Mistletoe Kiss with the Heart Doctor

by Marion Lennox

  And then, even more unbelievably, he heard a woman calling, ‘Sherlock!’

  Don’t go to her.

  It was a silent plea to the dog, said over and over in his head as he yelled with every ounce of strength he possessed and tried to drag himself closer to the hole.

  ‘Help... Don’t come close—the ground’s unsafe—but please get help.’

  * * *

  Elsa froze.

  She knew at once what must have happened. Someone had fallen into one of the underground caverns.

  Instinct would have had her shoving her way through the undergrowth to reach whoever it was, but triage had been drilled into her almost from the first day in med school.

  First ensure your own safety.

  Sherlock was barking in a place that was inherently unsafe. Her little beagle was light on his feet, used to following animal tracks. Elsa, not so much. She’d be dumb to charge off the path to investigate.

  She stood still and called, as loud as she could, ‘Hey! I’m here. Where are you?’

  Sherlock stopped barking at that, seeming to sense the import of her words, and here came the voice again.

  ‘I’ve fallen underground. Be careful. It looks...it looks like a path but it’s not. The ground’s unstable.’

  ‘I’m careful,’ she called, making her words prosaic and reassuring as possible. ‘I’m a local. A doctor. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’ She could hear pain and exhaustion in his tone, and his words were cracking with strain. ‘Broken leg and... I think...dislocated shoulder. I fell...through yesterday.’

  Yesterday. To lie wounded in the dark for so long...this was the stuff of nightmares.

  Next step? Reassurance.

  ‘Okay, we’re on it. I’ll call for backup and we’ll get you out of there,’ she called back. ‘It might take a while but help’s coming.’

  ‘Thank...thank you.’

  But his words faded badly, and she wondered how much effort it had cost him to call out.

  ‘Is your breathing okay?’ she shouted. ‘Are you bleeding? Do you have water?’

  No answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  Had he drifted into unconsciousness? Collapsed? Was he dying while she stood helplessly above?

  Triage, she told herself fiercely. She was no use to anyone if she panicked.

  She flipped open her satellite phone, dependable wherever she went, either here or on the outer islands. Her call went straight through to Macka, Gannet Island’s only policeman.

  ‘Elsa. What’s up?’ Macka was in his sixties, big, solid, dependable. He’d been a cop here for as long as Elsa could remember, and the sound of his voice grounded her.

  ‘I’m up on Lightning Peak, following the back path around to the east, almost to the top,’ she told him. ‘Sherlock’s just found someone who’s fallen into an underground cavern.’

  There was a moment’s pause. Macka would know straight away the gravity of the situation.

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘I heard him call but he’s been stuck since yesterday.’

  ‘You’re safe yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, but I need to go down. He’s stopped answering and his breathing sounded laboured. I have basic stuff in my backpack.’

  ‘Elsa...’

  ‘It’s okay. I have a decent rope and it was you who taught me to rappel.’

  ‘Wait for us.’

  ‘I can’t. It’ll take you a couple of hours to reach us. The light’ll fail before you get here and I don’t know how bad he is. Macka, I’ll turn on location sharing on my phone. Can you take a screenshot now so you know exactly where I am? I’m not sure if this phone will work underground.’

  ‘It should, but Elsa...’

  ‘I can’t see that I have any other choice,’ Elsa said, hearing his deep concern. ‘But I’ll stay safe, you know I will. And Sherlock will be up top—he’ll bark when he hears you.’

  ‘Elsa, please wait for us.’

  ‘But it sounds like he’s lost consciousness,’ she said, almost gently. Macka’s first concern was always to protect her—there was still a part of him that thought of her as the kid who’d landed on the island as a neglected seven-year-old. But she was all grown up now, and triage told her what she was doing was sensible. ‘I need to go down and see what’s going on, but I’ll take every care. Can you let Grandpa know what’s happening? Tell him it’s under control, though. Don’t scare him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ Macka said, and she heard the hint of a rueful smile. ‘Anything you say, Elsa.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not that bossy.’

  ‘Reckon you are,’ he said, and she heard another smile. Then, in a different tone, ‘Reckon you’ve had to be. But be careful.’

  ‘Same to you,’ she told him. ‘Don’t come up here alone; bring a couple of the guys from the fire station.’

  She heard the trace of a chuckle at that. ‘Hey, you know Tony’s a volunteer. He’ll want to come.’

  ‘Yeah, like that’ll help,’ she said wryly, thinking of staid, solid Tony who’d been acting more and more possessive without any encouragement. ‘Macka, do me a favour and don’t tell him.’

  ‘This is Gannet, love. This news’ll be all over the island before you even disconnect.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said wearily. ‘Bring the cavalry then. Only Macka, be careful yourselves. This place is dangerous.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ he said grimly. ‘Okay, love, let’s make sure I have this screenshot with co-ordinates so I know exactly where you are, and get this rescue underway.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ELSA HAD BEEN back on the island, working as a doctor, for five years now, and in that time she’d learned to be self-sufficient. The Birding Isles were a speck of six islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. They formed a tourist paradise, and tourists sometimes did stupid things. The permanent population of Gannet was seven hundred, but the numbers swelled dramatically over the summer months, and both tourists and locals quickly learned who Elsa was.

  She was Doc, and she was fair game. Always. Her latest heart sink had happened only this morning in the general store, in a tiny sliver of time she’d managed between seeing patients. She’d been choosing rolls of Christmas wrapping paper when one of the local fishermen had approached her, hauled off his boot, stood on one leg and held up a grubby foot.

  ‘Reckon me toe’s rotten, Doc,’ he’d told her, swaying on one leg as the other shoppers had backed away in disgust. ‘Pus’s been coming out for two days now.’

  It was indeed infected. She’d told him to replace his boot and meet her at the surgery. Thankfully, Mae, the owner of the shop, had yelled after her, ‘How many of these rolls do you want, Doc?’ and a dozen rolls of garish crimson paper had landed on her desk an hour later.

  The locals were great, but this type of interruption happened to her all the time. She’d try to go for a swim and someone would yell, ‘Doc, the lady over here’s got a fish hook stuck in her arm...’ Or, ‘Doc, a kid’s just done a header into a sandbank. Hurt his neck...’

  The nurses at the tiny Gannet hospital and on the outer islands were skilled and professional. Her grandfather still did what he could, but she was always first on call.

  Like now. She’d slipped away for a last break before the Christmas rush, and she had to rescue someone down a hole.

  But she was always prepared. The advantage of being accustomed to urgent calls wherever she went was that she always carried a basic backpack. Small things but vital. A satellite phone. A water bottle. Bandages, antiseptic, adrenaline, antihistamine, glucagon, morphine. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to walk around without her gear, and she blessed it now.

  If she got down the hole, she had supplies that might help.

  And she had rope too. This island was a
climber’s paradise. Most climbers knew their stuff, but it was also a fabulous place for a family holiday. She’d had emergency calls before. ‘Doc, there’s a kid stuck on a ledge ten feet down with a split knee...’

  During her island childhood she’d learned to climb well, and it was often safer and faster to climb to whatever drama was playing out rather than wait for Macka’s team.

  So she had what she needed, a light, strong rope that looped permanently around the sides of her backpack.

  She formed an arrow of stones on the path, backup to show rescuers where she was. Then she headed into the bush, towards the sound of Sherlock’s barking, moving from rock to rock, testing each one before she shifted her weight. When the rocks ran out, ten feet before the spot where Sherlock was peering down, she looped the cord around a solid eucalypt. Then she inched further, testing and retesting, until she reached the break in the ground.

  It was easy enough to see what had happened. This looked like part of an animal path. Trodden leaf litter lay on either side of a gaping hole where someone had obviously slipped, clutched in vain, then fallen. The surface of leaf litter had obviously held up for light-footed native animals. For a man, not so much.

  As she neared the hole she lay on her stomach and inched forward, testing all the way. Using her phone’s torch she peered down into the darkness, but she could see nothing. She had another stronger torch, attached to her belt with a carabiner. She fumbled it free and peered again.

  She could make out the floor of the cave, maybe fifteen feet down. She couldn’t see the man who’d called out.

  ‘Hello?’

  Nothing.

  Sherlock was on his stomach as well, quivering with excitement, trying to lick her face as she peered down.

  ‘You found him. Well done, boy,’ she told him, ‘but you’re going to have to stay up top and wait for the cavalry.’

  She’d have to rappel. Rappelling without a harness was not her favourite thing—for a start the cord would hurt like hell as she’d need to form a makeshift ‘seat’. It’d cut into her waist and groin, but there was no avoiding it. With luck, the guys up top would provide her with a decent harness to haul her back up again.

  But that was for later. For now she headed back to the tree, fastening her cord as she needed, taking both ends, tying them around her waist, then looping the cord between her legs to form a system where she could safely control her descent.

  To Sherlock’s disgust she attached him to the same tree. ‘Stay,’ she told him, and he looked at her with disbelief.

  What? I found him and you won’t let me come?

  One swift pat and she left him, returning to the hole, moving backwards, then leaning back, testing the strength of her rope, testing her control.

  Sherlock was staring after her in concern.

  ‘Needs must,’ she told him, with a forced attempt at cheer. ‘You do dumb things because you’re a dog. Me, I’m a doctor, and that means I get to do things that are even dumber.’

  And on that note she backed carefully over the lip of the hole and started her descent.

  * * *

  Rappelling on thick flax rope was relatively easy. Rappelling on thin cord was entirely different. The cord did indeed dig into her pelvis and her waist, and her hands struggled to keep their grip. But she managed.

  She’d checked out all sides of the hole and figured the side she was on looked the most stable—the last thing she wanted was for the hole to suddenly enlarge, throwing dirt and rock onto the man below. She moved with infinite care, inching her way. It would have been less painful to move faster, but losing control could mean disaster.

  She edged into the hole, catching a last glimpse of a concerned Sherlock before she was in the darkness of the cavern.

  She had no hands free to hold her phone, and she’d had to reattach her mini torch to her belt. The light from the torch swung in all the wrong directions. What she needed was a headlamp. Her legs sought for a foothold and found none.

  Five feet. Ten.

  And at fifteen she finally felt solid rock.

  Still she kept the strain on her rope rather than putting her weight on the ground.

  She hung in her makeshift harness, fighting back pain as she grabbed her torch again.

  There was a mound of leaf litter under her—that must have fallen from above—but the cave stretched out into darkness. The floor was strewn with rocks, dusty grey. At least it seemed solid.

  And there he was. The man lay slumped, seemingly lifeless, slightly to the side of where she hung. Her heart hit her boots as she saw him, but as the torchlight hit his face he stirred, winced, then raised his hand to hide his eyes from the beam.

  He was a big guy, tall, lean, muscled, built like many of the rock climbers who loved this place.

  He didn’t look like a rock climber, though. He was wearing fawn chinos and a short-sleeved shirt that wouldn’t be out of place in an informal business meeting. His face was framed with short dark hair, dust and an impressive after-five shadow. A trickle of dried blood ran across his forehead and down to his cheek. Still she had the impression of inherent strength.

  As he lowered his hand and looked at her, the impression of strength deepened. His piercing eyes surveyed her, as if she was the patient rather than him.

  But he was the patient and he’d obviously just surfaced from unconsciousness.

  She’d done a fast assessment of the cave now. The ground seemed safe enough. She undid her makeshift harness, looped it, tied it to her belt—the last thing she wanted was to lose it, leaving her stuck here—and stooped to examine her patient.

  He opened his mouth to speak, failed the first time and then tried again. ‘You can’t be real,’ he managed. ‘An...angel?’

  ‘You guessed it. I’m an angel in scruffy jeans and a torn windcheater, with a daft dog barking his head off up top. An angel? Give me a minute while I figure where I put my wings.’

  He managed a smile. Almost.

  ‘Hey, I’m not a vision,’ she told him, aware that, despite the piercing gaze, what this guy most needed was reassurance. ‘I’m Elsa McCrae—Dr McCrae.’ She reached for his wrist and was relieved to feel a steady heartbeat. Fast but not scary fast. ‘And you?’

  ‘Marcus Pierce,’ he told her, struggling to get the words out. ‘M... Marc.’ His throat sounded thick, clogged. ‘Also... I’m also a doctor.’

  ‘Hey, how about that? A colleague?’ Fat lot of good that’d be doing you down here, though, she thought. ‘Does your neck hurt? Your back?’

  ‘No. Just...my leg. And my shoulder.’

  She’d already seen his leg. It lay twisted under him. And his shoulder? It was at the wrong angle. Dislocated? Ouch.

  ‘Your head?’ She was looking at the blood on his face.

  ‘I hit it on the way down.’ He winced. ‘It’s nothing. Didn’t knock me out.’

  ‘You fainted just now.’

  ‘I never...faint.’

  She fixed him with a look. If he was indeed a colleague, he’d know that was nonsense. ‘You’re lying. Everyone faints, given the right circumstances,’ she told him. ‘You certainly seem to have lost consciousness after you talked to me earlier.’

  ‘I tried to drag myself under the hole so you’d see me,’ he managed grimly. ‘Stupid.’

  ‘Yes, because if you’d succeeded I could have landed on you when I climbed down.’ She was making her voice deliberately cheerful, deliberately matter-of-fact. ‘So passing out was a good thing. It seems your body is more sensible than your head. So lie still now while I see what’s what.’

  He closed his eyes. Just how much pain are you in? she wondered.

  But first things first. Carefully she checked his neck, his movement, his vision. She tested his hands. ‘Squeeze please.’ She checked his good leg. ‘Wriggle your toes?’ His good arm. ‘Squeeze my finger
s.’

  He squeezed and held for longer than he needed. She got that. He must have been lying here terrified.

  But what she was finding was reassuring. No obvious head injury. No spinal damage as far as she could see. Just the leg and shoulder. And the fact that he was trapped underground.

  Next?

  She took her water bottle from her backpack and gently raised his head. His eyes flew open.

  ‘Water,’ she said, and got a flash of gratitude so great it almost overwhelmed her.

  She held the bottle to his mouth. Half the bottle went down before he paused, wiping his mouth, sinking back with a grunt of thanks.

  ‘If you knew how good that tasted...’

  ‘I guess I do. You fell down yesterday? You’ve had nothing to drink since then?’

  ‘I had a bottle in my bag,’ he told her. ‘I think...my bag fell with me but I can’t see where it is. I tried to search...’

  He didn’t have to explain further. To drag himself around this rock-filled cavern in the dark with a broken leg... His face was etched with pain; his voice didn’t disguise it.

  ‘If it’s down here then I’ll find it,’ she told him, still with that careful cheerfulness. ‘But let’s get you something for the pain first. Any allergies? If you’re a doctor you’ll know the drill. Anything I should know about?’

  ‘You don’t have morphine?’ he asked, incredulous, and she gave him a modest smile, which was probably wasted given that she was working only with the beam of her torch and she was shining the torch on him. To him she must merely be a shadow.

  But that was her job, to be a professional, reassuring shadow. ‘I’m a Girl Scout from way back,’ she told him. ‘I was raised to Be Prepared. Brown Owl would be proud of me.’

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ he murmured, sinking back on the hard ground. ‘No allergies. Feel free to give me as much as you have.’

  She didn’t. She’d been stuck before, on a ledge where she’d abseiled down, waiting for a helicopter to take an injured kid off. There’d been a five-hour wait and the kid had needed a top-up. She’d needed to keep some in reserve then, and she might need to do the same now. They might well be stuck here for hours. Or longer.