Blogger Bundle Volume I: Dear Author Selects Unusual Heroines
Page 77
After the training and dinner, Chelsea headed for the exercise room. She was exhausted from no sleep last night and hoped working out would tire her enough to make her zonk tonight. She was still tense and upset, but at least she and Jake had found a way to deal with this so far, and things at the firehouse were okay, too. Like bad food, she shoved away thoughts of sabotage. They were impossible to digest.
Joey found her on the treadmill after a half hour. He carried a newspaper with him. He’d folded it open to an ad and put it in her line of vision. “There’s a triathlon for men just before Christmas.”
Lightly jogging, Chelsea nodded. “I know, my gym manager is thinking about entering.”
“Grip’s Gym might sponsor me. That’s where I work out.”
“It’s a good place, but they’re hurting for trainers.”
“Yeah, they are.”
When he didn’t say any more, Chelsea asked, “Do you want some help from me, Joe?”
“I’d pay you.”
“Don’t be silly. I don’t want your money.”
Folding his arms, he watched her for a minute. “Then how about my friendship?”
Slowing, she cocked her head.
“I haven’t been the best since you came on board.”
“You’ve been okay lately.” Everybody has. Could it possibly be one of you?
“Can I do somethin’?” He motioned to include the firehouse. “You know, about this stuff with the air pack and water tank?”
She felt her eyes sting. “No, you can’t, but thanks.” She got off the treadmill and wiped her face with a towel. “Give me the paper and get a pad. Let’s outline what you should start with. You don’t have a lot of time.”
He grinned, said, “Thanks,” and headed for the door.
“Santori?”
He turned.
“Thank you.”
Just before bed, Don found her in the common room leafing though Firehouse magazine. In his hand he had a paper. “Hey, Chelsea, wanna go in on the trivia game with me this week? I always feel like I’m back in grade school on this and thought if I had some help…”
Recognizing the gesture, she smiled. “Sure.”
Taking a pencil from behind his ear, he sat on the couch. “It’s hard.”
She read the questions aloud. “Name the country with the following fire-suppression regulations.” She looked at Don. “You sure you want to do this?”
“I already know three,” he said proudly. “Japan’s the place where a person can be imprisoned for causing a fire because of negligence. Sweden trains chimney sweeps to inspect fireplaces and furnaces. And France pays only partial insurance to landlords to decrease the possibility of arson on their parts.”
“How do you know those things?”
“My kid has books on firefighting. Lots of stories in them about those countries. I figure we got a shot if I know three.”
“I only know one. Delaney went to England last year. They spend a million dollars a year on fire-safety commercials.”
He grinned. “Two to go, kid.”
“I have no idea what place has fire marshals in its apartment buildings.”
“Hong Kong.” Chelsea looked up to see Jake smiling from the doorway. He shrugged. “It’s the only one I know, so I’m not playin’ this week.”
“Hot damn.” Don punched his fist in the air.
“That leaves the one that has building codes and insurance laws that require every room to have two exits.”
Jake shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t know it.”
“Me, neither,” Chelsea said.
Don stood. “Joey’s father’s in insurance. Maybe he’ll call him. This’ll be a real team effort.” Don squeezed her shoulder as he left; Chelsea patted his hand.
“You okay?” Jake sank into a chair, looking tired and tense. She wanted to touch him, to rub his back, to curl up in his arms and take the tension away.
“Yeah.” She glanced at the door. “They’re something else.”
“They’re trying with you, Chels.”
“I know. They did good tonight.”
“How about me?” he asked boyishly.
“You’re doing good, too.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“Me, too.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I hope you sleep tonight.”
“You, too.”
“Too bad we—”
She stood abruptly. “Don’t say it, Lieutenant. We’re at work.” On her way past him, she touched his arm. Feeling better than she thought she would, she headed for the showers.
UNDER THE COVERS in the black-as-night bunk room, the man checked the lighted dial of his watch. Three. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep.
Damn. It hadn’t worked. Everybody’d been nicer to her, including Jake. All that came out of it was a goddamned letter in her file.
And she looks like shit.
Well, that couldn’t be helped. He’d thought the guys would ostracize her, and he’d be the hero by being nice to her.
Again, his plan hadn’t worked.
He grasped the sheet tightly. He’d have to do something else. And soon. Hyde wouldn’t let him rest until he did. He couldn’t sleep, thinking about it.
Neither could they. First she’d crept out of the bunk room about one. Jake had followed a half hour later. That wasn’t unusual. Both of them were insomniacs. He’d found them out in the kitchen talking on many night shifts.
Hmm. Insomnia. No sleep.
He turned over. That gave him an idea. A really good idea, one he wouldn’t have to wait long to implement. Maybe he could even do it tomorrow night.
Jeez, it was a biggie. Did he dare?
Jekyll didn’t.
But maybe Hyde would.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ON THE LAST EVENING of their night shift, Jake couldn’t sleep. He was exhausted, but the demons would not be kept at bay. He lay in his bunk, all that had happened in the past few days running through his mind.
As a show of faith, Chelsea had come to his house this morning right after work. He’d fixed breakfast, they’d talked about superficial stuff, then they’d made love. Once again, like the afternoon before, it was a tender, bittersweet union; it had been partly an effort to cement their bond, partly to heal the wounds caused by doubt. They slept briefly, but each had commitments—she at the gym, and he shopping for college with Jess—so they were both running on empty when they reported for work that afternoon. With three days off coming up, he hoped to catch up on his sleep—with her.
She’d looked spent tonight when she got to the firehouse. So much so that the guys had surreptitiously taken care of her. Jake smiled into the darkness, thinking of the men who slept around him. First, Peter cooked dinner—they hadn’t eaten until eight because of some calls—and then he served up her plate himself and got her iced tea to drink. Later Jake watched Mick fetch her after-dinner coffee; then Don refilled her cup as they chatted around the table. Joey had poured her milk with dessert. They were tripping over themselves to coddle her. Obviously they were all worried about her. So was he.
Jake checked his watch dial. One. She was on first watch tonight; he hoped she’d catch some sleep when she was relieved at two. Maybe he’d get up and go—
The tone sounded, and the lights in the bunk room came on. “Heart attack victim, seventy-year-old female at Dutch Towers. Midi Twelve go into service.”
As he whipped off the sheet, Jake’s heart thudded in his chest like a runner’s. Though Peter and Chelsea were on the Midi—the other guys rolled over and went back to sleep—Jake bounded out of bed, dragged on his pants and boots and headed to the bay. A cold stab of fear in his chest reminded him that Mrs. Lowe was seventy.
Peter was right behind him. “Why didn’t she come in?” he asked, buttoning his pants.
Jake didn’t know what Peter meant. Then he realized that Chelsea hadn’t come to the bunk room, the traditional watch behavior. Before he had time
to react, he reached the office to get the computer printout.
He froze at the sight that greeted him. Chelsea was hunched over in her chair, her head pillowed in her arms. For a minute, he panicked, thinking she was ill or…He raced to her as Peter stopped in the doorway.
Grasping her shoulder, he shook her. “Chelsea.”
Nothing.
“Chelsea.”
“Jake, the Midi has to go.” Peter’s reminder startled him.
Chelsea raised her head. He eyes were glazed and groggy. “What…” she muttered drowsily.
She’d fallen asleep! Jake stared openmouthed at her; then, without a word, he turned and hurried after Peter to the Midi, taking Chelsea’s place on shotgun.
In the cab he operated on automatic, ignoring the cold knot in his stomach. They’d lost a precious minute, maybe two. Because a firefighter had fallen asleep on watch. Jake blanked his mind, read the computer printout and talked to the dispatcher.
A tinny voice told him, “CPR is being given by a fellow resident, who phoned nine-one-one after the victim called her with chest pains. The victim’s lost consciousness and maybe pulse. An ambulance is on the way. Over.”
“You had the Red Cross teach the CPR course out at Dutch Towers,” Peter observed.
“Maybe it’ll help.” Jake said in the radio, “Who’s the victim?”
The dispatcher came over the line again. “We don’t know. Just a seventy-year-old woman.”
Sirens blaring, lights flashing, the truck skidded to a halt; Jake and Peter bounded out of the Midi. Peter took the ALS bag, and Jake went around to get the oxygen.
Inside the front door, they were met by Sergio Olivo and Moses Santori.
“It’s Addie,” Moses said. “Apartment—”
Jake knew the number. Choking back the raw emotion in his throat, he raced down the hall. Please God, please, don’t let her die.
The door to her apartment was open. They hurried in. Adelaide Lowe lay on her back in a flowered nightgown looking as tiny as a child. Another resident of Dutch Towers, Katherine MacKenzie, knelt over her and compressed her chest. When they reached the woman, Jake could see that Mrs. Lowe’s skin was pasty and her lips were blue.
Peter said, “Mrs. M, you’re doing a great job. When I give you the signal, I want you to stop so I can check for a pulse. Now, stop compressions.”
Mrs. MacKenzie stopped. Peter palpated the carotid artery, then took over the chest compression. “No pulse.”
With robotic movements, Jake got out the oxygen tank, broke the seal and fitted the mask over Mrs. Lowe’s mouth.
The ambulance sirens sounded close, and in moments paramedics dashed into the apartment. Jake and Peter stepped back as the attendants took over CPR and set up the defibrillator equipment.
“Stand back,” one called.
In the chill black silence, broken only by the obscene buzz of the electric shocks, Jake watched the team deliver treatment to the small, fragile chest. He cringed, hoping the pressure didn’t break brittle bones. Holding his breath, he prayed hard for the life of the old woman he’d come to love.
CHELSEA LEANED against the counter sipping coffee as Jake and Peter trudged into the kitchen. Still woozy, she blinked hard and tried to calm the fear that coiled in her stomach like a poisonous snake. “Is she all right?” Chelsea asked them.
Passing her to get coffee, Peter patted her arm. “We don’t know yet. The paramedics got her heart started and rushed her to the hospital. We’re not sure how she is.”
“Who was it?”
“Mrs. Lowe.”
Chelsea’s whole body tensed as a painful knot of remorse lodged in her throat. “Oh, Jake, I’m sorry.”
He hadn’t looked at her. Now he did. She shrank from what she saw there—blame.
“Come into the back office with me, Chelsea.” His voice was like a coroner’s announcing a death.
With grim resignation, she followed him down the hall. The station house was quiet again. Mick was on watch; Peter had gone to find him. In a few hours everybody would know.
The back room still held desks and a phone from Operation Suzy. Quietly Jake shut the door, leaned against the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he looked at her. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
He drew in a deep breath. “You were out cold.”
A heaviness in her chest almost kept her from answering. “I know. I’m just not sure why.”
“You were exhausted. You haven’t slept for days.”
“I’ve had catnaps. In any case, I’ve stayed awake on watch before without rest.”
“I found you asleep myself, damn it.”
She arched her eyebrows; her pulse escalated at the spark of anger flaring out of him. “I know. And quite frankly, I still feel groggy.”
He threw his hands up. “That doesn’t help.”
Determined, she crossed her arms. “Jake, I feel like I feel after I take a sleeping pill.”
“People usually do when awakened from a sound sleep.”
Damn, he wasn’t getting it; she had to say it out loud. “I feel drugged, Jake.”
“Drugged?” His face was incredulous. “Drugged?”
“Yes.”
He stared hard at her. Like a stranger. Like she was a stranger. “What are you saying?”
Deep in her heart, she knew she had to go for broke. She only wished she’d told him before. Then this wouldn’t sound like such an excuse. “When I went to Beth’s two days ago, we discussed something I didn’t tell you about.”
“You wouldn’t tell me anything then.”
“I was wrong. I should have approached you as my officer.”
He arched a brow, waiting.
“Jake, none of this fits. Too many things have gone wrong in the last few weeks. Either I’m the most incompetent firefighter in the department, or something else is happening.”
She noticed he didn’t deny her incompetence.
So she raised her chin, remembering her childhood lesson. You only have yourself to rely on, Chelsea. Feeling utterly alone, she said, “Well, I’m not incompetent. What’s more, I’m not careless. And I’m certainly not negligent enough to fall asleep on watch. I’ve had hundreds of watches where I was more tired or upset than I am now, and I’ve never even dozed off. Besides, I had two cups of coffee, and tea at supper, then more coffee on watch tonight.”
As if in slow motion, she pictured Peter getting her iced tea from the fridge. Mick and Don taking turns refilling her coffee. Joey serving her milk.
“What are you saying, Chelsea?” His voice was like cut glass.
“I’m saying I turned off the stove a few weeks ago. I’m saying I checked both my air tank and the Midi water.” She drew in a steadying breath. “I’m saying several people had access to what I drank tonight.”
The shock on Jake’s face cut like a scalpel. It twisted in her gut when she saw the doubt follow it. “Are you saying…are you accusing one of my men of…” It was like he couldn’t get the words out. Finally he finished, “Sabotaging you?”
It sounded stark and melodramatic.
Yet it had to be true. Beth was right. There was no other explanation.
“I should have told you earlier about my suspicions.”
“I…I can’t believe it.”
“You mean, you can’t believe me.”
“Chelsea, do you know what you’re saying? Who you’re accusing? One of the guys, here, in our group. I’ve worked with them for years. I’ve trusted them with my life.”
Swallowing hard, she tried to close the door on the hurt. But it kept pushing, trying to get out. “All I know is I’m not incompetent, careless or negligent. And my body tells me right now that something isn’t right inside.”
His face was blank. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s obvious what you think.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Chelsea, I—”
He stared at her. Finally he said, “I don’t know what to believe.”
Chelsea wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t the wrenching pain that ambushed her, taking her down unexpectedly. The best she could do now was protect herself. “Never mind what you believe. What will you do?”
“I have to report this to the battalion chief.”
“I expected that.”
“You’ll be brought up on charges. Suspended.”
She cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter.” Nothing did, in the face of his disbelief. His distrust. Staring at his stunned face, she remembered his words. Say you trust me, Chels. She swallowed hard, blinked back tears. She had to be strong. A brittle silence stretched between them.
He broke it. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“Just the facts.”
“Will you tell them…what you suspect?”
“I don’t know.” What did it really matter, anyway? She was finished. With the fire department. With a lot of things. She told him, “I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind. Chief Talbot will probably come right over.”
Looking stricken, Jake nodded. He straightened and approached the door. She turned her back to him.
After a moment he said, “Chels?”
She pivoted.
His face was a mask of agony. Because she loved him she whispered, “Go make your call, Jake. I know you don’t have any choice.” It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do.
She turned before he could say more. Then she heard the soft swish of the door opening and closing. Sinking onto the chair, she told herself to be strong, to think clearly, to ignore the immobilizing fear kindling inside her. She needed all her wits about her to get through the next few hours—alone.
THE NEWS of Chelsea’s suspension spread through the Rockford Fire Department like wildfire in a drought. Jake knew that Ben Cordaro would have heard about it already as he approached the chief’s office at five that night.
What a day, Jake thought as he climbed the academy stairs. First there had been the painful witnessing of Chelsea’s meeting with Battalion Chief Talbot. She’d remained stoic through the whole thing and left the office and the firehouse without looking at Jake. He hadn’t gone to find her after his relief arrived. Instead, he’d spent hours at the hospital, waiting for news on Mrs. Lowe. By three, when he was able to see the old woman in intensive care, it looked as though she was going to make it.