The UH-1 settled slowly to the terrazzo plaza, bounced slightly; the pilot cut the power and the rotors slowed.
Infantino said, “We’re here, Craig,” and Barton blinked and unbelted.
He felt old and tired and desperately in need of both a bath and a bed. He pushed back the copter door and stepped out into the cold. Small flakes of snow were still falling, the winds still whipping across the plaza.
“It’s all over,” Infantino said quietly.
“Not completely,” Barton said dryly. A group of reporters and cameramen had surrounded the helicopter and surged forward as the blades came to a halt. Flash bulbs lit up the night and the questions tumbled at them one after the other, half of them torn away by the wind.
“Later!” Barton shouted. “Later! There’s still a lot we’ve got to do!” He pushed through the crowd of newsmen, who now turned their barrage of questions on Infantino.
At the edge of the crowd, he sensed somebody at his side.
“Mr..Barton?”
He glanced around, ready to fend off another reporter, then relaxed.
“Hello, Dan how’s Griff?”
“The doctors say he’ll make it.” Garfunkel nodded at another group of reporters and evacuees a hundred feet away. “Your wife and the Lerouxes came through okay.
They’re shaken up and Leroux has a sprained wrist, but nothing worse than that.”
“Thanks, Dan.” Barton took a breath. “Is there a final census on the building? Anybody still unaccounted for?”
“The firemen have pretty well gone through it floor by floor,” Garfunkel said slowly. “There were more casualties than we had thought-thirty-one deaths from various causes, mostly burrs and smoke inhalation. Thank God, it was the start of the long weekend. We haven’t been able to account for Lex Hughes, one of the accountants at National Curtainwall, and several others. I suppose they’ll find them when they go through the ruins.” He gestured at the tarpaulin-covered sculpture. “There hasn’t been a positive identification of the woman yet, though we’re pretty sure we know who she was.”
A conservatively dressed man walked up and suddenly interrupted.
“Mr. Barton,” he said smoothly, “I’d like to have a moment with you.
Brian of International Surely.
We-“
“Mr. Brian,” Barton said carefully, “you really don’t want to talk with me and, to be frank, I don’t want to talk with you. I’m not even sure I work for Curtainwall any more. The man you want to see is Wyndom Leroux.”
“But it will only take-“
“Mister,” Barton said, his voice thick with exhaustion and annoyance, “I’m too damned tired to be polite, to you or anybody else. Now get lost. Go see Leroux-it’s his building.”
The man stared at him’ for a second, then abruptly turned and half ran, half walked toward the far group that included Leroux. Barton glanced around for Infantino, then noticed that Mario had torn himself away from the reporters and was over at the comm van, struggling out of his proximity suit. Good idea, Barton thought, and started to undo the latches on his own. In it he had felt like an aluminum-clad Santa Claus looking for his stainless steel reindeer. ‘Tis the season, he thought sourly….
It was winding down, Infantino thought. Crews would still be at work through the early morning but they would be primarily salvage companies. The bulk of the companies had completed their mission and were draining hoses on the plaza and rolling them up. Others were stowing tools and respirators while still others were in the basement cafeteria catching a quick cup of coffee before returning to their firehouses.
He contacted his battalion chiefs one by one, taking a brief moment for small talk and compliments before giving them their final orders.
Chief Jorgenson came out of the lobby clutching a cup of coffee and a candy bar he had filched from the cigar stand.
“Chief, how do we thank you?”
Jorgenson managed to smile. “Don’t worry about it; the city will send you a bill. Then there’s always the possibility we’ll have to ask your help someday.” They shook hands and Jorgenson was gone.
Infantino found Captain Miller in the lobby and asked for a casualty report. Miller took a notebook from his pocket and began to go through the depressing details.
Who was it who had said it? Infantino thought bleakly.
The brightest and the best - - . Gilman, Lencho, a dozen others.
“What about Chief Fuchs?” he asked at last.
Miller shook his head. “Both legs crushed; he’ll probably lose a lung. He’ll be in intensive care for … Well, better ask the doctors, they didn’t know when I talked to them a few minutes ago.
He’ll make it, but it’ll be strictly a desk job for him from now on in.
He’ll never go near a fire again The old man should have known better, Infantino thought bitterly. But if it had been him and it had been his son, who knows………. What about young Fuchs?”
“Minor injuries; they’ll probably hold him a day and release him.”
Miller added automatically, “Good man, by the way.”
“Yeah, I know-he learned it all from his father.” A department inspector came up and handed him a note.
He read it slowly, thanked the man, and walked outside to the plaza.
His car was at the curb. He took off his helmet and wiped his eyes, wondering how she had talked her way through the police lines.
Then he noticed that Doris was a passenger and that one of the rookies was driving. He walked over and she saw him and rolled the window down.
“You should be home in bed,” he said quietly. his eyes were drinking her in.
“You, too,” she said “There’s still some winding down to do, but I think they can do it without me. Worried?”
“Not too much,” she said, but Infantino could tell she was lying.
He reached through the window and squeezed her hand, then opened the rear door and got in the back seat. She came back to join him.
“You got anything to eat at home?”
“There’s a steak in the refrigerator.”
“That’ll do,” he said softly, “that’ll do just fine.” He suddenly spotted Barton crossing the street and rolled down the window to shout, “Hey, Craig, can I see you as soon as you’re free?” Barton yelled, “Be back in a minute,” and Infantino leaned back in the soft seat.
“Christ, I’m tired.” He leaned over into the warmth of his wife’s body and was dozing in seconds. Doris put her arm around him and didn’t move, even though the position was a little cramped and awkward for her. She ran her fingers lightly through his hair and watched the parade of tired men roll up their hoses on the plaza and climb in their trucks and silently roll away. An ambulance a few cars ahead caught her eyes and she watched it curiously for a moment. A woman -one of the cleaning women, by the look of her dress-was being loaded into it, while a heavy- set man in his forties and a young boy were watching.
She wondered idly if they were related somehow …
The ambulance doors closed and Douglas turned to Jesus and said, “Don’t worry, she’ll be all right. A little smoke and a sprain; they’ll probably let her out in a day or two.”
“Sure, man, I know,” Jesus said. He didn’t meet Douglas’ eyes.
He was beginning to shiver again.
“You riding with us, buddy?” the driver called from the front seat.
“Yeah, I’ll be coming along,” Jesus shouted. He turned back to Douglas, suddenly looking him straight in the face. “Look, man, would you come along? Mama would like it and so would I.”
“I’d like to,” Douglas said, “but I can’t. I have to meet someone.”
Jesus’ eyes flicked away again. “Sure, man, I understand.”
They stood there in silence for a moment, Jesus looking small and slight in the old turnout coat that a fireman had given him. “The street’s a crappy place for a human being,” Douglas said at last.
