefighters were debating how crisp to cook the bacon and a small group had taken up station near the coffeepot. The rich smell of baking cinnamon rolls hung in the air. The kitchen was always the center of social life at a fire station, the place to linger and talk. “Thanks, Ben.” She accepted her duffel bag and turned toward the women’s dorm room.
“Cassie.” Cole appeared from the equipment bay. “I saw your car. Dump your bag and come on through. I’ve got some gear for you to try on. Ben, grab her some coffee? She takes it sweet, but not as sweet as you.”
Cassie wanted to laugh as she obediently set down her duffel bag and hurried to catch up with Cole. He had never been a boss to let time slip by.
“I want to get your gear straightened out and then talk through the plan for today with Frank. I’m heading over to the scene of the last fire after roll call, and I want you to come with me and talk me through the report you gave of that night.”
Her idea that she’d get a rather leisurely chance to settle in went out the window; it sounded like she would be racing to keep up with Cole today.
She hesitated when she saw the gear Cole was heading toward. Her fire coat had saved her life even if it hadn’t been able to prevent all of the burns. There was a new one waiting for her. Her old helmet was there, the Company 65 markings still present, and by the look of it her old fire pants. She’d handled a road crew accident where hot asphalt was being laid and the black tar had permanently adhered to the left pant leg.
She had known Cole would not let her ride along as a spectator. She would be rolling out to fire scenes and for safety’s sake would have to be in gear in order to stay with the captain. She thought she was prepared for it, but the emotions came stronger than she was ready for. Difficult rescues, out of control fires, numerous drills—so many years of her life were captured in that gear.
“I wasn’t sure about the fire boots. I had several sizes sent over.”
“Nines,” she said absently, her attention focusing on what she had just seen. Cole had set out the self-contained breathing apparatus. The nightmare flashed by. She hadn’t worn a mask since the fire. She’d come close to suffocating because her air tank had run to empty.
Ash had saved her life by risking his own and buddy breathing with her, hoping that help could reach them before he too heard warning chimes. She didn’t know if she could handle facing that sensation of breathing on canister air. Using SCBA gear wasn’t as simple as the public often thought.
“You need to be able to use it just in case,” Cole said quietly. “You’re rolling out to fire calls.”
“I know.”
Faced with picking up the fire coat with her healing left hand or her weaker right arm, she reached for it with her right hand. Heavy, stiff, the nomex cloth feeling like thick rubber, she pulled it on, reaching out of habit for the clips near the collar. Tossing the collar up, she fastened the top button of the coat and worked her way downward. She worked the cinch of the belt tight. When this coat was broken in she wouldn’t have to fight the way it lay. Equipment weight would help the material pull and eventually relax.
“Cuffs. Let me.” Cole took care to get the best fit possible, adjusting the cuff straps so that with the gloves they would fit tight. Her arms couldn’t handle another brush of heat. “Will this coat work?”
“It’s a good fit.”
Cassie sat down and pulled over the SCBA gear. The best way to fight the nerves was to fall back on training and safety procedures. Cole had set out a sixty-minute cylinder for her.
“Did you bring your recipe box with you?”
She smiled as she turned the tank to check the gauges. “Still thinking about your raspberry cobbler?” She checked the hydrostatic test date and the fill pressure. Eighty-eight cubic feet of air compressed inside the canister should have pushed the pressure up to four thousand five hundred pounds per square inch.
“I’m going to use my informal seniority to put you on kitchen duty sometime in the next few shifts.”
“Thanks for the warning.” She checked the overpressure plug. The small metal disc was set to rupture if the compressed air refill went past those limits. “If you’ve got a preference for dessert, what about dinner?”
Ben brought in the coffee. Immersed in the work, she accepted it with a quiet thanks, took a sip, and set it aside.
“Lasagna with Italian sausage, not that bland stuff Bruce prefers.”
“An easy request. I was afraid you were going to say fried chicken.”
She tightened the cylinder into the harness. The high pressure hose that let air flow from the cylinder to the regulator where it would be lowered to a breathable pressure was finger tight.
Refusing to let her hand tremble, she reached for the face mask. The entire assembly was designed to keep positive air pressure inside the mask to prevent any smoke from entering. A donning switch would shut off the air to the face mask when it was slipped on. She cleared the exhalation valve on the face mask. With the positive pressure it was necessary to forcibly exhale.
The safety checks were done.
She glanced over at Cole. His express
ion was inscrutable as always. It gave no indication of whether he felt she was stalling or doing the right level of detail.
Calling herself a bit of a coward, she looked back at the gear and let years of training take over.
She grasped the backplate and cylinder with both hands and lifted it above her head, letting the harness straps fall across her shoulders and past her elbows. The harness and air canister slid onto her back in a smooth motion she had done hundreds of times in the past. Only this time the thirty pounds took her to the limits of what her right arm could manage in a controlled way. She secured the straps, pulling them tight to let the weight settle to her shoulder and back muscles.
Fanning the spider straps of the face mask, she took a deep breath and donned it chin first, then straps at the neck, temple, and chin were tightened. She did those moves quickly as her first breathes were now on SCBA.
Breathe in through the mouth, out through the nose. Inhale fast, exhale slow. She heard the litany in her mind and used it to block the surge of adrenaline. She had never felt claustrophobic before, and it hit fast and hard. She locked her attention on the job at hand as a way to fight it, finishing the safety checks.
When she was confident she had missed nothing, she looked toward Cole, a good suspicion on what was coming.
“Your regulator hose just became disconnected.”
She scowled at him and quickly moved to execute the emergency procedures. Cole was merciless with the drills. She had to strain to reach straps and hoses. She braced for the possibility he would want to see the movements with a hood plunging her into darkness. The procedures were difficult enough; doing it in the dark as would be the case in a real emergency— She turned her frustration into a focused effort to keep her breathing steady despite the exertion. Cole was going to run her into the ground and she was too stubborn to let that happen.
“Stand down.”
With relief that it was close to over, she forced herself to be methodical in how she removed the gear. She lowered the cylinder to the floor with care.
She was drenched in sweat from the nerves and the hot coat.
“Good job. Have breakfast, then come find me.” Cole walked away, leaving her to store gear in the empty locker that now bore her name.
Two words. Good job. It had taken her three months as a rookie firefighter to finally earn them. This time—they had never sounded more beautiful.
“Let’s get roll call started.”
Cassie leaned against the back wall beside Cole as Frank called the shift to order at 8 A.M. The tension that had built over the morning finally broke. This was familiar turf.
Jack raised an eyebrow at her when she didn’t choose to cross the room to join the other firefighters from Engine 81. She smiled back and didn’t move. There was no way she was going to get sandbagged into a roll-call introduction. She’d been to way too many of these meetings over the years to fall for that tactic.
Get introduced, and end up being the person called on for the remainder of the meeting to answer questions regarding station business. It was an efficient if brutal way to make the point that day one on the job was no excuse for not being fully prepared.
A review of the rollouts for the last forty-eight hours began. Cassie scanned the thick report. Forty percent had been calls for medical assistance. Eight percent had been false alarms. There had been five car accidents, two with injuries. The only fire had been a kitchen grease fire put out before they arrived. With the upcoming holidays and arrival of winter, those numbers would shift dramatically.
Cassie dreaded the first snow. Winter and fires—the water froze to the ground, to the equipment. The fire scenes became skating rinks. Ladders had to be used with extreme caution. For the firefighters bathed with water mist, frostbite became a serious danger. If there was wind, a fire in the winter could become a life-threatening situation.
“In-house, where are we at? Any vehicle problems? Equipment problems?” Frank queried.
Firefighters around the room called out suspected and confirmed problems with starter cords, pumper valves, hose connectors, vehicle brakes, floodlights. Everything went on the white board with men assigned to each issue. If a problem couldn’t be addressed immediately after this meeting, it would go up the chain of command.
Frank turned to the training schedule for the day. It was aggressive. The focus of today’s drills was on emergency egress procedures. Cassie was relieved. He was doing everything possible to make sure Gold Shift was prepared for the arson fires. “In the spirit of saving the best news for last: Weight training just became mandatory. I want a minimum of an hour in the gym worked into your daily schedules.” The announcement was met with a few good-natured groans.
Roll call ended with an order she had heard many times in the past. “Lieutenants, check your rigs.” For every problem known about and assigned to be addressed, there were assumed to be two equipment problems coming. Men were not going to be put at risk because of equipment failure if it could be inspected or tested out.
Cole closed his notebook. “Grab your turnout coat and boots, a notebook, and meet me out back at the SUV. I’ll get coffee for us both.”
His announcement ended any idea of talking with Jack after roll call. She caught his attention and pointed to Cole, then shrugged. It was a twenty-four-hour shift. There would be a moment they’d both be free before the day was over. Jack nodded, his disappointment clear. She smiled at him for that, glad to know it mattered. Turning, she hustled to grab her gear and get out to the vehicle, determined not to leave Cole waiting on her.
Sixteen
Go away.” Cassie didn’t even bother to open her eyes. If she had to move short of dispatch declaring a five-alarm fire, she was going to snarl at the cause. The official workday was over, even if the shift wasn’t, and she had crashed to try and recover from her first taste of being back on the job.
Cole lifted her left foot out of the bucket of hot water. She sucked in her breath as he firmly rubbed at the muscle cramp along the top of her foot curling her toes back. “It will ease.” “You said the same thing an hour ago.”
The day hadn’t been heavy work, but she’d been on her feet, constantly up and down, hauling paint cans of evidence, carrying equipment, acting as Cole’s gofer. The cramps that had hit late in the day had been unexpected and severe. The weight of the boots and the heat inherent with wearing fire gear had eventually taken its toll. Muscles had cramped. It was embarrassing and painful.
She reluctantly opened her eyes. “Cole, you’re a slave driver.”
“Guilty. Feels good to be back to work though, right?”
She smiled a little at that. “Ask me in the morning.”
They were sitting near the horseshoe pit at the back of the fire station. Sunny skies and moderate temperatures in late November were rare and the firefighters were taking advantage of it. The two grills beside the picnic tables had been fired up. There would be barbecued pork chops for dinner.
“You were a good help today.”
“Trying to butter me up?”
“Is it working?”
“Some.” She sighed and eased her foot back into the hot water. “How do you do it, your job?” She’d spent the day helping him go through the burned-out house, reconciling reports written by the responding firefighters with the police report, and helping create the critical timeline for how the fire had begun and spread.
Walking the upstairs hallway where the firefighters had found her, it had been obvious how foolish she had been to rush inside the house. That was the inherent problem when someone was thought to be in danger—the first instinct was to help and it overrode any instinct for safety.
The word murderer haunted her.
She’d seen Cole looking through a report of everyone who had died in the district since the consolidations began. There was nothing easy about the road he had chosen to go down. And she felt a burden for that, knowing one of the key reasons he had accepted a move to the arson group had been
what happened to her.
“Someone has to do it,” Cole finally replied.
“Do you think he’s going to hit again tonight?”
Cole rolled his shoulder. “Fifty-fifty. Don’t take chances, Cassie.”
“Do I have permission to walk around the fire scene if we do roll out? This guy is not going to be standing out in the open.”
“As long as you remain in sight of a police officer or the captain. I know it’s going to be a chaotic scene so that burden will rest with you.”
“I’ll be careful.” She did not want to think about the guy she had returned to work to find. “Is Jack back yet?”
Engine 81 and Rescue 81 had been dispatched to a car accident just over an hour ago as she and Cole were returning to the station. It had been hard on her, seeing the rescue squad roll out with lights and siren and not to be on it.
“Jack’s on his way; they’ve been released from the scene. I heard a report of two injuries, both listed as stable.”
“I wanted to be on that rig.”
“I know.”
“How did you handle the first few times the captain rolled out and it wasn’t you?”
Cole smiled. “Badly.” From behind them came the sound of the engine returning. Cole got to his feet. “Want me to send Jack out once he gets his gear cleared away?”
“Jack won’t need the prompting—he’ll follow the smell of food. But you might ask him to grab me a soda on the way.”
“Glad to.”
“I think I like having you feel guilty.”
“Thin ice, Cassie.”
She laughed softly as Cole walked away, then reached for the book she’d been reading.
Jack spotted more blood in the seam of his left boot and dunked the steel-tipped boot back into the plastic bucket of soapy water. He switched from scrub brush to toothbrush. It had been a bad wreck: a delivery van swerving through traffic and plowing into the side of a red Toyota.
The lady in the car had stoically insisted she was okay, while her five-year-old son had screamed at the top of his lungs. At the memory of the boy’s outrage, Jack gave a rueful smile. Kids weren’t afraid to be honest and give their real opinion of a situation. She’d bled, the boy had thrown up, and both had survived. They’d just had to be cut out of what remained of the crumpled car.
The Protector Page 13
