ACT VI
Scene One
Chet kicked the basketball with enough force to send it flying toward the net.
"Goal!" Marco crowed.
"Ha, ha."
"Come on, Chet."
"How long are you going to keep moping around here," inquired Mike as he grabbed up the ball and joined the linemen by Johnny's camper.
Sitting on the bumper, Chet told them, "'Til Gage comes and gets this thing out of here. Can't have a proper game with this monstrosity in the way."
"You aren't even playing," Mike pointed out.
"You never do," Marco added, "not anymore."
"Neither does Johnny," Chet snapped.
"He wouldn't want us to stop having fun just 'cause he's not here." Roy had come out to the parking lot just in time to hear Chet's last remark.
"'He wouldn't want ...' He's not dead, you know, he's coming back!"
"Chet," Marco snapped.
Chet ignored him and continued glaring at Roy.
"I hope so," Roy said quietly.
"You hope? What do you mean, you hope? Of course he's coming back."
"Kelly." Mike this time, softly, kindly.
Roy smiled. "I'm sure he'll also really appreciate your concern."
"Concern? What concern? I'm not 'concerned.' There's nothing to be concerned about; Gage is going to be fine. It's just that I finally got used to all you guys, and how we all fit."
"And how does Johnny fit," asked Roy with a small smile.
"He's a good kid, and a good sport, and I can't let him think that what those jerks did is what practical jokes are."
"What are they," Marco asked cautiously.
"Just buddies getting over on each other and sharing a laugh. Roy, remember what you said after you first saw the D.A.? When you told us those guys are insisting that what they did was a joke?"
"About what, which part?"
"You said Johnny figured out I was the phantom pranking him."
"What's your point," Roy asked, not unkindly.
"He dove right in. Thought he could get me with the old garlic in the chocolate gag."
"Yeah, he's some kind of nut, all right" Roy agreed, his smile broadening.
"Yeah. No whining or complaining ... ok, maybe a little whining, but not really. He just sputters around, then tries to do me one better. Which he never will," Chet added with a smug smile. "Gage is the perfect pigeon. He's gullible, but he's not stupid, not really. I finally got him broken in. I get a good rise out of him, then he plays, too, and ends up laughing just as much as the rest of us." He looked around. The rest of the men were smiling and nodding their understanding.
"What?" Mike was watching him intently.
"What do you mean, 'What?'" Chet snapped defensively. Mike simply raised and eyebrow; Chet continued softly. "I keep hearing him, in that dryer, calling us, asking where the hell we were.
"He's got to come back. We got to be able to show him …" He looked around again. No smiles this time, but again his crewmates were all nodding their understanding.
"What's keeping you all?" Bellingham appeared in the open bay door. "DeSoto, didn't you tell them lunch is ready?"
"Sorry." Roy headed into the station behind the others. "Just got to talking."
"Gage?" Roy nodded as his current partner fell into step beside him.
The men filed into the kitchen to find their captain waiting for them at the table. "Glad you could join us, gentlemen," he greeted them.
The regular crew took their places around the table while their most recent addition set the meal he had prepared before them before taking his own place. Soon they were all filling their plates with sloppy Joes.
"Hey Bellingham," said Chet, "did you leave any for the rest of us?"
"Huh?"
With a laugh, Chet nodded at Bellingham's chest, and the red and brown splotches there. The rest of the crew joined in the laughter when, looking down to examine those spots, a glob of meat and sauce fell from the corner of Bellingham's mouth to land in his lap.
Scene Two
"That's great, keep going!"
"This is therapy?"
"Yes, it is," Deyvis laughed as he tossed the two pound medicine ball back to Johnny, "and you're doing fine. Come on, just a few more, then you can go to lunch."
"Why is it," Johnny caught the ball with a grunt, "I have to work so much harder," another grunt as he used both hands to toss it back, "to accomplish so much less," he sucked down a deep breath, "with my arms than my legs." He caught the ball. "Oy!"
"Oy?"
"Must've," he heaved the ball, the two pounds feeling closer to two hundred with each consecutive throw, "picked it up," catch, "from Sarah." Throw. "Oy!"
"Last one." Johnny caught it with yet another grunt, then, with great effort, accompanied by what sounded like a sigh, tossed it back smoothly. "Good job. Come on, I'll rub you down, we should be done just in time for your girlfriend to pick you up for lunch."
"Ha ha." Once he was comfortably settled on the massage table, Johnny asked, "What's her story, anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've been here about two weeks, she's always here. Doesn't she get any time off?"
"That's entirely up to her."
"What do you mean?"
"Sarah doesn't work here, she's a volunteer. If she wants time off, all she has to do is keep her name off the sheet."
"Hmm.
"How about you, any big plans this weekend?"
Deyvis laughed. "As a matter of fact, yes. I was going to talk to you about that."
"Uh-oh."
"You did well with Mona, right?"
"Well, she isn't you." Deyvis chuckled. "But we did ok."
"Good. 'Cause you've got her an extra three days next week."
"Why, what's up?"
"The kids are off from school. Since my usual weekends are weekdays, I'm taking three days and the wife and I are taking the kids on a little trip."
"That's great." Johnny tried to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. Working with Mona had not been as bad as he'd feared, but he'd built a rapport with Deyvis, and dreaded the man's days off. He knew how hard Deyvis worked with him (and worked him), and that he wasn't his only patient, but somehow Deyvis made John feel as though he were. It was only during these therapy sessions, the ones with Deyvis, that Johnny finally felt optimistic about his recovery. Deyvis did work hard, and deserved some time with his family. Johnny was glad Deyvis couldn't see his face. "What kind of trip, where are you going?"
"Well," Deyvis began slowly, "we haven't decided on an exact location yet."
"School vacation, won't a lot of families be traveling? You sure you'll get into a place this late?"
"We're not exactly looking to do the usual stuff." He paused, as if concerned about how Johnny would greet his news. "We're going camping"
"Camping? You're kidding!" Deyvis jumped a bit, startled by Johnny's enthusiasm. He had to gently but firmly press John back down when he tried to turn over. "Do you want to go fishing, too? Or be somewhere where you can swim? How old are your kids, how experienced are they? Do you want something a little closer to civilization? Commercial campgrounds might be more difficult to get into so late, but if you and your family can handle real camping I can recommend some great spots, especially for this time of year."
"This time of year?"
"Sure," Johnny exclaimed happily. "The best spots now won't necessarily be the best once summer rolls in, and there are some spots that are just incredible but not until fall. Different flowers, trees, animals, fishing, levels in lakes and rivers.
"How far outside L.A. you looking to go? You want to go up to the mountains? You guys mind some hiking or you want someplace where you can park close to your campsite?"
"Sounds like a lot to think about." Deyvis sighed. "I used to go camping a lot as a kid, I guess I never thought about what went into planning those trips.
"We have four girls between us —"
"Between you?"
"Second marriage for both of us. My wife— my first wife and I, we had one child before she passed. My wife and her ex-husband had two daughters, and we have one together. All four girls have been in 4-H since they were little. That's how we met, my girl and her youngest were in a group together. We've been on campouts with them, I was able to brush up on some of my skills, but I've never planned the whole trip. I didn't realize there was so much to consider.
"I thought camping would be a simple, peaceful, inexpensive way for the family to spend time together. Now I'm not so sure."
"It is, it is," Johnny exclaimed hurriedly. "This afternoon bring some paper and a pencil. I love camping, I go all the time. We'll go over everything: locations, equipment, everything."
The rubdown having ended while they spoke, Deyvis helped Johnny first to sit, then back into his shirt before finally settling him into his wheelchair.
"Look, John, I appreciate the offer, but I can't put you out like that."
"What are you talking about? You're not."
"You're my patient."
"So?"
"So, it wouldn't be appropriate."
Johnny rolled his eyes and was ready with a smart comeback. Instead he said sincerely, "Consider it therapy." Deyvis laughed as he wheeled Johnny toward the door. "I'm not kidding. Do you know what I do for a living?"
"Paramedic, I was told."
"Right, and do you know what that is?"
"Some. Like corpsmen and field medics for civilians, right?"
Johnny grabbed the wheels of his chair, as best he could. It was enough to let Deyvis know to stop. He moved around to face John and squatted by him so they were eye-to-eye. Johnny briefly explained the paramedic program and described some of what he did as a part of that program. The more he talked the more animated he became, and his passion for the work was clear. "Since I was a kid, all I ever wanted to be was a firefighter. I did it, too, as soon as I could, and then I became a rescue man. I didn't think it could get any better than that. Heck, when I first heard about the program I thought it was a step down, department ambulance attendants."
"What changed your mind?"
"Roy."
Suddenly Johnny was far away. Deyvis waited a bit for him, then finally asked, "Who's Roy?"
"Now he's my partner. Back then he was the L.A. County Fire Department's poster boy for the new paramedic program." His chuckle faded into a wistful smile. "There were only six guys in the first class, and he was one of them. He was a medic in the army before he joined the department. Naturally, he became a rescue man, then, when he saw a chance to put it all together and do for everybody here what he did for his guys in the service, well ... Roy knew from experience the difference immediate care could make. He wanted to make that difference."
"Sounds like you admire him."
"Yeah, I guess I do." There was a longing in John's voice. Deyvis stayed where he was, still and silent, until Johnny continued. "He was running the recruitment for the department. I checked around. I saw the program's potential, but ... Well, it wasn't really a program yet. It was gearing up, but, even fully trained, there was nothing in place, no system to operate under. After all, we would be practicing medicine, even if it was heavily supervised by licensed physicians. We still needed to be licensed or certified or something ourselves. We couldn't use what we'd learn. I didn't see the point of all the time and the work for training we couldn't use."
"Roy changed your mind?"
"He was very convincing. He didn't just see what the program could do, he understood the need to get ahead of it. Turns out he was right. He even went through the training again, keeping his skills sharp 'til he could put them to use. I was in that second class, first one out of Rampart. We did it together and I guess he saw what I could do. He said he'd make me his partner. I thought he was kidding. Then I got assigned. We started at 51s together."
"51s?"
"Station 51 in Carson. Opened less than a year ago. Roy knew it was his even before that. He brought me in; then the Cap— our captain, and the rest of the guys came. It's a good bunch of men, good crew."
When John did not go on, Deyvis said, "John, it's great that you love your work, getting back gives you something to work toward here, but— "
"But what does it have to do with planning your camping trip." Deyvis smiled and nodded. Johnny chuckled. "I guess I did kind of go off on a tangent, huh?
"My job is helping people. It's what I do, it's all I've ever done, all I ever wanted to do. It's hard enough being on the receiving end, I can't even help myself— "
"For now."
"For now," Johnny agreed grudgingly. "Let me help you. I know camping. You need the help and I … It'll let me feel normal, like myself."
Deyvis smiled, then finally nodded as he stood. They were both grinning widely when they reached Sarah, who was waiting to take Johnny back to his room for lunch.
Scene Three
"I brought you something." As was their routine, Sarah parked Johnny's wheelchair by the window and positioned the over-bed table in front of him. Today, she stood in front of the chair across from him and placed the picnic basket she had brought on his bed next to her to unpack it. First she took out a butter-yellow tablecloth and laid it on the table, then a pair of stoneware plates. Johnny watched her with great curiosity but said nothing. "Today we eat like people, Boychik. To start, no hospital tray. Real dishes." Next she pulled out a piece of thick pipe and held it out to him. Upon taking it he saw that a fork had been fitted to one end. "My daughter made it for my husband. He had his own injury last year. It was hard for him to grip at first, too. I was afraid I wouldn't be able, but I found it, finally." Next from the basket came an ordinary fork, a second piece of pipe, this one with a spoon on the end, a regular spoon, and two serving spoons. This was followed by a coffee cup and an extra large mug with a design on it, a large thermos, two cloth napkins that matched the tablecloth, a dark yellow Tupperware container, two small bowls, a red Tupperware, smaller than the yellow, and finally a half-pint container of cream. She placed the basket on the floor beside her chair and quickly set the table. From the thermos she poured two cups of coffee, placed the mug in front of Johnny, then opened the yellow Tupperware and spooned a generous helping of its contents onto each plate.
It was white and goppy, filled with onions and something silver, and had an odd, tangy scent. He leaned in to sniff it, then looked up at her with his nose still wrinkled. "What is it?"
"Schmaltz herring." It sounded like one word.
"What? Small what?"
"Schmaltz. Schmaltz herring. Try it." It took a couple of attempts to get the hang of the pipe-handled fork; then he did try it. At the look on his face she erupted into giggles. "It's an acquired taste. Try again."
He gave her a pleading look but did as she requested. "That's the strangest thing I've ever tasted." He took another piece.
"Is good, yes?"
"No." He took another small piece. "It's … strange. Not bad, exactly, but I wouldn't say it's good." Another bite. A few minutes later Sarah was leaning back in her chair, smiling smugly. "What?" She looked down at his plate then back up at him. Her smile widened. His gaze followed hers to his empty plate. He smiled up at her sheepishly. "You did say it's an acquired taste," he conceded. "I guess I acquired it."
"I guess you did, Boychik." She opened the Tupperware and spooned another generous serving onto his plate. When he had finished that one too he asked, "So what is … um, what did you call it? Small earrings?"
"Schmaltz herring," she corrected with a chuckle. "Herring. The fish. It's pickled herring in cream sauce." The look on his face set her to giggling again.
He quickly joined her. "Ok," he gasped between laughs. "I think I like it better called ... schmaltz herring?" She nodded. "Pickled fish in cream. It sounds disgusting, but it's …"
"Not bad."
"Yeah, not bad." He placed the fork beside the empty plate. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened that your husband needed a special fork?"
"No, Boychik," she smiled, "I don't mind." Her mouth twitched in a strange little smile. "It's really quite ridiculous. Not so funny then, but now?
"He was fixing a cabinet in my kitchen, but getting the stepladder? Too much trouble, he decides, so he uses a chair. Not such good balance. He put his hands out …"
"Oh, no. He broke his hand or his wrist?"
"Both wrists. And his thumb."
"His right …" He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "The right thumb. And sprained his right ankle." It wasn't a question. Sarah nodded and smiled. "Mrs. Gottmann. Your husband is Eli Gottmann."
"Eliezer, yes. I wondered if you ever would recognize me."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Ah, Boychik, you have how many people you help every day? And you saw us once, what, a year ago? I didn't want to, as they say, 'put you on the spot.' It is nice that you do remember." He blushed.
"When did you recognize me?"
"The first time I saw you. But I asked for you before that. Because of you and your partner, I wanted you before I knew you were you." He had to smile at that. He knew exactly what she meant. He could just picture Roy rolling his eyes at it.
"But why? I mean, if you didn't know who I was yet, why'd you want me?"
"Have you ever heard the word mitzveh?" He shook his head. "Let me see," she murmured thoughtfully. "It does not translate exactly. The best English is 'a good deed,' but that is like to say that a sin is just a bad deed. A mitzveh is bigger than just a good deed. Farshtay?" The word was vaguely familiar, but it was obvious what she was asking.
"Yeah," he nodded. "I think I understand."
"Yes, Boychik," she exclaimed happily, "you do!" They exchanged smiles. "It is a mitzveh to help someone. And it's a mitzveh to let someone help you."
"It is? Why?"
"It lets them do a mitzveh. It is good to allow another the chance to do good.
"I would do, at temple, in the neighborhood, the community. After Eli's accident, I realized I could do more. I should do more. You showed me that, you and your partner."
"But we were just doing our jobs."
"Ah, I see. So you make a great deal of money, yes?"
"No," he chuckled. "You don't join the fire department to get rich."
"So it is the paramedics. You got a big raise to do all that."
"No. In fact, even with all the extra training and responsibility, there's no extra money in it at all. No promotion either, not even honorary."
"So why then?" He shook his head, his confusion clear on his face. "Why you did the extra training, do extra work, take on extra responsibility. You do your job to earn your living, yes? A man works, he is paid. So if there is no pay, how is that 'just' your job?"
"Of course I get paid, I just get paid the same as all firefighters. There's no more money for being a paramedic."
"Then you don't fight fires anymore, just the paramedic."
"No," he tried not to laugh at her apparent confusion, though she hardly seemed confused. "Of course I still fight fires. I go where I'm called. Rescues, medical calls, fires. Wherever I'm needed."
"Why?"
"It's what I do. It's all I ever wanted to do. I wanted to be a fireman ever since I was a kid."
"Fireman. But paramedic? Since you were a kid? I read about this paramedic business. Only a year, it's been." She looked him over, a sly smile curling her lips. "Yes, may very well be last year you were a kid." He sat up a bit straighter and tried to appear offended, but her affection was clear, so he returned her smile and, with a nod, bid her continue. "So there is no extra money, no extra recognition, no extra for you. Just extra training, extra work, extra responsibility. So you do it why?"
He thought about it, then shrugged. "I'm a rescue man," he stated simply, as though that explained everything. "When I got to the department it was a natural step, like it was meant to be. The paramedic program just lets me do more. Sometimes that extra training means extra time for a patient, time to get stabilized, to get to the hospital, time that can save lives. We can get to them faster than they can get to the doctor, save them some worry, pain, and, yes, maybe even save their life."
"You, Boychik, are a mentsh."
The confusion reappeared. "I'm human?"
"Ah ha," Sarah smile broadly. "Du sprichst Deutsch!"
"Ich verstehe einige. But just a little bit, I don't really speak it."
"That's too bad, you sound good. Not such an American accent."
"Thanks," he replied self-consciously. "There's German in my family. I never really used it, but enough of the family spoke it that I picked some up."
"Well, much of Yiddish comes from German. In German, yes, a Mensch is a human being; in Yiddish a mentsh is a human being." He smiled, but still appeared unsure. "A person with conscience, integrity. Heart.
"I read in the newspaper about your paramedic program; so, when Eliezer fell, I knew to call the fire department. We were confident he would not die from his injuries, but he was in such pain. Then you and your partner came. You were professional, efficient, most important, you were compassionate. I don't know if you remember, but while you were taking care of my partner, your partner took good care of me. You two let me worry less.
"I knew from the newspaper stories there was only extra for you to do, no extra for you to get. You reminded me how much I had, what I could give. Eli did his rehabilitation here. When he came home, I kept coming. When I found out one of the patients was a paramedic, I had to help him. I had no idea it was you.
"I am sorry you got hurt, Boychik," she laid her hand on his, oh, so gently, "but I am glad I can maybe help get you better. Which you are. Soon you'll be in the dining room, you won't need me anymore." Johnny was at a loss for words. Their eyes met, and before the tears in hers could fall, Sarah grabbed the red Tupperware and opened it. Suddenly the room was filled with the scent of apple and cinnamon. She put the baked apples into the bowls, poured some cream over them, placed the pipe-spoon into one of the bowls, then gently pushed the dessert and the large coffee mug closer to him. "Before it gets cold," she instructed.
He reached for the mug, then noticed the design on the side: בויטשיק. As he looked more closely he realized it was writing of some kind, though he did not recognize the letters. When he looked up, he saw she was again watching him with a small smile. "It is yours," she said. "The mug. It says 'boychik,'" she explained before he could ask.
"I've been meaning to ask," he carefully raised the mug. It was a little heavy, he needed both hands, but the size allowed him to grasp it easily. "I mean, you use it like a name, your own private nickname for me, and I have no idea what it means."
"And you didn't like it." Again, not a question. She read him too well.
"Not at first. It didn't take long to figure out it wasn't English, but, well … in English a 'chick' is a girl …"
"So, what, you thought I was calling you girly-boy?"
"No, of course not." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Ok, well, maybe for a second," he admitted, the blush rising to his cheeks.
"Boy, yes. Girly, no. Though there is nothing wrong with being a girl. I am a girl."
"You are, you're a great girl!" He smiled broadly, turning up the old Gage charm.
"You better believe it, Boychik."
"Is that also Yiddish?" Sarah nodded. "But you said Yiddish is like German, which I don't read so well, but I can sure recognize it."
"Yes, Yiddish is mostly German, with Hebrew, and it is written with Hebrew letters. So, it sounds like German, but it looks like Hebrew."
"Far out," Johnny grinned, then carefully took a sip from his new mug.
"It just means boy, or young man. I guess it depends on how old is the person saying it, and how young is the boy she is saying it to."
"I'm not that young," he tried to sound indignant, but his smirk gave him away. "And you're not old."
She picked up her coffee cup and tapped it to his. "Jeder sieht ein Stückchen Welt, gemeinsam sehen wir die ganze."
"Wait, I know that!"
"Traditionally it is said at weddings, but I think it applies here. Do you remember what is the meaning?"
He thought for a bit, then a smile slowly spread across his face. "Each of us sees a part of the world; together we see all of it."
Scene Four
The call came directly to the station. She asked for Roy. Possible heart attack.
"Mrs. Tyro," he greeted her solemnly upon their arrival, "what's happening, where is she?"
"This way." She led the paramedics into the house, then up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms. She stepped aside to reveal Missy, who lay still and silent on the bed.
"Heart attack," Bellingham asked Roy as discreetly as he could. "How old is she?"
The men sprang into action, even as they questioned her mother. "Why do you think she had a heart attack; what happened?" Roy slid the sleeve of Missy's sweatshirt up to get her pulse and blood pressure. She was severely dehydrated. He hoped with all his heart it was no more than that.
"She's been complaining of a headache since yesterday." Mrs. Tyro spoke slowly, softly. "At lunch she started gagging, I just thought the food went down the wrong way. She said she felt funny, that she could feel her heart beating in her chest. She came up here to lie down. I came to check on her and found her like that. I couldn't wake her up."
"How long ago," Bellingham inquired.
"I called you right away, so less than ten minutes, and she'd come up here maybe five minutes before that."
When he rested his hand on her abdomen to get her respirations, Roy was horrified by what he felt. He raised the shirt just a bit, then glanced over at her mother. "When's the last time she ate?"
"I … she …" Missy's mother stammered. "She had lost weight in the hospital, and she's been finicky since she's been home. I know she's not eating well, but I had no idea." She looked again at her daughter's skeletal arm and emaciated abdomen. "She looks like she's been starving. How did I not see it?"
"We'll do everything we can for her, Mrs. Tyro," Roy assured. "You did like I told you, so the ambulance is on the way, right?" She nodded. "Go meet it, show them in here when it arrives."
She looked from him to her daughter, then back to him. Roy DeSoto was one of the few good things in her daughter's life these days, in her family's life. He'd visited Missy in the hospital whenever he could, and continued to check in on her often. He'd shown them all, especially Missy, kindness and support far beyond the scope of his job. She looked into his eyes. Blue eyes filled with kindness, compassion, and concern. Eyes so much like Samuel's had been. She nodded once and left the room.
Roy turned his undivided attention to the patient. He had set up the biophone and established the connection as Bellingham completed gathering her vital signs.
"Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?" Dr. Brackett acknowledged the call, and Roy quickly continued. "Rampart, we have a 15-year-old female, apparent heart attack." He read off her vital signs, making the doctor aware of the shallow respirations, bradycardia, hypotension, equal and sluggish pupils, and the lack of response to verbal stimuli and minimal response to pain stimuli. "Rampart, stand by for a strip" Roy concluded.
"What the hell's the story with this kid, DeSoto," Bellingham demanded.
Before Roy could reply, Brackett was barking out instructions. Missy was already wearing the O2 mask; there was a flurry of activity as the paramedics established the IV and administered the medications. Just as they were ready for it, the ambulance arrived. Bellingham assisted the attendants, Roy followed with Mrs. Tyro.
"You can ride with us in the ambulance," Roy informed her. "You'll just have to ride up front."
She nodded. "I thought she was going to be ok," she told him. "I knew it would take a while, but I really thought she was doing better."
Scene Five
Bellingham caught Roy's eye just to let him know that he'd arrived, then made his way to the base station, leaving Roy to sit with Angela Tyro.
"What do I tell her father," Mrs. Tyro asked.
"I would imagine it's best to just tell the truth."
She looked at him skeptically. "I suppose." She laughed sadly. "There was a time when I couldn't have even conceived of the possibility of anything else. I'd never have felt any need to ask such a question."
Roy nodded his understanding. "If you don't mind my asking," he said gently, "what happened?"
"I'm not sure. It happened so slowly, I didn't see it. I didn't want to see it," she corrected. "I wish you could have known Samuel then," she continued. "You're a lot like him. Or rather, he was a lot like you. He was a good man, Mr. DeSoto. He loved G-d, he loved me, and he loved our children. He was the most gracious, compassionate, loving man I've ever known."
So what the hell happened? Out loud, Roy just said, "I'm sure he loves you."
She smiled bitterly. "I'm sure he does," she agreed grimly, "in his way. I just don't understand his way anymore." She fell silent. When she continued, the tears she refused to allow to form in her eyes were in her voice. "Samuel and I were so young when we married, but we were so much in love. We started our family right away. I know Missy told you she has two brothers." He nodded. "Junior came first. Sammy's a lieutenant in the Army now. He's a company chaplain in Vietnam. Sebastian was born less than a year later. Today Bastian's in university; studying medicine, as a matter of fact. Missy, my little girl, she was a surprise. The boys were in school. They were embarrassed at first having a pregnant Mom," she confided with a small smile, "but as soon as we brought her home they were both in love. We all were. I thought we were," she added, almost too softly for Roy to hear.
"I think that's when Samuel started to change. It was subtle at first, even sweet. He was less carefree, more serious, but he was serious about us, his family. He grew so protective of us. Now I … I have to protect my daughter from him." The control to which she'd been so desperately clinging left her and the first tear fell. "I can't understand how my family has come to this. How is it I have to protect one of my children from her own father?"
Roy, at a loss as to how to comfort the woman, was saved by Dr. Brackett's approach. Mrs. Tyro jumped to her feet. Brackett motioned for her to retake her seat, then sat himself, putting her between himself and Roy.
"It's not a heart attack," he began slowly. She began to smile, but he continued solemnly. "There is a problem with her heart, however. She's experienced what we call an anorexic crisis. Mrs. Tyro, I'd like to admit her. We need to run some tests, find out just how much damage has been done to her heart and other organs."
Angela was nodding, despite the look of shock she wore. Finally, she asked, "What exactly is an anorexic crisis?"
"Put simply, she's starving. Her body is so malnourished that it's taking energy from wherever it can. Without any fat stores, it's moved on to her organs."
"She's digesting herself," Angela mumbled, more to herself than either of the men.
"That's a bit simplistic," Brackett began. "But not entirely inaccurate."
"So what now? You said something about admitting her?"
Dr. Brackett nodded. "There are some additional forms to sign, as soon as you're ready. We'll get her into a room while you do that, then you can see her." She nodded as they rose. The doctor offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then left her with Roy to return to Missy in the treatment room.
It took Angela a moment to realize Roy was standing at her side. She sighed. "She was getting better," she stated. "Did she tell you she's been talking to the chaplain here at Rampart?"
Roy shook his head. "She mentioned that she finally started seeing someone, not that it was Chuck Miller."
"For over two weeks now."
Roy took her arm and gently steered her toward the desk to complete the forms Brackett had mentioned. "That's great. I know you were hoping she'd see the counselor from the Rape Crisis Center or some kind of professional. So was I, but she was pretty adamant. What changed her mind?"
"You don't know?"
"Know what?"
"Almost three weeks ago, just before she started seeing him, Missy … she tried … Mr. DeSoto, Missy tried to kill herself." She saw the shock and sadness in his eyes.
"Thank goodness she failed."
"She didn't fail, exactly. She was talked out of it. And convinced to see the Chaplain."
"For whoever convinced her, then."
"It was your partner." Roy's mind raced. Had Bellingham worked any overtime at 51s? The Tyro house was in their coverage area. But it was pretty clear on this run that he'd never been there before nor met Missy, let alone rescued her. "It was right here in the hospital," Angela continued. "Mr. Gage was truly a G-d-send."
Scene Six
Johnny followed the boy down the endless hallway. The further they traveled, the dimmer the light grew. The sound of their footfalls changed and Johnny realized that the ground beneath his feet felt different as well. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he saw that the crunch he was hearing was earth, the hallway had given way to a tunnel.
"Hey kid?" Johnny called.
"C'mon," the child called back, "we're almost there!" Johnny quickened his pace, but the distance between them continued to grow. "This way, come on!"
"Slow down," Johnny tried.
"But we have to hurry and we're almost there." With that he broke into a run.
Johnny followed suit. "Kid?" No answer. Johnny ran faster. The tunnel opened into a large cavern. The roar of running water reverberated through the enclosed space. "Where are you?" Johnny turned slowly, taking in the entire cave. The light was a little better than it had been in the passageway. As he continued to turn he spotted a large campfire. That wasn't there when I came in here. He saw no running water despite the sound, although much of the ground was muddy. "Where'd you go,kid?" he called again. Upon completing his circle Johnny was face-to-face with two very large men.
"Right here," replied the shorter of the two with a wave of his open hand toward Johnny.
Johnny let out an uncomfortable laugh and took a step back. The larger man was suddenly behind him, between him and the only exit. He swallowed hard. "Look," he spoke carefully, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt, "I'm here to help. My name is John Gage, I'm a firefighter/paramedic with the county fire department. We got a call, a boy came out and told us there was a kid in trouble back here."
"There is," the larger man growled in his ear. "You."
With lightning speed the man in front of him snatched the badge off Johnny's shirt even as the one behind grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. The shorter of the two, now behind him, pinned Johnny's arms behind his back while the larger man before him grabbed John's shirt at the neck and pulled. Buttons flew, the T-shirt beneath ripped easily. The man ran his hands slowly up John's bare chest and slid both shirts off his shoulders. Johnny opened his mouth to yell for help. Before he was able to make a sound, one of the huge hands had clamped on to the back of his head, holding it in place as the large man kissed him hard and deep.
When the kiss ended, Johnny gagged and coughed; the men laughed.
The bigger man slipped his arm around John's waist and held him fast while the other removed and discarded the torn shirts. "You're so pretty. Nice, trim figure. Shiny hair," he ran his fingers through Johnny's hair. "Soft, too." When Johnny shook his head fiercely against the touch the big man laughed even harder. "Come on, Janey, dance with me." With his right arm still firmly around Johnny's waist, the man grabbed John's right hand with his left and began waltzing him around the cave. The next thing Johnny knew, a hand crept down his back and paused at his waistband. He continued struggling but he couldn't pull away. He just wasn't strong enough.
Johnny fought to no avail. His skin crawled as the hand continued down his bare back, below his waist, then clamped down hard and pulled him close to the other's body. He was spun and dipped and laid almost tenderly onto the muddy ground. Before he could move away the shorter of the men was kneeling behind him and pulled him up so that he sat with his back against the man's chest. Johnny's hands had landed on hard earth, the man knelt directly on them with his full weight. As his knees were breaking Johnny's hands, his own hands gently caressed John's upper body. The taller man loomed over them. The noise of the running water and the heat from the campfire seemed to increase, making Johnny dizzy. His vision was blurred by the sweat running into his eyes. The taller man was bending toward him, then he felt the hands again, at his hips, fingers slipping past his belt, then a sudden chill and his pants landed in the mud beside him. John renewed his struggle. The big man bent toward him again and with one quick, efficient tug laid Johnny bare.
Johnny lay before them, exposed, humiliated, vulnerable. His ongoing struggles seemed to serve no purpose other than to wear him out. The size and strength of these men was exceeded only by their stamina. He was helpless. Alone and helpless. He sighed inwardly, exhausted and terrified.
The taller man lowered himself. Being pressed between these two hulking men made breathing difficult; the feeling of their bodies on his and the smell of them made Johnny gag. Though he continued to struggle, he was barely able tosquirm. He closed his eyes and prayed for the strength to fight. One set of powerful hands reached from behind to play across his chest and sides and arms; another equally powerful set was again at John's hips, then continued their downward journey. At first almost gently, groping harder as they moved, gripping painfully at the upper thighs, pulling at them. At the same moment Johnny felt the tongue run up his cheek and across his lips. With a burst of strength Johnny threw his head up and forward. It connected. The hands withdrew. A yelp of pain came from above him. The knees vanished from his hands.
"You shouldn't have done that," there was genuine surprise in addition to the anger in the big man's voice. "We weren't hurting you."
The shorter man moved toward his companion. Johnny took advantage of the momentary distraction to try to scramble for the entrance to the tunnel. The shorter man's foot on his chest ground him back into the muck. The larger man's hands were at his own bleeding nose. "Man, we were just playing with you."
Playing? They're out of their minds. He tried to sit up, to move away, but could gain no traction and kept slipping back into the mud.
"Let's just finish this," the shorter one snarled. He stepped down. Johnny could swear he heard one of his ribs crack.
"I have a better idea," said his friend.
"Yeah," the shorter one agreed. "He's a fireman, they like the heat." He grabbed Johnny around his thighs and lifted, then the tall one grabbed him under his shoulders and together they carried him to the campfire. Blood from the taller's nose dripped into John's hair, mixed with the mud and ran down his face and body. It itched and burned. Johnny thrashed wildly against them. Despite his movement and the mud they easily tightened their grips.
They dropped him into an especially large, viscous puddle right beside the fire. How long have I been back here? Guys? Cap? Roy? Please! You've got to miss me by now. The mud seemed to have a mind of its own, helping his tormentors by holding him firmly. He could only watch as they stepped back and reached into the fire. Both pulled out branches, glowing red and smoking. Unable to fight, unable to flee, Johnny was finally able to move enough to curl himself into a ball. He squeezed his eyes shut, tucked his chin as close to his chest as he could and wrapped his arms tightly around his head.
The first blow was to his hip. Too hard to be a fist, not burning. A boot heel. They were stomping him. Another stomp loosed something in his right side. He wanted to reach for the spot, the right pressure would relieve some of the pain, but he knew that would be a mistake. The proof came a second later, a strike by one of the smoldering branches broke his left forearm. He wanted so badly to pull it away, protect it from further injury, but he knew if he did that he'd leave his head vulnerable. The next burning blow stuck at his kidneys. One of his attackers broke Johnny's feet with a pair of well placed kicks. A strike aimed at Johnny's head broke his right humerus. The hits came harder and faster, boots and burning branches. He could no longer track the individual blows as each added to the pain coursing through him. Just when he was sure he could bear no more a powerful blow landed at his right shoulder, forcing it from its socket. The pain was unbearable, but still he held on. The heat increased. He heard the crackling. Somehow, in the midst of the beating, they had moved him nearer to the fire. His body was already so broken. What more could they want? "He's a fireman," the shorter one had said, "they like the heat." The heat. The fire. He began to burn.
Johnny woke with a start. The images of his nightmare began to fade immediately, the physical pain more slowly. The terror remained. He rubbed harshly at his skin, unable to clear the living, crawling filth he felt there. His panic rose; he had to get clean. His survival depended on it. He needed to wash as surely as he needed to breathe. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. With his eyes on the bathroom door and both hands holding as tightly as he could to the bed rail, Johnny stood. He took a step, released the rail and took another, then one more before his weakened legs gave out. Undeterred, he attempted to crawl, continuing toward the bathroom where he could get clean. If he could just get clean. His arms would not carry him either, they could not support him. He collapsed in the middle of the room, too far from the bed to reach for his call button, too far from the bathroom to achieve his goal. His breathing quickened. Lying there in the middle of his room, unable to move, Johnny felt completely vulnerable. He slapped the floor in frustration; the pain shot up his arm and across his shoulders. His breathing continued to speed up, his heart rate along with it. He tried to call out, but could not draw enough breath. His terror rose, quickening his breathing and heart rate further, which only served to frighten him more. The cycle continued until he fell unconscious.