Dear Reader,  I feel it my part to warn you that there is some rough handling in this segment.  I would not consider it anything so horrific, being that I do not take the event to its conclusion - yet there may be those among you who take offense when you get to the scene in question.  Again, if I have muffed any details (for those readers who are married to a study of the details), you shall have to read through and still try to enjoy!  Cheers and all good things . . . Yours, Hyzenthlay. An Arc Through Fog Part III What though the tempest loudly roar, I hear the truth, it liveth. And though the darkness round me close, Songs in the night it giveth. How Can I Keep From Singing? Traditional Quaker Hymn "You're lucky it was me on sentinel last night and not one of them," McCullough said quietly. Mike glanced at him but said nothing. It was the next morning, and the two men were hanging hoses after an early morning house fire. "Listen to me, Mike," McCullough went on.  "You have to forget about what you saw last night.  And you have to stay away from there.  Don't ever do that again." Mike turned bodily to face him and locked gazes.  "What the hell was that?"  he asked in a voice that, while quiet and contained, could not completely mask his awe. "That's precisely what it was," came the reply. "What?" "Hell.  It was hell." "I don't understand." McCullough looked around him, as if he half-expected to discover someone listening. "It's their cult," he said. "Cult?" "Their religion . . . so to speak." Mike was flabbergasted.  "Are you part of it?" McCullough's shrug was not so careless as he wanted it to appear.  "When in Rome."  A pause.  "They have a way of making life awfully unpleasant for anyone who doesn't join them - as I'm sure you're well aware." Seeing Stoker's look of complete astonishment, he went on.  "They know I'm pretty indifferent, but it keeps me on their good side.  You see, they're afraid of being exposed.  Anyone who's taken part isn't likely to report them." "But-but what do they worship?  I mean, are they doing something illegal?" "I hope not.  But they're doing something that sure as hell wouldn't be acceptable to headquarters.   A bunch of devil-worshipping firemen?  That wouldn't go over too well with the general population, either.  Especially when they do it on station grounds."  He scanned around him again.  "Look, Mike, you have to stay out their way.  The accident isn't the only reason they don't want you here.  They're afraid you might expose them." "I-I wouldn't even know what to say." "You have no idea what they see when they look at you, Mike" McCullough said, his voice low and guarded.  "Absolutely no idea."  A pause.  "You're a threat to them-" "How can I be a threat to them?  I don't even know what they're doing." "And you need to leave it that way, Mike.  You need to stop making waves." "Waves?  What waves?  I've tried to be helpful and I'm shot down every time!" "Keep your voice down," McCullough hissed.  He waited a few seconds to make sure no unwanted attention materialized, then went on.  "You don't realize it, but you've already interfered with some of the Rulings." "Rulings?  What are you-" "It's part of their worship," McCullough replied.  "Don't ask, Mike.  The less you know, the better."  He looked up and caught Mike's eye.  "No one's told you about Hernandez, have they?" "Who's Hernandez?" "Your predecessor." "What about him?" "He didn't like what was going on in the station," McCullough said, still maintaining eye contact.  "He died during one of our responses two months before you came to us.  He fell out the window of a burning building.  Six stories." "Fell out of a window?" "He and Skora went in together.  They didn't come out together." "Are you saying-" "I'm not saying anything.  I'd never say anything."  He cleared his throat.  "That's why I'm still here.  You need to keep your nose clean, Mike.  They're testing you, trying to see how far they can push you.  They want to see if you're going to be a whistle-blower."  He became silent at the sight of Harris and Grimsby approaching from the open bay. "Captain Moore sent us out here to help you two," Harris announced.  "He said you're taking forever." McCullough cast Stoker a warning glance that conveyed the message, "We're being watched." No surprise.  From day one, Mike had known that he was being watched.  Every move, every word, every expression . . . his actions and attitude had been the target of constant surveillance within the station. He had always just assumed it was distrust and dislike.  Now, he knew there was more to it. Only how much more, he could never have imagined. **** Mike's hand was shaking as he reached out and touched his fingers to the dull red metal.  The ache he felt in his heart threatened to overflow the brims of his eyes.  He walked a few paces, running his hand over the smooth surface, coming abruptly to a crumpled and torn section.   His hand fell to his side, and he stood staring at the Ward LaFrance that he had driven to her death. Mike felt a hand on his shoulder. "Mike?" Mike glanced down at Marco and beyond him to Chet. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Mike," Chet suggested quietly.  "We can always come back . . ." "Just . . . give me a few minutes," Mike replied, taking a step away. Chet and Marco watched him walk around the rear of the engine.  They watched him use his shirtsleeve to rub at a smudge mark on one of the chrome handles on the rear running board.  And they saw the sheen in his eyes as he disappeared around the other side of the engine. Mike was glad to be out of their sight.  I should have done this alone.  He didn't want their sympathetic gazes.  He didn't deserve them, really.  He didn't want to have to be strong in front of them, when every turn brought more visions of horror, and all he wanted to do was lean his cheek into the cool, forgiving body of the one thing unliving that he had somehow managed to love. He moved up to where the passenger door hung skewed and ajar, and he looked inside. There was blood on the leather seats.  Blood on the roof of the cab.  It had not been cleaned up, and now it was a flaking, powdery thing that taunted him with its image, until he had to sit down on the step-up.  Burying his face in his hands, he began to weep bitterly. His tears were not for himself, though.  Nor were they for any of his former crewmates.  They were not for the way things had been and could never be again.  They were not for injustice. They were, quite simply, for the crushed and broken machine that he had once called his own.  His engine.  She had never belonged to anyone the way she had belonged to him.  But she would never belong to him again.  She would never belong to anyone.  Her days were over.  Mike had seen to that. He heard Chet's voice, subdued and compassionate, as the stocky firefighter sat down beside him. "You okay, pal?" Mike took a long time to reply.  "Yeah . . . I think so."  But he did not sound okay. "Why are you doing this to yourself, Mike?" "It was something I had to do," Mike replied.  "I had to see her again." "Did you find what you were looking for?"  Mike glanced over at him for an instant.  "I wasn't looking for anything.  I just . . . it sounds crazy, but I couldn't let her go without saying good-bye." "It doesn't sound crazy, Mike.  And you're not the only one to do it," Chet assured him. Mike nodded gratefully.  He got to his feet with unseen effort.  "Let's go." The three men climbed into Chet's car and headed back towards Chet's apartment where an evening of pizza and TV awaited them. If Mike had been depressed on the trip to the impound lot, he was positively morose on the way back. It worried both Chet and Marco more than they were willing to admit, for they could not accept the idea that Mike's bleak demeanor was solely the result of this visit to mourn the engine.   Something else was wearing away at Stoker's usually resilient good humor, and the signs were becoming visible. His eyes, normally a bright and engaging blue, now appeared dull and sunken.  Even more disturbing, he seemed unwilling to make eye contact.  The once-healthy glow of tanned skin had long since faded after the accident; but his pallor was now truly frightening - ashen, almost ghostly. He kept his head low, and his shoulders seemed to sag under an unseen weight.  This, coming from a man who had always maintained a quiet pride and self-assurance, was enough to make Chet and Marco dust off the mantel of concern and attempt to place it around Mike's tired shoulders. But some things had not changed.  Mike's stubbornness was one of them.  He ignored the gentle attempts of his friends to coax some revelation out of him.  He accepted their attentions and kind words.  He made what conversation he could, always steering clear of anything that might lead into unpleasantness.  But he refused to acknowledge that anything was amiss. And in truth, everything was amiss. Station 68's C-Shift . . . Mike had never known anything like it. Had he not witnessed it himself, he would never have thought it possible - certainly not possible from men who called themselves firefighters. The threads of callous indifference that ran through and connected the members of the shift were so finely interwoven that it was difficult to distinguish one man from the next, if actions were the basis for differentiating. Four months, he had been at this station. Four months of harassment, ranging from insults to physical confrontation.  While there had been no more knock-down-drag-outs, there had been pushing, shoving, elbowing, and other play-ground-like behavior.   And it was not limited to the confines of the station.  Rescue scenes were prime stages upon which Mike had come to expect a certain degree of bullying and intimidation.  He found it remarkable that in the face of danger, his crewmates were cockeyed enough to inject manufactured peril. Four months of waking up this night or that night to find himself once again the sole occupant of the sleeping quarters.  McCullough's warning aside, Mike had not been  as cautious as he should have been.  More than once, he had found himself playing the voyeur, bent on discovering the secrets hidden behind the black curtain.  But for his efforts, he was no closer to enlightenment.  And he was not completely sure that his ignorance was such a bad thing.  One night he had woken up to find the place empty, and even as he had headed down into the apparatus room, the tones had sprung to life.  Within seconds his crewmates, fully bedecked in turnout gear, had materialized from the back lot.  They had offered not a word of explanation, and Mike had not asked for any.   If his silence had seemed odd to them, they had not pursued it. Over all, an unsteady tolerance was in place; and Mike was not inclined to put that tolerance to the test.  This did not equate to silence or timidity.  It simply meant that he chose his battles carefully and once lost, he laid them to rest with great finality.  This was not a place in which to hold a grudge or to beat the proverbial dead horse.  Or rather, it was not a place for Mike to do so. It was during these days that Mike recalled, more than once, the words one of his kidnappers had spoken during his captivity. "You've always been the odd man out at that station." The man had been referring to the A-Shift at Station 51, trying to convince Mike that his crewmates had not cared for him.  Beaten down by pain and cruelty, Mike had almost allowed himself to believe it at the time.  The only thing that had saved him was something too deeply ingrained to be erased by events - a tacit knowledge that the men who comprised his crew at 51 were not only coworkers, but the closest people in the world to him.  No matter the attempts at manipulation, there was always that kernel of certainty which had enabled him to hold on. But now, he had to admit it - he was the odd man out.  More than that, he was the miscreant, the curse, the unwanted fly in the ointment. If he were going to survive life in a station that clearly wanted nothing more than to get rid of him, he was going to have to rely strictly on himself, his abilities and, more importantly, his perseverance.  That was his mindset.  And so far, it had worked for him.  He was still standing, still employed, and he had given his new captain nothing with which to incriminate him. But the price had been heavy:  his health, his peace-of-mind, his own sense of integrity.  Yet, it was a price he was willing to pay if it meant he would continue to be a fireman.  And if God might smile upon him, the next fourteen months would go by quickly, and then the engineers' exam would spring him from this hellhole, this place where his penance was being carried out. **** "Hey, Cap." "Morning, Marco, Chet" Captain Stanley replied, looking up from the paper he was reading.  Marco poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Chet.  They joined the rest of the shift at the kitchen table. "We saw Mike yesterday," Chet stated. "Oh yeah?  How's he doing?" Captain Stanley asked. "Lousy," Marco replied. "Worse than lousy," Chet added.  "You wouldn't even know it was him." Captain Stanley set his paper down.  "What do you mean?  I saw him two weeks ago, and he looked alright.  A little tired, maybe.  A little beat up, but that's from living life on the business end of a hose." "Well, he looked awful yesterday," Chet said bluntly.  "I mean, he looked sick." "And depressed."  This was from Marco.  "He wanted to go see the engine, so we took him to the impound lot." Chet frowned.  "It just made him worse.  He hardly spoke a word.    He seemed tense, like he was always on edge-" "Like he kept expecting something to happen," Marco put in. "We went back to my place to hang out, and within fifteen minutes of the eight o'clock movie, he was out like a light.  Spent the whole night on my couch, dead to the world.  He was still sleeping when I left for work this morning." Captain Stanley listened to this account.  "That doesn't sound like Mike, does it?  But I guess . . . he's been through a hard time.  He's entitled to be kind of low, isn't he?" Roy looked perplexed.  "But it doesn't make any sense, Cap.  I mean, he should be feeling better, not worse, right?" "Not with that station he's in," Johnny replied.  "I don't think Mike's very happy there." "Has he said something?"  Captain Stanley asked. "Nothing direct.  Same stuff as usual.  He has to get used to them.  They do things differently.  They still don't trust him."  Johnny paused.  "I'll tell you, I'd like to meet those jokers." A light sparkled in Chet's eye.  "I'm all for that." "Cap?"  Roy asked. "That might not be a bad idea," Captain Stanley replied.  "And it would probably make Mike happy if you paid him a visit.  Sure, why not?" "We can go on Wednesday.  I think Mike will be working," Marco suggested. "What about you, Cap?"  Roy asked. "I'll leave this one to you guys," Captain Stanley deferred.  "I don't want Mike to think I'm checking up on him.  Besides, it might tick off 68's captain to have Mike's former captain show up.  You guys go ahead.  You can fill me in when you get back." **** "They obeyed him and bowed reverently before him as he spoke to them.  It seemed as though the power of mind had appointed him its official interpreter and spokesman.  His anger would make them tremble and scatter like autumn leaves before a strong wind." Kahlil the Heretic Kahlil Gibron Roy, Johnny, Chet and Marco entered the lobby. Chet whistled.  "What a place." "It's an historic landmark," Roy noted, looking at a bronze plaque mounted on the wall.  "Look here.  Built in 1902.  One of the first fire stations in the city." "Looks like he's moved into classier digs."  Chet again. "Check out these photographs, guys," Marco said. "Wow, that's something else," Johnny observed.  "I'll bet these walls could tell some stories." "No doubt," Chet agreed.  "You'd think Mike would love it here.  This place has character." "Yeah . . ." Roy said in a noncommittal voice.  "Let's go find him." They walked through the far door into the apparatus room where the sound of their entrance drew the attention of two men at the ladder truck. There was a moment of complete and fully palpable surprise, then disgruntlement as the two 68 crewmen regarded the newcomers with cold, assessing gazes. At last, one of them stepped slightly forward.  It was Pennington.  "Can we help you?" "We're looking for Mike Stoker," Roy replied. The two men eyed the visitors with curious disdain. "Is he expecting you?"  Pennington asked. "No, we're friends of his.  We wanted to surprise him." "Mmm.  Wait here." The two men disappeared into the dayroom. Several seconds later, Mike appeared in the doorway. Even across the distance, his former crewmates could discern the spark of excitement in his otherwise sullen eyes.  He met them halfway across the room, a genuine smile gracing his features. "Guys!  What are you doing here?" "Well, we wanted to come see this Taj Mahal of a station," Chet joked.  "Pretty fancy, Mike." Mike inclined his head. "You look like hell," Johnny stated bluntly.  "Geez, Mike, what are you doing?  Going on a starvation diet?  You look like a scarecrow." Mike was still smiling.  "Said the pot to the kettle." "What did you do this time?"   Roy asked, unwilling to overlook Stoker's swollen lip and thick, abraded jaw. "I took a nose-dive yesterday at one of our rescues.  They looked me over at Saint Mary's.  I'm okay." "I don't think we've seen you injury-free once since you started working here," Roy stated, trying to look Mike in the eye. Stoker avoided Roy's gaze.  "Why don't you all come in?  For a cup of coffee?" Mike led them into the kitchen, where Captain Moore, Eggers, Culver, and Johannus were gathered around the table.  All activity in the room stopped as Mike and his former crewmates entered the room. "Uh . . . guys," Mike began, addressing his friends, "This is Captain Moore."  He went around the room and made the necessary introductions.  Then to Captain Moore, "These are my friends from Station 51." Moore drew a deep breath.  "Gentlemen," was his greeting.  Then he got to his feet.  "I'll be in my office." The 51 crewmen exchanged bemused glances.  No warm welcome here. Mike walked over to the counter.  The coffee pot was empty. "I'll start another pot," he said.  "I can give you guys the grand tour while we're waiting." As Mike set about making the coffee, Johnny tried to make conversation. "This is some station," he remarked with enthusiasm. His words were met with silent stares. "They-uh . . . they don't make 'em like this anymore," he went on, mildly uncomfortable at the sudden and unnatural attention cast in his direction. "Especially not in your part of the county," Eggers replied.  "I'll bet your stations are made of crystal and gold." "I wish they were," Chet put in, still attempting to make the situation pleasant. "What brings you all here?"  Culver asked. "We just wanted to see Mike's new station," Roy replied, breaking out the patented DeSoto win-'em-over smile.  "He's been telling us about it for months.  We wanted to come see what all the fuss was about." "So, Mike likes to talk about us?"  Eggers remarked, and it was the first time Mike had heard any of them, other than McCullough, use his first name.  Mike looked over his shoulder from where he stood filling the coffee filter with grinds.  Eggers was regarding him with interest, while directing his question to DeSoto.  "What does he tell you?" "Oh, just . . . you know, about the station," Roy replied.  "It's very impressive." "Really?"  Eggers still had his entire attention focused on Mike.  "I didn't think he liked it here." "I never said that," Mike replied, turning back to the counter.  Once again, the four 51 crewmen found themselves frowning their perplexity to each other.  Already, vibrations of the bizarre were being felt. "I'll bet you guys miss him a lot," Johannus supposed with a one-sided curl of his lip that might be considered a grin. Before anyone could reply, Mike turned.  "It will be a few minutes," he announced abruptly.  "How about a look round the station?" This suggestion was readily accepted, and Mike led them out into the apparatus room.   He showed them the vehicles, although they did not spend as much time inspecting the ladder truck as they might have liked due to Pennington's and Grimsby's presence. Mike led them to the far side of the bay.  Before he could point out the pole, Johnny's voice rang out joyfully, "Now, that's what makes this a real fire station!"  He bounded the last few steps and took a spin around the pole, like a young boy on a jungle gym. Mike grinned.  "It took me a while to get used to it.  I'm lucky I didn't break an ankle the first few times." "Boy, this brings back memories!"  Johnny enthused. Mike's smile faded somewhat.   "Come on," he said, mustering what vivacity he could.  "I'll show you upstairs." They followed him up the stairs and into the sleeping quarters.  After a tour of the dormitory, it was time to go back down. Not surprisingly, Johnny already had his preferred mode of transit in sight. "I'll see you guys downstairs," he said with a wink. "Don't break anything," Roy warned.  "You're not twenty anymore, remember?  And you haven't done that in a while." Johnny made a face.  Two seconds later, he was sliding in a perfect spiral down the pole. Coming to the bottom, he came face-to-face with two of 68's crewmen.  One he recognized from the kitchen.  The other's face was unknown to him. "What are you doing?"  the unknown man asked. A slight blush colored Johnny's entire face as he smiled widely.  "Oh, I-uh . . . I used to be in a station with a pole, and so I thought I'd try it again . . . for old times' sake." "Break your back for old times' sake?" Johnny shrugged.  "No harm done.  No back broken." "You're one of Stoker's old crewmates?" "Yeah." Johnny held out his hand.  "John Gage." The man ignored the gesture.  He saw Mike and the rest of his guests descending the steps.  Returning his attention to Johnny, he asked, "Shit, did your entire station come by to check on the little darling?" Johnny was momentarily stunned into silence; but when he found his voice, he was still trying to keep the peace.  "Hey, look now, I don't know why you think you've got to say something like that.   I mean, we're all firemen.  We're all on the same team." "I'm not on your team, sweetheart." "Skora-"  Mike was beside Johnny in an instant.  "This has nothing to do with you, so why don't you just go about whatever you were doing." "It has everything to do with me," Skora replied.   "How are we supposed to get any work done while you're entertaining?" He turned a sneer in Johnny's direction.  "Another pin-up boy." Johnny's mouth dropped open.  "What?" "Glamour boys at every turn," came Skora's reply. "Okay, I don't know who-" Mike took hold of Johnny's arm.  "Ignore him," he said, directing Gage in the opposite direction.  Roy, Chet, and Marco followed. "Mike-"  Johnny began, twisting to cast a searing glare over his shoulder at Skora, still standing with a self-satisfied expression plastered across his face. "Don't pay any attention to him," Mike repeated.  "He's just trying to get a rise out of you."  He took his friends out the back door into the lot. Roy stopped the group. "What was that all about?" "That was my partner on the hoses, Jason Skora.  It's just his usual ignorance," Mike replied.  "He doesn't think too highly of any of the stations in our battalion.  He thinks we're all just pretty boys with no ability." "Let me back in there, and I'll show him my ability," Johnny fumed. "He's not worth it, John," Mike replied.  "Believe me.  None of them are worth it." McCullough popped his head out the door. "Stoker, the captain wants to see you in his office." Mike scowled.  "I'll be back in a minute, guys." As his former crewmates watched Mike leave, Johnny was still steaming.  "I don't believe this place.  These guys are like-like zombies.  How can Mike stand it here?" "I don't know," Roy replied, shaking his head slowly.  "This is a strange place, but I suppose Mike is trying to make the best of it." "Even the best of it wouldn't be enough to make me stay here," Marco said quietly.  "There's something unnatural about this place." "That's exactly what I was thinking," Chet joined in.  "It gives me the creeps." "That's because it's filled with creeps," Johnny growled.  "And I'll bet the head creep is raking Mike over the coals right now because of our little visit." "I think you're right," Roy nodded. And he was.  Mike walked into his captain's office. "Yes, Sir?" "Your friends have been here for almost twenty minutes." "I've been showing them around the station." Moore's frown was audible.  "You are on duty.  This is not the place to entertain your friends." "I didn't know they were coming," Mike replied, "But I didn't think there'd be any problem if I showed them around and invited them to stay for a cup of coffee." "It is a problem.  This is a workplace.  Your crewmates don't play host to any of their friends here in the station.  You're under the same rules they are."  A pause.  "Your friends need to leave." Mike hesitated then nodded slightly.  "Okay.  I'll tell them." Mike went back out to the parking lot to find his friends still standing exactly where he had left them. Marco was first to speak.  "Everything okay, Mike?" "Uh, listen, guys . . . we're-we've got a lot to do around here today, and . . . I really appreciate you coming by, but . . . I think you'd better go," Mike fumbled, humiliation burning in his pale cheeks. "Is there a problem?"  Roy asked, lowering his voice and leaning close. "No, no problem . . . Captain Moore just has a lot he wants done today," Mike replied.  Not one of his four former crewmates believed that work was the reason behind their requested departure, but it was Johnny, as usual, who came to the point in the most direct manner possible. "What's the matter with this place?"  he demanded.  "This is the most messed up place I've ever seen.  And your crewmates are weird, man." Mike began shuffling his friends inside, through the apparatus room and towards the lobby.  "You have to get used to them-" "How can you get used to that?"  Marco asked.  "They treat you like dirt, Mike." "It's not what you think," Mike protested.  "Things aren't so bad." They entered the lobby. "So bad?  Is that the best you're shooting for?  For things to be 'not so bad'?"  Johnny charged heatedly.  "Mike, come on, you can't let them treat you like that!" "I'm handling it, John-" "Did they give you those bruises?"  This abrupt, fiery inquiry was also from Gage. "No, and keep your voice down," Mike replied.  "I told you I got these on the job."  He saw Roy, Chet and Marco regarding him, and he saw the doubt in their eyes."I don't believe you," Johnny stated.  "Mike, it's obvious that these guys don't like you being here, and if they had the chance-" "So, I won't give them the chance!"  Mike spat back in agitation.  "Look, if I can't make it here, I'm out the door lock, stock, and barrel!  I'm not going to let that happen.  I only have to make it through fourteen more months in this station.  I'm not going to jeopardize my career again.  It's already in enough trouble." "But Mike-"  Johnny began.  Roy's hand on his arm stopped him. "Listen, Mike, if you ever need our help, just let us know," Roy said.  "And try to be more careful.  You are starting to look like a punching bag." Mike could not bring himself to manufacture even an artificial smile.  Instead, he held open the door.  "I'll see you guys later.  Thanks for coming by." He did not look at any of them as they passed; and as soon as Chet, the last to leave, had crossed the threshold, Mike closed the door.  He stood there for several seconds, his hand still on the gleaming brass doorknob.  A powerful desire almost drove him to open the door and go after his friends, but to what end?  He could not, simply by following, become part of his old station again.  "What's the matter, Stoker?"  Skora's voice.  "Pining away for your sweethearts?" Mike took a deep breath before turning.  "Go to hell, Skora," he said, then before he could stop himself, he added, "Never mind.  We're already there." Skora smiled and took a step forward.  "What was that?" Mike gave a single head shake and moved to bypass his partner. "Whoa, whoa, now!"  Skora blocked the door.  "Tell me what you just said." "You heard me." "Yeah, but I want to make sure I got it right." Mike stared at him in silence. Skora narrowed his eyes.  "You think we're in hell?  Is that it?  Why?  Because you don't like it here?  Because you think we're devils?  How would you even know what hell is like?  A sweet little saint like you?  You're like the sweet cream off the top of the milk.  What do you know about hell? " "Skora, you're out of your mind," Mike said quietly.  He tensed at the sight of Skora's eyes sweeping down the length of his body and then back up to regard him directly. "If you only knew," Skora replied, the grin still on his lips.  He removed himself from the doorway and headed back into the apparatus room. **** Our reasons are the same, But there's no one we can blame, For there's nowhere we need go, And the only truth we know Comes so easily. The Actor Justin Hayward Captain Stanley poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.  "So, did you guys see Mike?" "We saw him, alright," Chet replied. "Yeah, we, uh, we went by 68's on Friday," Roy added. "I'll bet he was happy to see you," John Glover ventured. "He was . . . yeah, he was," Roy began, his voice faltering. "Until his captain ordered us to leave," Johnny blurted out. "What?"  Captain Stanley questioned.  "What did you do?" "It was weird, Cap," Marco explained.  "Mike was showing us around, and his captain called him into the office.  A couple minutes later, Mike told us they had a lot of work to do and we were going to have to leave." "That place is crazy," Johnny stated emphatically.  "They-they-" "They called Gage a pin-up boy," Chet put in. "Shut up, Chet!"  Johnny glowered. "It's true!"  Chet defended. "They called you a pin-up boy?"  Captain Stanley could not decide whether to laugh or play it more serious. "They weren't friendly at all."  Roy took over.  "They obviously think very poorly of anyone who's not from their own station.  And they don't like Mike at all." Now, Captain Stanley became all business. "What do you mean?" "You could tell.  They didn't really do anything blatantly against him, but you could see it in their faces and hear it in their voices.  They don't want him there."  Roy paused.  "Cap . . . we think-we think they're hurting him." "Hurting him?  How?" "He had a lot of bruises and scrapes.  He said most of it happened on the job, but we don't think he's being honest about it." Marco added, "He's looked beat up every time we've seen him, since he started at 68's." Captain Stanley listened with riveted interest.  "It's possible they are all job-related, don't you think?"  he asked, playing devil's advocate.  "I mean, you guys know what it's like to be knocked around on a rescue." "But are any of us covered with bruises?"  Chet asked.  "I tell you, Cap, they're doing something at that station.  Maybe he is getting all those injuries on the job, but maybe that's because they're making the job harder on him than it needs to be." Marco nodded.  "I think Chet's right.  I don't know what it is, Cap, but there was something really . . . twisted about that place." Captain Stanley nodded thoughtfully.  "I've never been to 68's.  I don't think I've ever met Captain Moore.  Maybe a visit is in order." "Actually, Cap . . ." Roy began.  "I don't know if you should do that.  I think our visit may have made things worse for him.  They really did not want us being there.  To be honest . . . I'm afraid we may have brought even more harassment down on him." "If you guys are right, why hasn't Stoker told anyone?"  Glover asked.   "He'd have to be nuts to stay in a place like that." "What other choice does he have?"  Johnny said.  "Other than resigning?" "He could request to be assigned to another station," Glover replied. "That's not likely to be approved."  Marco countered. "But it is an option," Captain Stanley said with a nod.  "There's nothing wrong with asking to be reassigned.  Of course, they'll want to know why.  What would Mike tell them?  They're being mean to me?  I'll try to go see him the next time we both have days off.  Maybe I can get him to talk about-" "Good morning, gentlemen." Every eye turned toward the door from the apparatus room. "Captain Junkers," Captain Stanley said, pushing back from the table and extending his hand.  His manner was chilly. "Am I interrupting anything?"  Junkers asked, shaking hands. "No, no, we're just getting ready to have breakfast," Captain Stanley replied.  "You-uh, you're welcome to join us." "Thanks.  I think I will." "Marco, set another place for Captain Junkers." "Sure, Cap." "Please sit down."  Captain Stanley motioned to a chair. Junkers sat. "So, what brings you here?"  Captain Stanley asked. "Just making the rounds," Captain Junkers replied.  "Chief Janlan told me I needed to get the in the habit of visiting stations in all the county.  51 was next on the list." "Hmph," was all the response Captain Stanley was willing to give. Junkers cleared  his throat.  "I know you're all probably not so happy to see me.  I'll admit, that was an unpleasant business that brought us together before; but I'm hoping we can put it behind us." No one said anything, but the resentment of the men in the room was obvious.    He looked at John Glover.   "You adjusting okay, John?"  he asked.  Glover nodded.  "No problems.  Nice station.  Nice people." Junkers smiled in feigned agreement.  He continued on in neutral discussion for the greater part of breakfast.  It wasn't until the dishes had been cleared and he was on his fourth cup of coffee that he directed the conversation towards another intent. "So, how is Stoker doing at his new station?  Have any of you spoken to him since he started at 68's?" The directness of this inquiry, coming from a man in Junkers' position, was not only surprising, but unwelcome.  The man had seen to Stoker's downfall, and now he had the audacity to come to his former station, fishing for details as to whether his revenge had been successful. "Yeah, we've seen him," Captain Stanley replied. "How does he like it at 68's?" "You should probably ask him that."  Captain Stanley pushed away from the table and went to rinse his coffee cup.  "I don't want to speak for him." "Have you been to 68's since Mike was transferred there, Captain Junkers?"  Roy asked. "No, I haven't, but it's not so much further down on the list.  Maybe in the next week or two.  Why?  Is there some kind of problem?" "I was just asking," Roy replied.  "You'd think, with all Mike's been through, that someone from headquarters would check up on him, to make sure he's doing okay." "Well, I'll admit, the thought had occurred to us," Junkers replied.  "But then we decided against it.  We were afraid Stoker would think we were checking up on him.  You know, he might think we suspected he'd cause problems at his new station or that we were looking to see if his performance was up to par.  We didn't want that." "I'll bet," Johnny grumbled. "I beg your pardon?"  Junkers turned his gray eyes in Gage's direction. Johnny fully expected to be silenced by his captain.  But Captain Stanley merely leaned back against the counter.  He thought Junkers deserved a good dose of John Gage. "You want us to believe that you-or anyone else up there-really cares how Mike is doing?  For you guys, the case is closed.  It's over.  And now, the only thing you have to worry about is whether or not Mike is going to make it at his new station.  Not even that.  The only thing you have to worry about is whether or not he's going to foul up again and land you all in hot water for not kicking him out in the first place. Right?  Right?"  Johnny leaned over the table and stared into Junkers' eyes.  "It would have been easier for you guys if Mike had just jumped off a bridge.  But now, you have to keep track of your liability.  That's it, isn't it?  Is that why you're here?" Junkers did not respond right away.  He looked over his shoulder at Captain Stanley, who raised an eyebrow as an indication that he was on the same wavelength as his paramedic.  But Junkers was not easily rattled, and he relished the opportunity to show that he was infinitely more clever than John Gage, or any run-of-the-mill fireman. "I suppose I deserved that," Junkers said, at length.  "I didn't expect that any of you would be happy to see me; but as professionals, we should be able to put our difference behind us and move forward together for the good of the department-" Chet's groan was a little louder than he had intended. Junkers ignored him and continued.  "I told you why I came here.  Chief Janlan wants me to pay visits to all the stations.  It's that simple.  Now, as to my feelings about Mike Stoker and his current situation . . . the hostility that I am encountering here is leading me to believe that Stoker is not doing as well as he could be.  Or is all this anger the fallout of losing your engineer to another station?" This time Captain Stanley answered.  "We don't think Mike was treated fairly by the review board.  It's that simple.  And if the powers-that-be really want to know how he's doing, then I imagine you'll be moving that trip to 68's up to an earlier date on your calendar." "Is there trouble?" "You want to know how he's doing," Captain Stanley replied.  "The only way to find out is to go see him.  I'm not saying there's trouble.  I'm saying that if it's that important, you'll make it a priority." "Yes, well, that's something to keep in mind."  Captain Junkers got to his feet.  "Well, gentlemen, thank you for a fine breakfast and . . . titillating conversation." No sooner had he departed than Chet piped up, "Boy, is he full of-" "Don't say it, Kelly," Captain Stanley cut him off.   "Even though it's true . . . don't say it." "He came here to find out about Mike," Roy stated.  "He said he was just making the rounds, but he was trying to find out how Mike's doing." "But why?"  Marco asked.  "Is he still trying to get him drummed out of the department?  And he thinks we'd be stupid enough to tell him if Mike were having problems?" "My God, I hadn't thought of that," Johnny said suddenly. "What?" "Even-even if Mike is being harassed at 68's, they'd never look at him as being the victim.  They're-they're looking for a reason to get rid of him!  Trouble at his new station would instantly be looked at as his fault!" There was a block of hard silence. At last, it was John Glover who spoke the truth.  "So, no matter what happens at 68's, Stoker can't say a word, or he's gone." "Do you think department headquarters knows about 68?"  Marco asked.  "Do you think they know how bizarre that place is?" "I'll bet they do know," Chet replied.  "And I'll bet that's why they sent Mike there.  They figured he wouldn't last long with those clowns." "I think they underestimated him," Captain Stanley said, then added grimly, "But that puts Mike in a bad situation.  It means those guys at 68's can treat him however they want, and he has to take it." "I can't believe headquarters would do something like that," Johnny frowned. "This is all speculation, though," Captain Stanley stated emphatically.  "And Mike hasn't complained.  We don't want to jump the gun, here.  If we go snitching to our higher-ups and then we find out that we're wrong, that will only make things worse.  If Mike wants our help, he'll let us know." **** "I need some help here!"  Mike looked back over his shoulder to where Skora was single-handedly manning the inch-and-a-half, doing his best to direct the stream of water through the broken window and onto the flames that were brilliantly visible beyond the plume of smoke billowing skyward. The building, an office warehouse, was old - a mixture of concrete, metal, and wood.  Parts of it were still in use; other parts sealed off and abandoned.  Sixty-Eight had been directed around to the north side of the building to try and find a clear path into the structure, as the entrances on both the southern and western sides were completely impassable. Finding such a path was what Mike was working on at that moment.  He was at the top of an outside staircase, leading up to the loading dock.  Directly adjacent to the staircase was a metal door, secured in place by a series of rotted wooden planks.  Mike had managed to remove all the planks but one; and now, with none of his crewmates in sight except for Skora, he thought a little extra manpower could do the same job as the saw or the K-12. "Skora, I need some help!"  Mike shouted again. Skora shut off the water with a curse, left the hose, and headed up the stairs. "You can't do this your damned self?"  he ground out, grabbing hold of the plank on the same end as Mike.  "Did you check the door first?" "It's not hot," Mike replied. "Okay, then . . . PULL!"  Skora shouted. The plank did not budge. Skora braced his foot against the wall and threw all his strength into one powerful heaving motion.  His gloved hands slipped lose, his elbow nailing Stoker between the eyes, and knocking him, out cold, backwards over the edge of the loading dock. Skora leapt to the edge and looked over.  It wasn't a long drop - six feet at the most.  Stoker lay sprawled and unmoving on the pavement. Skora hesitated in indecision.  On one side was his training as a firefighter.  On the other - distrust, hatred, and a perverse swirl of excitement spurred by the possibility that Stoker might be seriously injured.  He might even be dead. Skora turned back to the planks on the door. One minute later, he was still refusing to admit defeat. He heard McCullough's voice behind him. "What the hell!?!" Skora turned. McCullough was kneeling down next to Stoker, feeling along his neck for a pulse. "He passed out!"  Skora shouted. McCullough could already see the swelling and the beginnings of discoloration between Stoker's eyes. "What did you do to him, Jason?!" "I didn't do anything!"  Skora replied. "Get your sorry ass down here and tell me what you did to him before the captain shows up!" Skora jumped down and hunkered down beside McCullough.  "We were trying to pull that last board off the door.   My hand slipped and I nailed him with my elbow.  He fell off the loading dock.  It was an accident." "And you just left him lying here!?  Damn it, Skora, you're gonna get us all in trouble, you son-of-a-bitch!" McCullough scolded.  "What if someone from one of the other stations had come and seen him lying here with you still up there screwing around with that door?  What if Chief Graves had walked around the corner just now?  You'd better start using your head or you're going to draw all sorts of unwanted attention to us!"  He put his hand on Stoker's chest.  "He's still breathing.  Pulse is strong."  He did not look at Skora as he spoke.  "Go find Captain Moore.  He should be by the engine. He sent me out to track you guys down.  Tell him we have a Code I." Skora was off without hesitation. "Stupid, stupid idiot," the engineer fumed to himself.  Fear, more than anger, was behind his emotion.  If Stoker were to die, that would be two deaths in the same station in one year, both under questionable conditions . . . 68 was making itself look suspicious! "Damn that fool!" McCullough swore under his breath.  "Mike, come on . . . come on, Mike . . . you can't do this to us . . . come on . . . come on." Culver and Eggers arrived with Skora.  Skora resumed his hose as the two paramedics knelt down beside McCullough and Stoker. "We've got him, Terrence," Eggers announced.  "Captain Moore wants you back at the engine." "Did Jason tell you what happened?"  McCullough asked. "Yeah, he told us.  Don't worry.  We'll take care of him.  You'd better get back there.  The captain is furious," Eggers replied. "Furious?  Why?" "Why do you think?" McCullough nodded once and was off like a hare.  He rounded the corner of the warehouse and saw Captain Moore standing beside the engine.  He could tell, even from this distance, that his captain was livid and using every ounce of self-control to hold his rage at bay.  He crossed the last fifty yards at a quick clip, withering slightly under the fearsome gaze Moore turned towards him. "How bad is it?"  Captain Moore asked with a calculated levelness in his voice. "I couldn't tell, Captain," McCullough replied.  "He was unconscious, and there was a bruise forming here."  He made a circular motion to encompass his eyes and nose. "Skora told me it was an accident," Captain Moore stated. McCullough nodded. "Do you believe him?"  Moore questioned. "Yes," McCullough replied.  "You hadn't pronounced a Ruling, and this isn't the same as Hernandez." "Skora's short-tempered." "But he wouldn't do anything to risk ex-communication." "He's reckless." "But he's useful," McCullough replied, hell-bent on keeping the peace, even if his own feelings towards Skora were less than positive.  "There are some things that only Skora can pull off.  He gets the rest of the guys going.  He keeps the Spirit alive, keeps the motivation going." "And if Stoker dies, what difference will any of that make?  If he dies, that would be an invitation for headquarters to come and turn us inside out.  I want you to rein Skora in." "Yes, Sir." **** "Stoker is proving to be even more of a liability than anticipated."  Captain Moore's tone was a somber one.  He sat quietly in his office, facing McCullough across the clean surface of his desk. "It was an accident, Captain.  It could have been anyone.  It could've just as easily been me or Eggers or Culver up there with Skora." "I suppose you're right about that."  Moore drew in a long, steady breath.  "You've been working with him for four months.  What are your impressions?  Does he show any . . . inclination?" McCullough shook his head adamantly.  "None at all.  Other than that first night I caught him out there, we haven't said a word about it.  But you and I both know he's been out there since that first time.  I don't think it's because he wants to be part of it.  I think he's still trying to figure out what's going on." "Is he likely to talk?" "That's hard to say.  He's not so easy to figure out, Captain," McCullough replied, knitting his brows in consternation.  "He keeps to himself, you know?  I mean, I think he trusts me . . . as much as he can, anyway.  But he never says a word about what's going on in his head."  He paused.  "I think he's so afraid of getting in trouble and being kicked out of the department that he's willing to turn a blind eye to any suspicions he might have." "And you think he's being sincere?"  Moore asked, leaning over to fold his hands on top of his desk. "I think he's incapable of anything else." "Don't be so sure," Moore replied.  "I think Mike Stoker is capable of a great many things - deceit being one of them." A knock came at the door. "Enter!"  Moore called out. Eggers popped his head around the door.  "Captain, we're back from the hospital." "Come in, come in," Moore said with the most enthusiasm Mike had witnessed in the man since arriving at this station.  "How are you feeling, Stoker?" "I have a headache, but other than that, I'm okay," Mike replied. "They checked him over thoroughly.  Doctor Pilote said he has a mild concussion.  Nothing serious.  He recommended he take the next day or two off," Eggers provided. Mike glanced at Eggers.  He had the distinct impression that Eggers was there to make sure that the whole truth and nothing but the truth was imparted. Captain Moore turned his brilliant eyes to take in his injured crewman.  "Do you feel like you need to take some time off?" "No, not really," Mike replied.  "I can just lie down here for a while, and if it gets any worse, we can call for a replacement." Captain Moore nodded.  "Very good." Yet another disturbance at the door drew the assembled men's attention. It was Pennington. "Captain Moore, Captain Junkers is here from headquarters." The collective tension in the room rose to palpable levels. "Did he say what he wanted?"  Moore asked. "He asked for you, Sir." "Yes, yes, of course."  Captain Moore stood up, straightened his uniform, and walked out into the apparatus room.  "Where is he?" "In the kitchen, getting him some coffee." Moore dusted off the plastic smile and entered the kitchen.  "Captain Junkers.  This is an unexpected surprise." At Moore's greeting, Captain Junkers rose from the table and extended his hand. "Please, call me Steve.  It's nice to finally meet in person." Captain Moore shook his hand.  "Yes, it certainly is," he smiled pleasantly.  "I didn't know you were planning a visit." The two men sat. "Well, this is just a courtesy call, really.  I'm making the rounds.  68 was next on my list." "Ah," Moore nodded.  "I thought your visit might have to do with certain recent events." Junkers did not miss a beat.  "No, no, not at all."  He looked around him.  "This is some station you've got here." "We're very proud of it.  It needs some work to keep it up, but it's worth it."  He paused.  "Have you met my crew?" "Some of them." "Let me make proper introductions." The next thirty minutes covered those introductions, innocuous topics and a tour of the station. It wasn't until Junkers and Moore were alone, sitting in the latter's office, that Junkers launched his probe.  "There is one individual whose face I haven't seen since I've been here," he noted with a casualness that was meant to mask an understood meaning. "Oh?  Who is that?" Junkers smiled accommodatingly.  "Mike Stoker." "Stoker?  He's around somewhere." "How's he doing?" "Well, he wouldn't be my first choice for a crewman; but since I had no choice, we've all been making due," Captain Moore replied. "Give him a chance." "You were on the inquiry board, weren't you?"  Moore asked. "Yes, I was." "Did you recommend he be retained?" Captain Junkers held up a finger.  "That's not for public dissemination." "I'm not the public." "And I'm not at liberty to discuss board proceedings.  The verdict is public domain.  The details of the investigation are sealed files."  Junkers paused.  "Why?  Have there been problems?" Captain Moore did not answer right away.  There was some hidden agenda in this visit, and he could not quite decipher what it was.  After a considerable silence, he replied, "Nothing that we can't fix down here." Captain Junkers raised an eyebrow.  "I'm glad to hear that.  I'd hate to chalk Stoker up as a total loss.  Where is he, anyways?  I'd like to talk to him." Captain Moore's carefully preserved and practiced coolness warmed a degree or two.  "You want to talk to Stoker?" "Yes.  I'd like to see how he's doing." Moore cleared his throat.  "He's probably out hanging hose or something.  Just a second."  He went to the door. Pennington was polishing the ladder truck.  "Blane, find Stoker and tell him to come to my office." "Yes, Sir." Captain Moore turned back into the office to see Junkers looking at the photo album on the coffee table.  "Oh, what it must have been like to be a fireman when these pictures were taken," he said with a deep breath.  "Things were a lot rougher back then.  You really had to be fit." "That's still a prerequisite for my crewmen," Moore replied.  "I don't like soft bellies." "Who does?" "Apparently, there are some stations that don't seem to care whom they allow to put on the uniform, as long as the face above the collar is pretty," Moore said, not attempting to camouflage his distaste.  Junkers laughed.  "Is that so?"  He thought this comment was funny coming from someone as handsome as Moore. "If our visitors last week are any indication." "Visitors?" "Stoker's former crewmates came by.  Honestly, it was like the apple-pie review." "I take it you weren't impressed." "Am I supposed to be?" Before Junkers could answer, both men's attention was drawn to the office door, where Mike Stoker appeared suddenly. A bitter coldness radiated from him.  His eyes, darkened from his encounter with Skora's elbow, stared with a dislike that seemed fixed in place. Junkers held out his hand.  "Mike, good to see you." "I'll bet it is," Mike replied.  He did not return the handshake. Junkers let it roll off him.  "Good heavens, what happened to you?" "I was hurt on the job." "Were you?  Well, it looks terrible." Mike turned to Captain Moore.  "Did you want to see me, Captain?" It was Junkers who replied.  "No, it was me.  I asked for you.  Let's take a walk, Mike.  Jeff, you'll excuse us for a few minutes?" And what choice did Moore have? "Of course." Captain Junkers walked out into the apparatus room.  When Mike made no move to join him, Junkers leaned close and said in a quiet voice, "Why add insubordination to the list?" When Captain Junkers began walking again, Mike fell in beside him. "I was at 51s not long ago," Junkers began, heading for the door into the back lot.  "They suggested I come see how you're doing." Mike said nothing. "So?  How are you doing?" "Fine." Junkers nodded.  "Yes, you seem fine." "Is that all?" "Why are you being so obstinate, Mike?  This isn't like you." They went outside. "And it's not like you to be concerned with my welfare," Mike replied. "You're wrong about that.  As a departmental staff member, it's my business to be concerned with the welfare of all our firefighters.  And in my position, I've learned to put petty differences behind me.  Your crewmates were concerned.  I'm doing as they asked." Mike stopped and turned to face Junkers.  In the process, he noticed that more than one pair of eyes was directed towards the back lot.  He and Junkers were being watched.  It hit him how suspicious this must look to his crewmates. "Okay.  You've done your duty by checking on me.  You can see I'm fine, and now you can leave," he said. "What's this place doing to you?"  Junkers asked.  "You'd never have spoken like that four months ago.  You used to be so quiet and polite, Mike.   What's happened?" Mike looked at him with intense scrutiny.  "What are you really here for, Steve?" "Technically, you should be calling me captain.  But I'll let it slide for old times' sake, back when you and I were the two top engineers in the county, damn, in the entire state."  He paused briefly and shook his head as if recalling fond memories.  "My goodness, how times have changed." Mike called on every ounce of self-control.  "What do you want?" "They don't like you here too much, do they?" Mike folded his arms across his chest and remained silent. "But there's really nowhere else for you to go, is there?  So, you're forced to make the best of it," Junkers went on.  "You know . . . I might be able to do something about that." Mike shook his head and started to walk away. "You might want to hear me out on this one," Junkers called after him.  "I'm in a position to help you." "I don't want your help," Mike replied, still walking. "But I think you do."  A pause.  "Better we be friends than enemies." Mike stopped in his tracks.  He whirled around and strode back to where Junkers stood.  "You're the reason I'm down here-" "No, you're the reason you're down here.  You screwed up, so you have no one to blame except yourself.  And you're failing to realize that you should be grateful that you even still have a job.  Believe me, you were that close to being cut loose; so save the sob and pity stories.  I'm not interested.  That's not what I'm down here for.  I wanted to see how you're doing."  He stepped closer and added in a low voice, "And to tell you that if you're having trouble here, you should tell me or someone else at headquarters." "Are you expecting me to have trouble here?"  Mike's voice was almost a challenge. Junkers was not fazed.  "It's a habit of mine to expect the unexpected." "What does that mean?"  "Exactly what it sounds like." *** Captain Moore shut the door to his office. "That visit wasn't a courtesy call," he said to McCullough.  "He didn't come here to see us.  He came here to see Stoker." McCullough nodded.  "That was obvious." "I don't like this.  I don't like this at all."  Captain Moore's anger flashed in his eyes.  "I think they sent him down here as a plant - to spy on us.  That's why Stoker's been willing to put up with all the abuse - not because he has nowhere else to go, but because it's part of their plan!" "But why go to all the trouble of sending him down here and then coming to see him so blatantly?  They had to have known that would make us suspicious," McCullough wondered out loud. Moore rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  "Perhaps, perhaps.  What do you suppose they were talking about outside?" "I don't know, but Stoker looked pretty upset." "A ruse?" "I don't know, captain.  It's hard to say.  I just-I don't get the impression that Stoker is here to spy on us." "But we know he's aware of our activities." "He knows about the meetings in the cellar.  He doesn't know what they're for, and he doesn't know about the Rulings.  And he hasn't said anything to anyone." "We don't know that for sure." McCullough could not argue with this. Captain Moore paced around the back of his desk.  At last, he said, "We will have a ritual tonight.  He will show me what to do." **** " . . . brute barbarians, whose ferocious mind Gloats o'er the bloody havoc of their kind, Not knowing love or mercy.  Lord, how long Shall Satan in high places lead the blind To battle for the for the passions of the strong?" How Long, O Lord? Robert Palmer, KIA 1916 "You wanted to see me, Chief?" Chief Janlan looked up at the sound of Captain Junkers' voice. "Steve, yes, come in.  Close the door, will you?" Captain Junkers did so. Chief Janlan stood up and came around to lean against the corner of his desk.  Junkers stood facing him. "Not a sound from 68s in the last four months," Janlan stated bluntly. Junkers' feigned disheartenment was masterful.  Janlan had no idea that Steve Junkers had been making inquiries on his own.  "No one's more surprised than me," he said.  "I thought for sure we'd have heard something by now." "I should have gone with my initial inclination, which was to put him right out of the department," Janlan scowled.  "Now, instead, I've got a reckless man sitting inside a station we already know is shady.  What a splendid combination." "Stoker isn't reckless, Chief," Junkers corrected.  "And you've been trying to see inside 68's for a long time.  Stoker was the best candidate for the job.  He still is." "Candidate?  You make it sound like he volunteered for it," the chief replied, standing up and pacing over to the window.  "He's the unwitting mole.  There's nothing noble in what he's doing, because he doesn't even know he's doing it." Junkers nodded his agreement.  "That's true, but if we had told him what we wanted from him, he would never have agreed to it.  If we had made our suspicions known to him, he would have chosen to resign." "Would he?  I'm not so sure anymore," Janlan challenged.  "You know things have to be hard on him in that place.  And yet . . . he's still there.  He hasn't quit.  He hasn't come crying to us or anyone else, that we know of."  He paused.  "We may have backed him too far into a corner, and now he has no choice but to keep his mouth shut or risk being kicked out." "If that's the case, he'll never come forward with anything he finds out about that place," Junkers added.  "Precisely." "So, what do we do?" "Tell him." Junkers' shoulders tensed.  His mind raced.  "I'm not sure that's the best idea, Chief," he replied, sounding much calmer and more objective than his own inner motivations would normally allow.  "He could bail out on us, altogether.  Or worse, he could stay there and start acting so unnatural that they suspect him, and then they'll know that someone in headquarters is onto them."  A pause.  "He could end up like Hernandez.  An on-the-job casualty." "What other suggestions do you have?" "Let's give him another month or two, see if he comes forward.  You know, it's also likely that if he were going to go to anyone, he'd go to his friends at 51's.  I can pay them a courtesy call, a 'making-the-rounds' visit.  Casual conversation, ask them if they've heard from Stoker lately.  How does he like his new station, that sort of thing.  They may let something slip.  And I'll pay a visit to the man himself.  See how he's adjusting."  No mention of the fact that two such trips had already been made. "Someone from headquarters going to visit Stoker at 68's.  That can not happen.  The second those men see you talking to Stoker, they'll become suspicious." "I hadn't thought of that," Junkers replied, although, in truth, but he relished the idea.  The more heat he could bring to bear on Stoker, the better.  "You're right, of course, Chief.  Forget about that idea." "We'll give him a couple more months.  If he still hasn't come forward, I'll decide what to do at that point.  We can either let him in on it, or just forget the whole thing and let him continue on at 68's in a regular capacity.  There'll be other opportunities." "But none so good as Stoker.  He's the one man that I'd bet money on to come forward and report what's going on in that station," Junkers replied.  "He's such a straight-shooter, such an upright man-" "I believe the words you used before, when you sold me on this idea, were goodie two shoes."  Janlan moved back to his chair.  "You know, it's not a bad thing to be a goodie two shoes.   But it is a bad thing to be a schemer." Junkers swallowed.  He understood the meaning of this statement.  Janlan was more clever than he had given him credit for.  Still, he played it cool. "Absolutely, Chief." Janlan nodded.  "That's all, Steve.  Let's see what happens over the next two months." **** Mike was awake. He had managed to fall asleep, but now he was awake again.  He felt hot, even as cold shivers ran through his body.  When he sat up, the room tipped and swayed for several seconds. His initial inclination was to blame the dizziness on the knockout blow he had received earlier that day; but the truth, Mike was loathe to admit, was that he had been having these bouts of unsteadiness for the past several days.  They were the most recent in a steadily expanding list of unpleasant symptoms that Mike had labeled as the most drawn-out cold he'd ever had. Headaches, sinus pressure, sore throat, the general run of muscular aches and pains, frequent exhaustion - these had become his newest companions, and there was not enough orange juice or chicken soup in the world to make them go away.  They seemed to be at their worst when Mike was on duty, which was hardly surprising.  In addition to working - or being worked - like a mule, Mike was assured of there being no such thing as a good night's sleep at 68's.  Even on the nights when there were few call-outs, Mike imagined he was getting two or three hours sleep at the most.  It was not that his crewmates engaged in their secret activities every night; it was more due to his own increasing paranoia.  He was finding it difficult - if not impossible - to relax at the station.  In contrast, on his days off, he could bring himself to do little more than sleep.  He had no appetite and no energy.  From time to time, he would acquiesce to a friend's suggestion that they go out for dinner or to a movie; but more ambitious outings, such as Captain Stanley's invitation to go waterskiing, Pearcy's weekend backpacking jaunt, or anything requiring physical activity - these were politely declined.  Mike just didn't have the strength. Already he had dropped nearly twenty pounds; and on a man like Stoker, who had been thin to begin with, the loss was extremely noticeable, as evidenced by Gage's comments several days earlier.  And if Gage were feeling snug enough to call someone else a scarecrow . . . Mike pushed slowly up onto his elbows.  He did not need to look around him to know his crewmates' beds were empty.  He had known it even in his uneasy sleep.  He thought about going down to watch them from his secret vantage point.  There was no hope of him getting back to sleep, and there was nothing more aggravating than lying in bed trying to force it.  He added to that, the fact that he had not gone down to spy on his crewmates for some time.  Every time he had gone down, it had been to witness the same thing.  The ritual never seemed to change, and Mike was no closer to understanding the meaning of the thing. "Masculus.  Femina.  Masculus.  Femina.  Masculus.  Femina." It had taken him several visits to recognize the words that were being repeated over and over again during the chant.  These two were easy enough to understand.  The assembly would repeat these two words until Moore, sitting in his place like a guru or a priest, uttered one of two words.  Firmus or Negatus. Also straight-forward. Then came the procession of what could only have been numbers.  Number after number after number until the decree of firmus or negatus.  Then the numbers would begin again until Moore again rendered his one word. And last . . . "Nocturna.  Clarus.  Nocturna.  Clarus.  Nocturna.  Clarus." Night.  Clear. Mike did not need to resurrect his thin acquaintance with entymology to know that he was listening to Latin.  He had managed to figure out that the recitations went on until Moore had delivered affirmatives in all four sequences.  At that point, Moore would announce, in plain English, "Ruling." Another member, and each time it was someone different, would then announce, also in plain English, the Ruling.  It was always gender, two numbers, and then either night or clear. From there, the place would fall silent, as if in prayer. Mike had never stayed to see the conclusion out of fear of being caught.  He wondered if they knew that he had watched them.  If so, they were keeping it a secret, and Mike was not about to broach the subject. He got out of bed and slid into his bunker pants.  Then he headed downstairs. **** "Ad majorem Diabolus gloriam." "Amen." Captain Moore looked at each one of his men individually in the flickering light. "Brothers, you know we have yet to carry out His latest Ruling. But that is not why I have called this assembly.  When the time comes, the sacrifice will be there.  We shall not be remiss."   Moore paused.  "No, I've brought you all into His Place tonight, because we are faced with a danger." The gathered men looked at each other, then back to their leader.  They already knew what was coming next. "I suspect that Stoker is here with a hidden agenda." There was a murmur of agreement. "I suspect he has been sent here by headquarters to expose us, and I've called this special meeting so that He might show us what to do.  If we move falsely, we implicate ourselves and lose everything we've worked so hard to achieve.  We must pray to our Lord for guidance.  We must pray with all our hearts and souls.  Join me, Brothers." **** Mike came to the black curtain and listened. Chanting, but not the usual chanting. "Diabolus, dirige nos.  Jus divinum.  Diabolus, dirige nos. Jus divinum." Immediately, Mike felt his standard anxiety rocket skyward. They were doing something different! He leaned closer to the curtain, as if doing so would make it easier to hear them. So intense was his concentration that he did not hear the footsteps coming down the stairs behind him until it was too late.  He had just begun to turn when a pair of hands shoved him roughly forward. He crashed through the curtain, tumbled over someone, and landed in the midst of the candles in the center of the circle comprised of his crewmates. They had all sprung to their feet, but now no one moved. Grimsby entered the room.  "He was in the stairwell listening." No one spoke. Mike slowly gathered his legs under him and got to his feet.  His eyes darted around the room from face to face.  The hatred and disgust glaring back at him was paralyzing.  Once on his feet, he could not move a muscle. At last, Captain Moore spoke .  "How long have you been out there listening?" Mike struggled to find his voice.  "I-I-not long . . . only a few seconds," he stammered. Moore shifted his eyes towards Grimsby, who nodded once in confirmation.  Moore took several steps forward.  Mike moved back, fully aware of Culver and Pennington behind him. "So, you were eavesdropping." "I was curious," Mike said, his voice little more than a whisper. Moore studied his face.  "Have you done this before?" Mike could see McCullough's impassive face beyond Moore's shoulder, and he wondered how much the engineer had told his captain. "I asked you a question," Moore pressed. "I, uh . . . I've woken up in the middle of the night, and-and-all the beds were empty," Mike replied. "And you didn't wonder where we were?" Mike swallowed.  "I knew where you were," he replied, adding quickly, "But I didn't know what you were doing." "Why didn't you ask?" Now, Mike was shaking, and he was sure they could all see it. "I didn't want to make any waves," he replied. Captain Moore's neutrality was sinister.  "Are you still curious?" Mike opened his mouth but nothing would come out.  He saw the horrible glint of anticipation in his crewmates' eyes. At that moment, the sound of the tones carried from the station house. There was only the briefest of hesitations before Captain Moore announced, "Let's go." Mike stood frozen in place as his crewmates mounted the steps.   It wasn't until McCullough took hold of his arm that Mike managed to get his feet moving. The next thing Mike knew, he was in his seat in the engine, pulling out of the station house.  He didn't even know what sort of emergency they were responding to.  He could think of nothing other than what had just happened and what would be awaiting him when this rescue was over. They were traveling along the Wehrmann Viaduct, which was swollen with several days of rain.   When the engine came to a stop, Captain Moore began issuing orders.  "Skora, Stoker, get two lines and secure the car to the engine." As Mike climbed down from the engine, he saw the vehicle in question lying partially submerged in the water in the viaduct.  He joined Skora in getting the ropes out of the equipment compartment as McCullough turned the spotlight onto the vehicle. Ropes in hand, the two men picked their way down the eroding concrete culvert.  Eggers and Culver were right behind them. Mike went straight to the rear of the car, got down on all fours, and began looping the rope around the rear axle.  When he'd completed this task, he rose and a quick glance showed him the two paramedics struggling with the door.  Inside the car, he could see a head resting against the seatback. The door gave way with a jerk, and Culver leaned inside. "One occupant.  Female, looks like early twenties-" Mike did not stay to listen to the rest.  He went back up to the roadside and secured his line to the engine.  As he was tying off the rope, he could hear Eggers shouting up information to Captain Moore. He waited for Skora to come up with his line; but after nearly a minute, Skora was still down with the vehicle.  Mike went back down into the culvert.  He stopped abruptly several yards short of the car.  Through the open door, he could see the passenger side of the vehicle was filled with water.  The one occupant of the car, whom Mike had seen earlier with her head against the seat, was now lying with her head submerged in the water. Eggers turned, and seeing Stoker's glazed expression, he announced, "Code F." Don't let them know . . . don't let them know!   Mike corralled all his self-control before speaking.  "She drowned?"  He tried to sound neutral, when all he felt rushing up his throat were accusations and expressions of horror and rage. "Yeah." Up with the engine, Captain Moore stared down on the scene at the vehicle.  "What does he respond best to?"  he asked McCullough. McCullough knew what his captain meant.  He just was not sure how to answer the question.  "Sir?"  he asked, anything to stall his reply until he could think of something harmless to say. "He must be dealt with," Moore said. "Captain, him spying on us may not mean anything, if he still doesn't understand what's going on," he replied. "Do you believe him?  Do you believe he has no idea what it is we're doing down there?  You told him we were Devil-worshippers.  He gave you no reaction.  But what if you had told him about the Rulings?  Do you think he'd be so complaisant?  It's only a matter of time before he gets all the details he needs to make his report to headquarters.  We must find a way to stop him, to make him change his mind.  And so I'm asking you, what does he respond best to?" McCullough considered.  "I don't think he knows enough to be any threat to us right now.  All he could tell anyone is that we're exercising our religious freedom.  It won't look good, but it's not a crime.  We just have to convince him that we're really not doing anything wrong.  Let me talk to him." "No."  The word was final.  "Talk hasn't stopped him from spying on us.  Talk hasn't curbed his curiosity."  Moore paused.  "Pain is the most powerful motivator in the world.  Fear is its closest companion."  He faced McCullough.  "I will take matters into my own hands.  But you must remain aloof.  He must not suspect your position." McCullough nodded hastily.  He did not like the direction things were heading.  "He won't suspect me, Captain; but please, let me try one more time to-" "That issue is put to rest, Terrence.  Do not cross me." McCullough fell silent for several seconds. "Yes, Sir," he replied at last and headed around to the other side of the engine - anywhere to be away from the man he most respected . . . and most feared. The engine backed into the station. Mike stepped down and took off his turnout coat.  No one paid him any particular attention.  The cool tolerance that had dominated the accident scene appeared to have followed them back to the station. Mike had seriously considered taking off from the accident scene.  The idea of returning to 68's, especially after what he had observed in the car, did not seem to him to be in his best interests.  But then his crewmates had surprised him by acting without malice during the call-out, and Mike had decided that the situation might be salvageable. But more importantly, having witnessed what could only be described as the murder of a victim, he now knew that there was something greater at stake than his own peril.  Only, what was he to do?  Report his suspicions?  And to whom?  Would anyone even believe him, when the mere idea was so preposterous?  He went up the steps into the dormitory and stood beside his bed as he slid the suspenders off his shoulders. Then he knew he had made a mistake by coming back. He could feel it. Their eyes on his back. God, what am I doing here?!  My God!  My God!  I shouldn't have come back! He felt a hand firmly grip his shoulder.  He turned as casually as his ragged nerves would allow and found himself looking into Skora's eyes. "I want to show you something," Skora said. Mike could see the others standing beyond Skora, keenly following everything that was going on.  He hesitated.  "I don't-I don't think I want to see anything you have to show me." Skora smiled.  "No, I'm sure you don't.  But I'm going to show you anyway. I'm going to show you what happens to people who let their curiosity get the better of them." Mike felt Skora's fist in his gut.  The blow, rapid and powerful, doubled him over, dropping him to his knees and bringing the blood up into his mouth. Eggers and Culver stepped around Skora and pulled Mike, coughing and gasping, to his feet.  They dragged him into the shower bay where Grimsby turned on the cold water.  Mike could hear Skora's voice behind him.  "Still curious?  Huh?  Still curious?"  Skora grabbed a handful of Mike's hair and jerked his head back into the stream of water.  Wrapping his other arm around Stoker's neck, he held him still. Mike was swallowing and inhaling water, fighting against the three men holding him in place; and then suddenly he was on his back on the wet tile floor, Skora's body pressed the length of his, Skora's forearm bearing down across his throat. "Do you know what I want to do to you?"  Skora's words dripped with sickness.  "Do you have any idea?  The same thing the rest of them want to do."  He pressed harder against Mike's throat.  "But that'll just have to wait.  I've got a few other things I want to show you first." Skora got to his feet, bringing Mike up with him. Mike, using the momentum of the movement, threw himself into Skora, knocking him back against the wall.   He pulled back, pushed an unsuspecting McCullough out of the doorway, and bolted into the dormitory.  He was down the steps in two jumps and at the door.  He fumbled frantically with the lock and had just opened the door when Eggers crashed into him from behind, sending him face-first into the door and slamming it shut. Eggers wrapped his arms around Stoker, jerked him away from the door, and he and Harris held Mike in place while Culver went to work.  When, at last, Culver had finished, he stepped aside; and in his place Skora stepped up.  Skora brushed his fingers over Mike's lips, his fingertips tracing through the blood. Mike drew in a shuddering breath, which served only to further excite Skora's lust.   Skora's splayed fingers moved over Mike's chin and down his throat, the blood on his fingers drawing lines on the skin beneath his touch. "I'm about to satisfy your curiosity," Skora leered.  "And then you're going to keep quiet, right?  You're not going to say a word, are you?  Because if you do . . . I'll be more than happy to do this to you again."  His hands went down to the waist on Mike's bunker pants. "No!"  Mike cried out, twisting and fighting.  "No!  Let go of me!  I won't say anything!  Get the hell off me!!  No!" Their effort was great as they dragged him to the floor. Mike caught a glimpse of McCullough standing halfway down the stairs. "Terrence!"  he screamed in desperation.  "Terrence!  Help me!" But it was Captain Moore, standing on the fringes of the scene, who spoke next. "Jason," he addressed Skora.  "No." Skora looked up like a child just denied his favorite toy. "Captain-" "No." It seemed for a moment that Skora might disobey his captain's order; but his pout was short-lived, giving way quickly to anger at his denial.  He reacted in accordance with his rage, pummeling the body beneath him until, at a word from Moore, he stood up and grudgingly backed off. Moore hunkered down beside Mike, who was lying in a writhing heap on the floor. "You won't spy on us anymore, will you?"  he said.  "Will you?" "No," Mike whispered. "No more eavesdropping." "No." "Very good, then.  I'll tell the men to leave you alone." Mike could hear them retreating, going back upstairs into the dormitory. "Mike?"  It was McCullough's voice. A second later, Mike felt McCullough's hand on his arm. He jerked away. McCullough waited a few seconds, taking in Stoker's appearance - the red splotches on his white undershirt, the rivulets of blood still swelling from his nose and a split lower lip; the bruises already forming on his face and neck, the one most prominent bruise from his earlier injury - now made all the more gruesome by the addition of a swollen left eye, where a tiny cut at just below the outside of the eyelid had let forth with a torrent of blood. He looked bad.  And this was not taking into account what other injuries were hidden beneath his clothes.  McCullough frowned.  His crewmates had been over-zealous, and Captain Moore had sanctioned it.  These injuries could never be written off as on-the-job.  Anyone could tell, with a simple glance, that Stoker had been beaten up. But it didn't have to happen!  McCullough insisted to himself.  The captain should have let me talk to him!  My God-   McCullough winced at this surprising reference to the abhorred deity,  This is going to look bad.  If anyone sees him looking like this, that's it.  That's it!  All he has to do is tell them the truth, and the entire department is down here on top of us!  Damn it!  Damn it!  This wasn't the right thing to do! But as he looked down at Stoker, McCullough could not deny that he had something other than self-preservation in mind.  Terrence McCullough liked Mike Stoker. Against every attempt to remain hateful while appearing to be supportive, McCullough had developed a strong admiration and respect for Stoker.  He had observed quite early on in Stoker's reassignment those traits that had made Mike a master engineer.  He could assess a situation instantaneously, formulate a plan of attack, and decide the best allocation of resources, as if such things came naturally to him.  Of course, his abilities were ignored here at 68's.  Here, in this station, Mike Stoker was the battering ram.  And he had endured it! This, more than anything else, awed McCullough.   Stoker had been shunned by the very same department headquarters that had once supported his advancement.  He had taken a demotion, a transfer and an extended bar from retesting - and he had not raised a single word in protest.  He had come to 68's, where from day one, his crewmates had harassed and ridiculed him.  He had done a remarkable job of holding his own against them, and although the circumstances had begun to take a toll on him, he had not given up.  He had held on every step of the way. Was he that dedicated to firefighting?  McCullough could not believe that anyone could love something so much that they would risk all manner of abuse to hold onto it. So, perhaps Captain Moore had been right.  Maybe Stoker had been sent here on a mission, and part of that mission was to absorb all the threats - both physical and mental - until he had enough proof to put every member of 68's C-shift out on the streets or even worse, into prison.  This mission was his penance for having caused the accident.  Once the mission was completed, he would go back to his happy job as 51's A-shift engineer. No, that's not right.  It sounds as wrong now as when the captain suggested it.  It's impossible.  Stoker doesn't know what's going on.  He's staying here because he doesn't know what else to do.   McCullough wasn't sure how, but he knew that Mike Stoker was not headquarters' stool pigeon. "No," McCullough said out loud, affirming his own beliefs and reaching out again to place his hand on Stoker's shoulder.  This time, Mike did not pull away. McCullough helped him sit.  "Come on, Mike . . . let's get you cleaned up." Mike looked at him, and McCullough could see the remnants of stark terror  lingering in his eyes. "I'm not staying here," Mike said, his voice strained and uneven. "Mike, don't do anything hasty-" "Shut up!"  Mike spat out.  "You-you let them do this to me!  You just stood there and watched!"  Mike pushed awkwardly to his feet, where he stumbled into the wall, before regaining his balance. McCullough stared at him, but did not attempt to approach him again.  He had honestly believed that he could protect Stoker against his captain and his crewmates.  McCullough was not only number two leadership-wise; he was Moore's sub-altern within the cult.  McCullough had not come to 68's as the unsuspecting religious innocent that he had touted to Stoker.  On the contrary, Moore had recruited McCullough as engineer after the two had met at a conference and discovered that they had a lot more in common than their careers. McCullough, as the name suggests, had been raised as an Irish Roman Catholic.  But the Church had been too rigid.  There were too many rules, and young Terrence McCullough had not like rules - at least, he had not like rules that forbade him from exercising his pleasures.  The 1960s - and even to a degree, the 70s - had shown him the multitude of freedoms that being a Catholic had denied him.  His friends were all partaking of those pleasures, and he was tired of exercising self-restraint.  Terrence McCullough rebelled, and not just a little . . . The doting Irish mother whom he had loved and cherished as a little boy came to be regarded as the repressive, meddling nag of his teenage years.  His father, once Terrence's greatest hero, became the domineering tyrant. The God of his parents became the enemy, and in the now vacated seat of worship, Terrence had set his own Lord - the same Lord that Captain Moore worshipped.  The same Lord that his crewmates worshipped. It was all fine and good.  But Terrence McCullough was not a teenager any more.  He was thirty-two years old.  Those rebellious years were far behind him.  He had grown into a decent, respectable man with an honorable profession and a solid reputation.  So, why was he still fighting against something he no longer despised?  Why was he supporting the brutal beating of someone he admired? He spoke softly.  "I'm going to get the first-aid kit."  A pause.  When he spoke again, his voice was even lower.  "That's your chance."  He turned and went into the apparatus room.  When he came back into the foyer less than thirty seconds later, Stoker was gone. continue