Tawnia nodded in agreement, as her eyes fixed once more on the TV announcer. By whatever fates were in control, she had taken another route and was safe. Why then did she feel as if someone close to her had died?
“Tawnia!” shouted Christian from the tree. “Come on up!”
“Be careful!”
“There’s a squirrel up here. He’s jumping from limb to limb. I have to get a picture of this.”
“It’s really high.” Tawnia started to climb the tree. Her parents had never approved of tree climbing, but she had the right build for it, and physical activities always came to her easily. “I’m coming.” A tremor of fear went through her heart as a small branch plunged past her, nearly hitting her cheek.
“Sorry!” Christian shouted. “I needed a place to put my camera. Didn’t mean to let that fall.”
“I’m okay.”
“Good, because I’m hoping for a kiss at the end of this date!”
She smiled. Maybe he’d get one. He seemed to be a nice guy, not the player some of her coworkers claimed he was.
There was silence as he snapped a few pictures. She was halfway up the tree now and having second thoughts. It was so high. Certainly not something she would ordinarily do in her right mind. But Christian’s exuberance and vitality had a way of rubbing off on people. When she’d been moved to his group at work, she immediately recognized how opposite they were. Yet he brought out who she wanted to be. Or maybe who she would have been in another life, raised by different parents.
Maybe if she’d been raised by her birth mother.
Or if she’d had a sibling.
Not that the person she was wasn’t enough. It was. She was proud of everything she’d accomplished.
There was a brief shout of surprise, and then something else was falling toward her. Something large. Too far away to be a danger to her. Her heart started pounding, recognizing the situation before her mind could fully comprehend.
“Christian!” she shouted.
She half-climbed, half-slid down the tree, tears running down her cheeks, unmindful of the bark and bits of tree that dug into her skin. “Christian!” she called over and over. “Are you okay? Talk to me!”
She fell the last several feet, and the breath whooshed out of her. She crawled to where her friend was lying on his back. “Christian?” His eyes were closed, but he was breathing.
She reached for her cell phone but remembered she’d left it home. His phone was in his back pocket, and she carefully slid her hand under him to get it so as not to move him more than necessary.
No service.
She knelt by his inert body. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get help.”
He gave a weak moan, his eyes fluttering once.
“You hang on!” With a cry, she leapt to her feet and ran down the path. It was a mile before she found anyone—a group of hikers who had a working phone. They called for help while she ran back to Christian. She held his hand as they waited for the rescue workers. But Christian died later that day during surgery at the hospital.
The first time she’d met Bret, she’d had to tell him how his brother died.
Tawnia remembered how she’d felt then.
It was how she felt now.
• • •
Bret Winn wondered what Tawnia was doing at that moment. She’d probably already arrived in Portland by now, perhaps even days ago. Would she visit the restaurant he’d taken her to last year? Or dance in the club where he’d begun to think they might be falling in love?
Not that it was any of his business. Not anymore. But he wished her a good life.
Opening the drawer of his desk, he brought out the strip of pictures he and Tawnia had taken in a booth together one day at the mall. They were sticking out their tongues at the camera, rolling their eyes, and pulling each other’s hair. He smiled. The memories were good. It surprised him how good. Sighing, he shut the photos back inside, focusing again on his work.
“Come quick!” His coworker John Thompkins came into Bret’s office at a run. “You have to see this.”
Bret reluctantly tore his eyes away from the calculations on his computer screen. “Now? I’m busy.” He didn’t try to keep the annoyance from his voice. Bret didn’t enjoy the pranks or humorous Internet sites that seemed to be the base of John’s existence.
“The Hawthorne Bridge in Portland has just collapsed,” John blurted. “Or most of it. People are in the water. A dozen dead already.”
Bret sprinted down the hall to the break room, where a half dozen engineers were gathered around the wide-screen TV. They stared in horrified fascination as the camera showed the rescue efforts.
The Hawthorne Bridge demolished! The oldest vertical lift bridge in operation in the United States had been his favorite of all the overwater bridges he’d seen in Portland. That it was gone in what appeared to be a matter of seconds, according to witnesses, was impossible to believe. The nightmare of every engineer who had ever designed a bridge.
“There’ll be an inquiry,” someone commented. “Wonder if they’ll call here.” Bret didn’t take his eyes from the screen to see who spoke, but he could feel eyes on him. He’d been on the committee of independent engineers who reviewed the tragic bridge disaster in Minneapolis some time back, volunteering for the job when no one else had wanted it and even becoming spokesman for the group. The experience had been both horrifying and educational.
“You’ve been to see that bridge, haven’t you?” John asked Bret.
Bret nodded. He’d seen every overwater bridge of importance in the United States and many out of the country. Overwater bridges were a particular hobby for him, which was ironic because he worked in Nevada where most bridges were nowhere near water. But working here did have advantages. Nevada had one of the best reputations for safe bridge operation.
Bret watched with the others for half an hour before a thought came to him: Tawnia is in Portland. Had she been near the bridge?
Worry ate his insides. No, she couldn’t have been. This time of day, when many would be on their way home from work, she would likely still be at the office. Like him, she was serious about her job, and because hers was a new one, she’d be even more inclined to work overtime.
Unless her job hadn’t started yet. He tried to remember the details of their last conversation, but all he remembered was the sinking feeling and the realization that this was good-bye for good.
He had to know. He reached for his phone and dialed, but her voice mail picked up immediately.
There, she must be on the phone. Safe.
Unless the phone was in the water.
Bret was beginning to feel a little idiotic. Tawnia was out of his life, and he shouldn’t be worrying about her. The likelihood that she’d been on the bridge when it collapsed was almost nil.
“Bret, can I see you for a moment?”
Bret tore his gaze away from the television to see his boss, James Griffin, motioning to him. “What’s up?” Bret asked as he reached Griffin’s side.
“You know a man named Clyde Hanks?”
“Sounds familiar.” Bret shrugged. “Can’t place it, though.”
“He’s the manager of the Bridge Section at Multnomah County.”
Which meant, of course, that Clyde Hanks was the man responsible for the maintenance—and therefore the collapse—of the Hawthorne Bridge.
Bret nodded. “That’s right. I met him last year. Nice guy.” He and Tawnia had shared a lively conversation with Hanks about overwater bridges and the collapse in Minneapolis. Yet despite Hanks’s knowledge on the fascinating topic, Tawnia had captured most of Bret’s attention that day.
I miss her, he thought. The realization didn’t change the facts of their relationship, but it did make the situation more sorrowful. Somewhere out there, Tawnia was living her life without him. It was the way it had to be.
“I just got off the phone with Hanks,” Griffin was saying, bringing Bret’s thoughts back to the present. “Come into
my office. We need to talk.”
Chapter 2
Autumn tried to breathe, but when she opened her mouth, water rushed in. She was cold. Oh, so cold. Blackness surrounded her. So tempting to give herself up to it. Yet something wouldn’t let her give in. She became aware of light above the murky black and forced her body to move in that direction.
Pain sliced through her right arm, piercing her mind with more awareness. Fear replaced her desire to sleep. She remembered only a loud boom and then metal grinding against metal. The shock and disbelief as the back of her car was crushed. The horrid plunging sensation as they fell into the water.
Winter!
But Winter wasn’t anywhere. She couldn’t see him or the car. How had she gotten out? She remembered something about her safety belt and then hitting her head against the door.
Her lungs were burning. She had to take a breath, but if she did, it would all be over. She wouldn’t see Winter again, and he was all she had left. Clenching her lips tightly, she swam with her left arm, the other hugged uselessly to her chest.
A little more. Soon. The light was almost here. She broke through the water, gasping and gulping in air that felt like both fire and life. Coughing sent waves of pain through her arm. She floated a moment on her back, her eyes darting, taking in the chaos of the river. Boats of all sizes were scattered over the water, now dark with silt and debris. People called for help. She heard the sound of a siren, and a helicopter flew overhead.
She drifted, feeling so numb the cold water no longer caused her any discomfort. Even her arm, motionless now, didn’t hurt. Her eyes were so heavy.
Winter.
The thought made her lift her head and tread water, searching the boats and the distant shore. Nothing she saw made sense in the orderly world she had known. There was a huge empty place where the bridge had once been. At the edge of the water a mound of rubble and cars were piled atop one another like a scene from an earthquake. Had there been an earthquake?
Beyond the rubble and dust she could see an undamaged part of the road that continued on the east side of the river beyond the bridge. The section wound under the I-5 freeway that passed along the water’s bank, whole and complete as though nothing had happened.
“Please help me!” came a cry. “My baby!”
Autumn awkwardly swam toward the woman who was scrabbling about in the water frantically.
“My child. I can’t find her!” The woman looked at Autumn pleadingly, but there was nothing she could do.
“Here!” called a voice.
A black-haired man in a small canoe held a limp blonde girl in his arms.
The woman shook her head.
The man laid the girl down in the boat. “Come on! We’ll find her.”
“She must be in her car seat!” the woman took a breath and dived under the water. She didn’t come up again.
Tears mixed with the water on Autumn’s face. She gazed pleadingly at the man, sobs shaking her chest. He nodded and dived into the water. Autumn waited by the boat, too weak to pull herself in with one arm. Where was the man? The woman? Did she really expect to find her car and free her child?
Mothers had done such things before.
Surreal. None of this could be happening.
The man broke the surface, the woman in his arms, unconscious but still breathing. He hefted her into the boat with a thud. “You next,” he told Autumn.
“I can’t find Winter—my dad.” She had always called him by his first name, and she had to remember to add in the relationship so they would understand how important he was to her.
He shook his head. “Someone will find him. Get in the boat, or I’ll put you there.”
Under normal circumstances, Autumn would never have allowed anyone to force her to do anything she didn’t want to do, but she realized quickly that her drowning wouldn’t do Winter any good. She grabbed the boat with her good arm. When the man saw that she was injured, he pushed her in from behind, and then swung up himself. “Let’s get you three to shore. I can’t hold any more.”
Autumn scarcely paid attention to the journey. Her eyes were still locked onto the river, searching every person, every piece of debris. Winter! Her father had to be around somewhere. Yet no one looked familiar. Did she look familiar? With her short, red-highlighted brown hair plastered to her head and her T-shirt and jeans dripping, her father might have a hard time recognizing her. And it could be the same for him. So many of the people in the boats or on the shore were covered with blankets, becoming unrecognizable lumps. Winter could be anywhere. She clung to that hope.
On the east bank, she was helped from the boat by a group of women. “Come on,” said one, placing a comforting hand on Autumn’s back. “We’ve set up a triage section over this way.” She motioned to Autumn’s bare feet. “Careful of the rocks.”
“I can’t leave! My dad.” Autumn started back to where the water lapped the shore.
“He may be there already,” the woman offered.
Autumn let herself be led blindly, her left arm supporting her right against her chest. The sun blazed down overhead through the haze of debris in the air, but she felt cold. Carefully, so as not to hurt her arm, she pulled her shirt away from her body. Warm air rushed to her stomach.
Great. Now she felt nauseated.
Her eyes scanned everyone they passed, but Winter wasn’t among them. She shouldn’t have let him come with her today. Though she adored being with him, he would have been better off in his herb store than trailing through yard sales with her. They hadn’t even found anything of real value, just an antique ceramic pot. Certainly nothing worth his life.
In the triage center, marked off with yellow caution tape, people were lying on the ground, covered with blankets. The more severely wounded were being carried to the arriving ambulances for transfer to area hospitals. A man in a police uniform was taking down names on a clipboard, and Autumn veered toward him.
“First let someone bandage your shoulder,” the woman said.
Autumn looked at her right shoulder in surprise. Her shirt was ripped, and blood oozed from a large gash. The wound didn’t hurt at all, not like the lower part of her arm near the elbow that burned with fire every time she moved. “I don’t care about that,” she said. “I have to know about my dad.” She pushed by the woman and hurried to the man with the clipboard.
“Please. I need to find my father.”
“What’s your name?”
“Autumn Rain.”
“Autumn Rain?” he asked, in the surprised voice people always used when they first heard it.
“Yes,” she gritted. “My dad’s name is Winter.”
“Winter Rain?”
“Is he on the list?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“I would remember a name like that.”
He had a point. No one had ever forgotten her father’s name. Or her mother’s. Or her own, for that matter. Winter, Summer, and Autumn. The only thing missing was a sister named Spring.
“Look, I’ll write your name down, and if he comes through, I’ll be sure and tell him you’re safe.”
Autumn was no longer listening. Her eyes had gone to the blanket-covered mounds some distance away from the injured. The mounds were bodies, she was sure. More than a dozen. She started toward them.
“No, miss. You can’t go over there,” called the man with the clipboard.
Autumn didn’t stop. Two officers were blocking the way to the bodies, but she dodged past them and kept walking. The one with brown hair grabbed her right arm, and she gasped loudly from the pain in her elbow. Tears sprang to her eyes, spilling onto her cheeks.
He looked at her shoulder. “Sorry about that. Look, you can’t go over there.”
“Yes, I can.” She lifted her chin, jaw clenched. The officer was a foot taller than she was and had at least eighty pounds on her, but she had a purpose. “My father might be under one of those blankets, and I’m go
ing to see if he is. Now, are you going to help me, or do I have to go talk to those reporters over there?”
He glanced at the reporters talking to several policemen outside the triage center. “Okay, look. I want to help you. I do. But we’ve identified half of the victims. I have the list of names here. All the unidentified ones are women.” He paused and then added, “Men usually carry wallets in their pockets.”
But the women’s purses were lost. Like hers.
“No, they brought in a man a minute ago,” the other officer corrected. He glanced in Autumn’s direction but not directly into her eyes.
“My father didn’t believe in identification,” she said. “He didn’t even have a driver’s license. Cars pollute the universe.” Yet he had ridden in hers today.
“I’m taking her over,” the man said to the other policeman. “Where did they put him?”
“On the end, there.”
Autumn went with the officer to the blanket-draped figure. Her heart was pounding, and she had goose bumps from her scalp to her shins. The mound was about the right size to be her father. She was crying again, her stomach roiling with the effort to contain her emotion.
“Are you okay?” the officer asked, kneeling by the corpse. His hand was on the blanket.
She bit her bottom lip hard and nodded.
He pulled back the blanket. There lay a man with dark hair and olive skin, beautiful features. Probably in his forties. Not her father. Her knees weakened with relief, and the officer rose quickly to offer support.
“Not him,” she croaked through suddenly parched lips.
“I’m glad.” He covered the body.
“I need to see the others,” she whispered. “What if they made a mistake?”
“We didn’t. The ID was taken from their pockets.”
“Please.”
He sighed. “How about you tell me what your father looks like, and I’ll go look. If anyone is remotely like him, I’ll take you there. Okay?”
“Okay.” He was being kind, much kinder than she’d expected. “He has long hair. Gray, almost white, and a beard—a short beard.” He’d cut it for her. “He was wearing Levi’s. Faded. Hole in one knee. A multicolored shirt. Or a shirt with an animal on it. I can’t remember which one he had on today. But something bright.”
Eyes of a Stanger Page 2
