him down. He fought through his spasms and I felt his chest; it was still rising and falling. The seizure wasn’t a death rattle. My partner was still with me.
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I’m here. You hold on, you hear me? We’re going to get you help.”
Just behind us, a stand of pampas grass torched up in flames. The Strangler screamed, “We have to leave the dog!”
He started to move away, and I raised my Glock and aimed at where his heart was supposed to be. “No!” he yelled, just in time.
The murderer spared me from murder.
We picked up Sirius once more. His breathing sounded like an overheating radiator. Blood was filling his lungs. I motioned the way to the Strangler with my gun. There was no path to go but through fire. We stumbled forward, and it was so hot our flesh began burning, but I wasn’t about to leave my partner. The Strangler screamed as his clothes and skin smoked and burned, but he knew I would shoot him if he dropped Sirius.
We avoided fire as best we could, but there was no getting away from it. The inferno was everywhere. “Trailblazing” took on a whole new meaning. I tried to see through the flames, but my eyes had been pummeled by the smoke and were puffy to the point of closing up on me. The Strangler began coughing violently, but even over his paroxysms I could hear the horrible wheezing of my partner. Show me the way, I thought. Maybe I croaked the words aloud. There was a part of me that recognized my flesh was on fire, but that didn’t stop me. I couldn’t let my partner down. I looked around, trying to see anything. The smoke had blotted out the heavens save for two stars.
“We’ll go past the second star and straight on till morning,” I said, and the Strangler didn’t object.
It was the route to Neverland, at least according to Peter Pan. The Strangler followed my lead, which was better than staying and burning in hell. As we made our way through fire, more of our clothing burned away. There was no escaping the heat; it burned from all sides. Peter Pan hadn’t mentioned that. Still, it seemed to me that Neverland was getting closer and closer.
We pushed through some burning chaparral and into a clearing. Water splashed over us and our bodies smoldered, the smoke rising from our rags and fur. The helping hands of surprised firefighters reached for us, and I had enough presence of mind to announce that I was a police officer.
As paramedics rushed over to us, I hurriedly cuffed the Strangler. “We’re okay,” I told them. “It’s my partner you need to help!”
That didn’t stop them from trying to help us. “My partner,” I said again.
Crazy people carrying guns tend to get your attention. The EMTs ran a few lines into my unmoving partner. Only after Sirius received medical treatment did I allow myself the luxury of passing out.
CHAPTER 1:
Returning from Neverland was harder than getting there. Some days I wondered if I’d ever get back.
The limo chauffeuring us pulled up to the curb of the Westin Bonaventure. I hadn’t wanted a limo, but the department had insisted. Sirius had liked the ride. The limo had a sunroof that opened, and my partner had enjoyed periscoping his muzzle out the car to catch the breeze. Still, he probably would have been just as happy sticking his head out the window of a MINI Cooper.
The driver ran around and opened our door. I had Sirius on a leash, and Sergeant Maureen Kinsman had me on one, or thought she did. Maureen works out of LAPD Media Relations. She is young and wears more makeup than any cop I have ever seen, including those that work John Patrol. Maureen was perfect for her job. She liked to talk nonstop, which made it easy for me to keep our conversation going with only an occasional nod.
“Once we get to the banquet room, I’m going to introduce you to Kent McCord,” she said. “He told me he wanted to meet you before the presentation.”
The door opened, and I started as some flashes went off. Three photographers were there to meet us. Hotel guests turned and rubbernecked, assuming that the paparazzi had a star in their sights. What they saw was a slack-jawed man with a scarred face and a scruffy-looking dog.
“The press is all over this,” Maureen said, apparently delighted. I did my best to approximate her good cheer.
Somewhere in my therapy I had heard the phrase “Fake it until you can make it.” I don’t know whether a fellow burn patient said it or a therapist, but for the last six months, faking had become a way of life for me. Because I wanted nothing more than to get back on the force, I was doing everything I could to avoid a forced disability retirement. After Jen’s death I didn’t really have a life; I only had a job. Getting severely burned had put that job in jeopardy, which terrified me. That was one of the reasons I had agreed to this luncheon. I wanted to show the brass that I was still part of the team.
Sirius and I followed Maureen. She kept up the conversation for all three of us. All I had to do was offer up my best Bobby McFerrin “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” face, which wasn’t so easy with my scarring. Lots of eyes took notice of us as we walked through the hotel. I told myself that Sirius was drawing their attention, not my face.
I had been brought in with burns on over half of my body surface area, and a good many of those were third-degree burns, or what medical professionals call full-thickness burns. That meant there were patches of my body where all my layers of skin had been burned away. It also meant six months and counting of skin grafts, operations, and physical therapy.
When I look at my naked body in a mirror, the patchwork designs from all the skin grafts make it appear as if I am wearing a harlequin suit. I am told that with time and more therapy the scarring will fade, but that for the rest of my life I’ll be tending to what the burn people refer to as my “scar management.”
I am not the only one dealing with scars and physical issues. Love me, love my scruffy dog. All during my rehabilitation my partner has been doing his own physical therapy alongside of me. I do my stretches and then help him with his. He thinks it’s a great game; I wish I did. Both of us are working on achieving our optimal range of motion, or ROM, as our therapists call it. Sirius and I have both come far, but the fire and being shot took a lot out of us. Sometimes I think we’re the Humpty Dumpty twins, and that neither of us can ever quite be put back together again. This is an opinion I keep to myself, and it’s not something Sirius talks about either. Everyone thinks that Sirius is the perfect patient, and that I’m not far behind. He’s the real thing; I’m the fake.
The mantra of my burn therapist, whom I call the Iron Maiden, is “rehabilitation, reconstruction, and reintegration.” Those are apparently her code words for torture. Whenever I see the Iron Maiden I do my best Monty Python imitation and yell “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” She thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. Every time I see my inquisitor, my heart races and I get cold sweats on those parts of my body that still sweat, which are those places where I didn’t receive skin grafts. You don’t sweat where you’ve received grafts, which is why burn patients are always mindful of overheating.
The Iron Maiden and I both share a laugh when I call her “my torturer.” Around her I’m upbeat and put on my happy face. I know she’s worked me as hard as she has for my own good. Her torture is necessary so that my tendons don’t shorten, and my ligaments and joints will have the best possible function. Her therapy has worked for me; I now have full range of motion in my legs, arms, and hands. I can flip someone the bird as good as I ever could.
I let Maureen lead me through the hotel gauntlet. She chattered the whole time, and rarely needed me to join in the conversation. “That’s a great suit,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
Jen had bought the suit for me years before, but I’d only worn it a few times. The last time I’d worn it, I remembered, had been at her funeral.
“It was a gift,” I said.
Maureen took up her monologue again. Under the suit she had complimented was a not-so-sharp-looking compression garment; what I called my hair shirt. I usually wear my compression garment twenty-four hours a day. It is a skintight layer of clothing that extends from my feet to my neck that’s supposed to help improve my hypertrophic scarring. The Iron Maiden describes hypertrophic scarring as skin that exhibits the three Rs of being red, raised, and rigid. In my case there’s a fourth R-the right side of my face. It’s that which shows my trial by fire
