by Lisa Jackson
But it counted.
It counted.
Gritting her teeth, she guided her four-wheel-drive vehicle steadily through a thickening carpet of snow. You can do this, Savannah. You can. There was nowhere she could stop, no turning back. Sweating, fighting each contraction, she managed to keep her tires in the two tracks that were quickly disappearing after the passing of the last car, which was far enough ahead of her Escape that she could no longer see its taillights. Lining the road, rows of Douglas firs were heavy with snow, their branches blanketed in white.
She wondered how many miles she had to drive until she could risk pulling off and making a call. Or was it too late already? Another pain ripped through her, and she held steady hands clamped over the wheel.
Hold on, Kristina, she thought, jaw clenched, eyes straight forward and steady. She sent up a silent prayer for her sister.
After a moment, she sent one up for herself, as well.
Over an hour since Savannah had hung up on him. Forty-five minutes into Kristina’s surgery. Hale sat in the plastic chair and kept glancing at his watch, wondering how minutes had become so long. Eternities.
He tried calling Savvy back, but her phone went straight to voice mail. Because she wasn’t answering, or because she was out of range, heading into the storm.
Probably a little of both.
Feeling strangled for air, he left the OR waiting room and headed toward Emergency and the glass doors and hallway windows that offered a view outside. He was shocked at the amount of snow on the ground when he caught his first glimpse of the parking lot. Two inches of accumulation? Three? If there was this much snow at sea level, what must the pass be like?
Worried, he thought about calling the sheriff’s department and maybe talking to Savannah’s partner of sorts, Detective Stone. Or was it Clausen? He didn’t really know. He’d heard her speak of Stone more often. He placed the call and asked for Stone, but the brusque way he was put off by the woman in dispatch told him more about the state of the department before she even brought up the weather.
“Detective Stone is not available. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No. I’m good. Thanks.” He clicked off with the lie. He was far from “good,” and he half thought about calling 9-1-1, but what would he say? “I’m worried about a pregnant woman driving over the pass.” And the probable answer given the condition of the weather: “Yeah, aren’t we all, buddy?”
He wished from the bottom of his gut that Savannah had stayed in Portland. Better yet, he wished she’d never left the coast at all.
Snow. Thick crystalline pellets. Everywhere.
Savannah stared through the windshield, her attention laserlike on the white road, her ears tuned to the radio. After a sketchy broadcast that had started warning everyone to just stay inside with a hot toddy or cocoa, and flashlights and blankets at the ready, she was now getting mostly fuzz.
Her police band was sputtering, but she could get no clear signal through the storm. She’d tried calling 9-1-1, but her cell wasn’t connecting, either, and when she’d phoned Lang, it had been with the same result. In fact, the last time she’d fumbled with her cell, she’d lost her concentration, and the SUV’s back end had swung outward, causing her heart to jolt, before she straightened out the vehicle and eased it back onto the white road ahead of her.
Beads of sweat stood on her forehead, and she felt like she was burning up, like after a hard workout, rather than driving through a frigid landscape where the temperature was dropping by the minute. The predicted storm wasn’t supposed to be this severe; she’d heard the surprise in the weather reporter’s voice before her radio went to white noise.
“Accident . . . don’t go . . . icy conditions until . . .”
Tantalizing snippets were fighting their way through. Savvy kept herself attuned to the radio with the intense concentration of a tightrope walker. It was better than thinking about her sister, better than thinking about the next contraction, which she suspected was about two minutes away.
She could make it. Labor was intense; she’d known it would be. But it took a long time. She could do it. She was halfway through the mountains already, although this second half of the drive was bound to be a lot slower, as she’d gotten down to ten miles an hour or less. At this rate . . .
The radio fuzzed, and she caught a brief snippet of a scratchy voice: “Road closures . . . all mountain passes . . . Cascade . . . Siskiyou . . . Coast Range . . .”
“What?” she asked aloud, peering into the darkness ahead while white, swirling flakes caught in her headlights.
The finicky radio signal disappeared and gave her back that infuriating, fuzzing nothingness. It was time for the chains. Past time, really. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Hale they were the snap-on kind. She’d put them on half a dozen times going over the Coast Range in the winter, and though, no, she hadn’t been extremely pregnant those times, she wasn’t all that worried about it now. She just had to be careful about slipping, and that was the one area where she was lacking: good footwear for snow.
It was too dark to see too far ahead, but she knew this road backward and forward. She passed the last rest stop, which had been closed up and was buried in snow. There was a turnout not far ahead. A blocked-off road on forestry land. She could pull over there and put the chains on.
A contraction seized her, and she slowed the vehicle to a crawl, fighting through the pain. God. Damn. It. She could hear Hale and Kristina and Lang in her head, telling her what an idiot she was. But Kristina . . .
A sob escaped her lips. Immediately, she fought it back. No. No falling apart. Not now.
The SUV was barely moving by the time the contraction released her. Surfacing, she saw that the snow had covered the tracks she’d been following. Roads closed. That was the last report, followed by something about the Coast Range. She still had confidence her vehicle could get through, but if they were closing roads, this storm appeared to be a helluva lot worse than anyone had dreamed.
Her wipers were having difficulty getting rid of the accumulation of snow on her windshield. She peered through the small peephole each swipe granted her, squinting ahead into darkness. There were actually three passes along Highway 26, a climb and a partial drop, another climb and a partial drop, and then a final climb and a long drop toward the Pacific Ocean. She was near the final summit. Should she try Lang again? Nine-one-one? She was almost afraid to pick up the phone.
Her headlight beams barely seemed to make a difference—twin jet streams of diminishing illumination that seemed only to find snow, snow, and more snow. Finally, she spied the edge of the dirt road—now snowed over—a road that would avail her a shoulder to pull onto, away from the massive ditches on either side. Carefully, she turned the steering wheel, touching the brakes lightly, avoiding any chance of skidding.
“C’mon,” she whispered.
The beginning of another contraction. Savvy desperately tried to turn off first. Her rear end fishtailed. Her Escape swung around to the right too quickly. Suddenly she was spinning 360 degrees, agonizingly slowly. She clenched the wheel, took her foot off the brake, bore down on the contraction, and screamed for all she was worth, the sound deafening in the car. Her headlights swung over the ground, but she didn’t stop. The Escape kept on turning and turning, out of control. She realized there was a sheet of ice beneath the snow, laid down from the rain that had spit from the sky first.
Swearing in short, staccato monosyllables, she gently tried to reverse the spin. Her heart thundered in her ears. No studs. No grip. “Come on.... Come on. . . .” But it was no use. In a slow-motion glide the Escape slid off the road, missed the turnout, and slipped into the ditch, nose first, clattering and banging onto its side.
Savvy sat sideways in the vehicle, hung in place by her seat belt. Unhurt, but little tremors of fear were running through her. Okay. Okay. She was okay. She was okay. The slide had happened slowly enough that the air bags weren’t triggered.
Then she felt the gush of warmth between her legs.
“Oh . . . shit.”
Panic wasn’t far off now. With an effort, she tamped down her fears. She’d been trained to keep a cool head, but she was playing a losing game with so many strikes against her.
She would try the cell phone again. Maybe there was reception. Maybe. Hopefully. God, hopefully . . .
She’d put the cell back in her messenger bag, which had been on the passenger seat. Now the bag was lying against the passenger door. She tried to reach for it, but her arms weren’t long enough, and she could only wave at it like a trapped animal due to her seat belt restraints. She immediately tried to find the release mechanism for the seat belt, but the pressure of her own weight made it difficult to release. “Damn!” She wanted to shriek and flail and cry.
Her fingers pressed hard on the release. She gritted her teeth. She pressed and pressed and pressed, then yanked on the belt itself, then shifted and pressed again. Suddenly, her seat belt snapped open, and she half fell downward into the passenger seat, her legs tangled in the driver’s footwell.
Her fingers found her messenger bag. Hallelujah! Her breath came in trembling gasps. Her pulse slammed in her ears. Relax. Relax. Relax. Fingers scrabbling beneath the bag’s front flap, she searched blindly for her cell.
Please . . . oh, God, please . . .
She could just touch the case, couldn’t get a grip. Sweat slipped down the side of her nose.
“Goddamnit!” she yelled.
A fingernail slid across the molded plastic. She tried to scooch closer, and she felt the beginnings of the wave. How many minutes in between? How many? Three? Two? One?
No.
Calm. Calm. Stay calm. The contraction overcame her, sending her into the fetal position, as much as she could manage. She counted in her head. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Missi . . .
“Oh, for God’s sake!” she yelped.
Slowly, slowly, the contraction ebbed, and as she lay sprawled across the front seats, she listened to her own breathing for several seconds before reaching forward again. She probed with her index finger and worked it around the phone. Her middle finger came next, carefully, and when two fingers surrounded the casing, her thumb came in for the grab. Precarious but caught. She momentarily reveled in victory.
With the patience of a saint, she worked the cell out and let out a sob when it was fully in her hand. Yanking it to her, she quickly pressed the power-on button, slid to unlock, and called up the keypad. Nine-one-one. Then the TCSD. Yes, they would give her hell for her predicament, but that was the least of her worries. She’d be lucky to . . . The phone started singing, and she nearly dropped it.
“Damn! Son of a . . . Hello?”
“Savannah! Where are you? Tell me you’re over the summit. They’re closing roads, and I don’t know what the hell that means, but nothing good.” Hale sounded half frantic. “God. Where are you?”
“I’m . . . over the summit.”
“Good. How far? What the hell are the roads like?” He drew a breath.
“What about Kristina?” she demanded.
“She’s in surgery.”
“Okay. Good. That’s good?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s good, as far as I know. They’re doing everything they can. When will you be here?”
“Not sure. I’m, um, having some difficulties. I hit some ice and the Escape . . .”
“What?”
“I’m off the road, in a ditch.”
“Savannah!”
“I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
“Damn it. You—” He cut himself off.
“I know. I know. I just need a tow.” She wasn’t going to tell him that her water broke. Not yet. Not until she absolutely had to.
“Okay . . . okay . . . I don’t know when that’ll be. I just saw on the news, there are accidents everywhere.”
“Okay.”
“But I’ll get someone out there. You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded, as if he could see her, but underneath she was beginning to feel panic. “Call nine-one-one.”
“You are hurt!”
“No, Hale. No. I’m just trapped, and I’ve been having some contractions.”
“Contractions? You’re kidding! Say you’re kidding.”
“Sorry, no.” She closed her eyes. “They’ve gotten stronger.”
“Savvy?”
“I’m just going to settle in and wait for the ambulance.”
“Savvy? You there? Savvy!”
“I’m here, Hale. Can you hear me?”
“Are you there?”
“My water broke, and I—”
“Savvy?”
“Oh, shit,” she muttered, filled with rising panic. He couldn’t hear her! “Hale?”
“Damn it. Savannah? Can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes! Can you hear me?”
Silence.
“Hale?” A moment. “Hale?”
She looked down at the screen. CONNECTION FAILED.
She went cold inside. Colder than the world outside. Her teeth started chattering as a whistle of wind rattled the Escape. Swallowing hard, she struggled to make a call, but whatever service she’d had was gone. With mounting anxiety she realized not one single car had passed her since she’d slid off the road.
She was alone in a cold white world.
CHAPTER 16
“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“There’s a woman in a Ford Escape who’s gone off the road just over the summit on Highway Twenty-Six. Toward us, the ocean side, west side, of the summit.” Hale felt a pulse in his head beating out a tattoo of fear. “She needs help.”
“Sir, what is your name?”
“Hale St. Cloud. Her name . . . the woman in the car is Savannah Dunbar, and she’s pregnant. Very pregnant.”
“Is she in labor?”
“Yes, she’s having contractions! She’s unable to move!
She’s stuck!” He thought of Savannah trapped in her car and the cold and the contractions. He thought of his unborn son. . . . What if there were complications? Trauma?
“You’re saying you can’t pinpoint the location. Does she have a cell phone?”
“Yes, but it just went dead. Can you just send someone out that way?” he demanded impatiently.
“The roads have been closed—”
“I know, damn it. What the hell does that mean?”
“Mr. St. Cloud, we have many emergencies. I’m sending the message, and they’ll get to her as soon as they can. But if she could call and we could get a better idea as to where she is? You understand that would help?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“We’ll send EMTs as soon as we can.”
The dubiousness of the operator’s voice made Hale want to slam his fist into a wall. He assured the operator, who asked him more questions, that he would keep trying to reach Savannah, and then he hung up, feeling utterly useless and frustrated.
Wanting to jump from his skin, he stalked back to the waiting room outside the operating rooms. He thought of his wife fighting for her life, but as safe as she could be, in a doctor’s care. But Savannah and the baby . . . He lasted exactly six minutes. Then he strode to the nearest nurses’ hub and said loudly, “I need to give someone my cell number. I’ve got to go. My wife’s in surgery, but I’ve got another emergency.”
One of the nurses got up from the chair she’d been sitting in and eyed him thoughtfully. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a notepad on a clipboard. “Write it down here. Which surgeon is she with?”
“Dr. Oberon.” Hale scratched down his cell. He had the prickling feeling that they didn’t believe him. That his actions somehow made him seem guilty. Or was that just because Mills had mentioned the words crime scene?
He was gone before they could ask more questions. He couldn’t do anything more for Kristina other than wring his hands.
But he could help Savvy.
She needed help. Definitely needed help, and he didn’t trust that dispatched EMTs were on the way, no matter what the 9-1-1 operator had said. Bullshit.
For a moment he stared through the window, hands balled by his sides. He could do nothing for Kristina. She was in surgery; she was in the best hands she could be. And his unborn son and his sister-in-law were in immediate danger. There was no contest.
He strode through the doors into a blistering, screaming wind. Ducking his head, he pulled out his cell and looked at it, certain he was going to see NO SERVICE. But there was a signal. Feeble at best. Immediately he tried Savannah again, but the call went to voice mail. He started to put the cell back in his pocket, picking up his pace to a jog, cold fingers of wind slipping under his collar and down his back, when the thing rang in his hand.
He glanced down in relief, but it wasn’t Savannah. Punching the button, he said tersely, “Hi, Declan.” His feet nearly slid out from under him, and he caught himself and slowed his step.
“Son, where are ya?” His grandfather’s voice sounded high and reedy.
“I’m heading home,” Hale lied without a qualm. He didn’t need his grandfather involved in his problems. “You okay?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I just thought I saw someone.”
“At the house?” Hale glanced around at the stinging ice crystals swirling in the sodium vapor lights outside the hospital.
“Musta dreamed it. Sorry.” He sounded embarrassed. “Call me when you’re home.”
“Want me to get someone to come to your place?” Who, he had no idea.
“No, no. Just an old man’s silliness. Call me.”
“Will do.”
He was relieved he didn’t have to attend to his grandfather, who, though his mind shied from the idea, seemed to be slipping a little mentally these days. Or maybe he was just overly tired. No sense borrowing trouble. Hale had enough of that as it was.
His black TrailBlazer was white, covered in an inch of snow. He opened the back and pulled out his chains and a small rolled-up rug. Flipping down the rug, he knelt on it and then wrapped the chain around the first rear tire and snapped it together. Snap-on. Like Savannah’s. He did the same to the other rear tire, shook out the wet rug, and tossed it in the back. He was backing out of his parking spot and heading down the long entrance lane to the hospital within a minute. The normally gnarled, wind-blasted trees that lined it were now covered in snow, their mangled limbs softened by the white powder, strangely serene in this frantic night.
