Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  “Jess—” Lauren grabbed her sister’s arm—“where is she? Where’s Emma?”

  “At our house. The traffic was awful toward River Oaks. The dog was howling at the storm, and Emma said she’d be fine at the house till one of us got back.”

  Lord, please . . .

  “Eli . . .” Lauren paced across the floor, the phone trembling at her ear. “Emma’s at my parents’ house. Jess said something about the traffic and Shrek being scared of the storm.”

  “In that house—alone? I told you there was damage on those streets, tornadoes maybe. Why did I take a chance she could be responsible?” His groan was half-curse. “Call 911 right now; tell them there’s a child alone in your house. I’ll be . . . fast . . . I can.” His phone was cutting out. “Never mind . . . call 911 myself . . . should know better . . . to trust anybody.”

  “NO, SIR. It’s a bad idea.” Cyril planted himself beside Eli’s car, the look on his face saying he’d like nothing better than to wrestle the keys from his hand. He glanced down Mimaw’s drive. Even in the deepening shadows, the mud and tire ruts were clearly visible. “There’s no way this car’s going to make it through that low-water crossing. I understand you’re—”

  “You’ve got a child, Cyril?” Eli demanded, frustration making his temples throb. “’Cause if you don’t, there’s no way on earth you can understand!” He jabbed a finger toward the road. “My daughter’s out there. Scared, alone . . . maybe hurt, maybe even . . .” Bile rose, bitter as the terrifying possibilities. “My phone’s going out; the emergency phone lines are jammed. I can’t wait around not knowing. I’ve got to go to her. Don’t get in my way.”

  “I can’t stop you, Elijah. I don’t have a child, but I’ve seen far too many folks torn from their children, their family . . . I’ve seen that pain. And I’ve seen some terrible things happen when good folks, desperate folks, try their best to save someone.” He laid his beefy palm on the hood. “You won’t make it through the water in this car.”

  “Then . . .” Eli whirled around. “I’ll take the dump truck. Give me the keys. If you don’t, I’ll hot-wire it or—”

  Cyril’s hand clapped onto Eli’s shoulder, heavy as a sandbag. “I’ll drive. All the roads round here are flooded. The only one worth considering is the one you came in on. Creek’s high over the low-water crossing. I have my doubts even that big truck can get through, but I’ll take you there, man. We’ll give it a try.”

  “Thank—” Eli couldn’t get the words out, but there wasn’t time anyway.

  - + -

  “I’m not criticizing you or ‘piling on the blame,’” Lauren told her sister, wishing that were completely true. There was no way she could rationalize what Jess had done. “Jess . . . ?” Lauren leaned closer, struggling to make eye contact with her in the otherwise-vacant hospital chapel. She swore she could hear the wall clock ticking, each second making her more anxious and frustrated. “I’m only trying to understand.”

  “It sure doesn’t sound like it.” Jess glowered. “It sounds more like you agree with Eli—about this and maybe all his judgmental opinions about me. Now that he’s your new boyfriend, you’re taking his side.”

  Sides? Lauren wanted to scream that this wasn’t a game; this was about a child whose life was in danger.

  She’d never felt so torn. Part of her wanted to be here for Jess the way she’d always been; but at the same time she ached to run as fast as she could to her Beetle, floor the pedal, and race to the house. Find Emma. She’d tried to call several times, but it just rang and rang. She clung to the fact that Eli had called 911. Lauren had too.

  God, please, keep her safe.

  “She’s eight, almost nine.” Jess finally met Lauren’s gaze. Her expression was equal parts petulance and quaking fear. “Mom and Dad left us alone when I was nine.”

  Because I was fifteen. This wasn’t the time to argue that point. “You couldn’t get through the traffic to River Oaks?”

  “Maybe. If I was willing to crawl bumper to bumper for an hour or more. With Shrek howling and shaking. He’s afraid of storms. I swear, it was Emma’s idea to go back. She was worried about the dog. She kept saying her friend’s old dog had died and Shrek has diabetes. She thought he was having a heart attack.” Jess’s brows bunched. “She had her arms around that big dog, whispering and singing to him; it looked like she was going to start crying any minute.”

  Lauren had no problem believing that. “Then after you got back to the house, you found out your class was canceled.”

  “Yeah. I would have hung around, except I got that call from the hospital. And then a message asking me to phone Darcee’s mother.” Jess chewed at the edge of her nail again. “I knew you were due back. And I thought it would look good if I went in to the hospital. Make me look responsible, you know?”

  Responsible? The irony made Lauren queasy.

  “She said she’d be fine. I shut Hannah in my room with a bunch of toys and told Emma not to let her out. I showed her the pantry. I told her to help herself to any snacks she liked. Healthy snacks—I made a point of that. We got Shrek settled in the weather room—Emma loved all of Mom’s stupid equipment and all those maps. I pulled out a stack of Disney DVDs and got her a blanket.” Jess sighed. “I told her to lock the doors. Not to let anyone in. I said I’d call her father so he could let her grandparents know. . . . But I didn’t get a chance to do that.”

  Lauren’s mouth went dry with dread. “Eli said Emma’s not answering her cell phone.”

  “It’s in the Beetle. I noticed it on the backseat when I got here. She was so busy hanging on to Shrek that I think she must have forgotten it. The party favors are in there too.” Jess’s defensiveness was gone, her expression pinched with worry now. “Should we call Fletcher?”

  “I did. It went to voice mail.”

  “Eli called 911?”

  Lauren nodded. “I did too. And I tried to call Earl and Marion—next door to Mom and Dad’s—but there wasn’t an answer. They might have decided to evacuate. And the Stobs are out of state, visiting that new grandbaby. I don’t have numbers for the other neighbors. It’s possible that the lines are jammed with calls . . . or down altogether now.”

  Jess hugged her arms around herself, tears brimming. “You think the power’s out at the house?”

  “Probably.”

  “Hannah will be howling.”

  “Yes.” For the first time ever, Lauren hoped that was true. She glanced at the chapel’s mosaic. Jesus calming the storm. She tried not to imagine a little girl alone in the dark. With tornadoes brewing. Lauren breathed a silent prayer for Emma. And her father.

  - + -

  “Try it,” Eli insisted, leaning out the open passenger door. Muddy water from the overflowing creek raced by with alarming speed, carrying branches and debris and obliterating any glimpse of the road. “It’s only a third of the way up the tires. Try a little farther. See how it feels.”

  Cyril turned to him, hands on the wheel. “It feels like we’re far as we can go. Before the engine cuts out.” As if to prove it, the big truck shuddered. “That’s it. I’m sorry, but I’m backing this rig up.”

  “No. Wait. We can make it—I’m sure of it.”

  “Shut that door; I can’t have you fallin’ out.” Cyril shoved the truck into reverse and it shuddered again, then began slowly moving backward, tires spinning as they hit a mud slick before gripping finally. He backed more, and they came to a stop.

  “Well, I can’t sit here and do nothing!” Eli barked, holding his nearly useless cell phone in a death grip. He must have tried thirty times to get through to emergency operators, to find out something. Anything. “Switch places with me; I’ll drive. I think if I angle it toward—”

  “No.” Cyril’s expression was as determined as a linebacker’s. “Not doing that. Look, Eli, you’re going to have to—”

  Eli flung open the door, jumped to the road, boots sinking immediately. He lumbered forward, mud sucking his feet, toward the
low-water crossing. He’d get to Emma or die trying. There had to be a way. . . .

  “Hey . . .” Cyril caught up with him at the water’s edge, raising his voice over the sound of the once-peaceful creek that was now a raging river. He laid a hand on Eli’s shoulder. “Don’t. You’ve done all you can.”

  “I . . . can’t. I can’t accept that,” Eli told him, his voice breaking. “I’m her father. I’m supposed to protect her.”

  “I get it. I’m all for stepping up, doing something—it’s why I’ve got all those sandbags around that house back there. Why I spent so much time on that roof, made sure those generators were ready. And why I’m sleeping in the loft tonight. I’m looking out for my family. I’m right with you on that, Eli. I can only imagine how much more I’d feel if I had a child who needed my help.”

  Eli stared at the water, unable to speak.

  “But there comes a time,” Cyril continued, his voice gentle and deep, “when you have to trust in bigger hands . . . when you go by faith. That little daughter of yours has a pure, believing soul. And our God is bigger than any storm. You’ve done what you can do. Emergency services are working on it. We’ll keep calling for a report.” He pointed to the dump truck. “Let’s get back. Your brother’s waiting for you.”

  - + -

  Fletcher contacted dispatch, put himself back in service.

  He shook his head. In his experience, most neighbors found ways to pull together in a crisis, help each other. These two couples had come close to a fistfight over a couple of rain tarps and a case of Lone Star beer—obviously the most vital of the “storm supplies.” But he’d settled it or at least managed to get the warring parties to agree to stay within their own soggy property lines. Thank heaven power wasn’t out in this neighborhood. If ever there was a need for the numbing effect of reality TV or back-to-back Netflix movies, it was tonight. One of the wives had even suggested renting Twister in honor of the tornado advisory. Add a couple of beers to that and the next call would be to paramedics for heart palpitations. Fortunately not Fletcher’s area of expertise.

  He glanced at the time display on his car’s computer. He’d do that drive-by on his parents’ street, then maybe head over and see how Houston Grace was faring under emergency power.

  His gaze moved back to the computer screen as a call came in. His parents’ street? Yes, and the house address was . . . the Barclays’. A call for a welfare check on an eight-year-old child “in residence alone.” His eyes widened at the ID info.

  Emma Landry.

  THE STREETS WERE DARK. Not because rain clouds hid the setting sun, but unnaturally dark because there were no lights in the majority of the homes. No universal bluish glow from TV after TV. No porch or garage floodlights. Some of the homes had storm shutters in place; only scattered residences appeared to have generator backup—slits of light through shutters or uncovered windows. There were a dozen streets in this community, and from what Fletcher could see already, he’d bet most of them had considerable storm debris in the yards. Porch swings upended, basketball standards flattened, bushes pulled up and tossed, and—

  Fletcher cranked the wheel to avoid a large bough, along with what looked like someone’s patio umbrella. He drove on, past several completely uprooted trees, noting countless others tipped precariously. High winds alone could do that, but . . .

  There were a few people walking in yards, shining flashlights to survey damage now that the wind had stilled. Ordinarily he’d stop to check with them, but not now. He grimaced at his first sight of significant home damage. A porch overhang—hanging way too far over because one of the posts had snapped. A memory intruded of Jessica on a ladder, trying to patch her parents’ leaky roof.

  Eli must be beside himself with worry.

  Fletcher picked up speed as best he could, dodging branches and debris. A few more homes, and . . . there, his parents’ place. No damage that he could see. It was all so dark at this end of the street.

  He slowed, pulling as close as he could to the curb while he continued on, using his spotlight to pick out the houses. The Barclays were four houses down. Fletcher spotted a bicycle in a tree and a detached gate tossed like a Tinkertoy. His pulse kicked up; it was looking more and more like a twister had hopped through. Just a few yards farther . . .

  Fletcher’s spotlight hit the darkened Barclay house . . . leaning fence, uprooted shrubs, and—

  His breath caught. The roof . . . No. The roof was completely missing on one end, beams exposed like a skeleton.

  He swerved to miss a garbage can. Then rolled up onto the sidewalk and hit his brakes, his gaze riveted to the roof. A quick calculation said the severe damage was over the family room—the weather room.

  How on earth did the little girl end up here alone? Please, Lord . . .

  He radioed for backup and then bolted from the car.

  - + -

  Lauren glanced through the registration office window into the waiting room. It was only lightly populated. Folks were staying home unless severe pain or injury forced them to navigate the flooded streets. Obviously the reason she hadn’t been asked to stay over in the ER. She turned to Jess. “I’m going.”

  “I’m staying.” Jess’s eyes connected with hers. “Maybe another hour or so. Until I can finish these computer entries. Mrs. Grafton is up in the waiting area now; she said she’d give me an update.”

  “Good.”

  “And—” Jess lowered her voice so the other clerks wouldn’t hear—“you’ll call me when you hear something about Emma? From Eli or . . . ?”

  Lauren wasn’t sure she’d hear from Eli. Emma was his priority, of course. But the way he’d told her not to call 911, that he’d do it himself because he couldn’t trust anyone . . . She had a horrible feeling he no longer trusted her, either. “I’ll call you,” she promised. “As soon as I know.”

  The parking lot was awash with debris. Maintenance workers from all shifts were more than earning their overtime. Someone had managed to run into the stockpile of sandbags, making the pavement look like Galveston beach. If that beach was still there.

  Emma’s phone was indeed in the Beetle’s backseat. Lauren moved a paper crown and sack of gummy bears and picked up the cell, thinking of Eli’s desperate unanswered calls. Someone you love, missing—she knew that horrible feeling.

  Lauren checked her own phone again: no messages from Eli. Or from Fletcher. Surely a first responder from fire or police had been to the house, found her. But Lauren wasn’t going to wait to find out.

  - + -

  The front door was locked.

  “Emma?” Fletcher tried the bell, pounded against the door. Then flashed his light beam through the side window into the dark foyer. “Emma? Open the door, please. It’s Officer Holt—Fletcher. I’m here to help you.”

  Nothing. He shone the light on the dining room windows to the right of the porch. One of them had been broken by the wind or a branch and . . . He winced. The space had been plugged with a bed pillow. A little girl protecting herself.

  He pounded again before jogging to the back gate. It was ripped from its hinges. Glorietta’s tornado spawn—had to be. He stumbled, aimed his light downward to find the mermaid weather vane that had saved his neck all those years ago, now lying on the walkway. He yanked aside a flowering bush, stepped around the igloo doghouse Hannah had never once deigned to use. Fletcher’s heart stalled. Why wasn’t the dog barking?

  The back door was locked too. The screen door lying twisted on the patio.

  “Emma?” He banged on the door with his flashlight. “Open the door. I’m here to help you.” In the distance he heard a siren. Hopefully a rescue rig. He might need to break a door down. Unless . . .

  He bent low, pushed on the dog door . . . and it opened. Not latched. He breathed a sigh of relief. Carl Barclay had installed the oversize, malpositioned pet door himself in a rare fit of handyman fervor. The Landrys’ Newfoundland could have moved through with room to spare. Fletcher had tried to explain the s
ecurity risk of an opening in an exterior door in such close proximity to—

  He reached through again, cheek flattened against the back door, felt around for the doorknob, and turned the lock.

  Fletcher stepped into a puddle on the kitchen floor. He aimed the light at the ceiling, saw dark sky through a hole. “Emma?”

  Where would she hide? Please be hiding . . . only hiding, not . . .

  As Fletcher walked past the open pantry, he shone his flashlight inside, its beam hitting Mrs. Barclay’s huge disaster-preparedness list.

  No Emma.

  He made a quick circuit of the bedrooms, then skirted hallway debris—framed photos, broken glass—to the weather room. And stopped. He’d been right. The roof was gone here. The room in staggering upheaval.

  “Emma? Are you there?” Please don’t be . . .

  He stepped over a pile of shingles and a piece of splintered plywood. Scanned the room with his flashlight. Broken glass, maps, and weather instruments scattered over the carpet. Couch covered with drywall debris . . . and a blanket. His heart climbed toward his throat. “Emma?”

  Fletcher waded farther into the room with his light focused on the couch, then heard sounds from the hallway. A radio? Music? He hadn’t heard it before . . .

  He retraced his steps, breaking into a trot along the hall. He stopped. Listened. There it was again . . . from the guest bath.

  “Emma?”

  Singing. Oh . . . God, yes!

  She was singing, angel sweet:

  “The sun’ll come out

  Tomorrow.

  Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow . . .”

  Fletcher opened the door as slowly as he could, careful not to frighten her. He kept his voice low. “Emma, it’s Officer Holt. I’m a friend of Lauren and Jessica—and your daddy.”

  “I’m here . . . in the tub.”

  He shone the beam, careful to keep the light indirect and not blind her. His chest squeezed at the sight. The little girl was huddled in the bathtub, sharing the space with the huge Newfoundland. Hannah, amazingly, was asleep in her arms. Emma’s hair was dusty with drywall, but her eyes were bright. And her smile melted his heart.