Chapter 19

© Copyright 2005 by Elizabeth Delayne



It was oddly silent except for the odd hiss coming from the radiator. The air bags slowly deflated. An eerie white smoke fell from the air vents. Amy coughed and struggled against the shock. She fought against the urge to curl up into herself, concentrated on the hiss instead of the fresh memory of metal crunching. She slowly opened each of her hands, forcing submission into the muscles of her fingers.

You can do it, a voice reminded her, overpowering the echoes of the past. She had handled emergencies before. She was trained.

Amy's hands trembled as she unbuckled her seat belt. "Chloe?"

Her voice sounded shockingly hoarse.

"What?"

Her friend's blue eyes were wide with panic, her hands ice cold. She ran a hand over Chloe's legs, her arms, checking for breaks. "Chloe. Are you hurt?"

"I—I don't know. Mitch—"

Amy ventured a look passed and felt her heart stop. His eyes were closed, he had a deep cut along his temple. The glass peppered his hair. She reached across Chloe, felt a pulse and the shudder of a labored breath. Both were weak, but strong.

And alive.

She glanced down, winced when she saw the metal and the odd angle of his leg. Broken.

"He's alive," she told Chloe. "Get his cell. Call 911. Tell them we've been in an accident. Tell them where. You have an idea, don't you? Tell them we have an unconscious victim. Tell them it's Mitch, otherwise, they're going to be buzzing him down. Give them as much information as you can."

Amy climbed out of the truck and into the snowfall on shaking legs. The sound of truck slamming against tree, the horror, all melded into one. Leaning against the truck, she fought off the queasy feel of panic—panic that had risen early in summer—the day she met Derek. She had lost it then.

She couldn't afford to loose it now.

She stumbled around, her hands shaking as she pulled at the driver's side door. It was jammed. The metal was bent in, crushed. The snow made it hard to have a firm grip on the truck's handle.

"Chloe?" she called out as she levered herself up and over, into the back of her truck. She tossed out her first aid kit, then opened the tool box. On top was a mirage of swimming gear, towels, floats. She pulled out the towels, then shoved the rest as aside and found her crow bar.

The metal felt cold and heavy in her hands.

"Amy—there's no reception. It won't go through."

Amy swung down from the truck and looked through the broken glass. "Chloe—listen. One of us is going to have to go for help. I want you to get out of the truck carefully. Check your weight. Don't move if you feel any pain. Slowly now. Try and get out."

Amy positioned the bar in the door of the truck and pushed. The metal creaked, but didn't budge.

She let out a breath, looked around, braced herself against a tree. The crushing sound of metal echoed in her head.

A lifetime ago, she'd watched someone die in a car accident. She hadn't known what to do, how to respond.

Now she did. She wasn't loosing Mitch.

Please God.

Her hands were sweating, mixing with the moisture of snow that melted on her hands. She wiped them off on her jeans, tried again.

"Amy—" Chloe called. "It's okay. I'm okay."

"Head up to the main road," Amy ordered as she used her weight against the bar. "Go up, see if you can get anything. Anyone."

Please God, she prayed again and pushed.

The truck door crashed open. Amy stumbled, found herself in the snow, and scrambled up. Her hands were shaking as she searched for Mitch's pulse.

Relief almost brought out a smile as he groaned and jerked against the snow on her hands. "Mitch—"

"Amy—"

"We've been in a wreck," she told him as she knelt down and unzipped her first aid it. "We're okay. You're banged up."

"No kidding." He pressed a hand to his forehead. She pushed it aside, checked his eyes for shock. "Chloe?"

"She headed uphill—tried to call for help. We're not getting through."

She reached up, brushed at the tiny fragments of glass, and began to clean the cut.

Mitch winced. "We won't get it—not here. Not out here. The breaks."

"They went out."

"Yeah—my leg," he took in a labored breath. "It hurts."

"I know. I know it has to," she dealt with the cut on his head, then quickly checked the other cuts on his face. His hands were trembling. It was cold. Her own hands, warmed by the first rush of adrenaline, were beginning to feel the effects of the temperature.

Then Chloe was there. She climbed into the other side of the truck. Mitch turned his head, winced, and gave her a brave smile even as he reached out a hand. "You okay?"

She nodded and swallowed as she took his hand within both of hers.

"You're cold," she murmured.

"Yeah—until fever sets in. Amy—"

"I know."

They had worked together long enough that neither of them needed words. She looked across at Chloe. "You didn't get anything."

She shook her head. "No—it's been snowing, but it doesn't look like anyone's traveled on the road above. There aren't any other tracks in the snow."

"It's not a well traveled road. Most of what's to the west of us is a preserve."

Amy frowned and thought of the long, winding, downhill road they had taken. "Someone's going to have to head back. One of us will have to stay here with Mitch."

"You know what to do. I want you to stay with him."

"Can you make it?" Amy levered her gaze on Chloe's. "Timing's critical. It's cold out here and it's snowing. We need help fast."

"And Mitch needs you here. I don't know how to help him. I know my way. I know these mountains, Amy."

She looked at Mitch, held his hand to her lips. "I can do it."

He nodded, swallowed. "There are some homes, a few ... closer to town. Most of them have been ... empty. I don't know that anyone ... came up, this year. Power, phones will be off."

He gasped and stretched as if pushing at the pain in his leg. Chloe brought his hand to her lips. "I better go."

Mitch took in a breath and opened his eyes. For a minute, he seemed to concentrate on focusing. "Take my gloves."

She squeezed his hand and pressed her lips to it once more. "Okay."

Amy looked over at Chloe, met her eyes, and acknowledged the task.



Derek stretched out on his boat and watched as the grey clouds passed over, bringing a soft drizzle of rain. Underneath him, the ocean rolled gently. He'd gone out early the morning to watch the sunrise and he'd enjoyed a leisurely cruise before the rain came in.

Just beyond the rain, were blue skies. A warm Christmas, at least for those in Basin Springs. They would have surfers out at the beach tomorrow. The early forecast predicted large waves as another storm built up off the coast.

Amy would have loved it.

He ran a hand over the arm of his chair—restless. He just couldn't stop thinking about her. Maybe it was their conversation from the night before. He'd let it follow him into his sleep—and he'd watch part of her dreams unfold, seen her, and all of the possibilities.

Derek wanted Amy to believe in possibilities.

He stood, paced to the edge of the boat and looked out over the ocean. The waves began to sparkle as the sun peaked from behind the clouds and began to warm his skin. Some distance away, a yacht floated leisurely by.

Soon, her probation would be over. Soon, he hoped, she could turn her focus from the past to the future.

He sighed and sat back down as the sun began to warm his skin. He stretched out, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the lapping of the ocean against the boat.

She was right. Once they were married-if they were married-they would have to create their own Christmas traditions. This could be one of them. Sleeping beneath the sun, soaking in the warm rays, listen only to the quiet demand of the waves and feel the slow rocking of the boat. They could go in, make it back in time for an early candlelight service. They could enjoy the beach under the stars, much as he had last night.

As the voice crackled over his VHF radio, he nearly turned it out ...

... until he heard he recognized the name of his boat. The High Tide—named by it's last owner.

"... calling High Tide. High Tide come in. Over." The air waves crackled as he dipped down below into the galley and reached for the receiver. "High Tide this is Lieutenant Miller. Do you read me? Over."

He lifted the receiver and pressed down the button. "This is High Tide. Anna? Over."

"We have a situation you may want to be aware of. What is your position?"

"Five miles west of Belvier Island. I'm heading in. Over."

"I'll meet you at the docks. Over. Anna out."

"High Tide out."

Setting the receiver in it's cradle, Derek frowned as he headed up. If it had been anyone else he would have been upset at loosing his few hours off. But there was only one reason Anna would have contacted him.

Amy.



"It's too cold to stay out here," Amy said as she watched Chloe disappear around the turn at the top of the hill. The slide down hill had seemed so long, and yet the hill wasn't so large. Still, Chloe seemed so small as she rounded the turn.

God, take care of her.

Amy looked back at Mitch. The truck wasn't even attempting to start. With no heat, they were beginning to feel the effects of the frigid air. The falling snow was melting and absorbing into their clothes. Even if Chloe could get help within the hour, the exposure would prove dangerous.

Mitch's leg would was still bleeding. Unable to take the time to find the words to deal with everything—Chloe, Mitch, the cold—she trusted her heart to petition on her behalf for all the things she couldn't ask for and just prayed.

"How far is that cabin?"

Mitch winced as he studied the road. "Not far. It's not ... far off ...the road we turned off. Around that bend."

She nodded, reached for his hand. It was ice cold, colder then her own. "I don't have blankets, Mitch. You always told me I needed winter gear when I come up here."

"And how ... often is that?"

Amy shrugged and let out a breath she'd been holding. She watched her breath turn white from the cold and frowned before looking at him again. His eyes were closed. He was in pain.

"I need to set this leg. Then maybe we need to try to get to that cabin. If it's not far, we will be better off."

"You know what to do, Amy."

He wasn't just telling her, he was commanding her. He turned his head so that she could see his eyes. He trusted her, and that trust made her heart break. She was about to hurt him.

"You learned from the best."

Her eyes welled up and her hands shook, not from the cold. "I know."

"I'll ... do what I can."

She hated the sound of pain in his voice. "I know."

"Do it."



Anna was waiting at the docks, dressed in one of her somber suits. She was on the clock. Her hair was down and lifted in the ocean breeze, but he could still see the worry. As he pulled up along side, she moved down without a word to help him secure the boat. He tossed her one rope and jumped out, bringing the other with him.

"What's up?"

Kneeling, Anna efficiently tightened her end. He wouldn't have pictured her on a boat, but she showed an ease that denoted experience.

She stood and brushed off her hands. "It finally came through who's been treating Loraine. It might not be anything, or he might know something. It's Vince Jamison. I'd thought you'd want to know."

"Sounds familiar," he said as he secured his own end.

"It should. He's Amy's father's third leg," Anna walked over and waited for Derek to finish. "The two of them are rarely apart. Vince isn't a father, shows no desire to be a father, and tends to lead Lance away from Amy."

"How?"

"How shall I count the ways?" she asked, with no small supply of sarcasm. "Most recently he made plans for Lance to go off with him at Thanksgiving. He assumed that Lance would prefer it—told Amy just as much. Amy didn't tell you?"

"She said something about it." Derek let it process, remembered that a doctor, a friend of her father's, had stopped by to see her during her stay at the hospital. He tried to picture that man doctoring medications. For what reasons?

"Loraine verbally attacked and tried to manipulate the Carpenter marriage. Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

"One would think." Seeming agitated, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and shrugged. "But it could just as easily have been Mallory. There's a reason people remember her as being royalty around here. She had a lot of influence."

"So Amy said."

"She would have wanted to get Loraine the best help. I know she recommended a top psychologist and paid for counseling. She might have considered Vince a good choice. He's been a family friend for a long time. He has one of the best reps in Basin Springs."

"That doesn't explain the change in medication."

"I don't know, Derek. It could be that she didn't see Vince or maybe the husband's covering for her. Vince may have some of the answers. He is not only Lance's friend, but he's a good doctor, and he's really concerned about his reputation. I don't see him doing it. She might have seen any number of doctors if he wasn't around."

"Still—"

It had been someone with access to drugs that had tried to poison Amy. Anna must have thought the same thing, or she wouldn't have alerted him to come in.

"I'd like to talk to him," he said when he realized his hands were clenched. "We're not going to get any of our questions answered if we don't."

"I thought you might want to talk to him," Anna led the way down the dock. "I don't know if he's in town. It is Christmas Eve, but since Lance stayed around, Vince might be somewhere too."



"You okay?"

He had stretched out as far as possible in the truck to allow her room to work. She'd used her towels, ripped into long shreds and pieces of an old board. Beads of sweat dotted his reddened forehead. His eyes closed, he nodded.

She wiped her hands off on an old beach towel and looked up to the sky overhead. The snow had stopped falling momentarily. "I'm going to walk on ahead, see what the road looks like."

"No."

"What?"

He opened his eyes and swallowed. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "You're not going anywhere alone."

"Mitch? You're talking crazy." She walked around the truck, leaned in the open door. She reached up, pressed her chilled hand against his forehead. She didn't think fever had set in. Yet.

"We're both getting cold. It's getting colder."

"Then we both should be getting started." He struggled to pull himself out. "Help me."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"The faster we get started, the faster we both get there."

He reached in his coat, pulled out his gun.

"Mitch." Her breath came out with a sudden punch of fear as he turned it, checked the safety. "What are you doing?"

He looked up, his eyes serious and dark. "This wasn't an accident."

"What?"

"Someone wanted you out here. Someone doesn't want you to come back."

"You're scaring me."

"Think about it, Amy. You never come on the road without getting your truck personally looked over by Joe Moore. He feels he owes you, he knows you. He checks your car over with deliberate care. Do you really believe the breaks cut out on their own? You think that one pothole at the top of this hill really did that much damage?"

Joe did take care of her and her car. He was two years older, but he'd been there that night with her seven years before, watched the accident, watched his friends die--and he'd been one of the ones who'd run. Afterwards, he'd been stunned and shunned himself, and he'd tried to take on some of the blame. No one paid much attention to him.

So Mitch was right. Or could be right. The fact settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Come on, Amy. Help me out."

He was weak, and the movement caused him pain. When he was finally standing beside the truck, his energy seemed spent. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

Give him strength. Warm him.

"For a minute there—" she heard herself laugh. "I'd thought you'd snapped."

"I'm not the one laughing."

"No, but you are the one holding a gun on a deserted road."

He opened his eyes and frowned at her. "You wouldn't think I would—"

"No, but you don't normally have that look in you eyes. It's slightly insane."

He smiled a little and he was back to being the Mitch she knew. "I am in pain."

"Of course you are. And if you can be grumpy at me, then I think you're going to be okay."

He tried to smile, but it didn't break through the pain in his eyes. "We're taking this walk together."

"All right," she stepped in close to accept his weight. At least they were close in height. "But if you fall, I might not be able to get you up. Then you're going to have to lie in the cold."

He laughed, dropping his gun arm down along his right side. "Just be careful how you walk."

"I walk fine."

"You could be a little taller."

"If you're going to complain, I'll remind you that you could be leaning on Chloe."

"She's softer."

"That's only going to help you if you fall." Amy retorted as they made it around the turn. The cabin was indeed not far away. "Think we can get in?"

His breathing was labored, his weight pressing onto her. "I have a key."

"But not a phone connection."

"No one's lived here in years. There's no phone."

"Who owns it, then?"

"I can't—" He shook her off and stopped for a moment. For a moment he drew in a few, steadying deep breaths, dealing with the agony.

She'd seen Mitch hurt, but never like this. Never in such pain. She glanced down, checked the wrapping. He was already loosing precious strength.

"Come on," she said, and prayed that he would make it. She could have pulled him through the water, but she wouldn't be able to manage on dry land. They dropped the banter and concentrated only on taking each step, one at a time. The pressure on her shoulders and back was nearly unbearable.

She felt him weakening, felt his grip slide from her shoulder. She stopped, gave him another moment of rest.

In the silence, she began to think about what Mitch had said. Was it not an accident—something more deliberate? Something that could have proved deadly on these mountain roads?

She felt the prickling discomfort from silence. The forest seemed shrouded and empty.

Like it had yesterday, when she'd suggested to Chloe that they go.

Someone had slashed Mitch's tires.

It was possible that someone had tinkered with her breaks. She eyed the pocket where Mitch's hand rested and acknowledged the simple facts.

Mitch had his gun ready. They might not be alone.



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