by Kava, Alex
It was the truck driver who had helped her earlier. He had kind eyes and muscles that looked like he could lift a car off a person. But there was blood running down his arm and his shoulder hung at an odd angle.
“Wait a minute,” Maggie told him when she noticed his arm, too. “What’s your name?”
“Ronald.”
“Ronald, turn around.”
She pointed her cell phone’s flashlight at his back. Frankie saw the shard of glass, and panic quickly replaced any relief. A four-inch chunk stuck out of the top of his arm. It didn’t help matters when Frankie saw Maggie’s response. The woman looked visibly shaken. Was it the blood? It did look gross. But she was an FBI agent. Didn’t she see worse stuff?
“We need to take care of you, Ronald,” Maggie told the man. “You can’t help. You need to sit down.” She grabbed the edge of a bench and dragged it over. Then she turned back around and called out, “Hey, anyone know first aid? I’m talking major wound. And I need some muscle over here.”
“We’re trying to pry open the door,” a voice called back. Frankie thought she recognized it as Hank’s.
Maggie looked down at the older man who was still kneeling next to Frankie.
“What do you think?” she asked him. “Can the two of us lift this?”
“If it was just the beam. But all this other stuff. Maybe we should wait for the paramedics.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Friends call me Gus.”
“I’m Maggie. How about we give it a try, Gus,” Maggie told him.
Despite Maggie’s best attempt to hide it, Frankie heard the urgency in her voice, and it kicked up Frankie’s anxiety. Did she think they couldn’t wait until the paramedics arrived? The pain was almost unbearable now. She bit down on her lower lip. The beam had most likely broken at least one of her legs, if not both.
Gus shrugged then nodded. He examined the beam looking for someplace to put his hands. Maggie did the same.
“You ready, Gus?” Maggie asked. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three.”
The beam didn’t budge. It didn’t shift even a little bit. It simply didn’t move.
Frankie tried to concentrate on breathing. They were going to try, again. She breathed in. Then out. Another breath, in and out.
It still did not move.
Frankie stopped. She held her breath this time. Then she sniffed the air and her eyes darted to Maggie’s. She smelled it, too.
“Don’t panic,” Maggie told her.
How could she not panic? The storm had broken a gas line, and now the fumes were filling their small, incredibly cramped area.
46
Grace led Creed across the street. Her nose was working the scent. Her tail curled up over her back. Deputy Huston had skidded down the debris pile to follow. Alice was close behind. Her husband, Bud stayed and continued to dig.
“My mom was in the house,” Alice shouted at their backs. “She didn’t leave the house.” But she still trailed behind them.
Grace strained at the end of the leash. Once she shot a look back at Creed to hurry up. He cringed as she trotted over broken glass. She threw her head back and sampled the air without stopping. Her breathing grew rapid and her eyes fixed ahead. He tried to steer her around oily puddles and two-by-fours with nails.
“This is the little dog that found that baby,” Deputy Huston was telling Alice. “He was thrown out of the car. It had to be over 200 feet.”
Creed tried to tune them out. He thought about stopping and asking them to stay back. But at this point, he didn’t want to stop Grace. And the deputy brought up a good point. Tornadoes threw people around. But at the same time, he wanted to warn them that the storm had thrown the woman’s belongings around, too. There was a chance that Grace could be tracking something that had belonged to Alice’s mother. Something that simply had her scent on it along with some blood.
She led them between rescue vehicles and through groups of first responders. Most hardly noticed them. Creed glanced over his shoulder. They were cutting a diagonal line that already crossed two streets. They came around a debris pile almost two-stories high, and now, Creed could see where Grace was taking them. Jason and Scout were already there with a team of firefighters. Grace tugged even harder.
The small park and half a dozen huge live oaks had survived, although all the leaves and some of the bark were stripped away. Under the second tree, Scout jumped at the trunk and peddled the air with his front paws. Then he sat down. Creed could see Jason already pulling out Scout’s rope toy to reward him.
The block of white glistened against the stark black and brown. Cradled in the branches above was a bathtub.
Creed stopped and turned around. He put a hand up to stop Deputy Huston and Alice.
“Hold on a minute,” he told them. To Grace, he said, “Good girl.” She was already staring up at him, waiting. His fingers fumbled with his daypack’s zipper. He found the pink elephant and handed it to Grace. Pleased, she took it in her mouth and made it squeal, again and again.
“I don’t understand,” Alice said.
“Where did your mother usually take shelter?” Creed asked.
“Very few of us have basements. Bud and I have a closet under the steps. Mom usually goes to the bathroom and gets—” She stopped and her eyes flicked over his shoulder and up at the tree. “No. It can’t be.”
They let the firefighters do their job. They were supposed to wait for a fire truck to maneuver its way through the downed power lines. There was no secure way to climb up and look inside the bathtub without a ladder. And yet, the men were already tossing a rope over one of the few branches that wasn’t bearing the weight of the bathtub.
The youngest of the firefighters was stripping out of his gear, tossing off anything and everything that might obstruct his climb.
To Creed, he asked, “Can your dog tell...”
He stopped himself and checked to see if the family members—by now Bud had joined Alice—were back far enough to not hear him. Deputy Huston had made sure of that.
The firefighter continued, “Can your dogs tell if she’s dead or alive?”
It was complicated. Creed didn’t want to get into a lengthy explanation of how fresh this scene was. Both dogs were trained for search and rescue, but both had also been trained for recovery. There was a distinct difference in the scent of a live person and a decomposing body. But a person who may have died only hours ago?
“No, sorry,” Creed told him.
“But you’re sure someone’s still in there? Isn’t it possible she was inside and is gone, but her scent is still there?”
“I guess anything’s possible,” Creed said. He’d seen stranger things. But he trusted his dogs. “Both dogs believe she’s still there.”
The man simply nodded. To the other firefighters, he said, “Okay, let’s do this.”
He was short and compact. When he grabbed hold of the rope, it quickly became clear why he was chosen. He shinnied up with little effort. In no time, he pulled himself up onto a thick branch adjacent to those cradling the bathtub.
Creed watched the man’s face and within seconds he knew the bathtub was, in fact, a coffin.
He joined Jason under one of the other oaks, far enough away to give the family and the firefighters room to assess, to work, to grieve. The dogs were taking a break in the rare patches of shade. Jason had already given them water and retrieved their reward toys. Both of them lay with their hind legs kicked back. They watched the action and chaos around them, curious but at the same time, disinterested, almost as if they knew they had already done their jobs.
Jason pulled out his cell phone. With one hand he was holding and scrolling. His prosthetic fingers were capable of intricate touch, but the kid had gotten so used to doing many things with one hand. It was almost as if he forgot he could use the other.
“What was the name of that restaurant where we were meeting up with Maggie?”
“Southern Blessings
.” He glanced back at Jason. His thumb was still scrolling. “Why do you ask?”
“One of the firefighters said it took a direct hit.”
“What?”
“I’m looking to see if there’s any information on-line.”
Creed patted down his pockets in search of his own cell phone.
“Are you sure that was the name?” he asked, hoping Jason may have heard it wrong.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Creed found his phone and had to turn it on.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I kept thinking it was ironic that a place with blessings in its name would get hit by a tornado.”
Creed’s phone was finally ready. He tapped a text message to Maggie:
ARE YOU OKAY?
Then he waited.
47
Maggie knew she wasn’t good at this. Crime scenes. Dead bodies. No problem. But victims, injured and bleeding with glass sticking out of their flesh and steel beams on top of them? That was a problem. She wasn’t a first responder. She remembered CPR, but that was all.
The gas fumes were making her lightheaded. She couldn’t think straight.
Hank couldn’t get the door open at the top of the stairs. There was something blocking it. While both of them called for help, she could see Hank was getting a better response. More of them were interested in getting the door opened than aiding those who had gotten injured.
Two of the men were trying to ram the door with one of the fallen beams. The guy in the designer polo shirt had stayed at the foot of the stairs, constantly checking his cell phone. He looked anxious to get back out the door ever since they’d come down. Maggie had heard Hank call him Max.
The other man, Maggie had nicknamed Loverboy. Perhaps it was a misnomer, because ever since the storm began, the man had nothing to do with the woman he’d been so enthralled with earlier over lunch.
The beam that had fallen on Frankie had taken part of the ceiling down with it. For a brief moment, Maggie thought it might be a possible escape route. But on closer inspection, she could see that a metal object had sealed the hole. Right now, all she cared about was getting this beam off of Frankie. The longer it crushed her legs, the more likely the woman might lose them both. But Gus didn’t seem to share her urgency.
“I think I could help,” Ronald, the truck driver, still offered. “I can use my one arm.”
That was yet another dilemma. Does she leave the shard of glass in? She knew from personal experience that taking a knife out could cause a victim to bleed out quickly. Was it the same for a big-ass piece of glass?
And where the hell was everyone else? The older women stayed praying close to the stairs. The other lovebird? From what Maggie could tell she was texting on her cell phone. Maybe, hopefully, she was getting them some help.
Finally, the waitress came over to take a look at Ronald. She removed her apron and tried sopping up the blood dripping down his arm. To Maggie she said, “Do you think he needs a tourniquet?”
Maggie noticed her nametag and asked, “Do you know how to do one, Val?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said and she started ripping the ties off of her apron.
She was younger than Maggie had noticed before. Probably in her twenties. The other waitress was older. The waitress who called her and Frankie, “Hon.” The one Maggie didn’t save.
Maggie kneeled down next to Frankie. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her eyes were closed but she was biting her lip. It was bleeding. Maggie looked across the beam at Gus. He seemed content to let her call the shots. He also seemed content to wait for the paramedics. He leaned against the wall, watching and waiting.
Suddenly, Maggie realized her feet were wet. Frankie’s hair was wet, too. Somewhere water was seeping in. The rest of them could stand. Frankie couldn’t.
Now Maggie’s eyes darted around the crumbling basement. She stood and turned, shooting her cell phone’s flashlight over the walls, the shelves, the collapsed ruins. She double-backed and started searching the area. A five-foot length of steel pipe had come down with the ceiling. She grabbed it, pleased with how heavy and sturdy it felt.
“Come on, Gus,” she said, gesturing for him to come over to her side of Frankie. Val had finished her makeshift tourniquet and Maggie called to her. “Can you give us a hand?”
Maggie shoved the steel pipe under the beam, keeping it away from Frankie’s legs.
“Val, when Gus and I lift this beam, I need you to pull Frankie out from under it.”
Frankie’s eyes were open now, wide and hopeful. She couldn’t disappoint her.
Val came around behind Frankie and helped her bend forward enough for Val to get her hands under Frankie’s shoulders. Then Maggie motioned for Gus to join her. They would push all their weight down on the pipe and hope it would lever the beam up enough for Val to pull Frankie’s legs free.
“Okay, here we go,” Maggie told them.
She and Gus pushed and strained and the beam lifted only inches. It wasn’t going to work. How could this not work? Frankie’s eyes watched, waiting and waiting. But it wasn’t enough. Then suddenly, another hand reached over and gripped the pipe.
Ronald added his weight. The beam began to lift. The other debris slid off and the beam lifted more. Val pulled and dragged until she had Frankie completely free.
“We need to get her up out of the water,” Maggie told them before they could celebrate.
They lifted her up onto one of the wooden benches. With her back against the wall, the bench was long enough for her legs.
“How you doing?” Maggie asked her.
“Better.” She offered a weak smile. Then she jerked and grabbed Maggie’s hand, squeezing it tight. She grimaced and panic filled her eyes, again, as she said, “I still can’t move my legs.”
48
Florida Panhandle
Hannah had suggested Brodie go “take a lie down.” She was too old for Hannah to tell her to go take a nap like she did with Isaac and Thomas. Brodie didn’t argue. She welcomed the retreat. She needed the relief. Another minute longer and she was sure her heart would explode right out of her chest.
She found Kitten and curled up on her bed. But she didn’t reach for the book on her nightstand. The stories, the wonderful adventures had been her escape. There was no escape from this. How could she get rid of the images and the memories when they had wrapped themselves so tightly and so firmly around her mind that they had managed to become a part of her?
Then she saw the notebook and pen also next to the bed. Brodie sat up and grabbed the journal. She found the first empty page and began filling it:
My name is Brodie Creed.
My name is Brodie Creed.
My name is Brodie Creed.
Brodie was the problem. She was weak, a scaredy-cat, a crybaby. Although Brodie hadn’t shed a tear in many years.
No, not Brodie. Charlotte hadn’t shed a tear.
She readjusted the pen in her hand and wrote:
My name is Charlotte.
My name is Charlotte.
A soft tap on her door stopped her. She jerked and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, prepared to run. The reaction was so instinctive she didn’t realize how silly it was until Hannah peeked around the door.
“You okay, Sweet Pea?”
“Yes.”
“May I come in?”
“I suppose.” She pulled her legs back up and pushed herself into the pillows, using the headboard as a brace. She held the notebook, the page with the words clutched against her chest. “Am I in trouble?”
“Oh, Sweet Pea. No, not at all.”
“When is Ryder coming home?”
Hannah smiled at her, and she wasn’t sure why. “He should be home tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to talk to her anymore,” Brodie said, but now she couldn’t meet Hannah’s eyes. She didn’t want her to see how weak and cowardly she was.
“You don’t have to. You take as much time as you need.”<
br />
“Is she leaving?”
“The weather is nasty up through the route she needs to take. I asked her to stay the night. Is that okay with you?”
Brodie shrugged like it didn’t matter to her. It wasn’t her mother’s fault.
“I can’t make the memories go away,” she whispered, so softly she really meant it just for herself.
Hannah sat on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand. The first time she’d done this Brodie didn’t know what to expect. She placed her rough and scarred hand in Hannah’s. Hannah’s was soft and warm and smooth, but firm and strong.
“I’m no expert,” Hannah said, “but maybe we could try putting some good memories back inside your mind.”
“How do we do that?”
“Well, you’re already doing it every time you enjoy being with Isaac and Thomas. When you feel the warm sunshine on your face. Remember when you and Ryder slept outside under the stars? And Jason sure does like telling you about the dogs and showing you what they can do.”
Brodie tried to listen, really listen. She realized she was gripping Hannah’s hand like she needed to hang on.
“Sweet Pea, you’ve had to be strong and brave for so long.”
“Charlotte was.” It came out before she could stop it.
“Charlotte?”
“She was the brave one. Brodie was always weak and frightened. She cried all the time.” She looked up to see Hannah’s reaction.
“You are the brave and strong one. And you have always been, Brodie,” Hannah squeezed her hand and tilted her head to make sure Brodie didn’t break eye contact. “Brodie may have been scared but she grew strong. Brodie became brave and fought back because she knew what it felt like to be frightened, and she didn’t want to feel that way anymore. Brodie was the one who survived. Charlotte was just a name Iris Malone called you. She couldn’t make you be Charlotte. She tried, right? She tried over and over again to make you Charlotte. Isn’t that right?”