by Joanne Fluke
Vanessa looked dazed as Rachael grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the room. The rest of them crowded around Jack as Alan covered him with blankets.
Clayton swallowed hard. He’d seen the jagged edge of bone that stuck out of Jack’s shin and he felt a little faint, too. “Should we carry him to the bedroom?”
“Leave him right where he is. He’ll go into shock if we move him.”
“But won’t he bleed to death?” Jayne’s face turned almost as gray as Jack’s as she stared down at the blood on the floor.
“There’s still a little bleeding, but it’s slowed. Go find a big pillow and some adhesive tape. We’ll have to line up his leg. Lucky there’s a nurse in the building.”
“We’re also lucky we’ve got you.” Laureen squeezed her husband’s arm and turned to the others to explain. “Alan was a medic in the army.”
“Will Jack be all right?” Moira asked the question that was in everyone’s mind.
“I think so. His ABC’s check out.” Since Moira was looking at him blankly, he explained. “ABCs. Airway, breathing, and cardiac function.”
“I’m here.” Margaret Woodard bustled into the room and everyone moved back a step as she knelt down next to Alan. It seemed to take forever to the anxious group, but at last she turned to look up at them. “Is there a shortwave radio? He’s got to be hospitalized as soon as possible.”
Hal nodded. “There’s one in the next room. Jack showed it to me. I’ll call for help.”
Alan and the nurse slipped the pillow under Jack’s leg. When they straightened it, Jack cried out sharply and sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Hold on, Jack.” Alan’s voice was gentle. “We’ll work as fast as we can.”
They had just finished securing Jack’s leg in its pillow bandage when Hal rushed back into the room. “They’ll be here in less than twenty minutes to airlift Jack out. I told them exactly what you said, Alan, a compound fracture of the left fibula. Let’s go up and check on Ellen. If she’s injured, they can fly her out, too.”
“Go ahead.” Margaret Woodard gestured for Alan to go. “I’ll stay with this one.”
Jayne frowned; Margaret Woodard’s attitude irked her. Jack came to see Betty at least twice a day; yet she referred to Jack as “this one.” The woman was a cold fish, no doubt about it.
There was an uneasy silence as they rode up to the eighth floor. After seeing Jack’s condition, no one wanted to speculate. They all knew Ellen worked with power tools and might well have been using them when the avalanche hit.
Jayne was in the lead as they reached Ellen’s unit and she waited anxiously for Alan to unlock the door with the master key he’d taken from Jack’s office. They stepped in and Jayne called out, “Ellen? Are you here?” Jayne frowned as there was no answer. “Let’s check the workroom first. She told me she had some things to finish before she met me for tennis.”
There was something eerie about walking through someone else’s home without being invited, and Jayne shivered as she pushed open the workroom door. They found even more damage than in Jack’s security office. A heavy workbench had toppled and lifelike pieces of mannequin anatomy were strewn all over the room.
“Ellen? Where are you?” This time they heard a muffled answer.
“I’m under the workbench.” Ellen’s voice was faint. “I think I’m all right, but there’s not much room under here.”
Clayton took charge. “Come on. Everyone over here. Let’s lift it so she can get out.”
“Stop!” Jayne ran forward. “From that end, the weight’ll shift. It’s a classic cantilever and you have to lift along the axis.”
Marc turned in surprise, then he nodded. “You’re right, Jayne. Alan? Come over here. I’ll show you where to lift. Clayton, you take it from the middle and I’ll handle this end. Straight up now, on the count of three. You ladies get ready to help Ellen out.”
In less than a minute, Ellen was freed. Bruised and shaken, she wasn’t seriously hurt. “Is everyone else all right?”
“Except Jack.” As usual, Jayne spoke without thinking and she winced at Ellen’s anguished expression. “Don’t worry, Ellen. Just a broken leg. They’re coming with a helicopter.”
“Thank God!” Ellen drew a sigh of relief, then looked around at the debris and started to giggle. “It looks like a morgue in here. Something about the sight of those heads over there is doing me in.”
They followed Ellen’s gaze and even Hal began to smile. It did look like a morgue. Several mannequin heads had rolled out of their boxes and one was sitting on the stomach of a torso.
“I’m glad you can laugh about it, Ellen.” Jayne put her arm around Ellen’s shoulders. “I would have been scared straight out of my hide.”
“I didn’t have time to be scared when it was happening, but it was awful being trapped. I knew I couldn’t get out by myself and I kept wondering what would happen if . . .” Ellen swallowed hard. “Well, it’s over. No sense thinking about it now. I’m just glad you didn’t panic, Jayne. How did you know about the cantilever business, anyway?”
Jayne shrugged. “I guess Paul must have talked about it. The whole thing looked a little like a bridge he designed.”
“I’d better call Walker and tell him I’m all right. He’s probably at the warehouse by now.”
Alan stopped her as she reached for the phone. “The lines are down, Ellen. We had to use the shortwave to call for the chopper.”
Just then, the sound of helicopter blades whirling became audible and Alan led Ellen toward the door. “Let’s go out and tell them we’re okay. They can call Walker for you.”
Everyone was relieved as they rode down on the elevator, the aftermath of surviving a disaster relatively unscathed. The last one off, Ellen hung behind a little. She reminded herself that they were all alive and nothing was damaged that couldn’t be fixed. She really ought to be thankful. But as she stepped out into the frigid air and watched her neighbors rush through the snow to the helicopter, she couldn’t seem to shake a premonition of trouble ahead.
FIVE
Walker had noticed the sign on the shopping center as he’d driven past. It was ninety-eight degrees. Thanks goodness Ellen had air-conditioned the warehouse! He would have to go back out into the heat when he loaded Ellen’s new van, a forest-green behemoth with VEGAS DOLLS printed on both sides in bright pink lettering, but at least he’d been treated to cool air inside.
As he stepped in, Walker saw the crate of mannequins was propped up against the wall with four of Ellen’s creations inside. The packing slip from the department store in New York claimed that they had arrived in damaged condition. Walker closed the warehouse door and locked it, switching on the bank of overhead lights. Then he pried open the crate to find that all four of the hollow mannequin heads had been broken open. Running his finger around the inside of the skulls, Walker tasted the residue, and nodded.
Walker tossed the damaged mannequins in the trash bin and wheeled it out for the daily pickup. He had just finished loading the supplies that Ellen needed and was about to lock the door and go out to the van to head back up the mountain when the telephone rang.
“Mr. Browning?” The voice on the other end of the line sounded bored. “This is Officer Carillo from the North Las Vegas police department. The residents at Deer Creek Condos asked me to call to tell you that they have adequate supplies and power from their backup generator. No land lines or cell phones, but there’s a shortwave for emergency use and the situation is under control.”
Walker frowned. There was obviously something the officer had forgotten to tell him. “What situation?”
“You haven’t heard?” Officer Carillo cleared his throat. “There was an avalanche up on Mount Charleston at ten fifty-seven. One resident was seriously injured, but the damage to the building is minor.”
Walker felt the sweat break out on his forehead. “Who was hurt?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Browning, but we can’t release the name unless you
’re a family member.”
“Come on, officer. I work for Ellen Wingate. Can’t you at least tell me if she’s all right?”
“Wait a moment, sir. I’ll check on that.”
There was a click and Walker was put on hold. It seemed to take the officer a long time to get back to him.
“Mr. Browning? I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have the authority to release any additional information.”
Walker sighed. The bureaucracy always played by their own rules. “Okay, I’d better head right up there.”
“That wouldn’t be advisable, sir. The snow slid down to the base of the access road. Since it’s not a high priority, the highway department says it’ll take at least a week to clear, and there’s no way you can get through in a conventional vehicle.”
“How about a four-wheel drive?”
“Sorry, sir. The only way is by helicopter.”
“Fine. How about hitching a ride on one of your choppers?”
“Just a moment, sir. I’ll have to check.”
Officer Carillo came back on the line almost immediately. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. It’s against regulations.”
Walker thanked the officer and hung up. Minutes later, he was speeding toward town. As Jayne Peters was fond of saying, there was more than one way to skin a cat and he had to get up to Deer Creek Condos on the double.
At six-ten in the evening, it was still over ninety degrees and Paul Lindstrom’s shirt stuck to his back as he walked across the parking lot to the door of the Castle Casino. Some Vegas regulars took taxis from one casino to another, even if their destination was only a block away. Paul had always regarded this as a needless extravagance, but now, as a blast of refrigerated air transformed his shirt into a cold, clammy mess, he had to admit that stepping from one air-conditioned casino into an air-conditioned taxi that would take him to another air-conditioned casino made sense.
Walking past the blackjack tables, Paul stopped to watch an elderly lady with a blue rinse in her hair play a quarter slot machine against the far wall. Each time she put in a coin, she patted the machine four times before pulling the handle. When he’d first come to Vegas, Paul had noticed the superstitious mannerisms of slot machine players. Some talked to the machines using words that resembled incantations. Still others counted the seconds they held the handle down. There were as many rituals as there were players. When Paul had asked if these people really thought they could control an action that was specifically geared to be random, Jayne had explained what she called slot behavior. It was nothing but intermittent reinforcement, the type that was most difficult to extinguish. A laboratory rat who had received food pellets while pressing its nose against the corner of the cage would return to that position countless times in an attempt to acquire more pellets. Even when the reward was no longer forthcoming, the rat would continue to scurry for the corner every time the technician walked near. If Jayne’s theory was correct, the blue-haired lady had once hit a jackpot after patting the machine four times.
After watching for a few more moments, Paul walked on. Jayne had once written a song called “Somethin’ for Nothin’” and it was that very phenomenon which kept the casinos thriving. There were true accounts of gamblers who won enough money to retire in luxury and every player in Vegas had similar dreams.
In the lounge Paul took up a position near the doorway. It was quiet and dark inside, a welcome relief from the bright lights and noise on the floor of the casino. The lounge’s only occupants were three men with red and white name tags, obviously from a convention, sitting at a table in the back of the room. A woman with flaming red hair was seated at the piano, playing old standards to the nearly empty room. Paul was early. Grace DuPaz had promised to meet him in the lounge at six-thirty, right after rehearsal.
The pianist noticed him and gave a little wave. “Hi, honey. Why don’t you come over here and sit by me?”
“Thank you.” Paul gave a little bow and reached out to shake her hand before he took one of the seats by the piano. “I am early to meet a friend.”
“Good. You can keep me company. This place is dead right now.”
“Dead?” Paul looked puzzled for a moment, but then he smiled. “Ah, yes. There are not many people to listen.”
“That’s right, honey. Any requests?”
“There is one song I would like very much to hear.” Paul nodded. “My Stubborn Heart.”
The pianist broke into a smile. “I love it, but it’s so new I haven’t really worked it up yet. Want me to give it a whirl anyway?”
Paul smiled back. “I would be pleased. My wife wrote it.”
The pianist did a double take and her professional smile grew much warmer. “Then you must be Paul! Glad to meet you. I’m Flame Richards and I’m a big fan of Jayne’s.”
As Flame sang, Paul reflected on the song about a husband who’d left and a woman’s stubborn heart that wouldn’t let her ask him to come back. Just as she struck the ending chords, Grace walked into the bar and Paul rose to his feet.
“Hi, Paul.” Grace shook his hand and slid quickly onto a chair. After living in the same building for almost four years, she knew Paul wouldn’t sit down until she did. “I’ve never seen you in jeans before. You look good. And that blue cowboy shirt just matches your eyes. Did you ditch it for good or did you just pack it away in mothballs?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m talking about the three-piece suit you used to always wear, even up at the spa when the rest of us were sitting around in sweats. I bet Jayne would faint dead away if she saw you like this. She used to buy you all those gorgeous cowboy shirts and you’d never even try them on.”
“Yes, that is true.” Paul frowned slightly. He’d been what Jayne called a stuffed shirt about wearing anything other than proper clothing, but now he only took out his suit for business meetings and sometimes not even then. Jayne had been right. Casual clothes were much more comfortable.
Grace turned to the piano player. “How’s it going, Flame?”
“Just fine.” The pianist gave her the high sign and segued into the music from Grace’s last show. “How’s the new show coming?”
“The costumes are awful, the music stinks, the lighting’s horrid, and the girls all have two left feet. Other than that, everything’s right on schedule.”
“You always say that.” Flame laughed.
A cocktail waitress, dressed in a low-cut gold lamé minidress, leaned over the piano. “Flame? That guy in the black shirt wants you to play ‘Hey Jude.’”
“Again?” Flame raised her eyebrows. “I’ve played it three times already, but I guess I’d better keep those aging hippies happy and do my whole Beatles medley.”
As Flame started up again, Grace leaned a little closer to Paul. “What’s up? You sounded really upset on the phone.”
“I have some distressing news, Grace. There was an avalanche on the mountain.”
Grace looked alarmed. “An avalanche? When? Early this morning everything was fine, a little snow on the road, but I drove through it, no problem. Good heavens! You’d think someone would have called to tell me unless . . . Oh, my God!” Grace’s face turned pale. “Is Moira hurt?”
“I am sorry, Grace. My friend from the police could not tell me as I am not of Moira’s family. There was one serious injury which the police transported to hospital by helicopter, but that is all I know.”
“Oh, Lord!” Grace jumped up and Paul also rose to his feet. “I’d better call right away.”
Paul took Grace’s arm and guided her back down to her chair. “It is not possible, Grace. The phone lines are no longer in service and the cell tower has toppled. That is why I asked to meet with you. I must go to Jayne immediately and I thought that you also would wish to go.”
“Yes! Of course. Let’s take my Jeep, Paul. It’ll make it through anything.”
Paul shook his head. “No, Grace. My friend has told me of a solid wall of snow. The authorities will not permit anyone to
attempt the road.”
“How about the police chopper?”
Paul shook his head. “Also not possible, Grace. The helicopter is reserved for emergency use only. I know we must go, but I am not sure how to accomplish this.”
“How about a snowmobile?” Flame finished “Hey Jude” and began to play the chorus of “Strawberry Fields Forever.”
Paul took a moment to think it over. “That is an excellent idea, Miss Richards. But where do we find a snowmobile in the desert?”
“You could try the Alpine Ski Shop in the mall.” Flame finished the chorus of “Strawberry Fields” and switched to “Dear Prudence.” “Use the bar phone.”
Grace went off, but came back frowning. “They don’t carry snowmobiles. And they don’t know anywhere we can get one.”
“Just a sec.” Flame struck the final chord. “Do either of you know any Beatles songs? If someone can spell me for a minute, I might be able to find you one.”
“Sorry, Flame.” Grace shook her head. “I never learned to play the piano. You know something about music, don’t you, Paul?”
Paul nodded. “I play the violin, but I am not accomplished at the piano. Jayne attempted to teach me last winter, but I can play nothing of the Beatles except the chorus to ‘Obladi Oblada.’”
“That’ll do.” Flame slid off the bench and motioned to Paul to take her place. “Just play it over and over until I get back. Those jokers will never know the difference, I guarantee it.”
Paul was just winding up his twenty-fifth rendition when Flame came back, sliding over on the piano bench and replacing Paul at the piano. “I got you a great big Arctic Cat. Here’s the address.” She pushed a cocktail napkin across the bar. “It belongs to my boyfriend’s landlady’s cousin.”
Grace pocketed the cocktail napkin and gave the pianist a grateful smile. Flame was just getting into the rocking rhythm of “Honey Pie” when the cocktail waitress rushed over with a note. “You’re going to love this one, Flame. Those guys want to hear ‘Obladi Oblada’ again. They said you played it just the way they like it.”