Chapter Forty-Seven
Eliot
I drag the back of my hand over my brow. My glove catches dust, bits of insulation, and smears of something I don’t want to know about.
Five hours inside Austin Memorial Hospital, and muscles from my neck all the way to my arches are protesting the abuse.
I know every unforgiving inch of the building now.
The hard tile floors. The industrial carpet in the administrative offices, the scent of antiseptic that never quite drowns out the smell of chicken soup from the cafeteria.
Two more items on my checklist. Kurt’s in the adjoining wing, finishing his list. In an hour, we should be able to certify this building. Assuming we don’t find any major issues.
Twenty-two buildings on Nate’s spreadsheet have a life-safety load too high to risk waiting even a single day to verify Apex’s inspections weren’t complete bullshit.
Hospitals, care homes, and the three schools still in session go first. Chief Alvarez made sure I got inspectors from all over the state, but that’s eleven of us against two hundred three buildings that might be at risk.
Hospital patients can’t always walk out the front door if something happens. Operating rooms are booked the whole damn day. Anything goes wrong in this building, it’s a mass casualty event.
I climb the scaffolding, doing my best not to make my knee any angrier than it already is. One more smoke damper to check. Then two fire doors, a line of sprinkler heads above Radiology, and I’m done.
Once I’m high enough, I pop open the access panel in the ceiling. The damper sits where the HVAC ductwork punches through the wall, its actuator bolted to the side. With my flashlight clamped between my teeth, I check the wiring. No damage. No loose connections.
My hand shakes as I pull the flashlight free. “Cycle it,” I call to the hospital maintenance guy standing below me. He radios the facilities engineer, and a moment later, a mechanical whir cuts through the hum of conversation and medical equipment all around me.
The actuator turns, and a steel blade swings shut inside the duct. The seal’s clean. I mark it operational, and re-seat the access panel.
I thought my knee hurt on the way up, but going down is worse. The maintenance guy ambles off toward the elevator bank, and I gather my gear and start down the hall toward the last two fire doors on the list.
My phone buzzes against my hip. Parker. I stop, find a hard plastic chair against the wall, and lower myself down. Five minutes. I can take five minutes.
There’s an adult care home at Mesa and Steck that needs someone there ASAP. Kessler signed off on it a few years ago. Said it was bad.
I groan, and pull my tablet from my bag to check Nate’s list.
It was on the schedule for tomorrow. But I’ll send Kurt over there with one of the guys from Lubbock now. He’s struggling with his broken arm, but he can supervise. Austin Memorial’s looking like it’s gonna be clear. I can finish it up on my own.
I send Kurt a quick message, but before he can reply, Parker texts again.
You doing okay?
Am I? Another two hours here, then at least four at a school in Pflugerville. All while coordinating the biggest operation of my career. Yet, I feel lighter now than I have in…years.
Tired as fuck. Hearing from you helps. How’s your day?
Stopped for barbecue outside of Bastrop. Nate is a terrible passenger.
I thought he always drove?
He stayed up all night trying to figure out who owns Apex. He was in no state to drive. I’m not sure he even realized he was in the passenger seat until we were already on the road.
I chuckle, the moment turning the day from awful to merely painful.
When are you heading back to the Ranger station?
Parker’s reply comes less than a minute later.
Sorry. This brisket is amazing. You’ve got to try it. I’m getting a second order. Check your office fridge before you go home.
Something in my chest warms. I’m a grown-ass man who can take care of himself. But Parker thinking of me when she’s in the middle of a case…it means more than I can say.
You sure Nate isn’t gonna complain the whole way back to the station?
Parker sends five crying-while-laughing emojis.
He’ll do that anyway. He complains whenever someone gets close to the speed limit. You might as well get brisket out of the deal.
Kurt texts back, but I ignore him long enough to send Parker one last message.
Wish we didn’t have to wait till tomorrow. Be safe out there.
It only takes her ten seconds to text back.
You too.
The kiss emoji she adds at the end might get me through the rest of the day. That and the promise of brisket.