Up Close and Dangerous (17 page)

“We could play cards, I guess,” she said, thinking of the hours ahead of them.

“Or we could just lie here,” he countered.

“Sounds good.” Just lying there was honestly all she felt like doing. After another moment of silence, she felt herself drifting to sleep.

C
AM DIDN’T THINK
Bailey’s fever was any higher than it had been before, but she was obviously sick. When she woke, he would check her arm to see if red streaks had begun radiating out from the wound. He hoped the antibiotic salve and her fever were doing the job, though, because if sepsis had begun then their situation had gone from serious to critical. In the meantime, sleep was the best thing for her—for both of them. They would burn fewer calories, and need less food and water.

He had really thought the ELT would have led a helicopter to them by now, but the weather was a complicating factor. A helicopter couldn’t land in this terrain, of course, but it could pinpoint their location for the rescue team, as well as drop much-needed provisions. Thanks to Bailey’s ton of clothing they weren’t doing too badly keeping warm, but a camp stove would have been nice, as well as some bottles of water and energy bars.

Thinking of energy bars reminded him of the trail mix bars he’d put in his coat pocket yesterday morning. He didn’t know where the coat was now, but he’d definitely like to have it, and the trail mix bars could be a godsend. The problem was, neither of them was capable of searching for his coat, and even if they found it the bars might have fallen out. Of course, if they were rescued today, then he didn’t care about either the coat or the trail mix bars.

He figured he was basically okay, physically. He was weak from blood loss, the concussion made his head hurt like a son of a bitch, but he evidently didn’t have any injuries to either his brain or anything internal. If he had, he expected he wouldn’t have lived through the night. He didn’t have any fever—or if he did, it was so slight he couldn’t tell. A day or so of rest, some food and water, and he’d be good to go.

He was worried about Bailey, though. Altitude sickness wasn’t something to be taken lightly, and neither was an infected wound. The hell of it was, she was having problems with both because she’d concentrated on taking care of him instead of herself.

So, because there was nothing else he could do, he held her as she slept. He listened to her breathe, and he stayed alert for any rise in her fever. He also listened for the beat of helicopter blades, and he prayed they came soon.

17

B
RET HAD STAYED IN THE OFFICE ALL NIGHT, OCCASIONALLY
putting his head down on his desk for a brief nap. Karen had gone home to change clothes and pick up some food; she came back wearing jeans and a T-shirt and carrying Chinese takeout. When she came back she was also accompanied by her leather-wearing, tattooed, pierced, and bearded boyfriend, whose name, it turned out, was Larry.

Larry was evidently there to take care of Karen, because he brought her coffee when she wanted it, massaged her neck and shoulders, held her when she cried. Karen, who was usually the toughest of the tough, was shattered by the possibility of Cam’s death.

The small airport usually shut down at midnight, but the news that Cam’s plane had disappeared kept some people around. It simply seemed impossible to go home as if things were normal, to do anything routine, until they found out for certain what had happened. The head mechanic, Dennis, paced around with a drawn look, wondering if there had been something he’d overlooked during routine maintenance.

The situation was thoroughly discussed over the Chinese takeout. Everyone seemed to think something must have gone mechanically wrong; there had been a weather system that would have produced some rough air, but nothing drastic enough to cause the plane to go down. Cam didn’t make mistakes in the air; he didn’t misread his altimeter or forget how high a mountain was. He didn’t hotdog. He was thorough and calm. So either something had happened that had caused him to lose consciousness, or something had gone mechanically wrong with the plane.

A small plane crash warranted a search-and-rescue operation, but not a wholesale investigation by the NTSB the way the crash of an airliner would. The search wouldn’t even be based out of Seattle, so Bret had no idea what everyone was doing hanging around the terminal, unless, like him, their nerves wouldn’t let them sleep, so they figured they might as well be here.

He knew the routine. The first step was to find the plane. Until the wreckage was located, no one knew what they were facing. No search teams were sent out blind, because the area to be covered was too vast. But waiting was agonizing—waiting to hear, waiting to know for certain.

Around nine that morning, when they were all running on fumes they were so exhausted, Karen fielded a telephone call. Whoever the caller was, her features sort of crumpled before she swallowed and regained control of herself. “It’s for you,” she said to Bret, her voice subdued. “It’s Mrs. Wingate’s brother.”

Bret winced, and went into his office to take the call. “This is Bret Larsen.”

“I’m Logan Tillman, Bailey Wingate’s brother. What the hell is going on?” roared the voice in his ear. “We can’t find out anything here, and when I called Bailey’s house to see if anyone there had any news, her stepdaughter answered and all but laughed at me, said my sister got what was coming to her. What did she mean by that? Do you suspect the plane was tampered with, that this was deliberate?”

The questions came too fast and furious for Bret to answer. He said, “Whoa. Whoa! No one has even mentioned the possibility that the plane could have been tampered with. I don’t know what Tamzin meant, but it wasn’t that.” Out of the corner of his eye Bret saw Karen standing by his office door, not even trying to hide the fact that she was listening. Neither was Dennis, or the two other people currently in the office checking to see if there had been any news.

“She all but came out and said it.” Logan Tillman was furious; his voice blasted over the phone line. “Something about only fools crossed her brother.”

Bret pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tamzin isn’t the, ah, tightest lug nut on the wheel. She says whatever pops into her head, whether it’s based on reality or not. At this point we don’t suspect foul play, or sabotage, or anything else. Ah, where are you now?”

“Denver, where we were supposed to meet Bailey.”

“Have you checked into a hotel?”

“No, we’ve been here at the airport all night, hoping—” Logan’s voice broke on the word.

“Yeah, we’ve been here all night, too. Listen, check into a hotel, get some rest. Wearing yourself out won’t accomplish anything. Yeah, I know, I should take my own advice. Give me your cell number, and I’ll call you myself the minute we hear anything. I’ll give you mine, too. Call me at any time.” He rattled off his cell number, then jotted down Logan’s. “Look, don’t give up hope. Cam, that’s my partner, has come through some tight situations before. He’s the best.”

When he hung up, Bret propped his head in his hands. God, he was exhausted. If only there was something he could do, anything, that would keep him occupied. Waiting was a bitch, yet that was all he could do, all any of them could do.

“It’s a possibility,” Karen said from the door.

Bret raised his head. “What is?”

“That the plane was tampered with. You know Seth Wingate called day before yesterday asking about Mrs. Wingate’s flight, when she was leaving. He’s never done that before.” Her jaw was set, and her eyes radiated fire.

“Be careful what you say,” Bret warned. “There isn’t a shred of proof that anything was done to the plane. If it really had been tampered with, do you think Tamzin would be
telling
people about it?”

“Like you said, boss, she isn’t the tightest lug nut, now is she? She could have been under the influence of any number of substances, legal or illegal, when she said it. That doesn’t mean it isn’t the truth.”

Boss.
The word hung in the air like a flaming sword. That was a title she’d reserved for Cam, the better to skewer Bret in their long-running joust. Bret’s hands clenched, and he turned to stare blindly out the window.

T
HEY HAD DOZED
off and on all day, emerging from the shelter only when necessary, to get more snow to melt or to take care of their physical needs. Every time Bailey woke it seemed as if Justice was making her drink water, though she insisted he drink his share, too. At some point he also insisted that they swap places in the shelter, that she take the side against the wall, while he was in front of the lopsided opening. She didn’t see what difference it made, but she crawled in first and let him take the other side.

She realized the difference it made when he was the one to crawl out to get more snow.

“I should be doing that,” she protested when he returned. “Swap sides with me again.”

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m okay, just weak. You should stay quiet, let your body adjust to the altitude.”

She started to ask why, when they were going to be rescued, but hesitated because they still hadn’t heard those helicopter blades they’d been listening for. The hours were getting short again, and she was beginning to accept that they faced another night on the mountain. The realization made her want to cry, but that was pointless, and she couldn’t afford the moisture loss.

“You’re concussed,” she pointed out to Justice. “
You
should stay as quiet as possible, too.”

“I’m not jogging around, believe me. And I don’t have a fever.”

Bailey groused about that a little, because being the one with the fever still seemed like a gross injustice to her, but she was still really tired and in a short time she was asleep again.

Late in the afternoon Cam said, “I need to check your arm while it’s still daylight.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed glare, because if daylight were involved, that meant being out of the shelter. “You want me to pull my shirts off
out there
?”

“Yep. The bandage needs changing. You can take a bunch of this stuff with you, keep it wrapped around you so everything except your arm is covered.”

He crawled out, taking the first-aid kit with him. Bailey struggled halfway out of her three shirts while she was still inside the shelter, pulling her right arm from the sleeves. She tried to look over her shoulder at her triceps to see if there were any red streaks, but in the dimness it was impossible to tell. Draping a bunch of other clothes around her so she didn’t flash her breasts at him, she crawled out, too.

There was nowhere to sit without getting their pants wet, so she stood with her back to him while he bared her arm and peeled off the bandage. “It doesn’t look any worse,” he said, to her relief. “It’s still red around the puncture site, but the redness isn’t spreading.” He put more antibiotic on the wound, slapped another bandage over it, and she eased her arm back into her shirtsleeve, did up the buttons.

“While we’re out here, I should probably check your head,” she said.

He touched the thick bandage on his head. “Is there enough gauze to redo this?”

There was, but only one more time. What if they weren’t rescued tomorrow? The thought sent a chill down her spine, or maybe that was a chill from the fever. Either way, the idea of a
third
night on the mountain was horrendous.

Nevertheless, his bandage needed changing. “I don’t have to use as much this time,” she finally said. “I’ll put a pad over the cut, and wrap the Ace bandage around your head to make sure no trash or debris gets into the stitches.”

There was still no place to sit, and he was so much taller than she that even unwrapping the Ace bandage was awkward. Finally he pulled one of the trash bags over and carefully knelt on it, while she still stood. “Is that better?”

“Much.” Carefully she removed the rest of the bandage, hoping the antibiotic salve she’d put on the stitches would prevent the gauze from sticking. It had, for the most part. There were a few places where she had to tug on the gauze to pull it free, but nothing drastic. At least, he didn’t scream or curse, for which she was grateful.

Her repair job looked almost as bad as the cut had, she thought, biting her lip. Dried blood crusted around the holes where the stitches were, and in a thin line along the cut, making her wonder if she hadn’t pulled the edges together tightly enough. Then she realized that some of the swelling had gone down, which meant the stitches weren’t as tight as they should be. “It’s going to leave a hell of a scar,” she warned. “You may need plastic surgery.”

The look he gave her was mildly incredulous. “For a scar?”

“I’m not a doctor, remember? This isn’t exactly a neat job.” She felt embarrassed, as if she’d failed at some test, though she didn’t know what else she could have done. Left the cut open until the swelling went down? That didn’t seem like a viable alternative. Not only would the cut have been more likely to get infected, but wouldn’t leaving it open make the scar worse?

“Does it bother you? The scar,” he asked.

“Hey, it isn’t on
my
head. If it doesn’t bother you, then don’t worry about it.”

He grinned as she used an alcohol wipe to clean off the dried blood. “You aren’t oozing with sympathy, are you?”

“I’m not an oozer. Sorry.”

“What I meant was, does it bother you to look at it?”

“I won’t be looking at it, because I’m going to cover it with a bandage. But scars in general don’t bother me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Picking up the tube of antibiotic salve, she squirted a line of it over the stitches, from one end to the other. Covering the wound took two sterile gauze pads; she used strips of tape to hold them in place, then rewound the Ace bandage around his head. “There. You aren’t as good as new, but you’re better than you were yesterday.”

“Thanks to you,” he said as he climbed to his feet. She reached out to help him, holding him until she was certain he was steady. He looped one strong arm around her, tilted her chin up, and kissed her.

18

B
AILEY FROZE IN DISMAY, CAUGHT IN HIS SURPRISINGLY
powerful grip. She hated having to deal with sexual issues. They’d been getting along so well; why did he have to ruin things by making a pass? He was stronger than she’d expected, given his physical condition, which meant she might have to put some muscle into pushing him away, but she didn’t want to maybe cause him to fall and make his concussion worse—