Doctor Early let the subject drop. "You're back on duty tomorrow?" Mike nodded. "Everything's still going okay at work?" Another nod. "Good. Look, Mike, I'd like to see you one more time. We'll set something up for next month. After that, if everything still looks good, I think we can conclude these follow-ups." "Sounds great, doc. Thanks." "Don't thank me, Mike. You did this all yourself," Doctor Early replied, walking to the door with him. Mike's eyes glinted. "Shows you just how much I wanted to get back to work." "Well, just don't overdo it." Mike shook Doctor Early's extended hand. "Never." **** "We need pressure bandages, IV setups, and . . . " "And syringes." "Right." Johnny helped himself to the supplies while Roy completed the log. "Hey Roy, Johnny." Doctor Early came up to the nurse's station and placed a case history in the bin to be returned to records. They returned his greeting. "You bring someone in?" he asked. "Little boy. Fell out of his treehouse," Roy replied. "Is he okay?" "Well, he's got a broken arm and a mild concussion. Doctor Morton's with him now. Looks like he's going to be okay." "That's good." Doctor Early let a few seconds go by before speaking again. "Mike Stoker was in here yesterday for a follow-up." "Yeah, he told us he had an appointment." "You know, he's made one of the most amazing recoveries I've ever seen," Doctor Early remarked. "Yeah, I think I have to agree with you there," Roy smiled, as if Stoker's accomplishment were his own. And perhaps on some level, it was. On some level, it belonged to all of the men on 51's A-Shift. "I'll admit, we were pretty worried about him," Doctor Early went on. "I thought he'd be fighting with this for months. But whatever you guys are doing for him at the station, it seems to be working." "Well, we're just acting like nothing happened," Roy said. Johnny was quick to correct him. "We're trying to act like nothing happened. I mean, none of us talk about it, but we all know it's there. We've pretty much been letting Mike call the shots. If he wants to talk about it, we talk about it. Otherwise, we leave it alone." "Does he ever talk about it?" Johnny's honesty was direct. "No." "He doesn't talk about it here, either." Doctor Early paused. "Seems like he's sweeping it under the rug. Is that such a good idea?" "I didn't think so at first," Roy replied. "But it seems to be what he needs. I mean, you've seen for yourself - he's right back where he was before the whole thing started." "It certainly looks that way," agreed Doctor Early. "I just think Mike's one of those guys who's better off forgetting the bad things, as opposed to continually reopening old wounds," Roy continued. "He's put it behind him. I think he'd be happy if we did the same thing." Johnny was still doubtful, but he could not argue with the fact that Mike Stoker had cleared all the hurdles in record time. Johnny would not yet discount the sense of deception playing in the back of his head, but he had to admit that Mike's progress was genuine and tangible. Nobody with Stoker's lack of practice could be so adept at weaving falsehood. **** "Punks." This was the kindest word circulating through Captain Stanley's mind as he watched Vince with the two teenage boys who had set the field on fire. He could hear the boys saying things like "accident" and "not our fault". But he knew, just by looking at them, that they were lying. He knew the type, knew the dark, brooding features and the kind of eyes that reflected the world right back at anyone who looked into them. The sympathetic and well-meaning would label them "juvenile delinquents", "lacking a nurturing home environment," and whatever else was catchy for the day. But to Hank Stanley, they were punks, plain and simple. The field was backyard to a number of houses, all of which had been in danger due to an easterly wind and a cloudless sky. Stations 51 and 23 had been called out, performers to a sizable crowd. Now, the fire was out. The crews were hauling the hoses in. The crowd was dispersing. Mike heaved an armload of saturated hose out of Chet's arms and piled it into the back of the engine. He turned back to await the next load from Marco. A movement in the corner of his eye brought his attention to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. A man was staring at him. Mike stared back. He knew the face. He was good at details. The man looking at him was William. It had to be William. He knew the face. But it couldn't be William. It was impossible. Surely, he would never have the nerve to show himself so blatantly at the scene of one of 51's responses, not after everything that had happened, not with the knowledge that he was a wanted man. How many faces had Mike seen? And could he place every single one? Impossible. This man staring at him now - he might just be another face from another rescue. A man from the dry-cleaners. A patron of the same supermarket Mike went to. A member of same gym. The man could be from anywhere, and Mike had only seen William's face for a few seconds . . . Marco suddenly was there, thrusting a mess of hose into Mike's arms, forcing the latter to concentrate on what he was doing. Mike took the hose and dumped it on top. When he looked around again, the man was gone. "Siren chaser," he decided, and he felt better. Five minutes later, the work was completed. "Let's go," Captain Stanley called out. Chet and Marco climbed on board. Mike trotted around to the cab. He had taken the first step up when he saw the man again, now standing on the near sidewalk, his gaze still following Stoker's every move. Mike looked away quickly this time. He was scaring himself, and probably for no reason. William and Barry had disappeared without a trace almost seven months ago. It was most likely that their murderous days were over. Their crimes had to be forcing them to live life under rocks and in crevices. To venture out in public was to risk exposure. And surely, they did not want to be caught. Mike had almost convinced himself of this by the time Engine 51 arrived back at the station. He had no idea how wrong he was. **** "This isn't more of that butterscotch bean stuff, is it?" Marco asked, wrinkling his nose at the bowl of something that Chet had set down on the coffee table. "You don't like it, don't eat it, chump," Chet retorted. "You didn't seem to mind it last time." "Butterscotch bean?" Johnny made a face. "That's sick, Chet." "Don't knock it til you've tried it. It'll bring tears to your eyes." "I'm sure it will." Johnny's apprehension did not stop him from grabbing a handful of Fritos from the communal bowl being passed around. He scooped a tiny bit of the unlikely concoction onto the end of one chip and tasted it like a cat. "Hey, that's not bad," he admitted. "Told ya. It'll put hair on your chest." Johnny ignored him and plunged in with another chip, turning his attention towards the television. "Bachelorette Number One, what's your idea of the perfect date?" "Well, a nice, romantic candlelit dinner, followed by dancing, then maybe a drive along the coast, and we could end up back at my place. From there, who knows?" Captain Stanley rolled his eyes. "I can't believe I let you guys watch this in my station. Isn't there something else on?" "Oh, come on, Cap. One day, they'll look back and say that The Dating Game was a classic show," Chet replied. "Besides, Bachelorette Number Three is a fox. She's got my vote." "For crying out loud. Where's a call-out when you need one?" Captain Stanley complained, but he did not leave. He opened the paper and pretended to read, but in truth, he was listening to the ridiculous questions and the even more ridiculous answers. "I choose Bachelorette Number One." "Aw, man, you idiot!" Johnny cried. "You should've chosen Number Two!" "Number Three, Gage," Chet corrected. Captain Stanley looked up and silenced the inane discussion. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Roy sitting at the kitchen table, doing . . . who knew what he was doing? "Where's Mike?" Captain Stanley asked. "With the engine," Marco replied. "I think they're going to get married." Captain Stanley smiled at this remark, then he got up and went into the apparatus room. But Stoker was not with the engine. He continued on into the dormitory, and here he found his engineer lying down on his bunk. "You okay, Mike?" "Oh-yeah, Cap," Mike replied, sitting up. "Just a headache. Nothing serious." "You want Roy or John to take a look at you?" "No, it's not that bad, Cap." And it wasn't that bad. He had brought it on all by himself, though not intentionally. He had spent the last three weeks trying to pull together the details of a man's appearance, and the effort had finally led to a dull, throbbing headache. He had not spoken to any of his crewmates about the man he had seen, and whom he had now seen more than once. The man had been at two other incident scenes, and while Mike would not commit himself to believing that the man was William, he would not discount the possibility either. Mike had considered contacting Detective Zwick and asking again to see the photographs on file of William Degruyer and Barry Dodge. He had looked at them during the investigation. Now, he thought he might like to see them again. But that would send out alarms to his crewmates and everyone else who had been involved the first time around. And this was something Mike Stoker did not want to do. He did not want to cause unnecessary worry or paranoia, nor did he want to dredge up memories that had been laid to rest. He was being cautious for his crewmates' sake. Which said little for his own peace of mind. The fears and suspicions he bore alone. He had spent the last half-hour lying in the dark, trying to recall everything he could about William's appearance and match it to the face of the current observer. But there was not enough to make a complete picture. Put simply, he wasn't sure. And so he kept quiet. "Well, if it gets any worse, we'll-" The tones interrupted his words. "Station 51, children trapped in a mine, Sugarloaf abandoned mine site." "You feel well enough to drive?" Captain Stanley asked. "Yeah, Cap," Mike nodded. "Then let's go, pal." **** There was a car parked near the entrance to the mine. Two teenage boys stood nearby. When they saw the flashing lights, they ran forward, waving their arms. Captain Stanley jumped down from the cab and approached the two boys. "Are you the ones who made the call?" "Yeah, yeah, two friends of ours are in there!" the first boy replied hurriedly. "We were just goofing, I swear! We weren't doing nothing! We just wanted to see how far back it goes, and part of the ceiling came down. Greg and Aaron were ahead of us, and they couldn't get back out." "Do you know if either of them are hurt?" Captain Stanley asked as Roy and Johnny came up beside him. "Nothing bad." This was the first boy again. "We tried to dig them out, but stuff started falling again, so we came out here and took my car down to the gas station. That's where we called from." "How far in are they?" "I don't know, man . . . hundred yards, I guess." "Roy, John, get in there. See if you can find them." Gage and DeSoto disappeared into the tunnel. Johnny reappeared two minutes later. "We found them, Cap. Like he said, about a hundred yards down. Neither of them are hurt, but a whole part of the roof of the tunnel collapsed - shoring beams and everything. We're going to have to dig them out," he reported. "What about the roof in there?" "Well, most of the support beams look pretty solid," Johnny replied. "Despite what they say-" he motioned towards the two boys now standing beside their car again, "-I don't think they were just playing around in there. I think they were trying to cause a cave-in. They just planned to be on the other side of it. They're vandals." Captain Stanley raised his eyebrows. "What makes you say that?" "Well, they've got spray paint in there and a couple of crowbars. Plus, one of them let something slip. He said they didn't think it would do any harm to mess up some old mine. Guess they learned their lesson." "I wouldn't count on it. What equipment do you need?" "The porta-power. A jack. A couple shovels. And Cap, the handie-talkie won't work. We were trying to call you, but whatever's in that hill, it's blocking communication." Captain Stanley nodded. "We'll just have to depend on the ole vocal chords, then. Chet, Marco, grab the porta-power and the jack off the engine and give Roy and John a hand. John, you get the shovels off the squad." It was a messy business. An exercise in manual labor, carried out in wavering pools of light provided by flashlights. The air in the tunnel was cold, and the walls bled tiny threads of water that turned the ground into mud. Rocks, dirt, shoring. A messy business, indeed. "How's it going down there?!" Captain Stanley's voice echoed down the tunnel. "Slowly!" Roy called back. "There's a lot of debris!" Captain Stanley frowned. He strode back over to the engine. "I'm going in to have a look, Mike," he said. "Don't let those two kids leave here. They're going to have a few questions to answer when this is over." "Got it, Cap." Mike followed his captain as far as the mouth of the tunnel. And there he waited as Captain Stanley went on. Mike wiped away a stray line of moisture from his forehead, surprised to discover that he was sweating. He had not been doing anything arduous, and the night was not warm. In fact, he could see his breath in front of him. The headache was gone; and in its place, a mild twinge of anxiety poked at the base of Mike's skull. This situation was disturbingly familiar. An isolated location. Station 51 the only unit responding. The five other members of his crew out of sight. But this was not a fabrication. There were two boys trapped in that mine. And there were two more waiting outside, not thirty feet from where Mike was now standing. Mike clenched his gloved hands against more than just the cold and glanced around him. Other than the two boys, he was alone. There were no other sounds than those of exertion coming from inside the tunnel, and every now and then, he could hear Captain Stanley issuing orders. Mike hoped they were almost finished. But five minutes later, they were still inside, and Mike was still waiting. From somewhere in the near distance came the sound of tires on dirt and gravel. Mike turned around and saw a pair of headlights dipping and bouncing across the terrain. He tensed suddenly, his entire body growing tight and rigid. He could feel the pulsation of his heart in every limb, and his senses seemed to have taken on a superhuman element. He could see the two boys moving away from their car to get a better look at this new arrival. But their presence did nothing to make the situation any less unnerving. Before Mike realized it, he had taken several steps backwards into the concealment of the tunnel. The car drew up, and in the engine headlights, Mike could see it was a police car. For a moment, he felt as if his bones had turned to dust. His breath trailed out of him in a sparkling cloud of mist. As he moved out of the tunnel, he noticed that his legs were somewhat wobbly. Now that the threat had proven not so, the steely grip released his body, and he felt not only unstrung, but also ashamed. He had let his imagination and his fears get the better of him. He met the police officer and pointed out the two boys. At that moment, Captain Stanley emerged from the tunnel. "They're about through," he announced; then seeing something he didn't like, he put a hand on Mike's arm. "You okay, Mike? Mike nodded, but his round eyes and curt, nervous manner said otherwise. "You sure? You don't look so good. Is your headache getting worse?" "No, the headache is gone. I'm fine, Cap." That Stoker was lying was beyond question. And what was even more disturbing was that Captain Stanley had the impression that Stoker had been doing a fair amount of lying in recent weeks. Something had been bothering the engineer; but to the innocuous inquiries after his health, Mike had always insisted that all was well. For the sake of harmony and out of respect for Stoker's privacy, his crewmates had never pressed him. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Perhaps. Captain Stanley was not sure. What had to happen before he knew if he was doing the right thing? **** The phone startled Captain Stanley out of his sleep. He looked at his watch as he reached for the phone. Two o'clock in the morning. "L.A. County Fire Department. Captain Stanley," he said in a groggy voice. No one answered. "Hello? Hello?" Still silence. "This is the fire department. Hello?" Nothing. Captain Stanley hung up the phone, muttering something about crank calls and why didn't parents keep closer tabs on their children. He could hear shifting in the other bunks as he returned to his own. The call had woken up everybody. No sooner had he gotten back into bed than the phone rang again. An uncharacteristically harsh word escaped his lips as he threw off the covers and snatched up the phone. L.A. County Fire Department. Captain Stanley." He made no attempt to hide his annoyance. Again, his greeting was met with only silence on the other end of the line. Captain Stanley nearly slammed the phone down. "What is it, Cap?" Chet asked. "Crank calls," came the reply. "One more time and I'm going to leave it off the hook." But there were no more calls. The station was quiet. It was not long before the room was filled again with the regular, even breathing of peaceful slumber. Mike listened to the sounds of his crewmates. Their breathing helped calm him, held him in the here and now, when his mind kept trying to replay over and over again the scene at the mine. It had been four hours since they had returned from that call-out. Mike had hit the sack immediately upon their return, but he had not been able to get a wink of sleep. His mind was caught in a feedback loop, until finally everything began to fragment and break down. The necessity of sleep began to force its way into his brain. He had just drifted off when a tremendous crash yanked him forcefully back to wakefulness. He shot up in bed and sat perfectly still, listening, until some autonomic charge told him that he was holding his breath. "What the hell was that?" Captain Stanley's voice rang out through the darkness. A second later, he was at the light switch; yet the room remained dark. "Power's out!" he announced. "Was that thunder?" Marco asked. "I don't know," Captain Stanley replied. "Mike, go turn on the backup generator. Chet, Marco, check out the locker room and the apparatus room. Roy, John, come with me. We'll get the dayroom and the back lot." Mike did not hesitate, but he was grateful for the darkness that hid his shaking from his crewmates. The backup generator was in it own small room - no more than a closet - behind the captain's office. Mike preceded the captain, Roy and Johnny into the apparatus room where the light from the streetlamps came through the windows and reflected off the engine and the squad. It wasn't a power outage then, if the streetlamps were working. Mike went to the generator room while Captain Stanley, Roy and Johnny headed into the day room. He opened the door and felt inside along the left wall, grasping a flashlight from the small ledge. He switched on the generator. The hum of power filled the station. Mike turned the bay lights on. Chet and Marco came from the locker room into the apparatus room. A quick glance showed everything was in order. They headed for the day room but were met by Captain Stanley, Johnny and Roy at the door. Mike joined them. "Nothing in there," Captain Stanley announced. "Let's check out back." And here they found the source of the crash. The row of half a dozen metal garbage cans along the back wall had been toppled, their contents spilling out into the parking lot. "For crying out-" Captain Stanley began. "Looks like our telephone prankster paid us a personal visit. What a mess." He paused. "Mike, go back inside and check the circuit breaker, pal. And let's get this mess cleaned up." Mike went back inside the apparatus room and opened the door to the fuse box. His face flushed hot. The master switch was in the off position. None of the individual circuits had been blown. And the master switch could never be overloaded into the off position. Someone had to have flipped the switch. That meant someone had to have been in the station. It was possible. Firemen were notoriously trusting. The station was never completely locked up. Why should it be? Who would rob a fire station? Over the past few weeks, Mike had started taking it upon himself to make sure the doors were secured at least during the night. But this night, he had turned in early. His crewmates likely had not locked the doors. Mike pushed the switch back into the "on" position, powered down the generator, and walked back outside to help clean up. "What was it, Mike?" Captain Stanley asked. Mike hesitated. He was going to lie. He was going to lie, and he was not sure why. This was something serious enough that it merited the truth. "Just a blown breaker. Must have been a power surge somewhere on the line." Captain Stanley made a strange face. "That's odd." Mike shrugged with as much nonchalance as he could muster and leaned over to stuff some garbage back into one of the trash bins. "A little too well-timed to be a coincidence," Captain Stanley went on. "I think someone's playing tricks on us." "Yeah, I'm going to play a few tricks of my own and sit out here with an inch-and-a-half to catch them if they ever decide to come back," Chet threatened. "Sure, Chet," Johnny replied. "You want to spend the whole night sitting out here? Actually, that sounds like a good idea. Then we won't have to listen to your snoring." "I don't snore, Gage." "You both snore," Roy could not resist putting in. "I do not snore!" Johnny protested. And so proceeded the conversation until the last piece of trash was picked up. Thirty minutes later, the station was quiet. **** The couch was loud. Every movement had an accompanying sound effect. It was the imitation leather. Or . . . was the couch made of real leather? "What a stupid thing to be thinking about." Mike sat in the darkness on the noisy couch, his senses sharp and on edge, his mind working overtime, filled with overlapping, competing thoughts. One moment he was ready to go tell Captain Stanley everything that had happened. The next, he could not believe that he had even considered reviving that nightmare, when he had nothing more than a face and few odd occurrences to go on. "Mike? What are you doing?" Mike looked up. He could see Johnny's dark outline standing in the doorway to the dayroom. He rubbed a finger over the bridge of his nose. "I couldn't sleep." "Yeah, it's been a rough night." Johnny moved over to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of milk. In no mood for the harsh light of the overhead lamp, he turned on the vent light above the stove. Then he sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, turning it to face Mike. He noticed Stoker's downcast eyes and preoccupied manner. He decided to give it a try. He had held his peace for many months, but now he saw a possible opening. "Everything okay, Mike? You've been kind of edgy lately." Mike's careless shrug was duplicitous. "Come on, Mike. You're no good at lying. What's bothering you?" Johnny pressed. "Nothing's bothering me, John," Mike replied, suddenly wishing that he were better at lying or that Gage was less perceptive - or at least, less persistent. But Johnny was not letting go. "Look, I've watched you for the past seven months; and at first, I was willing to let myself be taken in, just like the rest of the guys. But this last month, you've been jumpy and-" "Taken in?" Stoker's voice rose a notch. "What do you mean by that?" "It means you've been fooling us," Johnny replied. "You've smiled and laughed and dodged every attempt we've made to get you to talk about what happened to you-" "So, how does that translate into me 'taking you in'? Do you think I've been faking it this whole time? That when I laugh and smile, it's not real? Why can't you just understand that I don't want to talk about it? It's that simple, Johnny. It's not always best to talk about things, not when all I want to do is forget." Johnny leaned forward with intensity. "Look, Mike, it can't be doing you any good to hold this whole thing in. You can't deny what happened-" "I haven't denied a thing," Mike cut him off emphatically. "I know what happened to me. I know what they did. I dealt with it, and now it's over. You can put away your Sigmund Freud books, John. I don't need your help, or anyone else's. It's over, and I'd like to leave it in the past where it belongs." "I think you're making a mistake-" Mike got to his feet, and a rare flash of anger showed in his features. "The only mistake I made was coming back to this station." Johnny, hardly able to believe what he had just heard, rose as well and took hold of Mike's arm. "What?" "None of you can let it go! You're the ones who won't let me forget!" "Mike, we're trying to help-" "How? Tell me how you can help? What do any of you know about what I went through? What do you know about being tortured, Gage? What do you know about-about being unable to-to-" "Mike-" Mike pulled away. "Why are you doing this to me?! Just back off, John!" With these words, he broke from where he was standing. But Johnny was not going to back off. Not now. He was getting proof of his suspicions. Mike Stoker was not so well recovered, not so composed as he appeared. Johnny followed him into the apparatus room. He found Stoker standing in front of the engine, leaning his back against it, his jaw set like steel, his eyes cold and furious. "Mike, I'm sorry if-" "Johnny . . . just leave me alone." "No," Johnny shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea." This time, Mike's voice was a shout. "Damn it, Gage, leave me alone!" The next voice was Captain Stanley's. And he did not sound happy. "What's going on out there?!" The lights came up. Captain Stanley's appearance in the doorway to the dormitory was fear-inspiring. Woken up from his sleep for the fourth time that night - and not once for an alarm - he was fit to be tied. "What the hell is going on out here?" he demanded, storming over to where Gage and Stoker were standing in dumbstruck silence. "Nothing, Cap," Mike replied in a much more composed voice than the one he had used moments before. "Don't lie to me, Mike," Captain Stanley grumbled. "I didn't come out here for nothing. You two were loud enough that you woke me up, and I did not want to be woken up. But now that I'm here, you're going to tell me what's going on." Johnny and Mike glanced at each other, and Johnny caught Mike's concentrated glare, almost as if the engineer were daring him to say something. And Johnny had never been one to back down from a dare. "We were talking about what happened to him," he said in a neutral voice. Captain Stanley's expression changed to one of mild surprise. "You were talking about that?" "Trying to," Johnny replied. "Trying to?" Captain Stanley looked back and forth between the two men, waiting for an explanation. "No, we weren't," Mike argued. "I'm not going to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it. I want things to go back to the way they were." Captain Stanley heard the edge in Stoker's voice. It matched the coiled tenseness in his shoulders. He placed a hand on Mike's back, and Stoker did not dare shrug him off. "Look, Mike, maybe John's got a point. I mean, I've never heard you say a word to anyone about what happened to you, and-" "And I've been fine without talking about it. You've seen for yourself that I've been fine, Cap-" "Not for the past month, you haven't." Mike was shaking with something close to rage. "That's because you all won't leave me alone-" "This is the first time any of us has brought this up, Mike," Captain Stanley reminded him. "So, don't try to pin it on that." Mike fell silent. Captain Stanley looked at the two men before him. Stoker, angry and sullen. Gage, determined and aggressive. Not a good combination, not under the circumstances. Calm, rational discussion did not have a chance; and Captain Stanley was not willing to risk another explosion of tempers. "Listen, it's early in the morning," he began. "We're all exhausted. It's been a bad night, and we should all be in bed trying to get some sleep. We can talk about this in the morning." And even though neither Gage nor Stoker was satisfied with this verdict - Stoker because he did not want to talk about it at all, and Gage because he did not want to wait until morning - both men accepted their captain's decree and preceded him back into the dormitory, where the rest of a sleepless night awaited them. **** Captain Stanley kept his word. Only he had never intended to discuss Stoker's flighty behavior with the rest of the crew, and so shortly after breakfast, he called Mike alone into his office. There was no sense in beating around the bush or being delicate at this point in the course of events. Captain Stanley went directly to the point. "What's happening to you, Mike?" Mike tensed at the perceived insult, until he forced himself to concede that something was happening to him, had been happening to him for weeks now. Yet, this was his own private business. Silence was the way he handled things. Why couldn't his crewmates understand and respect that? They knew him well enough. This should not be so difficult for them to comprehend. His suspicions were just that: suspicions. He had no facts, no certainties, not even a gut feeling. Just a fear and an irrational one, at that. A stranger's face. That was the extent of it. Until last night. Someone had been in the station. Shouldn't he tell his captain that the safe haven of Station 51 had been breached? That someone had walked in, in the middle of the night, and cut the master power switch? Games. Someone was playing games with them. "I don't know what you mean, Cap," he replied, at last. Perhaps, at this rate, he would become adept at lying. He was getting a good amount of practice. Captain Stanley's frown was audible. "I'm not going to go around in circles with you, Mike. I just want you to be aware of one thing: I'm not the only one who's noticed how preoccupied you've been. If it starts to affect your work, I'm going to take matters into my own hands. That's not a threat. I'm concerned about you. We all are." He paused to see if Mike would say anything; but he did not, and so Captain Stanley went on. "If you ever decide you want to talk about it, you know you can trust us." Mike nodded once. "I know." "Stubborn as a mule," Captain Stanley groused inwardly. "That's all I had to say." Mike turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Cap . . . who do you think knocked over the trash cans?" he asked, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the door. Captain Stanley was surprised by this question. "Kids probably. There was no wind. No one drove into them, like Kelly did last year." He chuckled. "Probably the same kids as the ones who kept ringing the station. Why?" Mike turned around slowly. "I was thinking about Barry and William." Captain Stanley had suspected as much. "That thought crossed my mind, too," he admitted. He paused to consider. "There hasn't been a trace of either one of them since the fire in Maco Valley." "But they haven't been caught," Mike persisted. "No, they haven't. But do you think they'd be that bold? I mean, playing tricks on one of the stations they targeted . . . that's risky business," Captain Stanley said. "They were pretty bold before," Mike reminded his captain, eyes averted, a faint blush coming to his face. Captain Stanley studied his engineer's face and manner. This was what it had been all along. It had not been terrifying memories. It had not been disturbing dreams. It had been fear of it happening again - a fear so powerful that even to speak of it had amounted to nothing short of taboo. "Yeah . . ." Captain Stanley said in a quiet voice. "We're just going to have to keep an eye out. I'll let Chief Houtz know about last night." Then, seeing Stoker's somber, unconvinced acknowledgment, he stood up and approached him. "We won't let it happen again, Mike." Mike opened the door. "I'm not the only one in danger, Cap." Captain Stanley watched him leave, contemplating this last statement. "That's the truth," he said under his breath. "And that's what I'm afraid of." **** In the middle of the night Is that your heart you hear? Or a wind that's calling Back across the years. Have you reached your breaking point? "Breaking Point" Justin Hayward and John Lodge From "Sur La Mer" A gas leak. A spark. An explosion. An apartment building fire. It was messy. Horrendous. Eight stories of flame. A tragedy. Captain Stanley hadn't seen one this bad in a long time. At ten-thirty at night, most of the building's residents had been at home. The suddenness of the fire had trapped many of them in their apartments. There were six stations on hand, dozens of firemen, policemen, and ambulance attendants milling throughout the area. It was organized chaos; and right in the middle of it stood Mike Stoker, so overpowered by demand that all other fears had been thrust aside. Station 51 had been one of the first to arrive. Johnny and Roy were somewhere inside, looking for victims. Chet and Marco were up on the third floor, heading for the fourth. Captain Stanley stood near the entrance to the building, his handie-talkie in continual use. Mike listened to Chet and Marco's progress over the engine's radio. He looked at the gauges then at Captain Stanley. He knew he'd be getting the order any second. Then he saw him. Again. The same man. And this time, Mike did not look away. This time he was going to make sure. The man was staring back at him. Mike watched him reach into his coat pocket. Once, then again. Then again. But without drawing anything out. Mesmerized, Mike mimicked his action, reaching into his coat pocket. His fingers came into contact with a piece of paper. "Engine 51, this is HT 51. Mike, I need you to boost the pressure." Captain Stanley's voice delivered the expected order. Mike pulled the paper out and unfolded it. There were words written on it. For a moment, nothing would come together. The world began to spin and take on fiendish dimensions. The words on the paper floated before his eyes, and he thought, for an instant, that he might run. He felt the urge, but his body felt like it was cast in cement. Have you ever been burned, Fireman Stoker? Mike's gaze slowly rose to find his observer had disappeared from sight. Captain Stanley's voice came over the engine's radio. "Engine 51, this is HT 51. Mike, boost the pressure." Mike did not move. The paper dropped from his fingers. He was having trouble breathing. He stood staring at an empty spot, his mind blank, trapped. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm. Before he could react, someone spun him roughly around, and he found himself staring into Captain Stanley's angry eyes. "Stoker, what the hell are you doing? I told you to boost the pressure!" he ordered. Mike made no move to comply. "Mike? Damn it, Mike!" He elbowed Stoker out of the way and did the job himself. Then he turned and gripped his bemused engineer by the arms. "What's wrong with you?!" he demanded. Mike's stark gaze was hellish. "He's here," he whispered. "What?" "He's here." "Who's here?" Mike did not answer. The daze was wearing off. Fear was taking its place. "I-I can't-I can't stay here," he said, looking around him anxiously, as if no one else existed. "He's here-he knows I'm here . . . I have to get out of here . . . I have to-" He started to break away, but Captain Stanley tightened his grip. "Mike, what are-" "I have to get out of here! Cap, I have to-let me go-" "Stoker! Snap out of it! For God's sake! Mike, stop it!" He pressed him up against the engine; and for the first time in his life, Hank Stanley struck one of his crewmen. It might not have been the accepted manner of supervision, but it was effective. Mike fell immediately silent. Captain Stanley sat him down on the running board. "Mike, what the hell's going on?" Mike rubbed the sweat from his brow. "He's here." "Who?" "William." Captain Stanley drew up. "Are you sure? How do you know?" "I saw him." Captain Stanley took a few seconds to think things through. This was a nightmare. In the apartment complex behind him, four of his men were in desperate need of his guidance and in desperate need of a capable engineer. But in front of him sat Stoker, completely done in and claiming that William was somewhere in the throng of onlookers. He raised his handie-talkie. "Battalion 14, this is HT 51. My engineer is down. I'm going to have to stay here and man the pumps. My two teams are still inside the building." "HT 51, this is Battalion 14. Copy that. We'll take care of your men in the building. What's the situation at your engine?" "William Degruyer might be somewhere in the crowd, watching this fire," Captain Stanley replied. "He is here," Mike insisted. "Cap, I know I saw him." "I'm on my way over." This from Chief Houtz. "Mike, are you sure it was him?" Mike looked at the ground, where the note from his pocket was lying soggy in the street. Unable to will his body into motion, he merely nodded at it. Captain Stanley retrieved it. The words were still legible. He turned an incredulous face to his engineer. "Where did this come from, Mike?" "It was in the pocket of my turnout coat." "The pocket of . . . how-how did it get there?" "He put it there." Mike was speaking with complete detachment, a machine. "But how? How could he have done that?" Another automatic response. "He was in the station." "In the-when was he in the station?" "Last night when the power went out." "What?" "Someone had turned off the master switch. That's why the power went out." "Did you-did you see him last night? In the station?" Captain Stanley could hardly believe what he was hearing. How could Stoker have withheld all this information from him, from the rest of the crew? "No, I didn't see him . . . but he's been at some of our call-outs. I've seen him there." Captain Stanley was oscillating between extreme anger and extreme empathy. He took a few seconds to sort and calm his own thoughts, then he faced his engineer with a grave, reprimanding countenance. "Why didn't you say something, Mike?" "I don't know, Cap." Mike shook his head. His voice was forlorn. "I wasn't sure it was him. I didn't want to get everyone all worried, when . . . when I wasn't sure." Captain Stanley grimaced. "Christ, Mike, we could have caught this guy." Stoker was silent. It was no good laying blame or guilt. Stoker had made a mistake. That was the least painful way to look at it. Trying to discern a lack of trust or a careless attitude must form no part of how Captain Stanley and the rest of A-Shift would deal with the situation. The important thing now was to notify the authorities and keep a look out for the man. The harder decision lay in what to do with a fireman whose mind was so befuddled that there was no counting on his reliability. "I'm taking you off duty for the rest of the shift. I'll ask battalion for a replacement-" Captain Stanley said at last. "I don't want you to do that, Cap," Mike protested. "I can keep working." "I'm not so sure about that," Captain Stanley replied. "You froze up completely. And at a bad time, Mike." "I was-I know, Cap, but it won't happen again. It was just . . . it was so unexpected and-" Chief Houtz arrived with two police officers. "Are you alright, Mike?" the chief asked right away. Stoker nodded. "Is Degruyer still here?" "I don't know." "These two officers are going to make a search." Chief Houtz turned to Captain Stanley. "I'm taking you off this fire, Hank. I've already called your men back. We've got a replacement on the way." "Chief-" "It's too dangerous for you to be here, if that really is Degruyer out there. He may have come back to finish the job. I've already informed headquarters. They're contacting the LAPD. They're going to send someone to meet you at the station. Start pulling it in. I want you out of here now." That was that. Captain Stanley had his orders. Pull it in. Head home. **** It was still dark when they arrived back at the station. The door rattled and clanked down into position. The first order of business would usually have been the showers. But not this time. Captain Stanley, shedding turnout gear as he went, called everyone into the dayroom. He had held off discussion until he could have all his men in one room, without distraction, where he could make eye contact and read expressions. "We had some trouble tonight," he began. "William Degruyer was at that fire." No one said a word, and so Captain Stanley continued. He set the soggy piece of paper on the table. "He left a calling card. He's not being subtle." A pause. "He's been at the scene of some of our other call-outs. We don't know if Dodge is with him, and we don't know where he might turn up next. But the fact that he's showing himself so blatantly at our rescues . . . I think he must be planning to finish what he started." Chet looked across the table at Mike, who was sitting with bowed head and unfocused eyes. "You've seen him at some of our other responses, Mike?" Stoker nodded. "Twice." "Why didn't you say anything?" Chet's voice was not accusative. He sounded more dumbfounded than anything else. Mike shook his head in a morose gesture of confusion. He did not attempt an answer. No one faulted his sin of omission. Perhaps, some part of each man understood the fear that had driven their crewmate's action. Added to that was a certain element of self-reproach, each man wondering if he had tried hard enough to reach through the protective shield that Stoker had built up around himself. All of them had been content to believe that all was well. And, in fact, all had been well - up until a few weeks ago. Mike's crewmates had offered their concern. Even more, they had offered their time, their ears, their good intentions. But all the indications had pointed to an amazing recovery - both physically and mentally - on Stoker's part. Leaving him in peace had been the right thing to do. Or had it? No one was sure anymore. And it hardly mattered at the moment. Captain Stanley waved a hand. "Look, that's not important right now. The LAPD is sending someone here to meet us. I don't know what the department is going to do. They pulled us off that fire tonight because of this. I'm going to go ahead and give headquarters a call, see if they're sending anyone down. In the meantime, we'd better start taking some precautions again." He already had the phone receiver in his hand. "Check to make sure all the doors-" He stopped abruptly, the receiver to his ear. He pressed the plunger down once, then again. "The phone's dead," he announced, looking with alarm at the men staring back at him. "Hurry, check the doors!" "The doors are locked." Every man's head turned at the sound of this voice. In the doorway to the apparatus room, a man was standing; and although only Mike Stoker had ever seen the man face-to-face, there was no questioning his identity. "Well, isn't this cozy," William went on in a casual voice. "All of you here together, one big happy family." His gaze scanned from one man to the next, taking in the sight of their disheveled appearances - the soot blackened faces and sweat-dampened undershirts, the comic look of the bunker pants, the tension in the eyes. William nodded in satisfaction. "You look like firemen." He paused, adopting an expression of confusion. "But . . . you're surprised to see me. That's odd. I would have thought that by now, you'd be expecting me." In his right hand, he held a pistol. It was not aimed at anyone. It hung in his grip, his arm at ease at his side. "We have unfinished business, gentlemen," he said, the lightness disappearing from his voice. "All of you . . . this way." He motioned into the apparatus room. When no one moved, he raised the pistol and held it in front of his face, as if examining the weapon. "Do I need to kill one of you right here and now to make my point?" Captain Stanley spoke, never taking his eyes off of William. "Do as he says." Roy was the first. Coming into the apparatus room, he came upon a second man, also holding a handgun. This man did not have the cool look of sophistication that the first man had; this one looked anxious, excited . . . volatile, very nearly crazed. "Stop there," Barry ordered, halting Roy in front of the squad. He waited for the rest of them. Chet, Johnny, Marco . . . Captain Stanley consciously placed himself behind Stoker as they went past William into the apparatus room. William made a small movement, placing himself in their path. He held the gun at chest level, pointed at the base of Stoker's throat. He appeared to consider, then his mouth curled into a lewd parody of a grin. "No . . . too easy," he said. Mike's stare was more hateful than fearful. He felt Captain Stanley's hands on his arms, steering him around William, who let them pass without further harassment. Once they were all together, Barry ushered them into the locker room and ordered them to sit on the floor with their backs against the lockers. He paced up and down in front of them as William closed and locked the doors into the apparatus room and the dormitory. "This way we won't have any pesky disturbances," William announced pleasantly. He turned and faced his captives. "This is like a dream come true. I couldn't have asked for anything better." He looked at Mike. "And I have you to thank for it, Mr Stoker. If you had reported me sooner, they might have caught me, and Barry and I would be behind bars. Instead, here we are." His gaze expanded to include all of them. "None of you learned a thing from what happened. You didn't even learn how to be afraid. No protective measures. No extra precautions. Hell, no situational awareness. The doors go up, the trucks pull out . . . how many seconds pass before those doors go back down? Do any of you know? Do any of you care? You should care. There are at least enough seconds for a man to waltz right in. Isn't that right, Barry?" Barry smiled. "That's right." "Ah, but that's neither here nor there, anymore," William resumed. "We came here to finish what we started." "No." Taking his words literally, Captain Stanley perceived the threat to his engineer and started to get to his feet. "Sit back down, Captain Stanley," Barry warned. "Unless you want five dead crewmen littering your nice, clean floor." "I'm not going to let you hurt him again." Captain Stanley made no move to sit back down. Barry lurched forward, grabbing the man nearest to him. It was Marco, on his knees, the barrel of the gun pressed under his jaw. "I'm not likely to miss at this range," Barry threatened. "Sit your ass down, mister!" Captain Stanley's eyes shot frantically from Lopez to Dodge to Degruyer. Beside him, Mike spoke up in a remarkably calm voice. "Cap . . . I'll go with-" "Shut up!!" Captain Stanley ordered. "No one's going anywhere!" William's manner was genial. "Now, now, no reason to get excited. Barry . . ." He nodded at his accomplice, who released his hold on Marco, thrusting him back against the locker. Marco was perfectly still. He kept his eyes trained on the far wall, anything to avoid Barry's lingering glare. "Captain Stanley, you assume too much." William explained. "You see, when I said we were going to finish what we started, I wasn't referring solely to Mr Stoker. I was merely stating that Station 51 is the only station that has yet to pay the piper. We only need one of you. Although, Barry's idea has a definite appeal . . ." He looked up into a daydream. "Imagine . . . B shift showing up . . . I can just picture them walking in here, the sight that would meet their eyes . . . yes, well, there's no time for such indulgence. After all, as Mr Stoker can tell you, I am a man of compassion. The plan was to kill one man from each station. And so it stands. And to prove just how compassionate I am, I'll even leave it up to you gentlemen to decide which one of you gets to be the savior of the others." He moved to the far side of the locker room, motioning to Barry to join him. "You have two minutes. And just to keep it interesting . . . if you don't choose someone, I will put Barry's suggestion into action." "We don't need two minutes," Captain Stanley said immediately, shifting onto his heels. "I'm their captain." The horrified protests rose in unison. "Be quiet, all of you!!" Captain Stanley burst out, his voice filled with fear and anger. "Damn it, you're under my orders and you're going to do as I say!" He rose to his feet. William smiled and placed a hand over his heart in mock tribute. "How very touching. The captain sacrifices his life for his men. It's almost enough to move me to tears." "You have to let them go, first," Captain Stanley insisted. "I have to know that they're going to be safe." "Do you think you're cutting some kind of deal with us?!" Barry ground out, sauntering the few steps back across the locker room and waving the gun in a hysterical frenzy. "You're in no position to tell us what to do! You're not in charge here any-" His voice cut off as the sound of the tones blared through the station. A moment later, the dispatcher's voice could be heard, a ghostly echo reaching through closed doors. "Station 51, confirm your status is in quarters." For a moment, a nightmarish silence filled the station. Then Captain Stanley spoke. "They'll be expecting an acknowledgment." "Let them expect it," William replied. "They won't get one this time." "They'll wonder what's wrong," Roy threw out, getting to his knees. "They'll send someone to check it out." "Yes, and you know what they'll find," William replied. "If you stay here, they're going to catch you." This was Roy again. "You don't have to do this. You can leave now, before they send someone out, and-" The dispatcher's voice filled the station again. "Station 51, acknowledge your status is in quarters." William shook his head. "We're not leaving." He took hold of Captain Stanley's arm and pulled him away from the others. "Did it not occur to any of you that it was never part of our plan to leave?" He cast a rueful smile at the faces staring back at him. "My life has been over for two years now. So has Barry's. It was only the lure of justice that sustained us. Now that justice is about to be served, there's no reason to prolong a miserable existence." He pushed Captain Stanley a couple paces in front of him. "And there's no reason for procrastinating." He raised the pistol. The next moment, as his weapon discharged, he was struggling in someone's grasp, his wrist clenched in the death-white grip of another man's hand. It was a gut reaction, without thought or contemplation. It just happened, and as Mike dragged both himself and William to the ground, he expected any second to have the life blown out of him. Stoker's sudden and unexpected movement had propelled everyone into action. Marco and Roy, being nearest to Barry, launched themselves at him, Marco catching him around the middle and Roy adding his weight to knock the man to the ground. The gun went off. The force of the impact knocked Johnny back against the lockers. His face registered extreme surprise as he slid down to the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the locker door behind him. Marco forced the gun from Barry's hand, but Barry did not cease struggling. "You'll have to kill me!" He screamed. "Chet! Get the drug box!" Roy shouted. Chet got up from where he was leaning over Johnny's still body and went to retrieve the drug box. Captain Stanley moved in to help subdue William, until it became clear that Stoker did not need any help. Mike sat straddle across William's waist. He had already wrested the weapon from William's hand, and now he held it pointed at the man's head. He was surprised at how still his hand was, considering the tumult of emotions cascading through his body. "Go on, Fireman," William provoked him. "You'd be justified! No jury would convict you!" William saw the barely controlled fury burning in Stoker's eyes and pushed harder. "You want to kill me . . . think of what I did to you." His voice was insidious, like a disease, honing in on weakness. "Don't you remember . . . I burned you . . . I burned you again and again . . . and I was happy to do it . . ." He raised his hand towards Stoker's face. "Such a handsome-" A sound of anguish escaped Mike's lips as he knocked William's hand aside and pressed the gun against his throat. Chet, walking in on this scene, the drug box in his hand, stopped in the doorway, looking down at Stoker with disbelieving eyes. There was not a trace of the docile, even-tempered engineer. The man before him looked almost wild, face streaked with sweat and dirt and tears, with eyes that appeared to be someone else's, so intense was the hatred in them. "Mike . . ." Captain Stanley moved carefully forward. "Come on, Mike, he's not going anywhere . . ." "Yes, he is," Mike replied, the chill in his voice as cold as the chill that shivered up his spine. "Mike, don't . . ." "Come on, Mike," William taunted. "You want to do it! Don't let them talk you out of it. You have the right. Just pull the trigger. Just pull the trigger and justice is served. Justice is served!" Mike felt his finger tighten on the trigger. A single, agonized moan culminated in a one-word plea. "Cap . . ." "Mike-" "Cap . . . don't let me-" Captain Stanley saw the last threads of control were fraying. He threw himself into Stoker, falling to the floor on top of him. William did not hesitate. He snatched the gun from Mike's hand, leaping over the tangled bodies of the two firemen, and pointed the gun at Barry's head. "You did it, Barry," he said in a serene voice, sparing a glance at the unmoving figure of John Gage. "Justice has been served." He pulled the trigger. And before anyone could stop him, he put the gun to his own temple, and with his eyes now fixed on Gage, he announced triumphantly, "51 is my winning number." With that, William's miserable existence came to an end. Captain Stanley was still lying on the floor, his arms encircling his dazed engineer. Stoker was not making a sound, but Captain Stanley could feel the rapid, uneven breathing of the body in his embrace. He sat up slowly, turning to see the despicable mess laid out behind him. Roy and Marco, red-drenched and spattered with bits and pieces, had already shifted their focus to Johnny. Chet was only a second in joining them. "How is he?" Captain Stanley asked. "He's been hit in the shoulder," Roy replied. "There's an exit wound. The bullet went clear through. No critical organs hit, but he's losing a lot of blood." "Chet, call dispatch. Tell them we need an ambulance and tell them to inform headquarters." Captain Stanley turned back to Mike, who was now sitting up and regarding first the two faceless bodies, then looking without comprehension at Johnny, the center of desperate attention. "John?" His voice had an edge of confusion in it. He started to get to his feet. Captain Stanley got up with him, reaching out to steady his wavering stance. "He's going to be okay, pal." "They-they shot him?" "Come on, Mike, let's go next door-" Mike resisted Captain Stanley's attempt to direct him into the sleeping quarters. "They shot him? But I-I didn't want-how could I let this happen?! I didn't want this to happen!" "Come on, Mike." Captain Stanley was more forceful this time. He led him into the dormitory and sat him down on one of the beds. "Stay here," he said directly. "Mike, look at me." Mike looked at his captain. "Stay right here." "I will," came the dull reply. Captain Stanley went back into the locker room just as Chet entered. "An ambulance is on its way," Chet announced. He went down on one knee beside Marco. "How is he?" "He should be alright," Roy answered. "It's a clean entry and exit. We just need to get him to the hospital." "Where's Mike?" Chet again. "In there," Captain Stanley nodded towards the dormitory. "Chet, go stay with him. He's in a bad way. Someone has to keep an eye on him." Chet got up and went into the dormitory, finding Mike sitting exactly as the captain had left him. "Mike, you okay?" he asked, sitting down next to him. Mike was quiet for so long that Chet had begun to despair of an answer. But when Mike spoke, his voice sounded thick and heavy. "I was going to kill him." Chet said nothing right away. He sat in silent observation of his friend and coworker. And he knew Mike was telling the truth, or what Mike thought was the truth. But Chet knew better. "Why didn't you?" he asked, at last. "Cap stopped me." Chet waited again, sifting carefully through his words, knowing that to say the wrong thing at this juncture would cause more harm than good. "He stopped you because you asked him to stop you. I heard you. You wanted Cap to stop you." Mike shook his head then lowered his face into his hands. "I still wanted to kill him." "Then why did you ask Cap to stop you?" "Because I-I couldn't stop myself!" Mike replied heatedly. "That's bull," Chet countered. "You had plenty of time to pull that trigger, and you didn't. You would never have pulled that trigger, Mike. You want to know why? Because you're not like them. They piled it on you, Mike, but you're still here. You didn't let yourself turn into what they had become." "I don't know . . . I don't know anything right now," Mike groaned into his hands. He sounded exhausted. Chet put an arm across Mike's back. "Well, I do. I do know. And I know it for a fact." **** Johnny was wondering where all the nurses had gone. He hadn't seen one for almost four hours. Wasn't it getting close to dinnertime? Or didn't his dressing need to be changed? Where were all the nurses? He allowed himself to get excited when the door opened, and his excitement turned to plain and simple happiness when he saw Mike Stoker pop his head into the room. "Hey, Mike," he said with a grin. "Are you up for a visitor?" "Yeah, yeah, come on in." Mike looked extremely uncomfortable as he approached the bed. "Sorry I didn't come by sooner," he apologized. "I had to get some things straight in my head." Johnny nodded slowly. "Yeah . . . I know what you mean." Neither of them were going to go into it. It was, after all, not a manly thing to do, discussing feelings and regrets, mistakes and wrong decisions. Besides, if there was one thing John Gage had learned from the entire experience, it was that some things were best laid to rest and left there. It was not necessarily a good thing to disinter the dead. They made insignificant conversation. Thirty minutes later, when Captain Stanley showed up, the conversation remained harmless and unimportant. And it felt good. It had been a good visit, and Johnny had completely forgotten all about the nurses by the time his captain and his engineer departed. Mike and Captain Stanley headed together towards the parking lot. And the unimportant and insignificant ended. Captain Stanley came directly to the point he had been contemplating for the last three days, since the day William and Barry had threatened him and his crew for the last time, since the day he had seen something in his engineer that he had never seen before. "You know, Mike . . . you're the best engineer I've ever had. I don't think I've ever told you that." Mike inclined his head in a gesture of humility. "Not in so many words." "But you knew that, right?" The humility was still there. "Yeah, I think so." "You saved my life the other day. And you were willing to give yourself back over to those guys, knowing what they were capable of . . . in order to spare us." Captain Stanley shook his head in awe. "No matter how much I think I know you, you never stop pulling rabbits out of the hat." Mike looked at him with a cock-eyed expression. "What?" Captain Stanley laughed. "You're full of surprises. Just like me." Mike grinned. "Yeah. Just like you. Think of that and tremble." Captain Stanley raised a questioning eyebrow, and Mike explained. "Oh, just something I overhead Roy saying in the locker room one day. He said that I'll be just like you as a captain." "Ah well, there's something for you to look forward to." Mike's answer was spoken with great warmth. "Absolutely." Through the violence and the rage By the grace of love, be still. And the spirit that breaks free from the cage Is the one they can not kill. "Children of Paradise" Justin Hayward Well! Finished at last! I hope you enjoyed it. Or if nothing else, that it provided a sense of closure, but not complaisancy! Yes, I am a Moody Blues fan, if you hadn't noticed all the Justin Hayward and John Lodge! After all, the themes of love and loyalty and togetherness must counterbalance the themes of hate, cruelty and isolation. And for me, personally, I find great goodness in the Moody Blues' music. Until next time, then . . . Still Yours, Hyzenthlay |