Total Rush (17 page)

“No, thank you,” Gemma said politely. Again her eyes sought Sean's, wondering if he noticed Danielle had just insulted her, though Danielle was clearly unaware of having done so. And again Sean seemed to be just rolling along, listening to conversation.

“So,” said Mike Leary, “you all catch ‘King of Queens' the other night? It was hilarious.”

Spirited discussion ensued and Gemma had no idea what they were talking about. Ted Delaney noticed and asked, “Not a Kevin James fan?”

Gemma smiled apologetically. “I don't know who that is. I don't watch a lot of television.”

Conversation died hard, if only for a moment. Gemma felt herself sinking.
They hate me,
she thought miserably.
They think I'm a snobby weirdo who's obsessed with peppermint oil.
The moment was rescued by Sean. “Gemma doesn't watch much TV because she's so busy taking pictures.” He beamed at her. “Gemma takes great photos.”

“Oh yeah?” Ted Delaney's interest was piqued. “I always wanted to do that, but I could never figure out the f-stops and all that stuff. I'm strictly a point-and-click man now.”

“That's why God invented autofocus,” said Gemma, happy to be part of the loop.

Then conversation turned to the firehouse and some baseball player named John Franco and she was lost again, reduced to Sean's smiling, silent companion. It didn't help her nerves that Michael appeared every fifteen minutes like clockwork and Anthony could be seen periodically peering out at them from a crack between the swinging doors.

“How we all doing?” Michael asked on what had to be his fifth visit to the table.

Gemma looked up at him imploringly. “We're doing great, Mikey, except for a certain chef who keeps popping his head out the kitchen door to stare at us. Maybe you can fix that?”

“I'll see what I can do,” Michael soothed, striding forcefully toward the kitchen and slamming through the swinging doors, where he could be heard bellowing, “Stop staring at Gemma and her boyfriend, you oversized moron!” at the top of his lungs. Naturally, Anthony returned fire.

“Some pussycat,” Ronnie Leary noted above the din of pots clattering to the floor.

“Italians are like that,” Danielle said knowingly. “Very emotional people.”

“Are you Italian?” Gemma asked. Perhaps they'd be able to commiserate about crazy families.

“No, Irish. But I've heard stories. And I watch the
Sopranos.
” She looked at Gemma with newfound curiosity. “Do you know anyone in the Mafia?”

 

 

“
I
'
m not sure
your friends liked me,” Gemma said uncertainly as she and Sean drove back to Manhattan.

“They liked you fine.”

“Then why did Danielle insult my hair? And what was with Mike Leary's ‘la di da' when I said I owned my own business?”

“Ah, neither of them meant anything by it,” Sean said good-naturedly, reaching across to squeeze her knee. Which reminded Gemma . . .

“Why did you keep squeezing my knee? What did you think I was going to say?”

Sean shrugged. “ I don't know. I just thought it was a good idea to keep it light, you know?”

Gemma glanced out the window. “I guess.”

“Did you like them?”

“They were nice,” Gemma replied carefully.

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement,” Sean noted dryly.

“I don't watch TV, Sean. I don't care about baseball. I don't know anyone in the firehouse. I don't know anyone in the Mafia.”

“Just relax,” said Sean testily. “It'll come.”

“What if it doesn't?”

Sean turned his head to look at her. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I'm tired. Just forget it.”

 

 

“How's Peppermint Pattie?”

Sean glanced up from the sports pages of the
Daily News
to see Mike Leary standing over him, stroking his mustache. Dinner was done, the dishwasher was churning away, and most of the guys were gathered around the TV set in the ready room watching a
Sopranos
rerun. It had been a pretty dead shift so far: one false alarm and one trash can fire set by a homeless man up the street.

Sean folded up the paper. “Don't talk about my girlfriend like that.”

“Ooh, girlfriend. Owns her own business, too. Seany's got himself a sugar mama, huh?”

“Putting aside the fact that you and your pinky-sized dick are obviously threatened by an independent woman, what did you think of her?”

Leary bit his lip, thoughtful. “Cute. Hair's gotta go, though. They could probably find the Lindbergh baby in there.”

“You're such an asshole.”

Leary slapped him affectionately on the back. “Ah, I'm just raggin' on ya, you know that. Sometimes—”

He was cut off by the shrill sound of the alarm horn as it blasted through the firehouse.

LADDER TWENTY-NINE, ENGINE THIRTY-ONE, FIRE REPORTED AT BROWNSTONE AT 334 EAST SEVENTY-NINTH OFF LEXINGTON AVENUE.

Jumping to his feet, Sean, with Leary right behind him, ran down to the apparatus floor to put on his turnout gear. Sean wondered if the quiet night was about to change.

Adrenaline rushed through him, hot and fast. It didn't matter how long he'd been doing this or how many times he got called out during a shift: It was always a rush, the potential for facing down and conquering unknown danger the most amazing high he knew. Grabbing his tank and helmet, he swung up onto the ladder truck and into the back cabin, lights flashing and siren blaring as they sped out of the engine bay.

 

 

Racing to a
fire always made him think of Moses and his little trick with the Red Sea: Traffic parted for them as the city flew by the outside window in a blur. In his mind Sean reviewed who'd be doing what. As the Irons Man, Sean would be going interior with Lieutenant Carrey to conduct the primary search. They'd bring Delaney with them, too, for experience's sake. Mike Leary would be handling outside ventilation. Joe Jefferson, the chauffeur, would remain with the truck. “Socrates” Campbell would take care of the roof, cutting a hole for ventilation. Twenty-nine Ladder was a good crew: fast, strong, and competent. Even the battalion chief said so, and he wasn't a man given to high praise.

Sean could smell the smoke as they turned onto East Seventy-ninth. If someone asked him to describe it, he wouldn't be able to, though another firefighter would understand exactly how he could so accurately pinpoint the mixed aromas of burning wood, chemicals, and plaster. By the time they reached the brownstone and he caught sight of the thick black smoke billowing out the second- and third-floor windows of the brownstone, his heart sank. It was gonna be a real job. He hoped to Christ no one was in there.

Jumping off the truck, he waited for instructions from Lieutenant Carrey. As he suspected, he, Carrey, and Delaney were being sent inside to do the primary search. On the sidewalk, a small crowd of neighbors had gathered, their expressions anxious as they watched the guys from Thirty-one Engine unfurl their hoses and charge the lines. A woman in a pink silk dressing gown told Lieutenant Carrey she was pretty sure a child lived in the brownstone. Just a child? Carrey pressed. Two adults and a child, the woman amended. Sean filed the info away as he fixed his mask's face piece to his head and turned on his bottled air. He ran up the front steps and broke down the door with his rabbit tool. Then, bracing himself for his inevitable plunge into the smoky maw, he went inside, following closely behind Carrey.

He was hit immediately with a rolling wall of smoke. The fire, wherever it was, had to be “going good.” Dropping to his knees, Sean crawled forward. The heat roiling through the house was intense. With Delaney right behind him, Sean crawled into what he thought was the dining room. Once or twice he stopped, backing up when he didn't feel Delaney's hand on his air tank. The last thing he needed was to lose a probie in smoke as dense as this was.

Sweeping his ax handle in front of him in a slow, back-and-forth motion, Sean gave two quick prayers. One was they wouldn't find anyone in the house. The other that if they did, they'd be able to save them. No one in the dining room, living room, or kitchen. Sean paused as his radio crackled and Carrey's voice came through.

“Battalion Six, this is Ladder Twenty-nine Carrey. Main floor appears to be clear. I'm going up to search the parlor floor with Kennealy and Delaney k.”

Sean could barely hear the battalion chief's response on his radio as a deafening crack exploded above him, sending sparks showering down the stairwell. “Ladder Twenty-nine, proceed to parlor floor.”

Sean turned around to Delaney. “You doin' okay?” he yelled.

“Great,” Delaney yelled back.

Slowly, Sean followed Carrey up the stairs on his hands and knees. The higher they rose, the more intense the heat. Sweat was pouring off his forehead, down the back of his head, rolling down his carefully protected neck. One crack in his protective gear and he had no doubt his neck would be scalded. Black smoke clogged his vision, making progress slow.

The parlor floor clear, Sean waited as Lieutenant Carrey radioed back down to the incident commander that they were going up to the third floor, where most of the bedrooms were. Remembering back to his own days as a probie, Sean was impressed by Ted Delaney's coolness—at his own first major fire, he'd been breathing so hard and heavy he went through his oxygen in fifteen minutes.

They tackled yet another set of steps on all fours. It was like crawling through hell, Sean decided as he slowly edged forward onto the landing. Dark. Like crawling into oblivion. Suddenly Carrey turned to him, speaking through the radio.

“Kennealy, you go search the two front bedrooms and meet me back here at the steps. I'll take Delaney and search the back bedrooms.”

“Gotcha.”

Crawling down the hallway, Sean felt along the wall until he came to a door frame. Reaching up, he felt for the doorknob and pushed the door open. The room was black as dead of night. Amazing, how there were degrees of darkness, degrees of black. Search clockwise, he reminded himself. Clockwise, clockwise. Where was the goddamn fire? Fourth floor? Where was the kid? His parents? Anyone? Was anyone in the house?

Crawling into the room, Sean felt along the outer wall, hoping to find a window. The wall was hot to the touch; maybe the bastard was within the walls and the ceiling. Moving forward into the deathly darkness, he met resistance. Sean pushed; the obstacle was large and solid, some kind of chifforobe blocking the window. Fuck! He'd have to feel around further, see if there were any other windows in the room he might be able to use for a possible escape.

Fear whispered in his ear, but he pushed the distraction aside as he concentrated on continuing his search of the room, though he knew it could light up at any minute. He crawled forward three steps, his axe handle hitting what appeared to be the leg of a bed. Anxious, he reached up and patted the top. Empty. Did the same thing on the other side of the bed. Still nothing. He checked under the bed: clear. Rising up on his knees, he rolled the mattress back so it was folded in half lengthwise. If any firefighter came in after him, he'd know the room had been searched.

He continued his circuit around the room, encountering a bookshelf and a dresser. At least that's what they felt like. Checked the closet. No one there. Out beyond the door of the bedroom, he heard crackling. Fire had erupted in the hallway. Having completed his circuit of the first bedroom, he crawled forward into the hallway. Flames danced on the ceiling above him, creating an eerie, otherworldly glow in the darkness. Grabbing his can, Sean doused the flames just enough to enable himself to get to the next bedroom. The fire was too big for him to put out. For now, containing it this way would have to do. Besides, he had to look for this kid.
Find the kid.

The heat was close to unbearable now, visibility a memory. Sean inched forward on his hands and knees, feeling the wall until he came to another door frame. This time the door was open and he crawled right across the threshold. Turning left, Sean immediately made out the shape of a bed. On top of the bed? Nothing. Under the bed? Nothing. He rolled back the mattress and continued on, feeling his way through the darkness. Dresser. Chair. Closet. Ladies dresses.
No kid. No one.
He glanced up: Fire was scorching the bedroom ceiling. As quickly as he could, he crawled back out into the hallway, meeting Lieutenant Carrey and probie Delaney by the stairwell as instructed.

“Both bedrooms are clear,” he said. Carrey nodded, getting on his radio.

“Ladder Twenty-nine to Battalion Six. Primary search of the third floor completed. We're going to head on up to four k.”

“Battalion Six to Ladder Twenty-nine, this is Murphy. Carrey, I want you and your men to back out now. The fourth floor is about to collapse. Repeat: The fourth floor is about to collapse. Back out NOW.”

Shit,
Sean thought, looking up from where he crouched on the floor on all fours. Flames were dripping down from the ceiling now like icicles. Any minute, the walls were going to go up. As fast as he could, Sean followed Carrey, and Delaney down. They had just reached the bottom of the steps when a portion of the fourth floor collapsed, sending burning wood and plaster crashing down, a flaming beam missing Sean by mere inches as he, Carrey, and Delaney made it back out through the front door to safety.

Whipping off his breathing apparatus and helmet, he gasped at the fresh air, more out of release than need. A chill shuddered through him as the steaming sweat rising off his body collided with the cool night air. A second later came a roar that sounded as if it had come from the depths of hell itself.