A Killing Frost

by Hannah Alexander

  She stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s his heart.”

  Chapter Four

  Doriann mustn’t throw up. If she did, Deb would for sure kill her-though nothing could make this truck stink any worse, so it shouldn’t matter to Deb. Doriann tried to focus on the white dotted line in the center of the road, and on the distant hilltops, not the trees that raced past on both sides in a blur of spring green.

  Think, Doriann. Got to think! Where are we?

  She glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-two miles per hour.

  Speedometer…speed. That was what Aunt Renee had been teaching about during Social Studies lessons for the past month. Speed was a nickname for an illegal drug. Doriann would probably know all this stuff so much better if she attended public school and had friends besides her cousins and other homeschooled kids at church.

  Mom and Dad always worried about the development of Doriann’s social skills in a homeschooling environment, but they wanted her to be able to learn at her own pace. In public school, she’d be in sixth grade, not ninth. Who would have thought teaching her about illegal drugs might save her life?

  If her life got saved.

  There was a drug that stank like dirty socks-the way this truck stank-when it was being cooked, and one of the words for it was speed. Methamphetamines. Meth. Crank. It made sense. Had these people been cooking meth? Dopeheads? All kinds of terms for that drug. Missouri outranked every other state in the country for meth lab busts per capita.

  Doriann felt that could be a good thing, or a bad thing. If the busts were because the police in Missouri worked harder than police in any other state to find the meth labs, then that was good. But it could also mean there were more meth labs to be busted.

  Aunt Renee said that someone on meth would do anything for another fix. Since this truck had nearly turned over when they left the interstate before waiting for an exit ramp, Doriann bet that either these two freaks were crazy or high on something.

  Think, Doriann! How do you get out of this mess?

  Aunt Renee said more than once that Doriann was the smartest kid she’d ever known. More like a little grown-up than a kid. Of course, Aunt Renee believed in positive reinforcement. But still.

  Aunt Renee had made that statement yesterday, right after Doriann had told her cousins a scary story and made Ajay cry. That meant the statement wasn’t being made in a positive way, but to heap on the guilt.

  Mom said Aunt Renee was good at guilt trips. Mom should know that about her twin sister.

  So if Aunt Renee says I’m a great storyteller, tell Clancy a story. He does everything Deb tells him not to do. He’s a lot like my cousins, and I know how to handle them. What do dopeheads want most in all the world? More dope, right? And what do I want most in all the world? Out of this truck!

  Clancy blasted through an intersection without even slowing at the stop sign, or checking for traffic. Had to be scorched on speed. Right?

  “You missed the turn,” Deb said. “94. That’s the road that’ll take us to St. Louis.”

  Doriann perked up as Clancy stomped the brake with a screech of tires. They were taking Highway 94. Thank you, Jesus! She suddenly felt less like crying. If she could get Clancy to take the exit to River Dance…Uncle Tyrell was there, and Grandpa and Grandma, and even Aunt Jama, who was supposed to start her new job today.

  Uncle Tyrell was big and tough and could take on a dinosaur. He wasn’t afraid of anything. And Grandpa wouldn’t let anybody hurt her, over his dead body. But how was a kid supposed to get Clancy to take River Dance Road?

  She cleared her throat. “We’re going the wrong way.”

  “Shut up,” Deb snapped.

  Doriann braced herself to be slapped again. “I’m just warning you, is all.”

  Deb didn’t slap her, but she looked as if she was about to.

  “I have to warn you about one of the towns we’ll be passing,” Doriann continued. “River Dance. It’s a bad place. W-we don’t want to go there.”

  Clancy’s jaw tightened, and he flexed his right arm. “That’s not where we’re headed.”

  “This road will take us right past the turnoff to-”

  “Why don’t we want to go to River Dance?” Clancy growled.

  “Don’t talk to the brat,” Deb said. “Don’t listen, and don’t talk.”

  “Why not? If she knows something about this place-”

  “She’s a kid, and she doesn’t know anything. Who takes directions from a stupid kid?”

  “I might be a stupid kid, but I know somebody who’s been to River Dance, and you don’t.” Doriann braced herself.

  Still no slap.

  “They have a lot of drugs in that town,” she continued. “That’s always been a problem there.” Her family would kill her for slandering their hometown this way…That was the word, wasn’t it? Slander. Yes. Not libel. Libel was slander in print.

  “My friend says it isn’t all bad,” she said. “I mean, there’s this great winery on top of the hill, and there are some cellars below the main building where wine barrels are stored, and some of the high-school kids sneak in and steal some of the wine. And there are old, abandoned farmhouses.”

  “So you know this town, huh?” Clancy asked.

  Deb wrapped her hand around Doriann’s arm. She squeezed. Hard.

  Doriann winced. She realized she’d better be careful. “My friend did…until she moved to Kansas City. My friend used to play in one of those farmhouses until she found out she was in one of the places where drugs are made. Scary people hung out there.” That should get their attention.

  “Scarier than me?” Clancy asked with a laugh that blasted his rotten breath through the cab of the truck.

  Doriann nearly gagged. “People like you.” She wasn’t going to pretend she thought he was a good guy. “It’s creepy around that town. There are lots of trees along that part of the river. A person could get lost in those woods and never get out.”

  That should convince him to turn there. Didn’t he and Deb need to hide from the FBI agents and police? And if they thought they could find drugs in River Dance, why go farther?

  “Sounds like a place I might want to visit,” Clancy said.

  Doriann slanted a look at Deb, who didn’t look mad at all. Good. She had their attention.

  She sank back into her seat, trying not to show her relief. Grandpa, here I come, ready or not.

  Doriann watched the trees whiz by, so fast that she was reminded of her mother’s blender concoction of yogurt and green vegetables-an awful drink that made her feel sick just to remember the taste.

  Clancy gave her another narrow-eyed look, making her squirm. “So. You think you know your way around this River Dance?”

  She kept her eyes on the road-something she wished Clancy would do. “My friend told me all about it.”

  “Then you could be our tour guide?”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Deb snapped. “Somebody could recognize her.”

  “Nobody knows me there.” Doriann figured if she was going to lie, she might as well go all out, as Grandpa would say.

  Deb seemed to space out. She blinked, gave Doriann a confused look, closed her eyes as if the day was too bright.

  Yep. Meth.

  “It sounds like a good place to hide until the heat’s off. Besides-” Clancy rested his hand on Doriann’s leg “-with little Dori here as a guide, we won’t get lost, will we, darlin’?”

  Doriann cringed at his touch. “No, but it’s a bad place.” How am I getting out of this truck?

  “She’s gotta go,” Deb said. This time she studied Doriann with a sly look of hidden intention that was scarier than slapping or curse words.

  “Not till we’re through with her,” Clancy growled.

  Doriann swallowed. Through with her? Through doing what with her? And how was she going to “go,” as Deb said? Did she mean they were going to kill her?

  “We’re gonna crash soon if we can’t get some st
uff,” Deb said. “What are we gonna do with her then? I’m telling you, Clancy, she can’t be here.”

  “Wait a minute, will you?” Clancy’s voice shot through the cab with a force that told Doriann there was more where that came from. Violent killer.

  And they were talking about what to do with her? She was sorry she’d said anything. Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut?

  “We’ll tie her up or lock her in one of those old buildings she’s jabbering about,” he said.

  “That’s stupid,” Deb said. “She could get away and we could wake up in jail. Just dump her and leave. And slow the truck down! What if there’s a speed trap? These backcountry roads are known for traps.”

  Doriann felt a flare of hope, but then the speedometer needle dropped.

  She couldn’t depend on a traffic cop to notice Clancy’s reckless driving and rescue her. She was going to have to think of some way to save herself.

  Chapter Five

  Tyrell Mercer stood frozen as the love of his life looked up at him with tender concern, touching his arm with her warm hands. Jama’s expressive blue-green eyes were dark and troubled.

  “Is it a heart attack?” he asked.

  “Not exactly.” She described the morning episode, and he heard the hesitation in her voice. For the second time in three weeks, he wished he didn’t know her so well. And he wished she would look into his eyes more often instead of just past his left shoulder or at the ceiling or out the front window.

  “How bad is this tear you’re talking about?”

  “No way of knowing,” she said. “I’m not even sure that’s what it is. Marty mentioned a sensation of ripping in his chest, and his left leg is weaker than his right.”

  “He’s had weakness since his stroke.”

  She hesitated, then her gaze met his straight-on. He didn’t like the look of alarm that flashed in her eyes, and as quickly disappeared. “Monty’s never had a stroke.”

  “It happened right after…” It was his turn to hesitate. “Dad had a small stroke four and a half years ago, a few weeks after Amy’s funeral.” Just saying the words brought back the horrible grief of his sister’s death. He saw it affected Jama, as well. Of course it did. Amy had been Jama’s best friend…her foster sister. The whole family knew Jama had never recovered.

  “The rest of us had already returned to our homes and jobs,” he told her. “Mom and Dad decided not to burden us with it. I only found out about it this year.”

  He saw Jama’s eyes darken further, and he fought down his own rush of anxiety. Calm. Stay calm. But he knew from her response that, for some reason, Dad’s stroke could somehow complicate everything. He just didn’t know how.

  “Why didn’t he tell me?” she asked.

  “You know Dad. Never wants anyone to worry, just like today, I’m sure. What’s the significance?”

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  “Jama?”

  She looked up then, and he could see that she was mentally adjusting her expression for him. It was in this brief change-this infinitesimal moment-that he saw the flash of loss and longing in the depth of her eyes.

  “As I said, that tear he felt in his chest is classic for dissecting aortic aneurysm.” Professional again, she looked away, speaking with calm authority. “That means there’s bleeding that could get worse with blood thinners.”

  “That’s why you couldn’t treat him for a heart attack?”

  “Exactly. But one symptom I was using to help me make the tentative diagnosis, since I had no capacity for any other kind of test, was the weakness of that leg. This is often a symptom of the condition I suspected. With no X-ray tech available, I couldn’t know for sure.” She sought Tyrell’s gaze again.

  “Explain a little more, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out, and he didn’t care. “All of it. You’re scaring the bejeebers out of me, so the plain truth can’t be any worse.” Jama had finished second in her med-school class. He trusted her judgment, because he admired her intelligence and her logic. But when that judgment came without complete knowledge of the facts, it could be faulty.

  “This shouldn’t be happening,” she said. “Monty’s too active and healthy for heart trouble, and so that’s the knowledge on which I based my decision not to treat. I didn’t know about the stroke. If this isn’t what I’ve suspected, and if this really is an MI, then there could be further damage to his heart because of the delay in treatment.”

  “So it’s up to you to decide, based strictly on your medical judgment.”

  “That’s right.”

  Jama shouldn’t be forced to make life-and-death decisions about someone she loved. “Where’s the other doctor?” Tyrell asked. “I thought there was a director-”

  “The director isn’t here, yet.” Jama raised a hand to her eyes just long enough for Tyrell to see with relief that it was not shaking. He also saw she understood that he didn’t doubt her expertise. She knew him that well. “I have an airlift on its way that will most likely arrive before Dr. Lawrence does.”

  He groaned softly. “Where do you need me right now? At Dad’s bedside, or-”

  “I need the parking lot cleared at the Dancing Waters Winery for landing.”

  “I’ll call now.” He pulled out his cell phone.

  Throughout her internship and the early years of residency training, Jama had had doctors, nurses, fellow interns and residents looking over her shoulder as she worked with patients. By the second year of her family practice residency, however, she had gained the trust of her colleagues, and no longer had anyone looking over her shoulder and critiquing her work.

  Now, as the flight crew switched Monty from the clinic equipment to their own, she was the authority who stood in the middle of the action, observing every movement. Had any member of the crew made the slightest misstep, she’d have tackled that person and completed the job herself.

  As she watched and tried hard to contain her worry, a fresh layer of remorse pressed down on her shoulders like a boatload of river silt.

  Monty’s stroke? Had it been caused by the black grief of Amy’s death, and not some clot in his brain?

  Medical science was learning more and more about the impact of emotions on overall health.

  The male flight nurse, nearly as big and intimidating as Tyrell, frowned at the display on the monitor, then scowled at Jama.

  “Dr. Keith, why hasn’t this man been stabilized for transport?”

  The man’s attitude startled her. She resented his questioning of her judgment. “He’s as stable as we can make him under the circumstances,” she told him.

  “He hasn’t received any-”

  “I have reason to believe he has a dissecting aortic aneurysm, which will need to be ruled out before medication can be given for-”

  “How did you determine that?” the nurse demanded. “You have no-”

  “That’s my clinical assessment,” she snapped. “I’ll take responsibility for it. Don’t stand here arguing with me while this patient needs immediate transport.”

  “Excuse me.” Tyrell entered the room. “I’m this man’s son. I believe the doctor has made her diagnosis. If you have any questions, you can take them up with me after you’ve flown my father to St. Mary’s.”

  The staring match lasted a few seconds. The nurse backed down. He was, after all, a professional, and it was obvious he took his job seriously.

  The crew completed the switch and transferred Monty to a gurney for transport while Jama tried hard to maintain her resolute demeanor.

  The nurse was knowledgeable. He knew what he was doing. Jama would not, however, change her diagnosis.

  She followed the crew out the front door and across the parking lot, and she might’ve followed them all the way up the hill to the helicopter in the winery parking lot. Before she could do so, however, an ancient station wagon entered the lot and pulled next to Jama’s green Subaru.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, the new director had arrived to ramp up
the tension a few more notches.

  Dr. Ruth Lawrence was at least four inches shorter than Jama’s five-eight. She looked to be about ten years older. She wore her dark brown hair in a braid down her back. Her angular face, free of makeup, didn’t appear to have ever exhibited a smile except for telltale laugh lines around her golden-brown eyes. Her royal-blue scrubs looked well used, as did her lab coat. She’d had the sense to dress for comfort.

  Jama altered her course and stepped toward her. “Dr. Lawrence? I’m Dr. Jama Keith.”

  The woman nodded without smiling or offering her hand. “I saw the helicopter arrive. Do you have a report for me?” She turned and started toward the clinic, brisk steps, economical movements, no evidence of cordiality, obviously expecting Jama to keep pace.

  Once more Jama reported about Monty and her judgment call. When they reached the broken windowpane, Jama promised to pay for the damage.

  “I’m sure you will.” Dr. Lawrence paused at the clinic door, which had been anchored open, then she looked at Jama as if to ask why.

  Jama didn’t reply.

  Dr. Lawrence stepped inside. “Under the circumstances, I believe the mayor will be magnanimous,” she said over her shoulder, “but paying might remind you next time that you aren’t Dirty Harry.”

  Jama was beginning to feel a little snarly. “A key might be nice next time.”

  Dr. Lawrence stepped into the comfortably spacious reception room and studied the fully equipped business office behind glass. “Would a key have kept you from making a questionable diagnosis?”

  Jama pressed her lips together to keep angry words from spilling out. Definitely snarly. “Are you trying to tell me I’m not going to have my own key to the clinic?”

  Dr. Lawrence wandered back toward the broad hallway that led to the treatment rooms and private offices, ignoring her.

  “Don’t you think the key would have prevented the broken glass?” Jama persisted.

  “Couldn’t you have decided on a less destructive way to see to the patient?” Dr. Lawrence asked over her shoulder.