Truth or Dare

 

By: Kenda

 

 

*Truth or Dare is amongst just a few stories I’ve ever written where I began with the title and built the plot around it.  I started this story in June of 2000, when a reader-friend, Lynn, supplied the title and challenged me to ‘fill in the blanks.’ I wrote full steam ahead for fifty pages, then had my attention diverted by other writing projects.  This winter, when time allowed me to write a new Emergency story, I reintroduced myself to this ‘old’ story, and the completed version of Truth or Dare is the end result.  Thus, Truth or Dare is dedicated to my readers. As always, thank you for your interest in my stories, and thank you, Lynn, for the title that finally has a story to go along with it. 

 

*Truth or Dare encompasses the topic of adolescent suicide, and is rated PG-13.

 

 

Prologue

 

 

     He ripped his shirt open with a violent yank.  Nine white buttons flew in nine different directions, pinging off walls to land in nine different places.  He stripped the shirt off, balled it up, and whipped it into his locker.

 

     “Johnny...”          

 

     The paramedic’s head snapped up.  His cheeks were stained red with fury, and his eyes flashed his rage.

 

     “You had no right, Roy.  No right!”

 

     “Johnny, I—-“

 

     “You lied to me!  You said you were talking to Brackett about the paramedic meeting next week!  You said you wanted to go over the agenda with him!  But that wasn’t the truth, was it?  It wasn’t the truth at all!  It was nothing but a lie.  A goddamn lie, Roy!”

 

     Roy remained silent as Johnny spun away from him.  He watched as his friend fought to get his red T-shirt over his head, Johnny’s raging emotions making him as clumsy as a three- year-old.  His uniform pants were stripped off in one motion and joined his shirt in a discarded bundle at the bottom of his locker.  Within seconds, Johnny had his jeans on and was reaching for his tennis shoes.  He flung his boots in his locker, snatched his car keys and wallet off the shelf, shoved them both in the front pocket of his Wranglers, then slammed the door shut.  He rammed his feet into his shoes, bringing them up to the bench one by one.  Johnny jerked the laces so tight Roy wondered if the man would have any blood flow reaching his toes by the time he arrived home.

 

     “Johnny, I’m sorry, but I had to.  I had no choice.”

 

     Johnny whipped around to face the man again.  In the five and a half years he and Roy had been partners, Johnny could never remember having been angry with him. Or at least not the kind of anger that didn’t pass within a short period of time, because it stemmed from some silly disagreement over a rattling noise Johnny claimed to have heard in the squad, or because they couldn’t agree on where to stop for lunch.

 

     “Bullshit, you had no choice!”

 

     “I told you weeks ago that you needed to talk to Brackett.  I told you weeks ago that you couldn’t go on not sleeping, barely eating, and taking aspirin as though you’d just bought stock in a pharmaceutical company.”

 

     “But you also told me you wouldn’t go to Brackett.”

 

     “I did not, Johnny,” Roy firmly denied. “I never said I wouldn’t talk to Doctor Brackett.”

 

     “Oh, my error then.  I was under the mistaken assumption that my best friend is a little old to be a tattletale.”

 

     Roy didn’t grace his friend’s sarcasm with a response.  If he wanted a childish argument that included name calling, he could go home and listen to his children battle it out with one another.

 

     “I’m your best friend, yes.  And it’s because of that friendship...because I’m concerned about you, that I went to Brackett.”

 

     “Don’t dig your grave any deeper, Roy.  What you’re concerned about is that I can’t do my job!  Brackett said as much, and so did Cap.  If you’d kept your big mouth shut, none of this would have ever happened!”

 

     “If I’d kept my big mouth shut, as you put it, you’d still be trying to function on no sleep, little food, and with constant headaches, at a job that requires all of us to be in the best physical and mental condition possible.”

 

     “Oh, so now I’m a nut case in your book, too.”

 

     “Johnny, I never said that.  All I’m saying is—“

 

     “It doesn’t matter what you’re saying.  What matters is that you lied to me.  You went to Brackett behind my back, and you lied to me about that fact.  You lied, and now I’ve been put on medical leave.  I can’t come back until Brackett okays it.”

 

     “It won’t be that bad,” Roy attempted to reason. “You just need the chance to get away from here for a while.  Away from the stress.”

 

     “No I don’t!  Don’t you see?  If I had wanted time away from my job, I’d have taken a goddamn vacation!  But because of you, I have no choice! Because of you, and the fact that Brackett insisted on giving me a physical and now claims I didn’t pass it, I’m getting a vacation whether I want it or not.”  Johnny glared at Roy as he finished with, “Thanks, friend.  Thanks for nothing.”

 

     Roy snared Johnny’s elbow as the younger man turned away. “Johnny...”

 

     Roy never saw the punch coming. Later, he would realize that Johnny didn’t hit him nearly as hard as he was capable of, but at the time the punch landed it was hard enough.  The knuckles of Johnny’s right fist impacted with Roy’s left cheekbone.  The sandy haired paramedic flew into his locker, the back of his head striking the door with a solid, ‘thud!’  Johnny hesitated just a moment, anger and regret mixing as one. When he saw Roy getting to his feet with no apparent ill effects, Johnny swiveled on one heel, smacked the swinging door open with his palm, and stormed across the engine bay.  Out of the corner of his eye the paramedic saw Hank Stanley exit his office and head toward him.  John disregarded his Captain’s appearance, and the concerned look on the man’s face, as he tromped through the kitchen and day room.  He didn’t so much as glance at the three men gathered at the table who were pretending they hadn’t heard his shouts, and were pretending they hadn’t guessed what was going on.

 

     Surprisingly enough...or perhaps not so surprising, was the fact it was Chet who hailed him with a sympathetic, “Johnny?”

 

     The paramedic ignored the man as he yanked the back door open.  He marched towards his Land Rover while digging his keys out of his pocket.  He fumbled as he tried to insert the key into the door lock.  Johnny’s right hand was shaking so badly that he had to steady it with his left in order to gain entry into his vehicle.

 

     The Rover’s engine came to life with a roar that seemed to reflect its owner’s mood.  John threw the vehicle in gear.  The tires squealed and a path of black rubber remained behind as the Land Rover flew out of the parking lot.  Johnny didn’t bother to look left or right as he pulled onto the highway.  He was oblivious to the blare of car horns, and oblivious to the man in the red Chevy pickup who flipped him off after having just missed plowing into the Rover.

 

     John Gage was oblivious as well, to Hank Stanley and Roy DeSoto.  The two men were standing in front of the station in the August heat, though neither felt the sun’s warmth as they watched Johnny continue down the path of destruction that had begun six weeks earlier when the Station 51 paramedics had met a twelve-year-old boy named Curtis Tate.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

      

     The A-shift was just sitting down to lunch on a Tuesday in  June when the klaxons sounded.

 

     “Squad 51, report of an injured child at 675 Humbolt Street.  6-7-5 Humbolt Street.  Time out; 12:05.”

 

     Roy grabbed the address slip from Hank Stanley as he climbed in the squad.  As had long been his habit, Roy passed it directly to Johnny without looking at it.  Despite Johnny’s occasional grumbling about rarely getting to drive the squad on a run, he made an excellent navigator and enjoyed his role as Roy’s co-pilot.

 

     “Sounds pretty vague,” Johnny commented as he eyed the intersection the squad was approaching.  When he didn’t give Roy any verbal warnings, Roy sailed through it.  “A ‘report of an injured child’ could mean we’re going on a wild good chase and get nothing for our trouble but a cold lunch.”

 

     “Could mean that,” Roy agreed.  When June arrived and school let out, an increase of accidents and injuries involving children resulted.  On any given day the paramedics could get called out to treat a child who had been bitten by a dog, or broken an ankle while playing baseball, or gashed an arm after taking a fall off a bike.  Generally the injuries weren’t serious or life threatening, though every so often they were.  Along with those calls, came the prank calls the fire department occasionally received from kids, or the frantic call from a mother reporting a ‘possible injured child’ when what really happened was that little Billy was missing somewhere in the neighborhood but his mom didn’t want to, “Bother the police.  After all, they’re so busy.”

 

     Johnny’s thoughts must have mirrored his partner’s, because he said, “If this is some kid playing hide-and-go-seek with his mom, I’m gonna wring the little sucker’s neck. Marco was cooking today, you know.”

 

     Roy’s stomach growled at the thought of the chicken burritos and cheese-smothered nachos they’d left behind. 

 

“I know.”

 

The neighborhood Johnny directed his partner to had an old, neglected air about it.  Fifty-year-old bungalows lined the streets. Peeling paint, loose shutters, crooked front steps, and junk cars gave a strong indication that the income level of the neighborhood’s inhabitants didn’t even reach the lowest end of middle class.

 

Johnny pointed to a washed out home that still held enough remnants of paint for the men to discern it had at one time been lime green.  A Big Wheel, a red wagon, and a blue Schwinn boy’s bike with a curved banana seat, littered the front lawn.  A sandy-haired boy Johnny guessed to be about eight-years-old stood on the sidewalk, hanging onto the hand of a crying little girl the paramedic estimated to be five.  The boy’s Starsky and Hutch T-shirt was ripped, and the knees of his jeans were grass stained.  As Johnny climbed out of the squad, he immediately took note of the twigs and grass matted in the boy’s tousled hair, and of the blood trickling from his nose. The paramedic grabbed the trauma box out of its compartment and walked toward the children.

 

“Get in a little fight there, son?”

 

“Please, mister, you gotta talk to Curty.”

 

“Curty?”

 

“My brother.” The boy grabbed Johnny’s hand and tugged.  “Come on.  He’s in the backyard.”

 

Johnny easily broke the child’s hold as Roy approached with the drug box and bio-phone. 

 

“Now just wait a minute...uh...what’s your name, son?” John asked.

 

“Davy.”

 

“And how about this little girl here?”  Johnny smiled down at the child whose pale blond hair was hanging in tangled strands from her ponytail.  The upset girl refused to have her tears calmed by the infamous Gage grin.

 

“Beth.  She’s my sister.”

 

Roy hunched down in front of the girl.  He couldn’t detect anything physically wrong with her through his visual assessment.

 

“Hi, Beth.  My name’s Roy, and that guy there is my partner, Johnny.  Can you tell me what’s wrong?  What’s making you cry today?”

 

Through her tears the little girl sputtered, “Cur...Curty.”

 

“Curty made you cry?”

 

“Ye...yes.”

 

“What’d he do?”

 

“He...he got real mad.  And then...then he...he broke things in the house.  The plates.  And...and the glasses.  And...and the bathroom mirror.  And...and even the china cabinet that used to be my Grandma Tate’s before she died.  And then he...he yelled at us, and he hit Davy, and then he took the gun...took the gun and ran out the back door.”

 

Johnny looked at Davy.  “The gun?”

 

“The one Mom has to protect us.”

 

“Protect you from what?”

 

“From strangers who might try to break into our house.  Dad...Dad doesn’t live with us anymore, so Mom needed a gun.”

 

“And Curty is where with this gun?”

 

“Up in the tree house he built.” 

 

“How old is Curty?” Johnny asked the boy.

 

“He’s twelve.” Davy grabbed Johnny’s hand again.  “Come on! I’ll take you to him.”

 

Roy stood, saying quietly to his partner, “I’d better have Dispatch call the cops.”

 

Johnny nodded his agreement before focusing his attention on the eight-year-old again.  “Davy, I want you to take Beth and go with my partner.”

 

“But Curty—-“

 

“Don’t worry, I can find Curty on my own.  You and Beth go with Roy. He’ll take care of that bloody nose you’ve got while I talk to your brother.”

 

“He’s got Mom’s gun.”

 

“I know, son.  You already told me.”

 

“And it’s got bullets in it, and it really works, too.”

 

“Okay.  Thanks for telling me.”

 

Johnny handed his partner the trauma box.  He walked towards the back of the house while Roy led the children to the squad.  The house appeared to be desolate and quiet, and there was no sign of the mother Davy had mentioned.

 

I suppose these kids were left alone and the oldest one got pissed about something, then got it in his head to scare the little ones with the gun.  Stupid kid.  More to the point, stupid mother.  Where the hell is she?  Obviously her twelve-year-old isn’t ready to be left in charge of his siblings while she’s off shopping, or getting her hair done, or coffee klatching with some neighbor.

 

Johnny’s internal rant continued.  Overall, he liked kids, but the county wasn’t paying him to be a baby-sitter.  He slowed his pace as he came to the corner of the house. He didn’t think a twelve-year-old kid would take a shot at him, but on the other hand, Johnny wasn’t trusting to the point of being foolish, either.

 

The paramedic kept most of his body shielded by the house.  A Weber grill stood on the sagging back porch, and a boy’s black five-speed bike leaned against the crooked railing.  The backyard wasn’t much larger than a postage stamp, and held one gnarled oak tree.  The old tree’s branches were thick and leafy, making it difficult for Johnny to discern the faded, cast-off lumber that had been used to build the sagging tree house.

 

Johnny flattened himself against the side of the house.  He turned his face toward the backyard, but was careful not to present an open target.  He remained doubtful that a child would shoot him, so was more concerned about scaring the boy and causing him to fire the gun by accidental reflex.

 

“Curty!”

 

The only things Johnny heard was the distant sound of children playing somewhere in the neighborhood, and Sam Lanier’s voice, vague and far away, responding to Roy’s request for police assistance with a, “10-4, 51.”

 

The paramedic called again.   This time he risked showing a little more of his upper body as he glanced around the corner of the house.

 

“Curty!”

 

“I’m not Curty!  I’m Curtis. Curty’s a little kid’s name!  I’m not a little kid anymore!”

 

“Okay,” Johnny nodded, as he stepped into the backyard.  “Curtis it is.”

 

“Stop!  St...stop!  Stop right there or I’ll...I’ll...shoot you! I will!  I...I really will!”

 

Johnny didn’t think the boy sounded too sure of that threat, but he wasn’t going to push his luck either.

 

     “Curtis, I’m not a cop.  I’m a paramedic.”  Johnny spread his arms from his sides to show the child he wasn’t wearing a gun.  “See! I’m not carrying a gun.”

 

     A thin face appeared at the one window Johnny had a view of between the branches.  The boy had a mop of thick white hair, ocean-blue eyes, and even at this distance, Johnny could see the smattering of freckles across the child’s narrow nose.  His face was small and fine-boned, making his features elfin in nature.  If Johnny had passed Curtis on the street he wouldn’t have pegged him for a day over ten, if even that.

 

     The boy was wearing a pale blue tank top that revealed bony shoulders and thin arms that, as of yet, held none of the muscle tone that would come to him during adolescence.  In absurd contrast to Curtis’s skinny right arm was the .357 Magnum hanging from a hand that was barely large enough to grasp it.

 

     Johnny immediately noted that the gun wasn’t pointed toward him, but rather was drooping toward the ground.  He took two steps forward while keeping his eyes on the firearm.  He was close enough now that he could talk to the boy without shouting.  He kept his voice calm and quiet.

 

     “I’m not a cop, Curtis.”

 

     The boy peered out the window, then, hiked himself up on his knees for a better view.  The man wasn’t dressed like any cop Curtis had ever seen, but he was wearing a uniform of some sort.

 

     “Then who are you?”

 

     “I’m a paramedic with the fire department.  Do you know what a paramedic does?”

 

     “Yeah...yeah, I think so.  You’re...you’re kind of like a guy-nurse, right?”

 

     Johnny smiled at the boy’s definition.  “Yeah.  Something like that.”

 

     “How come you’re here?”

 

     “Because Davy called us.”

 

     “Davy?  Why?”

    

     “He’s worried about you. He and Beth are really upset.”

 

     “I...I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

 

     “He knows that,” Johnny said as he took a step forward. “Why don’t you come down and talk to Davy and Beth.  Let them know that you’re sorry and that--“

 

     “Stop!  Stay right there!”  The boy used his left hand to support the gun as he aimed it at Johnny.  “Do you hear me? Stay right there!”

 

“All right.”  The paramedic complied.  “I’ll stay here until you tell me I can come closer.”

 

“I’m not gonna tell you that, so you might as well go back to the fire station...or wherever it is you came from.”

 

“I can’t do that, Curtis.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I’ll get in trouble with my boss if I leave here while your brother and sister are so upset, and with you still stuck up in that tree house.”

 

“I’m not stuck. And Davy and Bethie...well, they’ll calm down.  Tell...Davy to make lunch. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  They both like those.  And they can watch TV.  Tell him they can watch all the TV they want until Mom gets home.”

 

“Where is your mother?”

 

“At work.”

 

“Where at work?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Where does she work?”

 

“Just...she just works, okay?”  She didn’t used to, but she does now.”

 

“Oh.  Well, what about your dad?  Where does he work?”

 

“Who cares?”

 

“My boss is gonna care.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I already told you.  I can’t go back to the station and leave your brother and sister out front crying, while you’re playing John Wayne up there in that tree house.”

 

“I ain’t playin’ John Wayne!  I already told you I’m not a little kid!  I don’t play.  I don’t play at all since my dad left.”

 

Johnny heard car doors slam out on the street.  He hoped that the slamming of one of those doors indicated the boy’s mother was home.

 

“Where’d he go?”  The paramedic asked as though his attention hadn’t briefly been drawn from Curtis.   

 

“What?”

 

“Your dad?”  Johnny took a small step forward that went undetected. “Where’d he go?”

 

A bird chirped from the upper branches of the oak, and the summer breeze gently rustled its leaves as Johnny waited for the boy to answer.  If the kid thought his silence would make the paramedic go away, he soon discovered he was mistaken.  Curtis heaved a sigh and allowed the gun to dangle loosely from his right hand again, as though its weight was tiring his wrist.

 

“He...he...they got divorced, okay?  They’re divorced!  He...Mom says he’s got a girlfriend.  That he...that he was seeing his girlfriend all the times he told us he was taking a business trip.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

 

The boy sneered. “You, and everybody else.”

 

“Look, Curtis, why don’t you put the gun down, then climb outta there so we can—-“

 

The Magnum was jerked to a firing position.  “Make them go away!”

 

“What?”

 

The twelve-year-old aimed somewhere beyond Johnny’s left shoulder. “Them!  Tell them to get outta here!”

 

The paramedic turned around.  Vince Howard and a rookie cop Johnny didn’t recognize had just stepped into the backyard.  Three paces behind them, and partially shielded by the house, was Roy.

 

“Make ‘em go!  I don’t want ‘em here!”

 

Johnny looked from the men gathered behind him to Curtis, and then back again.  He gave a small shrug of his shoulders as his eyes met Vince’s. 

 

“You heard him,” Johnny said softly.  “I can handle things here.  I’ll get him to come down.”

 

“Did he say where his mother works?” Vince asked.  “We need to get a hold of her.”

 

“No, he hasn’t said, but I’ll try to find out.”

 

“Get out of here!  Go on...go on or I’ll...I’ll shoot!  I will!  I really will!”

 

The men glanced up; all of them taking note of the enraged boy and the gun that was aimed at Vince.

 

Vince slowly inched backwards.  The young man beside Vince copied his movements.  When they reached the corner of the house, Vince indicated for Roy to remain shielded by the structure.

 

“I’m going to call for backup, and request a woman from Social Services come for the younger children until the mother can be located.”  Vince glanced at Squad 51, where Davy and Beth were sitting together in the cab, their eyes glued on the men as they awaited word on their brother.  “In the meantime, I want you to stay right here, but out of sight.  Johnny seems to have established a good rapport with the boy, so there’s no point in jeopardizing that just yet.  Once we do have our hands on the kid, is there anything you’ll need from the squad?”

 

“The drug box and bio-phone.  If he puts up a fight, Rampart will probably order a sedative of some sort...that is, if the mother can be located to authorize it.”

 

Vince nodded.  “I’ll get them for you.”  Neither Roy nor Vince gave a thought to the need for the trauma box or oxygen.  After all, they couldn’t fathom the boy actually using the gun provided he was kept calm until either Johnny, or his mother, could talk some sense into him.

 

 As Vince and the young cop, whose nameplate read G. Harcoff, trotted away, Roy returned his attention to the backyard.  Like Johnny had done earlier, Roy carefully peered around the corner of the house while making certain Curtis didn’t spot him. He watched as Johnny looked up at the boy and spoke to him.

 

“Okay, Curtis, everyone is gone now.  It’s just you and me.”

 

“Don’t...don’t let them come back.”

 

“I won’t. Not until you tell me it’s okay.”

 

“It’s never gonna be okay!  Never!  Not ever again!”

 

“Sure it is, kiddo.  I know right now things seem pretty rough, but—-“

 

“You don’t know nothin’!” Curtis wiped a mixture of sweat and tears from his face.  His voice trembled when he spoke again.  “You don’t know what it’s like to...what it’s like to...”

 

“To what, son?”

 

The twelve-year-old refused to respond. Johnny stood in the noonday sun, squinting as he stared into the tree.  He did his best to ignore the droplets of perspiration running from his temples, and the perspiration pooling beneath his shirt that caused it to stick to his back and chest.

 

Johnny allowed the silence to linger between himself and the boy, then switched tactics.

 

“You know, now that I give it some thought, I guess I haven’t even told you my name, have I?”

 

Curtis peered down at Johnny, his tone broadcasting mild curiosity. “N...no.  No, you haven’t.”

 

“It’s Johnny.”

 

“What?”

 

“My name.  It’s Johnny. Johnny Gage.”

 

Curtis wrinkled his nose.  “Why do you go by a baby name like that?”

 

Johnny chuckled.  “It’s just a nickname, Curtis.  It doesn’t make me the person I am.  But, if you want to, you can call me John.”

 

“Is that your real name?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I like John better.”

 

“All right then, just between us, John it is.”

 

“I...I can call you John?  I mean, you don’t want me to call you Mr. Gage?”

 

“Nope.  Mr. Gage is my dad.  You just call me John.”

 

“O...okay.”

 

Johnny used the back of his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead.  “Pretty hot out here, huh?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How about if you come down and we get ourselves something cold to drink?”

 

The boy considered that suggestion for a long enough moment that Johnny had hope this odd little standoff would come to a quick end.  But that was dashed when Curtis shook his head.

 

“All right then, how about if I come up there by you?  I’m getting really hot standing here in the sun.”

 

“No!”

 

“Okay, have it your way, but I’m about to keel over from a heat stroke, and if I do, then you’ll have to talk to one of the cops that you chased outta here a few minutes ago.  So whatta ya’ say, Curtis?  You wanna keep talkin’ to me, or do you wanna talk to some cop you don’t even know?”

 

The blond boy chewed on his lower lip.  Finally, he gave a small nod of his head.

 

“I can come up?”

 

“Ye...yeah. But only you.”

 

“Just me,” Johnny nodded.

 

     The paramedic crossed the ten feet it took him to reach the tree’s trunk.  He once again had the vague notion of several people standing just out of sight at the side of the house, but he didn’t risk looking, for fear Curtis would spot them and get upset again.

 

     The ladder leading to the tree house was nothing more than odd sized boards nailed to the tree’s trunk.  Johnny wondered if some of the smaller boards would support his weight, but didn’t allow that concern to hinder his progress.  As he climbed, Johnny felt cool relief from the sun thanks to the shade provided by the oak, and the breeze that softly swayed her limbs.

 

     Johnny had just poked his head through the square opening in the tree house’s floor when a young voice commanded, “Stay right there!”

 

     “But, Curtis—-“

 

     “I said stay there!  That’s far enough.”

 

     “Okay, okay.”  Johnny halted his progress. He’d climbed far enough for his shoulders and upper chest to emerge into the tree house, but the rest of his body remained outside it, with his feet supporting his weight on one board of the makeshift ladder.

 

     “I don’t know why I let you come up here anyway.  You can’t change anything. No one can.”

 

     “What exactly is it you want changed, Curtis?”

 

     The boy swiped his left arm across his tear-streaked face.  He was no longer looking out the window, but rather was seated on the tree house’s floor facing Johnny.  The gun remained in his right hand, pointed listlessly toward the west wall.

 

     “My...my life.  I...I hate my life.”

 

     “Son, no, you don’t.”

 

     As soon as Johnny said those words he knew he’d made a mistake. He sounded pompous and patronizing, among other things.  Therefore, Curtis’s reaction didn’t surprise him.

 

     “I do, too!  You don’t know how I feel.  You don’t know what it’s like!”

    

“I’m sorry.  You’re right.  I don’t know how you feel, and no, I guess I don’t know what it’s like.  So, do you think you can tell me?”

 

     “Why should I?”

 

     “Because I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s bothering you.”

 

     “How can you help me? You’re just a...just a...a guy-nurse.  That’s all you are, is a guy-nurse.  How can you help me?”

 

     “I can help you just by being here and listening to what you have to say.  Then maybe together, we can figure out what to do about it.”

 

     “Only if you can get my dad to come back.”

 

     “Pardon?”

 

     “The only way you can really help me is if you get my dad to come back.  So, can you do that?”

 

     When Johnny didn’t answer, the boy shook his head in disgust. “I knew you couldn’t.”

 

     “How about if we start with something a little easier that I can do?”

 

     “Like what?”

 

     “Getting your mom here.  I can call her for you if you tell me where she works.”

 

     “She can’t come home.  She can’t be bothered at work.  If I call her, she’ll lose her job.”

 

     “I think this one time it’ll be okay.”

 

     “No it won’t!  I’ve had to call her too much already this summer ‘cause of stuff Davy and Bethie were doin’ – not listening to me and things like that – and Mom’s boss said no more phone calls or he’d fire her.  We need the money.  My dad, he...he doesn’t always pay Mom what he’s supposed to for me and Davy and Beth.  She has to have her job!  She never worked before.  Not when we lived at our other house. Not when her and Dad were married.  But now she has to, and I gotta take care of Davy and Beth while she’s gone.  I can’t screw up.”  Tears ran down Curtis’s face.  “Don’t you understand?  I can’t screw this up!”

 

     Johnny allowed the boy all the time he needed to calm down.  When Curtis heaved a sigh that indicated his tears were spent for the moment, the paramedic said, “So you’re in charge of your brother and sister while your mom is at work?”

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     “How long has this been going on?”

 

     “Since we moved here at Christmas time.  I...I hate it here.  All my friends are in my old neighborhood, and my school...I miss my old school.  And our house...we had a nice house before, but this one’s a dump. Mom said I could have some of my friends over, but I don’t want them to see where we live.  Mom doesn’t like it either, but she pretends she does.  She doesn’t think I hear her crying at night after us kids are in bed, but I do.  And sometimes...sometimes we have to be real careful about how much we eat so there’s enough food until she gets her paycheck. It...it was never like this before. It wasn’t like this when my mom and dad were married. We...we could eat as much as we wanted to, and we went on nice vacations, and we all had our own bedrooms.  Now me and Davy have to share a room, and the bedroom Bethie uses is really an old pantry off the kitchen that’s hardly big enough for her bed.  Mom was home all the time back then, too.  She didn’t work.  She took care of us. But now she has to work every day but Saturday and Sunday, and she leaves at seven-thirty and doesn’t get home until six.”

 

     “And you take care of things around here for the entire time she’s gone?”

 

     “Yea...yeah.”

 

     Johnny resisted the urge to shake his head.  He knew the rising divorce rate was rapidly changing society, but this was the first time he’d directly witnessed its ramifications on the children from these broken unions.  Not only did it sound like Curtis’s lifestyle had drastically changed in a short period of time, but now he was required to take on the role of man of the family while his mother was at work. The woman was gone ten and a half hours a day, five days a week.  During that time, she needed Curtis to be in charge of his younger siblings.  It was obvious to Johnny that the boy was by far, neither old enough nor mature enough for that type of responsibility.  Certainly most twelve- year-olds were capable of being in charge of their younger siblings while their parents ran errands for an hour or so. But Johnny knew asking Curtis to take on that load fifty-two hours a week was beyond what a kid his age could reasonably bear.

 

     “You know, Curtis, considering what a big job it is to be in charge of kids the ages of Davy and Beth, I think you do a fine job.”

 

     “I do not!”

 

     “What makes you say that?”

 

     “Every...every day something goes wrong.  One of them does something they’re not supposed to. Beth rides her Big Wheel in the street.  Davy sneaks off down the block to play with those Schneider kids Mom told him to stay away from.  They...they don’t listen to me.  I’m always havin’ to go get them from places they’re not supposed to be, then they fight with me about comin’ home.  Or they don’t help me keep the house clean like they’re supposed to, or they cry because they’re hungry and then get mad at me when I can’t give ‘em a snack because Mom said we had to stretch the food until pay day.  Today...today Davy said he was going to play with Jimmy Schneider, and when I told him he couldn’t, he kicked me and said he was going to anyway.  Then Bethie started crying ‘cause she wanted another bowl of cereal, and I told her she couldn’t have it.  Then they both were yelling at me, and doing everything I told ‘em not to, and I just...I couldn’t take it anymore, John.  I couldn’t.”

 

     Curtis moved the gun so that it was no longer aimed at the wall, but rather was now cradled against his body. He gulped for air between his sobs.

 

     “Why...why wouldn’t they listen to me?  Why’d they make me so mad?”

 

     “Curtis, it’s not your fault. None of it is.  Davy and Beth were just being kids.  Just doing the normal things kids their ages do.  You did the best you could, son.  I know your mom will understand.”

 

     “No she won’t! I...I lost my temper.  I busted stuff.  Lots of stuff!  We can’t afford new dishes, and now, ‘cause of me, we don’t have any plates or glasses.  And I hit Davy.  We’re not allowed to hit each other, but I got so mad that I hit him anyway.  He...he was so scared.  I could tell he was scared, but I just kept punching him.  Bethie was screaming for me to stop, but I pushed her out of the way.  I...I’m no good, John.  I can’t do this anymore.  Can’t my mom see that I can’t do this anymore?”

 

     The boy’s sobs shook his upper body.  Because of Johnny’s position in the tree house he couldn’t see what was going on in the yard.  But with Curtis no longer looking out the window, Johnny had little doubt that Roy and Vince were now close enough to hear every word that was being exchanged between himself and the twelve-year-old.

 

     “I’ll talk to your mom, Curtis.  I’ll tell her what you’ve said to me.  Together, we can make her understand that you’re not ready for the responsibilities she’s given you.”

 

     “But I have to be ready!  I’m the oldest!  She doesn’t have anyone else to depend on but me, and we can’t afford to hire a baby-sitter.”

 

     “I’m sure something can be worked out.”

 

     “What?”

 

     When Johnny didn’t have an immediate answer the boy scoffed, “See. Even you don’t know.”

 

     “Not right this minute I don’t.  But given some time to think about it, I might come up with something.  And, there are agencies in the county your mom might be able to turn to for help.”

 

     “She’s already tried them.  No one could help her if what you’re talking about is getting free baby-sitting for Davy and Beth.”

 

     “Then we’ll try again.”

 

     “It won’t work, John.” Curtis shook his head like a wise old man who had already traveled the road Johnny was suggesting. He began crying harder as a wave of total despair and helplessness washed over him. “It won’t work, and nothing will change. My dad will still be gone, and we’ll still live in this crappy old house.  I still won’t have any friends, and I’ll still have to watch my brother and sister all day long, even though they won’t listen to me and I don’t know what to do about it.”

 

     “I know right now things seem pretty bleak, kiddo, and I guess they are, but sitting up here in this tree house with a gun is only making the situation worse. If you come down with me we’ll get something cold to drink, and see who we can find for you to talk to.”

 

     “You mean like a shrink?  I’m not crazy.”

 

     “I never said you were.  And I never said anything about a shrink either.  I’ve got a good friend at Rampart Hospital. His name is Doctor Brackett and he—“

 

     “You just said you didn’t mean a shrink!”

 

     “Doc Brackett isn’t a shrink.  But he is a very smart guy, and he knows a lot of people who work for the various county agencies.  I’d like you to talk to him, Curtis.  I really think that would be a good place to start.”

 

     The boy sniffled, then swiped at his red, puffy eyes. 

 

“How...how would I go about seein’ him...this Doctor Brackett guy, I mean, if I wanted to?”

 

     “I’ll take you to Rampart and introduce you to him.”

 

     “No...no tricks?”

 

     “Not a one. We’ll go in the squad my partner has parked out front.”

 

     Silence filled the stuffy little house as Curtis considered Johnny’s offer.

 

     “What about my brother and sister?  I’m in charge of them.  I can’t leave them here alone.”

 

     “We’ll bring them with us.”

 

     “But they might not behave.  I can’t...I can’t just leave them in some waiting room while I talk to that doctor.”

 

     “And I don’t expect you to.  There’s candy stripers who can keep them entertained, and the pediatric floor has a playroom, plus there’s playground equipment outside on the hospital grounds.  Don’t worry.  I’ll make sure Davy and Beth are kept occupied, and supervised, while you talk to Doctor Brackett.”

 

     For the first time in months Curtis felt a small amount of hope.  Maybe, just maybe, this Doctor Brackett person John spoke of would have some ideas that would be of help to his family.

 

     Another long, quiet minute passed in which the twelve-year-old appeared to be contemplating his options.  Curtis finally gave a small nod of his head.

 

     “Okay, I’ll come with—“

    

     The boy’s head whipped around at the angry shriek that came from below.

 

     “Curtis!  Curtis William Tate, what’s the meaning of these shenanigans?  You know I could lose my job over something like—-“

 

     The woman’s sentence was abruptly cut off, leading Johnny to surmise someone had grabbed her and dragged her from the backyard while ordering her to keep quiet.

 

     “No!”  The child’s eyes flew to Johnny. “You said no tricks!  She can’t be bothered at work!  She could lose her job!  She’ll lose her job and it’ll be all my fault. No!  You tricked me!  You—-“

 

     “Curtis!  Curtis, listen to me!”  Johnny attempted to drown out the boy’s pitiful wails.  “I didn’t call her!  I didn’t know she was coming home!  No tricks, Curtis!  Honest, no tricks.  We can still go see Doctor Brackett.  Just you and me, kiddo.  Just you and me.  No one else.  We’ll go see—-“

 

     “No! It’s my fault!  I told you it was my fault.  I

can’t...I can’t...I can’t take this anymore!  I just...” The boy choked on his tears. “I just can’t.”

 

     Johnny’s position half in and half out of the tree house made it impossible for him to do anything but scream, “No, Curtis!” when the boy brought the gun to his temple.  The paramedic scrambled for a foothold while attempting to lunge his upper body into the structure.  The blast of the gun caused Johnny’s ears to ring.  His eyes closed reflexively, but didn’t stay closed long enough for the paramedic to miss the carnage that resulted from a twelve-year-old child blowing away the right side of his skull.  

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

     Johnny knew he was riding Cody dangerously fast.  The animal raced across the open field, relishing this unusual bit of freedom. The paramedic hadn’t even bothered to saddle the horse.  Johnny rode like he had as a teenager back in Montana, wildly and with reckless abandon.

 

     As hard as Johnny attempted to push the images of Curtis Tate from his mind, they kept resurfacing, even now, over a month after the boy’s death.  Johnny recalled scrambling into the tree house and catching Curtis’s body before it slumped to the floor.  The boy’s lifeless eyes had stared up at Johnny as he cradled Curtis’s head in one arm while checking for a carotid pulse.  When he didn’t find one, Johnny laid the twelve-year-old flat and started CPR.  John knew it was only a matter of seconds before Roy joined him, though he was so focused on his young victim that everything else going on around him seemed to be happening in a foggy haze. 

 

     Vince Howard had called for an ambulance and an additional squad while Johnny had been talking to Curtis. In an effort to keep from setting Curtis off, Vince had asked the dispatcher to request the vehicles arrive using no lights or sirens.  At the time, the police officer thought he was simply taking precautions they wouldn’t need.

 

     The paramedics from Squad 44 were waiting beneath the tree house when Johnny carried Curtis down.  John was giving the boy mouth to mouth resuscitation as he laid Curtis on the waiting gurney.  Don Martin, 44’s senior paramedic, was in contact with Kelly Brackett via the bio-phone.  An airway was inserted, and two IVs with Ringer’s started. Blood stained pressure bandages swathed the upper portion of Curtis’s head as the defibrillator’s paddles were placed against his chest.  Despite repeated efforts, a flat line remained on the EKG strip.  Regardless of that, Brackett ordered resuscitation efforts continued.

 

     “Transport immediately, 44,” came the doctor’s final order.

 

     Johnny supposed he’d known all along that Curtis was dead, and that no amount of medical intervention would bring him back.  After all, the kid had blown half his head away.  But, everything had happened so fast, and it was Johnny’s job to do all he could for anyone he was called upon to treat, so he ignored Roy’s summons and climbed in the back of the ambulance with Don. Johnny was actually grateful for the piercing wail of the siren, because it drowned out the cries of Curtis’s mother and siblings.

 

     The paramedic ran down Rampart’s ER corridor beside the gurney, holding Curtis’s IVs aloft.  Johnny was the one who pushed the swinging door open to Treatment Room 2, and he was the one who scooped the twelve-year-old’s body up and transferred it to the examining table before anyone else had the chance to offer him assistance.  Two short minutes later, Doctor Brackett pronounced Curtis William Tate dead.  Johnny could still recall staring down at the boy and thinking, I brought you to see Doctor Brackett, Curtis, but this isn’t how that meeting was supposed to end.  I’m sorry...I’m so sorry.  This isn’t how it was supposed to end at all.

 

     Johnny had watched as the face that was now the color of putty was covered with a white sheet.  He clenched his hands into fists so no one would notice the trembling he couldn’t seem to still. He felt Dixie’s touch on his arm.

 

     “Come on, Johnny,” she urged quietly, “let’s get you a scrub shirt to wear back to the station.”

 

     Johnny glanced down at his torso.  For the first time he saw the brain matter and bone fragments that were glued to his shirt by Curtis Tate’s blood.  Though neither Brackett nor Dixie yet knew all the details surrounding the boy’s death, the condition of Johnny’s shirt told at least some of the story.

 

     The paramedic allowed Dixie to usher him to a supply closet, then down the corridor to the nurses’ lounge.  Mrs. Tate’s cries could be heard coming from the ER’s waiting area, then they grew fainter until they finally ceased, and Johnny pictured Brackett taking her into his office.  He wondered if Davy and Beth were with their mother.  He hoped not. He hoped a neighbor, or a friend, or someone, had come forward and taken charge of the children.  It was bad enough that they’d been on the scene when Curtis was rushed to the ambulance.  They didn’t need to be here at Rampart when their mother was told of their older brother’s death.

 

     Johnny had slid to the couch in the lounge and buried his head in his hands. He felt Dixie sit down next to him, and a few seconds later sensed another presence standing over him that he knew was Roy.  Johnny ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath, and stood.  He reached for the scrub shirt Dixie still held, and with fingers that suddenly felt swollen three times their normal size, fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.  John turned away from Roy and Dixie so they wouldn’t see how much trouble he was having removing a garment he’d been removing by himself since he was four years old.  When he finally had the shirt open, he slipped it off and brought the blue scrub shirt down over his head.

 

     If Dixie and Roy had been expecting anything profound when Johnny finally spoke, they were sorely disappointed.  Without turning around to face either of them, the paramedic said, “Thanks, Dix.  I’ll bring this back to you the next time I’m here.”

 

     Johnny headed for the door without allowing Dixie to respond.  To his partner he said, “I’ll meet you in the squad.”

 

     What conversation transpired after Johnny left the lounge, he never knew. Ten minutes later, Roy joined him in the squad.  John stared out the windshield, refusing to meet Roy’s gaze.  After a lengthy silence had passed, Roy asked softly, “Wanna talk about it?”

 

     The dark headed man merely shook his head.

 

     “Johnny—“

 

     “Not now, Roy.  Not...not ever.”

 

     Any thoughts Roy had regarding Johnny’s response he kept to himself that day.  He waited another full minute before starting the squad.  A minute in which Johnny knew Roy expected him to talk.  But, when John continued to stare out the windshield, Roy finally gave in and turned the key in the ignition.

 

     When they arrived back at the station, that afternoon lunch was long over.  That mattered little to Johnny.  The last thing he felt like doing was eating.  He passed Chet on the way to the locker room, his bloody shirt balled up in his right hand.

 

     “Hey, Gage, why are you wearin’ that?  If you think that scrub shirt will fool the nurses at Rampart into lettin’ you play doctor with them, then you’re even goofier than I thought.”

 

     Johnny had no quick retort like he normally would have, nor did he even growl his old stand-by of, “Shut up, Chet.” He heard Chet bait him again with a, “Gage, what’s wrong with you?  You got a tongue depressor shoved up your—-“

 

     Then Johnny heard Roy’s quiet but firm, “Leave him alone, Chet.”

 

     “Why?  What happened?”

 

     “Just leave him alone.  I mean it.”

 

     Whether Chet detected something in Roy’s tone that told him to back off, or whether Roy gave him some kind of signal with his hands or eyes that told Chet to keep his mouth shut, Johnny never knew.  Right before he pushed the locker room door open John heard Chet ask, “Bad run, huh?” then heard Roy’s response of, “Yeah.  You could say that.  Is Cap in his office?”

 

     Johnny wasn’t privy to the answer Roy received.  By the time Chet said yes or no, the paramedic was in the locker room.  Fifteen minutes later, the door swung open.  Johnny didn’t look up from where he sat on the bench, still clutching his bloody shirt while staring down at the tiles.  He felt someone sit beside him. He expected to hear Roy’s voice, but instead it was Hank Stanley who laid a hand on Johnny’s slumped shoulder.

 

     “Hey, pal.  Roy tells me you had a rough one this afternoon.”

 

     Johnny merely nodded.

 

     “I’m going to stand the squad down and call in a replacement for you.  Why don’t you get changed and head on home. I’ll let Roy know and-—“

 

     “No, Cap.”

 

     “No?”

 

     “I...I want to stay. I wanna finish out the shift.”

 

     Johnny never took his eyes off the floor tiles.  Silence lingered between himself and his commander, until finally Hank asked, “Are you sure?”

 

     “Yes. Yes, I’m...I’m sure.”

 

     “John, if you want to talk anytime...anytime at all, you know where to find me.  I’m available here at the station, or at my house.”

 

     Again, Johnny nodded.  “Thanks, Cap.”

 

     Hank sat with Johnny a few minutes that afternoon, but when John said nothing further, the captain finally gave him a pat on the shoulder and left the room.

 

     The rest of the shift was uneventful.  A couple of easy runs, and then supper with the guys at six.  It was the first night in a long string of nights when aspirin barely took the edge off the headache that resided deep within Johnny’s skull.  It was also the first night in a long string of nights that John Gage laid awake hour after hour, hearing himself assure Curtis Tate that he was up to no tricks, only to have the boy accuse him of just that right before he put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

 

_____________

 

 

The wind ruffled Johnny’s hair as Cody threw back his head and snorted.  The paramedic smacked his heels against the horse’s sides, urging him to run even faster.  The rhythmic pounding of Cody’s hooves didn’t purge Johnny of unwanted memories, nor purge him of the gut-twisting feeling of betrayal as initiated by his closest friend.

 

Brackett had made it clear to Johnny today that he wouldn’t be allowed to return to work until he passed a physical, and that if he continued to have challenges, then sessions with the fire department’s psychiatrist would be required.  Hank Stanley had backed Doctor Brackett up on both those things, meaning short of filing a grievance with the union, Johnny had little choice but to do what his superiors ordered, if he valued his job.  At any other time when life was giving him a hard kick in the butt, Johnny would have turned to Roy for any number of things.  Advice. A listening ear. An opinion he respected above all others. Or just a good friend to vent his frustrations to.  But now Johnny couldn’t turn to Roy.  Roy had betrayed him. Roy had gone to Brackett, and at the same time, had lied to Johnny about the reason why he needed to speak to the doctor.  Suddenly, the last person Johnny had any trust in, was the person he used to trust the most. Roy DeSoto.

 

Despite the long, hard ride on Cody, Johnny’s hurt and anger refused to be quelled. When the horse began to slow down and show signs of fatigue, Johnny loosened his grip on the reins. Cody’s pace slowed in stages from a run, to a gallop, to a trot. When they were within five hundred feet of the barn, Johnny slid off the gelding and walked him the rest of the way.

 

The paramedic allowed Cody a long drink at the trough, then led him to his stall.  Johnny spent the next hour tending to the animal by first wiping him down, then brushing him, then feeding him and giving him fresh water.  He tried to push the thoughts away that kept haunting him.  The same heartbreaking thoughts that had been haunting him since the day Curtis Tate died.

 

What makes a twelve-year-old kill himself?

 

Why didn’t Curtis’s parents see what their divorce was doing to the boy?

 

Why didn’t the boy’s mother understand that he was too young for the responsibilities he’d been given?

 

What could I have done differently?

 

What could I have said that might have convinced Curtis not to pull that trigger?

 

Why didn’t I see how desperate he was?

 

And then the most heartbreaking thought of all on Johnny’s part.

 

Why the hell didn’t I take the gun away from him as soon as I got in that tree house?

 

Johnny’s fingers tangled in Cody’s mane and he buried his face in the horse’s massive neck.

 

Oh, God, why the hell didn’t I take it away?

 

              

Chapter 3

 

Roy silently set the phone receiver in the cradle.  He turned to look out the patio doors; the doors Johnny had helped him install four years earlier, and watched his kids play with their friends in the backyard.

 

“Still no answer?”

Roy looked over at his wife.  She was standing in front of the sink washing the pots and pans she couldn’t put in the dishwasher.  The paramedic walked to her side, picked up a towel, and began drying the dishes Joanne propped in the drainer.

 

“No.”

 

“Maybe you should drive over there.  You know, just to make sure he’s okay.”

 

“I won’t be welcome.”

 

“You might be if he fell out of the haymow and is laying on the barn floor with a broken leg.”

 

“He didn’t fall out of the haymow.  He’s just not answering his phone.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“Because I know Johnny.”

 

The woman studied her husband a long moment and then said, “You can’t blame yourself, Roy.”

 

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

 

“You had no choice. You—-“

 

“I had a choice, Joanne.”

 

The woman continued as though her husband hadn’t interrupted her.

 

“You said Johnny hasn’t been eating or sleeping.  You said he’s been having severe headaches. You told Johnny several times he needed to make an appointment with Doctor Brackett for a physical, and he wouldn’t do it.  When he was here for supper last week even the kids noticed how bad he looked.  Chris asked me three times if Johnny was sick, and Jennifer said, ‘Uncle Johnny seems really sad, Mom.  What’s wrong with him?’”

 

“What’d you tell her?”

 

“Just that something happened on a run that had upset Uncle Johnny, and that given some time, he’d be okay.”

 

“And Chris?”

 

“Christopher I was more forthright with.  He’d read the story in the newspaper about the Tate boy.”

 

Chris was just two months short of his eleventh birthday.  No longer a little boy, but still a couple of years away from being what Roy considered a young adult.  It was that last fact that caused him to ask, “What’d you tell Chris?”

 

“That you and Johnny were the paramedics on the scene the paper mentioned.”

 

Roy nodded.  The media reports on Curtis’s death hadn’t mentioned himself or Johnny by name.  They were simply referred to as ‘the paramedics’ or as the ‘paramedics at the scene when the tragedy occurred.’

 

“I told Chris it was Johnny who was with the boy – Curtis - that it was Johnny who was with Curtis when he...when he shot himself.”

 

That had been a hard sentence for Joanne to finish, and Roy could understand why.  Twelve-year-olds didn’t commit suicide.  Or, at least until six weeks ago, Roy had never encountered one who had.

 

“What did Chris say?”

 

“That it must have been a hard thing for Johnny to see.”

 

“I’m sure it was,” Roy agreed quietly.  Chris had always been a perceptive and sensitive boy so, given his age, Roy knew his son was feeling genuine empathy over what Johnny had gone through.

 

“Then he asked me what would make a twelve-year-old kill himself.”

 

“Tough question,” Roy replied as he looked at the window and watched his son play catch with the boy from next door. Curtis Tate should have had the opportunity for many games of catch yet.

 

“It was a tough question,” Joanne acknowledged.  “I’m afraid I didn’t give him a very good answer.”

 

“Why?  What’d you say?”

 

“I told Chris I didn’t know what would make Curtis want to end his life, other than the facts you knew based on the statement Johnny gave Vince regarding what had happened in that tree house.”

 

“That Curtis was going through a difficult time because of his parent’s divorce?”

 

“Yes,” Joanne nodded as she wiped off the counter tops with her damp dishrag.  “Chris found it hard to believe that a boy would kill himself for that reason.”

 

Roy acknowledged to himself that yes, it would be difficult for Chris to fully understa