I wrote this story back in 1999 or 2000 in response to a challenge on the Stoker
Battalion. The challenge was to "Scare Stoker". I think you'll agree
I succeeded! In spades! I won first place - for inflicting all sorts of
punishment on the poor man. Keeping in mind that Mike Stoker is a
real person, as well as being a character, I would like to say that I have treated
him as his character and would never wish this sort of thing on anyone.
But I like angst, and I like the quiet, unassuming character of Mike Stoker,
so . . . here we are. My disclaimer: I'm not a doctor or a nurse
or a paramedic or an EMT or a field medic or a fireman or anything close.
If I've handled our favorite engineer in ways that would land a real
doctor in a malpractice suit, all I can say is, "There but for the grace of God
. . ." Furthermore, I've never stepped foot in L.A. and have no idea of
street names beyond what I've heard from the dispatcher's dispassionate lips.
So, once again, bear with and roll your eyes the other way, please.
Lastly, the song used in this tale is titled, "You're Gonna Get Your Fingers
Burned" by the Alan Parsons Project, from the album "Eye in the Sky".
It's actually an upbeat, happening kind of tune. But it fits well with
the challenge parameters and the theme of the story. I hope you enjoy this,
my first-ever offering of this sort. Yours, Hyzenthlay. The Numbers Game Watch me closely, catch my eye. If you do, I beg you to remind me Who is stronger, who is weak of those who seek and don't know where to find me. April 1974 "Cap, it's Chief Houtz." Captain Stanley looked over his shoulder from where he stood at the kitchen sink. "Thanks, Chet. I'll take it in my office." He could feel the eyes of his firemen on his back as he walked out of the room, and he knew what they were thinking. He knew they would be waiting. And he was hoping he would have good news to report back to them. But deep down, beyond conscious thought, was the feeling - the recognition - that this phone call could bring nothing other than dread. Or perhaps, it might summon other elements - pain, fear, anger. But good? No, nothing good would come of this phone call. Captain Stanley picked up the phone and hesitated only an instant before bringing it to his ear. "Hello, Chief," was all the greeting he was willing to venture. "Hank." A pause. "I'm afraid there's bad news." "They found McIntyre's body." It was a morose supposition, and Captain Stanley felt his shoulders sag even as he spoke the words. "Less than an hour ago. I wanted to get the word out before it hits the newscasts," Chief Houtz replied. "It was the two-alarm at the refinery. Station 18 was one of the units called in to respond, but it was one of 23's men who found him after they'd put the fire out and were going through overhaul." "That was just this morning," Captain Stanley said unnecessarily; then drawing in a deep breath, he asked, "Was it the same as Wilkes and Hannover?" "More or less. McIntyre wasn't burned, though. He died from smoke inhalation." The way Chief Houtz let the sentence drop sent warning shivers up Captain Stanley's spine. "Were there . . . had he been . . ." There was no way to phrase the question. "Yes. There were indications of torture," Houtz completed this subordinate's thought. Captain Stanley rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Jesus Christ." "Look, Hank, I don't want to send out any alarms, but it's time we started putting some protective measures into place. That's the third victim in as many months. Each from a different station. Each left to die in the same manner. We can't just sit back and rely on the LAPD to crack this case before another one of our boys winds up dead. I'm working on arranging a meeting with all my captains, if only I can get past the damned press . . ." Captain Stanley could hear the sigh on the other end of the line. " . . . anyway, I'll have Lorraine give you a call when the thing's arranged. In the meantime, tell your men to be vigilant. Keep an eye out for anyone or anything that looks suspicious. Emphasize the buddy system." His voice fell off abruptly again, as if he knew he was offering worthless advice. There was no question but that every man wearing the blue uniform was already doing the very things of which he was speaking. Fear had already reared its head and forced caution into the most mundane of activities. Even walking to the car had become reason for anxiety. "Will do, Chief," Captain Stanley acknowledged. That effectively ended the conversation. Hank Stanley hung up the phone, hunched over his desk and looked at his hands resting on the wood grain Formica in front of him. Another body. Another dead fireman. McIntyre. How I am going to break this to them? The news had not been unexpected. McIntyre's was not the only disappearance. John Wilkes from Station 12 had been the first. He had left work after coming off-shift on a Wednesday morning. His car had been found abandoned on the side of the road not far from the station. Less than 24 hours later, his body was found inside the smoking remains of a burned-out warehouse in a freight yard. Burnt beyond recognition, the only source of positive identification had been through dental records. The crewmen of Station 12, who had responded to the blaze, had not even realized it was their own comrade whom they were pulling from the ruins. The second victim had been Derrick Hannover. Station 8. After three days off, he had never shown up for the start of his shift. Later that afternoon, while efforts were still underway to locate him, Station 8 had been called out on a house fire. The abandoned and condemned house had been fully involved by the time the fire department had arrived, and it was decided to let the structure burn to the ground and ensure that the fire did not spread to the surrounding trees. Hannover's body was found in the cellar, partly buried beneath a pile of rubble that had once been part of the ceiling. Although burned, his body was visually identifiable. It was with Hannover's body that the coroners first noted apparent indications of torture. Burn marks that had not been caused by the fire. Bruises. Welts. Cuts and abrasions, swollen and broken skin that could not be positively linked to the fire. Whatever else remained unknown regarding his disappearance and death, it was certain that Hannover had been severely mistreated before meeting his end. And now Andrew McIntyre. It was only beginning. Captain Stanley was certain that it was only beginning, and this was what he feared. More than anything else, he feared for his own men's safety. He stood up slowly and walked back through the apparatus room, walking into the day room to find precisely what he had expected. A group of five men, preoccupied and trying not to show it, sitting at safe distances from one another, as if the space between bodies would somehow mask the uneasiness each felt in his own chest. "Guys, come to the table and sit down," Captain Stanley said with the authority that came naturally to him. "You all know that was Chief on the line. They found McIntyre's body." There was silence around the table, prompting Captain Stanley to continue. "Same circumstances as Wilkes and Hannover." Still, no one spoke. Captain Stanley was not surprised. What had he expected them to say? "Chief's calling a meeting probably sometime in the next day or two to go over additional precautions, but I think we need to talk about this now." He looked around the table at the blank, stunned faces gazing back at him. It was Johnny who finally broke through the horror of the moment; and although his input was hardly useful, still it was understandable. "How can this be happening? What the hell is going on?" "What kind of freak would go around killing firemen?" Chet said quietly. "I mean, why? What's his reason?" "I don't know. No one has those answers yet," Captain Stanley replied. "What we do know is that whoever he is, whoever they are, they're three for three. If there's a pattern to which station they're hitting, no one's identified it yet." "So, what can we do, Cap?" Mike asked, his demeanor remarkably unchanged by events. Stoker was self-contained and stoic by nature. It took a considerable force to move him; and although recent events had to sit as heavily on him as on the others, he maintained a placid exterior. "That's what I want to discuss," Captain Stanley replied. "What extra measures can we put into place to guard against one of us becoming next in line?" There was a moment of contemplation, then Roy spoke his thoughts out loud. "All the abductions took place away from the station, so it would seem that we're safe as long as we're here. I'm not sure I'd want to say that as a certainty, but it would be pretty hard to get past all of us." The others nodded, but they were no more convinced than Roy. "Once we leave those doors, though . . ." Marco grimaced. "Wilkes was kidnapped right from the side of the road. No one really knows how Hannover and McIntyre were taken, do they?" "If they do, they're not telling us. But I think you're right, Marco. No one is for sure yet. This guy isn't leaving a whole lot of clues," Captain Stanley replied. "All I can tell you is to keep your guard up. Look, we don't want to induce a state of paranoia among ourselves, but whoever this guy is, I don't think he's finished yet. And I don't think we've seen the worst of what he can do." **** William watched as Barry drew a heavy, black line through the number 18. "That leaves our friends at 23 and 51," William said with a pleased grin. Barry grunted an acknowledgment and leaned back in his chair. "It's been too easy," he said, giving a fake yawn for emphasis. "These guys have no clue, and when it's over, they'll be none the wiser for what it all meant." William considered. "I think you're right." "What do we do, then?" "We add some daring into it. We leave a few pieces of the puzzle lying around for them to find. We hit them it where it hurts the most." He paused and the twisted gentleness that had been playing on his features disappeared to reveal the intense hatred that burned deep inside him - the hatred that drove each and every one of his actions. "We burn them the same way they burned us." Barry was the one smiling now. He liked to see William's anger; it bolstered his own. It reminded him of why they had started this thing in the first place. There had been times, he was loathe to admit, when he had forgotten to fuel his rage, when he had let the present and the future overshadow the past - a past he did not want to forget. Other people had made the decisions then. Other people had decided who would live and who would die, whose life was more important than another's. Rescuers. That was what Barry had thought when the first of the fire engines had pulled up. Everything would be alright. The rescuers had arrived. He had trusted them then. He had had a family then. But now his family was gone. And so was his trust. "Which one is next?" he asked anxiously, his green eyes wide with excitement. "You chose," William replied generously. "Why don't we save the best for last?" Barry suggested. "Maybe, by then, they'll have figured a few things out, and it will be more of a challenge." "You really hate them, don't you?" William said. "And you don't?" "Of course, I do." William lit a cigarette. "But I hate them all equally. You've reserved the bulk of your sentiment for 51." "You know my reasons." William nodded. "Yes, I do." A pause. "They're good reasons." **** Roy sat down beside Johnny on the locker room bench, where the latter was putting far too much intensity into polishing his shoes. It was a mindless intensity, meant to distract from more disturbing thoughts. "You okay?" Roy asked. "Okay as I can be, under the circumstances," Johnny replied with a half-shrug. Roy waited a few seconds. "You knew McIntyre pretty well, didn't you?" "We trained together. Then I went to 110 and Mac went to Station 18. We'd still run into each other. I hadn't seen him in nearly a year, but . . . it doesn't matter." Johnny stopped what he was doing and stared into his locker. "My God, Roy, this guy could strike anywhere. We come off shift in twelve hours. How do we know he's not waiting for one of us?" "We don't," Roy replied flatly. "But it's not like we can barricade ourselves inside our homes and hide out for the rest of our lives." "I know," Johnny muttered. "I just wish there-" He cut off as Mike Stoker entered the room. For some reason, which he could not identify, Johnny felt a flash of irritation. Stoker's arrival felt like an intrusion. But Johnny could have dealt with an intrusion - had it been anyone other than the engineer. Johnny liked Mike a great deal; that was not an issue - even if he did find Stoker to be somewhat enigmatic. Mike Stoker was cool, reserved, untouchable. There would be no display of emotion from the A-shift engineer. It was not because he was indifferent; it was simply not his way. Johnny knew that, and he tried to swallow down his agitation; only he did not want the level-headed stoicism of Mike Stoker at the moment. He wanted someone from whom he could sense the common thread of outrage, anger, and fear. Mike glanced at the two paramedics as he passed through to the latrine. "Mister Cool," Johnny said under his breath, though his tone was not unkind. "He's not like you, Johnny." Roy spoke with mild chastisement. Johnny frowned. "Yeah, and you know, sometimes I envy him that, Roy. He's always in control. He never makes a scene. Never makes a spectacle of himself." "Yeah." Roy said quietly, then he added with a smile, "Perfect captain material." This actually brought a tiny grin to Johnny's lips. "Don't tell Cap that. They're nothing alike." Roy cast Johnny a doubtful eye. "You don't pay attention to anything around here, do you? They're exactly alike, only filling different positions. Mike's getting ready to test for captain. It's a given he's going to make it. Then you watch and see. It will be like a little Cap running around. Think of that and tremble." Johnny laughed, and he was grateful for the diversion. He waited for Mike to come back through then joined him on his way to the kitchen. Roy could hear Johnny's voice echoing across the apparatus room, trying to lure Stoker into a game of Fish. But Stoker wasn't buying it. Roy could not help laughing to himself as the voices faded on Stoker's charge of, " . . . because you cheat, Gage." **** Ask me why, I don't know. Ask me why, and I say Now you see me, now you don't. I thought by now you'd learned You're gonna get your fingers burned. Barry stood among the crowd. He was just another face. A spectator among spectators. There were dozens of people lined up on the sidewalk, drawn by the site of the tremendous blaze. It was his fire. Another masterpiece. A year ago he would have known nothing of how to create such an inferno, but events since then had refocused his energies. Fire and its qualities had become the subject of hours of study and research. Open houses at the local fire stations had provided him with an ample pool of experts who were only too eager and willing to share their knowledge of such a fickle enemy. He listened to the professionals, filled his brain with every detail. And with the added drivers of vengeance and self-righteousness, his motivations were complete. He had nothing to stop him from carrying out his acts of retribution. His job with an architectural firm was unremarkable and uninspiring. He had no family to think of. His wife and two children were dead. They had perished in a fire not unlike the one he was looking at right now. A hotel fire ten months ago. He and his family had come down from Oregon to take in the sights of L.A. A nice family vacation while the children were still young enough to enjoy doing things with their parents . . . Barry's expression hardened as he looked at the flames. He did not need to feel any guilt for what he was doing. Five engine companies . . . Five!! Five engine companies had responded to the fire that had claimed his family. And not one of them had been able to do a damned thing - not in time to save his wife and children. There had been other victims whom the firefighters and paramedics had managed to rescue, but Barry's family had not been among them. Barry would never forget that, never forget watching the firemen come out of the building with victim after victim . . . He would never forget the words of one fireman, the number 51 printed in bright white letters against the black of his helmet. "We're doing everything we can, Sir. Please stay back. We'll do our best to find your family." Barry's attempts to reenter the building had been thwarted each time - by police, by firemen, by well-meaning bystanders. And in the end, the fireman's promised "everything" and "best" were not enough to save Barry's family. A hateful shiver ran through Barry's body as the memories churned through his brain. Station 8. Station 12. Station 18. Station 23. Station 51. Three of them had paid the price so far. Barry was not even sure if the firemen for whose deaths he was responsible had even responded to that fire so many months ago. But it did not matter - not in the least. He was looking strictly at numbers. It was a numbers game. 8. 12. 18. All three stations had felt the bite of his unquenchable wrath. And soon 23 would feel it as well. Victim number four was somewhere inside the burning building. Probably dead from smoke inhalation by now. Station 23 had responded to this blaze. Perhaps they even knew that they had a personal stake in it. Barry always made sure the fire fell within the guilty station's area of responsibility. William had orchestrated the man's abduction nearly twenty-four hours earlier. William was good at figuring out the when, where, and how. He was very clever, calculating - cool. He had a particular manner that came into play whenever it was time to plan the next move. It was, Barry realized, an infatuation with cruelty that made William so effective at instilling terror. William enjoyed the sight of fear. He was an avid observer of all things that might be considered evil. He was unreachable - without compassion, without pity. His motives were not so far removed from Barry's. William had been in the same hotel fire. That common fact was the basis of his acquaintance with Barry. Only William had not lost anyone in the fire - other than himself. He had only to look in the mirror to remind him of God's great injustice. But he did not look into mirrors. He had not looked into mirrors in many months. Alone with his simmering rage, he had plotted in his head the revenge he would take against the men who had let this happen to him. But plotting was all he had done until Barry's unexpected arrival several months earlier. Barry had taken a job in Carson City with another architectural firm. And as his first action upon relocation, he had sought William out. William had been admittedly surprised. He had met Barry for the first time ten months ago in the doomed hotel's bar. They had spent an entire evening talking about their respective jobs, Barry's sightseeing plans, William's engagement to a much younger woman. The next day, Barry invited William to join him and his family for a trip to the typical tourist sites. William accepted. The day had been a pleasant one. That night, the hotel had caught fire. And along with wood, wire, plastic, stucco, upholstery . . . decency had been burned away. Understanding had gone up in smoke. William had found someone to put his plans into action. Barry had found someone to strengthen his own resolve for vengeance. They were a good partnership for what they hoped to accomplish. Barry's eyes narrowed as two more engines arrived. A warm wash of excitement flowed down his throat as he read the number on one of the engines. Fifty-one. He watched as both Engine and Squad 51 were directed around to the north side of the building. He slowly made his way through the crowd to a point where he could observe the last of his objectives. This sort of reconnaissance mission exhilarated him to the point where he felt like an infantry soldier on point. Fifty-one's two paramedics were already donning their oxygen tanks and heading into the building. Two men on the inch-and-a-half. Barry's eyes turned towards 51's captain. Now, there would be a trophy. A captain. Yes, it could be done. He was standing alone, speaking into his handie-talkie. But now, he was moving in behind the two firemen manning the hose. Gone. Into the building. Barry scowled. This was an involved captain, one who liked to be in the thick of things. Catching him alone would be difficult. That left- "He's alone quite often, isn't he?" William's voice startled Barry, who turned with racing pulse to face his partner. William was looking in the direction of the engine. Barry followed his gaze. "Is he?" Barry asked. "This is my first time watching them." "They've responded to some of the other fires," William said matter-of-factly. "You weren't paying attention to them?" "I was concentrating on . . . the catch of the day," Barry said with a perverse grin. William returned his smile. "Well, I've been watching them for months now, even before you came. I've been toying with an idea, and I wanted to wait until I'd had a chance to think it all through." He paused. "They're last on our list. After them, it's over. So, we should make sure this one is satisfying, don't you think?" Barry nodded slowly. "You see," William's voice was low, conspiratorial, "It's a matter of striking where they least expect it." Barry raised a questioning eyebrow. "I think I've pretty well figured out the dynamics of Station 51's A Shift," William grinned. "And I know how to hit them. And hit them hard." Barry looked back towards the engine. Mike Stoker was keeping one eye on the pumps' pressure readings and the other on the door through which the rest of his crewmates had disappeared. "It will be an easy grab," William remarked. "And we're going to do it from right under their noses." **** "Eighteen hours after McIntyre was abducted, the fire where they found his body was called in. Twelve hours after Wilkes disappeared, that fire was started. Hannover was found eight hours later. This last fire was twenty-three hours after Milner was kidnapped. They've got that much figured out." Captain Stanley sat down at the kitchen table and waited for Marco to set dinner in front of him. "Station numbers?" Chet frowned. "That's how many hours they give us to find the guy?" "Looks that way. McIntyre was from Station 18. Wilkes was from 12. It's been consistent." "But they still have no idea who's doing it? Or why?" This came from Roy. Captain Stanley shook his head. "They're still working on that one. All the deaths have been A-shift personnel. But the fires are taking place on whatever shift happens to be on when the clock is up." Marco set Cap's plate in front of him. "But how are they deciding which stations to hit?" "They've all been from the same county," Captain Stanley replied. "Yeah, ours," Johnny added dismally. "There are a lot of other stations in our county," Roy stated. "What if they're planning to hit every single one?" His question was met with dead silence. Marco sat down. No one was eating the dinner he had prepared. Except Mike. "Well, I'm glad to see this hasn't affected your appetite, Mike," Johnny observed. His voice was snide. The uncertainty and strain of the past several months was getting to all of them. But Johnny, being the volatile sort of man that he was, was least able to keep his cool. Mike glanced up, looked around the table at the expectant faces, but said nothing. "This hasn't bothered you at all, has it?" Johnny pressed. "John . . ." Cap warned, raising his eyes to pierce Gage with a reproachful scowl. At first, Mike did not know what to say to such a charge. How could any of them think he was unaffected? He had known every one of the dead firemen. Some of them he had known quite well. He had listened to every report, read every account of the deaths that he could find. He feared for his own crewmates. He, himself, had started exercising greater caution whenever he was away from the station. Strange cars in front of his apartment building had become reason for alarm. A stranger passing by on the street, whose gaze lingered a bit longer than usual, had the effect of raising his pulse and bringing a sweat to his brow. And now Gage was accusing him of not caring? "Yeah, it bothers me," Mike said at last. Johnny waited for more, but he knew Mike well enough to know that further explanation would not be forthcoming. Yet, the fire was already lit. Johnny's mercurial temper needed an outlet, and since the actual guilty party was not available to take it out on, Johnny directed his barrage towards the one person whom he knew would not fight back. "Yeah, I can see you're real torn up over it-" "Gage, that's enough," Captain Stanley interjected. Johnny pushed back in his chair and got up from the table. He left without another word. Roy stood up. "I'll go talk to him. I'm sure he didn't mean it, Mike." Mike nodded and looked back down at his dinner. He was no longer hungry. "You okay, Mike?" Captain Stanley asked. "I'm fine." Chet and Marco glanced at each other then at Cap, who was giving them a silent message to maintain their peace. If Mike said he was fine, they would take his word for it. Even if he was disturbed by what had just happened, he would never admit it. He would keep it to himself until it eventually rolled off of him, the same way everything rolled off of him. The best thing to do was to leave him alone. He'd be alright. *** Roy, however, did not feel so accommodating. He found Johnny out back, leaning against the brick wall surrounding the lot. He went and stood in front of him. "What was that all about?" he asked, his face stern and unyielding. "Roy, I don't want to talk about it right now-" "Well, we're going to talk about it, whether you want to or not. You're lucky Cap's not out here chewing your ears off after the way you just acted." Johnny groaned, shook his head, and turned away. Roy followed him every step of the way as he walked past the drying racks, hung with hoses from the morning's fire. Johnny was moving aimlessly, every movement filled with agitation. Finally, he stopped next to his Rover, leaned his elbows over the hood, and rested his head in his hands. "I don't know why I said it, Roy," he grumbled. "Did something happen between you and Mike? D'you guys have an argument or something?" Johnny gave an incredulous laugh. "An argument? With Mike? Now, how's that going to happen? At the first sign of conflict, he retreats. And even if he hung around, he never strings more than a handful of words together at a time. How can you have an argument with someone like that?" "Then what? What is it? You've been pretty hard on him since this whole thing started," Roy persisted. "I want to know why." Johnny was quiet for a long time before answering, "It's stupid." "What's stupid?" "He's not at risk," Johnny replied. Roy had not been expecting anything like this. "What do you mean, he's not at risk?" "Not like the rest of us." Johnny turned and faced Roy. "We're the ones inside the burning buildings, scaling the cliffs, climbing up onto roofs that could cave in any second. We're trying to rescue people from situations most people can't even imagine. How many times have you ended up in the hospital? How many times have I ended up in the hospital? Even Chet and Marco. Even Cap!" He paused to catch his breath. "And then there's Mike-" Roy cut him off. "You're judging a person's value based on how many times he's been hospitalized?" "He's always with the engine, safe and sound. I know, I know - that's his job. And it's a job all of us are going to have to do if we ever hope to make captain some day. But . . ." Johnny drew in a deep breath. He was disgusted with himself for even thinking such ungracious thoughts towards a fellow firefighter. "You remember that award he got a few months back? That was a very high recognition." Roy's anger was increasing incrementally. Johnny continued. "I'm not saying Mike didn't deserve it-" "Good," Roy interrupted. "Because I don't like what I'm hearing from you right now. Not at all. I don't see where you're going with any of this, unless you want me to believe you're jealous. Is that it? Are you jealous of Mike Stoker? Because he's managed to stay out of hospitals? Because he was presented with a prestigious award? Because he's not at risk? For crying out loud, Johnny-" "Roy, I'm just saying that he can't feel the way the rest of us do about what's going on, because he doesn't face the same risks that we do." Roy shook his head. "You're unbelievable." He started walking back towards the engine bay. He had gone only a few paces before turning and facing Johnny, still hunched over the Rover. "Do you ever think of how much we depend on him? Him knowing his job? There's his risk. The risk of letting us down." With those words, he went into the station house. Johnny watched him go. In every sense, Roy was right. And Johnny had never been one to envy another man's accomplishments or position in life. And he had never begrudged Mike his duty to stay with the engine. Knowing that Stoker was maintaining the equipment, manning the pumps, and ready to slide into the captain's slot, if necessary, had always given Johnny a feeling of security and confidence. But this business of the kidnappings had thrown a wrench into Johnny's appreciation for what Station 51's A-shift engineer did for them. It made no sense, but somehow, Johnny could not count Mike in as a possible victim in this numbers game any more than he could envision him at risk responding to a five-alarm blaze. Mike Stoker was the engineer. Engineers were safe. That was the way it worked. *** No matter how hard he tried or what compound he used, Mike could not get the chrome on the hand-up grips to give him the shine he wanted. On one hand, it frustrated him, because he wanted Engine 51 to still glow like new. But on the other hand, he knew the worn dullness of the metal was testimony to the fact of the engine's use. "We'll break this beast in right." He smiled at his recollection of those words. He had spoken them two years ago, within minutes of the Ward LaFrance's delivery to the station. Their first run with the new engine had been to put out a car seat fire in a wrecking yard. Not exactly the sort of christening Mike had envisioned, but it had been his first time behind the wheel of his new engine. His engine. He comfortably forgot about the fact that two other shifts also rode his engine, that two other engineers maintained and tinkered with the dazzling piece of machinery which Mike considered to be rightfully his - after all, he had been the one on duty to receive it. He had taken her out on her maiden voyage, so to speak. Mike was possessive. And he was not ashamed of that fact. "Mike?" Gage's voice. Mike glanced down at Johnny without stopping what he was doing. "Yeah?" "Look, I wanted to apologize for what I said at dinner," Johnny said, and he sounded genuinely contrite. "I don't know what got into me." Mike nodded and moved onto the next bit of chrome that availed itself. "Don't worry about it. We're all kind of stressed out." "Don't make excuses for me, Mike. I'm trying to apologize." Mike's eyes were drawn immediately to Johnny's hand, wrapped around the chrome grip he had just finished polishing. Johnny saw where Mike was staring, followed his gaze, and broke into a grin. "Sorry about that." He removed his hand, leaving a dull smudge mark. Mike returned his grin with a good-natured simper. "Two apologies in one day. That's got to be some kind of record. But you're not getting off so easy on this one, though." He tossed Johnny the rag and set the can of polish on the step. "Make yourself useful." Johnny met Mike's eyes for an instant, and he knew he had been forgiven. **** Watch me closely, understand That what you see is only an illusion. If I'm wrong and you are right, Then I will light your darkness with confusion. "Station 51. Car over a cliff. North Canyon Road, two miles east of the Wehrman viaduct. Time out, 16:45." "Station 51, KMG 365." North Canyon Road was a firebreak road, little more than a well-packed dirt track, really. Numerous lesser roads branched off of it into areas well-known for their off-road appeal. Every few months, some four-wheeling enthusiast overshot the bounds of reason and caution and ended up in a situation requiring the assistance of the fire department. This fact was quietly circulating through the brains of the Station 51 crewmen; and with it, the hope that the situation was not too severe. North Canyon was filled with scrubby vegetation that seemed to swallow up anything thrown into it. And as there had been remarkably little rain this spring, the brush was brittle, ready to go up in a flash. The slightest spark could be the start of disaster. They reached the turn-off for North Canyon Road in fifteen minutes. Mike hardly slowed down on the dirt road. He sped on, kicking up a cloud of dust behind the engine. He had always had a bit of the lead foot, but Captain Stanley had never felt more secure with anyone else behind the wheel. They came to the viaduct. "Two more miles," Captain Stanley announced. Mike kept an eye on the odometer. As they approached two miles, he slowed down. "There. " Captain Stanley nodded towards an obvious pair of tracks going into the underbrush. Mike brought the engine to a halt. Captain Stanley dismounted and met Chet and Marco at the edge of the road. A moment later, Johnny and Roy joined them. "Looks like they went through right here," Cap stated. "Can any of you see anything?" He received a chorus of no's. "Roy, John, run a couple lines from the engine and go down through that brush-" "Cap! Look, smoke." Marco pointed out. A thin line of gray could be seen snaking its way out of the undergrowth. "Chet, Marco, grab the reel line and let's get down there." Less than a minute later, Roy and Johnny were scuffling down the embankment, following the smoke trail until, at last coming through the last tangle of bushes and brambles, they came upon the car, lying upside down and smashed like a pancake, flames leaping from the upturned under-carriage. "Kelly! Lopez!" Captain Stanley barked out. The two men pushed past with the reel line. Roy hunkered down beside the car and looked inside. "I can't see anyone," he announced after a few seconds. "No, wait! I can see . . . there's foot coming from under the seat here!. Someone's trapped under the seat." He laid down on his stomach and stretched out his arm through the shattered driver's side window. "I can't reach. Can you get in from that side?" "There's this big outcropping of rocks in the way," Johnny replied. "Cap, we're gonna need the jaws," Roy said over his shoulder. Captain Stanley held up his handie-talkie. *** Mike stood at the edge of the road, looking down into the brush below. He could see where the reel line disappeared into entangling undergrowth, and he could still see the smoke. But he could not see his crewmates. This was the thing about his job he most hated - being separated from the others, not knowing what they were getting into. The sound of an approaching vehicle turned his attention back up to the road. A car pulled up behind the engine. Two men got out. "We're the ones who called in the accident," the first man announced. "Is there anything we can do to help?" "No, thanks," Mike replied. "We've got it in hand. The best thing you can do is to stay back." "Of course. We just-I hope nobody is too seriously injured." "We've got our paramedics down there. If anyone's hurt, they'll take-" "Engine 51, this is Captain Stanley." Mike hurried back to the engine's cab. "This is Engine 51. Go ahead, Cap." "We've got the fire out, Mike. We need you to bring down the jaws." "I'm on my way." Mike jumped down from the cab and retrieved the jaws from the equipment compartment. As he came around the front of the engine, he found himself face-to-face with the first occupant of the car. The man stood directly in his path, his countenance impassive. "You're wasting your time," he said in a voice falling dead center. "There is no one in that car." Mike gave him a peculiar look before moving to side-step around him. The man took hold of his arm. "There's no one in that car," he repeated. "Mr Stoker." Mike stood frozen for an instant as he realized whom he was looking at, then he drew back abruptly, jerking his arm free. He whirled around just in time to see the second man standing behind him and the bright flash of something metallic, angling in towards his head. A brief burst of surprise and pain, and Mike Stoker dropped to the ground. *** "Engine 51 . . . Mike, where are those jaws?" Captain Stanley waited a few seconds without receiving a response. He decided Stoker must be on his way; but after another thirty seconds had gone by, he radioed again. "Mike, what's going on up there?" Still no reply. A sudden, horrible fear gripped Captain Stanley then. "Mike's not answering," he announced. "I'm going up to see what's happening. Marco, come with me." When the two men reached the top of the embankment, Stoker was nowhere in sight. "Mike?!" Captain Stanley shouted. "Mike!" He raced towards the back of the engine, while Marco went around the front. Still no sign of the engineer. "Stoker!!" Captain Stanley was panicked now. "Cap! Over here!" Captain Stanley came around to the front of the engine where Marco was down on one knee. The jaws were lying on the ground. A few feet away - a helmet. "There's blood on the ground here, Cap," Marco told him. Captain Stanley dropped down beside him. "Jesus . . ." "They took him." Marco's voice was stilted, incredulous. "Oh my God, Cap-" Captain Stanley brought up his handie-talkie. "L.A., this is Engine 51. One of my men has been abducted from the scene. Repeat, a fireman has been kidnapped from this location. There are no police on the scene yet. Send a squad car." L.A.'s acknowledgment came as Captain Stanley turned to Marco. "Take the jaws down to them. I'll wait up here for the police." "Cap-" "Go on, Marco." Marco hesitated only a second before doing as he was told. When he got down to the vehicle, he was greeted with a degree of irritation. "What's going on up there?" Johnny asked, moving aside so Marco could work. Marco positioned the jaws. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he stopped to consider. Maybe it was better to wait until the rescue was accomplished. No, no. They needed to know the truth, and they needed to know it right now. He drew in a deep breath. "Mike's gone." "What do you mean, gone?" Roy asked, the tone of his voice betraying what he already suspected. Marco concentrated on the job at hand. "Gone," was all he said. "Kidnapped?" Chet blurted out. Marco nodded. "My God," Roy whispered. "What-what about Cap? Is he-" "He's up there waiting for the police," Marco replied. "He shouldn't be up there alone," Johnny said urgently. "They got what they came for," Roy replied, his voice dulled by the shock of the moment. "I don't think Cap's in any danger. I just-I can imagine what he must be going through. We need to get up there. Come on, let's get on with this." "Try it now," Marco stepped back. Chet and Johnny pulled on the door. Johnny slid in on his belly. "I can't-I can only reach his ankle. I'm going to need the jaws-what the . . . what the hell . . ." "What is it, Johnny?" Johnny had his fingers wrapped around the victim's ankle. "This-this isn't real! It's plastic or-give me the jaws!" Marco passed the piece of equipment to Johnny. Suddenly, Johnny's voice exploded from the cramped insides of the ruined vehicle. "It's a mannequin! It's a damned mannequin!" He pulled back out of the car. "It was a set-up! The whole thing was a set-up!" "We'd better get back up top," Roy said. He already had his handie-talkie out. "Engine 51, this is Squad 51." "Go ahead, Roy." "Cap, the body in the car . . . it's a mannequin. There is no victim. We're heading back up right now." Captain Stanley's voice was dismal as he gave his acknowledgment. By the time the rest of Station 51 got up to the road, the police had arrived and were examining the scene. Roy spotted Captain Stanley sitting on the rear running board of the engine, rubbing his temples. A middle-aged man in a gray suit was standing in front of him, holding a notepad in his hand and occasionally jotting down notes. As the rest of his crewmen approached, Captain Stanley looked up. His eyes reflected a sense of failure and defeat that none of his men had ever seen there before. Its appearance was disturbing. "Cap?" To Chet's simple query, Captain Stanley could do nothing more than shake his head. His men wanted to know what was had happened, what was going on. But what could he tell them? They knew as much as he did. The man in the gray suit looked at the new arrivals and then back at Captain Stanley. "The rest of your men?" "Yes," Captain Stanley replied. "I'm Detective Zwick, LAPD," the man introduced himself. "My partner - Detective Shira." He motioned to another suited man who was walking along the road behind the engine, studying tread marks in the loose, dusty surface. "We've been investigating the murders of the other firemen." A pause. "You were all down with the car?" A flurry of nods. "None of you saw anything, then? No cars? No people in the area? You didn't hear anything? A car approaching? Voices? He didn't cry out for help?" While the rest of them shook their heads and mumbled negative replies, Johnny burst out angrily, "If we'd heard anything like that, don't you think we'd have come running up here?" Roy put a hand on Johnny's arm. "None of us heard or saw anything," he said. "You didn't see anything when you drove up?" Again, negative responses. "This whole thing was a set-up," Chet ground out. "They staged the accident, hedged their bets that we'd be the ones responding, and then they just waited for us." "Waited where?" Detective Zwick asked. "They stayed out of sight until Stoker was alone. They had to have been able to observe what was going on. It's clear from the tread marks in the dirt that they pulled right up to the engine, snatched Stoker, and took off - without anyone seeing a thing." "So, what does that mean?" Chet asked, sounding disgusted and impatient. "It means they were watching. And they had probably been watching your station for a long time in preparation for this. They knew what it would take to get Stoker alone. They knew it would have to be far from any onlookers' eyes. They knew it had to be someplace where they could get in and out quickly-" "I shouldn't have left him alone up here," Captain Stanley groaned, standing up and leaning heavily against the engine. "The entire department had been warned, everyone was on pins and needles - I just didn't think they'd ever target Mike." Before anyone could respond, Detective Shira came over and addressed his partner, looking past the five distraught firemen as if they did not exist. "He's becoming more daring, more bold," he commented. "Broad daylight. Orchestrating an entire scenario, just to make a snatch at the scene. He doesn't seem to be worried about getting caught. Looks like he followed Stoker clear around the engine, judging from where the blood and equipment were found." "Blood?" Johnny looked anxiously from one detective to the other, and then over at his captain. But it was Marco who replied when it became clear that Captain Stanley was not going to answer. "Me and Cap found some blood on the ground in front of the engine. The jaws were lying there, too . . . and Mike's helmet." "How did he get close enough to Stoker without tipping off his hand?" Detective Zwick wondered aloud. "A car drove right up, and Stoker didn't radio anyone? That seems unusual with all that's been going on with the other deaths. Unless Stoker had reason to trust this guy. No reason to be suspicious." "On a dirt road in the middle of nowhere?" Shira challenged. "If I knew my friends were being toasted by some maniac and then a strange car pulled up on me, I'd be damned suspicious." More than one offended glare turned in Shira's direction at the callousness of his remark. But if the detective were aware of his tactlessness, he did not show it. "Mike wouldn't be thinking of something like that," Chet said with certainty. "When we're out on a run, all we're thinking about is doing the job. Mike wouldn't be thinking about anything other than us." Both detectives cast accommodating glances at the assembled firemen. "Right . . . duty first, eh?" Shira said in a bland voice. This was as much as Captain Stanley could bear. "What good is any of this doing? My engineer has been kidnapped! From where we're standing - right here! We know he's been hurt, who knows how badly. And we know what's going to happen to him if we don't find him soon! For God's sake, we've got 51 hours! That's it! That's it, then Stoker is dead! Why the hell are you both standing here debating a bunch of bullshit? I want you to find my man! I don't want a damned corpse!" He broke away from where he was standing and began pacing up and the road without purpose, without any idea what to do. Detective Shira looked at Zwick and scowled. "That kind of attitude isn't going to do any good." Zwick, the senior of the two, made a dismissive gesture. "Let it go. He's under a lot of stress." Roy detected a trivialization in his voice. Glancing around, he saw that his crewmates had also caught it, so he stepped forward to head off any unpleasantness. "What should we do?" he asked, keeping his voice and manner respectful. "Do you need us for anything here?" "Well, since none of you saw anything, I don't think there's much you can do for us right now," Zwick replied. "Why don't you head on back to your station. I'm sure you'll have an entire entourage from the fire department waiting there for you. We'll be there as soon as we've wrapped up here." "Come on," Roy said, leading the way to where Captain Stanley was now standing on the side of the road, overlooking the brush that concealed the ruse which had brought them to this point. Captain Stanley saw them approaching out of the corner of his eye. He did not turn to face them, for he feared they would be able to read the emotions in his face. The truth was, Hank Stanley did not hold out much hope for the recovery of his missing engineer. The killer was four for four. And with each successive murder, no one came any closer to identifying the responsible party. Unless the LAPD made some kind of tremendous break-through in the next 51 hours, it was unlikely any of them would ever see Mike Stoker alive again. Instead, roughly 51 hours from now, they would be called out to respond to a fire, and somewhere within that fire would be their crew-mate, their friend. Then they would be the ones racing against time, fighting and searching through flames meant to kill only one person. "Cap?" "Yeah." "They want us to go back to the station. They'll be there as soon as they're done here," Roy explained. Captain Stanley nodded. "Then let's go. Marco, you drive the rig." Hardly a word was spoken in Engine 51 on the way back to the station. The conversation in Squad 51 did not amount to much more than vocal expressions of morose fears. "How could this have happened?" Johnny said. "How could they have taken him when we were right there?" "Easy target," Roy replied, his voice contrary to his outer collectedness. "Easy target?" "He was alone. He's alone all the time when we go out on a run." Roy paused. "It's like Zwick said: they must have been watching us for a while. The whole thing was perfect, down to the last detail." "So, what are we going to do?" "There's nothing we can do, Johnny. We're not criminal investigators. We have to let them do their jobs and just hope they find him before we get the call." "We've only got 51 hours, Roy." "That's more than any of the others had." Johnny shook his head and gave a sideways glance at his partner. "You know we're going to get that call." "They may not let us respond." "They'd better. That's our own man whose life is at stake." "That sounds like a good reason to keep us out of it." Johnny turned bodily. "That's crazy!" "Look, I don't like the thought of it any more than you do, but look at us now. Cap looked like he was in shock. Chet and Marco didn't look much better. And listen to us - we don't know the first thing about police work, and yet we're talking like we're ready to go out and turn the entire county upside down." "Do you want to stay out of it, Roy?" Johnny asked. Roy's answer was immediate. "No. But I think we need to be a little smarter about this. There's a reason this is happening. Maybe if we all put our heads together, we can come up with some ideas. But we have to leave the real detective work to the guys who are trained to do it." "Well, we're trained to put out fires and rescue people," Johnny countered. "That's all I'm saying - that when the call comes, they can't hold us back from going just because it's our man in there. They have to let us go. That's what we're trained to do." Roy nodded. "Yeah . . . that's what we're trained to do." **** Voices. Mike could hear voices. He shifted slightly then lay still. His head was pounding, and the voices were coming to him in distorted fragments. It was not possible to tell how many men he was hearing, only that there was more than one. He recalled right away what had happened. The car over the embankment in North Canyon. The two men who had approached him and offered to help. Captain Stanley calling for the jaws. "There is no one in that car." A violent shiver rattled his body as he remembered the sound of that voice and the sudden stab of terror that had gone up his spine as the words had been spoken. Those words were the last thing he remembered. Now, here he was. He was lying on his stomach, his hands secured behind him, his eyes covered with tape. The surface beneath his cheek was cold and damp, like the packed dirt of a cellar, and the sour quality of the air told him he was in an enclosed space. He pushed up slowly to his knees, where a wave of dizziness swayed him for several seconds. When that had passed off, he took stock of the damage. The left side of his face felt hot and swollen, and a general stiffness made his neck and shoulders feel tight and rigid. But other than that, he could detect no injuries. The only other discernible effect of the abduction was the slight tremor that vibrated through him at odd intervals. He could not stop it. He could not will his body into cooperation. He was frightened; there was no denying it. The best he could hope for was to camouflage it in front of his captors. He was about to get to his feet when the sound of footsteps on wooden stairs made him reconsider and he sat back on his heels, waiting expectantly. "Well, we figured you'd be coming around about now." This was same voice Mike recalled from accident scene. When the man spoke again, it was from much closer. "Well, Mike Stoker, it might please you to know that you're the last one. That should give you some sense of relief, knowing your fellow men in blue will be safe after you're gone." A pause. The next words were whispered into his ear, as if a great secret were being imparted. "Or perhaps, there is no relief. You must know you're going to die. There are no ransoms here. No deals or bargains." Mike was silent. "It wasn't that we wanted you, in particular. Anyone from 51's A-shift would have done. But we wanted to take someone right from the scene, and you were certainly the most accessible." The man made a sound that might have passed for laughter. "We watched. For a long time, we watched. Then when the time came, it was too easy. You didn't suspect a thing when we pulled up, did you? Did you?" William looked at Stoker and waited to see if he would get an answer. The other victims had been anxious to talk, to try and procure their freedom, to take a chance at out-talking or out-thinking their captors. But this one was going to be different. He was going to be a challenge. It would take some work to get a reaction out of him. "That's alright. You don't have to answer." After a moment of uncomfortable quiet, the man resumed with carefully studied nonchalance. "We're already down to 48 hours. That's two days. We can do a lot with you in two days. Look at what we did to the others, given less time." Mike could hear the man getting back to his feet. "Let's get started then, shall we?" *** You ask me why, I don't know You ask me why, and I say Chances are you're playing with fire I thought by now you'd learned You're gonna get your fingers burned. Roy and Johnny found Chet and Marco out back behind the station. It seemed to be the only place they could go and get away from the entourage of investigative personnel that had descended upon the place. Detectives Zwick and Shira had brought a brigade of specialists with them, not to mention the top brass from both the police and the fire department. Four deaths had been an atrocity. Five - it was unthinkable, intolerable. And the fact that the victim had been snatched right out from the scene . . . the outrage exceeded the anxiety. And there was something wrong with that fact -- something that irked the four men who stood gathered and unspeaking in the dusk behind the station. At last and as usual, Johnny was the first to speak his mind. "This is absurd," was all he said. Chet glanced up at him. "That's not quite the word I would have chosen." "Scary is more like it," Marco added. He unconsciously turned his gaze into the open bay, his eyes directed towards the engine. "We may never see him again." "Not alive," Chet added morosely. "Chet," Roy cut him off with an admonishing glare. "Sorry, I'm just - I'm sorry," Chet apologized. Johnny went on, realizing his words had been misunderstood. "I didn't mean that what happened is absurd. I meant all these people here, all this stuff they're doing . . . didn't they do the same with the others? Tapping the station's phone lines? Looking under every stone and pebble? But it didn't do any good. They're looking in the wrong places. Look, did the kidnappers ever call back to the station or anywhere else? No. They're not interested in negotiating-" "The police are following up other leads, too, Johnny," Roy reminded him. "But they're just trying to make sure every angle is covered." "Yeah, the one angle they're not covering is the fact that in forty-eight hours, there's going to be a fire." Chet thrust this truth forward with malice in his voice. "And Mike is going to be somewhere inside whatever building they decide to torch. What are they doing to make sure every available man is sent to that fire?" Captain Stanley's voice startled them. "Nothing," he replied. "They're not going to send every available man to that fire, Kelly." Before the smoldering looks of rage from his firefighters could turn into shouts of the same, Stanley went on. "They can't send every station to fight one fire because it might save the life of one fireman. The response will be whatever the fire warrants." He leaned against the drying rack. "They'll make sure enough men are on hand to help locate Stoker. We won't have to go it alone. That's for certain. It will be a matter of time, how quickly the units responding can move." "Are they going to let us respond, Cap?" Marco asked. Captain Stanley nodded. "At least, that's what the word is right now." It did not go unnoticed by the four men that their captain was speaking with considerable detachment, considering how upset he had been earlier. "You okay, Cap?" Johnny asked. Captain Stanley raised an eye to regard his firebrand paramedic with empathy. "Are any of us okay?" It was a rhetorical question, so when Johnny answered, it was unexpected. "I can't stop thinking about the things I said earlier." He rested the back of his head against the wall. "We were all on edge, John," Captain Stanley replied. Johnny looked to Roy. Only Roy knew the terrible things Johnny had been feeling towards Stoker. Roy's impassive face did not give Johnny any sense of ease. "What do we do now, Cap?" Marco asked. "We wait. We should be getting the call on the last night of our shift," Captain Stanley replied. "I, uh . . . I don't have a lot of faith in-" he jerked his head back towards the firehouse. " . . . but I do have faith in you guys. I don't care what it takes. When we get the call, we're going to find him. Mike's not going to be number five." *** "When are they going to stop? Why don't they stop? Stop it. Please, just stop it." "Stop." Mike did not recognize his own voice. He did not remember making the conscious decision to speak. But somehow the word had crept out of him, and now he wished he had been a bit stronger. How long had they been beating him? He did not know. He wasn't even sure how many hours had passed since he had awoken to find himself in this place. What he did know was that the relentless pounding on his back had brought him to the point where he could not take any more. But he had not meant to ask them to stop. He had not wanted to say a word for fear of provoking them even further. There were two men. He could tell that much. And from the intensity of the abuse they were leveling upon him, it was clear that they took considerable joy in the administration of pain. But Mike could take some pain. He could take a great deal of pain when it came to it; however, his tolerance had finally been exceeded. The continuous rapping across his shoulder blades had done it. He was still wearing his turn-out coat, and this had dulled some of the impact; but the persistence of his tormentors had won out. "Did you say something?" This voice belonged to the second man. His name was Barry. The first man's name was William. The fact that the two men addressed each other by name in his presence told Mike that they were not afraid of their captive possibly identifying them at a later date. They were assured of his death, and thereby, assured of his silence. "I asked if you said something." Mike did not answer. One of the men took his jaw in a rough grip and jerked his head up. "Have you had enough?" It was Barry's voice. Again, Mike was silent. "Have you had enough?" Barry was actually pleased when he received no answer. "I'll take that as a no, then." He thrust Stoker up against the wall and slapped him about the face in a taunting manner. "You think you're going to beat us, don't you? You think you can hold on until your friends find you. They're not going to find you - not until it's too late. So, you just go ahead, try to keep that stiff upper lip. You'll be screaming soon enough. They all broke down at some point. You're not going to be any different." Mike heard a wooden tapping on the wall beside his head. Barry continued to thump the wooden rod against the wall, rhythmically and with enough force to rattle Mike's brain. "How's your back doing? Hurts pretty badly, I'll bet. How about another go-round?" Barry stared hard at the man hunched before him. Stoker's impeccable calm was infuriating. His voice took on a threatening slant. "There's still a long way to go, fireman." With these words, the thumping stopped and in the next instant, the smooth rounded edge of the rod made violent contact with Mike's cheek. A shattering pain exploded through the left side of his face. He stumbled a few steps and sagged against the wall, sliding down to his knees. Barry hunkered down beside him. "And don't think that I'll get tired. I never get tired." William stepped up and peered over Barry's shoulder at their latest and final victim. A dark one-sided smile curled his mouth. "We've still got almost forty hours to fill, Barry. Save something for that time. We wouldn't want our friend here to get bored." "Oh, he won't get bored. I'll make sure of that." **** "If we look at all the alarms that 8, 12, 18, 23 and 51 have responded to together over the last year, we're already into the twenties. Go back another year, and we're into the forties," Chief Houtz explained. His audience included Detectives Zwick and Shira, plus their entourage. "And we can't even be sure what the common thread is that's driving these murders. It may have nothing at all to do with any particular stations. It could be that he's working his way through every station, drawing numbers out of a hat." Detective Zwick was unconvinced. "No, there's a basis for what he's doing. He's got reasons. And he's got help. I have serious doubts that this is a one-man job." Shira nodded his agreement. "So, what are their reasons? None of the dead firemen had anything in common other than that they were firemen. They weren't friends. They didn't all come from the same station. They weren't all the same year group. Why were those particular firemen targeted? I tend to agree with Detective Zwick. At some point, they all responded to the same fire, and pinpointing that fire is where we need to start." Chief Houtz turned an incredulous gaze on the two detectives. "That's impossible. How are we going to pinpoint which fire it was?" "We'll start by looking at the fires that resulted in deaths," Detective Zwick replied. "The death of a loved one is a pretty strong motivator, wouldn't you agree, Chief?" "Listen, I was only talking about responses that involved the five stations hit so far. How do know that that next week, another station won't be hit? If we look for responses that involved at least 8, 12, 18-" "That expands the pool of eligibles, right?" Zwick cut him off irritably. "So, you should get your people on it as soon as possible. Any response that had, as a minimum, 8, 12, 18, 23, and 51. Deadly fires. Look for deadly fires." Chief Houtz hesitated for a moment, before ringing back to his headquarters with this latest tasking. It was a lesson in futility, as far as he was concerned. What did the two detectives hope to accomplish in forty hours? While he could not disagree with their reasoning, he viewed their course of action as completely amiss, considering the clock against which they were racing. Reigning in his frustration, he set out in search of Captain Stanley, whose absence from the thick of things had been notable. He found Stanley in his office, briefing Stoker's replacement, another seasoned engineer named Jack Ferguson. "Jack," Chief Houtz reached out and shook his hand. Ferguson nodded a greeting. "Jack, would you excuse us for a minute?" This from Chief Houtz. "Of course, Chief." Once Ferguson had left, Chief Houtz turned his attention to the bedraggled Captain Stanley. "Hank, are you sure you don't want me to take 51 off the air for the rest of the shift? Or I can bring in another shift. It won't be any problem." "I'm sure, Chief," Captain Stanley replied, sounding exhausted and defeated. "The squad just went out on a run-" "I heard," the chief cut him off. "Gage and DeSoto didn't look too thrilled about being called out of here. That's why I'm asking you if you want to reconsider." "Actually, I think it's better for us to stay available. It'll help keep us from thinking too much about it . . . " Captain Stanley's voice trailed off. "God, that's a ridiculous thing to say. It's all I can think about. What if they're doing the same things to Stoker that they did to the others . . . that means they could be hurting him right now." "But the important thing is that we know he's still alive. We know how these guys work. They won't kill him outright. They'll leave that to the fire. As long as we know that, it means we have a chance." He paused. "None of the fires have been elaborate. They've all been simple. Old wooden structures, for the most part. Easy to set on fire. They go up quickly. Lots of smoke. Those fires were meant to do one thing - kill the man inside. I don't think we're looking at a master arson or a pyromaniac. We're looking at someone who's learned just enough about fire to accomplish his purpose." "And his purpose is to kill firemen." "His purpose is to seek revenge for some real or imagined injustice. Killing firemen is his means to achieving that purpose." Captain Stanley sat down on the edge of his desk and gave an audible expression of anguish. "Chief . . . how does any of that help me get my engineer back? They brought in those detectives and half the LAPD payroll to work on these killings, and they're no closer now than they were four months ago when the whole thing began. They're not going to crack this case in the next forty hours. The only thing that's going to save Stoker now is if we find him before the fire does." Chief Houtz noticed the grim, determined look that had come into his subordinate's eyes. He nodded slowly. "You're right, Hank. You're absolutely right. But it helps to know what we're dealing with. Whoever he is, he likes a challenge. He likes to challenge us, to challenge the police. To him, it really is a race against time; but it's us who are running the race, and he gets to be the spectator." Captain Stanley blew his breath out in a heavy exhalation. "Chief . . . I can't guarantee that my men won't go full-bore into that fire to find Stoker." Chief Houtz gave him a curious eye. "Are you saying you and your men can't be trusted to act prudently under the circumstances?" "No, no, that's not what I meant, Chief," Captain Stanley replied evenly. "We're professionals. We know what our job is. But we're also human beings. Knowing one of our crewmates is in that fire . . . I know they won't rest until they find him. Neither will I." Chief Houtz nodded his understanding. "I wouldn't expect anything less, Hank." **** The taste of blood would not leave his mouth. And the worst thing was that he did not know where the blood was coming from. It seemed to seep up his throat in a continuous swell; and the more he swallowed down, the greater became his urge to vomit. He had spent the better part of the last hour choking down bile and struggling to maintain some semblance of composure. He was sitting now with his back against the wall, listening to the sound of his own breathing. It was the uneven, ragged sound of fear. And Mike Stoker loathed himself for it. He was a fireman, for Christ's sake. Fear and the unexpected were part of his everyday life. He had become a master at playing down his fear and controlling all outward signs of anxiety. Being an engineer for the last four years had helped. While he had to admit that he missed handling the hoses and going into the thick of things, he also recognized just how much being an engineer meant to him. And being Hank Stanley's engineer added to his sense of fulfillment. Captain Stanley had always given Mike free reign with the engine and the equipment. He never had to double-check Mike Stoker's work. Mike's natural level-headedness made him a masterful engineer, even under the most trying of circumstances. There was no question of who the number two man was on Station 51's A-shift. Joking and friendly banter aside, when it came down to business, they all knew they were lucky to have someone like Stoker on their team. Mike knew that his captain trusted him. He knew his crewmates depended on him. And now he was depending on them. This was altogether something new. He had never depended on anyone before. It had always been the other way around. And this, more than any prospect of further abuse or even an orchestrated death, set the fear in his heart. Mike Stoker did not want his crewmates to be the ones under obligation. He did not want to have to rely on them for his deliverance. And it was not their failure that he feared; it was the anguish they must be going through even at this moment. There had to be a great turmoil of emotion in Station 51 right now, and he was at the center of it. He hated that thought. "Such a handsome face." William's voice. "You know, I was very handsome, too. Once." William reached out and brushed his fingers over the bruises on Mike's face. "Even more handsome than you." There was a long pause, during which Mike could not suppress a shudder. There was something in William's voice and in his words that reached deep inside to twist Mike's stomach in knots. He made a small movement away from William's touch, knowing that this would elicit a reaction; yet, suddenly the man's mere presence terrified him. "Where are you going?" William asked pleasantly. "Does that hurt? Or do you just not like me touching you?" "Leave me alone." The words came out before Mike even knew he was speaking. "Ah!" William's voice burst out in triumph. "He speaks! The man of stone speaks!" He reached out again, but the instant his fingertips came into contact, Mike jerked away violently. "You're afraid of me, aren't you?" William said softly. "You're afraid. Tell me you're afraid." "Stay away from me." Mike lurched clumsily to his feet, where he stood swaying until he was forced to lean back against the wall. William was impressed. "You're not quite as docile as you seem to be. You've put up a better show of resistance than the rest of them combined." He moved in closer. "You don't like me touching you. That's very funny, in a way. You see, people don't like touching me. Not anymore. No one wants to touch me anymore. Do you want to know why?" Mike knew if he spoke, his voice would betray him. He remained silent. "Do you want to know why?!" William's voice rose to a shout, tinged with near-hysteria. He jerked Mike around and pressed him into the wall. He fumbled with the cord around his wrists, untying him; then he spun him back around and slammed his back against the wall. He took hold of Mike's left wrist and brought the engineer's fingers up to his chest. "Do you feel that?! Do you?! What does that feel like to you?" William was screaming now. "Does it feel like burnt flesh? Does it feel like an old wound? My entire body is an old wound!" He pressed closer. "But not that old. Not so old that I've forgotten." Mike was only partially hearing his words. He was more aware of his hands being free than he was of William's festering rage. He had a chance now. He was still blindfolded, and as tightly as the tape was sealed over his eyes, he knew that any attempt to remove it would have to be carried out slowly and carefully, or he ran the risk of damaging his eyes. That meant he would |