by Jo Davis
Jesus Christ. How awful to start a workday as normally as any other and have it end in tragedy. He averted his eyes and took in the distance from the roof to the scaffold, concentrated on the job ahead.
This wasn’t going to be easy. Even from here, the piteous cries of the worker drifted to them, raising the hair on the back of his neck. The only thing worse than hearing the man’s panic would be if it abruptly ended, in a bad way.
They rode the construction lift to the roof and set about securing the rope and pulley system to nearby support beams. Tommy quickly shed his heavy fire coat, which did nothing to relieve the stifling July heat, but at least his movements wouldn’t be so restricted. The pants and boots, he left on in the interest of time.
He yanked on a pair of gloves, then let Julian help him with one harness; the other, connected to his own, he’d put on the worker as an extra safety measure before they were both lowered to the ground. Ready to go, he sat on the ledge of the roof, bracing himself until the rope was drawn taut.
Julian tried an encouraging smile, but it came out more of a grimace. “Be careful, man. Better you than me.”
“I’m so touched, thanks.”
“All right,” Howard said. “When you’re ready.”
Tommy nodded. “Go.”
As he eased himself over the side, the line remained tight, giving him a sense of relative security. He wasn’t afraid of heights—just the fall and the sudden stop at the end. As long as the equipment did the job, he was good.
He held on to the rope, using his feet to “walk” down the side of the building. Technically, he wasn’t really rappelling since he was being lowered by his teammates, but he figured that was semantics. His ass was dangling more than forty stories above the ground, so what the hell difference did it make what it was called?
Foot by foot, he crept downward. Two stories. Three. Sweat rolled down his spine, into his eyes. Glancing below, he finally caught sight of the worker clinging to a metal pole a few feet from the side of the building. His hard hat was missing, revealing a balding head. Beefy shoulders, gut riding over his belt. Big sonofabitch, probably outweighed him by fifty pounds or more.
Fantastic.
“Hurry!” the man bellowed, panic cracking his voice. “I can’t hang on much longer!”
“Don’t move!” Which, of course, the man did, becoming more agitated the closer Tommy got.
“I—I can’t help it! I’m slipping!”
“I’m almost there,” he called, hoping he sounded reassuring. “Just a few more seconds, okay? What’s your name?”
“R-Russell.”
“I’m Tommy. Hold tight, Russell. I’m comin’ your way.”
“Oh, God, I’m gonna fall!”
Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. This situation had clusterfuck written all over it. “No, you’re not. Look at me, all right? Focus on me.”
At last, Tommy became level with Russell, quickly assessing his only option. Carefully, he pushed away from the wall with one foot and used the other to test the sturdiness of a cross-pole. Gradually, he put all his weight on it, relieved when it held. He needed only one minute more. Maybe luck was on their side.
Bracing one hand on another pole to steady himself, he began to inch toward Russell, talking calmly, crossing the few feet separating them. “Easy does it. I’ve got a harness here with your name on it, connected to mine. Soon as I get you strapped in, we’ll—”
The structure shifted, shuddering under Tommy’s boots. For Russell, that was all she wrote.
He yelled, eyes rolling, terrified, as he scrambled toward Tommy.
“No! Stay right—”
Tommy barely had a split second to react. Russell launched himself across the remaining distance, forcing Tommy to catch him in an awkward bear hug.
Just as the rest of the scaffold collapsed.
Tommy’s boots slipped and he swung free, toward the side of the building, with two hundred fifty pounds of deadweight in his arms. Metal groaned, rained down on them. One rod struck Tommy’s fire hat, sending it flying.
Along for the ride, struggling to retain his hold on his heavy burden, he braced himself for the impact with the side of the building.
Tommy hit the bricks on his right side, pain exploding in his head and shoulder. The world spun crazily, but he held on to Russell. Who clung to him for dear life, screaming like a little girl.
Shut up, jackass! This predicament is partially your fault.
That was what he wanted to yell at Russell, who was too far gone to care. Just focus on getting him to the ground.
From above them, Howard yelled, “Hang on! We’re sending you down!”
They were moving, Tommy realized through the buzzing between his ears. Lower and lower. Peering over Russell’s shoulder, he saw another engine company had arrived, bringing more firefighters from another station as backup. Yellow coats and pants everywhere, rushing toward him.
The ground came up to meet him, and Tommy stood on rubbery knees, releasing his hold on the worker. Several pairs of hands grabbed Russell and led him away. More hands worked at Tommy’s harness, getting him free.
“. . . okay?”
Tommy blinked, trying to find the speaker. “What?”
A hand gripped his shoulder. “I asked, are you okay?”
Eve’s worried face swam in front of him, and he waved her off. “I’m fine. Ready to run laps.”
His grin felt wrong, like his muscles wouldn’t work. He shook off another pair of hands and took a couple of steps so they could see he was perfectly all right.
Tommy’s knees buckled.
The last thing he saw was the captain lunging to catch him.
2
Shea Ford glared at her twin brother, Shane, across the table in the nurses’ lounge. Resting her elbows on the slick surface, she captured her straw and sipped her Diet Coke, taking a couple of seconds to form a calm response to his nosy probing.
Shane crumpled the wrapper from his burger into a ball, tossed it into the takeout sack, and relaxed in his chair like a lazy cat, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He returned her gaze steadily, unruffled, sable hair falling into eyes so like her own it was uncanny, except that his were gray.
He was so confident, exuded such unconscious power, most people believed him to be older, in his early to midthirties instead of twenty-eight.
“Come on, Sis, toss me a bone. Tell me why you want to go out with a tightwad like Forrest.”
Because he’s boring and safe. No spark whatsoever.
“Gee, let me think. He’s attractive, cultured—”
“With a stick so far up his ass, his spine won’t bend.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who introduced us at the police charity thing, remember?”
“Under duress,” he pointed out. “Forrest insisted on meeting you, and I had to be civil.”
“Hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”
“Very funny. Did you know he’s influenced the city council to strike down the department’s last two requests for new radios and Tasers?”
“No, I didn’t. But times are tough, Bro. Budget cuts are the norm everywhere, even here at Sterling. I mean, nobody planned on the economy going down the toilet right after the hospital opened. So to be fair, you can hardly blame Forrest for being cautious with the city’s money.”
Shane’s mouth thinned. “I’m not. It’s just that when lives are dependent on your equipment working properly, the budget should be cut somewhere else. Like the stupid flowers and trees the city planted in the medians and around the court-house downtown.”
Oh, boy. She knew that look and tone. Like a snapping turtle on a fishing line, he wouldn’t let go until it thundered.
“Point taken. Maybe I should talk to Forrest about it.”
“Dammit, Shea—”
“Don’t curse at me,” she said evenly. “I’m not one of your detectives.”
“I’m sorry, Sis. But you’re totally missing my point.”
“Then don’t act dense,” he snapped.
Shea stood, chair scraping loudly on the tiled floor, but her brother’s fingers captured her wrist before she could make a dramatic exit.
“Sit down, please?” He gave a tired sigh. “Do you have any idea how hard it is playing Mom and Dad?”
Oh, that was dirty pool. But looking down into his handsome, worried face, she knew he didn’t mean it as a guilt trip. Shane had been a mountain of strength, love, and support in the years following their parents’ accident. And that they were killed in the midst of a horrible family crisis . . . Looking back, Shea couldn’t imagine how Shane had pulled them both through those dark days without losing his mind.
Shea sat and covered her brother’s rough hand with hers, anger dissipating, love welling in her throat. “You don’t have to do that anymore. I take care of myself, and I can make my own mistakes without breaking.”
Unlike the sad, broken girl of ten years ago.
He gazed at her and nodded, his smile wistful. “Old habits. I’ll stop worrying when they put me in the ground.”
“God, don’t say that!” She slapped his arm playfully, hoping she hid the chill his words sent through her.
He only laughed, then studied her, expression full of mischief, mood lightened. “Speaking of dates, whatever happened with the firefighter Cori introduced you to? When I spoke with him at the scene of that arson murder last year, he seemed like a cool guy—”
“Whoops, break’s over,” she announced with a cheerful smile. She was not discussing Tommy Skyler with brother dearest. “Gotta run. Thanks for the fat and carbs.”
He rose to tower over her, shaking his head. “You’re welcome, but don’t think you’re getting off the hook easy.”
“When it comes to my nosy homicide detective brother, I don’t doubt that.”
Chuckling, he wrapped her in a fierce hug and planted a quick kiss on top of her head. “Don’t work too hard, short stuff.”
“I’ll make a note, and same goes.”
Shea walked him to the double doors leading to the emergency room’s waiting area. “Bye.”
“Call you later.”
She smiled as his lean-hipped, long-legged stride carried him across the waiting room, turning more than one head. Even Mrs. McCarty, wrinkled and eightysomething like her hubby, who was being seen in one of the exam rooms, peered at his retreating ass over the top of her newspaper.
“Gawd a-mighty, that’s the finest man I ever laid eyes on!”
Shea turned to grin at her friend Dora, who stood smacking her gum and watching until Shane left the premises. The older nurse pushed a stray lock of scraggly dishwater-blond hair from her thin face and gave an exaggerated sigh of appreciation.
“You say that about every man who walks through here,” she teased, heading back to the nurses’ station.
Dora fell in step beside her. “Do not! Well, okay, maybe I do. But can you blame a gal with no man and three kids under the age of ten?”
“True. Hey, be patient and you’ll find your prince.”
“Honey, I’d settle for someone fat and bald who’d mow the yard and fix the plumbing.” Dora laughed heartily at her own joke.
Behind the counter, Shea lifted a chart, amazed at the woman’s fortitude. Dora might run on exhaustion more often than not, but nothing ever got her down.
“The boy in room three is going home?” Shea asked, getting back to work.
Dora came around to stand next to her, resting her hip on the edge of the desk. “Yep. Got the broken arm in a cast and his parents are itching to make tracks.”
“Mr. McCarty?”
“Gallbladder. Dr. Brown’s going to admit him, I think.”
“Okay. What else?”
“That’s it,” Dora said. “No new patients came in while you were at lunch. It’s so damned quiet it’s making me all prickly.”
One of the other nurses passing by groaned. “Great, now you’ve jinxed us.”
Shea suppressed a shiver, and nodded in agreement. Any experienced nurse knew better than to dismiss the lull-before-the-storm feeling. They didn’t like to use the word “quiet”—except for Dora, who didn’t have much of a filter.
“You’d better go eat, then, before—”
A crackle on the desktop radio unit interrupted, and as Dora snatched it, Shea braced herself. The paramedics always radioed ahead when they had a bad situation and were bringing in a trauma case. The lull certainly hadn’t lasted long.
“Sterling ER, charge nurse Carlisle speaking.” Dora scrabbled for her pad and pen.
Shea waited, dread building while Dora took down the pertinent information on their incoming patients.
“All right. We’ll be ready.” Replacing the handset, Dora cleared her throat, humor set aside for now. “That was one of our fire captains. We’ve got four men coming in from a scaffold collapse on a construction site. Three are workers with relatively minor injuries—cuts and bruises, a sprained ankle, and a cracked rib. The fourth man is a firefighter. Got his head busted open rescuing one of the workers, but he’s stable.”
Her stomach gave an unpleasant lurch and she peered at Dora’s spidery handwriting. At this point no names were taken, so she scanned, trying to locate the age of the firefighter. But the woman scooped up the pad, already in action. “Is he—”
“We need four rooms ready. Round up the others while I drag Brown’s ass from the doctor’s lounge. Get movin’, girl!”
Dora’s most amusing quality was her rough, no-bullshit personality. It was also her most formidable. Shea hurried to prepare for their arrivals, squelching the unease skittering along her nerves. There were plenty of firemen in Sugarland, and the one coming in was stable.
The man was most likely nobody she knew.
Three other nurses helped her make sure the rooms were prepared, the necessary forms and charts on hand. Dr. Brown arrived with the young resident, Dr. Freeman, and none too soon.
The first wave began, two men wheeled in on stretchers by a team of firefighters, one after the other. Anxious, Shea studied each of the firefighters, and finally let out a relieved breath. These guys weren’t from Station Five.
Thank God.
Dora and one of the other nurses assisted Brown and Freeman with the two workers, taking their vitals and checking their complaints. On the counter near Dora sat the note-pad with the victims’ information. Might as well look, put her fears to rest.
Shea took a step toward it, but her attention was diverted by a big construction worker shuffling through the doors, one arm slung over the shoulders of a companion, his fleshy face scrunched in pain.
“Let’s go in to room nine,” she said in a calm, soothing tone, gesturing to the next cubicle. “You weren’t transported by ambulance?”
“They were occupied. My friend decided to drive me here instead of waitin’ on the next one.”
“What’s your name?”
“R-Russell Levy. Christ, I think that guy broke one of my ribs.” He panted as his friend led him to the bed, where he sat with a groan.
“I need you to unbutton your shirt so we can have a look.” He struggled with the buttons and his friend pushed his hands aside, finishing for him.
“All right, lie back for me. This side?” She helped him as he nodded, noting the bruise forming around his torso. He winced as she gently probed the area in question. “Is this where it hurts?”
“Damn!”
She took that as a yes. The rib was likely cracked, but she wasn’t allowed to say so; only the doctor could give a diagnosis. “How did this happen?”
“Firefighter grabbed me when the rest of the scaffold fell and squeezed me like a fuckin’ boa constrictor. Kept me from plunging over forty stories.” His eyes widened as he recalled the terrifying experience. “Sweet Jesus, I coulda died! How is the kid, anyways?”
Shea froze. “You mean the firefighter?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t been brought in yet.” Taking Levy’s wrist to get his pulse, she asked casually, “Can you describe him?”
“Nah. We weren’t exactly trading phone numbers, ya know? He told me his name, but I was so freakin’ scared, I don’t remember what it was. Strong sonofabitch, though.”
Schooling her expression to remain neutral, she eyed the man’s substantial girth. No way could Tommy have held on to this giant. She forced herself to concentrate on caring for the patient, jotting down his vitals, which were fine. Next, she handed his friend a sheaf of forms.
“The doctor will be in soon to take a look, and I’m sure he’ll want a couple of X-rays. You might have to help Mr. Levy fill these out—” A commotion outside broke into her instructions. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Shea stepped into the hallway just in time to see a gurney burst through the double doors, being pushed fast by two firefighters, one holding up an IV bag, and trailed by three more. These men she recognized because she’d met them all before. Among those bringing up the rear was Zack Knight, her best friend’s fiancé. Under different circumstances, she’d smile and say hello.
But her gaze was fixed on the blond-haired man on the gurney, his eyes closed. Eyes she knew were as pale blue as the summer sky. The gauze pad and the hair on the right side of his head were soaked with blood, with more smeared down the side of his face.
Her knees turned to water and she leaned against the desk for support, the breath sucked from her lungs. Captain Sean Tanner’s voice competed with the roaring in her ears.
“Open head wound,” he barked to Dr. Brown, who’d emerged from one of the rooms. “He’s unconscious, but his vitals are stable. He took a blow to the right side of his body, but he sustained no broken bones and there’s no evidence of internal bleeding.”
