The Wrong Man Page 19

  While the teams waited for the return of the chopper to remove the body, they worked to secure the plane for the FAA investigation team. By midafternoon, they were ready to hike back to the base site, where other helicopters could land to pick them up. Trent didn’t relish making the trek back across the ice field, weary as they all were.

  Finally the medevac chopper returned, and they loaded the body in a reverent silence broken only by the wacka-wacka of the rotors. Then, subdued, they started down the mountain. Halfway across the ice field, rubbery legs made Trent realize he was more out of shape than he’d thought. By the time they reached the camp, he shrugged out of his pack, removed his snowshoes and sank onto a rock, overcome with weariness. He sat that way for several minutes before he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up into Chad’s agonized face, he trembled with a powerful premonition. “What is it?”

  “I just got word from the dispatcher. It’s Kylie.”

  Trent heard nothing but the volcanic roar in his head. Scalding tears stung his eyes. Faltering, he stood up. “What?”

  “There’s been an accident. She’s in the hospital. We’re trying to patch you through to the base.”

  A silent scream ripped through Trent’s gut. “Will she be all right?” He turned back and grabbed Chad’s parka, his eyes raw.

  Chad hung on to him with one hand and pulled out the radio with the other. “I don’t know. God, I wish I did. I’m calling now.” He stepped away from Trent, then clicked to open the line. “Team One to base. Over.”

  Over. It couldn’t be. Trent shook his fist at the sky. “You hear me up there? It’s not over. I won’t accept ‘over.’ Not for my little girl.” Then he crumpled to the ground, where he remained until Chad knelt beside him and offered him the handset.

  WEEZER SAT QUIETLY, eyes closed, praying to every merciful spirit she knew. First for Kylie and her healing. Then for Trent, the father who so cherished the little girl lying somewhere down the hall. And finally for the young woman sitting beside her, bent doubled with fear and guilt, who loved the father and daughter beyond all knowing.

  They’d been waiting nearly two hours, with still no word. Patients and families had come and gone. The irritating inanities of the television program no one was watching spun on endlessly. A new shift of nurses, dressed in their colorful scrubs, had arrived. Once, Weezer had walked down the hall and called the emergency dispatcher. The news hadn’t been encouraging. The men would not be lifted off the mountain until dusk, if weather conditions were favorable. And judging from the rising wind and overcast sky, that was a big if.

  In broken tones, Libby had managed to tell her about the accident. Under other circumstances Weezer might have smiled, the daughter so like the father in her response to a dare.

  Sensing a new presence, Weezer opened her eyes. Another nurse was approaching. “Ms. McCann, Miss Cameron, would you come with me? The doctor will talk with you now.”

  They scrambled to follow. She led them to a small room just beyond the swinging doors. Within a few moments, a woman with short salt-and-pepper hair and glasses entered and introduced herself as Dr. Coker. “I’ve talked with the girl’s father and he has given me permission to fill you in on Kylie’s condition.” She shrugged sympathetically. “Patient-privacy concerns, you know.”

  “Will she be all right?” Libby asked.

  “We hope so. We’ve set her broken arm—fortunately it was a clean break—and stitched the gash in her head and treated her lacerations. Our main concern right now is her concussion. She hasn’t regained consciousness. That is not unexpected, but we’re doing a CT scan to check for bleeding between the brain and skull.”

  Beside her, Libby staggered, then sank into a chair. “Oh, God.”

  “We’re guardedly optimistic. Children can take a blow like that far better than an adult. Let’s wait to see what the scan shows. Meanwhile, she could wake up anytime. She’ll have a horrendous headache and we’ll have to keep her under observation for several days, but she should recover just fine.”

  Libby lifted tortured eyes. “But if the scan shows something worse?”

  The doctor laid a hand on Libby’s shoulder. “Then we would have to consider other measures, but let’s not cross that bridge yet.”

  “Can we see her?” Weezer asked.

  “As soon as she gets back from the lab, I’ll have a nurse come get you. In fact, it would be a good idea for someone to be with her all the time in case she wakes up.” She smiled encouragingly. “Seeing familiar faces will be comforting for her. Meanwhile, we’ll keep you posted on her condition.”

  They thanked the doctor then returned to the waiting room, where the receptionist handed Weezer a message. She scanned it silently, then handed it to Libby, who read it before looking up, her eyes swimming with tears once more. “I can’t begin to imagine what I can possibly say to the Chisholms.”

  Weezer drew Libby to her and whispered gently, “Whatever is in your heart, little one.”

  When they were seated again, Weezer began an additional prayer that included the Chisholms, who, according to the note, would arrive in the morning. These five people could either come together as family, or be forever alienated from one another.

  CURSING HIMSELF for his negligence in leaving Kylie with Libby, Trent leaped from his truck and ran across the parking lot, ignoring the visitors departing from the hospital and the flashing lights of an ambulance pulling up to the emergency-room entrance. He stopped just inside the door, scanning the waiting room. No Weezer, no Libby. Nobody he knew. He ran a hand over his stubbly beard then turned to the vacant reception desk, wanting nothing more than to pound on it and scream out Kylie’s name. He’d been excused from the debriefing and given a seat on the first chopper out, but even so, it had been an hour and a half since he’d heard the news. The longest hour and a half of his life.

  “Sir?” A matronly woman in a plum-colored scrub suit with a hospital ID badge approached the desk.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Kylie Baker’s father. Where is she? How is she?” He knew he was ranting, but he needed information. Now.

  “Follow me, please. She’s resting quietly. Her vital signs are good.” The woman swung open the doors dividing the waiting area from the treatment rooms.

  “She just got back from the CT lab.”

  “CT? CAT scan?” His stomach imploded.

  The nurse stopped, then faced him. “She’s had a concussion. The scan is to determine if there’s been any brain injury.”

  “Brain injury?” For a moment he thought he might pass out.

  “She’s in a coma, Mr. Baker. But that is not unusual in these cases. Hopefully, she’ll awaken soon. The CT is just another diagnostic tool.”

  Coma. Brain injury. Concussion. The words dinned in his ears. “I need to see her doctor.”

  “I’ll tell her you’re in your daughter’s room. She will come give you an update soon.” The nurse led him down the well-lighted hallway, then paused outside a door. “Here we are. Don’t be too concerned about her appearance. She has some lacerations and bruising. Also, her broken arm has been set.”

  Broken arm? Was there no end to the bad news? He took a deep breath, steeling himself for Kylie’s sake, then stepped inside. The lights were dim, making it difficult at first to see the small, still form lying beneath the blanket, one side of her head shaved and dressed with a bandage, her left arm swaddled in a bulky cast. He stifled an involuntary sob. “Kylie? Honey?” He approached the bed and stood, clasping her tiny hand in his. Bending, he brushed her cheek with his lips. “Kylie, Daddy’s here.”

  When he felt a gentle hand on his arm, he became aware for the first time of another presence in the room. “Trent, I’m so sorry.”

  Slowly he faced Libby, his emotions in violent conflict. Sorry had to be the lamest word in any language. Her ravaged expression, the deep shadows beneath her eyes, the haunted look in them terrified him. He knew he should say something. Tell her it was all righ
t? It wasn’t. Accept the blame, rightfully his, for sending Kylie to the mountain with someone else? Shake Libby until her teeth rattled? Pound his head against the wall?

  Instead, he turned back to the bed, his gaze never leaving his daughter’s face. He tried to speak and couldn’t. Clearing his throat, he mustered the awful question. “How did it happen?”

  Libby’s terse words cascaded around him with deadening finality. The visual image they created was all too vivid. He barely heard her repeated apology. “I’m sorry.”

  Logically he knew it was an accident. Nobody’s fault. But logic was cold comfort when worry and anger had turned his brain to mincemeat, leaving only mind-numbing fear. He glanced over his shoulder at Libby, who waited, head bowed, for his judgment.

  “We’ll talk later” was all the comfort he could offer.

  She nodded, her eyes awash in pain. “May I stay with her?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

  He didn’t know how he felt about her in that moment. All he knew was he couldn’t bear to be alone. “It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll stay then,” she said quietly.

  He pulled a chair close to Kylie’s bedside and sank into it, his head resting on the edge of the bed. He was exhausted from the day’s events. But the weariness overtaking him had nothing to do with physical exertion. It was rooted in his soul.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LIBBY SAT in the shadows, keeping watch with Trent but averting her gaze to avoid the accusation she knew she would read in his eyes if he looked up. All that mattered right now was for Kylie to come out of the coma unscathed. So she remained, motionless, absorbed in the prayer she repeated over and over.

  His voice, abrupt in the silence, startled her. “I thought Weezer would be here.”

  “She was. She only left to go feed Scout and Mona.”

  “Oh.” He rubbed his palm over Kylie’s good arm, back and forth in gentle massage.

  “A nurse called the Chisholms. They’ll be here tomorrow.” He gave a faint nod of acknowledgment.

  Trent was still dressed in his hiking clothes and sturdy boots, and his tan chamois shirt strained across his back when he leaned over the bed. His bloodshot eyes and unshaven face tore at Libby’s heart. He was a man on the brink of despair. And all because of her. She should have been watching Kylie. If only she could roll back the tape, turn away from Jeff Ames and stop Kylie before she accepted Bart’s challenge.

  She shuddered, icy fear wracking her. Kylie’s words thundered in her memory. I think you’ll be a really great new mommy. Her stomach in spasm, Libby bent over and covered her face with her hands. She wasn’t supposed to be a mommy. Not Kylie’s and not—she smothered a sob—anybody’s.

  “Mr. Baker?” Dr. Coker stood in the door.

  Ashen, Trent jumped to his feet. “Yes?”

  “I’m Mel Coker, Kylie’s doctor.” She shook Trent’s hand, then rounded the bed, studying the chart she held. “We have cause, at the moment, to expect a favorable prognosis. The arm was a clean break and should heal well. Her pulse, respiration, blood pressure all look fine. She had to have several stitches in her head, but aside from some ugly bruising, that will heal quickly. It’s the concussion we’re still concerned about.”

  Libby waited, her heart thudding.

  Trent shook his head. “She’s got to be all right.”

  “The CT scan looks good. There doesn’t seem to be any blood between the brain and the skull. She had a nasty bump, but we’re hopeful she’ll wake up within the next twenty-four hours. You can expect her to have a headache, perhaps blurred vision for a time. We’ll keep her under observation for possible seizures.”

  “Seizures?” Trent’s pale face turned gray.

  “They are sometimes a temporary side effect of a concussion. It’s just a precaution.” She tucked the chart under her arm. “Any other questions?”

  Trent seemed dazed. Finally he shook his head. “No. Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Try to get some rest yourself,” she suggested, pausing in the doorway. “If you’re exhausted, you’ll be no good for your daughter.”

  He nodded, then turned back to Kylie. Libby could barely make out his next words. “Hear that, sweetie? It’s going to be okay. Just come back to us, wherever you are. We need you.”

  Then his voice broke and he laid his forehead on the bed, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

  Libby longed to go to him, to comfort him, but it was no longer her place. Quietly she tiptoed from the room.

  TRENT DIDN’T KNOW how long he’d been at Kylie’s bedside fighting sleep, watching for any hint of movement—the flutter of an eyelash, the quirk of a finger. When the door opened, he looked up. Weezer stood there, her wrinkled face a road map of compassion. “Any change?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She came closer and put her strong hands on his shoulders. “It’s after nine. You need a break.”

  “No.”

  “Son, she’s going to be all right.”

  With the calm words and the pressure of her fingers, he felt a peace come over him, as if this wise Native American woman actually had prophetic, healing powers. He waited, letting her message infuse his body with hope.

  She squeezed his shoulders. “But you won’t be if you don’t get something to eat. My treat.”

  “But—”

  “Libby will stay with her.” She pulled him to his feet. “Come on now, son.”

  He took a long, last look at Kylie, then permitted himself to be led away. Libby, small and forlorn, waited in the hall. Unable to summon words, he nodded briefly at her, then followed Weezer to the cafeteria, where the only choices at this hour were pre-packaged foods. They made their selections, then carried their trays to a table. Weezer nursed her coffee while she waited for him to eat. The chicken sandwich might have been tasty, but he couldn’t tell. Neither it nor the banana was anything other than fuel to get him through this awful night.

  “You can’t blame yourself.” Weezer studied him with knowing eyes. “No parent can be everywhere all the time. You wanted Kylie to love what you love, to try new things. To dare.” She patted his arm. “It was an accident. The Ames boy’s parents called the hospital. Their son is a wreck.”

  Trent stopped chewing. “I hope you’ll understand if I can’t work up much sympathy for him.”

  “Maybe not yet. I hope someday.” She blew on her coffee, then took a sip. “Just as I know you’ll forgive Libby.”

  His head snapped up. “I can’t talk about her right now.”

  “She’s devastated, Trent.”

  He threw his banana down on the tray in disgust.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Bring Kylie back?”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Be careful where you direct that anger. It’s gotten you in trouble before. You love Libby. What you do in the next few hours may well determine the course of your life.”

  Libby, God, his Libby. Weezer was right. He was angry. Up on the mountain he’d shaken his fist at whatever force was in charge of disease and accidents. It was all well and good for others to spout platitudes about how accidents just happen—and not always to the other guy. But, damn it, this time his Kylie was the victim. He should’ve been there. Maybe he could’ve prevented it.

  As if she’d read his mind, Weezer went on. “You can’t blame Libby, Trent. It could just as easily have happened if you’d been there.”

  “We’ll never know,” he said forlornly.

  Weezer sat back and stared straight at him. “Son, you can torture yourself and punish Libby the rest of your days, and it won’t change a thing. It will only serve to make you bitter.”

  He pushed his tray toward the edge of the table, then bowed his head, succumbing to the truth. He couldn’t face life without Kylie. Nor without Libby. No matter what. He heaved a tortured sigh. An accident. That’s what it was. Nobody’s fault.

  Weezer continued quietl
y drinking her coffee, leaving him alone with his thoughts. After several minutes, he squared his shoulders. “Thank you. I’m ready to go back now.” Before he stood, he managed a faint grin. “Are you sure you’re not a shaman?”

  LIBBY SLIPPED into Trent’s chair by Kylie’s side. She picked up one tiny limp hand in hers, marveling at how quickly she had come to regard this child as her own. Not just because Kylie represented the child she and Trent had never had, or because she had fallen in love with Trent all over again. She had to admit, though, that for a time, subconsciously, she had perhaps been using Kylie as a means to compensate for her own losses. But Kylie was much more than a replacement, much more than a token of what Libby had thought was “owed” her.

  No, that wasn’t it. At the heart of the matter was an indisputable fact. She loved Kylie for the precious, unique child she was. No matter what happened from this moment on, Libby promised herself she would never make comparisons with what might have been.

  And if Trent couldn’t forgive her, she would somehow have to find the strength to accept that judgment.

  I think you’ll be a really great new mommy. Libby closed her eyes. Please God, give me this one chance.

  A nurse entered the room and quietly checked Kylie, then made notations on the chart. When Libby raised her eyebrows, she smiled encouragingly. “So far so good. You know, it might help if you talked to her. On some level she may be able to hear you.”

  “Thanks.”

  After the nurse left the room, Libby sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the door, clasping Kylie’s good hand between her own. What could she say? Maybe the words didn’t really matter. All she could do was share what was in her heart. Drawing a deep breath, she began.

  “Sweetie, I’m so sorry this had to happen to you. If I could’ve prevented the accident, I would have. I hope you’ll still love skiing like your daddy does. He doesn’t give up easily, and I’ll bet you don’t, either.”

  Trent had never been satisfied with anything less than his best. She had nursed his bruises, rubbed analgesic balm on his aching muscles, but she’d never been able to keep him down.