Technical kudos to Pat Embury, Cheryl McGowan, and Carol Boyke. Thanks for sharing so freely of your expertise, ladies!

by: inkling

Mike was working overhaul on the ground floor when Marco found the body in the basement. The choked-off scream from his shiftmate left the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

"Cap! Cap! There's a body down here!"

Rather than follow the pounding feet and excited conversations that resulted from Marco's shout, Mike returned to digging at the ancient plaster and lathe wall with his axe. Marco had said he'd found "a body", not "someone." He wasn't going to miss out on anything if he didn't go running to see right this instant. No matter what was going on elsewhere, it was his responsibility to be sure the fire was out in this room. He'd find out what was going on later--probably find out more than he wanted to know.

Cap's radioed request for a coroner floated in through the ruined window as Mike worked steadily, pulling the interior of the house apart to be sure that no spark of life remained in the fire that had partially gutted it. The old, deserted house had been a landmark in this commercialized neighborhood far longer than Mike had been driving 51's engine. With its stone exterior and the strange, overhanging construction of the second floor, the 80-year-old building had looked like a cross between a frontier fort and a medieval castle. Mike had always hoped someone would buy it and fix it up. It had a lot of character, not to mention a lot of floor space, and would have made some great offices, or a hotel, or something.

But now it was a smoking ruin, the interior gutted by man's eternal enemy: himself. They'd gotten the fire out only to find the damage inside laid out in the classic pattern of an incendiary device. Probably a Molotov cocktail or two, given the bits of glass crunching under Mike's feet. The remains of a metal-framed couch in the middle of the room sported more shattered glass and even a few stray rag fragments. Definitely a case for the arson boys. Marco's discovery only upped the ante.

Mike shuddered. The thought of dying a fire was not appealing, even if it was a danger he and his fellow firefighters faced every shift. Mostly they tried not to think about it. Hopefully this poor soul, whoever it was, had passed out from smoke inhalation before things got too hot.

More excited conversation came from the lower floor, and more feet pounded along the corridor outside the room he was working in. Mike paused and wiped at the sweat dripping from beneath the sweatband of his helmet and down his face. You'd think someone, somewhere, would find a way to make the darn headgear comfortable, at least.

"Mike?"

He let his arm drop, the axe dangling from his hand. Chet stood in the doorway to the room, Marco's face just visible over his shoulder. Both men were coated in the fine grit of ash and plaster that accompanied their work. Marco's eyes were hugely dark in the pallid velvet dust covering his face, and he shook with a minute trembling. Mike fought another shudder at the sight of his friend's distress. That body must have been a nasty sight. He hated to admit it, but he was glad he hadn't been the one to find the victim.

"Yeah?" Another swipe at the sweat running down his face, this time annoyingly along his nose.

"You about done? Cap wants us all out of here as soon as possible. Arson investigators are here."

Police? Mike shot another glance at Marco, who now looked like he might throw up at any minute. But neither he nor Chet volunteered any information about the body. Okay, Mike could take a hint. He looked around at the room, destroyed first by firebug and now by firefighter.

"Just about," he said, and the shorter man nodded.

"What's left?" Chet asked, stepping through the doorway. Marco followed, and Mike waved at the other end of the wall he was working on. Both men moved to the attack, and Mike went back to his own end. Then there was nothing but the sound of axe on plaster and wood and the falling of debris.

* * *

The cinnamon rolls never had a chance. In just under thirty seconds, five of the seven steaming, glaze-covered rolls had disappeared completely. The cookies fared better; the men seated around the large, double table in the day room concentrated on the gooey, sugary pastries for now. Mike hid his smile as he took a large bite of his own roll, his hand coming up to snare an errant raisin and guide it to his mouth. The remaining roll crouched wretchedly on the plate as five firefighters licked their lips and fingers, smoothed their moustaches and eyed the roll and each other. Mike ate his pastry slowly, savoring it, waiting to see who would be the first one to break...

"OUCH! Dammit, Gage, don't you ever trim your fingernails?"

"Oh, stow it, Kelly! I barely scratched you!"

"Weren't you two greedy guts raised with any manners at all?" Johnny and Chet both wilted under Cap's glower, Chet sucking on his injured finger. Cap glared at them for another long minute, long enough for Mike to finish his own cinnamon roll. Then, as he licked the last bit of frosting from his fingers, the tableau broke. Cap stood and reached for the remaining pastry. "Since there's only one roll left and there's only one Captain, it makes sense to me that the last roll goes to the Captain. Does anyone here have a problem with that?"

Roy smirked, Marco looked just a bit crestfallen. Johnny and Chet fell over themselves to agree with Stanley. Mike just shook his head when Cap's eyes connected with his. His commanding officer either missed or chose not to comment on the smirk Mike couldn't quite prevent. Nobody else needed to know there'd been an even dozen rolls when the plate first arrived at his house.

"Good," Cap said, and, grabbing his coffee cup, he headed swiftly out of the kitchen with his prize. Sullen silence reigned for a moment after he left, then Chet scooted his chair back.

"Hey, Gage, why don't you get me a bandage for the gouge you left on my finger."

Gage's mouth dropped open in disbelief, and he grabbed Chet's hand, peering closely at the extended finger before shoving it back at the stocky firefighter.

"Chet, that is not a gouge! That's not even a scratch. In fact, that's not even--"

"Those were great, Mike. Where did you get the cinnamon rolls?" Marco's question cut across the fight before it got a good start. He half-stood and reached for the box of cookies. Pulling it over to him, he dug for a cookie. The one he came up with disappeared in one large bite. Roy leaned over and grabbed a cookie too. Cookie in one hand, coffee cup in the other, the blonde paramedic stood and headed for the stove. Mike leaned back into his chair and shrugged.

"My neighbor." He took a long drink of his coffee, and looked up to find all the guys staring at him. Chet rolled his eyes, stood, and walked around the table to perch one hip on the other side of Mike. Johnny, in the chair kitty-corner to him, leaned forward.

"Yes, and..." Chet made a continuing motion with his hand.

Mike took another drink of his coffee, and shrugged again.

"Your neighbor?" Johnny cut in. Mike nodded. "Well, what kind of neighbor? Male? Female? Why give this stuff to you?"

"Female," Mike said, setting the cup down. He looked up to find them all still watching him. "She bakes."

"What kind of female, Mikey?" Chet was getting into it now. "Grandma? Bored housewife looking for some excitement in her life? Professional chef? You know, most girls who can cook stuff like those rolls are usually overly large and overly ugly."

Shifting in his chair and stretching out his legs, Mike shook his head.

"Nope." He kept his face straight, somehow managing not to smirk openly. "Not at all."

Exasperated, Chet sighed. He shared a disgusted glance with Johnny. In the background Marco ducked his head and grabbed another cookie. Coffee refilled, Roy settled against the counter, arms crossed over each other. He sipped his coffee and smiled slightly at Mike. Roy could appreciate subtlety--Marco, too. It was the two in front of him that rarely caught on to Mike's sly humor until it was too late.

"Mike, could you speed things up a bit here? I'd like to finish this conversation before I die of old age."

Picking up his cup, Mike just stared at Chet over the rim. Marco pulled the cookie box closer, the laughter glinting in his dark eyes now unmistakable. It made for a nice change in the firefighter's expression; since literally falling over that girl's body two shifts ago Marco had been unnaturally somber. Still leaning on the counter, Roy wasn't even bothering to hide his amusement--or his disgust.

"Girls or food, girls and food. God, you two are predictable," he said, shaking his head.

"Or pathetic," Marco added, catching the broken bit of cookie falling from his lips with the hand that wasn't already busy stuffing the cookie in his mouth. At Chet's glare, he pushed the cookie box towards his friend. Chet managed to look wounded as he appropriated a cookie for himself. One bite, and his eyebrows went up in surprise. He reached back into the box and grabbed another cookie with his other hand. Batting at the hand Johnny held out, he made a big show of picking out a cookie for the dark-haired paramedic. Johnny rolled his eyes and shook his head before snatching the small cookie Chet held out to him. The glare he gave his nemesis lasted longer than the cookie did.

Mike smiled, just a little. Didn't want to spook his prey. After having police and arson investigators crawling all over them for the last couple of shifts, they could all use a change in focus. Mike hadn't planned on orchestrating things, but hey, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was time to put the gruesome discovery behind them. Helping Johnny and Chet make fools of themselves along the way was just icing on the cake.

Chet finished his cookie, and he and Johnny were once again focused entirely on Mike. Bird dogs had nothing on these two. But it was definitely better than having them obsess over just exactly why someone would tie a young woman inside a burning building.

"Okay, Mike, she's female, she's not a grandma, not a bored housewife, not a plump chef. What is she? Is she datable? Pretty? Young? Come on, man, a woman who can cook like this," Chet held up his second, half-eaten cookie, the crumbs dripping from his moustache, "is definitely worth checking out. Spill it, Mikey."

Mike finished his coffee, placed the cup on the table, turning the handle just so before he looked up at Chet and Johnny's eager expressions.

"She's a caterer."

"A caterer?"

Damn, he could almost see the wheels turning in Johnny's head when he was thinking. Biting back a smile, Mike sniffed carefully. Smell the smoke too.

"That's someone who cooks meals for parties, Johnny," Roy said, coming away from his perch long enough to snag another cookie.

"I knew that, I knew that!" Johnny griped. He shot a glare at his partner, and turned back to Mike. "So, is she young or old?"

"Young."

"How young?" Chet shot at him.

"Twenty-six."

"Married or single?" Chet again. Mouth agape and brow furrowed, Johnny was obviously still thinking.

"Single."

"Is she pretty? You know, attractive?" Johnny beat Chet to the punch that time, his hands describing an hourglass shape in the air as he spoke.

"Hey, Gage, that one had three syllables! Been reading the covers of the women's magazines at the grocery store again?"

Johnny wasted a glare on Chet, before turning his attention back to Mike.

"Well, is she?" he asked.

Mike thought about his neighbor for a minute, and then nodded.

"Yeah, she's pretty. Definitely attractive." Mike's hands echoed Johnny's earlier motion, curving through the air. Johnny sat up straighter, took a breath.

"Is she dating anyone?" Chet beat the paramedic to the punch again.

"How should I know?" Hands resting on the table now, Mike added a slightly indignant look to his act.

"Because it's your business to know, Mike, that's why. A woman who can cook like this---"

"You said that already, Chet." Marco had made some serious inroads on the cookies. Roy was peering over his shoulder at the box. His hand dipped in, and when he pulled it back held not one, but three cookies. Chet ignored both Marco and Roy, leaning forward and putting a hand on Mike's shoulder.

"Can you introduce me?"

"When can I meet her?" Johnny kept his hands to himself, but he, too, was leaning forward in his chair, grinning that goofy grin of his. Well, it might work on the girls, but not on Mike. He stared at the two of them.

"I'd like to remain on her good side, guys."

Roy snorted cookie, and choked. Marco turned around and patted him helpfully on the back. Johnny just glared. Chet lifted the hand he'd laid on Mike's shoulder and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling in a pleading gesture. Yeah, right, like divine intervention would help Chet.

"Mike, be a pal!" Chet protested after his plea went apparently unanswered. At Mike's unrepentant expression, Chet's eyes narrowed, and he rubbed his moustache thoughtfully. "Unless, that is, you've got your eye on her?"

Mike hesitated a second, then shook his head. He beckoned to Marco, and the other firefighter reluctantly pushed the box his way. Mike helped himself to two of the remaining cookies. Just because he had a jarful at home didn't mean he couldn't enjoy a few here at the station with the guys.

"Hey, wait a minute, she did all this cooking for you. Does she have a thing for you?" Johnny's suspicions didn't stop him from grabbing the cookie for which Chet was reaching. He smirked triumphantly at Chet, and took two more cookies before shoving the box toward Marco and, more importantly, out of Chet's reach. Marco happily pulled the box over and reached in.

Swallowing, Mike shook his head.

"We're neighbors, that's all. I took care of her dog while she was busy last week. The food is just her way of saying 'thanks.'"

Coffee cup in hand, Cap returned to the kitchen, making a beeline for the sink. Roy, back at his post against the counter, scooted aside, leaving room for Hank to wash the last of the icing from his hands. That done, Cap refilled his coffee cup, and then turned to watch the proceedings, bracing one arm against the counter.

"You mean all you did was watch her dog and for that she gave you this?" Johnny's incredulous gesture took in the empty plate the rolls had rested on and the nearly empty box of cookies.

Mike nodded, then smiled. He couldn't resist adding, "Last month it was a chocolate coffee cheesecake for helping her install some shelves."

There was absolute silence for a minute. Then a coffee cup thunked on a counter.

"Which, if I recall correctly, we never saw a bit of here at the station," Cap said, slowly. "And I generally recall things like chocolate coffee cheesecake very correctly."

Mike glanced over to find his leader glaring at him, arms crossed over his chest. Uh-oh... Cap had that "Latrine-Duty-For-The-Rest-Of-Your-Career" look on his face. Mike looked away quickly, hopefully before Cap could get the thought fully formed. His other shift mates looked in turn incredulous and wounded that he hadn't shared such bounty with them. Best he not gloat too much.

"It kept in the refrigerator. This stuff has to be eaten while it's fresh."

"You ate an entire chocolate cheesecake by yourself?" Johnny was definitely indignant, definitely.

Sheepishly, Mike nodded, then shook his head.

"Well, Dori had some, and so did Cara."

"Dori? Cara?" Johnny's eyebrows went up, and he shared a speculative look with Chet. "Who--"

Mike smiled.

"My neighbor and her business partner." Well, that had Johnny and Chet off the scent of the chocolate cheesecake, at least.

"Dori? CARA?" Johnny repeated, Chet's echo coming a fraction of a second later. They made a great team, even when they weren't trying. Mike stuffed the last cookie in his mouth to hide his laughter as the two men exchanged hopeful glances. Chet leaned forward, his hand on Mike's shoulder again.

"Mike, ol' buddy, ol' pal, you owe it to--"

The tones went off, and everyone jumped.

"Station 51, KMG-365," Captain Stanley's voice came over the sound of their footsteps, rushing out into the vehicle bay.

* * *

The next day dawned cool, the air soft. It was one of those spring mornings that led songwriters to wax lyrical about the mild California climate, which in turn led to more people moving here. Mike revved his truck gently as he sat in traffic, waiting to turn left onto Maryhill Road. He could hardly complain, being an immigrant himself. The sunny climate of southern California had been one good thing about leaving home when he was seventeen..

Morning traffic was heavy; on his way home, Mike was competing with the rest of the world heading out to work. Easing the truck forward as a car made the turn ahead of him, Mike grinned to himself as he thought about the shift that had just ended. Much to the amusement of everyone else, he'd gotten Chet and Johnny thoroughly wound up about his neighbor and her business partner, dropping little hints and details about the two women throughout the twenty-four hour shift. Hopefully Dori and Cara would forgive him, but between the stalled arson investigation and the lack of runs to keep them busy, they'd needed the entertainment. The highlight of his efforts had been this morning, catching Chet and Johnny thumbing through the "caterers" section of the phone book, trying to figure out which company was Dori's. Fortunately, Mike got away before they could nail him for the actual name. He didn't think either woman would ever forgive him for actually setting Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum on them.

The good thing was, if they ever did chance to meet, Cara and Dori could easily take Johnny and Chet down a peg, or three--and hopefully Mike's name wouldn't come into it at all.

Finally there weren't any more cars ahead of him. A break in traffic, and Mike steered his truck into the turn. The Chevy bumped up and over the railroad tracks, and then he was beyond the strip malls and apartment complexes and in the midst of open fields. It always amazed him that these little oases of agriculture could exist in the midst of the sprawling city, and he was more than grateful that he'd had the money on hand when the chance came to buy a house in such a secluded area. The old farm was marked for development eventually; the fire hydrants the city water department had installed along the road last year guaranteed that. But for now, it was a small, rural paradise in the midst of urban sprawl.

Mike turned right, his truck passing under cottonwoods and oak trees, branches nodding in the faint breeze as they bent to confer with the grey wooden fence stalking along beside the asphalt. On the far edge of the fields they guarded, an old barn slowly gave ground to rampant vegetation, it's form now almost more green than silvery wood. A stark line of tall poplars extended from the barn down to the edge of Mike's own neighborhood, just beyond the barn and its attendant fields of alfalfa, darkly green in the morning light.

Across the road from the hayfield were four older homes, built in the early 1930's. A steeply sloping hill, covered with brush and scattered piñon and scrub oak trees, rose up at the back of the large yards, separating the small neighborhood from the industrial district beyond the hill. Across the street stood the original farmhouse for the property. Dori owned that, a narrow, T-shaped, two-story yellow house with white trim and a long covered porch across the front. At some point someone had added a garage and a large family room off the back left corner of the structure; that's where Dori and Cara had installed the professional kitchen for their business several months ago. Mike had done the fire inspections for them. He'd eaten like a king for the next week. He still ate like a king, whenever they needed help about the place, or when they were trying out new recipes and needed a taste-tester. Johnny and Chet were nuts if they thought he was going to give that up just so's they could strike out with the ladies--again.

He passed the first two houses set back along the gracefully curving road: the pink clapboard, home to the Pattersons and their three screaming toddlers, and the bright blue bungalow, belonging to the dentist and his wife, no kids. Slowing, Mike pulled into his own driveway, directly across the road from Dori's. Immediately past his white bungalow lived Mrs. Caraveggio. A widowed war bride from Italy, Mrs. Caraveggio was always trying to set her "nice fireman next door" up with one her innumerable grand-daughters and great nieces. She thought it an unpardonable sin that he lived alone at the ripe old age of 29, and after two years he'd given up trying to convince her otherwise.

This morning as he set the truck in park and climbed out, he was greatly relieved to see that no one seemed to be home at the Caraveggio's. Hmmm...maybe he should give Mrs. Caraveggio Johnny and Chet's phone numbers. Besides, he had been thinking about making plans to ask Cara out himself. One of these days... Jingling his keys in one hand, he grabbed the newspaper from the first step of the front porch, took the remaining two steps in one jump and let himself in the front door.

Between household chores and errands, Mike's day went by quickly. The expected phone call from Johnny and Chet never materialized. That still didn't preclude one or both of them showing up on his doorstep this evening, so Mike was contemplating a preemptive strike, calling the guys about going out to a movie or bowling. For now, though, he leaned on the door of the refrigerator, eyeing its meager contents, when a dog's frantic barking came through his open front door.

"Back off, you dumb mutt! Get away from me! Argh!" The cry was overwhelmed by a flurry of barking and growling, and then an outraged yelp. More barking and growling, fading away into the distance. Mike hit the screen door at a run. To say Dori's brother, Jason, and Puff, her Newfoundland, did not get along was putting it mildly. Usually the two gave each other a wide berth, or else Dori ran interference for them. But Mike had passed Dori and Cara heading out in their van as he was coming home from the hardware store a couple of hours earlier. That meant no one was home to rescue Jason and Puff from each other.

"NO! Goddamn, idiot dog! Get away from me!" Mike was across the street and heading down Dori's empty driveway when Jason's yells and Puff's furious barking resumed. From the sound of it, they'd run around to the back of the house. While Puff could hardly stand to be in the same room with Jason, Mike had gotten along with the big dog from the beginning. He'd already stepped in a few times between the two, when Dori wasn't around or was too busy to babysit her brother and her dog. The best solution was usually to just take Puff home with him, until Dori came home or wasn't so busy.

Mike skidded around the corner of the garage, and there was Puff. Head down, feathery tail as straight out as it could be, the dog was a malevolent shadow against the shady green lawn. A low growl rumbled through his entire body as he advanced towards Jason, who cowered against the back door inside the small porch on the other end of the addition--demonstrating an admirable vocabulary of swear words.

"Puff! NO!" Mike yelled, and was rewarded with a slight wave of the feathery tail. But Puff still advanced on Jason as Mike slid to a stop a respectful distance away.

"Get him, will ya? Damn dog, I keep telling her she's got to get a muzzle for him!" Jason's voice was shrill. Not that Mike blamed him, not with ninety pounds of pissed-off dog slavering over his skinny carcass. If he got any further up further against the house, the young man would be part of the woodwork. Mike made a shushing motion at Jason with both hands.

"Just don't move and be quiet for a minute." Mike registered Jason's outraged stare out of the corner of one eye, but didn't spare the boy any more attention. "Puff, it's all right. Come here boy," he called, as mildly and firmly as he could. This time he got a friendly swish of the tail from Puff, but the dog refused to be diverted from his target.

"Puff, come on. It's just Jason. It's all right, boy. Come on," Mike cajoled, patting his leg, but the huge dog inched ever closer to the boy.

"Just grab him or something, will ya?"

Mike ignored Jason, concentrating instead on the dog.

"Puff!" he commanded this time. "Come here!"

That earned him a glance from the dog, but then Jason made a move towards escape and all was lost.

"Get him--don't let him--Aaaaaaaaaaaah!" Jason's voice squeaked and then segued into an outright scream as Puff launched himself straight at the boy. Mike launched himself at Puff in the same instant.

For a minute he thought his shoulder was dislocated. But in spite of the pain, Mike kept his one-handed grip on the dog's red collar, even as Puff's momentum slung them both around and down to land in an awkward heap on the grass. There was another long second while Mike wondered if Puff wouldn't finish the aborted attack after all, but after apparently realizing just who it was who lay beneath him in the grass, Puff scrambled up and snorted happily in Mike's face. Mike got his other arm up just in time to fend off the dog's cheerful tongue. He shoved Puff's face away from his own. Nonplussed by the rejection, Puff sat beside Mike, tongue lolling and tail thumping gently on the ground.

Taking a better grip on the dog's collar with his good hand, Mike sat up and gingerly rotated the shoulder that had to have popped completely out of its socket when Puff's full weight hit his arm. It seemed uninjured, so he brushed the grass from his hair and his shirt and wiped dog spit on his jeans. Jason still cowered in the porch, his dark hair wet with sweat and his eyes huge with blind terror. More sweat gleamed on his face, and his mouth hung open. Mike knew the signs; he'd seen more than a few people frozen in fright in his days with the fire department.

"You all right?" he asked, standing up, yanking on the dog's collar to keep Puff at his side.

Jason blinked rapidly several times, and his mouth snapped shut. He focused on Mike, the anger radiating from him palpable. He took two steps towards them, and stopped. In the softening light of evening, his face was pasty, except for two bright red patches burning high on each cheek.

"Yeah, I'm fine, except for that damn dog!" Taking another step their direction, Jason pointed a shaking finger at the dog, and beside Mike, Puff stiffened and growled. "Dammit, I told that bi--I told her to get rid of that mutt! He's gonna kill someone one of these days. Or I'm gonna kill him for her."

"You headed out or coming home?" Mike made his question mild, but the change of subject was obvious even to Jason. Dark eyebrows drew together in a frown as he stared up at Mike, and, again, his mouth snapped shut. The look he gave Mike would have generated icicles in the Mojave. That was fine with Mike. Jason had moved in with Dori one month ago; it had taken all four neighboring households exactly one week to figure out it wasn't just Dori's dog and her brother who did not get along. No one asked, and everyone tried to pretend that no one noticed anything, Mike included. There were some lines neighbors just didn't cross. Mike'd ignored the sullen twenty-two year old's rudeness; he and Dori had been good neighbors for a year now, and that wasn't going to change because Jason and Puff couldn't decide who was the dominant male in the household.

"Out. I'm going out." Jason's growl was remarkably like Puff's, and Mike bit back a grin. Again, he tightened his grip on the dog's collar, and nodded in the direction of his own house.

"I'll take him back to my place until you're gone, then."

The only acknowledgment he got from Jason was a curt nod. Keeping Puff close to his side, Mike headed for home. As he got across the street an engine revved in the distance, growing louder until tires screeched and skidded to a halt. Mike opened his screen door and Puff trotted happily inside, claws clicking on the hardwood floor. Mike looked over his shoulder across the street. Yup, looked like it was another dude's night out for Jason and Co.

Across the street, in Dori's driveway, Jason was clambering into a dune buggy, driven by a stereotypical Southern California beach boy: sunglasses perched on top of his white-blonde hair, overly tan, and blandly good looking. Mike had mentally dubbed the boy "Surfer Bob," in honor of the ubiquitous surf boards fastened in the back of the buggy. He'd heard Dori complaining to the kid about the accumulating skid marks in her driveway, but the boy still announced his every arrival with squealing tires. Mike could have told him that his buggy wasn't that hot, wasn't nearly as hot as the dune buggy carefully parked in Mike's garage.

Watching the buggy roar away tonight, Mike decided that someday soon some engine company would be unwrapping Surfer Bob and his sporty toy car from around a tree. Hopefully it would not be with Jason inside too--or, if so, Mike at least hoped it wouldn't be 51's call. He'd hate to have to be the one to tell Dori that her brother was a jellied mess of invincible youth.

Turning away with a shake of his head, Mike opened his screen door. The phone started ringing and with three long strides he was across the living room to the phone table to grab it.

"Hello?"

Chet's voice rattled excitedly in his ear, and Mike bit back a smile. He leaned on one shoulder in the hallway door as he listened.

"Sure, you bring the drinks and food, you can watch the game over here."

Mike held the earpiece away from his ear as Chet's objection exploded from speaker. Where had Puff gotten to? He turned slowly, looking for the dog as his friend continued to sputter. Through the gap between the breakfast bar and the cabinets above it, he noticed his refrigerator door was still open. One long step had him standing in the kitchen doorway.

"HEY!"

Puff was buried head and shoulders inside Mike's refrigerator, tail wagging so hard his entire hindquarters were wriggling in glee.

* * *

The arson investigators and homicide detectives returned later in the week, haunting the station during the next three shifts 51's A crew worked, and drinking more coffee than all three firefighter shifts put together. Mike shook his head as he tossed yet another empty coffee can into the garbage. Maybe they should send a bill to the police station for "beverage service." Opening a new can, he carefully measured the grounds into the pot, and added water. At the table behind him, Cap was trying to calm Chet and Marco down after this latest visit from Arson.

"Look, guys, it was a murder. A murder. Clary's just doing his job--"

"Trying to make it look like we know something we're not telling them!" Chet must have been really worked up, cutting Cap off like that. Mike adjusted the flame on the burner beneath the coffee pot as Chet continued, his voice shrill with indignance. "Why in the world would we be trying to protect an arsonist, for Christ's sake? We're the ones who have to fight the damn fires they set!"

"Amen to that," said Marco as Mike rejoined the group at the table. Cap sighed, and put his hands out in a placating gesture. Out in the vehicle bay the garage door rumbled, the squad idling outside as the panels slowly lifted.

"Look, fellas, a woman was deliberately left in that building. To die. That's murder," Cap repeated, emphasizing the word with a finger on the tabletop. Hunched over his crossed arms, Chet still looked rebellious, and Marco opened his mouth, but Cap's upraised hand indicated he still held the floor. "The detectives are just trying to get all the information they can. They're not accusing anybody here. Clary was hoping maybe one of you saw something you didn't necessarily realize was a clue." Cap waved away Chet's protest before he even got it out. "I know you don't like it, and I didn't appreciate everything about their approach myself, but they're just doing their job. And they're doing us a favor by getting people like this off the street. Surely even you can see that, Kelly."

Doors slammed in the vehicle bay, unintentionally punctuating Cap's words, and the bay door clicked its way down. Roy and Johnny walked in; hands in their pockets, the two paramedics surveyed the group in silence. Nodding at the two new arrivals, Cap said, "Personally, I'll feel a whole lot better when the freaks who pulled this stunt are behind bars. "

"Not likely to happen, " Marco said softly, "with no leads beyond the tattoo on her back. They can't even identify her yet! How are they going to catch the murderers? They don't even know who was murdered!"

"But they will," Cap insisted, though Mike wasn't quite sure which question he was answering.

Roy and Johnny headed for the coffee, looking disappointed when Mike said, "It's not ready yet." Johnny veered back to open the refrigerator; Roy continued over to lean against the counter. He surveyed the sullen faces of his crewmates.

"I take it we missed the latest visit from Lieutenant Clary and his intrepid brigade of investigators?"

"Yes, you did, and not only did they drink all the coffee again, the man was practically accusing Marco of planting the body there before he found it!" Chet was still angry, and the room exploded into sound as he and Marco both tried to explain the latest indignity from the lead investigator to the paramedics. Cap sighed, and stared at the table. Mike took a drink of his own coffee.

"It will happen again and that's when they hope to catch them." At first he didn't think anyone heard him; not surprising considering the level of noise as Johnny pulled his head out of the refrigerator and began to interject his opinions into the uproar.

"Will you twits SHUT UP! I said!" Cap's yell quieted things down, and he shook his head disgustedly before turning back to Mike. "Say that again, Mike?"

"The police think they'll do it again. That they got a big thrill out of getting away with it this time, and they'll want to do it again and maybe this time there'll be more evidence left behind."

There was a second of shocked silence, and then Johnny, Chet, and Marco all blurted out, "WHY?"

Mike stared at his coffee cup, getting all the words in place before looking up at the five faces staring intently at him.

"Because Lieutenant Clary thinks it was an amateur job. The Molotovs were made of gasoline, not kerosene. He thinks it was a spur of the moment thrill kill, maybe the result of an argument, or to cover up a ra-rape." Mike stumbled over the word, Lieutenant Clary's calm voice echoing in his memory. The man had tossed out the word out like it was an everyday thing. Maybe it was in Clary's world, but it wasn't in the world of firefighting. Mike rubbed at an imaginary spot on the table. "They're hoping at least one of those involved will feel guilty, and maybe turn himself in. Either that or they'll try again, with someone else."

His coffee was cold. Mike stood and walked over to the sink while his shiftmates thought that over. Dumping the contents of his cup out, he reached behind Roy for the fresh pot. Filling his cup, he held the pot up towards Roy. Roy twisted around and lifted two cups; Mike filled them as well. Roy headed for the empty chair beside Johnny, thunking one cup down in front of his partner, but Johnny was staring at Mike, and didn't acknowledge his partner's arrival. Mike had gotten all the way back to his chair when the silence was finally broken.

"How come you know so much, Stoker?" Johnny asked as Chet blurted, "Who filled you in and left the rest of us in the dark?"

Stanley's frown said he'd like to know the answer to that one too. Mike shrugged, and blew on his coffee when it proved too hot to drink.

"Clary was using the phone in Cap's office and didn't close the door all the way. The engine needed polishing." He took an experimental sip of his coffee and grinned as his friends voiced their approval.

"All right, Mikey!" Chet enthused, leaning back and thumping his knuckles on the table. "Way to use the ol' noggin!"

"See, Kelly, that's why Mike's an engineer and you're just a hose jockey." Johnny leaned forward, elbows on the table, and smirked at Chet. Roy rolled his eyes and sipped his own drink while Marco shook his head and smiled at Johnny.

"Gage, you're one to talk--" Kelly started, but Cap cut him off.

"Glad to see some evidence at least one of my crewmembers has a brain," said Cap, picking up his coffee cup and leaning back with his arm behind his chair. The rest of their conversation was cut off by the tones blaring in the vehicle bay.

Mike's gut twisted, and he sat frozen as coffee cups dropped on the table and chairs screeched on the polished floor. Everyone else was out in the vehicle bay, and still he sat there. It wasn't until he heard Cap acknowledging the call that he found his feet. He knocked his chair over rather than scooted it back and raced out to join his crewmates, nearly running over Cap as he handed the address to Roy. Mike grabbed Cap's arm to keep them both from falling over, and then slapped the side of the squad to get Roy's attention. Startled, both Roy and Cap stared at him.

"It's my neighbor's house. Follow me, I know the fastest way there."

He barely registered Roy's nod before he was away, around Cap and then the front of the squad. It seemed to take forever to grab his turnout coat from the running board and slip into it, but at last he was in the cab of the engine and starting it up. Cap hopped up into the other seat, and the garage doors rolled up the last few feet. Roy held back and let the engine lead the way. Mike hit the sirens as he turned left onto the broad boulevard and Station 51 rolled to the rescue.

The small crowd of neighbors scattered across the street as the engine roared down Schefflin Road. The air brakes hissed as Mike brought the engine to a stop in front of the yellow farmhouse. Chet and Marco hopped out before Mike had killed the siren and cut the motor, headed for the rear of the engine and the nearby hydrant. Black smoke billowed from Dori's garage, and as Mike swung down from the driver's seat, a tall woman, her blonde hair only partially confined in a bun and her face soot blackened, ran toward them.

"Dori, she's--she's still in there! The shelf, it fell on her, I couldn't get her out!" Mike opened his mouth, but before he could call out to the frantic woman, Cap was there, grabbing her arm and pulling her around to face him.

"You say there's someone in there? Do you know where exactly?"

"She's in the kitchen, in our kitchen. She wasn't moving and I couldn't get her out, I tried! There was so much smoke when I got here, and--" Her voice broke off into a fit of coughing.

"Where?" Cap demanded.

Cara whirled and pointed at the addition, where more smoke poured from the open door.

"There! In there! Please, you have to get her out!" She coughed again, as Johnny and Roy ran up, turnout coats and air tanks on and SCBA masks dangling from their hands.

"It's okay, we'll get her out; that's our job." Cap's voice was calm, and he gently held Cara by the shoulders. She gulped, and pushed a strand of her long hair back from her face as she stared at him. "Does anyone else live here?"

"Jason--but he hasn't been home all day. We were out looking for her dog, and then Dori stayed to work on the hors d'oeuvres for tomorrow and I left to go to the store and when I got back, there was all the smoke and she was under the shelf and please, you have to get her out!" Cara's voice rose hysterically at the end of that statement, and Cap patted her shoulder gently. She started coughing again.

"That's okay, we'll get her out," Cap repeated.

Keeping one ear tuned to the conversation behind him, Mike turned to the business at hand, getting the hoses hooked up and starting the process of pumping water through the giant engine. Glancing over his shoulder at the house behind him, he saw Johnny and Roy already at the door of the addition. So far Dori and Cara's commercial kitchen seemed to be the source for the billowing smoke. Hopefully this was only a "bean pot," a fire started in the kitchen by the cook, and the rest of the house would be fine. Mike ran for the back of the engine to pull hose with Chet. Marco jogged over from the hydrant across the street to help with the hose, and Mike let him take over while he headed back around to his post at the side of the engine.

Cap left Cara for the moment, waving at the two firemen at the end of the engine.

"Chet, Marco, get that inch and a half and get in there! Mike, you ready to charge the lines?"

Cara started, and turned. Her astonished gaze met Mike's, and he smiled reassuringly at her before nodding at Stanley. Marco and Chet headed for the house, dragging the hose behind them. Cara was coughing again, and Cap came back to steer her over to sit on the running board near Mike.

"Here, sit down and let me get you some oxygen." Cara sat obediently, shivering and staring worriedly at the house in front of them.

Mike watched the gauges as he charged the lines, waiting until Cap had moved away to get the squad's oxygen before he said anything.

"She'll be okay. They'll get her out."

Cara flashed him a worried look and a tentative smile as Cap returned with the oxygen mask, and Mike smiled in return. "With any kitchen fire there's a lot smoke," he said, a bit louder as Cap handed her the mask and turned on the valve. Cara was still watching Mike as she held the oxygen to her face, and he smiled again. Cap nodded to Mike and jogged away, towards the house. Mike kept talking as he made another adjustment. "It's all that grease. Usually looks worse than it is. She should be fine."

It seemed like forever that Mike put his own worry into making sure he did his job right. He juggled levers and dials, watching his gauges, wishing he could think of something more reassuring to say to Cara. But there wasn't much beyond what he'd already said. It all depended on how much smoke Dori'd eaten, and how hard it was to extricate her from beneath that shelf.

Then suddenly Cara dropped the oxygen mask and took off running, heading for where Cap was laying out the paramedics' equipment. Mike glanced over his shoulder. Johnny was jogging across the lawn, Dori draped limply across his shoulders, Roy right behind him. Stanley grabbed Cara and pulled her back from her friend as Johnny gently laid Dori out on the lawn. Mike couldn't hear what Stanley was saying, but he knew the litany well enough. Stay back, let them do their jobs; they'll take care of her. Empty words, really, when someone was frantic with worry for a friend or loved one and could do nothing but wait.

Johnny and Roy worked fast, getting the oxygen Cap retrieved for them on Dori, taking her blood pressure and cutting off her clothing to see how badly she was hurt. Stanley pulled a yellow blanket from the squad for them, one hand still out to keep Cara back. After some long moments and an interminable conversation with Rampart, Roy left Johnny starting an IV for Dori and came over to take Cara off Cap's hands. With one eye still on his gauges, Mike breathed a sigh of relief. If Dori was seriously injured, Roy wouldn't have left Johnny to care for her alone.

Again, Mike concentrated on his job, more sirens announcing the arrival of the ambulance. Stanley headed for the house to check on things there. A sudden commotion at the squad caught his eye; Dori had evidently come to and was struggling with Johnny. Roy and Cara both moved over to help. The next time Mike was able to check, things had calmed considerably. Cara sat beside Dori stroking her hair as both paramedics worked over her for the moment.

Then Cap was calling to Mike to shut down the pumps and disconnect the hoses; the fire was out. Mike hated to think about what the final stage of the firefighting effort would do to his friends' kitchen; this was the hardest part of the job, gutting the walls and destroying the home they'd worked to save, hauling all the belongings outside to be certain the fire was truly out. At least the fire had been contained in the addition, and hadn't spread to the rest of the house. Mike spared a glance at the squad. Johnny spoke urgently to Dori, who coughed and pulled at the oxygen mask. Pushing Roy's restraining hand away, she sat up, clutching the blanket over her shredded clothes. Johnny leaned over and said something to his partner. Roy shrugged, and Johnny stood, heading over to the engine.

"How are they?" Mike asked, as soon as the slender paramedic was close enough he didn't have to yell.

Mike's gaze followed Johnny's as he looked over his shoulder at the scene behind him. Holding the blanket and the remains of her shirt with one hand, Dori was shaking her head and pulling the oxygen mask off with her other hand. Roy reached out and pushed the mask back, saying something with a smile. Dori relaxed, and let the oxygen mask remain, but she still shook her head in answer to whatever Roy was saying to her. The ambulance attendants stood mutely in the background.

"The blonde, Cara?" Johnny made the name a question, and Mike nodded. "She's fine. She ate a little smoke, but nothing serious." Johnny and Mike both watched as Cara threw her hands up in the air and shook her head at Roy. Dori pushed the mask off her face and said something, but Cara shook her head again. Confused, Mike looked back to Johnny. The paramedic answered without looking at him. "Dori, she...well, she ate quite a bit of smoke, and that shelf fell on her. She doesn't seem to have any serious injuries, and she probably wasn't unconscious that long 'cause she's oriented times three. But she could have a concussion, and...." Hands on his hips, the paramedic hesitated, opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before he gave Mike an oblique look. "She's got some nasty bruises. She really should go in to Rampart and be seen by a doctor."

Even more confused, Mike frowned. "The ambulance is here. Can't you just take her in?"

Johnny sighed, and shifted to look Mike full in the face.

"She's refusing medical treatment. Doesn't want to go to the hospital, won't go see her own doctor. She ate enough smoke there's a chance of pulmonary edema, and she really should be under observation tonight for that and...and the probable concussion." Again Johnny seemed to be about to say more, but looked away instead. After a second his gaze shifted back to Mike. "Do you think you could talk her into going in?"

Mike looked past Johnny to where Roy was talking urgently to Dori. Her head down, every line in her body stiff, Dori was the picture of obstinate refusal, until she began coughing. Johnny shook his head as she coughed on. Roy hovered over her, obviously trying to convince Dori to put the oxygen mask over her face. She relented as the coughing continued, and even allowed the paramedic to gently push her back down to the ground. Cara knelt worriedly at her side. She exchanged a few comments with Roy as he pulled the blanket up to Dori's shoulders. He shook his head and said something as he reached for the biophone again. Then Cara stood and stared at Dori, who had finally stopped coughing, before taking off towards the front door of the house.

"I don't know, Johnny. If Cara can't talk her into it, what makes you think I can? It's her choice, isn't it?" He shrugged, absently tracking the leggy blonde's progress across the lawn. But Johnny refused to give up.

"Just give it a try, Mike. She really needs to be seen by a doctor," Johnny insisted. "It may take a while for the effects of the smoke inhalation to catch up to her, but if it does and she's not near help, she could be in serious trouble. She seems oriented right now, but if there's a chance she's not..."

Still watching Cara, now taking the stairs up to the front porch two at a time, Mike shrugged against the weight of the paramedic's concern.

"All right, I'll try. But I doubt it will do any good."

Johnny nodded shortly, and headed back towards the squad. He and Roy exchanged comments quietly, and Roy gave Mike the same funny look he'd just gotten from Johnny. What in the world had those two so spooked? Both paramedics then busied themselves packing up their equipment. Mike sighed, and dropped the hose end he'd been holding.

Chet and Marco came out of the addition as he made his way over to the squad. He knew they were going to exchange their hose for axes, and he was glad Cara was in the house. Maybe he could keep Dori occupied, and neither woman would realize right away what more was going to be done to their beloved kitchen.

Holding the blanket up to her chest, Dori tried to sit up as he stopped and squatted beside her. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike caught Johnny's involuntary motion and put his own hand out to keep her down on the ground. Laying back, Dori shook her head, and reached up to pull the mask off her face. She held up her other hand and he clasped it. Johnny stepped away, carrying his load of equipment to the other side of the squad. Roy still hovered on Dori's other side, just far enough away to be out of her sight, but close enough to keep an eye on her.

"You're all a bunch of overprotective so and so's," Dori mumbled, scowling at Mike. She returned his grin with a matching one of her own, but the effect was marred by the coughing that consumed her. Mike studied her as she fought to catch her breath. There were several dark smudges on her arm, but he couldn't tell if they were bruises or from the fire.

Even with her smoke blackened face and the blood trickling from beneath a bandage on her right temple, Dori Steadman was one of the few people Mike knew who really looked like her name. Nearly a foot shorter than his own six foot, three inches, her shoulder-length black hair accented her gently tanned complexion. Generously proportioned, but not overdone, she'd have been unremarkably pretty except for her eyes. Large and dark, with thick black lashes, they dominated her face. Despite being born in California, the cadences of her Georgia childhood governed her speech, and Mike had learned from Cara to tease Dori about her "southernisms."

"Cara said you were here," Dori said, her voice raspy from the smoke, and Mike winced. Her throat would be raw for several days at least, if he was any judge. She coughed, and then spoke again. "She was quite impressed...seeing you in action." She managed an unrepentant smile as she teased him, and, kneeling beside the biophone on her other side, Roy chuckled. Mike hoped the heat climbing up his face couldn't be seen in the fading light, and he shrugged. Dori coughed again, and he reached over to pull the oxygen mask down over her face, ignoring the fact she rolled her eyes at him.

"You know, despite their funny looks, Johnny and Roy know their stuff. If they say you should go to the hospital, they're serious, Dori. Why don't you let them take you in?" Even beneath the mask Mike could see her jaw clench, and he wasn't surprised when she shook her head at him. His other hand caught hers before she could get the mask off again. "Besides, you'll break Johnny's heart if he doesn't get to ride in the ambulance with you," he whispered conspiratorially. "He's been dying to meet you ever since I took that plate of cinnamon rolls in to the station."

Her eye roll at that comment was even more pronounced than the last one, and Mike grinned. This time he let her pull the oxygen mask up.

"Thank you so much for attempting to coordinate my social life," she managed before she started coughing again. "Didn't you call him 'One-shot Gage?' The man who couldn't get a woman to go out with him twice?" Mike heard Roy stifling more laughter as he packed up equipment, and he had to swallow his own laugh as he nodded in response to Dori's question.

"Oh, my, you are too kind, Mr. Stoker," Dori rasped. "See if I ever feed you again. Of course, Cara would give you anything your little ol' heart desired--should you ever get the nerve up to ask her, that is." Roy quit trying to hide his laughter at that point and Mike shot him a glare to avoid having to find a come back to that last comment. Dori was laughing at him too, in between coughs. He pulled the oxygen mask down over her face.

"I think you inhaled a little too much smoke," he said, and Dori, surprisingly, laid her head back and closed her eyes. But she was still grinning behind the mask.

Cara returned from her errand, a bulky bundle of material in her hands. She stopped beside Mike, smiling broadly at him. Her long blonde hair was coming out of its bun, and Mike found himself staring at the curve of her neck beneath the locks of hair. Where Dori was soot and cinders, with an impish ambiguity, Cara was a clean, smokeless flame. Tall and slim, the hazel-eyed California native had a casual elegance and a naturally calm manner that didn't quite disguise an excellent sense of humor. As intensely capable as her friend, Cara was a natural gas fire, cool and clear and blue next to Dori's smouldering peat on the hearth. Mike had known from the beginning which he preferred.

"Oh, they called in the heavy artillery, did they?" Cara asked, winking at him. Mike felt the heat of another blush creeping up his face, and, letting go of Dori's hand, stood. Maybe his height would hide any unnatural color in his cheeks. Cara shook her head. "Let me guess, she won't listen to you, either?"

"No," he answered, and it was Cara's turn to roll her eyes. She shook out her bundle, a thick, terry-cloth robe.

"God, you are an obstinate creature, aren't you?" Cara said, kneeling beside her friend. Dori shook her head minutely as she pulled the oxygen mask off completely. Roy was there to take it. Toying with the cord and the mask, he looked at Dori, then at Cara and up at Mike.

"I really wish you'd let us--"

"No." Dori shook her head again, holding her arm towards him. Roy sighed, dropping the mask and tubing on the grass. His reluctance obvious, he reached for her arm and quietly disconnected the IV. Stowing that debris, he put a band-aid over the small wound left when the catheter was removed from Dori's arm. Giving Mike a look he couldn't interpret, Roy turned away and picked up the biophone handset.

"Rampart, patient is refusing medical treatment."

Tuning out the rest of Roy's conversation with one of the doctors at Rampart, Mike took a step back. Dori sat up, Cara swinging the robe about her shoulders at the same time. Holding the yellow blanket up with one hand, she helped Dori slide her arms into the robe.

His conversation over, Roy had discretely moved away, packing up the oxygen and shooing off the ambulance attendants. Mike looked over toward the house, watching as Cap and Marco manhandled a large shelf out of the oversized door and added it to the growing pile of charred debris in the driveway. When he turned back, Dori was sitting up, the robe pulled snugly about her. Cara still knelt beside her, gathering the scraps of clothing that Johnny and Roy had scattered as they worked on Dori. Dori coughed again, putting her hand over her mouth. The grayish sputum left on her hand afterwards was obvious, even as she tried to wipe it on her robe. Mike tried again.

"Dori, please--"

"I'm fine." She cut him off, staring at the growing pile of debris on her driveway. "Mike, we are in debt up to our necks, and we have no insurance." Dori swallowed a cough. "The repairs for this will take all my savings and probably our profits for the next few months. I don't need a hospital bill on top of that. If you--"

"Dori--" Cara was standing beside him now, and Mike found himself wishing that he could smell her perfume instead of smoke.

"Cara, I'm fine!" Dori held one hand up, and Mike helped her to her feet. She coughed, staggering against him briefly, before pushing away and standing straight, grabbing the robe and holding it closed at her neck. "I was fixing to tell Mike, if he wants to help, he can give us the name of a reputable contractor who will get this repaired quickly and for a reasonable cost."

"I'm gonna 'fix' you for being such a stubborn fool! I thought blondes were supposed to the be dumb ones." Cara turned and stalked off up the driveway, where pieces of cabinetry were now being tossed out of the kitchen onto the stack of debris. She threw the remains of Dori's clothes on the pile. Cap appeared in the doorway and caught her arm just before she stepped into the building. Mike's attention was drawn away from the ensuing argument by Johnny's appearance at his side. A clip-board in his hand, he dug his lime-green pen from his shirt pocket as he held the board out to Dori.

"If you're still refusing medical treatment, I need you to sign this form."

Mike didn't miss the appraising look Dori gave Johnny as she accepted both pen and clipboard. Then she signed the form and handed it back to him with a smile that bordered on simpering. Johnny answered with his own lop-sided grin as he tore her copy from beneath the official one. Mike groaned. Oh god, it wasn't happening, it wasn't. He wasn't going to watch if it was. Maybe he'd better get up to the house before Chet started making time with Cara. He gave Dori a fraternal pat on one shoulder.

"I'm gonna go rescue Cap from Cara. We'll be out of your hair in a little bit. And I'll come by tomorrow to see how you're doing, all right? I know a good contractor you can call. Retired firefighters, they'll do you right."

Dori nodded her thanks, swallowing another cough, and turned her attention back to Johnny, who was smiling broadly now. Mike headed for relative sanity of the house, where Cara's cries of dismay could be plainly heard over the sound of axes.

* * *

The good news, Mike thought as he scrubbed at a particularly persistent spot of mud on the locker room floor, was that after spending his last four days off helping Cara and Jason clean up the mess left by both fire and firefighter, he finally had a date with Cara. The bad news was that it had been simply to give her a ride to the airport last night. Oh well, the two weeks she'd be gone visiting family in Colorado gave him time to figure out just where he could take her on a date. It didn't make sense to take a woman who could cook circles around 95% of the city out for a dinner date--at least, not at the kind of restaurant Mike could afford. He'd have to be a little more creative with his entertainment choices.

The mud finally broke loose and Mike wiped it up. He dunked the mop in the bucket, and then the wringer, leaning on the lever to squeeze the mop out. Cara did drive a sporty 60's Buick Opel. Maybe she'd enjoy going to that new go-cart race-track...

On second thought, maybe he'd just have to bite the bullet and ask Dori for some ideas on where to take Cara. Except Dori wasn't exactly happy with any of them right now. In addition to being worried about Puff's disappearance, she'd been forced by group fiat to sit on the porch for the last few days, taking paper inventory of the salvageable supplies they brought to her. Her persistent cough and hoarseness had left Mike with no doubt that Johnny had been right; she really would have been better off going to the hospital. But he and Cara both had been shot down every time they'd tried to get her to even go to her own doctor. They'd finally given up. "Let her suffer, then," Cara had said, and Dori, uncharacteristically sullen, had simply scowled and stifled another cough as she counted fondue forks.

Dori might have been in a funk, but the normally surly Jason had been surprisingly helpful and pleasant--until light dawned for Mike. Jason wasn't helping Mike, or even Dori. Jason was helping Cara. Dori's brother had a crush on her business partner and best friend. Mike ought to recognize the signs; he was familiar enough with them. It was actually kind of funny, and, if Mike was completely honest with himself, it was what finally pushed him into asking Cara for a date. He wasn't worried about competition from Jason; after all, he had seven years and eight inches on the kid. But still, the thought that a kid like Jason had the guts to do what he did not rankled enough that Mike had finally bitten the bullet and asked her out.

He'd been honestly surprised when Cara had said "yes;" so was a scowling Jason, evidently eavesdropping on the conversation. Fortunately that had been at the end of the day's work, when Cara was getting into her car. Jason's sullen glare had followed Mike all the way home, and Mike had to resist the urge to turn around and gloat to the boy's face.

"Roy, I'm telling you, we're probably just overreacting."

The thump as he opened the door accompanied Johnny's voice into the locker room. Hidden by the two banks of lockers between them, Mike kept mopping. He was just about done. Spying another muddy footprint, he swished the mop over it.

"Don't forget, Johnny, I saw the same thing you did. And I don't think we're overreacting." Roy's voice, low and intense followed the squeak of a locker door opening. Mike pushed the mop over the floor in the far corner of the room. Sounded like Johnny and Roy's last run hadn't been very pleasant.

"Yeah, but..." A bench squeaked, and there was silence for a minute. "Okay, supposing we do say something? What exactly can he do about it? Anything? Anything at all?" There was silence for a moment. In a hurry to finish, Mike swept the mop under a bench. What had C shift done, answered a call at a mud wrestling tournament? Roy evidently didn't have an answer for Johnny, because after a second the dark-haired paramedic's voice continued. "Not much, hunh? Be realistic, Roy. There's just not a whole lot anyone can do in this kind of a situation. What's--"

"But what if we don't say anything and something worse happens? Are you willing to live with that?" Roy's rebuttal came softly, almost inaudible over the swish of the mop and the air conditioning kicking in.

"Roy, I just don't--"

The wringer clanked against the bucket as Mike dropped the mop into it, and the locker room fell silent. Steering both mop and bucket by the mop handle, Mike pushed it out from the back bank of lockers and toward the front of the room. Johnny and Roy were both there when he came out from between the rows. Hands dangling between his knees, Johnny sat on the bench in front of his open locker, and Roy leaned on one shoulder against the next locker over, hands shoved into his pockets. Mike paused for a moment to get a better grip on the mop and move the bucket on out of the room.

"Hey, guys. Tough run?"

He waited for a moment, while Johnny and Roy stared at him, wide-eyed. Then finally, Johnny blinked, and shooting a look at Roy, managed a sick grin for Mike.

"Uh... yeah." Johnny's entire body moved when he nodded, his shoulders bobbing along with his head. "Yeah, yeah. You, ah...you could say that." He laughed nervously, and glanced over at his partner. His gaze sliding away from Mike's, Roy shrugged.

"Yeah...." was all the blonde paramedic offered, ducking his head and looking down at the floor.

"Okay." Both paramedics looked at him then, Roy from up underneath his bangs, and Johnny just sitting there, staring. Mike couldn't resist checking his reflection in the mirror, just to be certain he hadn't been the unwitting victim of one of Chet's Phantom pranks. Nope, no dark circles under his eyes, no green dye on his uniform, no funny milk mustache on his face. Okay, maybe the guys wanted privacy to finish hashing all this out. He could understand that. Besides, he hadn't meant to eavesdrop--this time. He couldn't help it if he was naturally quiet.

Mike took a better grip on the mop, ready to wheel it on out and give Johnny and Roy their privacy. But Johnny shifted, looked at Roy, who shrugged. Johnny turned back to Mike, held out one hand towards him, and took a deep breath. But the tones sounded before he could say anything. Mike shoved the mop and bucket over toward the wall, then followed Johnny and Roy as they scrambled for the door. The dispatcher's voice echoed through the vehicle bay as they exited the locker room.

Mike stopped and bit back a grin as Johnny nearly ran into the engine. Catching himself with one hand, Johnny looked over his shoulder at Mike, his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline.

"Did he say sewing machine?"

Smiling, Mike nodded, and Johnny rolled his eyes before running around the engine to the squad. The vehicle doors slammed over Cap's voice acknowledging the call, and someone opened the bay doors for the guys. As the squad rolled out of the station, Cap's phone rang, his footsteps loud on the floor as he ran back into his office to answer it. Mike headed back into the locker room to finish putting away his mop. Whatever Johnny had been about to say would have to wait.

Chores done, Mike headed for the day room. He had a date with the entertainment section of the LA Times and a cup of coffee. Thirty minutes later he hadn't come up with anything interesting, besides the fascinating fact that Steeleye Span was opening for Jethro Tull's concert in two weeks. Maybe Dori would know if Cara's musical tastes would accommodate obscure British folk rock.

"So, you gonna ask Cara to give you cooking lessons?"

Mike glared at Chet when the firefighter's face appeared, grinning suggestively over his newspaper. Marco stood behind Chet, holding two cups of coffee. Mike lowered the paper as Marco offered one cup to Chet.

"Why should I?" he asked, when Chet's gaze returned to him.

Carefully holding his coffee, Chet rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Why? WHY? Mike, man, think!" Mike just glared, and Chet was glad to continue. "May I remind you about last week? It was your turn to cook and you made that...that...what the heck was it called?" Chet lifted his eyebrows and looked forlornly to Marco for help, but the other firefighter just shrugged and drank his coffee.

Mike frowned and folded the paper before dropping it on the couch. Okay, so Dori's recipe for Chicken Parmigiana was more complicated than it looked at first glance. He grabbed his cup up from the floor and stalked over to the range.

"Okay, fine, so for once my cooking didn't turn out--"

"Once? ONCE?" Chet shuddered as he followed Mike across the day room. "Mike, even Gage's record in the kitchen beats yours."

"I don't know, Chet," Marco said from his seat on the couch, where he leafed one-handed through the paper Mike had abandoned. "Hot dogs are pretty low on the food scale. And you gotta admit Mike's never tried to serve those to us."

Chet set his cup down on the counter and focused on Marco. Leaning against the counter next to him, Mike resisted the urge to pick up the nearby salt shaker and pour salt into the coffee.

"Yeah, but what do you call what he tried to feed us last week? That stuff was scary, man! Looked some sort of chemical warfare experiment gone nuts." One hand in his pocket, Chet leaned over to Mike. "You gotta take the chance here while you've got it, Mikey. Get some lessons, learn how to cook some real food. Your public will adore you for it."

Mike slammed his cup on the range top.

"You guys like my spaghetti. And my fried chicken." He leaned over the shorter man, daring him to deny the truth of that statement. Chet nodded agreeably.

"Well, yeah, sure, Mike, sure we do. But..." He waved a finger at Mike's chest for emphasis. "You gotta admit, two years of spaghetti and fried chicken, man, it's getting a little old, ya know?"

Stepping closer to Chet, Mike glared at his friend.

"I don't hear you complaining to Cap about his clam chowder, or how often he makes it."

"Well, duh, Mikey. That's 'cause he's the Cap and you're not. What kind of a fool do you think I am?"

"Do you really want us to answer that?" Marco said from the couch. Mike smirked as Chet grimaced. Chet's exasperation didn't last, and he quickly started in on Mike again.

"Look, Mike, all I'm saying is you've got a golden opportunity here. Why not take advantage of it? When you're the Captain, I promise I won't complain--"

"What's this about Stoker taking my job?"

Stanley stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, his glare taking in both Chet and Mike.

"It wasn't me, Cap." Mike defended himself quickly, grabbing his coffee and throwing his own glare at Chet as he headed back to the couch and his paper.

"Hey, Cap, I was just suggesting that Mikey take the opportunity to get some cooking lessons, while he can." Chet threw both hands out in an attempt to look innocent. Stanley just shook his head and headed for the coffeepot himself. Mike shoved Henry over and settled on the couch after reclaiming the Entertainment section of the newspaper from Marco.

"How're your neighbors doing, Mike?" Stanley asked a few moments later, settling into a chair at the table. He propped his feet in a nearby chair and slouched back, sipping at his coffee as he waited for Mike's answer. Mike dropped the paper he was perusing just enough to meet Stanley's questioning gaze.

"They're doing all right. I think McPherson gave them a break on the cost of the repairs, so they were pretty happy about that. Figure they can be back in business by the end of the month."

"Good, good. That's really good to hear." Cap sighed moodily, and stared at nothing as he lifted his coffee cup again. Chet, settling in at the other end of the table, frowned. Marco dropped the paper he'd been reading, and all three men stared at Stanley. Realizing everyone's eyes were on him, Cap took a deep breath.

"I just heard from Clary. We got an i.d. on our body." There was silence, and Cap shook his head. "Amanda Parsons. She was a known prostitute, worked that area regularly. Her...roommate reported her missing a couple of days ago; they identified her as the victim from our arson by dental records and the remains of the tattoo on her back."

None of the other men in the room said anything. Stanley let the silence settle, then cleared his throat.

"Anyway, they think she just happened to pick up the wrong...client, and the arson was to cover up the fact that things...things got out of hand."

"But those were Molotov's, Cap. You don't just keep those handy for occasional use." Chet wasn't the brightest bulb in the fixture, but even he had a good idea now and then.

"I know, and I asked Clary about that, but he didn't seem to think it was an issue."

"So, he's gonna stop looking for an arsonist, and start looking for a pervert. And we're left at the mercy of a firebug out there burning buildings up."

"Yeah, well, C shift had another suspicious fire, the fire marshall is over there now checking it out. An abandoned house, over on Dunedin Road."

"But no body this time," Marco said, staring at the paper, slack in his hand.

"No, pal, no body this time." Stanley's voice was soft, and there really wasn't much for anyone to say after that.

* * *

Sometimes the slow shifts were harder to deal with than the busy ones. Marco had been somber the entire shift, and whatever was bugging the paramedics had left Johnny short-tempered and Roy uncharacteristically sullen. Chet had refused to let the cooking lesson thing drop, and by the time bedtime rolled around Mike had been about ready to deck him to make him shut up. All in all, not one of A shift's better days. They were toned out at 1 a.m. on a nasty MVA where three out of four victims were Code F at the scene and the fourth not expected to make it. At 5 a.m. it was a structure fire that kept them busy until well after 7 a.m. They returned to the station minutes before B shift arrived.

And it wasn't even over for Mike at the end of his regular shift. He'd volunteered to cover part of B shift for their engineer, Roger Daniels. Poor man had to be in divorce court this morning; his wife was tired of being married to the fire department. Ten hours after the shift change, after three "unknown" rescues, two dumpster fires and an MVA, Mike arrived home. He kicked the front door shut behind him and dropped his keys on the coffee table. Forget supper, he needed a nap. Mike flopped on his couch and closed his eyes.

Three hours later he sat straight up, his heart pounding. For a moment he was disoriented in the semi-darkness of the room, but another series of frantic knocks got his feet to the floor. Taking a deep breath and rubbing one hand over his face, he stood. He checked his watch as he stepped over the coffee table on his way to the door. Damn, it was nearly nine o'clock! He hadn't intended to sleep that long, hadn't intended to do more than catnap for a few minutes before finding some supper--not to mention he was supposed to be meeting the guys at the bowling alley right this minute.

Mike turned on the lamp by the door before hitting the switch for the porch light. Through the sheer curtains over the front door's window, he could vaguely make out Dori, her arms wrapped around her as she leaned forward, peering into the house. The heavy wooden door opened with a creak, and Mike pushed the screen door out and held it for her. But Dori didn't come in, she just stared at him. For a second he thought she had a black eye, but then she moved. The shadows flowed across her face, and he saw that it was just her mascara, smeared under her eyes. Taking half a step outside, Mike looked closer. Her hair was a mess, the sleeveless shirt and jeans she wore looked like she'd been rolling in the dirt. Then he noticed the puffy eyes, red nose, make-up streaked across her face...

"Dori? What's wrong?" Pushing the door open further, he gestured for her to come in, but she backed off, shaking her head. She looked away, over at her house, and then at him, opening her mouth as if to say something. Instead she coughed, swaying slightly, and stumbled as Mike stepped out onto the porch. He reached for her arm, but, hunching her shoulders, she avoided his grasp and stared somberly up at him.

"I...I need your help, Mike."

More than the scent of Mrs. Caraveggio's roses came wafting toward him at that, and Mike frowned. Dori hadn't been his neighbor that long, but he'd seen enough of her to know she never seemed like the type to drink much. But here she was, wobbling all over his porch and obviously soused.

Dori hiccupped, swayed again. Mike stepped closer, afraid she was going to take a header down the porch steps, but she steadied herself. Staring up at him, she sniffed, then coughed.

"It--it's Puff... I can't...I can't move him, and I thought you might be able to help me..." One hand went up to her head for a moment, and she blinked, looking away, obviously fighting tears. Tears ran down her face anyway, further streaking her mascara. "I...I'm sorry to bother you, but I didn't want to leave him lying there all night..."

More than a little concerned, Mike reached for her arm again, but she swayed slightly, just enough to stay out of his reach. He couldn't tell if she was doing it on purpose or not, but he let his hand fall. No sense pushing things and causing her to fall.

"Puff came back?" he asked, studying her.

Dori shook her head, frowning slightly through her tears. She wiped one hand across her face and then against her nose, but it didn't do much good.

"He, he...he wasn't ever really gone," she said, wiping her hand on her jeans now, but before Mike could ask her what in the world that meant, his phone rang.

"Dori, come on in for a minute, okay?" She hesitated, and Mike reached out to take her elbow, this time making contact. She flinched, but didn't resist as he pulled her into the house, steadying her when she tripped over the doorstep. The phone shrilled again as he carefully guided her to the armchair by the front window. "Just wait here while I answer the phone, and then I'll help you with Puff. Okay?"

Staring blankly at him, Dori nodded once, and then pulled her arms in tight to her body as she sank slowly into the chair. She didn't relax into it; instead she perched on the edge of the seat, hands clenched as she rocked slightly. Her eyes not quite meeting his, she focused on a spot somewhere over his shoulder. With a final concerned glance at her, Mike turned and headed for the phone, grabbing it on its eighth or ninth ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mike, did you forget the league tonight?" Johnny's voice floated from the receiver. Mike turned to keep an eye on Dori. She seemed to have retreated into her own little world for the moment. After a second he realized Johnny was still waiting for an answer. The yells and cries of the bowlers in the alley floated from the phone.

"Mike?"

"No, I didn't forget; I fell asleep after I got home and just woke up."

"Oh. Well, there's still time for you to make it. We're just now warming up; the early league ran late."

Still watching Dori, swaying minutely back and forth in the chair as if caught in some invisible eddy, Mike frowned.

"Uh, Johnny...I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it tonight."

"What do you mean, you can't make it tonight? You know we can't get a substitute this late! Just come on over; it doesn't matter if you didn't get a shower or anything," Johnny cajoled. "You'll still smell better than ol' Chester B. on a good day."

"Look, Johnny, I'm sorry, but I can't. Something's come up, okay?"

"Oh, yeah? What's her name?"

Mike sighed, turning away for the moment from Dori's distress, focusing instead on the calendar of Classic Fin Cars hanging above his telephone.

"Johnny, look, I said I'm sorry. I don't have time to explain right now. I need to go. I'll be there later if I can."

Johnny's protest was cut off in mid-sentence as Mike dropped the phone back into its cradle. He stared uncertainly at the 1957 Bel Air gleaming above April's calendar, before he turned back to Dori. Nothing had changed, and his confusion mounted. She sat bobbing to whatever internal unrest held her, staring off into the distance, appearing like anything but the capable young professional woman he'd come to know over the last few months. What in the world could have happened to Puff to cause this sort of a reaction in her?

She didn't seem to see him until he crossed the room and sat on the coffee table in front of her. Then she started and her eyes grew huge as she flinched away from him.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's just me." He immediately dropped the hand he'd half lifted to her shoulder.

It took her a second, but she focused on him, and then favored him with what should have been a bright smile but was instead a ghastly grimace beneath the streaked make-up. For a minute, Mike had the unsettling thought that it wasn't Dori sitting there at all; rather it was some little girl, some very lost little girl, playing with her mother's make-up. Unsettled, he shook that image away, helped by the fact that she hiccupped and burped just then. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth and she mumbled "Sorry" as she looked away. Instinctively, Mike pulled back from the scent of...bourbon. That's what it was. His step-father had allowed the stuff in the house for holidays, and that was it. Mike had been more than a little clueless about adult beverages until he went to college. He'd learned more then he really wanted to know about them since he joined the fire department. But that particular smell was one he would never forget.

Tilting her head to one side, Dori was staring up at him now.

"Mike, Mike, Fireman Mike," she chanted, smiling at him. "Cara, she likes you, you know? She likes you a lot. Better than she likes Jason." Dori giggled. Mike grinned, and shook his head, hoping she wouldn't notice his blush. Then again, in her inebriated state, she probably wasn't noticing much at all.

"Yeah, well, tell you what, why don't we skip this part of the conversation?"

Dori nodded agreeably and smiled. Okay, now what? Should he get her to take him to Puff, or should he just take her home? Dori took care of that dilemma, shivering suddenly and turning away from him. For the first time Mike noticed the series of bruises on her upper arm. Livid against her pale skin, the long, dark contusions looked almost like claw marks.

"Is that from the fire?"

She didn't even look, just nodded, covering the bruises with her hand.

"There was a lot of stuff on the shelf when it fell on me," she said, tonelessly. Mike frowned. What had Johnny said at the scene, that she had a lot of nasty bruises? Maybe he and Cara should have pushed her harder about going to the hospital after all.

He stared at Dori while she rubbed absently at her arm. After a few seconds Dori looked up at him, and the haunted little girl was back in her eyes. "Will...will you help me with Puff?" she whispered.

Mike nodded, and couldn't stop the thought that his capable neighbor looked like she need help with a whole lot more than Puff at this moment.

"Yeah. Of course I will." Standing, he held out a hand to help her up, but she pushed herself to her feet using the arms of the chair instead. Okay, Mike could take a hint. He didn't try to assist her again, merely held the door open for her as they left the house.

Neither one said anything as they made their way across the street. Mike had to keep pulling his hand back every time she stumbled. But somehow Dori never fell, even when she tripped over the lines in her cement driveway. Wavering slightly, she led him around the side of her house and into the backyard. They walked all the way across the grassy expanse, and then were into the rough grass and gnarled apple trees at the back of her lot, remnants of an old orchard that stood between Dori's house and the ruined barn. Literally tripping through the trees, she somehow made it through the orchard without a major collision. Then she led him down the dirt road that ran along beside the poplars and out to the deserted barn, glinting silver in the moonlight. They'd gone about thirty feet down the road when she stopped.

A flashlight lay on the ground in front of them, its dim light trailing across a strange, dark shape and faintly illuminating the green alfalfa in the field beyond it. It was a moment before Mike realized the misshapen mass was Puff, lying motionless on the ground. Dori hung back, sniffling, as he knelt beside the dog, his hands out to verify what he already knew in his heart.

Puff was sprawled half on, half off a khaki tarp and there was no mistaking the huge dog was dead. Had been dead for a couple of days, if Mike was any judge. Mike gently smoothed the black fur, noting how dirty and matted it was. Even in the open air of the field, the dog reeked of feces and urine. The body felt strange, after a moment Mike realized it was because he could feel the bones through the fur. In the yellowed beam of the flashlight he couldn't make out why exactly the dog had died. Mike hung his head, his hands clenched in the loose fur. However it had happened, the poor dog had died alone and in misery. He'd miss the big dumb mutt, he really would.

Given the dog's position on the tarp, it looked like Dori had been attempting to drag him back to her house, but from where? And how had Puff been missed, if he was out here in the field? Dori had been turning the entire neighborhood upside down looking for him the last week, and Mike knew he'd seen her back on this road at least once. Cara had forcibly removed her back to the porch that time, but he was sure it wasn't the only time she'd been back here, searching.

He turned to look at his neighbor. Light from the many streetlights beyond them and from the flashlight glinted off the tears on her face.

"I'm sorry, Dori." There was no reaction to his apology; Dori simply stared down at her dog. Mike turned back, laying his hand on Puff's head. "Where did you find him?"

"He, he was a, a graduation present...from, from my brother."

Okay, that wasn't quite what he had in mind, but at this point it probably didn't matter where Puff had been. Catching his glance, Dori licked her lips and tried to smile, but that failed, miserably. She bit her lip instead, an obvious attempt to stifle more sobs. Wrapping her arms tightly about her, she shivered in the temperate night air.

"From Jason?" Mike couldn't help the skepticism, but either Dori didn't notice, or she didn't care. She shook her head, and then staggered, just a bit. One hand went out to help her, but she didn't need it. She stepped aside, staring at Puff all the while.

"No...no. Sandy, my older brother. He always wor--...he wanted...he tried to get me to stay in Sacramento...but I wou-- And now Puff's dead."

Mike frowned. Dori wasn't making any sense whatsoever, even if she did appear slightly more sober than she had fifteen minutes ago. He stood, and they both stared at Puff for a moment or two.

"What do you want to do with him?"

Dori flinched, and looked away, out over the field of fragrant hay.

"The...the burn pile?" She waved a hand towards the pile of debris they'd stacked on the back edge of her property.

"He would smell," Mike said, without thinking, and then swore softly to himself when Dori gasped. Turning, he found her staring up at him, tears welling again in her eyes.

"Look, Dori, I'm sorry, I..." There wasn't anything he could say, so instead he reached out to pat her shoulder. He missed as Dori stepped up and knelt beside Puff. She ran her fingers over the dog's face.

"There...there's a shovel. I...I can dig a grave for him, but I...I need help getting him home."

Digging a grave for a dog in the middle of the night? She was a bit pickled here. Mike shook his head. Hands on his knees, he bent over beside her, willing her to look at him.

"Dori, I can dig the grave for you tomorrow. We can put him in your garage tonight, and I'll take care of it first thing in the morning, I promise. Right now why don't you let me walk you back up to the house?"

She was already shaking her head before he got to the part about walking her up to the house.

"NO! It's got to be done tonight, before... before..." Whatever she was going to say was lost in the coughs that suddenly shook her.

"Before what?" Mike asked gently, kneeling beside her now, one hand on her back. She shrugged his hand off and lurched to her feet, taking several steps away before turning back to him. Her teeth glimmered in the faint light, as if she was smiling--or grimacing. Mike couldn't be sure.

"That's...that's okay, Mike. I shouldn't have, shouldn't have bothered you. Thanks for coming."

"Dori, I'll help you get him back up to the house. But we can't dig a grave for him tonight. I'm off tomorrow, and I promise, I'll help you take care of it first thing in the morning, okay?"

Even in the near darkness he could tell she didn't like that solution, at all. But she didn't say anything, just stared down at the ground. Then she looked up at him.

"Your house?"

"What?" He stood this time, but didn't try to approach her.

"Can...." Dori hesitated, then swallowed. "Can we carry him over to your house? He'll be safe there, and I won't have to worry, and then tomorrow would be okay for digging the grave." The words came out in a rush, as though she was afraid he'd reject the idea outright.

Mike stared at Dori, and then down at the dog. Rubbing her hands over her arms, Dori waited patiently for his response.

"Okay, yeah. We can do that," Mike said, not even sure at this point what he was agreeing to.

She nodded, and he thought she smiled at him. Shaking his head, Mike stepped over and squatted down to shift the dog all the way onto the tarp, pulling one edge up and over Puff. Something slid out with a thud when he yanked on the other side of the tarp. Reaching for whatever it was, his hand encountered smooth glass. He stood, brushing dirt off a square bottle. He didn't have to take the lid off to smell the contents. There was a motion by his side, and Dori slipped the bottle from his hands.

Mike turned to stare at her as she took several steps back, away from him, cradling the bottle in one arm. Where in the world had his nice, normal neighbor gone too? It wasn't even a full moon tonight. Staring over his shoulder again, Dori simply clutched the bottle tightly and said nothing. With a shrug, he returned to his task. Pulling the rest of the tarp around the dog, he bent over and lifted him carefully. The burden wasn't nearly as heavy as he remembered Puff being, and Mike let the wave of sadness for the animal wash over him. Hell of a way for a beloved pet to die.

He wasn't ever really gone... Dori's voice drifted across his memory, and Mike frowned. What in the world did she mean by that? He wasn't sure, and at this point, he wasn't sure he even really wanted to know. Right now bowling with the guys was sounding better and better.

"You want to get the flashlight?" he asked.

Bourbon still safe in the crook of one arm, Dori tripped over a dirt clod as she headed for the flashlight. Mike didn't have a hand free to catch her when she tumbled into the dirt, but when her first reaction was to check for the bourbon bottle beneath her, he decided he wasn't feeling quite as charitable as he had earlier. Bottle in one hand, Dori scrambled over to the flashlight. Standing, she ignored the dirt and dried plant stalks dangling from her clothing, and reached for the light. This time she made it without falling down.

The light wobbled with her unsteady steps as she led the way back. Mike hefted Puff's body again in his arms, and followed her. In silence they made their way back down the road, through Dori's yard, and across the street to his house. Mike gently laid the dog on the driveway when they got to his garage.

"Hang on, I'll get the key."

Dori didn't say anything, just stood there, staring down at her dog. Five minutes later Puff's body was resting inside Mike's garage, and he was locking up the door. Dori, still standing where she'd stopped when they first got there, watched in silence.

"He was a good dog," she said, finally, when Mike turned around to face her. "A very good dog." She hefted the bourbon, not really looking at him.

"Yeah." There was silence for a moment. Dori stared up at the stars for a minute, and met his gaze as he stared at her. The light from the back porch cast huge shadows across her face, making her look as if she had no eyes, just great hollows in her face where the eyes should be. She staggered slightly, and coughed.

"Thank you, Mike," she pronounced carefully. The liquor gurgled as she gestured towards the garage with it, and she stared down at the bottle in her hand, stupidly. "He...he was always safer with you."

"Dori...why don't you let me walk you home? You--"

"No. No, I'm fine, Mike. I wouldn't want to get you in--" She hiccupped, and then finished, "in trouble. Thank you."

"Dori--"

She covered the ground between them with surprising agility, not stumbling once. Now she was standing right in front of him, leaning into him. Instinctively, Mike took one step back, and she almost tipped over as she leaned further over towards him. The flashlight fell to the ground as she staggered, and his arms came out automatically to catch her. Mike held her awkwardly as Dori leaned full length against him. Resting her head against his shoulder, she hummed contentedly, tapping the whiskey bottle against his leg.

"Dori..."

"You're a really nice guy, Fireman Mike. Really nice." Her hand traced circles on his shirt as she smiled beatifically up at him, the mascara bruises even larger in the light coming over Mike's shoulder. He shifted, trying unobtrusively to set her on her feet, but she remained limp against him. Then she reached up and cupped his face in her hand.

"Dori, I don't think---"

"Real nice, Fireman Mike. Real nice." She stroked his jaw and Mike bit back a groan. Just what he needed, a drunk Dori making a pass at him.

"Dori--"

But before he could fully voice his objections, her feet moved, and she pushed away from him, standing up straight. She lifted the bottle in a salute.

"I hope you have a nice life, Fireman Mike," she said, clearly. "You and Cara, both."

She patted his chest once, and turned away. Placing her feet carefully, she made her way down his driveway, wobbling into his truck once, and then managing a fairly straight bee line towards her house. Mike stared after her, watching as she crossed the street without looking, and then finally made it all the way up onto her porch. She stopped there, and Mike came forward, down the driveway until he figured out she was simply taking a drink from the bottle in her hand, a very long drink. He frowned. What in the world...?

At last the door banged shut behind Dori, and Mike shook his head. He headed back inside his own house. It wasn't too late to catch up with the guys at the bowling alley. Back door locked, he grabbed his keys and went out again, locking the front door behind him. Getting in his truck and starting his engine, he stared at the reflection of Dori's place in the rearview mirror. The lights went out there as he shifted into the reverse, and backed out into the street. As he headed down the road, he passed Jason and Surfer Bob, dune buggy roaring towards Dori's house. He shook his head.

Damn, but he was sure glad it was Cara he had a date with in two weeks, and not Dori.

* * *

It was nearly noon the next day before Mike got across the street, having his own hangover to deal with this morning. He'd arrived at the bowling alley last night in the middle of the second game, sidestepping his friends' jeers and assumptions about why he'd been late as quietly as he could. With his arrival, the guys had wrangled a date from four pretty girls bowling on a nearby lane, so afterwards they'd all wound up at a nearby bar.

Maybe it was just because he was trying to push Dori's unsettling behavior out of his mind, and maybe it was in honor of a good dog's death, but Mike had gone ahead and indulged in more beer than he usually did--enough that his friends had confiscated his keys when he tried to leave just after one a.m. Forced to wait until someone else was ready to leave, Mike had sulked in the booth until two of the girls had offered to take him home; his or theirs he wasn't quite sober enough to figure out. But Johnny had taken pity on him, dropping him off at his house, seeing him in the door and promising to return today to take Mike to retrieve his truck. Mike had slept until well after 10 this morning. He'd reeked of cigarette smoke when he woke--not to mention the brewery taste in his mouth to match the Clydesdales galloping in his head.

Now, an hour later, clean, fed, and feeling somewhat human, he stood on Dori's front porch and waited for some sign of life inside the house. The day was bright and sunny; only a few high level stratus clouds between the sun and the city below. Not much haze hanging over the hills, not yet. There'd be more, though, and soon, as spring rapidly swelled into summer and the heat and haze settled in for the duration. Mike was just beginning to think that a trip to the beach with his own dune buggy sounded like a much better way to spend his afternoon, when the curtain on the door's window twitched.

It was a bit too much like the Munsters when the door slowly creaked open, with no discernable movement in the shadowy interior of the house. Mike bit back a grin. Seconds later, Jason materialized from the darkness behind the ancient, wooden frame screen. One arm up on the wall above the door, the other draped over the door itself, Jason leaned there and stared at Mike. His Madras plaid shirt hung open, revealing more of his scrawny chest than Mike would ever be interested in.

"What do you want, fireboy?" Jason sneered at last, scowling through the screen at Mike.

Hmm...apparently Jason was more than a bit jealous that Cara was going out with Mike instead of him. Mike smiled just slightly. He knew how to get under the skin of snots like this, knew just how much of his amusement at Jason's attitude he should allow to show.

"Is Dori here?" Mike asked, allowing his smile to grow, and when Jason's scowl deepened, he added, mildly, "She's expecting me."

Unmoving, his pale eyes narrowed, Jason stared at him.

"Yeah, what's she expecting you for, fireboy? She got a fire you're gonna put out?" Jason's tone was lewd and his sudden grin ludicrous, transforming his boyish good looks into something far older and far dirtier. Unsure what to say or do, Mike waited a second, and when Jason made no move to open the door, he opened his mouth. But before he could say anything, there was movement behind Jason. Dori appeared at Jason's shoulder, pulling her white robe around her.

"It's not your matter, Jason," she said, nervously tugging at her belt. "Mike's helping me with...some yard work. I set it up with him last night after you and Warren left."

Yard work? Mike tried to hide his surprise at Dori's dissembling as Jason continued to stare at him. Dori fiddled with the ties on her robe, and for a second nobody moved.

"I set your breakfast on the table. It’s getting cold," Dori finally said, as Jason stepped back. Shoving the screen door open with one hand, he almost hit Mike in the face with it.

"Well then, come on in, fireboy." Jason smiled again at Mike. At least, Mike thought it was supposed to be a smile, but the emotion lurking behind the movement of Jason's facial muscles wasn't pleasant at all. Neither was the light in his eyes as he held the door, gesturing expansively for Mike to enter. At his back, Dori made a small motion with her hands, almost as if she rather Mike didn't. But as Jason waved again, Dori stepped away too.

"There's coffee and cinnamon rolls," she said. Her smile, while not completely welcoming, was definitely more wholesome than the smirk lingering on Jason's face as he waited for Mike to enter.

"Thanks, Dori, but I'm not really hungry," Mike said, stepping inside the house. He caught the screen door before it could slam behind him. His stomach was still a little queasy, not quite sure about the coffee and toast he'd eaten just half an hour before. Jason shoved by in front of him, heading across the room for his breakfast, Mike supposed. Standing in the small linoleum entryway that took up this corner of the living room, Mike took a closer look at his friend. Not surprisingly, Dori looked a little green around the gills herself.

"How're you feeling this morning?" he asked quietly, ignoring Jason as he slammed something down on the dining table in the far corner.

Dori shrugged, her eyes flicking over toward Jason, now shoveling something vaguely resembling eggs into his mouth. Looking up at Mike, she spoke so low he had to lean forward to hear her.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose."

The shy smile she offered with that comment was more than half apology, and Mike smiled in return.

"Yeah, well, I've had the same sort of encounter with bourbon myself. You're standing this morning, so you're a better man than I am," he offered, and Dori grinned. Mike's own smile grew. It was a relief to find his neighbor again, rather than the strange shade who had stood in for her last night.

Taking a deep breath, Dori waved her hand over toward the table in the corner. Jason was still eating, but obviously paying more attention to their conversation than his breakfast.

"There's plenty, help yourself. Coffee mugs're in the kitchen; you remember where?"

Mike nodded. He'd been in Dori's house enough times to know his way around a little bit. But more coffee really wasn't what his sour stomach wanted right now.

"Thanks, Dori, but no thanks."

“Okay, then, have a seat.” She brushed the back of the couch with one hand. “ I'll just go get dressed." With another shaky smile, Dori looked over her shoulder at Jason, then headed for the stairs behind her.

Mike headed around the bright yellow couch and took a seat on one end. Ignoring Jason, he stared at the carpet. Gray wool with yellow and red flowers, it must have been the original carpet for the house. They sure didn’t make anything like it anymore. Good thing, since it was the kind of ugly that would never die. Settling back against the plump cushions, he put his elbow up on the arm of the couch, and the short lamp on the end table clattered over. He caught the lamp before it hit the floor, but something else thumped softly on the ancient rug. Leaning forward, he spied a small silver frame, face down on the floor. He reached for it without getting up, and found himself holding a family picture.

Obviously several years old, the family’s smiles appeared frozen by more than the camera they faced. Dori was seated on the ground in front of the grouping, her resemblance to her mother unmistakable. From the black hair framing their faces to their softly round figures, the two women were obviously cut from the same mold. However much Dori and her mom looked like each other, Jason was even more a carbon copy of the man in the photo, from the short brown hair to their equally tightly clenched jaws. Standing at the back of the grouping, slim and barely head and shoulders taller than his seated parents, Jason hadn’t grown much in the intervening years. Mike could easily tell that their father was not just taller, but bigger, more heavily muscled.

"What are you staring at?" the current model of Jason snarled, his face twisted into a deep scowl when Mike looked over at him.

"Nice picture," Mike said, setting the frame carefully on the small table beneath the lamp. "You and Dori look even less alike than me and my sister."

Jason snorted and then barked out an ugly laugh.

"She's not my real sister," he growled, reaching for another cinnamon roll. "Just ‘cause her momma married my dad doesn't make us family." Jason stared at Mike, obviously daring him to make something of the comment.

Dori's entrance saved Mike, but whether it was from having to reply to Jason's announcement, or walking across the room to deck the jerk, Mike wasn’t sure. Just as well, the family politics here were a bit out of his depth. Sure, he’d been upset when his own mother remarried three years after his father’s death, but Mike and his step-father had gotten along all right--eventually, after the bourbon incident. But there hadn’t been any step-siblings for Mike and his sister to deal with. He’d been fifteen before his half-brother was born, and seventeen before little Janelle came along. Not much opportunity for sibling rivalry there. He turned away from Jason, and looked at Dori, standing at the other end of the couch.

Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved Dodger's jersey, Dori was still paler than normal, but at least the dark circles under her eyes weren't from mascara. She smiled at Mike as she ran the brush through her hair, and he was once again relieved that things were almost back to normal.

"There's rolls and coffee, Mike. Seriously, won’t you let me fix you something? You did have breakfast, didn’t you?”

Mike didn’t bother to mention that it was almost lunchtime. Everybody was getting off to a late start today. Propping one knee on the couch while she brushed her hair, Dori was spoke around the hair clip she held in her mouth.

“I’ve still got fixin’s for omelettes; another one’s no trouble.” Finished fastening her hair into a pony tail, she pushed a stray lock of hair back as she spoke, and for the first time Mike noticed the large white bandage on her right hand.

"What did you do?" he asked, standing and pointing at her hand. Dori stared down at her hand as if surprised to find the bandage there. There was a clatter as a fork hit the table behind him.

"Yeah, Dor-ee," Jason sneered her name, "what'd ya do this time, ya klutz?"

Dori offered a weak smile, and shrugged one shoulder.

"I grabbed the skillet without a pot holder this morning." She looked up at Mike, and shook her head. "It was my fault, I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing."

Jason snickered as tires squealed nearby. A horn sounded, and Jason stood, a nearly empty glass in one hand. He stared at Dori and Mike, still smirking.

"Dori's clumsy that way, fireboy. Always has been, haven't you, Dori?" He kept an eye on them even as he drained his glass, and Mike, catching Dori's blush, opened his mouth. Someone evidently neglected to teach Jason any manners. Dori beat him to the punch as the horn honked imperatively.

"Warren's waiting for you, Jason," was all she said, not looking at either man. Jason, still leering, grabbed another cinnamon roll and headed across the room. He veered over to Dori, and leaned in towards her, watching Mike over his shoulder as he did so.

"I'm not the only one he's waiting for," he stage-whispered lewdly, reaching up to run his hand along Dori's jaw in an absurd parody of a caress. Dori jerked her head back and Mike took half a step forward, his fists clenching. He’d had about enough of the kid and his attitude this morning.

At Mike’s movement, Jason stepped back, laughing at them both, and then pushed behind Dori to vault over the couch. Stuffing half the roll in his mouth, he grinned again, and for a moment the boyish face that had mooned over Cara a couple of days ago reappeared. Then he winked suggestively at Mike, and waved at Dori.

"Have fun with her while you can, fireboy!"

And Jason disappeared out the door, slamming it shut behind him. There was a loud roar from the dune buggy outside, and more squealing tires.

Staring at the closed door, Mike couldn’t decide if he wanted to deck Jason, or turn him over his knee and spank his bottom. Maybe both.

Dori was at the table gathering dishes when he turned around. Her head ducked low, she was shaking, and Mike arrived just as the glass she was attempting to stack on Jason's empty plate fell. He bent over and grabbed it out from under the chair it rolled beneath and then gently took the plate from Dori's hands.

"Here, let me get that for you."

Dori acquiesced, and without speaking she headed for the kitchen. Mike gathered the rest of the dishes before following her. The sight of the lone cinnamon roll on the plate that had obviously held more brought a grin to Mike’s face. Unfortunately, they seemed to have more to fight over here than just pastries. Half an omelette was drying out on another plate, and the clear glass pitcher held what had to be fresh-squeezed orange juice. Mike shook his head as he gathered everything but the plate with the cinnamon roll and the juice into a neat pile. Jason might not want to claim Dori as his sister, but he sure took full advantage of living here with her.

Stepping through the entranceway of the kitchen, Mike set his burden down on the tiled counter by the sink, and shifted the wooden-handled skillet already there to make room for the new dishes. Dori was at the other end of the narrow kitchen, behind the short bar that divided the breakfast nook there from the rest of the room. Standing on a chair, she was half hidden by the hanging cabinet she was rummaging through. From the sounds of it, she wasn’t having much luck finding what she wanted. Mike was about to offer to help when a box of Alka-Seltzer landed on the counter.

Ah, okay. Mike returned to the dining room for the rest of the food, and a few seconds later he set the orange juice in the refrigerator and the plate with its lone cinnamon roll down on the short bar. Dori stood on the other side, fumbling with the Alka-Seltzer box. As Mike watched, the box shot out of her hands and skittered across the counter, then plopped down to the floor at his feet.

"Dammit!"

Mike had already retrieved the box by the time she got around the bar. She wouldn't meet his gaze as she took it from him, her hand shaking and, a quick glance confirmed, she was crying. Nearly dropping the box again, Dori couldn't seem to get it open, and Mike took it back from her. Wordlessly he opened the box, and removed one of the foil packets, holding it out. Not meeting his gaze, Dori smiled slightly as she took the package and then stepped around him to the sink. Filling a glass, she managed to open the packet and drop the tablets in. Her back to him, Dori stared at the fizzing liquid in her glass. One hand in the front pocket of his jeans, Mike leaned against the other on the counter and stared at Dori. Wasn't it less than ten minutes ago he'd been grateful for the return of his "normal" neighbor? Dealing with crying women was never Mike's strong suit, and especially when he was as confused about what was going on here as he was now. Finally, he took a deep breath.

"Dori?"

Dori tensed, and hastily wiped a hand over her face. Not looking at him, she picked up the glass and swirled the liquid gently.

"I'm sorry, Mike. I'm just tired, and then there's Puff, and sometimes Jason..." She hesitated, gazing out the window over the kitchen sink. "Sometimes Jason can be a little hard to live with."

Sometimes? A little hard to live with?

"Yeah, so I noticed." That got him a glance and a bit of a smile, and then Dori stared down again at her drink. Mike rolled his next words over a few times; he really didn't want to upset Dori, but then again... "Someone needs to sign him up for Woodshed 101 and teach him some manners." He smiled as he said it, and after a second of shocked speechlessness, Dori actually giggled.

"Oh, that would never do." She took a drink of the Alka-seltzer, made a face and then downed the rest of the drink. Mike contemplated asking for his own glass of the stuff; it couldn't hurt. Dori set the glass carefully at the edge of the sink. "Jason...He was so sick when he was little; he nearly died several times. When he got older Max wouldn't allow anyone to touch him. Max...Max would be--discipline him sometimes, but they were always afraid he'd get sick again so they pretty much just let him do as he pleased." Mike couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a sob she choked back at that point, but when Dori turned to him, her smile was soft, and her eyes clear. "I guess he is a little spoiled."

A little spoiled? Mike shook his head, and for once in his life, spoke without thinking.

"Why do you put up with him?"

Dori froze, staring not out the window, but evidently into her own thoughts. Then shaking herself, she reached for the plates, sliding them carefully out from under the silverware and setting the glass he’d left on top of the stack aside.

"I owe Max some money." At Mike's confused look, Dori lifted one shoulder and gave him a half smile. "Jason's dad. I borrowed some from him for college tuition, and then again for the commercial kitchen." She waved a hand in the general direction of the addition. "It was cheaper than a bank. And then a month or so ago, Max said...Max said if I would put Jason up for six months, he'd write off the debt. Things are tight enough here trying to get the business going, I figured it was worth it. Besides..." Dori watched the suds for a minute, balancing the plates on the edge of the counter. "Besides," she repeated, "Jason needed a place to stay for a while. And whatever else he does, Jason’s family." Settling the plates carefully in the sink, she glanced up at him, and smiled. “You take care of family, Mike. Doesn’t matter if it’s hard or easy, you have to do right by ‘em. ‘Cause they’re family.”

Family? Mike opened his mouth, but he never found out if he’d have the guts to tell Dori what Jason thought of her and the idea of family. Instead, Dori crossed the kitchen with a few hurried steps, reaching for the plate behind him, with its lonely cinnamon roll.

"Here, Mike, do a girl a favor and eat this last cinnamon roll. Please." Dori held the plate out to him, her eyes brimming again with unshed tears. Mike held her gaze with his own for a few seconds. The quiet plea wasn't just for him to take the roll; Dori, not surprisingly, didn't want to discuss this any further. Okay. He’d already crossed more lines than he really had the right to in this conversation. Mike gave her a small smile, and took the roll from the plate. She returned to the sink, adding the plate to the ones already there and turning on the water.

Dori squirted some dish soap into the sink, then slowly added silverware and glasses to the rising water while Mike ate the roll. His stomach gurgled happily and finally gave up being queasy as he finished. Mike blushed, but decided the smile his gastric noises brought to Dori’s face was worth it. She waited while he washed his hands in the hot, sudsy water in the sink.

"Well," she sighed, looking out the window as he dried his hands on the towel hanging through the refrigerator handle. "I suppose now we should go take care of Puff."

Mike stiffened, and looked at her over his shoulder. The lost, haunted little girl was back, for just a second, before Dori brushed her hand across her eyes. Smiling tremulously at him, she turned and led the way, out the back door Jason had huddled against last week, trying to avoid the large dog. Looked like Jason had gotten his wish; the big dog wasn’t around to protect Dori anymore. Remembering the way Jason had leered at them just before he let, Mike got a sudden queasy feeling in his stomach as he followed Dori across the yard to the tool shed.

Just what, exactly, had happened to Puff?

* * *

Johnny's Land Rover pulled into Mike's driveway an hour later, just as Mike was crossing the street to retrieve Puff's body. Johnny got out, folding his sunglasses into a pocket of his red calico shirt as he waited for Mike. The afternoon air was still, forerunner of the heat in months to come. Even the birds and insects seemed to have given up and gone home for the day.

"Hey, Mike. You taking up farming?" Johnny waved at Mike's dirt-covered jeans.

"You're late," Mike replied, pushing past Johnny towards the garage. Trying to hide his grin, he kept his head down and his back turned to his friend. Sometimes, it was just too easy.

"Late!" Johnny sputtered, before following Mike at a run. He caught up at the garage door. Mike dug his keys out of his pocket, sorting through to find the one for the Master Lock he kept on the garage. Johnny leaned against the garage and sputtered, "Whaddaya mean, late? I didn't know you wanted me here at a specific time! You never said anything about that last night!"

Mike opened the lock and pocketed his keys before turning to face an open-mouthed Johnny. Waving away a sudden fly, he kept his face straight for a few seconds, and then grinned.

"You're right, I never said anything last night." There was a beat, and then Johnny's mouth snapped closed. He stood up straight, crossed his arms, and glared at Mike.

"You--you--you--" Johnny stammered, then pointed one finger at Mike for emphasis, still searching for something to say. He gave up and propped his hands on his hips while he stared at Mike in disgust. "I--You know, I oughta just leave you here and make you call a cab to go get your truck."

Mike laughed and turned to pull the lock out of its brace, swinging the bar it held in place back before replacing the lock in the metal loop. He grinned at Johnny as he turned the latch on the old doors.

"Your prerogative, but it'd be a waste of your afternoon driving out here, then."

Whatever reply Johnny might have made was lost in the stench that wafted out of Mike's garage as he swung one door out. Fortunately the odor dissolved quickly in the open air--along with Mike's good humor at tweaking Johnny. He hesitated, wishing momentarily that he'd never volunteered to do this for Dori.

"Whew! What have you got in there, Mike? Bear bait?" Johnny turned his head away and waved a hand in front of his face. Mike ducked his head without answering and, breathing lightly through his mouth, took the few steps over to Puff's body in a hurry. Might as well get it over with. He bent over and grabbed the tarp the big dog lay on. The tarp scraped across the concrete as Mike pulled the dog out onto the driveway. He returned, but hesitated, and then decided not to close the door. It wouldn't hurt for it to be left open for a while to let the remnants of the odors from Puff's body dissipate, allow the garage to return to its more familiar scent of gasoline and rubber from the dune buggy parked there.

Out in the clear sunshine, Johnny was staring down at Puff's head, just visible between the folds of the tarp. Mike watched as Johnny knelt suddenly, folding the canvas back to examine the dog more closely. He met Johnny's startled gaze, waited for him to ask the questions he could see in the dark eyes.

"Who--wha--why do you have a dead dog in your garage, Mike? Who killed it?"

Who killed it? Mike stared down at Puff, not sure he wanted to ask Johnny why he thought someone had killed the big dog. That night he'd caught Puff in his refrigerator, happily devouring raw eggs in the shell, he'd been furious. But angry as he'd been, he'd never have taken it out on the animal. He'd locked him in the laundry room while he cleaned up the mess and never even mentioned it to Dori. Puff was a good dog, a fun dog, and Mike wasn't sure he wanted to even think about the fact that Jason might have made good on his threat.

Johnny was staring at him, though, waiting for an answer. Then again, if the paramedic could give him some answers, maybe it would point the finger of suspicion elsewhere. Mike shrugged and drew the tarp back, exposing the dog's entire body.

"It's my neighbor's dog."

"Dori?" Johnny's question was sharp, and Mike looked at him, confused. But Johnny wasn't revealing any of his thoughts right now.

"Yeah. She came last night and asked me to help her bury him." Mike hesitated, not sure how much he wanted to share about the events of the previous evening. Dori had been pretty embarrassed this morning. He finally shrugged. "She was pretty upset about the whole thing. I talked her into waiting until today, told her I'd help her bury him."

"This why you were late last night?"

Mike nodded, but Johnny was staring at the dog again. His hands went out, running gently over the dog's broken body, probing, examining... Mike sat down on his heels, waiting for the verdict.

"Ribs're stove in," Johnny muttered, moving on down the dog's body. "Hip's out of joint, broken leg..." Mike's mouth went sour. Maybe he didn't want Johnny to confirm anything after all. Johnny's hands moved back up to the dog's head. He bent over and examined Puff's tongue, protruding darkly from his mouth, and then ran his hands lightly down the dog's neck.

"Dori thinks he was hit by a car, then dragged himself as close to home as he could," Mike offered, not quite sure why he felt the need to say something.

Johnny just grunted, his hands busy digging in the fur at Puff's neck. He left off, leaning back and digging in the pocket of his jeans. Coming up with a pocket knife, he opened it and went back to Puff's neck, digging at the fur again. After a second he slipped the knife in and pulled up sharply. Both men stared at the fine cord he held out, ends clean where he'd cut it, and a short, frayed end dangling from a knot.

Mike reached out to finger the familiar shape twisting the cord around itself.

"A tautline hitch," he said, and Johnny nodded. This time the paramedic's gaze was bleak when it met his own. A tautline hitch was a knot that worked itself tighter and tighter as more pressure was put on it.

"Somebody not only didn't want him getting away, they were trying to choke him into submission." Penknife in one hand, cord dangling from the other, Johnny rested both arms across his knees. "He probably died as much from the lack of oxygen and dehydration as he did the other injuries."

There was silence as they stared at the dog. Mike waved a few flies away from Puff's face, wishing he could wave away the facts of Johnny's discovery as easily. Johnny finally looked up at him. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth, and --

"Mike?" Dori's voice preceded her around the Land Rover. She hesitated at the front of the vehicle, her gaze going from Mike to Johnny, then Puff. She frowned, but didn't say anything, just wrapped her arms around her waist and stared at some point between them all. Mike got hastily to his feet. He swallowed, but it didn't alleviate the sudden dryness in his mouth.

"Dori, you remember Johnny? The paramedic from the fire the other day?" He waved one hand at Johnny, wondering why he felt so nervous about being caught--caught? They weren't doing anything. On second thought, he wasn't sure he was ready to tell Dori about what he and Johnny had just discovered. Gravel scraped beneath a booted heel as Johnny stood beside him. Mike didn't miss the careful way Johnny dropped the thin cord and then took a small step to stand on it as he stood. He allowed himself one deep breath in relief.

Folding and pocketing his knife, the paramedic held his hand out to Dori.

"You're looking a little less sooty today." Johnny grinned his full wattage grin, and Mike bit back a groan. He'd forgotten how two had reacted to each other at the fire. But when he turned to Dori, she seemed anything but glad to see Johnny. For a second the haunted look was back on her face, but then she blinked and found a smile somewhere. It wasn't anything like the simpering one she'd given Johnny the other day, though, and her eyes were guarded. Hmm....Maybe she had just inhaled a little too much smoke at the fire.

"I remember you; fastest scissors in the west," Dori finally said, her smile taking the sting out of the words. She lifted her bandaged hand and her smile became apologetic. "Sorry, can't shake your hand this time either."

Johnny ignored the scissors comment entirely, much to Mike's surprise. Instead, the paramedic frowned.

"What happened?" He stepped forward, his hand out toward Dori. Her smile faltered and then she dropped her gaze to the pavement. Putting her hand down at her side, she ignored Johnny's obvious intention of checking out the injury.

"Oh, it's nothing, really. I grabbed a skillet without a pot-holder this morning." Dori glanced up and offered another faint smile. But she kept her hand down at her side, half behind her. Johnny stared at her, his hand still out.

"Would you like me to take a look at it?" he asked, with an intensity that Mike didn't understand. Dori shook her head, taking half a step back away from the paramedic. Johnny started toward her anyway, and Mike automatically reached to halt him as Dori, looking anywhere but at the two men moved even further back. But Johnny st