Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (25 page)

She was just tired, that's all, and feeling a little vulnerable. These little …
indiscretions
were merely part of a short-term plan, a little something to tide her over until she figured out what her next big move should be. And when she figured things out, there'd be no stopping her on her rise to the top. One day, she'd have everything she deserved.

She smiled at herself.

Ick.
Better brush her teeth a fourth time.

 

THIRTY-FOUR

INTENSIVE CARE

Megan

Seth was a wreck.

At first he just sat on my couch, staring down at his knees and rubbing his hand along Brigit's head over and over and over again. Much more and the poor dog would end up with a bald spot. Not that she seemed to mind in the least. She lay there, enjoying the attention, occasionally tilting her head to lick Seth's hand.

I didn't know what to do, how to help him. I tended to work out my stresses and upsets by twirling my baton, but Seth didn't know how to twirl a baton and this matter was far too upsetting to be resolved so easily.

Finally, I simply reached over, took his free hand in both of mine, and held it to my cheek. He glanced my way and, when our gazes met, it was as if a floodgate of emotion broke open inside him.

“What if she dies?” He gripped my hand tightly, probably without even realizing it. His grip aggravated the scrapes on my palm, but I knew he wasn't aware of the discomfort he was causing me. I could endure a little pain for him. His body trembled as if he were shivering, the adrenaline processing out of his system. His voice was soft, strained. “What if that little girl doesn't make it? What if I didn't get to her in time?”

Surely Seth had seen people die before. After all, he'd spent eight years in the army as an explosive ordnance disposal specialist, and the last two years working as a firefighter and leading the fire department's bomb squad. But I supposed nobody ever got used to death. They wouldn't be human if they did.

And this little girl, what happened to her had been entirely preventable. All her parents had had to do was get rid of the dried-up tree. By now, the thing had become nothing more than a pile of kindling, fuel waiting for a spark. Why hadn't her father dragged the damn thing out into the backyard? It was the least he could have done to keep his children safe. Then again, having grown up in a large, busy family, I knew how easy it was to overlook these things, to focus on what had to be done right now, to put off these minor tasks for a tomorrow that never seemed to come.

I didn't know what to say to Seth. I supposed I could have said the obvious things. That he'd done his job. That he'd done all he could. That, if she died, her death wouldn't be his fault. But I knew he already knew all of that. Instead, I said, “If she dies it will be very sad. But she might live, Seth. Kids are amazingly resilient.”

I should know. I'd seen my four younger siblings bounce back from some pretty harrowing injuries, including my brother Joey who'd suffered a major concussion after taking a header out the tree house window.
Lesson learned: if you're spying with binoculars on the cute girl next door, don't lean out too far.

Seth's green eyes sought mine and held. “I hope you're right, Megan.”

I gave his hand a final squeeze and released it.

He looked back down at his knees, then up at me again. “Do you ever wonder why we're even here? What's the point of all this?”

“Yes,” I said, “sometimes.” Not that my wondering had given me any concrete answers. How I wished I had answers for him. He seemed like he could really use some. “I don't know, Seth. I think maybe it's up to each of us to decide what the point of our own life will be.”

“Have
you
decided?” he asked.

I nodded. “I want to stop p-people from victimizing each other.” Victimization was at the heart of every crime, whether it be a murder, a rape, or a petty theft.
Or even the mere teasing of a young, defenseless girl who couldn't get her words to come out right.
“I want to make the world more just and fair.”

“It must be nice to know that.” He was quiet for a moment, his expression pensive.

It seemed that Seth was looking for affirmation. I hoped I could provide it. “Your life has purpose, Seth. You've saved untold numbers of people from being hurt or killed by explosives.”

He waved a hand. “I just fell into that.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned back to his knees and let out a slow breath. “I dropped out of high school my junior year to join the army. When the recruiter asked me what I wanted to do in the service, I told him I didn't know. So he asked me what I liked to do, and I told him I liked to blow things up.” He turned to me again. “I must've sounded so stupid, huh?”

“No,” I said. “Bombs are scientific. There's chemistry involved, and physics, too. There's nothing stupid about that.”

Seth snorted. “I didn't give a shit about all of that. I just liked to watch things explode. Watermelons and milk jugs and stuff like that.”

He was being much too hard on himself. We'd all been goofy kids at one time, trying to figure the world out, trying to figure out where we fit into it.

I put a hand on his shoulder. “You were a kid, Seth. Playing is how kids learn.”

“Oh, I learned all right. I learned not to put fireworks in the mailbox or my grandpa would take a wooden spoon to my ass.”

I cringed. “Ouch.”

Seth's mouth turned up in a smile. “It wasn't so bad. Every time he hit me with the spoon my grandmother would grab it from him and use it to make me chocolate chip cookies.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that revelation.
Talk about dysfunctional.

“Anyway,” Seth continued, “the army assigned me to bomb detail. When I left the military, the only thing I knew how to do was dismantle bombs. The only place those skills are needed are on a bomb squad. That's how I ended up at the fire department.” He offered a mirthless chuckle. “It was either become a fireman or flip burgers. It just sort of happened. It wasn't like I'd made any conscious decisions about my career.”

“You might not have made all of those decisions consciously,” I told him, “but something led you to all of this. That's how it happens for a lot of people. Serendipity. You've clearly got a gift, Seth. You're brave. Calm under pressure. Smart. Few people could do what you do. You ended up in a position where you can help a lot of people, where you can do a lot of good in the world.”

“So what?” he said, looking into my eyes again now. “You think our lives are guided by fate? Some divine hand? God?”

I had no idea. After seeing some of the horrific things I'd witnessed on my job, I often had trouble believing in God, or at least the caring, compassionate, and merciful version proffered by most churches. The fire-and-brimstone God, the one who was always smiting people or turning them into pillars of salt or flooding the earth when he got pissed off? Maybe that one. I couldn't be sure what the truth was. But I knew that I
wanted
to believe in something more.

“I don't know about any of that, Seth.” I stared at him, his face becoming blurry as tears welled up in my eyes. “The only thing I know for sure is that I am really glad you are here right now.” With that, I wrapped my arms around him and held him tight.

*   *   *

Early Sunday afternoon, Seth swung by my apartment to pick me up. Though both of us were off duty, we'd worn shirts identifying us as members of the police and fire departments. We'd have an easier time gaining admittance at the hospital if we appeared to wield some authority.

Seth had brought Blast with him to keep Brigit company while we were out and about. As always, the two seemed thrilled to see each other. Leaping up and wagging their tails and play-wrestling on the floor. Sometimes I thought the two of them had a better relationship than me and Seth. They seemed to have no trouble communicating, and their feelings about each other were clear. They were in doggie love.

Seth and I had no idea what we might find out at the hospital but, hoping for the best, we didn't want to arrive empty-handed. On the drive to Cook Children's Medical Center, we stopped by a toy store.

Seth glanced around as we walked inside. “What should I get her?”

Twelve-year-old girls could be tricky, teetering as they were on the cusp between little girl and teenager. “Let's take a look around, see what catches our eye.”

He stopped in front of a display of stuffed animals and reached out for a Dalmation wearing a red fire hat. “What do you think of this?”

“I think it's perfect.”

I chose a Mad Libs and a jewelry-making kit with projects I hoped the girl could manage from a hospital bed.

As we made our way into the hospital, a dark and heavy sense of dread and horror enveloped me. It was only weeks ago that I'd visited one of the bombing victims in another nearby hospital. She'd lost an eye and three fingers, but had survived the ordeal and counted her blessings. I hoped this little girl would have some blessings to count, too.

As we walked into the hospital, we passed a newspaper machine outside. The headline was visible through the glass window on the front. “Purse Snatchers and Pickpockets: Is the Stock Show Safe?”

Damn.
I realized the reporters needed a story and that the public had a right to know about crimes in their community, but did the story have to be plastered across the top of page one? Given that I'd been the officer to interview the victims and prepare the reports, the crimes felt especially close to me, the headline broadcasting to the world my failure to catch the culprits.

I stopped, put some coins into the machine, and purchased a paper. Might as well see what the journalists had reported.

As I pulled the paper from the machine, I noted that the bottom half of the front page featured a photo of the house where the fire had taken place last night. “12-year-old girl critically injured in fire.” I folded the paper so Seth wouldn't see the headline. Futile, really, since he obviously already knew what had happened. After all, that's why we were here. But for those who read the headlines and the report, the story would be a sad but fleeting bit of news. For Seth, this story was much more personal.

We stopped at the nurse's station outside the intensive care ward. After Seth explained who he was and the reason for our visit, she asked us to wait at the station. Though I tried to read her expression, she was a professional, maintaining the stoic appearance of someone responsible for private information. She disappeared through the swinging doors marked
AUTHORIZED VISITORS AND STAFF ONLY.

In a moment she returned with a dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. The woman's eyes were pink and swollen from crying and lack of sleep, her makeup smeared and her clothes wrinkled, her hair a wild mess. Clutched tightly in her fists were at least a half-dozen wadded tissues.

The woman looked up at Seth, fresh tears rimming her lids. “The nurse said you're the one who rescued Savannah last night?”

Seth appeared almost sheepish, as if uncomfortable being referred to as a rescuer. “I found her on the floor and carried her out of the house.”

The woman grabbed Seth in a bear hug so tight it wouldn't have surprised me to see his head swell up and pop like the balloons at the stock show midway. “Thank you!” she cried. “Thank you so much!”

Seth and I exchanged glances. Though the woman was obviously distraught, her use of the word
rescued
and her expressions of appreciation implied her daughter had survived the night, right? Then again, she might simply have been grateful that her daughter's body hadn't been left inside to burn up with the house. I was afraid to read anything into the woman's words, and I think Seth was, too.

Seth cleared his throat. “Is she … um…” He took a deep breath, or at least as deep as he could given that the woman held him as tight as a vise. “How is she doing?”

The mother released Seth and took a step back. As I stepped up to put a supportive hand on his shoulder, her eyes went from my face to the FWPD logo on my shirt, then returned to Seth's face. “They had her on a respirator last night but she's breathing on her own now. She has some burns on her feet and legs that will need treatment and skin grafts, but…” The woman burst into fresh sobs and dabbed her eyes with the tissues. “She's going to make it!”

Seth's eyes closed for a few seconds in relief. When he opened them again, he gave the woman a soft smile. “That's great news.”

“Would you like to see her?” the mother asked. She turned to the nurse. “It's okay if they come back, right?”

The nurse glanced around, then whispered, “Make it quick. Some of the doctors are real sticklers about visitation.”

We slipped quickly and quietly through the doors and followed Savannah's mother down the hall to the girl's room. The girl lay on a bed inside, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow around her face. Her feet and legs were wrapped in white gauze dressing. Though she was able to breathe on her own, the doctors had nonetheless kept an oxygen mask on her face. Her father sat on a chair he'd pulled up next to the bed, his head ducked and hands folded as if he were praying.

As we came in the door, the father crossed himself, looked up, and stood to greet us. Savannah slowly turned her head on the pillow to face us. Her woozy eyes brightened when she saw the stuffed Dalmation and toys in our hands.

Her mother turned to us. “They've got her on strong painkillers so she's a little out of it.” After introducing us to her husband, the woman stepped to the side of the bed and looked down at her daughter. “Savannah, Mr. Rutledge is here to see you. He's the fireman who carried you out of the house last night.”