Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series) Read online

  When I arrive at the hospital, I use the main doors, hoping to avoid Nurse Nora and her batting eyelashes down in the ER. It’s not that she isn’t hot—she is. And normally, I might have even asked for her number. But I didn’t. And I didn’t ask for Nurse Tiffany’s either, because there’s a girl lying in a hospital bed up on floor six who could be dying.

  I look at my surroundings as I head up to the ICU. There are lots of people in this hospital who could be dying. There are probably dead people right here in this building. Maybe even on this floor. My heart starts beating wildly thinking that Sara could be one of those people. My steps quicken as I make my way to her room. I nod at the nurse on my way by. She waves at me, remembering me from yesterday. I don’t stop walking until I’m in Sara’s doorway and see her lying in bed with machines still by her side.

  She’s not dead.

  She’s not lying on a cold, hard steel table in the basement.

  But she is alone.

  Before I step across the threshold, I turn around and ask the nurse, “Has anyone else been here to see her?”

  She shakes her head sadly. Then she walks over to a cabinet and pulls out a blanket. She hands it to me. “You’ll need this. It’s cold in there.”

  “Thanks.”

  I tuck it under my arm and walk into Sara’s room. I’m immediately assaulted by a climate normally found in the Alaskan tundra. “Holy shit,” I say, wrapping the blanket around me as I make my way to the chair next to her bed.

  The nurse follows behind me, putting on a jacket of her own.

  I look over at her. “Can’t you just give her medicine to bring her temperature down?”

  “We are,” she says. “But it’s not that easy with head injuries. She’s got ice packs in her armpits and groin areas, and she’s under a cooling blanket.”

  I study Sara, and I could swear she’s shivering. “Look at her. She’s freezing.”

  “I know,” the nurse says. “But we have to keep her temperature down to prevent further brain damage. Don’t worry, the sedation keeps her from feeling the full effects of the cold.”

  I close my eyes, saddened by her words. “So she’s got brain damage?”

  “We can’t be sure yet. Not until the swelling goes down. But odds are there will be some deficiencies.”

  I look at Sara, thinking how young she is and how life isn’t fair. At least my parents were older. They had lived. And they had each other. And even though Sara has Oliver, at this moment—she has no one.

  “Do you know how old she is?” I ask.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Shit.”

  She’s just a year younger than I am.

  “That works in her favor, you know,” the nurse says. “Younger brains heal more quickly than older ones.”

  “I guess that’s something.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “Let me know if you need anything. My name’s Krista. If you forget, it’s written there on the whiteboard.”

  “Thanks, Krista. I might need to know where the coffee machine is,” I say, already feeling my lips turning blue.

  She laughs. “I’ll bring you a cup. How do you like it?”

  “Hot.”

  “You got it.”

  I take a seat next to Sara and watch her chest rise and fall with each pump of the ventilator. I wonder if she can feel the tube down her throat.

  I breathe out forcefully a few times to check if I can see my breath. It seriously feels that cold in here.

  “I can’t imagine how cold you must be with all the ice packs on you,” I say. “I’m freezing and I’m fully clothed with a blanket on.” I put my hand on her skin and it feels warm despite the frigid temperature in the room. “Can you hear me, Sara? Dr. Stone said you might be able to. I’m working on locating Oliver for you. And I know I’m no substitute, but I’m happy to stay with you until he arrives. Joelle was here last night. She might be able to come back today, but I guess you know how busy she must be with twin toddlers. I know how busy we kept my mom. It must be fun for you, having twins in the family. Then again, Joelle said you two aren’t close. I wonder if that means you aren’t close with her children.”

  Krista walks into the room with my coffee. “Thanks,” I say, looking slightly embarrassed about talking to a woman in a coma.

  “I talk to my patients all the time,” she admits, trying to ease my discomfort. “Every time I’m in the room, I tell them what I’m doing. Sometimes I just talk about the day I’ve had, or I talk about my kids and my husband.”

  “Do you think they can hear you?”

  She shrugs. “I really don’t know. If they do, most of them are too out of it when they wake up to remember anything. But if there’s a chance even one of them can hear me, I want to make sure they know someone’s there with them. So keep talking to her. And it’s important to let her know where she is and why she’s here. Maybe then she won’t be as scared when she finally wakes up.”

  “Do you think she’ll wake up?”

  “I hope so.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and then adjusts one of the ice packs under Sara’s left arm. “Enjoy your coffee.”

  I wait until she walks out of the room before talking to Sara again.

  “Okay, so you were in a car accident yesterday, Sara. And now you’re in the hospital. The doctor gave you medicine to help you sleep. You’re going to be okay.”

  My phone rings. It’s my buddy from NYPD.

  “Hi, Jake. Did you find his number?”

  “Not yet,” he says. “I checked the incident records and it doesn’t look like her phone was found at the scene. Since the front window was smashed, it very well could have been thrown out of the car and is now at the bottom of the East River.”

  “Damn. But then, how did you contact her cousin, Joelle?”

  “According to the police report, Sara had her ID in her back pocket. We contacted the manager of her apartment building and got Joelle’s name off her emergency contact list.”

  “She didn’t have a wallet or a purse with her? Anything with more information?”

  “No.”

  “And what about the driver? Can you tell me anything about her? I’m sitting in the hospital with Sara and I’d like to be able to give her information about her friend when she wakes up.” I get up and walk to the other side of the room in case Sara can hear me. “Maybe her belongings could help us find Oliver.”

  “The driver’s name was Anna Jorgensen. She wasn’t under the influence if that’s what you’re asking. Looks like a tire blowout. There’s nothing anyone could have done. Bad timing being on the bridge. We do have Anna’s phone even though it’s smashed up. I looked in her contacts and didn’t find any Oliver. I have a number for her next of kin who came in last night to make the ID. I can call that number and see if I get anywhere. And I’ll keep digging on my end, but officially, since the family has been contacted already, it’s not our job to find him, and anything I do to help you is off the books. But the guy’s sure to turn up sooner or later if he can’t find his girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Jake.”

  “Anytime.”

  I walk back over and sit down, grabbing my coffee and holding it between both hands to keep me warm.

  I sip it slowly as I study Sara’s face. Then I remember something.

  “Joelle said you’re an artist,” I muse aloud. “And she said you sell your paintings.”

  I put down the coffee and pull out my phone to Google her. As I type her last name into the search engine, I think of my mom. I’m not sure I’ve typed or written the name Francis since the weeks after their death. I look back up at Sara. “This is going to be different,” I tell her. “This isn’t ending the way that did.”

  The first hit I get is a picture of a painting. I click on it and expand it to fill up the entire screen. I look at the woman lying lifeless on the bed. “Damn. You did this?”

  I wish I had a big computer screen so I could really check it out,
but even on my small phone, I can tell she’s got amazing talent. The painting appears to be a father and daughter on a beach. They’re holding hands, looking out into the ocean. The backdrop has a Cape Cod feel to it. Sara’s attention to detail is amazing, right down to the names on the street sign, a dilapidated fence, and cattails swaying in the breeze. It’s almost as if this was painted from a picture. But I don’t know of any picture that has captured as much passion.

  I’m no art curator, but I’m damn impressed. I can’t wait to get home and search for more of her paintings on my laptop.

  I come across the name of an art gallery that did a showing of her paintings. I write down the address, thinking maybe I’ll drop in and see what information I can get.

  I stay with Sara until my stomach complains about being empty.

  While grabbing a bite in the cafeteria, I check my email messages. There’s one from headquarters reassigning me from Engine 77, where I was to report for my next shift, to Engine 319. 319 is Bass’s company. I immediately dial his number.

  “What’s up, Denver?”

  “Is everything okay with you?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I just got an assignment to 319.”

  “Oh, sweet. I was hoping you would.”

  “So it’s your shift?”

  “It is. I asked J.D. to request you. Auggie sprained his shoulder on a run yesterday and will be on desk duty for about four weeks.”

  “Four weeks?”

  He laughs. “Think you can put up with me that long?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see you Thursday.”

  A bunch of pagers go off all at once behind me, and a table of young doctors get up and race out of the cafeteria.

  “What was that?” Bass asks.

  “I’m at the hospital with the girl from the accident.”

  “So you went? Is she okay?”

  “She’s still unconscious. And she’s got no one.” I throw away my trash and then pace around the side of the cafeteria. “I mean she’s got a cousin, but she can’t really be here. And she has a boyfriend, but he hasn’t shown up yet and nobody knows his full name.”

  “You haven’t been there since last night, have you?”

  “Of course not. I went home and got some sleep.”

  “Be careful, Denver.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “Try not to get too caught up in things. She’s not your responsibility. You did your job. Now let the doctors do theirs.”

  “Did you not hear me say she has nobody?”

  “It’s still not your job.”

  I see a familiar face walking through the atrium. “I have to go, Bass. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hang up before he can say another word. Then I catch up with Joelle before she gets on the elevator.

  “Hey, I’m glad you could make it,” I say.

  “Yeah, me too. But I could only get away for about an hour. Any luck finding Oliver?”

  I shake my head. “The police said she didn’t have a phone with her.”

  “That’s odd. Doesn’t everyone always have their phone on them?”

  “Yeah, well, maybe it fell out of the car in the accident. Anyway, I’m going to stop by a gallery that came up when I searched Sara’s name. Maybe they’ll know something.”

  The elevator stops on the sixth floor and we get out. When we get to Sara’s room, the doctor is in with her. He sees us walk into the room and stops talking with the nurse.

  “Is she okay?” Joelle asks.

  “We still don’t know, but her ICP is coming down, so it looks like we won’t have to remove a portion of her skull.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Joelle says.

  “It could be, but I don’t want to give you false hope. At this point, we’re merely at a crossroads of science, health, and faith. We’re taking care of the science part. And Sara is young and strong, so the health part is covered. That just leaves faith. So if you pray, or you know those who do, now might be a good time to rely on that.”

  I back up and lean against the wall, saying a silent prayer for the woman I don’t even know. The woman whose chocolate brown eyes looking back at me in the mirror haunted my dreams last night.

  My phone vibrates with a text.

  Aspen: I just got off the phone with Bass. Are you really sitting vigil with an accident victim at the hospital?

  Me: It’s not a big deal, Pen. It’s just until her family gets here.

  Aspen: It sounds like a pretty big deal to me.

  Me: If it were you, and you didn’t have anyone, wouldn’t you want someone there? Even if it was a stranger?

  Aspen: Bass told me he saw you last night and that you were pretty messed up over the whole thing. Maybe it’s time to reach out to a counselor at FDNY.

  I’m so tired of everyone telling me to see a goddamned shrink. Aspen brings it up every time I talk about work. Or our parents. So I try not to talk about either if I can help it, which doesn’t leave us with a whole hell of a lot to talk about when we’re together. Except baseball. We talk a lot about baseball.

  And I suddenly realize my issues may have put some distance between us. Distance isn’t something twins are supposed to have.

  Me: I’m fine.

  Aspen: She’s not them, Den.

  Me: I know that, Aspen.

  Aspen: Do you?

  I look over at Sara and then put my phone back in my pocket, not bothering to respond to Aspen’s question. Probably because I’m afraid of what the answer is.

  Chapter Five

  Yesterday, when Joelle visited Sara, she told me she left a message for Lydia. I suppose it’s possible that Lydia will know how to contact Oliver, but almost a day has passed without word from her, so I’m sticking with my original plan.

  After three subway trains and a five-block walk, I’m staring into the windows of the art gallery I found on the Internet.

  I enter the front door and look around at the paintings on the walls, hoping to find some other Sara Francis originals, but I don’t see any.

  I hear footsteps on the concrete floor behind me. I turn around and see a tall, thin man wearing a pin-striped suit with a yellow scarf around his neck. He has an inviting smile on his face.

  “Welcome,” he says. “How may I be of assistance? Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “I’m looking for information on an artist,” I say. I get out my phone and show him the picture of Sara’s painting. “You’ve sold some of her paintings.”

  He looks at my phone. “Ah, Sara Francis. That crazy bitch is one talented chica. Pardon my French. But I don’t sell her paintings. No gallery sells her paintings. She only works by commission, creating one-of-a-kind masterpieces for her clients.”

  I look at him with drawn brows.

  “You don’t look like you’re much into art,” he says, eyeing me from head to toe while taking in my FDNY shirt and jeans.

  “I’m afraid not,” I say.

  “Well, let me tell you about our little Miss Diva. She doesn’t simply throw paint on a canvas and hang it on a wall with a price tag. She creates works of art out of memories.”

  I glance at the painting on my phone. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “Say you proposed to your girlfriend on a gondola in Venice and you wanted to capture that moment forever but didn’t have a photograph. Or maybe you have one, but it doesn’t quite evoke the emotion, the surroundings, or the ambiance that you long to remember. You have the talented Ms. Francis create you a painting.”

  I cock my head. “And she can do all that from a description?”

  The man laughs flamboyantly. “Hardly.” He points to a table in the corner. “I was about to have my morning tea. Care to join me?”

  “Uh, okay.”

  He holds his hand out. “I’m sorry for being so rude. I’m Davis Martinez, manager of the gallery.”

  I shake his hand. “I’m—”<
br />
  “Yummy,” he says, holding on to my hand little too long. “Sorry. I’m obviously not your type. But, honey, everyone is my type. Anyway, you were saying?”

  I finally get my hand back. “I’m Denver Andrews.”

  He glances at my shirt again. “Captain? Lieutenant? Ooooooh, Battalion Chief?”

  I laugh. “None of those. Just firefighter.”

  He waves off my comment with a quick flick of his wrist. “I’m sure you’ll get there someday, sweetie,” he says, pouring me a cup of tea.

  We sit down at the table and I politely take a sip. “So, you were going to tell me about her paintings?”

  I should cut to the chase and ask him about Oliver, but he’s got me so damned intrigued, I feel compelled to find out more about her. When I got home from the hospital last night, I spent an hour looking at some of her paintings on the Internet. I’ve never seen anything like them. She’s talented as hell.

  “Sara has quickly become one of the most sought-after artists in the city. No, the country,” he says. “She’s a genius. And like I said, she doesn’t just paint. She researches. She experiences. She feels her art.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “So, the guy who proposed in the gondola? Sara would interview him and the fiancée, then she would fly to Venice and go to the location of the proposal. She’s fanatical about getting the details correct, right down to hiring the exact gondolier the couple had hired if she could find him. She wanted to experience her paintings before she created them. That girl has traveled to every corner of the world. She has more stamps in her passport than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “Damn,” I say, shaking my head in comprehension. “Her paintings must cost an arm and a leg.”

  He laughs. “Well, let’s just say if you proposed on top of the Empire State Building, you might pay a wee bit less than the guy on the gondola.”