Authors: Shawn Grady
She weaved the rig through the intersection. “Did the off-going crew mention anything about an issue with the brakes?”
Butcher scratched his cheek. “There was something in pass on about the mechanic coming to check on a little air leak today. Just make sure you keep her plugged into the air line back at the station.”
Kat gave him an impatient look that said,
Please
. “You know I always do.”
A white-shirted security guard stood at the casino entrance. We pulled to a stop by the curb.
I snatched the defib and the blue bag from the med compartment that held all the intermediate life-support medications and tools. Lowell swung the red first-out bag over his shoulder with its oxygen bottle and basic life-support supplies. Butcher stepped down to the sidewalk, then turned and climbed back into the cab to grab his small steel clipboard.
“C-P-R, Mark,” Lowell said.
Butcher looked up. “What?”
“Clipboard. Pen. Radio. C-P-R. What good is a captain without them?”
Butcher’s face changed from surprise to frustration. “I thought you meant we had a cardiac arrest, Lowell.”
Lowell elbowed him. “Glad to have me back, aren’t ya, Marky?”
We walked from the street through the heated air curtain to the casino floor. Mirrored pillars flashed our reflections. James Brown’s “The Big Payback” filled the room from planter-hidden speakers. Stoic-looking overweight people sat and played slots under advertisements of happy-looking fit people playing slots. Security snaked us through to an elevator that another guard kept open with a key.
Butcher turned to the first officer. “The paramedics are still coming, too.”
He looked back toward the doors and then spoke into a black microphone on his shoulder.
The guard in the elevator was young and pale with a narrow chin and greasy dark hair. His long bony fingers fumbled with a doughnut-sized key ring that sported about a hundred keys. He talked to himself, turning the emergency operation key left then right. “Ah, let’s see. Okay. Well, no. Okay.” We stopped at floors three, four, and six to the semi-alarmed stares of hotel guests before taking our nonstop trip to floor seventeen.
Butcher peeked at the run sheet. “Should be seventeen twenty-two.”
We filed out of the elevator, Lowell after me, until the door closed, sandwiching him from shoulder to first-out bag.
Bony Fingers flinched and cringed and pushed about six buttons in a frenzy. “Sorry. Oh, right. Sorry.”
Lowell worked his way loose. The doors came together behind him. “If that guy’s still here when we get back, I’m taking the stairs.”
T
he hallway smelled like air-freshener-suppressed cigarette smoke.
A busy flower pattern wove through the middle of a dark green carpet. Butcher stopped by a door on our right. “Seventeen twenty-two. Here we go.” He stood to the side and knocked. “Fire Department.”
It was a standard practice, standing to the side of the door. You never knew who might be holding some kind of weapon on the inside. The sliding of a latch sounded.
A middle-aged woman with dangling turquoise earrings answered. “He’s right in here. Over here.”
A man lay supine in bed, wearing a white collared shirt that fell open to the covers. His receding hairline was rimmed with sweat and his cheeks were flushed. Dried blood stained the corners of his lips.
I set down the defib and felt for a radial pulse. It was strong, regular, and rapid—around a hundred and twenty beats per minute.
The television flickered in silence. Meteorologist Mike Alger pointed and drew arrows along the Pacific Coast.
Lowell shook the man's shoulder. “Sir, sir, can you open your eyes?”
I wrapped the Velcro blood pressure cuff around his bicep. He grunted and mumbled and withdrew his arms.
Lowell held open the patient’s eyelids and shone a light in his pupils. They were sluggish and about two millimeters. He pocketed the penlight. “What is his name, ma’am?”
“Gregory. But he goes by Greg.”
“And what is his last name?”
“Sutton.”
He rubbed Greg’s sternum with his knuckles. “Mr. Sutton. Greg? Can you open your eyes for me?”
Greg moved his arm to his chest. I trailed after it with the bell of the stethoscope. Lowell flashed me an apologetic look. He fished out an oxygen mask from the first-out bag and placed it on Greg’s face.
I pulled the stethoscope from my ears. “One thirty over seventy.”
He wrote it on his glove. “Ma’am, what is your relation to Greg?”
She twisted her hands as if they were stuck in a finger puzzle, and her earrings waggled as she answered. “I’m his wife.”
“Does he have a history of seizures?”
“Not for some time.”
“But he has in the past?”
“Yes.”
“Is he taking any medication for it?”
Butcher stepped forward with an empty pill bottle. “Dilantin. Looks like it’s due for a refill.”
“That’s right,” Earrings said. “We ran out two days ago, but we don’t know any doctors in this area.”
Lowell handed me an IV bag and looked up at Earrings. “How long did his seizure last?”
“About a minute, maybe.”
“Can you show me what it looked like?”
I flashed a look at him. He had no need for her to actually show him what the seizure looked like. He clenched his teeth, determined not to smile.
“Well”—Earrings stiffened her body and brought her arms to her chest—“first his eyes rolled back, and then it was like this.” She tightened her jaw and started to vibrate. The shaking traveled down her arms, progressing into a whole body convulsion.
It was impressive.
Lowell pressed his lips together and nodded. “Thank you. That’s perfect. Thank you so much.”
Butcher turned his back to Lowell and placed a hand on Earrings’s shoulder. “Ma’am, we’ll keep your husband on oxygen to clear up his head, start an IV, and check his blood sugar. The paramedics should be here soon, and we’ll go from there.”
She looked at her husband’s face. “I’ve never seen him this bad.”
I bled the air from the IV tubing. Lowell placed a tourniquet on Greg’s arm, causing the veins to bulge and swell. He uncapped a needle and guided it to pierce Greg’s skin, like a diver into shallow water. He slid the catheter into the vein, pulled out the needle, and placed it on the nightstand. “Sharp out.”
I held the IV bag in the air and rolled the white plastic wheel upward, watching the fluid flush into Greg’s arm. Lowell taped it all in place as the paramedics walked in the door.
Butcher plunged a drop of blood from the needle onto a glucometer strip. “One fifteen on the sugar.”
Earrings rubbed her dangling turquoise as if it were a magic lamp. “Is that normal?”
Lowell smiled. “Yeah. That’s just fine.”
She exhaled.
Butcher gave the medics the rundown.
Greg blinked and stared at his feet. He pulled the mask from his face to his forehead. “Who are you people?”
“Honey, it’s me,” his wife said, taking his hand. “It’s okay. They’re here to help you.”
His eyes locked in recognition. “Why? Who needs help?”
“It’s the ambulance, Greg. They’re here to help you.”
“I don’t need any . . .” He darted glances around the room. “What’s going on?”
His wife patted his hand. “You had a big seizure. You need more of your medicine.”
Greg rubbed his forehead. The mask snapped off his head. He stared at it and then the IV in his forearm. He worked to pull the tape off with his free hand.
“No, no, honey,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t do that.”
The medic held Greg’s arm down and put a palm over the IV site.
Greg whipped his head and stared at him. “What are you doing? Don’t do that.”
I glanced at Lowell. He stood at the foot of the bed, his arms hovering over Greg’s legs.
The medic released Greg’s arm. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Sutton. You need to get your Dilantin levels checked. Why don’t you do like your wife is suggesting and let us take you on in to the hospital? She can ride with you the entire way. What do you say?”
He breathed out through his nose, protest written on his face. His eyes turned to his wife, confusion and resignation brimming. But then I saw something I hadn’t seen in Christine for a long time. Something foreign yet familiar. It locked between them like a three-corded rope.
Trust.
“Okay.” Greg nodded, tears streaming. He squeezed his wife’s hands. “Okay.”
Lowell patted my shoulder and motioned toward the door. “Let’s get the gurney.”
T
he rig jostled over the Evans Avenue potholes on our way back to the station. My cell phone vibrated and I flipped off my headset. “Hello?”
“Aidan, how’s it going?”
I recognized Blake’s voice. “Hey, man. They keeping you busy enough in Prevention?”
“Honestly, it’s crazy. How about you? Nothing like a series of fires for cutting short your leave without pay, huh?”
Nothing like an old friend to hit you where it hurts. “Yeah, thanks.”
“How’s things going with that? You and old Butcher make up? You like best friends now, or what?”
I laughed. “Right.”
“Mauvain knocking on your door, wanting to go fishing and have barbecues?”
“Man, just shut up.”
“All right, all right, seriously though. Everything okay? I mean, Hartman and everything?”
I was tired of talking about it. Tired of thinking about it. “Yeah. You know, I’m actually in the rig right now on the way back from a call.”
“I got you. Other ears present. Hey, I was actually wondering if we could get together for lunch. There’s something I needed to talk to you about, and I’d feel best if we could meet in person.”
I had the sensation in my chest that you get on an airplane with a sudden change in altitude. “Oh, okay. Of course. I’m on shift all day today. Can you come downtown? I’m not sure what we’re making for lunch yet.”
“Right. You just said you were on the rig, too. You know . . . it’s probably better that we meet alone. How about tomorrow morning instead? I’ll buy you coffee.”
What is he guarding?
“Yeah, all right. Just give me a ring around eight.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I flipped the phone closed. What was so private he couldn’t risk anyone at the firehouse overhearing?
Back at the station I hiked the stairs to the third floor. Ben Sower stood in the dayroom talking with Julianne. They were focused in conversation and didn’t notice me.
Julianne’s voice raised a bit. “It’s great to see you again, too.” She gave Ben a hug and turned for the door, stopping when she realized her path would intersect mine.
“Still here?” I said.
She looked down and to the side. “I was just leaving.”
I didn’t mean it to sound as if she was unwelcome. “No rush. I mean . . . it’ll be lunch soon. You’re welcome to stay.”
She pulled keys from her pocket and brought her hands together.
“Thank you. That’s a kind offer. But I do need to get going. There’s a ton of work for me back at the lab.”
“Right.” I stepped aside. “Of course.”
She gave me that same polite smile and walked to the stairwell. Even the way she moved seemed familiar.
“Wait,” I said. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”
She turned. “I never said we hadn’t.”
“You didn’t?” I cleared my throat. “I mean, we’ve met before, right?”
Tones.
I tilted my head to the ceiling and sighed. She smiled, this time with a hint of friendliness.
I motioned upward. “It’s never the best timing—”
“Battalion One, Engine One, Engine Two . . .”
The dispatcher continued. I put my hands in front of me. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
She made a quick wave and turned for the door. I twirled onto the pole, spinning around and seeing, just before I descended, that Julianne was still there watching, biting her bottom lip.
The smooth cylinder rushed through my hands, my feet braking in time with the floor. Firefighters scattered to their rigs like bugs from a lifted rock. I made it to the back of the cab as Katrina hit the button for the apparatus-bay door.
She flipped on the rig battery switch to a high-pitched buzz. “Air pressure’s down to fifteen pounds.” A red light blinked on the dash.
Butcher leaned over. “What?”
Kat pushed the ignition, and the diesel motor grumbled. The ladder truck beside us echoed.
She leaned on the emergency brake. “It’s locked out.” The buzz continued. “We’re stuck here till the air tanks build up more pressure.”
The radio crackled. “Reno, Engine Two en route, clearing another call on the edge of our district.”
Lowell flipped up his collar. “That keeps us first due. You want me to hook up the air line?”
I caught a glimpse of the pressure gauge. Both tanks lingered at twenty PSI.
“No,” Kat said. “I already had it plugged in. Something’s wrong.” She swung a look at Butcher that could have transected his head. “I thought you said it was a
little
leak.”
Another radio transmission. “Reno, Engine Three en route.”
The ladder truck rolled out, followed by the Rescue. Waits waved and smiled as he passed us.
Lowell pounded the wall and cursed.
Katrina revved up the RPMs. The air-pressure needles lifted like bath water. Twenty-two. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. “I can’t start moving till we get to at least forty.”
I sat in the jumpseat and worked my arms into my air pack.
Lowell cracked his neck. Butcher stared at the ceiling.
We were Labradors on leashes in a park full of Frisbees.
Katrina twisted her grip on the steering wheel. “Even forty will only give us one stop at best.”
Dispatch came over the radio, “Engine One, Reno.”
Butcher pinched the bridge of his nose and keyed the mic.
“Go ahead, Reno.”
“Are you en route?”
Lowell sat with his knee vibrating. I stared out the window at the empty apparatus bay. Butcher let out a hard breath.
Katrina placed her palm on the emergency air brake and pushed. “Come on, big boy.”
It acquiesced.
The radio chirped. “Engine One, Reno.”