Chapter 4
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(25 July)
"Why don't you go back where you came from, half-breed!" Contempt dripped from every booming syllable that rolled like thunder across the parking lot behind Station 51.
More than halfway to his Rover with his duffel, John stopped, surprise rippling over his body. News travels fast these days, he thought. He turned coolly to face the man he knew he'd find. "Think you're big enough to make me, red man?" he challenged loudly in return, pulling off his outer shirt with crisp decisive movements and tossing it to the ground with his bag. He took two quick steps forward, dropping into a defensive crouch, defining the arena with an expressive wave of his long arms.
"Oh, yeah, I'm big enough," the other man growled, mirroring Johnny's stance and circling closer. He accepted the boundaries with his own fluid arm gesture. Most of the departing A Shift had come out of the station, drawn by the yelled insults that had shattered the morning calm. The stranger, dark hair bound into long braids, was clearly a Native American; he was almost as tall as Johnny but outweighed him by forty well-muscled pounds. At least. And, he looked angry. Johnny waved his friends back then turned his full attention to his opponent, eyes narrowing, face hardening, body tensing.
The two men feinted with heads and hands in an attempt to throw the other off. Then they both charged, staying low, and letting forth almost identical guttural cries. Just before they clashed, Johnny and the other man straightened, hooked the other's suddenly bent right arm through his own and began to swing around each other wildly. Johnny's yips provided a counterpoint to the deep vocalizations of the other man as they continued to circle, changing direction as they smoothly switched arms, free arms waving high then low, steps shuffling then suddenly light. After nearly a full minute, they unhooked arms one last time and grinned at one another.
"Misúnka nah mato! It's great to see you!" Johnny exclaimed, laughing as he was pulled into a huge Bearguide hug.
"You, too, Johnny," Rand replied, ruffling Johnny's not-quite-regulation-length hair before releasing him.
"Guys, come meet my cousin Rand!" Johnny shouted to his now-amused shiftmates.
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(31 July)
Engine 51 … kitchen fire … time out 2137
Chairs scraped back and the engine crew left the darkened room to head out on the call. The television continued to send splashes of Technicolor across the rapt faces of the two popcorn-eating paramedics. They barely noticed the massive engine revving up or Stoker easing Big Red out of the bay and into the night, lights flashing, sirens howling.
"Is it my imagination or are we getting a lot of kitchen fires these days?" Kelly shouted to Lopez over the sirens once they were on the way to the scene. Their flashing lights dribbled crimson onto the engine that the passing street lights tried to bleach away, the recurring splashes creating wild-eyed, scarlet-faced apparitions out of the expectant firemen in the rear seats.
"It seems that's all we respond to anymore, amigo," Marco agreed.
"I wonder if there's a point to it all," Chet yelled back.
"I wouldn't be the one to ask, Chet," he replied, shrugging.
"Heads up, fellas, looks like we've got a live one," Cap called back to them as the engine pulled into the cul-de-sac. A ragged column of smoke rose from the back corner of a substantial two-story house. "L.A., Engine 51 on scene. Marco, Chet, grab a pair of inch-and-a-halfs. Mike, charge 'em and pull a supply line pronto."
Calls of "right, Cap" and "got it, Cap" were tossed back to Stanley as he strode toward the half-open front door, intent on gathering more information. "Fire department!" Hank called as he stepped inside. A pot-bellied man with a beer can in his hand appeared in one of the doorways. In the background, Hank could hear the laugh track from a television show: 'I'm home, I'm home, Archie.' 'Are you sure Edith?'
"My dingbat wife set fire to her camp kitchen," the man said. "It's out back," he added, gesturing vaguely with the can of beer before turning to go back to his television show.
"Sir, if there's a fire you need to get out of the house," Hank urged, reaching out to guide him to the front door.
"Why? The house ain't on fire, just that kitchen. Geez, whaddya think I am, stupid?" With that, he went back into the den and firmly shut the door in Stanley's surprised face. Why would I think that?, the captain asked himself, rolling his eyes.
"Man says the fire's out back, guys," the captain told his lineman as they dragged the hoses across the lawn. "Let's get to – ." He darted ahead of the others when he heard a woman calling for help.
A large cast-iron pit grill, perhaps four or five feet in diameter, sat dangerously close to the back wall of the house, an unidentifiable charred mass smoking heavily in its belly. Heavy-duty steel wheels at the corners rested on twin tracks set into the concrete suggesting the apparatus could be pulled to the middle of the patio when in use then pushed back out of the way for storage. Two large vats of cooking oil suitable for deep-frying stood beside the fiery grill, an acrid blue smoke rolling from the surface. Heat from the fire in the pit had ignited a pair of macramé plant hangers attached to the green-and-white canvas awning with a soft whoosh-whoosh. Soon the ferns in the planters were burning hellishly, swaying in the breeze.
A middle-aged woman, with fine light-colored hair falling out of what was once a tidy bun and into a face tight with frustration, was standing on the far side of the grill when Hank turned the corner. She'd been using the garden hose in her hand to wet the area down and keep the fire from spreading, if the glistening concrete and grass were any indication. When the flames quickly crawled up the planters and ignited the awning itself, however, she had panicked and yelled for help. The awning was now burning briskly in the light breeze, threatening the house itself. In desperation, she'd begun to spray water wildly toward the flames mere seconds after Hank turned the corner and took in the situation.
"Stop! Don't – ," yelled Captain Stanley futilely as the stream of water hit the hot grease, flashing to steam immediately. Water, steam and burning grease flew in all directions; fortunately for the woman, most of it headed away from her. The hot mixture splashed onto the large thick-paned window behind the vats, cracking it spectacularly.
"L.A., Engine 51. We have a working fire here, continue full assignment this location, request squad," Hank said as he made his way to the woman who had scrambled back in surprise and fear. "Easy, now, ma'am, easy, we've got it," he murmured to her, easing her into a wrought-iron patio chair away from the fire as Marco and Chet came around the corner. Cap nodded at them, gesturing Kelly toward the house and Lopez to him. Chet immediately directed a stream of water toward the darkening, smoking siding on the house as Marco stepped toward Cap.
"I didn't know it would – ," the woman was saying weakly, waving her hand at the remains of the deep-fryers. "I didn't mean to – ," she started then stopped again.
"It's alright, ma'am. We've got it now," Hank said soothingly to her before turning to Marco. "Lopez, go tell that idi – , uh, man his house is on fire and get him out. Don't take no for an answer," he added, giving Marco the heads-up he might have some resistance. "If Stoker's got the supply line set, have him bring the first aid kit, and a burn pack."
"'kay, Cap," Marco replied and, after taking in a deep breath, darted through the patio doors in the center of the house and into the now-smoky interior.
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"Stoker?"
"Yeah, Gage?"
"Whatcha doing down there?"
"Checking the dichondra for hot spots?"
"Any luck with that?"
"How ya definin' luck there, Johnny?"
"Good point. Ready to get up now?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Well, I can leave you here till Cap comes by looking for his engineer…."
"Okay, okay, I'll get up." Mike shifted his hands and raised his body out of the flower bed in a classic push-up then froze as two large booted feet appeared beside him. Just let the earth swallow me up now, he thought and slowly sank back down into the flower bed he'd just left, closing his eyes again.
"Uh, Michael?"
"Yeah, Cap?"
"Whatcha doing down there, pally?"
"Uh, push-ups?"
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(1 August)
Mike Stoker prided himself on his self-control but he could feel his resolve weakening as he sat on the couch next to Patty.
Fortified by a cup of strong coffee and a scrambled egg and radicchio sandwich, he'd come over to Patty's house with the best of intentions after his shift ended. The drive over, with his radio up and windows down, had revived him and he began to look forward to spending a sunny California morning with her.
"Hey, Mike, glad you made it," Patty said when she opened the door at his brisk knock. She gave him a quick hug, surreptitiously breathing in the faint smell of smoke that lingered on his skin, before leading him into the house's great room. Mike couldn't help letting out a low whistle of appreciation. "Like it?" she asked with a chuckle at his expression.
Heavy Spanish-style beams spanned the high ceiling, lightweight cross-bracing patterning the smooth white expanse. Wood-filigree and glass doors enclosed inset-arch bookshelves while black wrought iron fixtures graced the walls at regular intervals. A wide-plank hardwood floor gleamed with care. The large area rug in deep reds and blues was centered in front of a stone fireplace, edged by comfortable-looking chairs and matching red leather sofas. That part of the room flowed into a sun-drenched breakfast nook and a generous kitchen, French-style doors leading out to a stone patio.
"Wow," he said, drawing another chuckle from Patty.
"Have you had breakfast? I can whip up something if you'd like," she offered leading him to the breakfast nook where her books and papers were spread out.
"I'm good, thanks," he replied, taking the seat she indicated. She poured two cups of decaf coffee and handed him one before sitting down beside him. "What all do we have here?" he asked after a sip of the weak brew. Maybe I'll offer to make the next pot, he thought.
"Okay, I've found most of the information you wanted on that last batch of items …," she began, outlining what she'd found out about some of the more obscure items he would be handling at the gala event less than three weeks away. After about forty-five minutes of sitting on the hard kitchen chair in basically the same position, Mike realized his back muscles were beginning to cramp, probably from what he'd done at that crazy kitchen fire. He shifted, brushing against Patty's shoulder as he did, and tried to stretch his back.
"So each whimsy is unique and that's what gives it more – hey, are you hurt?" Patty asked, halting her explanation when a grimace crossed his face.
"Just stiffened up a bit, I'll be fine," he replied, standing and gingerly twisting his torso to relieve the stiffness. He'd used one heat pack Gage had given him on the way over, saving the other for when he went home.
"Well, these chairs are not exactly built for long-term comfort, either," she admitted, standing up with him. "That's why Daddy and I usually eat at the island in the kitchen. If you're really okay, we can move over here – it's definitely more comfortable – and finish this bit, then take a real break."
"Sounds like a plan," Mike said, following her to the leather sofa she'd pointed to. He sat down on the broad seat and Patty planted herself next to him, close enough that he could look over her shoulder and see the pictures she was pointing out to him in the books she'd brought from her library. Stoker smiled when he noticed a few of the books were marked "Non-Circulating"; she'd clearly been using her librarian's prerogative again.
When Patty started talking about the Native American items, Mike leaned forward to study the pictures more closely, placing his arm behind him to counteract how deeply he'd sunk into the comfortable couch. He had talked with Johnny's cousin Rand over breakfast last week about how Native American flutes were made and played, and was eager to see what Rand had only described in words and Johnny-esque hand motions. Stoker's idea of a flute was a silvery tube with buttons on it sticking out of the side of his sister's mouth, not what Rand had described as a 'double-chambered wooden cylinder with finger holes and a reversible block lashed to the body by leather thongs.' Or something like that.
He was close enough to Patty now to catch the slightest hint of her perfume when the phone rang.
Patty bounced up and over to the kitchen to answer it. Mike leaned back and let his eyes close, hearing her voice but not really absorbing the meaning of her words. It was so warm and peaceful here. He slouched more deeply into the red leather couch, resting his tender back. Stupid skunk, he thought. The couch felt good, cradling his tired body, much better than the unpadded kitchen chair. Several minutes later, Patty sat back down beside him, her weight on the cushion rousing him. He blinked his eyes several times as he pulled himself upright to examine the book in her hands again, catching that same hint of her slightly spicy perfume. Hmmm, nice.
With Patty back beside him on the couch, Stoker discovered it was hard to concentrate now. Soon, he found himself listening to the cadence of her voice again but being completely oblivious as to the content. She's got a great voice, he thought distractedly. I could listen to her talk forever.
When her voice rose in excitement, Mike leaned closer, trying to follow Patty's fingers with his eyes so that it looked like he was paying close attention to her every word and gesture, taking in every scrap of information she was trying to impart to him. Soon, however, his eyes bounced up from the page and he found himself studying her profile, his blue eyes starting at her hairline, tracing the curve of her forehead and then sliding down her nose and across her lips, noting her cute ears in passing, then trailing down her chin and throat to her clavicle, his eyelashes sweeping downward as he did. He started to lean toward her just a bit – .
Then snapped his eyes back open and sat up straighter. This is neither the time nor the place for that, Stoker, he admonished himself. Pull it together. He sucked in extra oxygen to clear his head, shifting forward on the couch.
"Gonna make it, specialist?" Patty asked.
"Uh-huh," he said, not trusting his tongue to form appropriate words at this point, but trying to keep his wide-open eyes steadily on her so she wouldn't figure out what his problem was. Honestly, he wasn't sure he could hold out much longer, not while they sat on this oh-so-inviting couch which looked plenty long enough for his six-foot-four-inch frame and plenty wide enough to roll around on. He had never liked a narrow bed; he hated narrow couches.
The next ten minutes were agony for Mike as he fought his body's urges. Patty deserves to be appreciated, buddy, not inconvenienced by you, … which is exactly what's going to happen if you can't keep your head on straight…strength of character, my toenails ….
Since he was balancing on the forward part of the cushion now, he'd turned to face her more directly, one knee touching hers lightly. Then he found himself staring at her lips as she talked, trying to figure out what she might be telling him, when she paused and bit her lip. He watched her take a drink of water, saw her throat contract as she swallowed, observed her tongue lick the last few drops of moisture from her pink parted lips. "Look at this, Mike," she said, tapping the page. "Isn't it marvelous?"
Shamefacedly, Stoker shifted his gaze to the book in her hands, tilting his head and leaning toward her as he did, inciting a slight wave of dizziness. "Wow," he said dazedly when he looked at the brilliant stained-glass mosaic swimming before his eyes, his breath whispering hotly across her cheek. " 's so pretty," he murmured indistinctly, his remark sending another warm feathery sensation through her body.
Patty turned her head slowly, heart beating rapidly. His face was only inches away from hers and she suddenly wanted to trace his lips with her own. His languid blue eyes gazed into her green ones intently. "Michael?" she asked breathlessly, wondering if he was finally, finally going to – .
"Sorry, lady green eyes," he slurred piteously, blinking his eyes ever more slowly. "Can't fight it any longer …." And then, as his exhausted body's need for sleep overcame his resolve to stay awake, Mike tumbled slowly forward, startling her into action.
"Whoa, big guy," she said softly, managing to change the direction of his tumble before he ended up on the floor by levering him back into the couch with her body. Patty unlaced his shoes and slipped them off, setting them neatly by the couch, and, in a practiced motion, swung his legs up and around so his whole body was supported by the couch. She tugged him gently into a better position; he sighed as his body settled more deeply into the cushions. A few minutes later, she placed a pillow from her newly-made bed under his head, aware of the tantalizing softness of his short brown hair, and covered him with a freshly-laundered cotton blanket, honestly amazed at how completely he had yielded to sleep. It must have been a really rough shift.
Specialist, she thought with a tender smile, barely resisting the urge to let her fingers dribble through his hair, down his cheek, across his strong jaw, what am I gonna do with you?
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The smell of pineapples and the clink of ice in a nearby glass tumbler rapped gently on the door of his subconscious, the unfamiliar sensory inputs calling his mind from the cozy mountain cabin it had rented while his body slept. Some part of him suggested knowing where his body was might be a good idea.
He soon realized it was too much effort to open his eyes so he concentrated on what he could gather from his other senses, those not requiring movement. He was laying on his stomach, on a soft surface, face cradled in a cool pillow scented with cedar. Uhm, thaz nice. It was quiet, the soothing sound of a fountain chuckling to itself floating in with the light breeze. His right arm dangled off the edge of what Stoker had tentatively identified as a couch, fingers splayed bonelessly across the textile floor covering.
He slowly became aware of an unusual warmth, a delicate kneading of his blanket-covered body. Centered in the small of his back, the touch was light and varied, one moment hesitant, the next determined and vigorous. After a final round of raindrop-weight taps, the soft warmth paused and seemed to settle exactly where his muscles were sorest, gently heating the tender tissues. Relaxing again, Mike decided he didn't really care where his body was and slipped back into sleep, telling the leasing agent for the beach bungalow to send him a bill for the extra palm trees….
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"Here, kitty-kitty-kitty," Patty called softly. "Where are you, fella?" She moved into the room quietly, not wanting to disturb her sleeping guest, checking under tables and in the cat's other favorite hiding places. "Hey, Chief! C'mon, don't do this. Here kitty-kitty – ." The phone rang, startling her, and she hurried to the kitchen before it could ring again and wake Mike.
"McConnikee residence, Patty speaking," she said breathlessly. "Hey, Daddy. … No, everything's going fine. … You can't? Oh, that's too bad. I was hoping you could meet my friend Mike. … Really? Daddy, that's great. I'm so proud of you. … Yeah, but it was your idea in the first place. … Now, don't let those big scary firemen rattle you when you give 'em the pitch. You're just as much a fire professional as they are. … Okay, Dad. Tell Uncle Tommy I said hi. Straighten your tie, look 'em in the eye. … Love you too, Dad."
Patty hung up the phone with a proud smile. My dad is pretty awesome, she thought before reminding herself of the need to find the cat. "Hey, Chief! Where are you, fella? Are you caught somewhere?" When she reached the couch Stoker was still sprawled on, she heard Chief's purr.
And, there, curled up on Mike's back was the family cat, a beautiful orange and white darling named Chief Tomcat McConnikee.
"Silly cat!" she said. With disdain only a cat could manage, Chief stood up and stretched, then pranced up the man's back, over his head, front paw lightly brushing his forehead, and onto the arm of the couch, where he began his morning bath. Just then, someone rang the doorbell insistently and she hurriedly left the room to answer the door, chuckling as she went. Hope Mike doesn't mind cats; I think he's just been adopted!
The random sounds, unusual sensations, and increasingly loud voices of the past few minutes had roused Stoker and he rolled carefully onto his back, eyes still closed. A disconnected jumble of remembered words wandered through his slowly waking brain. Chief, McConnikee, hey Daddy, too bad, Daddy proud of you, big scary firemen, Dad, Tommy, love you too, chief, silly cat. When he felt something warm land on his chest, Mike popped his eyes open.
And found himself nose-to-nose with a big orange cat with green eyes.
With a strangled shout, Mike jumped and half-fell, half-slid off the couch and onto the floor with a loud thump. Understandably startled, Chief did much the same, landing with innate feline grace on the back of the couch, and meowing loudly in protest at his displacement.
Mike glared at the cat for a moment then shook his head, amused. He'd been falling in embarrassing ways too much recently – at the scene over a foot-high ceramic skunk, then asleep here on the couch, really smooth there, Stoker, and now onto the floor due to a cat. What's next?
He started to push himself up off the floor when an authoritative voice rang out. "Hold it right there, mister!" Mike looked up, froze.
And found himself staring up the barrel of a gun and into young, scared-looking eyes.
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(3 August)
"So, we're goin' door-to-door, canvassing the neighborhood for this armed robbery suspect," Pete Malloy explained. "We get to this house and the trainee rings the doorbell a couple of times. A few minutes later, a woman comes to the door to see what we want. Now, the kid's got this loud voice and he's explaining why we're there and all. Well, the lady she keeps trying to shush him and looking over her shoulder like she's worried someone will hear."
"Uh-oh," Johnny said, handing his partner Roy a second cup of coffee. Pete's partner Jim Reed waved off the offer of a refill. While waiting on word about the victim of a brutal beating, the two LAPD officers were telling the two LACoFD paramedics about a run-in they'd had with one of their as-yet-unnamed brothers a few days ago.
"Finally, he just asks her, you know, is there something wrong, thinkin' she's hiding something, or someone's there, I dunno. Now, this kid is as green as shamrocks," Malloy continued. "The lady leans forward and she says, very softly, 'There's someone on the couch who – .' And right at that moment, before she can finish her sentence, there's a loud yell and a couple of thumps." He rapped the table in the staff lounge to demonstrate, startling one of the nurses getting coffee.
"And the cat, don't forget the cat, Pete," Jim put in.
"Right, there was this crazy yowling, too. So the kid hears all this and assumes the worst, right? He pushes past the lady, almost knocking her over, runs inside like a shot before either of us can even blink. I'm close enough to grab her and pull her back up, while Jim here – ."
"I run down the hall and hear the kid shout, 'Hold it right there, mister!'"
"You heard it, I heard it, the neighbors heard it," Pete said dryly. Roy raised an eyebrow and bit into the crunchy cookie Dix had pressed on him earlier. Better dunk this cookie 'fore I break a tooth. "Like I said, the kid had a loud voice."
"So, there's this cat on the back of the couch meowin' its head off," Jim continued. "And this rookie has his gun trained on some big guy sprawled on the floor by the couch. The kid looks rattled but the guy is pretty calm. Not moving a muscle, mind you, but calm. He says somethin' like, easy officer easy, I'm a fireman with L.A. County, identification's in my wallet, my name is …." He paused dramatically. "We should make them guess, Pete; they'll never get it in a million years."
"I dunno, maybe they'd figure it out," Malloy said, "if we give 'em some hints."
"Should we?"
"Yeah, why not? After all, they oughta know who they're workin' with, dontya think?"
"You're right, Pete."
Johnny just glared at the pair, while Roy took a different approach, swallowing the second, softer, bite of his cookie. "So, give us a hint already."
"Well, he's tall … brown hair … quiet – ," Malloy said slowly.
"Not Stoker!" Roy exclaimed as Johnny tried not to spew coffee in his surprise.
"Bingo! He says 'my name is Mike Stoker' and so, we take a look and, sure enough, it's Stoker on the floor, tangled in this pink flowered blanket," Pete said with a laugh. "We finally get the rookie to put his gun down and help Mike back up on his feet when the cat – this big orange and white tom – just goes crazy."
"It was something else, guys," Reed said. "The cat was spitting and hissing and cackling. The hair on my neck was standing up at the sound. That whole cats and witches stuff made a whole lot more sense all of a sudden." Pete rolled his eyes. "What? Pete, didn't you say the cat was demon-possessed?"
"I said it looked like it was demon-possessed."
"And you've seen a lot of demon-possessed cats, have you?"
"About as many as you have, partner. It's just a figure of speech."
"So, if the cat wasn't demon-possessed, what was wrong with it?" Johnny broke in, amused by the banter but eager to hear the rest of the story now. They could get called out at any time.
"What? Oh, well, when the lady crouched down to calm the kitty, she looked through the patio doors and saw what turned out to be our suspect, gun in hand, sneaking through the backyard. She yelled and grabbed the cat. Stoker just grabbed up her and the cat, and got them behind the couch. Mr. Track Star here," Pete said punching his partner lightly in the shoulder, "ran out the back after the guy, I ran out front to cut him off, telling the kid to call for backup."
"Did you get him?" asked Roy, easily picturing Mike getting the girl to safety. The cat? Not so much. Apparently, it was a package deal.
"Oh, yeah," Reed replied casually. "Malloy's the one who got the drop on him when he tried to cut back to the street."
"But here's the best part," Pete continued, amused by his partner leaving out the other details of the chase. "We've got the guy cuffed and so we walk him back to the patrol car parked in front of the house. Once we've secured him in the back seat, Jim and I go inside, just to let them know everything's okay, right? So, we go inside … and there's, you know, Stoker and the girl." He took a sip of coffee just to draw the story out, eyes twinkling.
"Annnd?" an impatient Johnny prompted, looking from one officer to the other.
"Lip-lock," Reed supplied with a grin.
"Massive lip-lock," Pete corrected his partner sternly, causing the other men to burst out laughing and Malloy to grin.
