Fire Born (Firehouse 343)

by Christina Moore

  …and Calvin’s daughter.

  “Sonofabitch,” he muttered darkly. His spirits lifted only a minor fraction when it became clear that Sam and Karalyn’s rig would be carrying the elderly man to the hospital. It meant that she’d be gone in minutes.

  “Football, Terry—” he started to say, but the men had already headed back toward the hellhole they’d just left.

  “We’ll get them, LT,” Football said simply. Chris had been about to go inside himself this time now that Engine 14’s line was under another firefighter’s control, but he’d assumed temporary command of the ground crew the moment their captain had entered the building. Although he hated not being able to search for Calvin personally, his responsibility was still out here, coordinating the scene until the city fire marshal arrived.

  He nodded to their backs as they entered the building. Minutes later Football cursed loudly. “Sitrep!” he demanded.

  “Fucking step gave out under my foot,” the former NFL all-star replied angrily.

  “I’ve been saying you’re getting fat, Football,” Logan cracked.

  Football snorted. “Like you’re one to talk. We call you ‘Airborne’ because of your former profession, pal—not as a reference to how light and fluffy you are.”

  Terry cursed then and Football shouted along with him. “Shit’s getting real up on three, LT,” Terry reported tersely. “Heading to 3C now.”

  “Like the boss said—get in and get out,” Chris replied.

  “Airborne, get ready to receive us. I don’t want to risk those stairs again,” Football said. “Fire’s made them too damn hazardous to traverse, especially with added weight.”

  Chris knew he was talking about the probability that he or Terry would be carrying their captain out of the apartment. Sweat trickled down his spine along with a thin thread of fear. No, he told himself firmly. Don’t go there. Calvin will be all right.

  Calvin Maynard was more than just his boss. He was a mentor and a friend, and to lose him was not a possibility he cared to entertain. The women in his life—Tonja and Karalyn—would be devastated, and the men under his command would be leaderless. Chris knew that personally, his death would feel like losing a member of his own family.

  “Fuck. Oh, shit man.”

  Chris felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest at the tone of Football’s voice. It was an effort to force enough air through his suddenly too-tight throat to say, “Talk to me, Curtis.”

  It wasn’t often that anyone in the unit called Football by his given name. When they did, it meant they were trying to keep their head on straight, and Chris had found himself on the verge of losing it with those four little words.

  His first response was a heavy grunt. “Cap’s hurt bad,” he said at last, causing the fist around Chris’s heart to squeeze tighter. “Ceiling beam crashed down on him and the girl along with half the ceiling—looks like it happened as he was pulling her from the closet. He shielded her with his body but the fucking beam caught him in the neck, right between his helmet and his air tank.”

  Chris swore in the most colorful language he knew—his native Lakota. “Status?”

  “He’s completely out of it, but I got a weak pulse and his breathing is shallow,” Football replied.

  “The little girl is unconscious, but breathing,” Terry added. “Looks like her worst injury might be inhalation. Cap saved her life.”

  “Get out of there, guys,” Chris told them.

  “Already hoofing it toward apartment A and Airborne’s magic ladder.”

  Chris grunted in response, the tension mounting in his neck and shoulders until he caught sight of Terry in the window in front of Logan. Logan had shut off the nozzle and reached to take the child from Terry’s arms, lifting her over his shoulder and holding tightly to her legs as he began a backward trek down the ladder’s length. When Terry had maneuvered himself through the window, he turned to accept his captain’s limp body from Football. The weight of a 200-lb. man plus 70 pounds of firefighting gear on top of what he carried on his own body would make his going much slower than Logan’s, but Chris had no doubt that Terry was up to the task. The crews of each platoon trained in full gear regularly, and carrying heavy weights while so dressed was a regular part of their regimen—preparation for just such an incident as this.

  “Football, when you come through that window, I need you to take over the nozzle,” Chris ordered.

  “And the captain?”

  Signaling to the remaining medical teams, Chris replied as they ran over to the side of Ladder 12 with spine boards, gurneys, and trauma kits, preparing to receive both Jessica and Calvin.

  “The medics will have him in a minute. All we can do until we get this under control is wait.”

  It wouldn’t be easy. Though he commanded B-Shift out of the city firehouse, Calvin Maynard was someone that every man and woman who worked for the Gracechurch Division of Fire respected and admired. He was an example to all of them for his lifetime of dedicated service as a firefighter, and although his first marriage hadn’t worked out, he and Irene were still friends and together they had raised a fine daughter—who had taken a page out of her father’s book and become an emergency medical technician.

  Staying on a call to see it through to its end had never before been a question for any of them, because that’s what a firefighter did. But when it was one of their own being carried off to receive medical attention, each one found concentrating on the task at hand that much more difficult. Or maybe, Chris mused as he observed Calvin’s still form being loaded into an ambulance, it would make them that much more determined to put this bitch down.

  He said another silent prayer of thanks that Kara and Sam had left the scene with the elderly gentleman from second floor even before her father’s injury had become known. The two EMTs had been far too immersed in their treatment of the old man to pay any attention to the fact that Calvin wasn’t anywhere to be found, let alone that he had been hurt. Kara would find out soon enough, and he hoped like hell that Sam or someone else she knew would stay with her while they waited for news of his condition.

  And he dreaded having to make the call to tell Tonja. Calvin’s fiancée Tonja Webber was a firefighter herself, and soon to be transferring from Glasgow to Gracechurch where she would work and live with Calvin once they were married. She knew the risks of the job as well as any of them, but that didn’t mean hearing her soon-to-be husband had been hurt would be any less devastating.

  “Come on, boys. Time to show the fire who’s boss.”

  ***

  Six hours. That was how long it had taken 23 men from three different stations to put one three-story fire out. And of course, the job hadn’t ended there. Although the boys from Alton and Summerford had been dismissed after the fire had been declared extinguished, City’s own from A, B, and C platoons had stayed on-site to do a walk-through of each apartment, checking for pocket fires the water might have missed. Just walking inside, Chris had known the building was a total loss, and if the rumor mill was to be believed, the owner of the management company had a lot to answer for. He walked apartment 3C himself, along with Football and Logan, and was not ashamed to admit—at least to himself—that he’d had to stop and catch his breath when he saw the ceiling beam that had crashed down on Calvin and the little girl. Terry had been right—their captain had saved that girl’s life. Had he not shielded her, she surely would have been crushed.

  Robert Dresden, the city fire marshal, had arrived on scene shortly after the ambulance had departed with Calvin. He’d listened silently to Chris’ verbal report of the incident to that point, then said he was leaving him in charge and that he’d be heading to the hospital to learn for himself how serious Calvin’s injuries were. By the time the fire had been put out and the building inspected, he had called with only one report:

  Due to the severity of his condition—including three fractured cervical vertebrae and swelling of his brain—Calvin was being airlifted to the Level 1 trau
ma center in Billings, where he could receive the best treatment for his injuries. Karalyn had gone with him and Tonja had been notified. Bob said he’d be driving her to Billings himself because she was in no condition to make the trip alone.

  As soon as the Breckon Apartments building had been sealed with police caution tape, Chris and his crew returned the engine, ladder and rescue vehicles to the station, where the men of C Platoon set about readying them for their own shift without complaint. Then each man from B showered in record time and piled into Football’s Lincoln Navigator (the only car available with room for six) and headed for Billings.

  Two

  “No, baby, we don’t know anything yet. He’s still in surgery.”

  Chris listened with half an ear as Football spoke quietly to his wife on his cell phone. Vonda had been calling every half hour since 1 a.m. for updates. It was now almost 4 a.m.

  The waiting room on the surgical floor at St. Vincent’s was not comprised of a great deal of space, and room to maneuver had been significantly reduced by the presence of more than a dozen largely built firefighters and other personnel from Gracechurch’s first responders professions. Sam Temple, Karalyn Maynard’s EMT partner, was there with his older brothers Simon (one of the boys from City’s D Platoon) and Scott (a Gracechurch police detective) as well as his cousin Blake (a Central Township firefighter). All of B Platoon from Gracechurch was present as were some of A Platoon and guys from Summerford, Alton, and Newport townships. Calvin’s parents were retirees living in Florida and would arrive by plane later that morning. His sister Sharon was in Hong Kong on a business trip, but would return home as soon as she could.

  Every single firefighter, as well as Sam and Scott Temple, had offered to donate blood should Calvin need it. Even though some of those present did not know him well, they felt he was one of their own. Chris had never felt more like a part of a brotherhood—a family—with men and women he wasn’t related to by blood than he did when his fellow firefighters rallied together in support of one of the fallen.

  Calvin’s daughter was huddled next to her mother, her head on the older woman’s shoulder as silent tears fell down her face. Irene had driven over from Bozeman to sit with her even though Karalyn was far from being alone, and she sat with one arm around Kara’s shoulders while her other hand was grasped tightly in one of Tonja’s. Against the odds, the two women—Calvin’s first wife and his soon-to-be second—had become friends. Chris had observed them numerous times over the three years that Cal and Tonja had been dating, and knew that they had bonded over mutual love and affection for Kara and respect for Calvin. He was sure Irene still loved her ex in some way—she had to if she could sit here comforting not only her child but her former husband’s new love.

  Chris himself was antsy and trying his hardest not to show it. He was a firefighter—a rescuer and leader of others. It had never been in his nature to simply sit and do nothing. Even as a boy growing up on the reservation he had always been on the move, getting himself into this trouble or that mess. According to his grandfather, his body was host to a restless spirit. Though he had been settled in his work and the city he served for the last sixteen years, his restlessness would not truly find peace until he had met a kindred spirit.

  Translation: His grandfather believed he needed a woman.

  He would have laughed at the thought had his present circumstances not been so morose.

  Prayer helped only a little, but still Chris prayed for Calvin with every breath he took. He prayed that he would make it through the surgery. He prayed that Calvin would wake up. He prayed that he would talk and walk and return to the job he loved so much, the job he had taught more than half of the men in the room to do. He prayed that Karalyn, who was only 24, would have her father to lean on whenever she needed him. He prayed that Tonja would have the man she loved to warm her bed at night and that Calvin’s family would have their son, their brother, back again.

  He prayed that he would have his friend.

  But through every breath, every silent prayer to God and all the animal spirits he had been taught to revere from the time he could talk, the knot of dread that had formed the moment Calvin had walked through that burning building’s door remained ever present. It burned in his gut like acid and gave root to the fear that was surely in everyone else’s mind, not just his own. A fear that Chris would not let himself put words to, because then that would make it an all too real possibility.

  The door to the waiting room opened slowly, and a doctor who looked to be in his mid-forties stepped slowly inside, starting ever so slightly at the number of people gathered. He looked around, his eyes settling on the three women, and cleared his throat.

  “Karalyn Maynard?” he queried.

  Every man in the room not already doing so stood as Karalyn rose shakily to her feet. For a moment Chris wondered why the doctor had spoken her name, and then just as quickly realized that because he and Tonja were not yet married, Calvin’s only child would be listed as his next of kin.

  “My father?” Kara asked, her breath hitching as her gaze searched the doctor’s.

  Chris knew before the man spoke what he was going to say by the subtle drop of his shoulders. He ground his teeth together as the words came haltingly out of the doctor’s mouth, and his heart constricted painfully in his chest once again.

  “I… I am so sorry, Ms. Maynard. We did everything we could…”

  Karalyn would have hit the floor hard had Blake Temple not been standing beside her. He caught his cousin’s partner as her knees gave way and lowered her gently to the tile, holding her tightly as she began to scream.

  “Daddy!”

  At the same time, Tonja let loose a loud, keening wail of grief. She turned into Irene’s embrace and the two sobbed into each other’s shoulder. Calvin’s team all hung their heads, their shoulders shaking as they cried silent tears. Bob Dresden let one fall from each eye before he wiped them away and stepped over to the doctor. Chris moved to stand beside him.

  “Tell me what happened, Doctor,” Bob said.

  With another glance at Kara, who was sobbing heavily into Blake’s shoulder, the doctor looked back at him. “As you may know,” he began quietly, “Captain Maynard’s neck was, for all intents and purposes, broken due to blunt force trauma. Vertebrae C2 through C4 were crushed and his spinal cord was severely damaged. Had he survived he would never have regained the use of his limbs, or felt anything below his neck.”

  “What about… What caused his death?” Chris asked.

  “Vasogenic cerebral edema—swelling of the brain,” the doctor replied. “Nothing we tried slowed it, let alone stopped it—not even surgical decompression. Because his skull was not large enough to encompass the greater mass, his brain cells began dying and his body responded by shutting his organs down one by one. I am truly sorry for your loss. I can see that Captain Maynard was cared about very much.”

  Chris nodded. “Yes he was, Doctor. Yes he was.”

  ***

  Martine Liotta stepped into her boss’s office, shutting the door behind her quietly when she saw that he was on the phone. Graham Henderson held up a finger, indicating he needed a minute, and she nodded.

  “Yes,” he said into the receiver. “I’m about to put my best person on it, Bob. Martie will find the SOB, I guarantee it.”

  Martie raised one of her arched eyebrows. It wasn’t the first time the Deputy Director of the Montana Bureau of Fire Safety had referred to her as his “best person”—she’d certainly earned the moniker with her impressive closure record—but it was perhaps the first time she’d ever heard him refer to anyone as a son of a bitch. Graham was a devout Christian and rarely, if ever, used foul language.

  A rarity for a man in politics.

  Okay, technically he hadn’t actually sounded it out as she had in her mind, but Martie was counting his use of “SOB” as a curse. She was still fighting a smile as Graham hung up the phone and motioned her forward.

  “I have a
new case for you, Martie,” he said as she sat in one of the two visitor chairs in front of his desk.

  Martie crossed shapely legs as she tucked a lock of her black hair behind an ear. “Sir, I’m still working an angle on the Breckon case,” she told him.

  “This actually involves that little twerp,” Graham said with a snort, causing both of Martie’s eyebrows to rise this time.

  “Oh really?” she queried, her interest piquing. Trevor Breckon was a young, ambitious real estate developer who had found himself on the BFS radar two months ago, when a second property of his had caught fire under mysterious circumstances. The case had been assigned to Martie—one of the Bureau’s arson investigators—who, after conducting an initial series of interviews, strongly suspected insurance fraud. But she had yet to pin it on him, a fact that soured her stomach daily.

  “Yeah,” Graham was saying. “We’ve got a third property that’s gone up with his name on it. Breckon Apartments, a fifty-year-old three-story office building that was converted—cheaply, if the pattern holds true—into efficiency apartments. Located in Gracechurch.”

  “Gracechurch is where they’re building that tribute firehouse, right?”

  “Bay doors open in just under six weeks,” Graham confirmed. “But the opening’s tainted now. The fireman who was set to command the station died this morning, as a result of injuries sustained in the Breckon Apartments fire.”

  Martie closed her eyes, whispering “Santa Madre, abbi pietà,” under her breath.

  “As you know, the first fire was in an empty warehouse belonging to Breckon Management Holdings,” her boss went on. “The second was a Mom-and-Pop store that was closed when the fire started.”

  “Both of which had shoddy maintenance records,” Martie reminded him. “Julio Andropoulis, the store manager, said he’d made numerous complaints to the management company about wiring problems and the circuit breaker tripping, causing loss of product.”