have to put William out of action without the benefit of sight, and he would have
to remove the tape before Barry showed up. Unless Barry was already there, watching in silence. It would never work, but it was worth the chance--his only chance. Mike lunged forward, throwing his weight into William and falling to the ground on top of him. Gripping both sides of William's head, he began pounding him against the floor. William's voice burst forth in shouts of desperation. Mike heard the sound of rapid footsteps from somewhere above him. Panic seized him. William was still struggling in his grasp. He could not let go of him to take off the blindfold, and it was clear that Barry was coming to William's aid. He drew back for one blind punch. His knuckles came into painful contact with what could only have been William's temple. William stopped moving. Mike immediately reached for the tape covering his eyes, but no sooner had he released his hold on William than the body beneath him bucked violently. William's ruse had worked. He reached up and wrapped his hands around Stoker's wrists just as the door into the cellar opened. "William?!" "Barry! Hurry!" Barry, wielding the wooden rod, was at the bottom of the steps in an instant. Seeing William's predicament, he moved in behind where Mike was still perched on top of William's chest and took a swing, catching Stoker in the right shoulder and knocking him to the ground. Mike scrabbled away a few feet, reaching once again for the tape. Another blow followed, this one to the ribs. And another. And another. He threw his arm up to try and deflect the blows, but when the rod came down again, this time Mike Stoker screamed. He felt and he heard the bones in forearm snap in two. He stopped fighting and fell to his side, cradling his injured arm. "Bastard!" Barry spat out, grabbing the rope up off the floor. Then he looked to William. "How did he get loose?" "My own mistake," William replied with a slight grin. "Are you alright?" "I'm okay," William said, drawing in a deep breath and getting to his feet. "A bit bruised, maybe a little bloody . . . but I'm okay. It was quite exhilarating, actually. He's full of surprises." "Yeah, well, I've got some surprises of my own," Barry sneered. He grabbed the collar of Mike's turnout coat and hauled him to his knees, deaf to the cries of pain that accompanied the movement. He tossed the rope to William, who secured Stoker's wrists once again. Yet, William was not unmoved by the pain he was witnessing. In fact, an amazing surge of excitement was coursing through his body. This was the first true sign of life Stoker had given them. The man could be gotten to. He was not untouchable. "What do you have in mind?" William asked. "Let's take him outside." William was pleased. "Very well." Mike stumbled along between the two men, up the wooden steps, through a series of twists and turns, then out into the fading warmth of the late spring evening. Behind his blindfold, the world took on an orange-ish aspect. It was still light out. They were being exceedingly rough with him, but he could not expect any less. Indeed, he was prepared for much worse. They led him on an interminable trudge over uneven ground, barely slowing when their victim dropped awkwardly to his knees every few yards. Mike was wondering in a vague sense where they were taking him and what they had planned; but his thoughts would not pull together into anything coherent. He lost his footing yet again, knocking into Barry on his left and tumbling the two of them to the ground. "Damn you!" Barry swore, getting to his feet and grabbing the collar of Mike's turnout coat. "I'll make you walk if I have to beat you every step of the way!" He was pulling violently, trying to bring Mike to his feet; but Mike could feel his left leg caught on something. Barry continued pulling in aggravated jerks. Mike felt a sudden tearing pain in his thigh. "Woah, hold on a second, Barry. He's caught in the wire there-" "I don't give a damn!" Another yank. Mike cried out. "Why don't you help me pull him out?" Barry sounded angry. "It would be my pleasure," William replied. Mike felt William's hands take him under his other shoulder. No one made any effort to untangle him from the mess of rusted barbed wire that had grabbed hold of him. Instead, he found himself trailing a measure of the stuff behind him as they continued on their way. He heard Barry and William, the upset gone from their voices now, laughing and taunting. "Maybe we should bring some of this back with us, use this to truss him up." This was Barry's gleeful suggestion. "No, too messy," William replied. "But we may not have a choice if we can't get it off him. Besides, we don't want to get messed up ourselves by that stuff." The two men laughed. Mike felt his self-control beginning to slip away. The world was beginning to spin. He felt the swell of nausea coming up his throat, launching him into a fit of vomiting. And still, they pulled him along, down a gradual slope, through a line of waist-high grass, which gave way to the tall, serrated reeds of a marshland. Before Mike could even process what was happening, he was forced onto his knees and his head thrust under the water. Immediately, he began to fight. Terror eclipsed his injuries, releasing a flood of adrenaline, which powered his initial efforts at resistance. Mike was not a slightly built man; nor was he without the means to defend himself. He was a lean six-foot-two -- strong, fit, and running on utter panic. Despite his injuries and the deprivations of his captivity, he was still able to corral enough energy that his captors were struck with admiration. William and Barry were hard-pressed to keep him down. It took both of them, bearing their full weight against his back, to hold him in the water. It was only when his struggles began to grow more feeble and spasmodic, that they jerked him up and admiration turned to lust - a lust to inflict more of the same. Between them, Mike's body was taut, his breath coming in gasps, his voice issuing forth in strange sounds that could have been cries for help, pleas for mercy, or expressions of fear. "What? You want to call for help? Go ahead. Go ahead, call for help! I'll shout with you!" Barry taunted then raised his voice in a shrill, ear-piercing cry. He screamed again and again, his voice rolling away and vanishing in an instant. "You see, it doesn't matter! No one can hear you out here. There's not another soul for miles! No one's coming, Mr Stoker. No one's ever coming. No one's even thinking about you." Mike went limp in their grasp. He was not unconscious; it was simply as if he no longer had any control over his movements. Even his thoughts would not fall into order. All he knew was that he had no hope against these men. He could not stop them. He could not fight them. As they pushed him back under the water, Mike could think of only one thing. It didn't matter anymore. No one was coming. **** Watch me closely, be aware That all I do is only to surprise you. Every move is sleight of hand And every word is planned to mystify you. "Station 51, Engine 6, fire at the bowling alley, Ulysses Plaza, Brinker Road, cross-street Nepal. Time out 22:30." Captain Stanley noticed his hand was shaking as he cued the mic. "Station 51. KMG 365." He turned to find Detective Zwick at his elbow. "Do you think-" "It hasn't been 51 hours yet. It's been . . . just over 30," the detective replied. "But just in case, I'll go with you, and Shira will stay here." Captain Stanley gave a curt nod, handed the address off to Roy in the squad, and took his place in the passenger seat of the engine. He watched Jack Ferguson out of the corner of his eye. The man did everything in exactly the same order and in the same manner as Stoker. But this was to be expected. As varying as the personalities might be, there were certain things that all engineers did alike. There were procedures that had to be followed. There were quirky things that only engineers did - things that could only be attributed to the unavoidable love affairs they developed with their engines. Hank Stanley did not wonder at his engineer's sanity whenever he found Stoker taking admiring strolls around the engine or smiling unobserved while toiling over the equipment during preventive maintenance inspections. He had done the same himself when he had been an engineer. But watching Jack Ferguson at the wheel of the rig, where Hank Stanley was used to seeing Mike Stoker, the captain felt only remorse and a dull sense of anxiety. Ulysses Plaza was a five-minute ride from the station. A murky plume of smoke, illuminated by the streetlights in the parking lot, rose from one end of the plaza. No flames were visible. Roy pulled the squad up at a safe distance, and Ferguson brought the engine up behind him. Captain Stanley jumped down from the cab and headed for a group of people standing on the grassy median of the parking lot. As he approached, a man stepped out from the group and ran to meet him. "I'm Joe Thayer, the manager on duty. The fire's in the snackbar. Idiot Jenkins - he's the kid running the snack bar - he spilled oil onto the burner, I think. The whole snackbar went up, and everyone started running. We couldn't get to Jenkins. There were too many flames," the man groused. "He's still in there?" "Far as I know." "Is anyone else in there?" "I don't know. How could I know something like that? The whole damned place was filling up with smoke. I wasn't gonna wait around to make sure everyone else made it out. The rest of the staff is out here, but I don't know how many customers we had in there. Some may still be inside." Captain Stanley snorted his disgust at the man's demeanor, then turned to his men. "Roy, John, check out the snackbar, then see if there's anyone else inside. Chet, Marco, take the inch-and-a-half and go in with them. Oxygen masks and life lines." The smoke inside the bowling alley was so thick that the four firemen's progress was reduced to a series a stumbles and false-starts. The snackbar, situated left of the entrance, was engulfed in flames, which had spread across to the seating area and were just starting to run across the ceiling over the fire exit. "Chet, Marco! I need to get in closer!" Johnny shouted through his mask. Roy nudged Johnny to get his attention. "I'll check out the rest of the place." Johnny nodded. Chet and Marco knocked down the flames around the snackbar. Johnny moved forward and peered over the counter. He knew from looking that the man was dead. Still, he went around to make sure. A quick check for a carotid pulse confirmed what he already knew. He began to straighten up, but stopped abruptly, drawn by a sudden, ghastly thought that made him stare down in the grotesque mask of face glaring back up at him. This was no one he knew, a fact he accepted with a combination of bizarre, guilt-ridden relief and trembling anxiety. He turned to face Chet and Marco and gave them an exaggerated head-shake as an indication that it was too late for this one. He picked up Roy's life line in one gloved hand and followed it into the smoke, leaving Chet and Marco to battle the spreading flames. Johnny was amazed at the ground Roy had covered. By the time he caught up with him, more than half of the facility had been checked. They decided to conduct the rest of the search together to avoid the confusion of two life lines and a possible duplication of effort. Neither of them dared voice what was on his mind, as if to speak of it might somehow make the worst of their nightmares come true. Instead, they carried out their search in wordless silence, each trying to convince himself that this was not the fire - couldn't be the fire. The timing was wrong. They were supposed to have 51 hours. After several minutes, they followed the life line back to where Chet and Marco had been joined by Captain Stanley and second hose team from a Engine 6. "We didn't find anyone, Cap!" Roy said loudly. "Did you make a thorough sweep?" Both Johnny and Roy hesitated before answering. At last, Roy replied, "We can go back for another look!" "Listen, this place is-" The sound of fire and raging water was overpowering. Captain Stanley led his two paramedics towards the door and thinner smoke. He pulled his mask up just enough to be heard. "I called in a full first alarm. This place is a firetrap with all the upholstered wallpaper and the soundblocks on the ceiling. I don't want you guys running through there again if you've already checked it out thoroughly." "We could have missed something, Cap," Roy replied. "You saw how thick the smoke was in there. I'd feel better if we had one more look." Captain Stanley looked at Johnny and saw the same glint of determination showing in his eyes. He took a deep breath. "Okay," came his approval. "But make it fast. Time isn't exactly on our side." Both paramedics knew what was meant by this statement. If Stoker were somewhere inside this building, the smoke would already be suffocating him. If not the smoke, then how long before the flames reached him? And if he was not here? If this was not the fire? The waiting would begin all over again. **** "Cold . . . I'm cold. I'm so cold." "You won't have to worry about that much longer." Mike was confused. Someone was speaking to him; yet he had not spoken. Had he? "My arm hurts." "Isn't that a shame." Mike knew the voice. And he feared it. "Where am I?" This time he was certain he had spoken out loud. "You've forgotten? After all we've done for you?" Fragments of memory slowly coalesced into a hazy reconstruction of events. "I-I'm still here?" It was a stupid question, but it was the only thing on Mike's mind. The sole thought that occurred to him. "For ten more hours," William replied. "After that, it's up to your friends at 51." He paused. "But if you're relying on them, you're going to be disappointed. We've already told you, they won't find you. They're not even looking right now. Do you know why? It's because your crewmates don't care. They don't care whether you live or die." William waited to see what reaction his words would elicit. Admittedly, this last victim was stubborn, unwilling to break. Physical pain had not been able to bring him to his knees, but coupled with some mental manipulation - that might do the trick. "You know they don't care. You've always been the odd man out in that station, haven't you? I know, I've been watching. You don't fit in there. They don't want you there. Why, they've already got another engineer in to take your place, and they've stayed available. They just responded to a fire in a bowling alley." He laughed. "You see, I know it all. I hear it all. " "Stop it." "The truth hurts?" "That's not the truth," Mike protested. "You're lying." "Do you want me to put the radio down here, so you can hear it yourself?" "They'll look for me-" "They're not looking. No one's looking. No one cares." Mike swallowed audibly. He was starting to shake again. At last, he asked in a quiet voice, "Why are you doing this?" William hesitated. "Do you know . . . of all the victims, you're the only one to ask that. Oh, all the others . . . they did all sorts of talking. Mostly they tried to convince us not to kill them. But none of them ever asked why we were doing it. Do you really want to know why, Mr Stoker?" There was a long moment of silence, then William's voice, soft and dangerous, filled the entire room. "How long have you been a fireman?" "Twelve years," Mike replied. "Twelve years. That's a long time. How many fires have you responded to in those years? Hundreds? Thousands? Whatever the number, it's been a lot, I'm sure." A pause. "Do you know how many fires I've been in? One. Just one." His voice grew distant. "Have you ever been burned, Fireman Stoker?" Mike could not find his voice. William knelt down next to him and put his lips to Mike's ear. "Have you ever been burned? In all those fires, were you ever burned?" "N-no," Mike stammered. "Imagine that. You've been in hundreds of fires. I've been in one. You've never been burned. I have. Where's the justice in that?" Mike opened his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. He did not have the slightest idea what to say to this man. "There is no justice in it." William answered his own question. "That's why I've taken it into my own hands to ensure that justice is served." He placed a finger under Mike's chin, tracing a line along his jaw. "How can you possibly empathize with your victims if you've never experienced what they've been through?" "I-I just try to . . . to put out fires," Mike said, his mind growing numb from the implications of the conversation. "Put out fires . . . do you remember all the fires you've responded to?" "I don't-I don't know . . ." "I remember the fire that burned me. I'll bet you've already forgotten it. You were with Station 51 at the time. You were on A-shift. That means you were there. But I'll bet you've forgotten already. Whereas, I'll never forget. The Oceanic View Hotel. Ten months ago. I'll never forget. You never forget the fire that burns you." Mike did not even attempt a reply. He heard the sound of a match being struck into flame. An instant later, he felt the pain along his jaw. He did not process what was happening right away. It was just another pain in the succession of recent pains. But then, its intensity made him jerk violently away, and he realized that he had been burned. "I'm disappointed in you, Mr Stoker," William announced with an evident thrill in his voice. "This is only a match, a tiny flame, hardly worth the heat it produces." He held the match under Stoker's chin and watched him flinch away again. "But imagine what this little flame can do. It can light a candle. It can set fire to these clothes. It could start a fire that burns this entire building to the ground. It could kill you. And it will, but not this flame. Not yet. I'm going to hurt you first - here, where I can see it and savor every moment. Before you die, you're going to know what it feels like to be one of the victims they couldn't get to in time." Mike, inching along the ground, away from the sound of William's voice, found himself in Barry's cruel embrace. He felt Barry's arms wrap around him from behind, and he heard the sound of perverse laughter in his ear. "His coat," William said. Barry pulled the turnout coat off of Mike's shoulders, as far as his bound wrists would allow. "You're lucky I'm a man of compassion," William stated, reaching forward with slow deliberation to unbutton Mike's shirt. "I'll only hurt you a little bit at a time. You see, I want you to be fully coherent and in complete command of your senses when the fifty-one hours are up." **** "Cap?" Captain Stanley looked up from the desk in his office. It was DeSoto. "Can I come in?" "No. I came in here to be alone. I don't want to see anyone." "Sure, Roy." Roy came just inside the door. "I, uh . . . I couldn't sit out there anymore." "I know what you mean," Captain Stanley replied. Listening to Zwick and Shira and their pool of assistants go over the same information time and time again had begun to wear on everyone's nerves. Especially since they appeared to be making no headway. But that was not Captain Stanley's only reason for fleeing the day room. The fire in the bowling alley- "It's been forty-eight hours," Roy remarked, leaning wearily against the wall. "Yeah." An awkward silence followed. At last, Roy came over in front of the desk and sat down. "I've got to tell you, Cap, I'm scared to death." Captain Stanley raised his head and regarded Roy with a thoughtful gaze. "You're not the only one." "Maybe-maybe we should get the guys together and . . . I don't know . . . talk about this. I think everyone is worried about how we're going to react when that alarm sounds," Roy suggested. "Huh, I think we got a pretty good idea of how we'll react based off that last alarm," Captain Stanley replied. "What do you mean, Cap?" "What do I mean? I mean-" He cut off as Chet and Marco appeared in the doorway. "Cap, B and C shift just showed up," Chet announced. "They've volunteering to go with us when we get called out. I think Zwick is about to send them back, unless Chief Houtz can stop him." Captain Stanley frowned. "I don't know if he should stop him. Twelve more men running through a burning building . . . that could be asking for trouble." "But it could make the difference in whether we find Mike in time," Chet replied. "It could also be the groundwork for another mistake." Roy exchanged puzzled glances with Chet and Marco. "Another mistake, Cap?" Marco asked. Captain Stanley hesitated then drew a deep breath. "That last fire . . . I made a bad mistake. I kept all of you inside a fully involved building, sent Gage and DeSoto back inside when I knew they had already made a full check. I put all of you at unnecessary risk. I thought, if there was even the slightest possibility that he was in there . . . " His voice trailed off miserably. "Cap, if that was a mistake, we're all guilty of it," Roy told him decisively. "Johnny and I would have said anything to get back in there for another check." "It was wrong. I was willing to risk everything for one man-" "We all were," Chet interjected. "So, if there was a mistake, we all made it," Marco added. "Either way, we have to make sure we don't make the same mistake again," Captain Stanley stated. "I can't believe what I'm hearing." The sound of Chief Houtz's voice from the doorway turned everyone's attention. "Chief," Captain Stanley started to get up. "No, sit down. All of you, sit down." He came into the office and stood with arms crossed, his expression harsh and grave. "What I just heard made me very angry. You blame yourselves for making sure that a fellow fireman wasn't in that building? Yet, if you had been looking for a civilian, you wouldn't be giving it a second thought. Why is it that you feel it's only okay to risk your lives for civilians? But it's wrong to risk your life for another firefighter? That's not what you're taught, is it? Is that an unspoken rule that's growing up in our stations? That you value your own lives less than others? As firemen, we're expected to put our lives on the line, but that doesn't mean we throw them away. And it doesn't mean that we ignore it when one of our own is in trouble." When his words were met with silence and doubtful, averted eyes, Chief Houtz's ire flashed in a moment of rage. "Do you know who was just here? The two other shifts you share this station with, that's who. They volunteered to help find your man. There was no guilt involved there. I told them to go home, that we'd call if we needed them. But listening to you guys in here . . . I'm wondering if I sent home the wrong men." They were harsh words; but then it seemed that harsh words were in order. Captain Stanley looked up, his face cast in a grimace of shock. "Chief, I didn't mean-" "Don't tell me what you meant, Hank. I heard every word. I don't need a translation." Chief Houtz looked around at the stunned expressions staring back at him, and he softened a bit. "Listen, Stoker is a good engineer, one of the best in the department. But I know he's more than that to you men. He's family. And there's nothing wrong with that. I'd be disappointed if I thought you all didn't care about each other, if you weren't willing to risk your lives for each other." He paused. "And I know you'll do the right thing when the call comes. There's an uneasy balance between risk and necessity." He put his patronly hand on Captain Stanley's shoulder. "And you've always made the right decision, Hank." With that, he left the room just as Johnny entered. Seeing the bemused faces of his crewmates, he became immediately concerned. "What did I miss? What happened?" It was Chet who answered, patting Johnny on the arm as he passed into the apparatus room. "Just a reminder that we are only human." *** The phone rang, and everyone inside Station 51 jumped as if struck. The clock showed 19:45. Fifty-one hours. They had been expecting the tones, so when the phone rang instead, they were too shocked to move at first. Detective Zwick motioned to Captain Stanley with an impatient scowl. "You need to answer that. If it's him, keep him on the line." Captain Stanley picked up the receiver. "L.A. County Fire Department, Captain Stanley." He sounded mechanical - even to himself. "Time's up." It was a man's voice. Captain Stanley's jaw tightened involuntary. Before he could even think of what to say, the man on the other end of the line continued. "The fire's already started. Your engineer doesn't have much time-" "Where is he?" "Don't worry. I do plan to tell you where he is, in fact. Consider yourselves fortunate. I didn't go out of my way like this for the other victims. But since Mr Stoker completes my list, I thought I'd give you a fighting chance . . . to make it more interesting." "Listen, you don't have to do this. You can still stop it-" "No, Captain Stanley. I can't stop it. It's beyond my power. Only trained professionals can stop it now. His life depends on you." "Just tell me where he is. Please!" "You've been there before. On business. Still standing, but no one lives there anymore." Captain Stanley put a trembling hand to his forehead. "Please, tell me where he is." "There's a pretty little valley in the eastern-most part of your county. There's a farm in that valley. You were there three months ago. Do you remember? I hope you do. That's where your man is." "How do I know you're not misdirecting us?" "Now, why would I do that? The thrill is in the challenge. Can you get to him in time? It's a race. I enjoy a good race, especially when a man's life is at stake. He's scared, Captain Stanley. That much I can assure you. And he's counting on you. You're wasting precious seconds. You should already be underway." The connection ended. Captain Stanley, the receiver still in his hand, looked desperately at his crew. "That farm fire we responded to three months ago - that was in Maco Valley, wasn't it?" "I think it was," Roy replied. "Yes, I'm sure it was." "That's fifteen minutes," Marco said. "That's where they've got Mike. That's where the fire is," Captain Stanley said. "Are you sure, Hank?" Chief Houtz asked. "We send out a response to that location, and it's a wild goose chase-" "I think he was telling the truth, Chief," Captain Stanley interrupted. "This is a game to him. He's put us up against the clock." "Do you remember the exact location?" Chief Houtz asked. "There's only one road into the valley," Captain Stanley replied. "Let's go look at the map." They hurried out into the apparatus room where a large map of the county was mounted on the wall. "Here . . . County Road 7 to . . . Westcott Lane . . ." "Westcott turned into a dirt road about two miles into the valley," Marco put in. "I remember the engine kicking up so much dust-" "That we could hardly see," Johnny added. "That's right! The farm was at the end of that dirt road!" "What are we looking at structure-wise?" Chief Houtz asked. "There was a large central farm house . . . a couple barns not too far away, if I recall," Captain Stanley replied, closing his eyes, trying to picture in his mind a scene three months old. "There were a lot of outbuildings. Tall, dry grass. Lots of trees." "Sounds like we may have a lot of ground to cover. Okay, let's go," Chief Houtz nodded. "If it is a trick, we'll still have enough stations available to cover it." He went to the base station and keyed the mike. "L.A., this is Battalion 14 at Station 51. We've got a still alarm, structure fire at the northernmost end of Westcott Lane in Maco Valley. It's the farm fire at the end of the dirt road. Station 51 is responding. We'll need two more engine companies and squads, and a snorkel company." "10-4, Battalion 14." Detective Zwick came out of the dayroom. "We were able to get a trace. He called from a phone booth about two miles from here. I've got some men on the way. You find the place he was talking about?" "Yeah," Captain Stanley replied in a short manner. "Just follow us." *** You ask me why, I don't know You ask me why, and I say Don't get fooled a second time I thought by now you'd learned You're gonna get your fingers burned. "My God . . . " Johnny said under his breath. The squad had just come to the juncture where Westcott went from asphalt to dirt, and already he could see several black plumes of smoke billowing skyward to form one large spiral. The dirt road, a half-mile long, was rutted and pot-holed, making for a difficult transit. Roy was perhaps not as cautious as he should have been in navigating the obstacles; speed was foremost on his mind. But when he and Johnny came within sight of the farm, the fear gripped him that there was no longer such a thing as fast enough. The entire place was engulfed in flames. Captain Stanley's recollection of the farm had been relatively accurate. To the left was the farmhouse, a tremendous building of timber beams and wood siding. One entire corner of the house was already blackened and charred from the fire three months ago, a fire that had been fatal to the house's then-occupants. Roughly one hundred yards to the right was a medium-sized barn, and in between the two structures was a series of small sheds and outbuildings. Lastly, there was a large, multi-bay barn fifty yards beyond the first barn. Several large, sprawling trees completed the picture. Everything was on fire. Already, Chief Houtz was calling in a second alarm, as well as a tanker. Johnny and Roy jumped down from the squad and trotted back to where the engine was pulling up. Captain Stanley was out of the cab before the wheels had stopped moving. Chief Houtz met them directly. "Stoker could be in any one of those buildings." Captain Stanley nodded, his mind racing through possibilities and likelihoods. "Start with the house," the chief ordered. He raised his handie-talkie. "Engine 18, this is Battalion 14. What is your ETA?" "Battalion 14, this is Engine 18. ETA: five minutes." Chief Houtz repeated the question to the other first alarm engines. Engine 23 was seven minutes out. Snorkel 72 was right behind them. Captain Stanley returned to the engine. "Chet, Marco, get two inch-and-a-half's on that house. Roy, John, that's where we're starting. O-2 masks." As Chet and Marco began pulling the lines, Captain Stanley addressed his two paramedics once again. "The other engines companies are at least five minutes out. You've got to move fast." Roy and Johnny gave a simultaneous acknowledgment, then returned to the squad to don their equipment. "This doesn't look good, Roy," Johnny fretted, removing the O-2 tanks from their storage compartment. "No, it doesn't." Roy's voice was remarkably level, and Johnny was grateful for that. "This place is like a smoke factory," Johnny went on. "These buildings might as well be kindling." "Yeah . . . let's move." They fell in behind Chet and Marco, who were being propelled forward by Captain Stanley's hands on their shoulders. They entered the corner of the house that had been burned out in the first fire. Passing through a blackened doorway, they came into a hallway that branched left and right. To the right, the hallway was blocked by flames several yards down. Captain Stanley directed Chet and Marco towards the fire, while motioning for Roy and Johnny to check out the hall in the other direction. At the end, the corridor made a right-hand turn and ran along the back of the house, with rooms on both the left and right side of the hallway. "You take the left side!" Roy shouted. "I'll take the right!" The smoke in this part of the house was not so thick, and visibility was fair. The first room on the right stretched clear to the front of the house, where a second door opened into another flame-engulfed corridor. Roy stepped into the room - apparently a sitting room - and make a quick check. It was empty, but Roy was struck with a bizarre sense of discomfort. The magazines on the table. The dead flowers in the vase on the coffee table. It looked like nothing had been touched since the fire. The place had not been pillaged. It was as if time had come to a standstill within these walls three months ago. Roy moved on to the next room, a formal dining room, also still completely intact. It, too, was empty. He met Johnny out in the hallway. "Nothing!" Johnny reported. "Did you see the stairs?" Roy asked. "No." "They must be around the front of the house." They doubled back and came up behind Captain Stanley, who was still urging Chet and Marco forward. Up ahead, they could see the staircase to the second floor, but the way to it was blocked by the fire. "Cap! Nothing on this floor!" Roy shouted. "We couldn't get to all the rooms on the other side. And there's no other way upstairs except the main staircase. We can take a ladder up to the second floor!" "Do it!" Roy and Johnny emerged from the house to see that Station 18 had arrived. Their hose teams were already engaged with the fire that was ravaging the larger of the two barns. Their two paramedics were already inside. Roy pulled off his mask as he and Johnny headed towards the engine. "Jack! We need a ladder up to that second story!" he announced. "Right!" Jack began unlashing the ladder from the rig. A few seconds later, Roy and Johnny were climbing through a second story window into a smoke-filled murk. Once again, they took opposite directions; and once again, they came up empty. "Roy!" Johnny called out. He was standing at a small door that opened onto a staircase. "The attic!" Roy followed him up the steps. Nothing. "He's not in this house!" Johnny said. "Did we miss anything?" "I don't think so." "We'd better go help them check the other buildings." Johnny hesitated. "Should we check again? Just in case?" The two men regarded each other in uncertainty. At last, Roy replied. "If we look again, we lose time. I think we saw everything." Johnny nodded. "Let's go, then." *** Captain Stanley saw his two paramedics climbing down the ladder and went to meet them. He did not have to ask the question before Roy, after removing his mask, delivered the answer. "He's not in there." "Are you sure?" "Pretty sure." Roy bit his lip, not liking the sound of that answer any more than his captain did. "We checked out both floors and the attic." "There's a cellar in that house," Captain Stanley stated. "What about that?" Roy and Johnny looked at each other, stunned that they could have missed such a thing. "Come on," Roy said, but before they had gone a single step, the voice of Captain Myers from Station 18 came over Captain Stanley's handie-talkie. "Battalion 14, this is HT 18. We've located the victim here in this barn, but we're going to need some help getting to him." "10-4, 18. You're positive you've got him in there?" came Chief Houtz's voice. "I'm positive we've got at least one person. Whether or not it's Stoker, we can't tell," Captain Myers replied. "We've had a roof cave-in, and we can't get to him - not without help." Johnny grabbed Captain Stanley's sleeve. "He used a dummy at the accident scene." Captain Stanley nodded and brought his handie-talkie up. "Battalion 14, this is HT 51. We know that this guy has used mannequins before. This could be a trick." "That's affirmative, 51. Have you finished your check of the house?" "We've still got the cellar to clear." "Finish your check, then bring your men to help out in the barn. Station 23, this is Battalion 14. Have your men pull a line from Engine 18 and assist with that barn fire." Captain Stanley turned to face Gage and DeSoto. "Get in there, and make it fast. If it really is Stoker in that barn, they're going to need all the help they can get." "Do you remember seeing a way into the cellar?" Johnny asked as he and Roy headed back towards the house. "We looked behind every door in the place," Roy replied. "Either there's a part of the first floor we didn't get to, or we just plain missed it." "What about from the outside?" "Let's check." They moved around the outside of the house, but if there was an outside entrance into the cellar, it must have been hidden under the piles of debris that surrounded the place. "We're going to have to go back inside," Roy announced. They met up with Captain Stanley, and together with Chet and Marco once again clearing the way, they went into the house. The smoke was now so thick that visibility was reduced to a matter of feet. This time Captain Stanley went with his two paramedics as they made a second and then a third sweep of the ground floor of the house. Every door was checked, and none of them led into the cellar. "There's got to be a way down there!" Captain Stanley burst out angrilly, prepared to make yet another check. Beside him, Johnny swayed slightly; then Captain Stanley realized he had kept them inside this building, exposed to dense smoke, for an excessive period of time. "Out!" he ordered. "Everybody out!" The four men obeyed him without question, coming out into the open and pulling their masks off in unison. "What are we missing?!" Captain Stanley asked, his voice filled with an edge of desperation. "We've checked every single door in that place!" He noticed that his men's eyes were all turned towards the barn where the other engine crews were battling a pyramid of flame. Snorkel 72 was raining a fair flood of water down onto the structure, but still the fire prevailed. Captain Stanley was torn. He knew where his men wanted to be, and he had to admit that he was leaning in that direction as well. After all, it was their crewmate who might be in that barn; yet, here they were, knocking about a smoke-filled house, trying to find a way into a cellar that, in all likelihood, was empty. He was not willing to abandon the house, but he was willing to make a compromise. He directed Roy and Johnny to assist with the barn fire, while he, Chet and Marco tried to find a way into the cellar. No sooner had the word been given than Johnny and Roy were off, racing around the corner of the lesser barn and crossing the distance to the greater barn in a matter of seconds. They spotted Chief Houtz standing next to Captain Tilman from Station 23. "Captain Stanley sent us over here," Roy announced. Chief Houtz nodded. "He radioed a few seconds ago to tell me. Go in behind 23's hose team, right through that opening. But watch yourselves - this place is coming apart at the seams." The two paramedics disappeared into the barn just as the first of the second alarm units began to arrive. Chief Houtz directed the placement of the new units, but he could not deny the fact, faced with the ever-expanding pillars of smoke, that none of these structures could be saved. But then, it was not the purpose to save the buildings. The sole purpose here was to save a man's life - if it was not too late already. "You don't really think he could still be alive, do you?" Chief Houtz turned to find Detective Zwick at his side. The question irritated him almost as much as the sight of the detective. "It's possible," he replied. "We're not going to stop until we find out one way or the other." Detective Zwick nodded once. "Well, if you do find him and he is still alive, let's hope he can give us enough information to nail this guy." Chief Houtz turned bodily to face him. "Let's hope that if we find him and he is still alive, that he's not too badly injured, that he's not scared out of his wits, that he makes a full recovery. That's more important to me - and to all these men - than whether or not the perpetrator is ever caught." "Yeah . . ." Chief Houtz scowled. "Until it happens again." Johnny kept his arm on Roy's shoulder as they moved through the barn, following the line of 23's two-and-a-half. They came up behind the two men manning the hose, and beyond the spray of water and a tumble of charred and smoking timbers, they glimpsed the two paramedics from 18 hovering over what looked like a body in a turnout coat. The smoke made it impossible to get a clear look. But then one of 18's paramedics made a violent, angry gesture, and together with his partner, they pulled back from the tangle of fallen beams and waved the hose team off. "It's a fake!!" one man yelled, and then the two of them began pushing everyone out ahead of them. Once outside, the masks came off. "It was a fake," the first paramedic repeated. "We couldn't tell until we got in closer." A flurry of uttered oaths passed between the assembled men. The second paramedic, who had brought the smudged turnout coat out with him, turned it over in his gloved hands. "Damn . . ." he said in a breathless whisper. He held the coat out for the rest of the group to see. L.A. County Stoker But it was not the stenciled words that caught the firemen's attention. It was the words that appeared below the name, written in heavy black marker, words that wrenched at each man's gut. You lose **** Marco stumbled and dropped to his knees. Behind him, Chet caught him under the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. "You okay, Marco?!" Captain Stanley asked. Lopez nodded vigorously. "I tripped on this carpet." Captain Stanley wanted to believe him, but he feared that this excuse was a way of playing down the truth. The smoke and heat were starting to overcome his men. The oxygen masks could only do so much. They could not deflect the heat or the exhaustion. "Pull back," Captain Stanley ordered. "There's nothing in here-" "Trap doors!" Chet exclaimed suddenly. "What?" "There may be trap doors under one of these rugs!" Chet explained. "Lots of these old houses used them!" "Start looking!" "HT 51, this is Battalion 14." Captain Stanley back-tracked out into the open. "This is HT 51." "Hank, the body in the barn was a fake. We're still looking. I've got engines 12 and 110 taking the smaller barn up front." "10-4," came Captain Stanley's curt reply, then to himself, "He's not in any of those other buildings. He's here, in this house." He was not sure how he knew, only that there was not a doubt in his mind. He recalled the words the kidnapper had said over the phone. Still standing but no one lives there anymore. The words were literal, not referring to all the outbuildings, but to the house alone. Captain Stanley raised his handie-talkie, but he did not speak. What could he say? That he knew Stoker was inside the house, based on a feeling? He pulled his mask back on and went inside again. *** Chet pulled back the rug in the sitting room. "This is it!" He pulled on the flat handle and peered down into a smoke-filled darkness. "Can you see anything?" Marco asked. "There's a steep stairway here," Chet replied, taking a few steps down. In one corner of the cellar, he could see the fire eating through from the floor above; and while this cast a small amount of light into the place, it was not enough to illuminate through the smoke. Chet took out his flashlight. He descended the steps to the bottom and took a few steps away from the ladder. He felt along the wall with his hand and shined the light into the smoke. He could see nothing, not even the wall he was using to guide him. Up above, Captain Stanley found Marco in the sitting room, trying to beat back the flames encroaching from the front hallway. He saw the open hatch on the floor. "Chet's down there?" Marco nodded. "I can't hold this spot much longer, Cap!" "You may not have to," Captain Stanley replied, and he started down into the cellar. "Kelly!" he called out, removing his mask long enough to make sure he was heard. "Over here, Cap! To the right of the steps!" Captain Stanley began the sightless journey towards the sound of Kelly's voice. Chet continued his fumbling search through the smoke, then something tripped him up, and he landed forcefully on the ground. Pushing up to his elbows, he found himself staring into the face of his missing crewmate. "Cap! Cap!" Chet screamed, pulling off his mask and pressing it over Stoker's face. "He's over here!" Captain Stanley took several seconds to find him through the smoke. "He's not breathing," Chet stated the obvious, coughing then taking a breath from his own mask, before placing it back over his Stoker's face. "Let's get him out of here!" Captain Stanley began to lift his unconscious engineer, but something was holding Stoker in place. Captain Stanley felt along Stoker's arms. "He's tied to this beam!" he said frantically, pulling off his gloves and struggling with the ropes around Stoker's wrists. "I can't-I can't get this loose. Kelly, go get something to cut through this rope. Hurry!" Chet was off immediately. Outside, he saw Roy and Johnny returning from the barn, and he called out to them. "We found him! He's in the cellar!" Chet informed them, taking the bolt cutters from their compartment on the engine. "The cellar? But how-how did you get in? We looked everywhere!" Johnny felt the sudden weight of guilt on his shoulders. "A trap door," Chet replied. "Hidden under the carpet." "Why the bolt cutters?" Roy asked, eyeing the piece of equipment as he and Johnny followed Chet back towards the house. "He's tied to one of the beams. I'm not taking any chances with anything less," Chet replied grimly. The three men pulled their masks back on and reentered the house. They found Captain Stanley still trying to loosen the ropes with one hand, while holding his mask in place over Stoker's mouth and nose with the other. "Pull him forward, Cap!" Chet barked out, dropping down onto one knee. A second later, the ropes were severed. Mike was free. There was no time to worry about what rough handling might do to injuries as yet unidentified. The paramount concern was to get all of them out of the house before it came down on top of them. Johnny and Captain Stanley lifted Mike over Roy's shoulder. "Let's go!" They made their way upstairs, absorbing Marco along the way; and making their way out into the open, they left the house - now victim-less - to consume itself. Captain Stanley, hacking and groaning from smoke inhalation, gave his handie-talkie to Johnny. "T-tell Chief-" Johnny gave his own mask to his captain at the same time as taking the handie-talkie from him. "Battalion 14, this is HT 51." "Go ahead, 51." "We just pulled Stoker out of the house. Send 18's paramedics over." "10-4. I'm on my way. I'll bring 18 with me." Johnny forced Captain Stanley to sit on squad's running board. "Chet! Keep an eye on him. Make sure he keeps that oxygen on-" Captain Stanley pushed Gage's persistent hands aside. "It's just a-a little smoke." He coughed and wiped the back of his hand across his tearing eyes. "What about Mike-" "We'll know in a few seconds. I'm going over to help Roy right now." A fierceness flashed across Johnny's face. "But I want you to stay here, Cap - until 18's paramedics get over to have a look at you." "Yeah, yeah.." Captain Stanley waved a gesture of false concession. Johnny knew his concern was being dismissed, but he also knew why. Glancing to the left, over his shoulder, he saw Jack Ferguson setting out the squad's equipment. Marco was already holding the O2 mask over Stoker's mouth and nose, forcing air into scorched lungs. Roy was setting up the biophone. Johnny joined them. He placed two fingers on Stoker's neck, noticing a blistered patch of skin under his chin. "Jack, can you get a BP?" He asked, then to Roy, "Looks like he's been burned . . . here, you see it?" "Yeah, I see it," Roy replied. "There were no flames in that cellar." Johnny's eyes narrowed. He knew what that meant. He finished his pulse reading then began to undo the buttons on Stoker's filth-stained shirt. Roy turned on the biophone. "Rampart, this is Squad 51." "Go ahead, 51." It was Doctor Brackett's voice. "Rampart, we have an injured firefighter, age 34. He's the victim of a kidnapping. Victim is cyanotic, unconscious and suffering from smoke inhalation. We have him on forced O2. He's also got heavy bruising on the face and neck. Stand by for vital signs." "Pulse is 50 and weak," Johnny provided. "BP is 70 over 40." This from Jack. Roy relayed the information. "What about pupil reaction, 51?" "Uh, Rampart, it's not possible to check pupil reaction at this time. The victim is blindfolded with some kind of . . . industrial tape. We're going to have to use saline swabs to loosen it." "Don't bother with that now, 51. Sudden exposure to the light could hurt his eyes. We'll take care of that when you get him in here. Can you send me a strip?" "Stand by, Rampart." Johnny had finished unbuttoning Mike's shirt. He had been expecting to see a certain degree of abuse, but the sight that met his eyes had certainly been beyond his imagining. From his shoulders to his chest to his abdomen, Mike Stoker's body was a patchwork of bruises and burns - the bloodied and swollen flesh of someone who had endured the manifestations of a polluted and twisted sense of justice. John Gage was speechless. Behind him, Captain Stanley got to his feet in horrified shock. "Jesus Christ," was all he could manage. "Rampart, this is Squad 51." Roy's words were stilted. "We can't start an EKG. The victim has severe bruising and a number of burn marks on his torso-" "Roy, he's got burns on his arms, too," Jack added. "Jack, hand me those scissors," Johnny ordered, then making a single slit up the side of Mike's trousers, he made a sound of disbelief. "His legs, too . . . and there's a bad cut - like a gouge - on his left leg, Roy. My God, how could they do this to him?" Roy ignored the question. He didn't have an answer; and even if he had, the why hardly seemed important now. "Rampart, it looks like he's got burns all over his body. They're mostly first and second degree burns . . . in patches." "Fracture of the right radius and ulna," Johnny provided. "Looks like a fractured right collar bone. This bruising here could mean broken ribs, but with all these burns and swelling, it's hard to tell." He raised his eyes to find Roy staring at him. He knew the look on his partner's face. It was dread. Dread of hearing more, of hearing worse. "They beat the daylights out of him, Roy." Roy hesitated a moment, then passed on this new set of injuries to Rampart. "51, start an IV with ringers. Immobilize the breaks, and apply sterile sheets if necessary to the burns. Notify us if you get spontaneous respiration, and get him in here as soon as possible." "10-4, Rampart," Roy acknowledged. "Ambulance is on the scene." Johnny was already removing an IV setup from the drug box. "Hey . . . hey, I think he's coming around," Jack spoke up suddenly. "Stop the O2," Roy instructed. Marco lifted the mask. "Spontaneous respiration," Roy announced, a trace of subdued excitement in his voice. He put a gentle hand on Mike's shoulder. "Mike? Mike, can you hear me?" A faint murmur from Stoker's lips erupted into a volley of wheezing coughs. "Get the O2 back on him! Mike! Take it easy! Take it easy!" Roy's gentle touch became more forceful as his patient resisted his attempts at calming him. "Mike, listen to me! You've got to calm down-" Stoker thrust the O2 mask aside and began to struggle wildly. He was crying out through a red-tinged froth bubbling from his mouth, his voice a raw and painful parody of its usual rolling smoothness. "No! No! Don't touch me!" he screamed, fighting against the four sets of hands trying to hold him down. "Mike, it's Roy! Mike, listen to me! It's all over! You're safe. It's me and Johnny." If Mike was hearing him, he gave no indication. He continued to combat them with a strength born of sheer terror which outweighed every other consideration - even the hurt. "Cap! Cap, we need some help over here!" Roy called out. Captain Stanley dropped down beside Roy. "Mike! Mike, stop fighting! It's me-" Mike's struggles ebbed for an instant. "Cap?" The word was nearly a plea. "Yes, I'm here. It's all over, Mike. We've got you. It's all over." Stoker's arm shot out desperately, searching. Captain Stanley gripped Mike's hand in both of his. "I'm here. Everything's going to be okay." His voice dropped off abruptly. He could not stop staring at the burns and bruises that marred his engineer's body and thinking that his words were only so many lies. It wasn't over, and everything wasn't going to be okay. Nothing was going to be okay for a long time. The hardest part was just beginning. Mike lay still, clinging to the hand that held his own and trusting the voice of his captain. He allowed the oxygen mask to be placed back over his mouth and nose, and he allowed the tentative probing of his injuries by men he could not see, whose voices he knew, yet from whom he could derive no comfort. The fear was still too fresh. When Johnny moved to start the IV, Mike would not relinquish his hold on Captain Stanley's hand. Even the slightest attempt to separate them was met with agitation and resistance. "He's not going to let go, John," Captain Stanley said quietly. Johnny gave a curt nod. "That's okay. I can work around you. I don't want to risk getting him all worked up again. That blood he's coughing up could be from the smoke or from other internal injuries. We need to keep him still and quiet." Johnny listened to Roy on the biophone, amazed by his partner's steady demeanor. Johnny had to admit that he was finding it a bit hard to look upon the abused body of his crewmate, knowing that none of these injuries were accidental. Each one had been purposefully inflicted, and this was something Johnny simply could not come to terms with. Accidental injury, even carelessness or downright stupidity - these were the things he knew intimately. He saw them every day in the performance of his duties. But the calculated brutality to whose aftermath he was now witness . . . and to see it taken out on someone like Mike Stoker . . . "How is he?" It was Chief Houtz's voice. Roy replied, "He seems to be holding his own for now." A pause. "Most of his injuries were meant to cause pain, not to kill him. It seems they wanted to hurt him before letting the fire do its job." Chief Houtz absorbed these words as his gaze scanned over the men before him. They were obviously in various stages of mental and emotional numbness, yet they were collected. They were tenacious in their togetherness, and it did not take more than a moment's contemplation for Chief Houtz to recognize that these men's strength resided in each other. He had seen the same thing at each of the other stations that had been struck by the murders. This thought turned his notice towards the crewmen from the other stations, overseeing the controlled burn-down of the structures. Two of those stations - 18 and 23 - had to be reliving their own moments of terror. He saw their hesitant, stolen glances, and he wanted desperately to tell them something. But it was too soon. From what he had seen so far, he was not willing to commit himself one way or another as to how Mike Stoker might come out of this nightmare, despite DeSoto's positive account. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Detective Zwick's voice, raised in irritation. "He's conscious. He's able to speak. He appears to be pretty well in control of his faculties. I'd like to get a statement now, while everything is still fresh in his mind." Roy's response, spoken in a strained voice, told Chief Houtz that this debate must have been going on for several seconds already. "He's in no condition to answer any questions." "We don't want to reenact the inquisition. Just a couple questions. It could make the difference in whether or not we catch this guy." Johnny exploded. "Look, maybe you haven't noticed how terrified he is! Maybe you haven't noticed all the bruises and the burns and the broken bones. But I'll tell you one thing, you're going to notice me when I tell you he's not going to answer any questions! Not here. Not now." Captain Stanley cast a slight warning look for Gage to maintain his peace. Then he looked up over his shoulder the two detectives. "I'm his captain, and I'm not going to permit you to question him right now-" "In fact," Chief Houtz broke in. "I'd like you both to wait somewhere away from here. You can talk to the doctors at the hospital once we take him there. They'll tell you when you talk to him." "This is amazing," Detective Zwick ground out angrilly. "This whole time, you all have been screaming for us to turn up some clues as to who this guy is and why he's doing this. But there's Stoker, right there, probably filled with clues and leads; and you're refusing to let us talk to him." "That's correct," Chief Houtz replied, undaunted. Zwick shook his head in silence, then turned to Detective Shira. "Let's go." He turned for one last accusation. "You know, you were lucky with Stoker. You may not be so lucky with the next one." Chief Houtz waited until they were out of earshot. "I'll take luck any day, if that's all that's being offered." Roy and Johnny finished applying sterile sheets. "We're ready to transport," Roy announced. "Cap, I think you're going to have to go in with him." Captain Stanley nodded, then he looked to Jack, Chet, and Marco. "When you guys are done here-" "Hank, I think we can spare 51 from the scene," Chief Houtz interjected. "We're just letting it burn, now." Captain Stanley looked up past the tangle of engines and men at the bonfires burning beyond. "All of this . . . all of this just to . . .to . . ." His gaze drifted down to rest on the face of his engineer, half hidden behind mask and tape. He fell silent. **** "He won't let go, Doc. I'm telling you." Cap's voice. There was a moment when someone was trying to pry his fingers loose, but they weren't very forceful or persistent. "You're right about that. It's okay for now. I imagine he's pretty frightened. We don't want to upset him." A pause. "Mike, can you hear me? It's Doctor Brackett." Mike nodded. "We're going to take good care of you, Mike. Carol, get some saline and get that tape off. Roy, can you dim the overhead lights?" A pair of very gentle hands tilted his head back then from one side to the other. "He's got a bad knot above his left ear. No blood in the ears or nose. And there's a burn mark here along his jaw." Mike did not recognize this voice. "He seems to breathing easier." Johnny. "The IV must be helping." The pressure of the O2 mask abated. He could still breathe. It hurt. It burned, but he could still breathe. Doctor Brackett was ordering a long list of x-rays. Mike was beginning to feel uncomfortable. There were too many hands on him. Too many hands manipulating his movements, touching him in places that hurt. The fear began to return. They were cutting away his clothes. Mike felt someone's hand running down his left leg. "Joe, look at this." Joe. That was Doctor Early. "What do suppose caused that?" Doctor Early asked. "It's too jagged to be caused by a knife. It looks like the skin's been torn." "Do any of you know what caused this?" Mike heard only negative responses. "Mike? Do you know what happened to your leg?" Mike did not answer. "Mike, can you still hear me?" A nod. "Do you know what happened to your leg?" "Don't ask me that. I don't want to remember. Don't force me to remember." He did not answer. "This is going to need stitches." Doctor Early's voice. Something cool touched the skin near Mike's temple. There was a slight pulling sensation and some minor pain; but compared to the pain in other parts of his body, this was certainly tolerable. He could feel the tape being lifted off, but he did not open his eyes. Suddenly, the idea of being able to see again frightened him more than the darkness that had been his prison for the past 51 hours. "Carol, see if you can clean that up a bit." "Yes, Doctor." Mike listened for his captain's voice in the flurry of words passing over him. "Cap?" "I'm still here, Mike. I'm not going anywhere." Several seconds passed during which Mike could still hear the doctor's voices, as well as those of Roy and Johnny; but they sounded subdued, far away. Then there was a brief silence before Mike heard Doctor Brackett's voice, this time close by. "That's good, Carol. Okay, Mike, I want you to open your eyes, slowly." Mike did as he was told. The room was dim, but what little light there was made Mike's eyes ache. He squinted, blinked several times, then forced himself to concentrate long enough for his foggy vision to focus. But this was a mistake, for the instant he recognized his captain, any semblance of composure was shattered. A feverish swirl of emotion bore down upon him, and he was helpless against it. "Th-they said you didn't care! You wouldn't look-look for me! Did you? Did you look for me?" His voice broke into fragments. "You didn't . . . you didn't come . . . no one, no one . . . came." And yet, even as he made these sloppy accusations, his hold on Captain Stanley's hand tightened into a crushing grip. For a moment, Captain Stanley's shocked senses would permit no rational thought. He had never seen Mike Stoker crying before, and he would never have expected such a charge to be laid against him. It was inconceivable. It could not be real. He stood there, numb, watching the most steady, reliable man he had ever known fall to pieces. It was only then that he began to fathom the degree of evil that had been leveled against his engineer. It was only then that he began to see that the greater part of this suffering had nothing to do with physical anguish - nothing at all. But while Captain Stanley was at a loss as to how to respond, the rest of those present were not. They were used to bouts of hysteria - overwrought senses and thread-bare nerves. They were familiar with pain on an intimate basis. Its face was well-known to them, in all its guises. Doctor Brackett ordered a sedative. He and Doctor Early pressed Mike down onto the exam table, meeting with little resistance. "Just take it easy, Mike. Take it easy." He took the prepared syringe from Carol and injected it. After several seconds, Mike grew quiet. His eyes closed and the tension drained out of his body as he lost consciousness. Captain Stanley felt the grip on his hand slacken. He released his hold and took several steps back, his eyes never once straying from Stoker's face. He could not shake the feeling that he was looking at a stranger. The fear, the anger, the need he had seen in Stoker's eyes - these were so foreign, so alien to what Captain Stanley was used to seeing there. Was there anything of Mike Stoker left? Anything familiar to grab hold of? He found Roy and Johnny on either side of him. "Man, they really messed him up," Johnny said in a near-whisper. "You know he didn't mean what he said. He's just scared out of his mind." Captain Stanley's face was stone-like. "So, that's what they spent the last two days doing to him - convincing him that we didn't care." "He knows we care, Cap," Roy replied. "He knows it. You saw how he was holding on to you, Cap. He trusts you." "Yeah." Captain Stanley sounded unconvinced. Doctor Brackett approached them. "I think it's best to keep him sedated for the next two or three days. His injuries are serious, but not critical. Of themselves, they're not life-threatening. But I think you've gotten a pretty good idea of his mental state. I'm doubtful that his body could handle the combination of physical and mental stress right now. Keeping him sedated will give his body a chance to recover to a degree. It might also help take the edge off some of what he's feeling." "He's going to be okay, isn't he, Doc?" Roy asked. "I'd say that depends on him," came the reply. "But he won't be able to do it alone." The door opened and Dixie McCall entered. She gave a glance of acknowledgment to the three firemen, then looked to Doctor Brackett. "The two detectives want to know if he's able to give a statement." She looked past Brackett to where Stoker was laying, clearly unconscious, on the exam table. "I'll tell them the answer to that is no." "He's not going to be able to give any kind of statement for several days," Doctor Brackett replied. "They're not going to like that," Dixie warned. "They don't have to like it," Doctor Early said from where he maneuvering an intubation tube into place. "They just have to accept it. I'll be honest . . ." He glanced up long enough to see that he had everyone's attention. "If all these injuries were purposefully inflicted on him, he's got a long road ahead. This amounts to nothing short of torture. He's never going to forget what happened to him. He's never going to forget how it felt. He's going to have to accept some pretty unpleasant truths, himself." A short silence followed, broken by Dixie. "I'll go let the detectives know they're just going to have to cool their heels." "What about his family?" Johnny asked. "His parents have already been notified. They're on their way," Dixie replied. The three firemen exchanged concerned glances. "Both parents?" Captain Stanley asked. "Yes, both." "That may not have been such a good idea," Captain Stanley grimaced. Seeing the perplexed shadow cross Dixie's face, Roy offered up some clarification. "Mike doesn't get along too well with his father." "You mean, his father doesn't get along too well with him," Captain Stanley corrected. "Well, it won't make much of a difference for the next few days. Mike won't even know they're here," Doctor Brackett stated bluntly. "Along those lines, you all might want to go home and get some rest. You can come back tomorrow. He'll be in the ICC. We'll let you know if there's any change." "I guess that would be best," Roy agreed, noticing that Captain Stanley was making no move to leave. "Cap . . . come on, let's go. He's in good hands. We're all tired. We could all use some sleep." Captain Stanley nodded absently, but he allowed Johnny and Roy to lead him out into the hallway where, in addition to Detectives Zwick and Shira, Chet and Marco were also waiting. "You boys go on," Dixie said, ushering Captain Stanley, Roy, and Johnny down the hallway. "I'll take care of our two detective friends." Chet and Marco were already approaching their crewmates. "How is he?" Marco asked directly. "He's going to be okay," Roy replied. "It may take a while, but he's going to be okay." Marco leaned his head back against the wall, and his breath trailed out of him in an expression that could not quite be labeled as relief, for it was too filled with remorse to be so pure an emotion. "You're sure?" Chet asked. "I mean, he looked a mess when we pulled him out." "We're sure . . . barring any complications," Roy told him. "Can we see him?" . "He's sedated right now." Again, Roy was the only one who seemed to have a voice. He had to admit that he was worried at both his captain's and his partner's reticence. "They're going to keep him under for a few days." "Why?" Chet demanded anxiously. "If he's alright, why do they need to sedate him?" "He was scared," Roy explained. "Nearly hysterical. I don't even want to think about what he must have gone through." Chet rubbed his temples. "Yeah . . . I'm trying not to." "Where's Jack?" Captain Stanley asked. "He took the engine back to the station," Marco replied. Captain Stanley nodded. "Listen, I think we'd all better go home for now. Roy, John, you need to get the squad back to the station. We've got the next three days off. We'd all better use that time wisely; because after that, we're right back on duty. I don't want what's happened to interfere with anyone's ability to do his job." It was a forceful, constructive bit of advice. And not one of the men hearing it believed it was possible. No, no, you needn't worry. I won't leave Mike lying zoned out in Rampart for the rest of time; but Good Heavens, I need to think my way out of what I got him in to! And for the record . . . although it may seem not so, I do adore the character of John Gage, short-tempered, irrational, occasionally scatterbrained and often downright rude, but kind and passingly sensitive in the long run. I certainly don't want to brown off any Johnny fans, because I count myself among their numbers. It's only that Stoker . . . well, the man does something for me! Hyzenthlay |