The Toll of Valor

By Lyle Markey

The Toll of Valor is first in a series of novels. Meet Russ ‘Duke’ Marlin – an ornery boy growing up in a small Kansas town. Duke was born to be a firefighter. Julie Goodin, a preacher’s daughter, is meant to be his girl.

A family of firefighters, Duty - Honor - Valor is the Marlin tradition, and those three words transform a boy into a man. Each day, Julie matures with beauty and grace, and Duke discovers, that comes with a price. Deward Banksiana has a fetish and a pentagram tattoo, and his eye is on Julie.

Quick with his fists – faster in his Mach 1, Duke and the War Horse can’t protect Julie from every danger. And Julie can’t protect Duke from the hazards of firefighting. Threats and a haunting premonition force Julie into a series of schemes to save Duke and the last resort is always the most brutal.

Weakened by a constant barrage of carnage, a tsunami of tragic events hurls Duke into a syndrome known to firefighters as the Tin Man – it is ‘the toll of valor’. Julie battles her own demons, but she’s committed to bringing Duke back. With Julie by his side, Duke rediscovers Christ’s presence in his life and the power of forgiveness.

Then on the morning of her wedding day, Julie awakens to the sound of a storm, or is it another premonition …

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490805429

Lyle Markey

Lyle Markey holds a Bachelor of Science degree from Fort Hays State University. Responding to the need for dedicated emergency responders, Mr. Markey became a volunteer firefighter in 1986. Since then, he continues to serve with honor and distinction. Mr. Markey has woven some of his actual experiences into many adventures in The Toll of Valor, and now, The Dreams of Fire. His ongoing participation in emergency services, and his love of Jesus Christ, make Lyle Markey a must reader for the teen to adult fan of captivating adventure. Deputy Chief Markey was honored to be nominated for the Tom McGaughey Award of Merit, awarded by the state of Kansas. The City of Wamego, Kansas also recognized Mr. Markey for ‘Selfless and dedicated action in response to the Ferrellgas propane fire — August 26, 2000.’ Lyle and his wife, Kay, live near the Flint Hills of Kansas. They were married in May of 1982, and have two lovely daughters. Their home is shared with an adopted border collie, a red Doberman and two very spoiled cats. The Markeys are co-founders of Sparrow Specialty Coffee of Manhattan, Kansas—an outreach to the surrounding community in the name of Jesus Christ.

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Copyright © 2019 Lyle Markey.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-0543-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0544-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-0542-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013914735

WestBow Press rev. date:    11/27/2019

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

To my Lord and Savior.

To my lovely wife, Kay.

To my children, Amber & Amanda.

To my big brother, Russ.

To Mom & Dad.

Chapter 1

W E STAND IN an eerie dance of light and shadow. All is dark, except for flairs of dragon’s breath rushing up the staircase. Grandpa glances at the approaching flames then back to me. He asks, Are you afraid?

Not afraid. I’m angry.

You were born to eat smoke. So, promise— Grandpa offers his hand. He seems close enough to touch, yet I grasp the white helmet of a chief.

G-pa, I’ll… The house quakes. Above a thunderous collapse, I shout, I’ll be a firefighter, I promise!

Grandpa fades into the smoky haze. He says, A promise is a promise, Duke. Suddenly, I open my eyes—Mom’s shaking my shoulder.

She says, "Duke, Russ D. Marlin. Get dressed. I have to drop you off at the station. Move."

As the morning sun turns our sky an angry red, Mom hurries my brother, Len, and me out to the car. The town’s oddball, ‘Kooky’ Maronie, ever-present burlap sack slung over his shoulder, waves from across the street. Len waves back. I throw a nod. That’s all normal. It’s only weird that Mom ignores him.

Mom breathes her prayer and our old Dodge starts on the first try. She cranks up the radio as some reporter says, An early morning house fire claimed the lives of a young mother and father…

An upset stomach kept me tossing last night so, I guess I dozed. The next thing I know, Mom dumps me off on the apron of Firehouse 1, an old red brick building in a small town, a few miles from some dusty reservation. She says something about, hospital, and, give your father a smacker.

The large overhead doors are up. Still, a hint of acrid smoke taints the air. I think, Structure fire. I’ll bet a ‘Franklin’.

Grandpa’s crew seems unusually somber, and some rookie, who hates coffee as much as I do, hacks the brass knuckle from a charred firehose. What’s up, Buck? I ask.

With quivering chin, Luke ‘Buck’ Markey wipes his bloodshot eyes.

Croakers… I think, Len had a similar expression after I launched his ‘Major Astro’ with a homemade cherry bomb. Sorry I asked, I mutter.

I traipse into the office. Grandpa’s copy of A Tale of Two Cities lies open on the seat of his leather chair. I lay it on his desk and curl up on the worn leather. Those familiar squeaks of the old springs are like an acoustic fuzzy blanket.

My world fades as a scratchy radio in the truck bay blares, "…According to the Kansas state fire marshal, at the end of two hoselines, four Watanka firefighters fought the raging fire. Meanwhile, Chief Ross Marlin found the couple’s young son hiding in a toy chest. Marlin, known for his daring World War II exploits, heard a foreboding noise above him, tossed the child to Jerry Eichem, a firefighter, and shoved him from harm’s way. Instantly, the second floor collapsed. The immense weight crushed their hoselines and created a water hammer that shattered Engine 46…’"

Some annoying presence stirs me enough to slap a fly from my nose. The solemn broadcast continues, …Fire Marshal Flint finished his press conference, saying, ‘For now, we’re not concerned about the truck.’

Especially me, I say aloud, accidentally.

I heard you, Dad snaps as he slides under a sooty Engine 46.

Sorry, I was just thinkin’ this pumper’s a piece-a junk. I shuffle from G-pa’s office into the truck bay. And Mom said I’m supposed ta give ya a smacker.

Crud, I need a hammer… Duke, bring me the ball-peen hammer, please. Dad scoots further under the truck. With only the dried bloodstain on his boots sticking out, he calls out, "Double-time, Son!"

On the tailboard, a folded newspaper flaps in a gentle breeze. I glance at the morning’s headline:

Two Dead—Hero Clings to Life

Are ya about done? Here’s yer hammer— I slide the tool. Where’s G-pa?

Clang clang clang rings out from under the truck. Finally, I hear Dad sigh and he says, I need your help. It may be hours. Sorry.

"No way. I’m watchin’ John Wayne an’ The Horse Soldiers. I don’t wanna miss my favorite word ‘croakers’. Besides, Tall Bear and Wind Rider will be waitin’ on me."

This needs ta be ready for the next— clang-clang-clank. "I’ll try to be done in time for The Lone Ranger. I promise."

Nearby, Thomas Wind Rider coils a joint of 4-inch hose. I say, Get somebody else ta do it. Daniel’s old man is just monkeyin’ around with the LDH.

That does it— Dad slides out on a rickety creeper.

I have a second to take a gulp of air and think, Running away is not an option.

Blisters cover most of Dad’s left cheek, but I see anger add to the redness. "These men were up all night at a house fire. They’re volunteers, they don’t have ta be here, but duty calls them.

"They didn’t have ta go into smoke so thick you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, but valor would not let them do anything else.

"Right now, Grandpa is in the hospital fightin’ for his life. He was brave when danger threatened, an’ wouldn’t leave his men because he’s loyal and his heart’s filled with honor."

Now, it all makes sense. I gasp. G-pa’s hurt.

Dad swallows a lump. He says, Russ, you’re eleven years old, so listen. The four points of a Maltese cross are… duty, valor, honor, loyalty. These turn a boy into a real man.

A real man, like G-pa?

Like G-pa— Dad nods. "So let me tell you a story about some real men. Dad grabs the newspaper and motions for me to sit beside him on the tailboard. He says, Some fires are defined by a different language. So, I call this one… Ice and the Dragon."

Dad drapes his arm around my shoulders. He tells the story with a twinkle in his eye, and his voice isn’t quite his own. I can almost taste the smoke—flinch at the sounds. Too soon, the tale winds down to this…

He says, …cries from those above say, ‘Hail the victorious!’ Brave knights kneel in gratitude to the divine hand that led them to glory. Their names inscribed on hallowed halls, they return home as heroes.

Dad points his uninjured cheek and says, I’ll take that smacker now.

Dad’s story stays with me until we step foot inside our church’s parsonage. He says, Thank you, Mrs. Goodin, for watchin’ my boys—didn’t give you much notice.

My goodness, it’s the least I can do, she says.

It’s jus’at, well, Duke and I haven’t had time ta eat.

Mrs. Goodin gasps. Poor child, I’ll prepare a snack. And there’s no need for thanks.

"Well, Jolene, you have my thanks. And Chaplain Paul… has he had a chance ta talk with Pops?"

Since Paul volunteered to be the fire department chaplain, your father has been a frequent visitor to Paul’s office. Indeed, there is nothing to fear. Ross has settled some very important matters.

Dad glances toward heaven and heaves a deep sigh. Listen, he says, I hate ta run, but if my boys give you or Julie any trouble—call."

They’ll be fine. Julie turns nine tomorrow, and your sons can help with party preparations.

Uhuh, good luck with that. Dad points to me and squints. Russ, remember… duty an’ honor.

I bobble my head and pick a wedgie thinking, Jolene reminds me of Mary Ann on ‘Gilligan’s Island’…

Except Mrs. Goodin seems taller than Mary-Ann, has greenish eyes and wears her dark hair in a long ponytail. Jolene’s wearing a silver necklace with a cross. Her blue apron has some stitching that says, ‘Kiss the cook’.

She takes my hand, says, Rayford, don’t worry about a thing.

Dad waves goodbye, and I am left with the kindest woman in the world, not counting Mom…

Mom looks as if she could be Jolene’s sister, only shorter, wears her hair down, and has brown eyes. She also likes her gold chain with a cross. Mom favors a red apron that says, ‘Maid in USA’.

The similarity is amazing, I tell myself.

Russ, why don’t you find your brother? I just woke Len and Julie from a nap and you’ll find them in the living room. I’ll bring milk and a sandwich soon.

The promise of chow makes me feel instantly at home. That’s important because I’m packin’ a load—an overdose of pork-n-beans lingers from last night. Thanks, Mrs. Goodin, but I gotta poop.

Down the hall on your left. Light switch on the right.

The light works fine, but their exhaust fan is broke. I try holding my breath. That doesn’t work either. Half a roll of toilet paper doesn’t quite get the job done, but that’s it.

I hit the living room and bang some keys on an old upright piano with splotchy varnish. Their new carpet doesn’t do much for me, however, Mom would like those fresh flowers on every table.

Then, in front of their television, I find my brother sitting cross-legged next to a girl. He has an extended pinky, finishing a cup of some make-believe slosh the chick conjured up. One look at that—I catch a bad case of crimp…

Chapter 2

I GREET LEN, the Tea Sipper, with a kick to his kidneys and stick my tongue out at the damsel. Then I get dreadful news. Mrs. Goodin’s on the phone with some plumber. Come quick, the toilet is hopelessly plugged, she says.

Real refreshments take a backseat. The chunky dude, with a keister-crack large enough to park a monkey wrench, takes his sweet time to plunge the problem. Mrs. Goodin grimaces at all the grunts and cursing. Finally, he hands over the bill.

Mrs. Goodin gasps. My husband doesn’t make this much in two days.

He shrugs—It’s after hours.

Even worse than that bill, on TV, acting school flunkies wear rodent caps in a lame attempt to sing and skip rope. Fortunately, Mrs. Goodin breezes into the room. "Here we go… cold milk, warm chocolate chip cookies, and a sandwich for Russ. JG, please ensure that our guests are properly entertained. I’m baking your cake, and there are more cookies to mix. Okay?"

For a homely chick, Julie seems a bit too sure of herself. "Okay, Momma. We’re having a tea party and watching Mickey Mouse Club. That ramrod attitude makes me twitch. She says, Len, you must finish your cupcake before you may have a cookie."

Len’s chunk of Styrofoam makes a bogus cupcake, but Julie’s voice is that of an angel. Wearing a yellow sundress, a white ribbon corrals her long dark hair and her eyes are kinda green.

I put 2-n-2 together, and think, This must be Len’s revenge for makin’ him eat lipstick. He’ll be blabbing to my pals. Then, I’ll have ta move to Manhattan if the posse gets wind that I watched the ‘Singing Rat Club’ with some squishy girl.

I gotta move fast to salvage my reputation. Duke, the T-rex of Watanka will not take this lyin’ down. My Clint Eastwood squint can peel paint, and I lay it on thick. "I’m watchin’ The Lone Ranger. Today’s my favorite episode: The Ghost of Coyote Canyon. Take a seat."

I’m used to wrestling my gang, so I shove her out of the way to make my point. Except Julie’s not a moose like Samuel Tall Bear.

She stumbles backward in a sprawling somersault like some spastic circus chimp. I nudge Len—I’ve never seen a girl’s underwear before.

Julie smacks upside down against a double-decker end table, and some Mongo size vase of flowers topples.

Croakers. Everything seems in slow motion. The empty vase rolls an ink bottle off onto a legal pad with sermon notes. A murky mix of water and black ink splatters the pages of an open Bible. I wheeze in disbelief as a tainted waterfall flows onto the light blue carpet. The sound alone is enough to make me wet my pants.

Julie picks herself up and runs, yowling, to her mom.

Len says, Last night at the talent show, your ‘flatulent dinosaur’ made ya famous. My little brother tosses some fancy words for a punk. He snickers. Tonight, you’re a dead fossil. Serves ya right.

My vocabulary consists of mostly grunts, but I understand ‘self-preservation’, so I dive for the couch.

I hit pay dirt; a quarter and two crayons, but my ‘brother’ blabs, Duke’s behind the sofa.

Mrs. Goodin frowns, saying, Time-out corner for you, young man. She plunks me down on a stool next to the piano.

‘M-I-C… K-E-Y…’ blares from the TV, but I watch everyone else mopping up my damage. I destroyed a sermon outline, Bible, and the only new thing in the house, their carpet. Len laughs—By the time Dad finishes whippin’ you… his hand will need a plaster cast.

A picture of Jesus looks down on me. Fervently, I pray, Please kill me now. Waiting for earthly judgment gives me the stitch, almost as unbearable as the Mouseketeers’ singing.

After two hours, a tall glass of chocolate milk and a thick ham sandwich, car doors shut in their drive. I part the drapes to see Preacher Goodin get out of one vehicle. Mom and Dad climb out of their jalopy.

I stretch my neck like a turtle crawling onto Highway 24, but muffled voices in the kitchen are unintelligible from my corner dungeon. Then, Dad and that preacher enter the room. I think, Good thing I just had snuck outside to let ‘Poncho’ water the shrubs.

Preacher says, I understand we had a problem, Son…

He reminds me of the preacher on M.A.S.H., except in a suit. Without the glasses, Paul Goodin is beefier than that priest, dark hair, square chin—he must stand six-feet. He looks a lot like my dad. Except Dad is five-nine, and Dad is cherry red. Quite a few people have bent me over their knee, but a preacher has never spanked me.

I tuck my chin and swallow hard—mumble, I didn’t mean ta ruin your stuff.

Preacher says, What you did was wrong, you could have hurt Julie. Carpets and Bibles are important, but I can buy new ones. People, you just can’t replace.

I know, Dad tells me ta be nice. I think, Man, I wish Preacher would just get to it.

Dad isn’t saying a word because his eyes are doing it well enough. Preacher motions and I flinch. Mrs. Goodin and Mom appear from around the corner with Len and Julie in tow.

Circus Chimp has her lower lip stuck out and stops right in front of me. Preacher lays a hand on my shoulder, and to my amazement, there’s no pain to go with it. He only whispers a few words into my ear.

I repeat, Julie, sorry I pushed you.

Julie just watches me close with her lower lip still out.

Preacher says, Julie and I have something to say to you. Preacher takes a knee beside Julie and drapes his arm around her shoulders. Julie, he prompts.

They look me in the eye and say, We forgive you, Russ. Julie’s pout turns into a beautiful smile, even with braces.

My coffin suffers the same fate as the Ghost of Coyote Canyon. "Thank you, and I’m drop-dead sorry. Mom says that God made boys so’s they can protect girls and I will from now on, promise."

I’m all happy to be forgiven and meant what I said, but there’s something else in the mix. For the first time, I don’t mind being near a girl. Julie stands on one foot the other tucked behind her heel. She throws me a smile and swishes her dress.

Ahem, Pastor clears his throat. "Duke, let this be a lesson. God forgives us for doing bad things even when we deserve punishment. We did nothing to earn forgiveness. God extends it to us freely. We only have to admit we were bad and accept His gift, Jesus."

Then Pastor Goodin slaps a hand on Dad’s shoulder, he says, "Ray, if you will, no further action is required. I believe there is something we will remember far longer than a minor stain on an old rug."

Maybe his blisters hurt because Dad wipes ‘dust’ from his eyes. Thanks, Chaplain. This has been a lesson we will never forget.

Dad’s right. I learned a bunch and I promise myself, I will never forget… Julie or Jesus.

Mom grabs my hand and walks me out to the car, but I’m watching. In the front window, Julie waves goodbye. I tug at Mom’s hand, and she stops. I say, My heart feels kinda funny.

"Rayford, just a second! Pastor jogs down their front steps. He grabs Dad’s arm. The hospital, there’s no time…"

Chapter 3

A T THE GRAVESITE, I catch only bits and pieces of Chaplain Goodin’s eulogy because Julie has a hold of my arm. She holds me just like Mom is holding on to Dad. Julie’s heart seems broken, just as Mom’s and just like mine. I wipe ‘dust’ from my eyes, but Julie does not hide her tears.

I ask myself, So, what makes this girl care about Grandpa or my family? Wish I hadn’t called her a ‘circus chimp’.

My heart changed the other night, and I’m still figuring it out. Seems like Julie has something I’m missing. When she looks at me, I get a feeling. A feeling like I don’t like it when she’s not around…

The next day at school, I catch a glimpse of Julie in the lunchroom. She’s the star in some special class that pretty well has free rein of the place.

Wind Rider slaps the back of my head. There’s yer girlfriend, he says.

Some of the smart kids hear Wind Rider and laugh. Then one of them snickers. "What does JG want with that idiot?"

I glance back to Wind Rider and say, She’s not my girlfriend.

That doesn’t stop Julie from sashaying over to ‘Dead Wood Gulch’. She drops her lunch tray between Tall Bear and me. Nobody dares join my gang without an invitation first. However, I cannot get over her smile, so I slide over.

Julie’s manners are nothing like Tall Bear’s and Wind Rider’s antics. She doesn’t lob the salt like a hand grenade or stuff her mouth like a Marine. I even remember some manners. I say, Excuse me for belching, I usually fart.

Just then, Billy Damon, one of the smart kids who made fun of me, shuffles by with his lunch tray. At the last second, I kick a chair in his way. He trips over it and his tray flies in the air—fish sticks and all.

Most of us laugh, but Julie seems sad. She says, "Russ, a hero is someone everyone looks up to."

As she hustles for the broom, I think about how it feels when people laugh at me. Never again, I tell myself…

Not everything changes. My friends and I still prowl the woods wearing our buckskins. We ride our horses bareback and kill any critter that moves while at a full gallop. Just that, since Julie has been around—I don’t get into trouble at school. More important, I don’t wanna get into a scrape…

Two weeks later: Tall Bear pulls me aside in the hallway. Duke, what’s wrong? You’re not the same since ya got a girlfriend.

I glare. She ain’t my girlfriend.

What is she then?

Try… Julie is so much smarter than me.

"Marlin, you know what I mean."

You mean like, she’s makin’ me a better person. My heart’s different. I’ve got a long way ta go, but I ain’t goin’ back to the way I was.

We’re friends still?

Did you fall off your horse and land on yer noggin? Put, ‘My best’ in front of ‘friend’. As a matter of fact, would ya like to come ta church?

"Eah, we’ll see. Tall Bear nudges my side—Look, here comes Julie an’ her best friend… that rich Adams girl."

Julie says, Hi, cowboys. She flicks me a wink, says, Chrissie’s mom can’t pick her up today.

So, like, can you walk me downtown, Samuel Awesomeness? Christine asks.

Tall Bear bounces a glance off me and shrugs—Well, I’ve never had ‘guard duty’ before.

As Julie and I walk home from school, I yank a paper from my pocket. I wanna show you this grade. You helped me ace my spelling test.

She hugs my arm and says, Someday, you’ll write books.

"Nah, I’ll join the Army and kill a busload of VC. Then, I’ll be a firefighter—dragons beware. Books are for bookworms, but how did you get into that class with all the smart alecks?"

I don’t want you to think I’m conceited.

"Never heard that-n before."

She looks at her feet. "I’m sorry. It means… high and mighty."

Yeah, Len spouts some pretty tall words too.

Julie’s shoulders droop a bit more. Maybe what I said hurt her feelings. So, I take her hand, hoping she’ll feel better. Neither of us utters a word. No big deal for me, but Julie is usually a chatterbox. I think, I really screwed-up.

The thought no more goes through my head and Julie smiles. Oh, look at Mrs. Peterson’s roses. She tugs my hand—Smell them.

I think, This is beyond corny. Jus’at, Julie is hard to resist. I glance over my shoulder for witnesses.

Be careful of the thorns, Duke.

Croakers, it bit me. I wink.

Julie kisses the end of my finger. "There, boo-boo all better." She smiles.

I throw a little gravel in my voice, My heart’s at a gallop must be a spaz attack.

Julie giggles, so I break the rose off and give it to her. Just don’t tell Mrs. Peterson— I shrug.

Julie’s smile is sweeter than frosting, and for some reason, I think of that disc of foam from her tea party. I say to myself, "JG’s okay, but I like ‘Cupcake’ better…" Just