When The Tik-Tik Sings

Three

ThreeScrub suits and lab coats came out of the woodwork as the paramedics rolled their cot into the exam room. The patient screamed on, pain peppered with, apparently, his three or four favorite words in a language nobody spoke. And he'd added a new trick, struggling to get off the cot. “Aswan,” he cried, or something like it. Then a scream. “Mennon! Gal!” Then another scream. And then, God knew why – Ben certainly didn't – the patient shouted, “Tick. Tick!” as if he were a clock. It wasn't funny; the guy was hurting. Still it was hard not to laugh as he started over. He had the attention of all assembled; pharmacy tech, lab tech, respiratory therapist, two nurses, and the ER unit clerk. “Aswan!”

“Whoa!” one of the techs said, covering her ears.

Ben caught the O2 bottle trying to jump the cot rail. “You should have been in the rig.”

“Mennon! Gal! Tick tick! Tick tick!”

The charge nurse shushed the patient, with little result, and rolled the bed sheet in her hands. “One. Two. Three.” The patient was lifted to the bed. The hospital staff moved up. The doctor entered, looking grim.

“Sorry, Doc,” Ben said, “I treated the burns, but failed in rendering psychological aid.”

The doctor slipped between an x-ray and a lab tech, took one look, and told a nurse, “Start another Ringers, wide bore. What's his name?”

“No idea,” Ben said. The patient screamed again. “That's been his whole conversation.”

“Any notion what he's saying? What language it is?”

Ben shook his head and looked at his partner.

Nestor shrugged. “Some of it's sort of familiar, but it's mostly gibberish. Don't think it's either language I speak. Not sure – I got a C in Spanish.”

“He's wearing dog tags,” Ben said. “But I'm not certain what army they're from.”

“If they're from an army,” Nestor put in. “Lot of people wear those as decorations.”

Snapping on a glove, the charge nurse lifted the tags. “The surname is… impossible to pronounce. The first name looks like Soomnalung.” She let it roll off her tongue. “Soom-na-lung? Asian? Korean? Filipino? Do we have an Asian translator?”

Nestor snorted. “There's no such thing as an Asian language. Asia is fifty different countries.”

Ben stared in amazement.

“What?” Nestor asked defensively. “I can know things.” Stray laughs were cut off when the patient screamed again. Nestor pointed. “That one word he keeps shouting, Aswan or whatever, that's familiar for some reason. My wife is from Manila.” He stole a look at the tags over the nurse's shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “The letters look Filipino.”

“Can you read it?”

Nestor shook his head. “Recognize it; seen their money. They speak over a hundred languages on the islands. Mostly Tagalog. And English. And something my wife calls Taglish.” The New Mexican smiled. “It's all Greek to me.”

The nurse frowned, giving up on Nestor, and turned to the doctor. “Should we see if there's a Philippine translator in the hospital?”

“No. Let's worry about keeping him alive first.” The doctor eased the buds of his stethoscope into his ears. “Make soothing noises to him now. We'll talk to him when and if we get him stabilized.”

Ben and Nestor filled out paperwork in the conference room while their patient screamed in his room across the hall. It remained the same, agonized squawks, repeated gibberish, and the tick, tick of a spastic clock. Finally, with an infusion of morphine, it had gone from toe-curling to just annoying. Still, the paramedics were ready for someone to change the record.

Cooper wandered in, her iced arm supported by a nifty new sling, and took a chair.

“Broken?” Ben asked.

“No break, thankfully.” Her relaxed smile suggested the burned man wasn't the only patient with a pain killer on board. “How's our Garfield guy?”

“His name's Soomnalung. He's just like you found him,” Ben said. “Well done and screaming.”

“He wasn't.”

“Wasn't what?”

“He wasn't screaming when we found him. He wasn't doing anything.” Cooper adjusted her arm. “He crawled out of that basement like something slithering up out of Hell, then he just sat down on the stoop. That's how we found him. House exploded, basement burning, and him quietly sitting there like he was waiting for the mail. He didn't start screaming until we loaded him up.”

“Must have been the shock,” Ben said. “Before his mind got the message he'd burned his ass off.”

Across the hall, Soomnalung shrieked again. “He's making up for lost time.”

“Well, I've had enough,” Nestor said. He turned to Ben. “Ready to get out of here?” Then to Cooper. “We're going to see if they left any fire for us. Want a ride?”

Cooper eased back into the plush chair. “I'm going to sit here and enjoy the meds for a while.”

On the way to the exit, cot piled with replacement equipment, Ben felt a tug on the gurney. The New Mexican had stopped and was staring into the waiting room at a middle-aged man, checking the coin returns of the vending machines. Nestor whispered, “It's Rickie.”

Before Ben Court or Nestor Pena were thought of, Richard Savage III had been a Duncan mainstay. Called 'Rickie' by the locals, even transplanted locals like Ben and Nestor, he was as recognizable as any tourist attraction in town. Every day, without fail, Rickie could be seen riding his bike, delivering newspapers, collecting bottles, and checking the coin returns of every pay phone, soda box and candy machine from one end of town to the other. For thirty years he was the 'slow' guy or the 'retarded' man. Then the city's mental health professionals cheered themselves by labeling him, first, 'emotionally and educationally challenged', then, 'developmentally disabled'. Rickie didn't know the difference and couldn't have cared less. None of the titles changed his life a bit. He was sixty-ish; with the mind of a twelve-year-old. His ever-present crew cut had gone gray. His stomach had grown round. But after half a century of riding the Mississippi bluffs, Ben guessed, the guy probably had the legs of a Greek god.

“Rickie,” Nestor repeated, this time to Rick Savage himself. “How you doing?”

Ben sighed. “Don't pick on him.”

“Who's picking? Did you ever talk to this guy?”

Only once, Ben thought, remembering the incident too vividly. He'd talked to him as a patient and the child-like Rickie was deathly afraid of ambulances. It had been no treat.

Nestor was going on. “He's smart as hell. If he played his cards right he could be the next fire chief. Hey, Rickie!”

Stooped and about his work, Rickie answered without looking up. “Hi.”

“Find anything?”

Rickie stood, empty-handed, but not disappointed. He picked up a cold can from the table beside him. “Got a pop. Want to buy it?”

“Nah. You keep it. Hey, Rickie, there's a big fire across town.”

“Six fires,” Rickie said, correcting him. “Five houses, one garage.”

“Oh, you know about it?”

“Yes.”

“Aren't you going to go watch?”

“Did. Can't get near.”

“Those mean firemen keeping you away?”

“No. Police.”

“Yeah. You gotta watch those cops, Rickie.”

Rickie tilted his head and stared. Apparently there were a few paramedics he thought needed watching as well. He gave up on Nestor and lifted the can toward Ben. “Want to buy it?”

“How much?”

“Dollar.”

“I can get it for a dollar from the machine.” Rickie just smiled. “No, you keep it. You found it.”

Outside, Rickie tucked his soda into a heaped plastic bag in the front basket on his bike, climbed aboard, and pedaled happily away. Ben and Nestor, reloading 1-Boy-18, watched the old guy go.

“Tough life, huh?” Nestor asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Being challenged like that.”

“Don't you have any challenges? From my little experience, life seems pretty tough for everybody.”

“Yeah, but how would you like to survive by checking pop machines for change?”

“I wouldn't. But maybe it works for him.”

“Nobody would choose that life.”

“Nestor, you're a snob. You've got everything in life; a beautiful wife, a child on the way, an incredible house, a decent job that lets you sit on your ass all day. So you pity Rickie. Why? Because he wasn't lucky enough to be born you? Then you give yourself points for compassion. And none of it helps Rickie a bit. Outside of the fact he hates ambulance rides, I don't know a thing about him. Could be you're right. Could be Rickie's miserable and I should be ashamed; or maybe he's happy. Maybe he gets laid three times a week. Maybe he's rich as Caesar. For all I know, he fingers pop machines because he's kinky. Maybe he's trying to do the best he can with what life's handed him, like the rest of us who weren't lucky enough to be born you. All I know is… I don't know.”

Nestor eased the ambulance through a larger crowd on their return to Garfield Street. Judging by the remote vans, lights, and notepads in evidence, most of the increase came from the media. Ben spotted Mark Forester, whose picture and by-line he'd seen in many an edition of the Eagle Dispatch, Duncan's paper of record. At Forester's elbow was his rival in news gathering, Jamie Watts, a reporter for the local television station, WKLD. Each looked exactly as you'd expect; Forester with uncombed hair in an unkempt suit, Watts conservative, but camera-hot. There were others, plenty, Ben knew by sight if not by name, all eager for a taste of blood.

Erin's squad remained in place but another officer, a recent Police Training graduate named Parker Traer, manned the post. Now a full-fledged flat-foot, rumor had it Traer might make a good cop, if he didn't take house explosions as welcome parties and let it go to his head. Erin was nowhere to be seen.

Never one to let dogs lay, Nestor (unwisely, Ben thought) asked, “Where's the prisoner?”

Traer didn't seem to understand. That was all right, Nestor frequently had diarrhea of the mouth. Unfortunately, Forester overheard. As reporters care about everything until they ask enough questions to discover they don't, he shouted to Ben, “What does that mean? Hey, what's your partner talking about? What prisoner?”

“No idea,” Ben said with a shrug. “Must be an inside joke.” He hurried Nestor away from the reporter, the crowd, and the cop, whispering under his breath, “One of these days you're going to get your tit in a wringer. Yours or someone else's.”

The charged lines had been pulled from the houses on the far side of the street. Ben's garage was extinguished. Activities around ground zero were reduced to hanging smoke ejectors and chasing hot spots. At the Incident Command Center, Fire Chief Anthony Castronovo, his white helmet shining like a coin in a beggar's cup, led a huddle of department bugles thinking great thoughts. Near Quint 2 some kind soul had laid out coffee and donuts. Several firefighters were there, refilling their personal tanks.

“Want a donut?” Nestor asked. “Or should we report our return?”

Ben didn't feel like a donut. Neither did he feel like visiting the bugles. “I'm going to take a look at 'A' Shift's basement. Do me a favor and report for us; Castronovo hates my guts.”

“Take things too personally. He hates everybody's guts.” Nestor laughed. “If he doesn't saddle me with a crap duty, meet up with you in a few minutes.”

Nestor went while Ben turned slowly in a circle. The few still at it were overhauling, without shifting evidence more than necessary. Ben headed for the pit of debris that earlier had been a basement. He studied what he saw, and as his fire scene 'sixth sense' kicked in, he got a feeling.

Making an effort to avoid attention, Ben lifted a scuttle hole ladder from the nearest engine, dropped it to his side, and strolled toward a rear corner of the pit. He wore his bunkers, with gloves in one of the thigh pockets, but otherwise only his uniform shirt. His coat and helmet were in the ambulance. Going near a fire without gear was against every rule and not very smart. But donning turnout, while everyone else was standing down, would make the reporters and bugles howl questions. He didn't have answers, just a feeling from an item he'd spotted below and wanted a closer look at. Phfffttt to the rules. As nonchalantly as he was able, Ben snapped the ladder open, lowered it into the basement, and started down. He'd barely reached the scorched floor when—

“See something?”

“Geez! Don't do that!” Nestor stared down at him, laughing. “I think so. I wanted a better look.”

“Here. Before you catch hell.” Nestor tossed his coat down. He followed it with his helmet and truck belt, then moved for a better look and to block the view of officers and press behind him. “Don't do anything stupid down there. My name's on the coat; they'll think you're me.”

“If they think I'm you, they'll expect me to do something stupid.” Ben carefully moved through the steaming, smoking mess scanning the mounds and spaces for the object. He found it and pointed.

“Is that plastic?”

“Looks like.” Ben moved a toppled ceiling joist from its resting place. He grabbed a bright red melted hunk on the floor, struggled to get it up, and pulled it free. “A gas can.”

“Okay. Not a good idea to store gas beside the water heater. But a lot of folks probably do.”

Ben directed his partner's attention to another red melted blob. “Another.” He pointed again. “And another.” He shoved the remains of a wooden box aside. “There's another one.”

Nestor whistled. “I'm convinced. Obsessive lawn mower or not, that's a lot of gas.”

Ben reached the least damaged corner of the cellar, protected by another collapse, grabbed a handful of fallen floor, and pulled. The wreckage fell exposing shelving and a waist-high metal cabinet. The cabinet door bulged at the top. Using Nestor's spanner, he pried it open, then pushed the helmet back on his head, staring in wonder. Inside were four gray metal boxes with GRENADES stenciled in black on their sides. “Get a load of this,” Ben called up, backing off. “Hand grenades.”

Every firefighter Ben had ever met was a pyromaniac who thought explosive ordinance great fun under the right conditions. Unexploded munitions discovered at a fire scene, on the other hand, meant get away. It also meant keep it quiet, as the reporters would love it.

“Pena! What's going on?”

The bellow was unmistakable, Tony Castronovo on the stomp. Before Nestor could answer, the chief was beside him and glowering at Ben in the basement. “Well? What are you clowns doing?”

“I'm watching Ben discover evidence of arson,” Nestor said.

“I'm discovering evidence of arson,” Ben added. He pointed. “There. There. There. And there.”

“Gas cans,” Nestor explained. “As far as the eye can see. And that ain't all.”

“Yeah?” Castronovo demanded. “What else?”

Still backing away, Ben tripped and fell over more tented debris. He rolled to his hands and knees facing the steaming pile on the floor. “You all right?” Nestor shouted.

“Yeah,” Ben replied, staring into the debris.

“Well?” the chief shouted. “What else did you find?”

Though they'd been a top priority a moment before, the boxed grenades were no longer on Ben's mind. Instead, he pointed into the steam and smoke beneath him to a thin object protruding from the rubble. Nestor and Castronovo, following his gaze, saw it too. One of them, Ben wasn't sure which, swore. He agreed. The object was a burned and blackened human foot.