Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Fletcher pulled the rig up in front of my house instead of the station, and that right there told me how much he loved me.
Because it was absolutely against the rules.
I stepped off the porch and jogged—well, limped—down the walk, gear bag thumping against my leg. The cool morning air bit at the bruises under my shirt.
Fletcher leaned over and popped the passenger door from the inside. The second I hauled myself up into the seat and shut the door, his head snapped toward me.
“Jesus Christ, Post,” he said. “Holbrook would have your ass mounted on his office wall if he could see you right now.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I muttered, buckling in.
He didn’t laugh. His gaze swept my face—bruise on my cheekbone, faint split at my lip—then dropped to the way I was favoring one side.
“Don’t you dare tell me you’re ‘just sore from the gym,’” he said. “You’re still fighting. Tell me you’re not really this stupid.”
I exhaled slowly. The urge to lie rose up automatically.
“I’m not doing it to beat myself up anymore,” I said instead. “Metaphorically or otherwise.”
“Bullshit,” he said flatly. “You might not be doing it for that, but that’s what’s happening.”
I stared straight ahead at my own quiet street. “You starting this rig, or what?” I asked. “Because we’ve already broken one rule. No sense half-assing it.”
He blew out a breath, scrubbed a hand over his face, then put the rig in gear.
“I’m telling you right now,” he said, pulling away from the curb, “if you hesitate at any point tonight—if you can’t do your job—you’re done.
I will call Holbrook myself and have you pulled.
As it is, you’re driving when we have a passenger.
You keep it between the lines and don’t pass out at the wheel, we’re square. ”
“Copy that,” I said quietly.
My ribs throbbed with every bump. The fight had been last night and my body still felt like I’d gone a few rounds with a truck. But I’d done the self-checks. Range of motion, pain scale, ability to lift, carry, climb. I could work. So, I would.
Dispatch crackled over the radio as we cleared town limits.
“Unit Two, respond to 132 Maple. Possible cardiac. Seventy-eight-year-old male, chest pain, difficulty breathing. Caller on scene.”
Fletcher grabbed the mic. “Unit Two responding,” he said. He glanced at me. “You good to drive code if we need it?”
“Yeah,” I said, and meant it. “No reason yet.”
We rolled through Jasper Creek, past the bakery, the diner, the hardware store that still had Christmas lights in the window even though it was March. Maple was a three-story brick apartment building near the edge of town—converted mill housing, cheap rent and thin walls.
We parked curbside. Fletcher grabbed the cardiac bag and monitor from the back and took the stairs two at a time—well, Fletcher took them two at a time. I took them one-and-a-half at a time and pretended it didn’t hurt.
The door to 3B was open. A middle-aged woman stood there wringing her hands.
“He’s in the living room,” she said. “Said his chest hurt and he couldn’t catch his breath.”
“Okay, ma’am,” Fletcher said, in his calm-voice. “We’ll check him out. I’m Fletcher, this is Post. You his daughter?”
“Neighbor,” she said. “He wouldn’t call 9-1-1, so I did.”
In the living room, an old man sat in a recliner, robe half open over a T-shirt, socks and slippers on his feet. A huge heart-shaped box of chocolates sat open on the coffee table in front of him—most of the candies missing.
He did not look like a man in the throes of a heart attack. He looked embarrassed.
“What’s your name, sir?” I asked.
“Jenkins. Harvey Jenkins.” He sounded pretty damn good.
“I’m Zarek. This is Fletcher. Hear you’re having some chest pain?”
“It’s gone now,” he said gruffly. “She overreacted.” He jerked his chin toward the neighbor.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fletcher said, already setting the monitor down. “Mind if we get some vitals? Just to be safe.”
“Do what you gotta do,” Jenkins sighed.
We clipped the pulse ox on his finger, wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, stuck leads on his chest for a quick rhythm strip. I ran through questions—onset, quality, aggravating factors, past cardiac history. He pointed at the box of chocolates and looked sheepish.
“Had a craving,” he admitted. “Might have ate more than I should.”
“What’s more than?” I asked.
He looked over at the box. “All of the top layer, and part of the second layer. Old buddy sent me the biggest box they had for my birthday.”
I hid a grin as I took note that his blood pressure was just fine. “So, you ate over a pound? What time did you start?”
“Halftime.”
I looked over at the television. The commentators were just starting their post-game wrap-up. So the old guy had finished over a pound of chocolates in less than two hours.
“That’s a lot of chocolate. Then what happened?”
“Claudia came in. My door’s never locked during the day. She wanted to share dinner tonight. Saw my color, then called emergency. But I’m fine now.”
I looked over at the chocolates again, and then I saw it, a small roll of Tums antacids. Only half left.
“You take anything?” I asked.
“Couple Tums,” he said. “Felt better after that. I feel fine now. Honestly.”
Fletcher looked over at me. He was holding back a grin as well. I finished up the exam. Heart rate a little elevated but nothing scary. Lungs clear. No pain when I palpated his chest wall. EKG showed a nice clean rhythm, no obvious ST-elevation or depression. No shortness of breath.
“Do you feel nauseous?” I asked.
“Not anymore,” the old man assured me.
“Any history of heart issues?” Fletcher asked, packing up leads.
“Nope,” Jenkins said, looking proud. “My doc says I got an A1C of 4.8.” He thumped his chest lightly. “Says I’ve got a great pancreas and an even better ticker.”
“Your pancreas is very impressive,” Fletcher said dryly.
“We’d still recommend you get checked out at the ER if the pain comes back,” I said. “But right now, I’m not seeing signs of a heart attack. Likely indigestion. Maybe take it a little easy on the sugar next time.”
“Next time?” Jenkins wheezed a laugh. “Son, at my age, every time could be the last time. But I hear you. I’ll pace myself. You boys want a piece?” He nudged the chocolate box with one knobby finger.
Fletcher shook his head immediately. “I’m good, sir. Thanks.”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “What’ve you got in there?”
“Pralines from Leon’s,” he said. “Buddy sent ’em from Nashville.”
I grinned. “Well hell. Can’t offend Leon’s.” I plucked one out. “This is strictly for morale.”
“You boys work hard,” Jenkins said. “You earned it.”
We packed up. I popped the praline in my mouth on the way down the stairs. It was good enough to make a grown man write poetry.
As we reached the bottom landing, Fletcher’s radio crackled.
“Unit Two, you clear Maple?” dispatch asked.
Fletcher thumbed the mic. “Affirmative. No transport. Patient advised.”
“Copy. We need you en route priority one. Report of a vehicle over an embankment off 441, near mile marker sixty-eight. Caller reports a truck off the side, unknown injuries, can’t contact occupants. Engine One is en route. EMT needed.”
My spine straightened. “We’re close,” I said. “Fifteen out, running code. Put us en route.”
Fletcher relayed the ETA, then looked at me. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We hit the rig, tossed the monitor back in its dock, and I swung behind the wheel this time. Fletcher took the passenger seat, already flipping through the map in his head, though we both knew 441 well enough.
Speed limit said forty-five for most of that stretch. If we obeyed it, we’d be there in just over forty minutes.
We didn’t.
Lights on, siren wailing when we hit the highway, I pushed as fast as I safely could along the curves. 441 into the Smokies wasn’t forgiving. One bad decision, and we’d be needing extraction ourselves.
Trees blurred. The praline turned to a rock in my gut.
I didn’t know why this one felt different.
We crested a rise and saw Engine One’s lights strobing red against the tree trunks ahead. I eased the rig onto the shoulder behind them and killed the siren, leaving the flashers on.
Fletcher and I climbed out. Night had settled thick over the mountains, but the fire crew’s scene lights cut swaths through the dark. The smell of crushed vegetation and hot engine oil drifted up.
I walked to what was left of the guardrail and looked down.
The truck lay maybe thirty feet below, nose buried against an outcropping, rear end angled up, wheels still. The cab roof was caved in on the driver’s side, windshield a spiderweb of cracks. It was an old pickup—light blue, paint oxidized in places.
And on the rear bumper, catching the light just right, was an Alabama plate.
My stomach dipped.
“Whatcha got?” Fletcher called down.
Flashlights swung up toward us. Michael Rankin, in turnout pants and a Jasper Creek Fire T-shirt, shaded his eyes and hollered back.
“Only one occupant,” he shouted. “Driver. No pulse. No respirations. He’s gone.”
Dammit.
“Young?” Fletcher called.
“Young man,” Rankin confirmed. “Twenties, maybe. Haven’t checked for ID. We’ll send him up to you once we get him secured.”
I stepped back as the crew below worked. Voices floated up, low and professional—commands, confirmations, the clank of metal as they maneuvered the Stokes basket into place.
“Coming up!” someone yelled.
Ropes appeared over the edge, then the orange rescue basket, sheet-covered form strapped inside. The winch on the engine whined as they powered it up. Firefighters guided it carefully over the guardrail and onto the asphalt.
Everyone went quiet for a beat, the way we always did with the dead. Helmets off, for some. Heads bowed, for others. Respect didn’t cost anything, but it meant everything.
The sheet was clean, no blood seeping through. If there were injuries, they were contained.
“We’ll take him from here,” Fletcher said softly.