Rescue on the Run

by Jaycee Bullard

  The handlebars jiggled in his hands as the snowmobile picked up speed on the icy slope. His knuckles were white, but he held steady as Abby’s arms stiffened against his waist. She had to know that they were on the very edge of losing control. All it would take would be one rock on the path, one heavy branch jutting out of the snow, and the nose of the snowmobile would tip forward and hurl all of them into the air.

  The drop-off was just in front of them. Cal tensed as they jumped the embankment and thudded down hard onto the lake.

  There was an ominous clunk as they nailed the landing. Beneath the skis, the ice groaned. The engine sputtered, coughed and then chugged back to life. And on a wing and a prayer, they were back on their way.

  Thunk! Vibrations rippled across the surface as the SUV dropped onto the ice behind them and took chase. The roar of its engine hummed in the air.

  Cal veered away from the shoreline and aimed for the center of the lake.

  The SUV raced to overtake them.

  Cal gunned the motor, leaning in hard to gain an advantage over the much faster vehicle. But the Land Rover closed the gap in record time. It was less than five feet away from them when a deep rumble ruptured the air.

  Wooosh. Crrraaaaccckkk.

  Cal held his breath as the ice began to splinter on either side of him.

  * * *

  Abby hung on for dear life as prickles of fear danced up and down her spine. How could this be happening? Didn’t Cal know that the ice was too thin to withstand their weight? Details from the accident last week played across her mind. Those teenagers had been fortunate. Fifteen minutes longer, and hypothermia would have set in. Cal had been there, along with other members of the rescue team. He knew what happened. So, what was he thinking?

  And Abby herself was well-versed on the dangers of driving across the lake. At least three or four foolhardy individuals died each year when the vehicle they were driving crashed through the ice. It had happened to a boy in her class during senior year. And as a paramedic, she always dreaded the calls to the lake, winter or summer. Drowning seemed like such a senseless way to die. And drowning under a twelve-inch barrier of ice was even worse.

  She closed her eyes and prayed.

  The roar of the ice breaking up beneath them assailed her ears. Any minute now, the snowmobile might plunge into the frozen waters. She looked down at the baby in her arms. Please, God, protect him and keep him from harm.

  Crash! Splash! Was it happening? She opened her eyes. Cal was still at the controls, but the snowmobile was edging back toward the shore. She turned around just in time to see the front of the SUV slip slowly through the surface of the lake.

  “We don’t have enough fuel to get us back to town. I’m going to head toward the Red Fox Lodge!” Cal shouted over the din. “Maybe there’s someone there with a cell phone.”

  They could only hope. But given the storm and the treacherous driving conditions, it was unlikely that any staff would be around to help. The place was closed between December and March, except for the occasional handyman making repairs. It was a different story in the summer months when visitors flocked to the resort from the cities to hike the trails, canoe and kayak on the lake. There were a number of small cabins for families and a main lodge that served meals. Nothing fancy, just good home cooking. And a chance to escape the stress of city life.

  Abby shifted in her seat. A strange wetness was seeping through her pant leg, distracting her thoughts. Her entire body was cold and damp from the flying snow. But why did one spot feel so much wetter than the rest?

  She looked down at the baby. He stared back at her with huge blue eyes, almost as if he sensed her accusation. But there was no way that his diaper could have soaked through to her leg. And it was spreading. Now the entire bottom edge of her pants felt sodden and damp.

  Uh-oh. Was there a leak in one of the tanks on the snowmobile? With all of the bullets flying through the air, it was more than possible that something had been hit. Maybe the wetness was oil or gas.

  “Cal?” she yelled.

  No answer.

  The snowmobile was still moving forward, but Cal’s driving had become erratic, almost jerky as he edged from side to side. Maybe they were running out of gas. Or maybe Cal was trying to make their tracks less obvious to anyone following their trail.

  Would Ricky and the others come looking for them? Probably. The question was when. It would take a while for the SUV to sink, and it was likely that the three kidnappers would escape before their vehicle sunk through the ice. But it was impossible to predict what the kidnappers would do next. They’d be wet and cold and in desperate need of dry clothing. They might head back to the road and attempt to commandeer a passing vehicle. Or hole up at the convenience store to find some warm gear.

  In either case, it would be at least a half-mile trek before they reached their destination. Whatever Ricky, Max and Martina decided to do, it would be hours before they would be ready to resume the chase.

  Meanwhile, she and Cal would have some precious time to regroup and make a plan to get away, Even if they couldn’t locate a cell phone, there was a Quonset hut somewhere behind the lodge where management stored ATVs, paddle boats and other equipment. It might be a bumpy ride, but a hopped-up Gator could get them to town in thirty minutes or less. Abby’s lips bent into a smile at the thought of reuniting Isobel with her son.

  Just that quickly, her smile faded into a worried frown. Poor Iz. She must be worried sick, wondering what had happened to her little boy. But soon all those fears would be banished. Life as she knew it would return to normal. The kidnappers would be behind bars, and Isobel and her baby would be safe at last.

  As Abby leaned sideways to see how far they still had to go, a gasp stuck in her throat. The snowmobile was no longer headed in a straight line toward the lodge. The shoreline curved around the bend toward a cluster of rocky inlets. And the snowmobile appeared to be on a collision course with one of the many stone outcroppings jutting out above the snowy drifts.

  “Cal! Watch out! There are rocks up ahead,” she cried.

  “Sorry!” Cal’s voice was soft. Almost slurry. But he yanked the handlebars to the left and made a quick correction. When Abby peered forward, she could see that the tips of the skis once more pointed in the right direction.

  As they closed in on the shore, she could make out the first cabin beside the edge of the lake. Would Cal head straight for the main building? She wouldn’t be sorry if he did. She hadn’t had the time to retrieve the stockpile of food she had gathered at the convenience store, and her stomach had an empty, gnawing feel that wouldn’t be sated by the one granola bar she had tucked into her back pocket. If all went well, they might be able to scrounge up something to eat in the lodge kitchen.

  If they could make it to shore. The snowmobile had slowed down to a crawl as they bumped on to the snow-covered beach. She ought to be pleased, but the strange dampness she had noticed before was still seeping into the material covering her right leg. Releasing her grip around Cal’s waist, she reached down and felt for the source of the wetness. There didn’t seem to be anything leaking from the belly of the snowmobile. She touched her leg.

  Her heart seemed to stop for half a second. The sticky substance pooled on her pants felt like blood.

  “Cal!” she shouted.

  “Almost there,” he replied.

  She looked down. Sure enough, her fingers were splattered with the dark red of a deep wound. She raised her arm and placed her other hand against Cal’s head. It was damp and clammy with perspiration.

  “Cal! You’re going into shock. You need to pull over and let me drive. Now!”

  “Almost there,” he replied again. His head bobbled on his neck as the snowmobile sputtered past a sign welcoming them to Red Fox Lodge, weaved around a line of snowbanks left behind by the plow and chugged toward the entrance.

  T
hey had barely come to a stop when Abby slid off the back and ran toward the door. Clutching the baby against her chest, she jiggled the handle. The door creaked open. The last person to exit the lodge must not have taken the time to turn the latch, and it was a mistake for which she was grateful.

  She couldn’t stop and look around, even for a minute. She set the baby on the floor and sprinted back outside to find Cal with his eyes closed and his body slumped down on the seat of the snowmobile.

  ELEVEN

  “Cal! Cal!” Abby’s breath came out in desperate gasps as she aimed the beam of her flashlight at Cal’s leg. The material on the bottom half of his overalls was sodden with blood and caked over with ice, and there was a tear in the fabric where the bullet had ripped into his calf. The good news was that it looked like a clean shot through the muscle. The bad news was that he had lost a lot of blood. Too much.

  “Cal.” Abby reached out and touched his hand. “We need to get you inside.”

  His eyes were open now, but his body was beginning to tremble. He was going into shock. How had he managed to drive the snowmobile with such a deep wound in his leg? Between the loss of blood and pain, most people would have passed out. But Cal had to be running on adrenaline. Besides, he wasn’t like most people. He was made of sterner stuff. A part of her wanted to yell at him and demand to know why he hadn’t stopped earlier, but she already knew the answer. Ever the sheriff, he believed his first consideration was always for others, never himself. To serve and protect, no matter the cost.

  Well, today the cost was steep. A critical injury that required immediate treatment. But it wouldn’t cost him more than that. Not if she had her way.

  She nudged his shoulder gently.

  “Abby?” His eyelids fluttered. “How’s the baby?”

  Slurred speech. Not a good sign.

  “The baby is fine. But I need to get you inside so I can patch up your leg.” She spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, reverting to paramedic mode—cool, calm, steady, detached. The last bit would be the hardest. She could feel her heart thudding as the impossibility of the situation hit her. They were stranded on the far side of a partially frozen lake at a lodge that was closed for the season. And Cal had a gaping bullet hole in his leg. But no way was she giving up. Not now, after they had made it this far.

  “Okay, but you need to park the snowmobile behind the lodge.” Cal’s words were barely coherent. “In case Ricky manages to find a way across the lake. Maybe if he doesn’t see any activity, he won’t realize we are here.”

  “I’ll do that. But first, I’m going to help you scoot sideways so you can dismount,” she explained. She walked around to the left side of the snowmobile and bent Cal’s knee upward so that she could push it over the seat. She dashed back around to the spot where she had been standing and placed an arm around his waist. “On the count of three, I’m going to hold you steady while you push yourself up. One.” She widened her stance and braced her body. “Two... Three.”

  She pulled upward, to provide support as Cal heaved his body off the snowmobile. He stood still for a moment, swayed back and forth and then, with a grunt, took a step forward.

  With her arms laced around Cal’s waist, she led him into the lodge. Step. Lurch. Step. Lurch. Perspiration beaded on Abby’s brow. Each step required a renewed mustering of strength to counter Cal’s crushing weight. When they finally reached the large sofa in the middle of the floor, she took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding from the exertion, but she didn’t have time to pause. Cal’s face was ashen, and a deep crimson stain spread across his pant leg. Quickening her pace, she helped him lie down so she could complete the procedural ABCs—checking his airway, breathing and circulation. Good news. Although his breath was shallow and his pulse was faint, his heart was still beating with a steady rhythm.

  Cal was a fighter.

  But unless she was able to stop the bleeding, that wouldn’t be enough.

  She shook off her frustration and resolved to remain calm. This wouldn’t be the first time she was forced to think on her feet, and it wouldn’t be the last. She raised her head to scope out the space. The main lobby extended along the front of the building, with a check-in desk at the back and a smattering of upholstered couches and chairs set in front of the windows where guests could relax and enjoy the view. In her rush to return to help Cal disembark from the snowmobile, she had set the baby down inside on the floor, and, at least for the moment, the little guy had gone back to sleep. And—excellent! There was a bathroom just around the corner from the main desk.

  But first things first. She needed to do as Cal had asked and hide the snowmobile.

  Five minutes later, she was back inside, yanking sheet after sheet of paper towels out of the dispenser. She grabbed the bottle of hand soap from the sink and raced back to the spot where she had left Cal on the couch.

  Cal’s overalls were shredded where the bullet had ripped through the leg, so she gripped the opening and gave a hard pull, splitting the fabric in two. A drop of perspiration trickled down her forehead as she reached for a stack of paper towels and set them in place against the gaping hole. But try as she might, she couldn’t provide sufficient pressure to stop the flow of blood. What she needed was a tourniquet.

  She drummed her fingers against her chin. She headed back toward the reception desk and began to open and close drawers. What she was looking for, she wasn’t certain, but she’d know it when she found it. She grabbed a pile of napkins, a bottle of hand sanitizer, a box of plastic utensils and a miniature sewing kit with an assortment of needles stuck through a scrap of soft cotton fabric in the packet. What else did she need? The pickings were slim. Nothing useful caught her eye.

  She ran back to Cal.

  She set the items she had gathered on the floor, pulled off her sweatshirt and quickly unbuttoned her wool cardigan. The turtleneck she wore underneath didn’t provide any warmth, but it would have to do for the moment. She looped her sweater’s arms just above the bullet hole on Cal’s leg and then ripped open the box of utensils and grabbed a handful. With a handful of plastic knives, she twisted the makeshift tourniquet tightly around the leg. It was primitive, and it wasn’t pretty. But it was going to work.

  As the blood slowed to a trickle, she headed back to the restroom and turned on the faucet. Reaching across the counter for more paper towels, she ripped off a handful and held them under the water until they became soggy. Then she ran back to Cal and began to clean off the blood so she could examine the wound.

  It was deep, but the bullet had grazed the fleshy part of his leg and missed the bone. If she had the proper supplies, she could sew it up. Even duct tape would suffice as a temporary fix, but she hadn’t found any in her search.

  She had a needle, but she needed thread strong enough for the suture. The material in her parka wouldn’t do, and neither would the canvas cloth of Cal’s overalls. Her sweater? She picked at the seam but the delicate wool fabric frayed in her fingers.

  There had to be something she had missed. She looked around, and right in front of her was the answer. Her bracelet. The one with the multicolored beads and the delicate laces tied at the sides. Laces that could be separated into strands thin and pliable as dental floss.

  She cast a pained look at Cal. It was ironic that the person who had felt the need to comment on her fashionable clothing would now benefit from her choice of jewelry. Although the sheriff looked pale and drawn in his unconscious state, she couldn’t help but imagine that he was smiling under his goatee. We’ll discuss this later, Cal, she thought as she reached for the pincushion she had found in the desk. As a final precaution, she washed everything with hand sanitizer, threaded the needle and began the suture.

  * * *

  Cal’s eyes blinked open, fluttering away the rainbow of colors dancing inside of his head. Was he asleep? Had he been dreaming?

  He turned his head and looked down at the s
cattering of beads on the table next to the sofa—blue, green, pink and pale yellow. Well, that explained the rainbow. He flexed his arms and tried to push himself up, but his body felt cemented in place.

  “Lie still while I finish stitching your leg.”

  Abby stood above him, her eyes glinting as she tied a string to the end of a needle. “Steady, now. This might hurt.”

  That was putting it mildly.

  He clenched his hands into fists as Abby bent forward and continued her work. Her features were a study of concentration as she wove the needle in and out. Part of him suspected that she was enjoying brandishing her tiny weapon against his tender flesh.

  He closed his eyes again as a wave of pain traveled across his leg.

  A fog of confusion addled his brain. The last thing he remembered was Abby holding him steady as they made their way through the front door of the lodge. She had helped him get settled against the striped pillows of the couch. And then—she must have somehow found a way to stop the bleeding in his leg.

  It was nothing short of astonishing, especially since, for a while there, he’d thought he might die, stretched across the seat of a snowmobile, parked in front of Red Fox Lodge. His thoughts may have been muddled, but he knew that he wasn’t ready to go out like that. He had too many things left on his bucket list. Like going trout fishing in Wyoming. Meeting his newest nephew. Reconnecting with his parents. Not that he was at odds with them. But their relationship had been strained since Shannon’s death. For a long time, he felt dishonest discussing his marriage. His family wanted to push him into the role of grieving widower, and though it was true that he was mourning the loss of a person he’d once loved, only he knew that he and Shannon had plans to divorce.

  As a result, he had avoided them more and more. Forgetting birthdays. Skipping Thanksgiving. Making only a token appearance at Christmas. In fact, if he wasn’t rescuing a baby from a murderous band of thugs at this particular moment in time, he would probably be plotting his excuse for skedaddling out early from the fishing weekend with his dad.