“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” He and Patrick pulled on their jackets and gear, and along with the others on call, jumped onto the pumper truck. It sped off down the street, sirens blaring. “Where’re we going?” Adam hoped he sounded more casual than he felt. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never had a problem before last year when some bastard thought he’d be funny and lock him in a building during a training exercise. Ever since then, the thought of being trapped and unable to escape freaked him out, but he said nothing, fearing they’d kick him out of the department.
“On Hamilton, down under the Gowanus—got a trash fire, but you know these things can explode.”
Happy it was an outdoor call, Adam blew out a breath of relief. Within a few minutes they’d pulled up to a fiery blaze underneath the Gowanus Expressway, a short, heavily traveled route between the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and the Verrazano Bridge leading to Staten Island. Smoke billowed up in great black puffs, belching out from a pile of trash cans and rubble dumped in the center divide. If the fire spun out of control, it could be catastrophic, as the elevated roadway would most certainly be in danger of collapsing.
Like the well-run machine they were, Adam and his unit quickly secured the area, making sure no people were in danger, and kept the neighbors and interested onlookers from getting too close. PD had come to assist with traffic control, so within an hour’s time, the fire had been taken care of and the road reopened to traffic. Adam and his crew were securing the hoses to the truck when he noticed a woman waving frantically from a second-floor window of a dilapidated townhouse across the street.
“Help, please.”
Glancing around, Adam saw PD had already left the area, so he grasped Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey. Someone needs us. I’m gonna go see what she wants.”
“Okay, kid. Let us know if you need help.”
Adam sprinted across Hamilton Avenue, drawing the ire of drivers who were attempting to make up for the lost time spent waiting in traffic while the fire was being put out. He reached the brick townhouse, and the woman who’d called him from the upstairs window met him at the front door, her face creased with worry as she nervously twisted her hands together.
“It’s my son, Manny. I came home from work—I do the afternoon shift at the supermarket—and like usual, his door was closed. But Manny gets out of school today at two thirty, and it’s five thirty, and he hasn’t come out once and doesn’t answer when I knock.”
“Maybe he’s not home.” Adam tried to reassure her with a smile. “Does he have a cell phone? Try calling.”
“I did.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I hear it in his room, ringing over and over. And these chirping noises like he keeps getting texts and not answering. He’s fifteen, and I know he never goes anywhere without his phone.”
Still no need to panic.He remembered being that age, thinking he was too big to have his mama calling after him. “You can’t get into his room?”
“No. That’s the part I’m scared about. He’s put a lock on the door. I can’t get in.”
Alarm surged through Adam, though he attempted to remain calm for the woman’s sake. “Okay. We’ll get the door open for you.” He turned and hurried back to the truck, yelling as he ran. “Patrick, we gotta hurry. Get the rammer.” He motioned to the steel pole they used to bang doors down when they were unable to get inside. “Bring the medical kit.” He prayed to God he was wrong about what he suspected.
Adam and four of the other firefighters ran back to the townhouse, where the woman, now in full panic mode, began crying in earnest. “What’s wrong, what’s happening?”
“Ma’am, please show us to your son’s room right now.” Adam bounced on his toes, needing desperately to keep calm and not fall apart. “Please hurry.”
She took them into her apartment, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors who’d opened their doors to the commotion.
“Down the hall, first door on your right. But—”
They didn’t wait for her response but took off through the small dining area, past the little kitchen. His heart thundering, Adam pounded on the door first. “Manny. Open up. FDNY.”
No answer.
“Go ahead.”
Patrick took the thick steel pole and crashed it through the door; in the background he could hear the mother’s cry and the excited shouts of the neighbors.
“Stand back, please.” That was Ronnie Chambers, one of his crew, keeping the people away.
The door burst open, and he and Patrick went inside, but they didn’t need to go far. As his mother stated, Manny’s cell phone sat on the night table, texts pinging in succession. A giant rainbow flag adorned the otherwise blank wall over the bed. Adam’s heart squeezed in his chest, and he found it hard to breathe. This couldn’t be happening. Not here.
Stretched out and eerily still on the bed lay a young boy dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, his blue-streaked hair falling over his white face. An empty bottle of pills along with a half-full bottle of vodka rested beside him. Adam couldn’t see his chest move, and when he rushed to the boy’s side, he felt cold to the touch.
“Get me the medical kit,” Adam yelled. “Now.”
Patrick put his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Barton. It won’t do any good.”
Chambers hurried in but stopped short at Adam’s side. “Shit.” He set the kit down. “Adam, man.”
“No. We can try. We have to.”
Adam took the oxygen mask and set it over Manny’s mouth. “Set it up.” This young man…thischildcouldn’t have taken his life. Helpless, he fisted his hands by his sides, struggling to make sense of it all. Again.
