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“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“There’s a woman in a Ford Escape who’s gone off the road just over the summit on Highway Twenty-Six. Toward us, the ocean side, west side, of the summit.” Hale felt a pulse in his head beating out a tattoo of fear. “She needs help.”
“Sir, what is your name?”
“Hale St. Cloud. Her name . . . the woman in the car is Savannah Dunbar, and she’s pregnant. Very pregnant.”
“Is she in labor?”
“Yes, she’s having contractions! She’s unable to move!
She’s stuck!” He thought of Savannah trapped in her car and the cold and the contractions. He thought of his unborn son. . . . What if there were complications? Trauma?
“You’re saying you can’t pinpoint the location. Does she have a cell phone?”
“Yes, but it just went dead. Can you just send someone out that way?” he demanded impatiently.
“The roads have been closed—”
“I know, damn it. What the hell does that mean?”
“Mr. St. Cloud, we have many emergencies. I’m sending the message, and they’ll get to her as soon as they can. But if she could call and we could get a better idea as to where she is? You understand that would help?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“We’ll send EMTs as soon as we can.”
The dubiousness of the operator’s voice made Hale want to slam his fist into a wall. He assured the operator, who asked him more questions, that he would keep trying to reach Savannah, and then he hung up, feeling utterly useless and frustrated.
Wanting to jump from his skin, he stalked back to the waiting room outside the operating rooms. He thought of his wife fighting for her life, but as safe as she could be, in a doctor’s care. But Savannah and the baby . . . He lasted exactly six minutes. Then he strode to the nearest nurses’ hub and said loudly, “I need to give someone my cell number. I’ve got to go. My wife’s in surgery, but I’ve got another emergency.”
One of the nurses got up from the chair she’d been sitting in and eyed him thoughtfully. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a notepad on a clipboard. “Write it down here. Which surgeon is she with?”
“Dr. Oberon.” Hale scratched down his cell. He had the prickling feeling that they didn’t believe him. That his actions somehow made him seem guilty. Or was that just because Mills had mentioned the words crime scene?
He was gone before they could ask more questions. He couldn’t do anything more for Kristina other than wring his hands.
But he could help Savvy.
She needed help. Definitely needed help, and he didn’t trust that dispatched EMTs were on the way, no matter what the 9-1-1 operator had said. Bullshit.
For a moment he stared through the window, hands balled by his sides. He could do nothing for Kristina. She was in surgery; she was in the best hands she could be. And his unborn son and his sister-in-law were in immediate danger. There was no contest.
He strode through the doors into a blistering, screaming wind. Ducking his head, he pulled out his cell and looked at it, certain he was going to see NO SERVICE. But there was a signal. Feeble at best. Immediately he tried Savannah again, but the call went to voice mail. He started to put the cell back in his pocket, picking up his pace to a jog, cold fingers of wind slipping under his collar and down his back, when the thing rang in his hand.
He glanced down in relief, but it wasn’t Savannah. Punching the button, he said tersely, “Hi, Declan.” His feet nearly slid out from under him, and he caught himself and slowed his step.
“Son, where are ya?” His grandfather’s voice sounded high and reedy.
“I’m heading home,” Hale lied without a qualm. He didn’t need his grandfather involved in his problems. “You okay?”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I just thought I saw someone.”
“At the house?” Hale glanced around at the stinging ice crystals swirling in the sodium vapor lights outside the hospital.
“Musta dreamed it. Sorry.” He sounded embarrassed. “Call me when you’re home.”
“Want me to get someone to come to your place?” Who, he had no idea.
