A Killing Frost

by Hannah Alexander

  Chapter Ten

  The white capitol building in Jefferson City was visible for many miles, standing out against the vivid blue of the Missouri sky, before Jama and Fran reached it. They wouldn’t arrive at St. Mary’s Hospital for another ten minutes.

  “I can’t believe Tyrell hasn’t called,” Jama said.

  “There obviously hasn’t been any news about Monty, or he’d have let us know,” Fran assured her. “And you know cell phones aren’t allowed in certain parts of hospitals.”

  Jama could feel her tension building with each mile.

  “I remember the last time I rode in a car to a hospital for an emergency.” Fran’s voice came soft and gentle, as if her mind had been sifting through photos of the past.

  “You’re talking about when Monty had his stroke.”

  Fran nodded. “I thought I’d lose him, too. Only God knows how badly I lost my cool that day. Even though Monty’s recovery went well, I still had this nagging sense that something was wrong. The trip to the hospital, the emergency room, the medical staff, all reminded me of our trip together to the hospital only weeks earlier for you and Amy.”

  Jama stared straight ahead at the road.

  “The sheriff came to the house about midnight Christmas Eve,” Fran said.

  Jama didn’t want to hear this. Yet she owed Fran a listening and compassionate ear. They’d seldom spoken about that horrific night because when it came up Jama either had someplace else to be, or she changed the subject.

  “It had to have been a nightmare for you,” Jama said.

  “Worse than any nightmare, because I didn’t have the relief of waking up to find that everything was okay.” Fran patted Jama’s arm, then allowed her hand to linger, as if she needed that connection. “We got through Amy’s death, didn’t we?”

  Jama glanced at her. Had they, really?

  “We’re still functioning, sweetheart,” Fran said in answer to Jama’s unspoken thought. “For a couple of years after she died, I wasn’t sure I could keep going.”

  It grew difficult for Jama to breathe normally. This was why her visits to River Dance the past four years had taken so much effort. It was a major reason that she dreaded the next two years. To be reminded over and over…

  “We’ve got purpose to our lives again,” Fran said. “It’ll never be the same, but we’ve discovered life does continue.”

  Jama caught her lower lip between her teeth. Life had continued, but not the same way.

  Not a day passed that Jama didn’t have something she needed to talk about with Amy. Since losing her best friend, her sister, she didn’t think the same way anymore or feel the same about anything.

  She slowed for a narrow bridge. “Amy was so much like you, Fran. She had a solid strength that made everyone around her feel secure. She could carry the world. She did, too, often. Or she tried.”

  Fran squeezed Jama’s arm, then let go. “Face it, honey, Amy was as strong-willed as you are. I worried about that tendency of hers a lot. I worried that her independence would cost her the opportunity to have a man’s love, to settle and have a family. After she died…” Her voice cracked. She stared out the window for a moment.

  Jama stared straight ahead and focused on breathing deeply. Jama never cried.

  “Afterward,” Fran continued, “I realized that I’d been wishing for her to live out my dreams for her. I wasn’t wise enough to allow her to live her own. With all the other kids, I’d allowed them to find their own way, but Amy…she was different. I guess I identified with her more. I wanted her to have a happy life, and I was afraid she would burn out before she could find someone to share that life with.”

  “Med school and residency are tough on a marriage,” Jama said. “We saw several of our friends divorce. Amy wanted to wait until she had more time to devote to someone else in her life.”

  Jama still felt regret that she’d never been able to say a formal, final goodbye to Amy. She’d been in the hospital, too badly injured with a damaged spleen, collapsed lung and cracked ribs, to attend Amy’s funeral.

  “I wonder what she would be doing now,” Fran said.

  “She would be saving lives.”

  There was grief in Fran’s hazel eyes. There was also a strong faith that Jama could never hope to emulate. How did a mother like Fran cope with the death of her daughter?

  How many times had Jama wished that Fran had been her mother? Not just mother of her heart, but mother in reality.

  And why, after all these years, was Jama recalling her own mother’s failings so often?

  Jama braked at a light and turned left. She’d driven this route so many times…

  “Jama,” Fran said softly.

  “Yes.”

  “You know worrying doesn’t help.”

  Jama was so glad Fran couldn’t really read her mind at that moment. “I know.”

  “Neither does brooding about the past.”

  “Are you talking about yourself now? Sometimes we can’t control our thoughts.”

  “I know. Sometimes we do it anyway, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sometimes, maybe, it’s simply a way of honoring those we love,” Fran said. “A way of giving them space in our hearts. And you’re one of my kids. You have one of those places of honor in my heart.”

  Jama negotiated a sharp curve as the pressure flooded her chest and worked its way up. Over the years of residency, she’d learned the important art of emotional detachment. She’d lost that skill for about a year after Amy’s death, but eventually it returned.

  Until now.

  For a long moment, Fran said nothing. Jama glanced over to find her staring out the window, and the pain in that brief glimpse was dark and hard-the harsh and ugly scars of a break in the earthly bonds of mother-daughter love that weren’t meant to be erased by time, or by faith. They were simply meant to be endured. At least, that was how Jama saw it.

  “You were the sister Amy so desperately needed in her life,” Fran said at last. “As a middle child, with two older brothers who were into their own activities, and younger twin sisters who were inseparable, she sometimes felt left out, I’m afraid. If not for you, Amy would have had a much lonelier childhood.” Fran looked over at Jama. “And now you’re the one who’s alone.”

  “Now who’s worrying?” Jama teased. It was time for a lighter mood.

  Fran tapped her lips with her fingers. “Shame on me.”

  “So to give you something different to ponder, what do you think about Zelda Benedict joining the staff at the clinic? She helped me with Monty this morning, and her skills are top-notch.”

  Fran hesitated, and Jama caught a fleeting look of disappointment in her expression. For Fran, talking about her daughter was like bringing Amy back to life for at least a few moments. Painful as that was, it was as Fran said-those memories honored Amy’s life.

  “There’s been no staff hired, yet,” Jama said. “Zelda still keeps her feet in the water doing PRN work. What do you think?”

  It took a few seconds for Fran to switch gears. “You realize she’s not as young as she used to be. She can’t be on her feet all day.”

  “Perhaps in a supervisory role. Teaching, maybe?”

  “She smokes, Jama. That’s not good for the circulation.”

  “One cigar a day?”

  “I know, I know, she says she doesn’t inhale, but that’s a crock, and you know it. If she’s breathing the smoke that comes out of the cigar and her mouth, she’s inhaling, hon. Do you know how many years I harassed Monty to give up his pipe?”

  Relieved, Jama engaged in the conversation that would keep them both occupied for the next few minutes. Fran had strong feelings about smoke, and she might have some good suggestions about staffing the clinic that should already be staffed. Jama took the reprieve gratefully.

  Chapter Eleven

  Doriann sneezed, coughed, sneezed again, covering her mouth to keep from making noise. She’d slid to a stop at the bottom of t
he bank. Dirt covered her, filling her nose and mouth.

  She spat and blew her nose into the mud. All kinds of bacteria were now inside her, maybe making their way to her brain.

  She tried to get up, fell against a bush, scraped her arms, smacked her elbow on a rock and bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

  She scrambled to the nearest tree and held her breath. She expected to hear the rustle of brush, the sound of footsteps, angry voices, and then to see Clancy and Deb peering over the edge of the bank at her.

  Nothing.

  For forever, she couldn’t bring herself to move from behind the tree. What if she was being tricked? Maybe the goons were just out of sight, rubbing their hands together, waiting for the right moment to jump out and then kill her. And they would probably torture her first.

  How could Clancy and Deb not have heard the bank collapsing? She hadn’t screamed, but she’d coughed and choked and sneezed. How could that not have been heard?

  For another few seconds she listened. She heard the trickle of a stream emptying into the river and the movements of a squirrel in the branches above her. As she continued to listen, she thought she heard Clancy’s angry shout in the distance, up the hillside.

  Wow. Okay. So the sound of her fall hadn’t reached them. How implausible was that? Implausible? Yes, that was the word.

  She turned to look out across the river, the bank only a few feet from where she stood. The water was light brown with mud this time of year from flooding in other states. Logs and limbs floated in it. All Doriann had to do was find someone on the river to call to, or to follow the river downstream to a town. If only Clancy hadn’t taken her cell phone, she could’ve used the GPS system and gotten out of here easily.

  She knew that the forest along this part of the river didn’t have a lot of people living in it-Grandpa had said so, and he hunted in these forests.

  Carefully, she wiped more mud from her face and out of her nose and mouth, then she crept through the trees toward the river’s edge. She stopped at a little stream that connected with the river and plunged her hands into the icy water. She splashed her face and rinsed her mouth, numbed by the coldness. She even snorted some up her nose. It stung and made her eyes water, but she felt cleaner.

  Of course, Aunt Renee said there were all kinds of bacteria in the groundwater, too, so it was probably just as contaminated as the dirt, but at least it would wash the grit from between her teeth. Ick. Besides, she’d already been plunged into swamp water, so this couldn’t be any worse.

  By the time Doriann stepped to the edge of the Missouri River, she realized something was missing. The Katy Trail. On this section of the river, the railroad that had been converted to a biking/hiking trail-stretching nearly all the way across the state of Missouri-was on the north side of the river, and it often appeared between the highway and the river. Mom and Dad brought her down to the trail a lot, when they could get away from work, and Doriann knew it well.

  Unless the truck had plunged across the Katy Trail, it would be just on the other side of the highway that Doriann had managed to lose. But the sun was out, and she could search and find it.

  She turned and pushed her way through the brush alongside the river. It was hard going, and before long she came to cliffs that rose from the water. She’d have to climb. She looked at the grass, a thick growth filled with dandelions and sweet Williams. What else was in that grass? It was cold…too cold for snakes?

  She could leave the riverbank and look for the trail. There might be people on it. Maybe.

  But thinking about it, she became concerned for those people. Clancy and Deb could be looking for people, too. Someone innocent who was just out for a morning jog or ride. Someone who wouldn’t know what was happening when Clancy jumped out from the bushes, and with his temper, no telling what he’d do if someone fought him. How could anyone know he was tweeking?

  Deb had kept trying to remind Clancy that the two of them would be asleep before long-they were going to crash. She’d mentioned a barn. If they’d been so involved in their argument they hadn’t heard Doriann fall down a collapsing riverbank, what else might they miss?

  Would they, maybe, not notice an eleven-year-old kid with wet clothes and red hair following them through the woods?

  Oh, shut up, Doriann Streeter! What are you thinking? What’s a kid like you going to do tracking two killers who the FBI can’t even catch? Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  But she couldn’t stop thinking it. Since her prayers had been answered so far-she wasn’t dead yet, was she?-then God seemed to be in the prayer-answering mood today.

  If Deb and Clancy did fall asleep, according to Aunt Renee, they would crash hard and sleep for possibly days. Do I have the guts to follow them and get my cell phone back? Doriann could lead the police to the criminals and save the day-and maybe other lives.

  Aunt Renee says I could be president someday. Wouldn’t this look good on the campaign trail?

  Doriann caught her breath. Was she really, truly thinking of following Clancy and Deb? That was suicide!

  And yet, if they did find the barn, which was near the road, then Doriann might be able to flag down help at the road. As cool as the weather had become, there probably wouldn’t be a lot of people on the trail today, and she didn’t see any boats on the water, most likely because of all the floating logs from the floods up north.

  Could she do it? Should she?

  When Jama and Fran entered the surgery waiting room, Tyrell was there, speaking with a tall, familiar-looking man in a lab coat. He had graying hair, a deep, reassuring voice, and when Jama stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his arm, she felt weak with relief. She would trust Dr. Tony George with Monty’s life without a moment of hesitation.

  He held a hand out to her. “Jama, I’ve just been telling Mr. Mercer that his father has already received the best of treatment from the transferring facility. Excellent catch diagnosing the aortic tear, Dr. Keith. I take back everything I’ve ever said about the young pups coming out of residency programs today.”

  Jama introduced her favorite resident trainer to Fran, then said, “Tony, you’re practicing in Jefferson City now?”

  He nodded. “It appears I arrived just in time to proceed with your patient.” His deep, mellow voice had been honed through years to convey comfort and confidence to worried patients and families.

  He turned to Fran. “I’ve just been telling your son about a recently developed procedure for a torn aorta that has excellent results with much less invasion and a shorter recovery time.”

  Jama looked up and met Tyrell’s gaze, saw the relief in his dusky blue eyes, and nodded, sharing the emotion.

  “Your husband was given a CT scan as soon as he arrived,” Dr. George told Fran. “Sure enough, Dr. Keith called his condition right on the money. I’m headed into surgery now. Jama, if you were scrubbed up, I’d let you observe.”

  Jama hesitated. “That’s tempting, but I think watching surgery on my foster father might be a little too stressful.”

  As Dr. George took his leave, Jama allowed herself to release the tension that had been building since Monty’s collapse this morning.

  He would be okay. She found herself breathing deeply for the first time in an hour. Wow.

  She’d made the right call. Tony George, one of the best surgeons she knew, was handling the case. All was well.

  She stood nodding, grin still in place, while Fran and Tyrell conferred about calls to other family members. Their voices registered, but their words floated in the air, uncomprehended.

  Jama needed to withdraw from this scene and collect herself. She felt an almost overwhelming need to take a short walk and absorb the knowledge that she had made the right call. What she really needed was a wide-open valley, or a soundproof room, where she could shout at the top of her lungs. Yeehawwww!

  She, Jama Keith, had made a judgment call that saved the life of a wonderful man. It was a moment to savor over and over again.

  Fran
gave Jama’s arm a squeeze. “I think the time has come for me to buy a cell phone. This adventure today has convinced me. Tyrell, may I borrow yours for a few minutes? I’ll talk to Daniel and the twins.”

  “Not a problem, Mom,” Tyrell said. “I called Daniel when I was in the waiting room. He’s standing by to call the twins, then drive here as soon as we fill him in on what’s happening with Dad.”

  “I don’t think he needs to do that. You know what your father would say. If Daniel has time to come to the hospital, he has time to help out at the ranch.” She held her hand out to Tyrell for the phone, giving her son a look and a tiny tilt of her head in Jama’s direction.

  It was a gesture Jama realized she was not meant to intercept.

  Tyrell relinquished the phone, then touched Jama’s shoulder. The power of that touch vitalized her. She willed herself not to respond, either by melting against him, or by stepping away to resist the temptation. Tyrell affected her like that. He always would.

  “I bet you haven’t had breakfast,” he said.

  “Coffee.” She was floating. Enjoy it while it lasts.

  “Which is not breakfast.” He nudged her toward a sign directing the way to the cafeteria.

  “Coffee fortified with heavy whipping cream packs a punch.” She fell into step beside him, and allowed herself a smile. She’d done well. As the relief continued to sink in, she would soon become giddy and silly. She knew this from past experience.

  “Some fruit and cereal would add-”

  “Too many carbs, Tyrell. I’m doing low carbs. Trust me, I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. How much did you pay attention in nutrition classes?

  “Not if you think you need to lose weight.”

  She grinned up at him. “Flatterer.” Uh-oh, she felt the giddiness beginning to overtake her senses. Silliness wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Numbers don’t lie.”

  “What numbers?” she asked.

  “The numbers of men who can’t keep their eyes off you. Including me.”