Rescue Team Page 8

  Wes thought of his mother, then saw the color drain from Kate’s face.

  “Wes?” Cynthia said gently. “Your first thought?”

  “I thought, He’s so small. I needed him to breathe because—” his throat tightened—“we’d found him. Given him a chance. And it would be so wrong to lose him after that.” He swallowed, glanced across at Kate. And I noticed how you looked with your hands around that little body. The same way you look right now.

  - + -

  Kate struggled for air. I need to get out of here. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was the desert night made garish by neon casino lights. Then the abandoned car wash near the firehouse. A cash machine broken open, obscenities and gang graffiti sprayed across the cement walls. Cigarette butts—and worse—on the cold cement floor. Her pink sweatshirt spread over it all like a picnic blanket. Kate squirmed in the chair, reached for the water bottle . . . remembered the agonizing contractions, uncontrollable trembling. Then her baby’s first cry and her own desperate wail. “God . . . please, help me. . . .”

  “Kate?”

  She choked and felt the water run down her chin. “I’m sorry . . . What?”

  “Did you want to share your first thought?” the chaplain asked.

  “No,” she heard herself say. “No, I . . .” She glanced across the table, seeing Wes Tanner’s blue eyes clouded with concern. She couldn’t look at Lauren; there’d be no fooling her. She had to leave. Now. “I need to run to the restroom for a minute.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Fine. Sorry. Too much water. I just have to . . .” She feigned a grimace of personal need.

  “Of course.” The chaplain glanced at the clock. “Hurry back. We’re going to be moving on to specific symptoms of stress and offering valuable coping strategies. I don’t want anyone to miss that.”

  “No problem.” Kate made it to her feet and across the room that now stretched like an endless Nevada desert. Out the door, down the hall, and past Judith Doyle, who was towing a gigantic blue stork balloon. She finally reached the bathroom across from her office—mere seconds before her stomach heaved.

  - + -

  Wes was surprised that Kate came back, considering how grim she’d looked before she left. But she returned to the debriefing after the sharing phase, in time for the review and presentation of stress-survival strategies. She slipped into the chair across from him again, arms crossed and expression just shy of prickly once more. He had to admit that given a choice, he’d take it over that pale, stricken look.

  She glanced at Wes, then turned her attention to the social worker.

  “Again, when a critical incident involving a child occurs, approximately 85 percent of affected staff will develop some symptoms of stress. People who try to handle everything alone take longer to process it. On the other hand, people who talk about the incident eat better, sleep better, remain healthier, and have fewer problems at work, home, and in their relationships. Most reactions to stress—the symptoms we discussed and that you’ll find in your packets—are normal. But remember that your employee benefits include counseling services if you feel the need.”

  The chaplain pointed to a list on the conference room’s dry-erase board. “This is all in your packets as well, but some tips for dealing with stress include things to avoid, like alcohol and too much caffeine. As well as things we have found to help: eating regular meals, exercise, staying busy, listening to music . . . doing the things that feel good to you.”

  What felt good to Kate Callison? Wes thought of what she’d said about riding horses with her father. Then how she’d immediately turned down Wes’s invitation to his search-and-rescue demo tomorrow. “We don’t talk,” she’d said when he asked about her dad. Had to be a story there.

  “Any questions?” Cynthia asked the group.

  Teresa raised her hand, then looked at Wes. “It’s about Sunni. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” Wes said, catching the chaplain’s nod. And what he thought was a faint frown on Kate’s face.

  “On the news, we heard that there might be new information. Will you start searching again?”

  “When they have something official, when we’re called out, absolutely we’ll search.”

  “Sunni did my daughter’s pregnancy tests for the last three babies, let her come in anytime and listen to the heartbeat with the Doppler. And sent her beautiful cards when she miscarried.”

  Albert added, “She came to our house to visit when my wife was so sick from the chemo. Helped me wash her hair. She stayed and painted Irene’s toenails—gave her spirits such a lift.” He shook his head. “Miss Sprague made everyone feel special somehow.”

  “I hear you,” Wes said, noticing for the first time that Kate had chosen a seat on the opposite side of the table from her fellow staff. “I can only imagine how bad it would be to lose a teammate. Actually, right now one of my guys is upstairs. The truth is I thought I was going to lose him.” He splayed his hands on the table, glanced from face to face. “I promise you I’ll keep searching.”

  - + -

  “Roady? C’mon . . .” Please?

  Kate hugged her robe close, padding in sock-monkey slippers along the darkened driveway to peer into the tangle of shrubs and vines. An acorn, one of the scant number not devoured by deer, rolled under her foot.

  She sighed. All she’d hoped for after a miserable day at work was the company of the scruffy, stump-tailed cat. Not a visit from Prince Charming, not a call from the Texas Lottery. Not even firefly magic—they were long gone now. She’d settle for fur under her fingers, a simple purr. Was that too much to ask?

  “Roady?” Kate bent low to inspect the driveway’s trailing rosemary hedge without success, then stood upright again and caught a glimpse of her landlord’s window a few yards away. The property’s main house was gabled and built of hill country limestone with hunter-green trim, a steep metal roof, and multipaned windows throwing light into the darkness. A home completely foreign with its elk-antler chandelier and cactus door wreath, yet still so achingly warm with life and love. Family.

  She stood on tiptoe to peer farther. Her landlord and his wife, their grown children, and grandchildren, too. Laughing, putting something into the oven while fending off an exuberant springer spaniel. Hugging. She caught a glimpse of a young boy. Then a toddler girl lifted onto her grandfather’s shoulders.

  Kate stiffened, angry with herself. What on earth was she doing? Looking for a cat that couldn’t be bothered to stay put and now peeping? Proving, pathetically, what she already knew: she was on the outside looking in. That would never change.

  She walked back to the guesthouse, thinking of what the debriefing team had suggested today—to do things that felt good. She’d heard that advice before at Alamo Grace Hospital in San Antonio. From her friend, nurse and chaplain Riley Hale. And she’d thought then what she was thinking now. What if nothing did? Would she always be an outsider in a life that . . . never feels good?

  Kate padded into the kitchen, reached for the teakettle. Even if her cat wasn’t going to cooperate, at least the day was nearly over. A run-in with Barrett Lyon and that nightmare debriefing complete with tearful, eulogizing memories of Sunni Sprague. Horrible all round. But she’d survived, and tomorrow started her weekend off and—

  Kate glanced at the oven clock: 9:10. Two hours earlier in California. If she was going to leave a message for her father—and not run the risk of catching him—she’d better do it now. She sighed, thinking of what she’d said to Wes Tanner in response to his question about her father: “We don’t talk.” She was sure it was something he could never understand, but it worked for Kate. She cleared her throat, waiting for the last ring and the switchover to voice mail so she could leave her generic, cheery message. A final salute to a day that couldn’t have been worse.

  “Kate?”

  Her stomach sank. “Dad—you’re there?”

  “No. I’m here. In Texas. I’d like to see you, Katy.”

/>   MATT CALLISON WATCHED HIS DAUGHTER study the lunch menu and wondered if coming to Austin would prove to be a big mistake. Thirty minutes into it, he couldn’t tell for sure. But in her phone message Wednesday, Kate had sounded troubled, sad, her voice completely at odds with her words: “. . . okay . . . fine . . . great.” He’d replayed it half a dozen times, hearing the ache in her voice and the way she’d slipped and said Daddy instead of Dad, then tortured himself with memories of times she’d been hurt and inconsolable. A broken collarbone in soccer. That rainy day her cat, Pookie, was struck and killed by the car. And those awful last weeks with her mother in hospice. So Matt had asked a neighbor to pick up his mail, fired up the GPS, and headed for Interstate 10.

  I’m here now, Katy. Whether you like it or not.

  “Catfish maybe,” she said at last, peering at him with her mother’s eyes. Audrey Hepburn eyes. How many times had Juliana heard that comparison? And now Kate was the spitting image of her with that dark hair, sharp chin, and long lashes. The smile, too. When and if it ever happened.

  “Fish?” Matt asked after her brows furrowed at his inattention. “Is that what’s good?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a Shady Grove favorite. Tortilla-fried queso catfish. I haven’t had it, but I love their beef brisket—that’s on a tortilla too. With pickled red onions.” The Hepburn eyes met his. “I had you meet me here instead of my place because you’ve been traveling. I figured you’d be hungry.”

  And because you didn’t want me too close. Matt’s chest tightened. Despite what the map said, the real distance between him and his daughter was a lot farther than 1,700 miles. How did he begin to close that now?

  “It’s a great spot.” Matt glanced around the bustling patio of Shady Grove. Green umbrellas, stonework, wagon wheels, huge pecan trees strung with lights, and that “hippie trailer” in the parking lot, a vintage aluminum Airstream surrounded by a garish picket fence and tacky clutter, used for overflow waiting. Jukebox music blended with laughter on air spiced with fried onions and jalapeños. He met Kate’s gaze again. “And I am hungry. Good plan.”

  Kate was quiet for a moment. “A road trip? I wouldn’t have pegged you for that. Taking all the time away from work, I mean.”

  “I . . .” Was downsized after nearly thirty years with my engineering firm. Laid off. Matt still couldn’t say the words out loud. He wasn’t even close to a solution for dealing with it. Except for the Sold sign pounded into his lawn—a transaction that put a huge crack in his already-fragile nest egg. After forking over thousands on unexpected repairs, he’d finally sold it for a net loss. But that was over, and right now all that mattered was Kate. “I wanted to see you. Talk. Most of the time it’s like we’re playing phone tag. And the other night, your voice . . .” Matt sensed he was about to make a mistake. “You sounded like you’d been crying. So I—”

  “Start you off with margaritas?” the Shady Grove waiter interrupted, arriving beside them.

  “Iced tea for me,” Matt said in a hurry, reading the anxiety on Kate’s face. She was worried he’d order beer. And follow that beer with three more . . . then back the car over her cat. But the medallion in Matt’s pocket said it all: One day at a time. Twelve steps and now 1,700 miles. He had to do it. All of it.

  “Tea for me as well,” she told the waiter. “Not sweet.”

  They added their food orders—his catfish and her campfire veggie plate—and Matt weighed the wisdom of broaching the subject of the phone call again. But Kate beat him to it.

  “I wasn’t crying,” she said, lifting her chin. “It was . . .” Her lashes fluttered in the same tell he’d read all her life. When she’d denied bending the brass angels on the Christmas tree or taking her mother’s lipstick to school . . . Had he missed some signs that she was planning to leave home? “Allergies,” she explained. “Cedar fever. Another Texas thing I have to get used to.”

  Matt nodded. Kate had her mother’s looks, but that stubborn streak was 100 percent paternal. He wasn’t wrong that she was in trouble. One way or another, he was going to do something about it. Matt wasn’t going to let her run away this time.

  - + -

  How soon could she get out of here? And more importantly . . .

  Kate took a sip of her iced tea, tried to make her voice casual. “How long can you stay, Dad? In Austin, I mean. This is such a surprise.”

  Which put it mildly. Her father’s call had kept Kate awake half the night, wondering what she’d say, where they should meet, and what on earth she could do to entertain him. How can I keep him from seeing what a wreck I’m becoming? I can’t do this.

  Now panic was giving way to a growing sense of irritation. Since when had her father ever taken time off to talk? Even in those final days with her mother—her last precious, lucid moments—he’d buried himself in work.

  “I have that college buddy in Fort Worth,” he said, flipping the corner of his napkin between his fingertips. “You met Phil. Way back.”

  His eyes connected with Kate’s, and she noticed small signs of aging that had appeared since she saw him last. He was still handsome, compelling even. But there were new lines around the hazel eyes, more gray in his hair. And something different in his expression. What do you want from me?

  “You’re going on to Fort Worth?” Kate asked, hoping the relief didn’t show on her face.

  “Thought I would. Unless you don’t have plans for tomorrow. I know I sprang this on you, but—”

  “I do,” Kate heard herself say. And knew with a wave of guilt that he’d caught the mistruth the way he always had. Except that day I stuffed my clothes and a photo of Mom into a backpack and told you I was staying overnight with a friend . . . “I need to be somewhere tomorrow. But I thought of something we could do today—outdoors. We’re both dressed for that. And it’s such a pretty day.”

  “Despite cedar fever.” One corner of her father’s mouth tugged toward a smile.

  “Yes. Thank heaven for antihistamines.” Kate sighed with relief as the waiter arrived with their steaming plates. “Anyway, there’s a search-and-rescue demonstration today. Dog training, swift-water experts, a helicopter, equipment displays . . .” Kate spread her napkin in her lap, trying to remember all she’d read in a desperate 2 a.m. web search. “I know the man who is heading it up, and he’ll have his horses there. It sounded kind of fun. They’ll be on-site until three, so we could still catch some of it.”

  “Sure. I’m game.”

  Kate smiled at her father, thinking she might have just set a record for telling multiple fibs in a short span of time. She didn’t have cedar fever, she had no plans for tomorrow, and the search-and-rescue demo sounded like anything but fun. She’d suggested going for the same reason that she met her father at Shady Grove instead of home: more distractions and less opportunity to talk. Her father’s new interest in her life was the last thing she wanted to encourage.

  So, in that respect only, she was willing to let Wes Tanner rescue her today.

  - + -

  “Imagine,” Wes explained to the group of assembled Scouts, “someone lost a toy soldier and thought maybe it fell into a playground sandbox. When you start looking for it, you scrape the sand around hoping it will show up. Your probability of finding it might be 25 percent. When that doesn’t work, you dig a little deeper, look harder, but still have no real plan. Or established routine.” He smiled as Dylan passed by, walking Hershey on a leash. “Now you’re 50 percent sure the toy isn’t in the sandbox. So you search a third time. But this time you plan it out. You draw lines in the sand to divide it up, run your fingers through each ‘grid’ in a planned manner. When you come up empty, you’re—”

  “You’re 75 percent sure it isn’t there,” a Scout offered, shielding his eyes against the sun.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’d get my mom’s noodle strainer,” another boy suggested. “Start shaking the sand around in it. Like you do at the beach for seashells.”

  “Bingo!” Wes gr
inned. “You got it. Divide the area into smaller blocks and refine the search. Sift each block. And then you find the soldier that was there all along.”

  “Is that how you found Mrs. Braxton?” one of the mothers asked.

  “No.” Wes thought of the excitement on Gabe’s face that morning and wished he were here now. “We found her using what we call a hasty search. Because time was of the essence—it was dark and cold and Mrs. Braxton is elderly and in fragile health. And especially because my searchers lived close by and could get there in minutes. The idea of a hasty search is to move quickly through an area, first checking the most obvious places and biggest hazards. For instance, on Mrs. Braxton’s property there’s a barn, a ditch, an old cistern, and an abandoned well.” He was grateful no one mentioned the shotgun lashed to a tree or the vengeful lunatic in a trailer. “We’ll move over the area listening for sounds, checking for footprints and broken branches. Those kinds of things.”

  “Tracking signs.”

  “Exactly,” Wes agreed, lengthening the rope on Duster’s halter so the gelding could nip at the Tanners’ pasture. He rubbed the horse’s soft ear, then turned back to the group. “Which is why it’s important to use trained searchers. The goal is to bring a quick end to a search. If the missing person is just wandering in the woods, they’ll be found. Or if the team comes back empty-handed, there’s about a 70 percent chance that a conscious and uninjured victim isn’t there.”

  “Have you ever found a kid who was lost?” an older Scout asked. He nudged a smaller boy who looked suspiciously like a younger brother. “I mean a squirt like this who couldn’t find his way out of a sandbox?”