Marcus Parkham's fat fingers greedily tore into an envelope that had arrived from LAFD headquarters as he sat in a plastic lawn chair. His heavy rings threw gold flashes across the vaulted oak ceilings of his nearly empty study.
"About time," he grumbled as he scooped his gold monocle up and fitted it into his eye socket. He made a guttural growl of disgust when he had to smooth the letter out onto a much too low plastic patio table instead of the magnificent desk that used to grace the place.
"Craig Brice, age twenty seven … and a half. How dramatic," the irritated man read as he picked up a paper on which he'd scratched the names of the injured firemen from today's chemical refinery fire on. Craig Brice was indeed on the list. Things were looking up.
Father and Mother:
If you are reading this letter, I have died in the line of duty. Please know I still have no regrets about my decision. The following is my final wishes. Please donate any proceeds from the following institutions to the Fireman's Benevolent Fund.
Bank account 14343, LA National Bank, 109 Parkside
Tri State insurance number 765789
LAFD insurance number 45354
Provided that I have not already been reduced to ash in a fire, my remains as per my request will be interred at Grace Cemetery and all arrangements have been made so there will be no need for you to trouble yourselves for a trip to L.A.
Craig Brice
The drama positively leapt off the page leaving Parkham breathless with glee. Picking up his white telephone by its brass handle and cringing as the plastic table swayed, he called Darcy Paquette, his one minion who could always be relied upon to do his bidding no matter the cost. In a matter of minutes their flight was booked to Cap Cod, Brice's black letter and several sharpened pencils at the ready to record the whole nasty scheme they were embarking upon.
"I'm happy to pay for the tickets, Mr. Parkham," Darcy Paquette simpered. "I assume you fired your personal assistant who overlooked me for an invitation to your annual Christmas soiree?"
"Of course, my dear. How could I forget my best student, who by the way hasn't changed in all these years while I grow into an old man?" the man lied as his girth invaded the bony woman's seat with no complaint from her at all. There of course had been no party, other than the one thrown by his ex-wife's family when she'd been freed by divorce. The plane smoothed and levelled and within minutes, the man began abusing the flight attendants about tiny bags of peanuts as Paquette looked on with something akin to worship.
XXXXX
Foster Brice opened the heavy oak door reluctantly. The opulent crystal inserts threw rainbows over his handsome features which were hidden by wire rimmed glasses and worry that seemed permanently etched.
"Can I help you?" he asked. He hated salesmen but he'd hear them out and ask them to leave politely.
"You are Foster Brice?" Paquette asked in hushed tones that set the older man's nerves on edge for reasons he couldn't explain. "And your wife, Elizabeth Brice is also at home?"
"What is this about?" Brice asked, slightly relieved that quite possibly these people were here to try to talk his wife into buying a vacuum cleaner for their maid or something.
"Mr. Brice, we regret to inform you that your son, Craig Theodore Brice was killed in the line of duty today in Los Angeles County. We have been sent here to answer any questions you may have and offer our condolences and services on behalf of the L.A. County Fireman's Benevolent Program."
Mr. Brice stepped back. He said nothing about the strangers on his doorstep being welcome inside but nevertheless they stepped in and headed straight for the living room where they sat expectantly waiting for the man to summon his wife. Darcy Paquette leaned forward in a vulgar, hungry stance, rummaging in her newly repaired beaded handbag for pencils and paper to scratch out details of the macabre news. Marcus Parkham turned his huge wrist over to check the time. This needed to be handled quickly before anyone suspected anything.
Mr. Brice left the strangers downstairs as he pulled himself up by the railing along the marble staircase one step at a time, legs shaking and ten shades paler than when his guests had darkened his door. A minute later a woman's scream curdled the otherwise silent house and a body hitting the floor shook the ceiling slightly. A startled maid ran from the kitchen taking the stairs two at a time and soon shushing and comforting sounds emanated from above the devious duo downstairs. Paquette scribbled furiously, her pen hitting the dots of I's and flicking across her T's in cold fury.
Judging from the cold manner in which Craig Brice wrote his final note to his parents, I'm sensing unresolved issues in this family, possibly a disagreement about careers, Paquette penned, making a notation in the corner of her note pad to press that issue further. They needed to get as much juicy information as they could; the publisher was threatening to pull funds for the upcoming book if they missed another deadline and Craig's was the only letter submitted so far. Meanwhile, waiting for what he considered an intolerably rude amount of time for the mourners to come back downstairs and pay them attention, Parkham worked on his best speech to convince HQ that his visit to the Brice's home was not only an error, but someone else's fault. Because Craig Brice was alive.
The maid came back downstairs sniffling and in obvious distress. She drew herself up and took a deep breath to ask Parkham and Paquette if they would care for a beverage after their lengthy trip and expressed on behalf of her employers their thanks for coming.
Parkham was annoyed. It was now growing late and he doubted very much if there was any cocoa in this house. Paquette impudently followed the maid into the kitchen under the guise of helping to make tea while Parkham contented himself by stifling the snap of his flashbulbs with fake coughs as he took photos of the family photos on the mantle and all around the room. Parkahm couldn't help but investigate the expensive fabric curtains with his fingers and run his greedy palms over the Faberge Eggs that lined the shelf behind the couch. He drew his hand back as if burned when it came across a shoddy, wooden, hand painted version which had obviously been crafted by a child's hands. He picked it up, wrinkling his round nose with disgust. The egg slipped from his fingers and clattered under the couch. The rotund man couldn't bend in the middle to retrieve the ugly thing so he shoved it further under with his tasselled toes, satisfied that the very expensive carpeting had silenced his faux pas.
A bespecled boy of about ten hugged a smaller girl while the two stood on a dock smiling out of bevelled glass and silver photo frames. The happiness was foreign to the cold hearted man documenting this frozen moment. That didn't stop him from guessing who the children were; that was something of an instinct in the man. A sister perhaps for it was obvious who the boy was. Unhindered sneaking down the hallway of the opulent home lead the fat man to pictures lining the walls on the way to the bedrooms. While the boy grew before Parkham's hungry eyes like a flip book as he stalked the hallway for clues about his subjects, the girl in the pictures seemed stunted until she no longer appeared in the progressing frames down the hall. The boy wore his Cap and Gown thrice, different colors for each succession, the girl just once. Was she dead? No, it was just too delicious, like layers in a cake. Parkham squeezed himself against a wall in order to take a final shot of the girl trapped for all time in the frame.
Footsteps padded down the thickly carpeted stairs, Mr. Brice supporting a barely upright woman who must be Mrs. Brice. Foster gently deposited his wife in a winged arm chair while the maid bustled from the kitchen with a tray of tea and cookies completely unaided by Darcy Paquette who instead emerged from the kitchen with her nose firmly tilted toward her clipboard scribbling furiously, her tongue between her teeth in badly masked concentration.
Parkham quickly took a seat, sinking the cushions on the couch so that when the bony Paquette placed herself beside him she sunk into his side and compensated by clearing her throat loudly and extricating herself to the far side of the cushion. In any other circumstances, this might have been funny.
"How?" asked Foster Brice coming straight to the point as the maid placed a cup of hot tea and a tissue into Mrs Brice's hand while he held the other.
"Chemical Refinery fire, sir, I'm so sorry. He wasn't able to escape a building; he'd been searching for victims."
Mrs Brice let out a strangled sob.
"Was it – was it quick? Did he suffer?" she whispered.
Parkham hadn't thought this out. At a loss, he merely looked at the floor and let the Brice's draw their horrible conclusions from his silence. Paquette made no attempt to smother the scratch of her pencil across the paper and in fact seemed engrossed as she watched the couple's pain play out across their faces.
"Oh Foster, I didn't even try to call 'im on his birthday this year!" wailed Mrs Brice. "I was so sure if we held out he'd come home and stop that nonsense. He's – he was a brilliant boy, my boy, eidetic memory; he could've had any job he wanted; safe, home…"
"It's not what he wanted – ma'am," the maid whispered sadly, the look on her face clearly registering that she was well aware that she was speaking out on things that shouldn't concern her. "He loved what he was doing…"
"How do you know that?" shouted the distraught woman.
The maid took a step back though the woman in the chair hadn't moved a muscle and indeed was so weakened with strife she was in danger of dropping the china tea cup perched in her shaking hands.
"He told me…" the maid whispered.
"Told – You? Craig hasn't come home in over two years, not a phone call, not a note, nothing. Don't you presume to tell me what my son wanted!"
As the maid's face fell, Mrs Brice looked sorry but said nothing further. She sipped the tea, numb to the extreme heat first than relishing the slight burn making her incapable of further speech for a moment to hide from the all encompassing responsibility that took up residence upon her shoulders like gravity.
Sensing some mass revelation, Parkham interrupted. Without further ado he handed the couple their son's final words. They read it together in silence, neither capable nor willing to say the words aloud. Foster turned the paper over and over again as if looking for more words to magically appear to make any sense, to wash even an ounce of guilt away, but there were no more words.
"Your son is a man of few words," Parkham initiated.
"Now, yes but once …" Foster said, a far away look focusing on a photo of Brice from long ago.
"As I said, Ms. Paquette and I are here to answer any questions you might have and be a sounding board for any concerns or requests you may have." Parkham said while his crony leaned forward eagerly.
"We'll respect Craig's wishes," said Foster Brice stoutly but Mrs Brice could no longer contain herself. Looking at her son's own words, so brash, so brave, so cavalierly suggesting that he may even as they read his letter already be ash…
"Is he … I mean. I'd like to see him one more time."
This was something Parkham hadn't bargained on.
"I'm sorry ma'am. For you own sake, I'd suggest against that," Parkham grimaced as if to convey that the death was shockingly messy. "
"Ms. Paquett, if there is nothing further these fine people need, we should be on our way back to L.A. Our condolences to you both," Parkham said, completely ignoring the maid who clearly had a connection to Craig Brice as well.
XXXX
Sitting on the tarmac on a delayed flight home, Parkham had hours to figure out how he'd explain how Brice was erroneously listed as dead. He was well versed in split tongue. That bossy blonde nurse at Rampart who'd thrice denied him access to John Gage's medical files would make a perfect patsy. "Finally!" he growled as two huddled figures boarded the plane and took their seats upstairs from his just as the engines roared to life. "We have what everyone wants to know; why did you want to become a fireman?" he mimicked the popular question. "The man could have been an investor, a banker, eidetic memory, I ask you." Paquette merely agreed with a nod, they would make up the reason on their own, didn't matter what the truth was.
XXXX
Marco bid a sleepy farewell to his friends as he was led from John and Brice's room by his mother. He sported a cast that wound around his shoulder and halfway down one side of his torso. It was morning again and through the night he'd been cast and released.
"Tell Brice to keep his chin up," the linesman yawned again. "Dix said he'd be coming around again any time now."
John nodded and gave thumbs up to his friend as Marco's mom walked over to his bed to fuss once more over his blankets.
"Take care, Juanito. I'll bring you some food tomorrow if you're good, him too if he's able to eat," Mama Lopez said indicating Brice with a sad smile. "Doesn't he have any family who should be here for him?"
Johnny shrugged his shoulders. Craig had never spoken of his family and he'd never asked. The rest of A shift would by now be home trying to get some shut eye.
XXXXX
"No, I will see him right now!" an angry male voice reverberated throughout the ward waking patients and sending nurses scrambling to fend off the commotion before the whole institution was disturbed.
"Mr. Brice, we're so sorry, we don't know how this happened. Your son is here, he is stable but going in there right now in this condition is only going to harm his recovery. He's just had surgery and he shouldn't be placed in the middle of this right now," came Dixie's voice.
"Look, Mr. Brice, I understand the shock you and your wife have endured since last night but I really can't let you see my patient until you calm down," Dr. Brackett's voice called above the din as the voices proceeded down the hall.
"I will search every room in the damned hospital if I have to," said Mr. Brice and indeed the sound of curtain hooks sliding roughly against their rails echoed down the halls and the indignant calls of nurses and patients alike mixed with chaos.
"Fair enough," said Dr. Brackett and Johnny could picture his hands up in a placating manner. "But please, just take ten minutes, come down to my office, have a cup of coffee, calm down, and then we'll go see your son. That's my best offer to you. Take it or I'll enforce visiting hour rules and call security. No one needs that, least of all your wife."
Dixie could be heard coaxing Mrs Brice to sit down and indeed when the shouting stopped, the sound of soft sobbing took their places.
"Foster, please. I need a minute anyway. I thought our son was…" Mrs. Brice pleaded.
"Ten minutes," agreed Mr. Foster. "Then I call my lawyer."
"Fair enough," said Dr. Brackett amidst the retreating footsteps and nurses soothing tones to patients trying to find out what was going on.
XXXX
Brice stirred. John was going to press the call button but thought better of it as he could easily picture an empty nurses' station with the flood of call button beeps going off. He hadn't been able to clearly make out what all the shouting was about but it had woken him. He rose from his bed, bare feet slapping against the linoleum. Brice's forehead was creased and he blinked between disturbed sleep, eyes roving under his lids quickly as though in dreams.
John put his hand on the paramedic's shoulder, lowering the rails on his bed to sit. He fit Brice's glasses onto his face gently and waited for awareness.
"Gage? What's going on, where are we?"
John could only gesture around the room.
"Oh – yes, I remember," Brice rasped as John handed him a glass of water. Brice winced as he shifted onto his elbows. John was going to protest but he'd do the same in Brice's position. He could only watch in sympathy as Brice lifted the covers to inspect his cast leg. Anguish passed over the vulnerable paramedic's face but when he let the covers drop he looked up stoutly.
"I'll be highly useful at HQ … There's a plethora of tasks suited to a …" Brice trailed off, indicating his damaged limb.
John spun the bed tray around and typed, You're not gonna be useless, Craig.
"Did they say anything to you about how bad it is?" Brice asked, seeming to look past John for someone who wasn't there.
John shook his head in the negative.
"So, I'll likely be here for what? A couple a weeks and then I'll have to go to … uh … I'm really tired, Gage, thanks for getting my glasses. I think I'll sleep a bit until the docs make their rounds."
And so John was dismissed. He put the railings back up around his roommate's bed and watched as the perfect paramedic feigned sleep. John wasn't remotely tired anymore so he crept to the doorway to try to figure out just what all the commotion in the hall had been about.
John watched the sun rise throwing pink and silver rainbows over his stark white sheets. He'd be released in two day's time. He turned to his new roommate. That part of the room was still in near darkness.
"Hey, handsome, I brought you some real coffee," Dixie said tiredly as she stepped in and pulled the curtain around John's bed. She smiled as the paramedic sat up as though pulled by the aroma of the fresh brew.
John eyed the curtain with a mischievous grin.
You pulled the curtains, are you gonna give me my bath today? he typed.
"You wish," Dixie laughed quietly looking like she'd very much like to punch him on the arm like she'd done downstairs many times.
"Actually, I came to escort you out of the room for a bit. Brice has visitors coming in and he's going to need some privacy," Dixie explained. "So even though technically I'm off at seven, I thought we could bundle you up and go outside on the patio for some breakfast."
Yes! John typed pumping the air with his fist. Dix swore that if he had a tail to wag he'd be doing it now.
"I know. You've been cooped up for too long," she said sympathetically. "But two more days and you're off." Dixie rummaged in the patient closet for the coat and clothing Roy had brought in for his partner. Moments later a very disgruntled John Gage sat in a wheelchair, coat, hat and heavy blanket draped across his legs.
"Dr. Brackett only agreed to this if I promised you wouldn't get a chill," Dix warned.
John sighed but allowed himself to be pushed off down the hall.
XXXX
Mr. and Mrs Brice temporarily forgot that they promised a very tired Dr. Bracket that they would wait outside their son's room until he had a chance to speak to his patient.
"You've got a minute, doc," Foster Brice told the Doctor.
"Mr. Brice?" Dr. Brackett said quietly.
Brice opened his eyes, glasses already on, which alerted the doctor that his patient had been awake for some time.
"How's the pain level?" Kel asked lifting the patient's chart from the foot of his bed.
"Manageable, thank you," said the stoic paramedic.
Kel checked the last dose of pain meds and was pleased not to have to up the dosage rate.
"Craig, may I call you Craig?" Kel asked tentatively, having heard from Roy about the paramedic's particular preferences.
Craig seemed to think it over. While still a crisis situation it looked as if he couldn't find any real reason not to break formality. He nodded.
"Look, Craig, there is really no other way to tell you but …" Brackett trailed off which at that point was the worst thing he could have done.
"My leg … I knew it. I saw the bleeding at the accident. Desoto told me you were gonna probably be able to save it but …"
"Whoa, calm down," Brackett smiled reassuringly. "Your leg is so far healing well, there's no sign of loss of circulation and ortho did a good job on setting the bone. I foresee a complete recovery after some extensive physical therapy but I'm not gonna lie to you, you're looking at least six months off work."
Given what Kel really had to tell the young man, the real scenario seemed to pale in comparison.
"Um, no, it's not your leg that the problem," Kel started again, immediately regretting his choice of words as the high strung paramedic started taking inventory of the rest of his body.
Kel's eyebrow arched to the point on his forehead where it was in real danger of being eaten by his hair. "No, Craig, you're going to be fine, relax. Your parents are here," he blurted out before he bungle anything else.
"My parents? Who called my parents? I didn't authorize that," Craig panicked, leaning up on his elbows to look past Dr. Brackett. His heart rate sped up. "Please tell them there is no need to concern themselves and that I will call them sometime when I'm released."
The pleading tone tugged on Kel's heartstrings but he wasn't finished shocking his wide-eyed patient yet. Part of him wished he'd sent Dix to do this duty and that he was sitting with the silent paramedic in the cafeteria hugging a cup of coffee. He'd tried holding off his patient's parents until he could reach the Fire Department's HQ but the answering service told him no one would be available in the office until nine in the morning. Still he'd have to ask Craig's parents to leave if he refused the visit.
Brackett sat down on the edge of his patient's bed. His patient's body shifted slightly away as though not accustomed to personal attention.
"Craig, I want you to reconsider your position based on something I have to tell you. There's been some sort of mix up at Fire Department HQ with the new benevolent program you participated in. It seems as of last night someone has mistakenly informed your parents that you were killed in the line of duty. Your parents have endured a gruelling plane trip here, preparing to see your body and making sure your wishes were carried out. I've given your mother a mild sedative. Your father is suffering from very elevated blood pressure and I really think it would best…"
"What! How? How did this happen? My letter … Did they read that letter?" Brice panted sinking back to lie flat. I can't see them now! I'm not supposed to have to face them after they read … I had nothing to say when I wrote that letter, Dr. Brackett, it wasn't supposed to happen this way. There are rules … The letter is delivered when one of us … dies … that's what rules are for! Damn it!"
Tears formed at the corners of Brice's eyes. "I – I can't do this, Doc, please tell them to go home. Please?" Brice begged.
Dr. Brackett sighed as he took Brice's pulse. He pushed the call button and asked for a sedative. He couldn't go against his patient's wishes no matter the situation. He quietly requested security to come discreetly in case they were needed as well. With a heavy heart he stepped outside the room closing the door firmly behind him and standing in front of it with his arms folded across his chest. The defeated sag of Mr. Brice's shoulders as his wife slumped against his chest said there would be no fight.
"Please tell him for us … we love him. We always have. We made mistakes; all of us. We're not leaving L.A. until we know for sure he's going to be alright. We're going to get a hotel, I'll leave the number with reception if anything … I mean, would the hospital call us if anything bad happened?" Mrs. Brice asked, tears streaming freely down her careworn face.
"I'm sorry but we couldn't call you directly. You're not listed as next-of-kin," Brackett informed them with an uncharacteristic shrug of apology.
"I see. Well, nevertheless we'll be back this evening to try again. We'll try calling his station; it's the only way we found out he was here in the first place. Thank you for trying." Foster Brice extended his hand and Dr. Brackett walked with Mr. and Mrs Brice and saw them out the doors to the parking lot. Half of him expected them to make their way around the building for a second attempt to see their son but the weary couple got into their rental car and drove off in search of a hotel.
A/N Thank you all so much for the support with this story. I just realized that I'd changed Korea to Vietnam in my document manager from previous chapters and pressed 'saved changes' but didn't replace the chapter so I'll do that tomorrow or the next day. Doh! I hope everyone has a nice weekend. Hug someone you love. I