Total Rush (18 page)

Sean forced his eyes back to the brownstone, watching as the house was consumed with flames. What the hell could have started it? Faulty wiring, a dropped cigarette? He doubted it was arson in a neighborhood like this. Sean checked his watch. They'd been at the scene for less than fifteen minutes.

 

 

“
Shit
.”

The fire had been knocked down, and the brownstone had been cleared of smoke. Sean and the rest of the ladder company were doing salvage now, covering intact furniture with tarps to protect it from water and debris, dragging burned items into the street to soak them with water. Hearing Sal Ojeda's exclamation, Sean walked from where he was covering a dresser to see Ojeda standing by a hope chest. The lid was open.

“What?” Sean asked, his heart beginning to punch in his chest.

Ojeda just shook his head and backed away. Sean reached the chest and looked inside.

There, curled up on top of a brightly colored patchwork quilt, was a little boy. A thin layer of soot coated his small body. There was soot around his nose, and the ring of it circling his mouth reminded Sean of a child's sloppily eaten ice cream cone. His blond hair fell across his forehead in wisps, and his hands were clasped together as if in prayer. He looked as though he were sleeping.

“Oh, Christ,” Sean whispered. Revulsion at himself bubbled up his throat.

“Sean.”

He jerked Ojeda's hand off his shoulder just in time to crouch low as the first wave of vomit spilled from his mouth.
How did I miss the fucking hope chest? Jesus Christ. I let him die. I let that kid die.

“Wait! I think he's breathin'!”

Sean lifted his head to see Ojeda gingerly lift the boy from the chest and lay him on the ground. Wiping his mouth, he elbowed Ojeda out of the way. Tilting the boy's head back, he put his hand in the boy's mouth to make sure all was clear. Then he pinched his nostrils and began administering CPR.

“Breathe!” Sean yelled as he switched from breathing into the boy's mouth to compressing his chest with the heel of one hand. He gave five small pumps. “Don't you fuckin' die on me, kid! C'mon!”

His mouth returned to the boy's. Breathe. Pump five. Breathe. Pump five. Breathe.

“Sean!”

Sean looked up to see an EMT frantically racing toward him.

“Let me take over!”

“Sean, come on.” It was Captain McCloskey. “Devlin can take it from here. There's an ambulance on the way. Go back and wait in the truck. We're almost done here.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Sean did as he was told.

 

 

Back at the firehouse, Sean's shift was ending and he was getting ready to leave. Even though Carrey had done a quick diffusing at the scene, there was still going to be a debriefing at the firehouse the next day. Everyone at the fire scene would be asked to talk about what they did and how they felt about what happened. Self-loathing seized Sean just thinking about it.
I fucked up. How the hell do you think I feel about it?
he imagined himself sneering at the facilitating firefighter, who would be brought in from another house.

“Kennealy, come here a minute,” said Carrey.

Obeying his lieutenant's wishes, Sean approached Carrey where he sat on the shiny chrome bumper of the engine truck. “What's up?”

“Look, I know what you're thinking right now. You're thinking you're a fuckup. You're beating yourself up for missing that hope chest.”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I'm here to tell you it could have happened to any one of us. It has nothing to do with your skill as a firefighter.”

Yeah, right.

“Shit like this happens, Sean. Just be grateful the kid's still alive.”

“He at Lenox Hill?”

Carrey nodded.

“I might head over there tomorrow. See if he's okay.”

“Good idea. It might make you feel better. Just try not to dwell on this or it'll make you nuts. You know you can talk to me if you need to, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You know there's a mental health unit, too, and—”

“I'm fine,” Sean cut in. “No offense, but I'm fine.”

“Okay.” Sean could tell Carrey didn't believe him, but he wasn't going to pursue the point any further. He clapped Sean on the shoulder. “Go home and try to get some rest. It's been one long fuckin' night.”

“You got that right,” Sean muttered.

“His friend actually
said ‘La di da' when you told him you owned a store?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds like a jerk.”

Gemma didn't disagree as she followed Frankie to the next street vendor, this one selling colorful handwoven sweaters from Guatemala. They were at the Park Avenue South Autumn Fair, waiting for Sean to show. Though a dinner date had been set the following week for Sean to meet her friends, she wanted him to meet Frankie alone first. It was important to Gemma that her best friend and her boyfriend get along.

“Did you at least have fun?”

“I don't know if ‘fun' is the word I'd use.” Gemma lifted the arm of a sweater, rubbing the material between her fingers. “It was . . . illuminating.” The sleeve felt scratchy. She let it drop.

“Illuminating. Haven't heard that one in a while.” Frankie strolled on to the next booth, where a squat, unsmiling couple in matching blue polyester sat selling paintings done on black velvet. She pointed to a large rectangular portrait of John Wayne beaming down from heaven on a circling wagon train. “What do you think?”

Gemma watched as Frankie casually forked over forty dollars, tucking the painting under her arm. “They were really nice people—apart from insulting me about my hair and the store, of course.” Thinking about it, Gemma's heart sank a little. “This is going to cause problems. It
is
causing problems. They were talking about TV shows and someone named John Franco and I was totally lost. I mean, I couldn't contribute
anything.
I think they thought I was kind of weird.”

“You are. But in a good way.”

Gemma frowned. “That's not helpful. I don't think ‘weirdness' is high on Sean's list of qualities he's looking for in a girlfriend.”

They were about to walk on when Gemma heard her name called. She turned. Uther was strolling toward her, a big smile on his pale face.
Perfect,
she thought.

“Hey, you.” Gemma motioned him over. “Uther, I want you to meet my best friend, Frankie Hoffmann. Frankie, this is Uther Abramowitz. I'm teaching him tarot.”

Uther's smile was pleasant as he shook Frankie's hand. “Nice surprise to see you here,” he said to Gemma.

“We're waiting for her boyfriend,” Frankie explained.

Uther's face fell slightly. “Oh.”

“Uther's that student of mine I was telling you about,” Gemma said quickly, fumbling to salvage the moment. “You know, with the photographic memory?”

Frankie nodded. “Yes, I remember. Very cool. Computers, right?”

Uther narrowed his eyes, intrigued. “And you're—?”

“A DJ,” Frankie replied in her Lady Midnight voice. “WROX, the city's best rock.”

Gemma suppressed a laugh. She'd seen Frankie perform this trick a hundred times, and it always had the same effect: Men went weak in the knees. Uther was no exception. Blood flooded his face and, Gemma imagined, other parts of his body she didn't want to think of.

“Your voice is like the song of the nightingale,” Uther said rapturously. “I listen to you all the time!”

“Of course you do.” Frankie gestured to the black plastic bag in Uther's hand. “Whatcha got there?”

Uther opened the bag, pulling out a chain mail tunic. Gemma and Frankie just stared.

“I'm a medieval reenactor in my spare time. We're staging the Battle of Hastings in Central Park next Sunday.” His eyes brushed Frankie's. “You should come.”

“Maybe I will,” Frankie purred.

Gemma's heart gave a small leap of glee. A medieval reenactor! This was eccentric enough to be right up Frankie's alley. She had no doubt she could bring the two together. She tugged Frankie's sleeve.

“We should get going.” She smiled at Uther. “Tuesday?”

“As ever, madam.” He bowed deeply before Frankie. “Charmed to have made your acquaintance, m'lady.” With that he shimmied off.

“What did you think?”

Frankie pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Kinda cute in a Renaissance Fair kind of way, you know?”

“So I can give him your number if he asks?”

Frankie shrugged. “Why not? There are worse things in life than dating a guy who dresses up and pretends he's William the Conqueror.” She glanced down at her watch. “Honey, your man is L-A-T-E. He was supposed to meet us twenty minutes ago.”

“I know.” Gemma fought rising embarrassment as they strolled along to the next vendor. It wasn't like Sean to be late. He must have encountered heavy traffic. Or maybe he forgot to set his alarm. She hadn't talked to him since he'd left for his shift the night before.

As they strolled past a booth selling chunky turquoise belts and rings, Gemma's eye was drawn to a newspaper tossed on an empty chair: FIRE RIPS THROUGH UPPER EAST SIDE BROWNSTONE, the headline read. ONE INJURED.

“Oh, God.” Gemma approached the vendor, who was showing a potential customer a necklace. “Can I see your paper? Please?”

The vendor nodded and Gemma rushed into the booth to retrieve the paper. Hands trembling, she opened to the story. A black-and-white photo of the brownstone's charred remains jumped out at her, sending her stomach plummeting to her feet.
Sean.
Mouth dry, she quickly skimmed the text. As soon as she saw the words
Ladder Twenty-nine
, she stopped.

“I have to go.”

“What?” Frankie looked confused as Gemma handed her the paper and began anxiously pacing in place like some caged animal. Frankie read fast. “You're sure it was Sean's firehouse who handled this fire?”

Gemma nodded, blinking back tears. “Yes. What if something's happened to him?”

“Calm down. You're making yourself crazy over nothing. The article said it was a kid who was hospitalized, not a firefighter.”

“So? That doesn't mean anything!”

“Maybe he's just delayed.” Frankie looked genuinely concerned. “Gemma, you have to calm down. You're acting nuts.”

“I feel nuts.” Gemma stopped pacing and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Every time he walks out the door, I get this scared, sick feeling: what if, what if. I can't take it.”

“Clearly.” Frankie pulled her aside so they were out of the way of foot traffic. “What do you want to do?” she asked, wrapping an arm around Gemma's shoulder.

“Call him. I don't know.”

“How about this: Why don't we wait another half hour or so, and if he doesn't show up, then you call him, or go home, or whatever. Does that sound good?”

“Okay.”

“I can't believe he stood me up on our first date,” Frankie joked with a smile, trying to lighten things up.

Gemma tried returning the gesture, but her smile wouldn't come.

 

 

Sitting alongside the hospital bed of the little boy who'd hidden in the chest, Sean tried to will him awake. The boy had a name, Jason Duffy, and according to the nurses, he'd suffered severe smoke inhalation but otherwise appeared to be “fine,” meaning no brain damage from lack of oxygen as far as the doctors could tell. Unlike the staff at O'Toole's, the nurses had Lenox Hill had a soft spot for firefighters; all Sean had to do was tell them who he was and they let him in, no questions asked, despite the fact it was nowhere near visiting hours. Of course, he felt like a fraud telling them he'd saved the boy's life. It was his fault the kid was here, but he'd deal with his self-loathing later. For now, it was crucial he see the child alive.

He moved his chair an inch closer to the bed, the better to watch the rise and fall of the boy's chest. The room was eerily quiet, TV on but sound off, the silent image of Big Bird flickering across the small screen mounted up near the ceiling. In the next bed lay another little boy who'd undergone an appendectomy. Every time he groaned, “It hurts . . . it hurts,” Sean's guts twisted. There was nothing worse than kids in pain.

He'd gone right home after his shift, but was unable to sleep. His mind kept insisting he revisit the brownstone fire. How could he have missed the chest during the primary search? It was so basic it was embarrassing. He was haunted by the image of the boy lying curled up inside. Had Ojeda waited two more minutes to crack it open, the kid would be dead. Eventually he had put his clothes back on and headed over to Lenox Hill. He had to see with his own eyes that his negligence hadn't killed the child.

And now here he was, keeping silent vigil. From what he'd been able to gather from his lieutenant, the boy's parents had been out at a party when the fire started. The babysitter called 911 and then fled the house, leaving the little boy inside. The source of the fire had yet to be determined.

Things like this happen, Lieu had said, referring to Sean's fuck-up.
Just be grateful the kid's alive.
Sean was grateful. Of course he was. But he was also deeply ashamed and shaken. He'd never messed up this badly before. Ever. Yeah, shit happens, but this was major, this was inexcusable. Telling him not to beat himself up was a joke. How could he not? Staring into Jason Duffy's sleeping face, all he could think was:
I almost killed him
. Not “Thank God we found him in time,” but “I almost killed him.” How was he supposed to live with that?