CHAPTER 7: TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES
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(20 September)
"Stoker, grab a shower if you want, and then hit the rack," Hank said after roll call. "I'll give the engine a once over for you."
"Thanks, Cap." Mike yawned hugely and headed directly to the dorm, loosening his shirt as he went. Marco nodded slightly, agreeing with his decision.
Chet pounced as soon as the other man was through the door. "What's up with Mike?" Johnny and Roy paused in their morning inventory for the answer.
"He's pulling a double," Marco explained. When he'd seen Mike roll in, visibly tired, he'd teased him about partying all night with his girl – until he'd learned he'd been partying all night with a fire hose.
"That's right," Chet said, snapping his fingers. "He mentioned that the other day." Least he wasn't just blowing me off.
"Where'd he work at?" Roy asked, sorting the supplies in the trauma box. Wonder if it was 86s again. If it is, I'll check him over for bruises.
"Uh, pretty sure it was 18s," Marco responded.
"Ouch," Johnny said. He held up three fingers then flipped his hand over and raised a fourth finger, indicating the counts for Ringers and D5W to Roy who documented it. "They caught that fire over on Hargrove last night, didn't they?" The fire had taken several hours and several companies to finally extinguish.
"That they did, Johnny," Cap put in, returning from his office with an inspection checklist on his clipboard. Don't do this often enough anymore to satisfy Stoker's particularity without a cheat sheet. "And then they had a couple of runs after that so pretty much no one in the house got any sleep. Figured it wouldn't hurt for Michael to get a little shut-eye if he could."
"Yeah, you never know when – ."
"Don't say it, Chet!" Johnny admonished loudly enough for Marco and Roy to hush him simultaneously. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said in a markedly softer tone. "Just – don't jinx us."
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Thirty minutes later, the klaxons sounded, yanking Stoker from a deep sleep. He made it into the bay on autopilot, careening into the back corner of the engine. Johnny, coming from the other direction, witnessed the collision and grabbed Mike's arms to steady him. "Whoa, man, where ya goin'?" he asked.
"Engine," he mumbled and shook his head as if to clear it.
"Chet! Marco!" Johnny's voice sounded through the station, pulling both linemen back out of the dayroom and to his side.
Marco sized up the situation first and took Stoker's arm. "Got him." Gage nodded and slid into the squad, shutting the door firmly as Roy started forward.
"C'mon, sleeping beauty, back to bed with you," Chet said, causing Marco to chuckle as the squad pulled away to respond to the generic 'person injured' call and they led the engineer back to the dorms. Neither noticed the frown settling on Hank Stanley's face or his slow, thoughtful walk back to the office.
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"Cap? You wanted to see me?"
After ninety minutes of uninterrupted sleep and a shower, Stoker had been able to resume the role of conscious and competent engineer; coffee and calories sustained the performance through mid-afternoon. Captain Stanley had spent a good deal of the time between runs in his office, checking station logs for the past month or so, sifting the ashes of his memories for clues to his engineer's behavior and – reluctantly – making a few phone calls.
"Come on in, Mike, and shut the door." Hank cleared his throat once Mike settled into the chair he'd pointed out. He noted the slight unsteadiness in the younger man's gait. Too much coffee, not enough sleep, what? "I thought it might be a good idea for us to talk about this morning." Stoker nodded slowly, with what might be reluctance flicking over his face. "So, what's going on?" He resisted the urge to lean back into his casual captain pose. If what he'd been told was an accurate picture of what happened, casual was the wrong stance to take.
"You know I worked overtime at 18s? Even before that fire on Hargrove, the shift was – challenging." Mike-speak for busy, messy or frustrating. "Then we were up most of the night and I guess, I guess I was more tired than I thought." Mike's smooth, ready words sounded rehearsed to Hank's already suspicious ear. "I'm sorry about – ."
"I meant, what's going on with you," Hank interrupted. "Something's been bothering you lately." Don't make me pry it out of you.
"It's nothing serious, Cap, really." Despite the sincerity in Mike's expression, the stock answer came too fast for Hank's taste. I've heard that before. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.
"Two different fire captains called before five-thirty this morning to talk to me about one of my men. I think that pushes it – whatever it is – firmly into the serious category. Don't you?" Heavy silence was Mike's only outward response. "So, I'll ask again: what is going on with you?" He forced himself to wait for an answer, wishing he'd been able to keep the exasperation out of his voice. C'mon, talk to me.
The long silent minutes began to grate on Hank's nerves and a low-level dread began to build inside him. Why is it so hard to be patient with family sometimes? The tones could sound at any moment and call them away before this was dealt with. And it has to be dealt with. Stoker knew that; he'd been a fireman too long to count on the silence at the station. Is that the plan? Wasting time like this was a luxury, one Hank couldn't supply in endless measure today. "Michael?"
"I don't know what to tell you." Mike's voice was flat and he didn't look up. Disappointment flooded through the older man, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
If his second-in-command had given him anything to work with, anything at all, Hank Stanley would have been able to justify letting him off the hook. Instead, he was compelled to protect the rest of his men – and the citizens of the County of Los Angeles. He forced himself to add an extra measure of firmness to his next words. "Stoker, you're relieved for the remainder of this shift. Your replacement is on standby already and should be here in about twenty minutes. If there's a call before he gets here, we'll run a short crew on the engine." He paused and stood, signaling the end of the discussion. "Change, Stoker, and go on home."
Mike didn't move. "Please," he began then stopped, swallowing hard. "Please – ." He flinched when the tones sounded and looked up, eyes pleading.
Realizing the call was for the squad, Hank remained in place as though his feet were bolted to the floor; Roy or someone else could easily acknowledge the dispatch. They'd better, he thought darkly. He heard a crisp response to the dispatcher above the rumble of the bay doors rising followed by the departure of the squad, all in the space of less than a full minute. The smooth, efficient functioning of the rest of his crew soothed Hank's irritation. "Go home, son, and get some rest," he said gently, responding to but not yielding to the pain in Mike's eyes. "I'll tell the guys you asked off because you were feeling ill." As the doors reversed course and the siren faded, he added, "I'd like to stop by in the morning, see how you are?"
"I-I'll go change," Mike said finally, without acknowledging Hank's request. He left the office, moving stiffly as he made his way around the front of the engine. Hank watched him and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration, once he heard Stoker pass through the far door.
"Mike okay?" Chet asked quietly almost at his elbow; it was all Hank could do not to jump out of his skin. He was about to admonish the Phantom's alter ego for eavesdropping then realized whose voice he'd heard responding to Sam Lanier's dispatch. Chet had just been doing his job, not lurking.
"Leave it be, Kelly," Stanley replied without heat, dropping his hand self-consciously, then glanced at his somber lineman. Chet's face was made to smile but too often lately, Hank realized, he'd seen a calculating sobriety instead. Not the eager speculation of a phantom prankster but the heavy theorizing of a concerned comrade. Like now. Maybe I missed something here too, he thought. "Got a minute?" he asked and Kelly turned to look at him, meeting his eyes without hesitation.
"Sure, Cap," Chet responded and stepped into the office before Hank could even move. Or he could change his mind.
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Lopez was in the locker room when Stoker entered but didn't comment as he watched the engineer slowly change into civvies. He'd taken the return call from Miller, placing him on hold and informing his distracted superior of the call. Miller was a good engineer, easy enough to work with, but not the type to phone the station just to shoot the breeze, so Marco suspected Hank had noticed Mike still wasn't feeling up to par, despite the catnap. Hope it's not more than just fatigue, he thought.
"Mike?"
"Gah," Stoker replied indistinctly then cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah?"
"You know Mama is always willing to bring food or whatever over for you, so just call me if you need anything. Okay?"
"Sure." The ambiguous reply was unusually subdued, even for Mike, causing Marco to look at the man more closely. Mike met his eyes then dropped them back to the bag he was zipping closed. A worried frown settled on Marco's face as Stoker closed his locker and stepped toward the door. Hand raised to push the door open, Mike paused. "Marco?" he said, without turning.
"Si?"
"Thanks."
"De nada, amigo. Just – get better."
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When a burst water main had closed the university library early, giving Patty the rest of the day off, she'd taken the initiative and gone shopping. A quick trip to a local farmer's market had netted her two bags of the apples Mike liked and plenty of fresh vegetables for her father's return to town tomorrow. As she approached Station 51 to drop off the apples, she caught a glimpse of flashing red lights down the street. Despite the evidence of Mike's absence now wailing around the corner and onto Wilmington, Patty pulled her car into the station lot. I'll just leave them on his truck, she thought, slipping into the first empty spot. Someone will notice. She grabbed the bag and got out of her car then glanced around.
Mike's truck was nowhere to be found.
Roy's sleek sports car, Marco's dark green muscle car, Johnny's rugged white box, and what had to be Chet's current fixer-upper assured her A-shift was working today. What is going on? She walked around the corner of the building and surveyed the lot once more.
"Can I help you, miss?" The deep voice startled Patty and caused her to spin around. A fireman – an engineer by his insignia, S. Miller by nametag – stood a few feet away from her. She could see a new vehicle had quietly pulled in while she was contemplating the asphalt's barrenness.
"I – uh, I was looking for Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker?" she replied, voice rising sharply in inquiry. Why did I say it that way? Why didn't I just say 'Mike' like a normal person?
"Specialist Stoker is not on duty at present." He was correct, formal – and giving nothing away.
"He was supposed to be." She fumbled with her purse, setting the bag of apples down on the pavement, and pulled out a pocket calendar, flipping to the appropriate day. A small red A was under the number. Yes. "A-shift is on duty today. Right?"
"Yes, miss. But at present Specialist Stoker is not working." A ripple of annoyance at his precise politeness crossed her face. He knows something and he's hiding behind this-this façade.
"Look, do you know where Mike is?" Patty picked up the apples, prepared to track Stoker down. I hope he's not hurt. I'll call Uncle Tommy if necessary.
"I wouldn't have any idea, but I can take a message and pass it along if you'd like, Miss – ?"
"McConnikee," she said distractedly, pulling out the small notebook she kept in an outer pocket of her purse. There was always something she wanted to write down.
"McCon – hey, are you Patty?" Miller's voice warmed markedly and his body relaxed when she nodded. "I'm Sam Miller," he said as he held out his hand, casually converting the gesture into a wave when he recognized her hands were full. "I'm here to replace Mike. He's fine," he added hurriedly when Patty's eyes grew wide, smiling reassuringly. "Captain Stanley said Mike was just overly tired from working another double shift this week. My guess? Stoker's fast asleep at his place already."
"Thanks, really, thanks," Patty said, ready to bolt as soon as she could. "Here," she said and thrust the bag of apples into his hand before turning to walk quickly to her car, tossing the notebook, the calendar and her purse into the seat. Miller watched, bemused, as Patty drove away. Chill out, babe, he thought. It's nothing serious.
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She found him at his apartment complex, still sitting in his truck, head bowed over the steering wheel, shoulders heaving. When she knocked on his window, he jerked upright and stared at her for several long seconds, still gasping for breath. Patty reached for the door handle, not noticing it was locked until she had tugged on it unsuccessfully. "Mike, unlock the door," she said slowly and firmly. He moved to comply, not quite able to shake off whatever had paralyzed him.
"Hey there – ," he began in a voice too high, too breathless to be normal, when he'd finally opened the door.
"Not one word, Stoker," she interrupted and reached for his arm, catching and holding his eyes with her own. "You're coming home with me." He took a deep breath and nodded, letting her lead him away.
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"Michael."
Patty opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. "What?" she asked.
"The boy who died in the fire, the one Chet mentioned." Stoker's voice was even, soft and controlled. "His name was Michael, too."
Nestled against his shoulder, Patty stayed utterly still, afraid to do anything to interrupt or discourage him from talking about this. You asked for this, she thought, you pleaded with him to talk to you. She'd found the courage on the drive home to press Mike about why he'd left the station early and had known there was more to the story he offered.
"Michael Dylan Varela." He spaced the boy's name out carefully, rolling the r slightly. "His favorite color was green. He turned eight three days before he died." That sentence was an exercise in control. "His father was scheduled to be out of town on his birthday but arrived home a day early so the whole family went out bowling. He ate three hot dogs, one with relish, one with ketchup, and-and one with mustard. When he fell asleep that night, he was still holding the handle of the green wood-slat wagon his grandfather had made for his special day."
Mike stroked her hair silently for a moment, as the hammock they were in swayed gently. He drew a deep breath through his nose, taking in the subtle fragrances of the flowers in her backyard, and continued. "He loved chocolate milk but shared the last glass of it with his sister Isabella that morning at breakfast because he loved her more. He had a good day at school and walked to the sitter's with his best friends, Winston and Billy." Stoker took another deep breath. "And about an hour later there was a fire."
His flow of words ceased abruptly, as though someone had tightened down on the line with a hose clamp. Patty prompted him softly, couching her request in the jargon of the fire service: "How'd Captain Stanley size-up the scene when you arrived?"
"Two-story, wood-frame residence. Heavy smoke showing from the rear. Working incident," he said, voice taking on a pedagogical tone. "Plug across the street. Fair skies, moderate humidity, negligible winds. Fuel load typical. No accelerants. One adult reportedly exited the residence at the rear. Smoke from that exit alerted the neighbors and they called the fire department. Upon our arrival, one of the neighbors approached and informed Captain Stanley there were six juveniles inside." Stoker took another deep breath, emotion seeping back into his words as he continued to talk, departing from the formal incident report. "We, we went in, all of us did, to find the kids. Cap, John and Chet went one way; Marco, Roy and I went the other along the central hallway."
Mike paused again, returning to the fire. "The point of origin for the fire was in a centrally-located kitchen on the first floor. There was plenty of air and wood to feed it but it spread slowly at first, chewing each bit of fuel thoroughly before reaching out for more. Fire is greedy, you know. It'll follow the air, the fuel. So when that woman left the kids to – ." Patty could feel the hitch in his breathing, heard him swallow. "When she left the residence, the influx of air from the open door pulled the fire away from the playroom. And toward the nursery."
"Which way did you go?"
He didn't answer her directly, caught up in remembering, in putting the scene back together in his mind. "We moved down the hall together, Marco on the nozzle then Roy then me. We could hear the fire all around us, see it vaguely through the smoke. Marco pushed the flames back with the water so we could advance and Roy moved fast, in each door, quick search and then out. The deeper into the house we went, the hotter it became. We were about to turn the corner when I heard Cap's voice behind me."
"What did he say?" It was the smallest question she could ask. Keep him talking.
"He sent me to the other end of the house. They, Johnny and Chet and Cap, had found the older four just off the kitchen, in this playroom. Hank grabbed Billy – he'd been right at the door – and backtracked to the front room. He sent me to help with the others, leaving Marco and Roy to search for the nursery." His chest rose and fell underneath her head like ocean waves. "I followed the hose back, until I reached the playroom. Chet was still on the hose, to give Johnny and me a chance to get the kids out. Johnny picked up Winston and headed out. Then I – ." Stoker broke off and turned away for a moment, staring across the lightly shaded lawn and back into the fire in his memory.
"Stoker!" Cap's voice cut through the hot cacophony around them and Mike twisted toward him, seeing his hunched over form dimly through the smoke. Roy had just entered another room to search; Marco was directing the stream of water onto as many surfaces as he could. Mike tapped Lopez on the shoulder and withdrew when the other man nodded, pausing to yank another length of hose into the fire to aid the lineman's inevitable advance. "Found four … down the hall." Once Hank delivered the message, he turned, coughing, and headed outside, the precious bundle under his turnouts.
He was about two-thirds of the way down the hallway when it happened. A misstep, a twitch of the hose, something, and he fell forward onto the hose he was following to the playroom. Mike had been low to the floor, the lack of an SCBA forcing him to seek the bottom layer already, so the fall was minor, the recovery quick. Instinctively, he began crawling with one hand on the hose, fire academy drills taking over. When he came through the door at the end, Gage had picked up one child and Kelly was still taking aim at the hotspots. "Get the kids!" Chet yelled as Mike darted forward and grabbed the boy and the girl by their shirts, dragging them toward the door after Johnny. The lineman dropped the hose a few seconds later and moved to pick up the girl while Stoker – .
"I picked him up – Michael, I picked Michael up off the floor. And I carried him out of the smoke and flames, holding him close against my shoulder, trying to protect him." He stopped, drawing one hard breath in through his nostrils. "Even though I knew he was already, already dead."
"Oh, Mike," she whispered, consciously not calling him Michael.
"I sat down at the engine and tried to find a pulse. I tried and I tried and I tried and it just wasn't there." Patty tensed and he hesitated then, realizing the beautiful young woman nestled against him so trustingly, even now, had probably never seen death up close. It made Stoker feel old, weighed down with the knowledge of death and destruction. He had wanted to talk, to tell her everything, so she could understand the other parts but …. The details of a child's death? How can I do that to her? She'll remember it, she'll think about it, she'll probably even research it.
"You can tell me anything you need to tell, specialist," Patty said then, looking up at him. Don't stop now, it's okay. "Even if it's not … pleasant."
"I don't," he began then stopped, trying to choose his words carefully. "I don't want you to have this knowledge," he finally said, meeting her eyes. "I want you to understand what's going on with me but I really don't want to tell you how it feels to – ." He choked off the words even though the sensations swept through his memory and his eyes closed: the heavy slackness, the waxy skin, the unsubtle effluvium, the sooty teeth ….
"To cradle a dead body?" she guessed. See, Patty? You can be strong for him. "That's what you were doing there, weren't you?" No big deal to think about it – .
"Yes." He said the word tightly, through his teeth, not wanting to admit even that much to her. She'd seen the boy's picture, when she'd found the newspaper clipping in his Bible weeks ago. He could almost see the picture form in her mind – Stoker clad in smoking turnouts huddled against the fire engine with a small body draped across his lap, thick straight hair hanging down from the head which fell back limply, untied green sneaker dangling half off one foot – .
"Did someone have to pull your hands away too?" she asked, almost curiously, as though seeking confirmation of something she already knew.
Did someone have to …? Patty's words jolted Mike and, opening his eyes, he sensed her withdrawal even though she hadn't moved. I said too much. She'd closed in on herself. I went too far. It felt as though someone had jerked the warm, comforting blanket of her caring attention off him. Did someone have to pull your hands away? No. That's not what she said. Did someone have to pull your hands away too?
Too. The small word coupled with the sad knowledge in her voice sent his mind scurrying through all the bits of data he had collected about Patty, searching for the connection. It clicked and the words trickled from his lips. "Your mom." He shifted to be able to see her face better, to gauge the effect of those two little words, causing the hammock to swing and their world to spin.
"Yes," she replied without elaboration then pulled her focus back to him, smiling reassuringly. S'okay, I'm okay. "So, you see, you can – ."
"I can't," Mike interrupted. "Not yet, at least." He continued to touch her gently, fingers moving lightly through her hair. He told her more already than he thought he could. I told her more than I should. I hurt her. He pulled her closer into his body. Think first next time, Stoker, think.
"It's more than just the Code F, isn't it?" she said after a few quiet minutes, wondering if the jargon would be a springboard a second time. Stay calm, Patty Mack, stay calm.
"It's more than just the Code F." His body had tensed again, rejecting the gentle prod to say more. "I don't, I can't talk about it." Yet. The unspoken word hung between them, a promise and a plea.
She waited a moment, wondering whether he would continue. "Well, when you're ready to talk, specialist, I'm ready to listen, whether that's today, next week or next year." Patty cupped his face lightly for a moment, placing a delicate kiss beside his lips, and felt him relax. She laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes once more. You can cry for him later. Right now, just be calm and reassuring. She forced the tears prickling against her eyelids away and as their world swayed slightly, she held him as best she knew how, one hand placed protectively over his heart.
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(Later that evening)
"Uncle Tommy?"
"Patty Mack, what's wrong?" He could always tell when she upset by the lost little girl tone of her voice, especially over the phone like now. Henry or Mike?
"I-I was wondering about a fire that Station 51 responded to, about a month ago." She swallowed. "There were some fatalities, some kids?"
"Yes," he said, "I know which fire you mean." Wonder what Stoker finally told her.
"Mike told me the boy he rescued, that he didn't make it. And Chet, too. I just wondered what happened to-to the other kids? Did they make it? I thought visiting them might help Mike – ."
"Patty," Tom McConnikee began, then sighed. Forget to tell her all of it, Mike? "There was nothing anyone, anyone could do."
"I don't – ."
"Baby, all the kids died in the fire." The stunned silence from the other end of the line was broken by a gentle sob. Go ahead, Patty, cry for them, cry for the living and the dead.
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