Dead of Winter Page 24

  Inside I see Patty behind the wheel, her eyes closed, her hands on her belly, her face screwed into a pain-wracked grimace. I grab the door handle and give it a yank, making my shoulder scream yet again, but it’s locked. Pounding on the window, I yell at Patty.

  “Open up! Patty? Can you hear me? It’s Mattie. Unlock your door!”

  Her eyes open and roll toward me, filled with fear and pain. I start to yell again when some semblance of sanity surfaces, and Patty punches the lock release. I grab the handle and, with a huge effort, manage to open the door. But the position of the car makes the door more of a hatch cover. Gravity is pulling on the weight of it, and it’s all I can do to keep it open. I’m forced to prop it with my left shoulder, and I grit my teeth against the pain.

  Patty lets out a moan, her face tight with agony.

  “Where are you hurt?” I ask.

  “I think ... I’m in . . . labor.” She grunts this out, and suddenly I understand. I place my hand on her belly, and even through the thickness of her coat and clothing, I can feel the rock-hard surface of her belly, tight with a contraction.

  “Where’s David?”

  “In surgery.” The contraction eases some and she pants, looking at me with a sardonic smile. “Someone who was in a car accident. Go figure.”

  “Okay,” I say, thinking. “Can you get out of the car? If you can walk up the bank here, my hearse is right above us.”

  “I’ll try,” Patty says. She throws her left leg out of the car while I struggle to brace the door open. She shifts slightly in her seat, turning toward me, and then she lets out a scream, clutching her belly again. “Oh, God,” she says through clenched teeth.

  I grab her arm and try to urge her out of the car, but with the weight of the door on me, I can’t get enough leverage. Plus, my feet are threatening to slide out from beneath me with every move I make, no matter how subtle.

  Something catches my eye off to the side, and I see Izzy slide—literally—down the hill. He comes down on his butt and then half walks, half crawls, over to me. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “It’s Patty. She’s in labor.”

  This explanation proves unnecessary a second later when Patty again lets out a scream and says, “Get it out of me!” while rubbing her huge belly.

  “We can’t do anything with her like this,” I say to Izzy. “We need to get her out of her car and up to the hearse. Can you hold this door for me?”

  Izzy slips and slides his way over to me, and takes my place at the door. Trying to squeeze my body, Izzy’s, and Patty’s very pregnant belly into the space created by the open door proves to be an exercise in frustration and ingenuity, because, somehow, we manage to get Patty out of the car and standing beside it. With Izzy on one side of her and me on the other, we start hauling her up the hill to the road above. Halfway up, Patty stops, doubles over, and lets out a yelp. Izzy and I both slip, Izzy managing to maintain his stance, while I fall onto my knees and slide back down to the car. When I look up at Patty, I see that the insides of her pants legs are soaked and realize her water has broken. I scramble back up to her and grab her arm.

  “Patty, up the hill. NOW!” I use my sternest voice and yank hard on her arm. I’ve got a sick feeling that Patty is going to drop that kid any second, and I’ll be damned if she’s going to do it out here on the snowy, icy hillside.

  The urgency in my tone motivates Patty, who manages to scramble the rest of the way up the hill in a matter of seconds, leaving Izzy behind. I walk around and open the tailgate of the hearse and usher Patty inside. “Lie down,” I tell her.

  She does so, just as another contraction hits. I glance back to make sure Izzy is managing okay, concerned that the effort might prove harmful to him on the heels of the heart attack he had just months ago. But he has topped the hill and looks okay, his breath exertional but not struggling.

  “I have to push,” Patty says through gritted teeth.

  This is not good. Her delivery is likely imminent. I had hoped we could make it to the hospital before that happened, but it doesn’t look like that’s the case. It would take forever to drive there—and who knows how long it would take for an ambulance to get to us?

  “Take your pants off,” I tell her. While she slides her wet pants down over her knees and to her ankles, I grab the scene-processing kit I keep in the back of the hearse and start rummaging through it. Izzy reaches us and immediately grasps what is happening.

  I look at Patty, who is now naked from the waist down to her ankles. Her perineum is bulging and I can see a large circle of fuzzy, light hair down there. “She’s crowning,” I tell Izzy. “We could call an ambulance, but they’re not likely to get here very fast in this weather. We’re going to have to do this here.”

  “Got it.” Izzy is all cool calmness. Granted, his job doesn’t normally entail births, but he is a doctor, and he has delivered a baby in the not-so-distant past—mine. Between the two of us, I feel certain we can manage.

  We have Patty scoot herself up as far into the car as she can. It still leaves Izzy and me with our backs in the storm, but we are able to lean deep enough into the back of the car to keep Patty and her baby out of the elements. Within a minute or two, we have a body bag unfolded and spread out beneath Patty, and a pair of scissors and some hemostats—clamps—at hand, ready to use. I also have towels in the car—I keep a stash on hand so I can use them on Matthew or, occasionally, on Hoover—and with these minimal items, we wait.

  We don’t have to wait long. Patty gives one more mighty push and the head pops completely out.

  “Good girl,” Izzy says. He supports the baby’s head and gently lifts and rotates its body as Patty gives one more push and spits out the rest of the kid.

  “It’s a girl,” Izzy says, and Patty half laughs, half cries. Her legs are trembling, and so are mine.

  Izzy clamps the cord and cuts it, and we wrap the baby girl in the towels, clean her as best we can, and then hand her to Patty. The baby lets out a lusty cry, and Izzy and I high-five one another.

  “I’ll ride back here with them,” Izzy says.

  I nod and shut the tailgate on Patty and her new life in an area meant for hauling dead people. Then I get behind the wheel and prepare once again to do battle with the roads and Mother Nature’s temper tantrum.

  CHAPTER 25

  Before starting the drive, I call the hospital—amazed that cell service has survived the storm thus far—and inform them of the delivery and our intent to bring both patients in. Izzy delivers the placenta a few minutes into our trek, and we make what is typically a ten-minute drive in a little over half an hour. I call again when we are only minutes away, and there is staff waiting for us in the ambulance garage when we pull in. Because the birth happened outside of the hospital setting, Patty’s baby won’t be allowed in the nursery with the others because of the risk of infection, but both mother and child are examined in the ER, both by the ER doc on duty and an OB/GYN doc, who is staying in the hospital overnight because of laboring patients and the storm.

  David, we learn, is still in surgery, tending to a patient who has a ruptured bowel from an earlier car accident. I’m disappointed that I can’t see his reaction to the news of Patty’s delivery, because I’m curious to see how it affects him as an individual and how he interacts with both Patty and the baby. I’m not sure why I want to see these reactions. I suppose it’s part simple curiosity, and part a desire to see if the future I imagined when I was with him is even close to the actual reality.

  Having turned our patients over to the hospital staff, I call the house to let Emily know that I’m okay and going to be later than expected. Izzy and I are about to leave, and tackle the roads in an effort to get back to our respective homes, when Izzy’s phone rings.

  “It’s Dom,” he says after checking the screen. “Give me a minute?” I nod, and he steps off to one side to take the call.

  I wander toward the nurses’ station, where I see the social worker, Hildy, behind t
he desk. All of the nurses—two of them, since one was unable to get in because of the storm—are busy. When Hildy sees me approaching, she smiles broadly and waves me over.

  “How is the case going?” she asks. “Any progress on finding that missing girl?”

  “Some, but nothing concrete yet,” I tell her. “That candy bar you noticed turned out to be a helpful lead.”

  “Oh, good,” she says with a big smile. “I hope you can find the sister.”

  “Me too,” I say. “What are you doing here this late in the day, and with the weather like it is?”

  “I have my grief support group scheduled for tonight,” she says. “I canceled it, of course, but I wasn’t able to reach everyone who usually comes. I doubt anyone will brave these elements for the group, but I thought I would stay in case someone shows up. Besides, the ER unit clerk was unable to get in, so I told the hospital supervisor I would stay down here and help by answering phones and such. In exchange, the hospital is giving me a bed for the night. What are you doing here?”

  “Dr. Rybarceski and I just delivered a baby. In my hearse,” I add with a sly smile, suspecting Hildy will appreciate the irony of bringing a new life into the world inside a car meant for carrying the dead to their final resting place.

  “That was you?” Hildy says, grinning back at me. She is about to comment some more, but David rushes into the nurses’ station. He sees Hildy first and says, “Where’s my wife?” Then he sees me, stops short, and takes on a look of utter confusion. “Mattie? Why are you here?”

  “I just helped Izzy deliver your baby,” I say, smiling.

  His furrowed brow furrows deeper. “Here? In the ER? Are you working here again?”

  “No, she didn’t have the baby here,” I tell him. “She had it at the base of your driveway, in the back of my hearse. Patty tried to drive herself here and her car slid into the ditch. Izzy and I happened to see it and went to help her. Minutes later, your daughter was born. Congratulations.”

  David still looks confused, but after a moment, he breaks into a smile. “I have a daughter?”

  “You do,” I say, biting my lower lip as I realize I may have stolen some of Patty’s thunder. “I thought you knew already, so maybe you can act surprised and let Patty tell you it’s a girl?”

  “Oh. Sure,” he says. He looks off to one side, shakes his head, and his smile broadens. I’ve seen him do this exact same thing many times before, back when we were married and he was puzzling out a particular case or diagnosis. What I just saw was his “Aha!” moment, and I suspect its cause now is the dawning reality of his new status as a father.

  “Where is she?” he asks.

  “Bed six,” I tell him.

  “They’re okay?”

  “They seem to be. The OB doc has been down here already to examine them both.”

  David nods, his expression a mix of awe and happiness . . . with perhaps a hint of fear. A common reaction to new parenthood. He starts to head toward Patty’s room, but stops after a few steps and looks back at me.

  “Thank you, Mattie,” he says, and he has the kindest and most sincere look on his face that I’ve seen since the day I left him. “And can you please tell Izzy ‘thank you’ as well?”

  “I will. And you’re welcome. Congratulations to you both.”

  I watch him scurry off and then turn and look back at Hildy. She is smirking at me. “What?” I say.

  “You handled that very well,” she says. “And what a tangled web has been woven there, eh?”

  “I suppose,” I say.

  “You know,” Hildy says, “sometimes the sense of loss experienced through divorce is on a level with that experienced by those who lose someone to death. Many of the emotions are the same—loneliness, a feeling of abandonment, sadness, the realization that the life you had is lost to you now, and the need to retell your story so that it can be colored by the latest events. I’ve had some divorced people in my grief-and-loss group before. If you ever want to sit in—”

  “Wait, what did you just say?” I ask, grabbing Hildy’s arm and interrupting her explanation.

  She sputters for a second. “Um, I, uh, was talking about—”

  “You said ‘loss group,’ ” I tell her, interrupting again. I look at her, waiting to see if she makes the same connection I just made.

  “Yes, well, I call it a grief-and-loss group. And if you ever . . .” She trails off, seeing that my mind is focused elsewhere.

  “One of the nurses who cared for Liesel said the girl whispered the words ‘lost group’ to her, right before she died,” I say. “But maybe she misheard it. Maybe she said ‘loss group’?”

  “Yes, it certainly could have been that,” Hildy says after a moment of silent contemplation. Her eyes grow wide, and the corners of her mouth creep up into the start of a smile. “And it makes perfect sense,” she says. “Their mother died, right?”

  “Right. Do you know of any support groups like yours up in the area where they lived, around Necedah?”

  “I don’t, but I can find out,” she says, sounding excited.

  “Do you think you could find out something about groups in that area tonight?” I ask her. “Like now, even?” I bite my lower lip and look at her expectantly, eyebrows raised.

  “Heck, yeah,” she says, and without another word, she hustles off.

  Excited by my new idea, I take out my phone and call Hurley.

  He answers, saying, “Are you okay?” sounding mildly panicked.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him, and then I fill him in on the events with Patty.

  “Wow, you’ve had an exciting evening so far,” he says when I’m done.

  “Yes, I have, and I’m not done yet. I had a possible brainstorm about the Paulsen case. Is Richmond there with you?”

  “He is.”

  “Can you put me on speaker so he can hear me, too?”

  “Sure.” I wait for a few seconds and then hear Richmond say, “Can you hear me, Mattie?”

  “I can. Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear. What have you got?”

  “Remember what Liesel said to Syph, right before she died?”

  “You mean about the guy having her sister?”

  “No, what Syph heard was just two words, which she reported to us as ‘lost group.’ But what if she really said ‘loss group’?”

  There’s silence on the other end, presumably while Hurley and Richmond both try to parse this out. “I guess I’m not seeing the distinction you are,” Richmond says finally.

  “The girls’ mother died six months or so before Liesel disappeared. And Hildy, the social worker over here at the hospital, was telling me about her grief-and-loss group meeting, which she had to cancel tonight.” I say the words “loss group” slowly, enunciating the syllables with great care.

  Hurley gets my meaning almost immediately. “Of course,” he says. “You’re thinking the girls might have been involved in some sort of bereavement group.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh,” Richmond says with slow dawning. “That does make sense. It would be the perfect picking grounds for anyone looking to snatch up some vulnerable women,” he muses.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I tell them, feeling my excitement grow. “Hildy is already looking into what groups might have been available in that area around the time of the girls’ disappearances.”

  “Make sure she passes on to me any information she learns,” Richmond says.

  “Oh, she will,” I say. I have no doubt that Hildy will jump at the chance to report to Richmond directly.

  “So, are you going home now?” Hurley asks.

  “Hopefully. I’m waiting on Izzy to get off the phone.”

  “Do you want me to come and get you with my truck? It might be safer with my four-wheel drive.”

  “No, the hearse did fine, and the plows are out working in earnest. We’ll be all right.”

  “Call me once you’re safe at home, okay?”
>
  “I will.”

  I see Izzy walking toward me as I disconnect the call, a tired look on his face. I meet him halfway and say, “Ready to go home?”

  “I am,” he says. “Dom is in quite a state over this Roger Dalrymple thing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Izzy gives me a sly look. “He burst into tears several times while I was talking with him.” He utters this almost casually, but with a hint at some deeper meaning. I get what he’s thinking almost immediately.

  “Ooh, tears usually mean something sweet and sugary,” I say, licking my lips.

  Dom is an excellent baker and cook who tends to express his emotions through his culinary creations. The shed of actual tears almost always results in a baking spree, whereas anxiety is represented by rich French food, and anger by something down home and simple (though always delicious) like a pot roast dinner or a big pot of stew. If he’s fixing Italian food, it generally means he’s happy and content. Fortunately for me and my food predilection, Dom is a fairly happy person much of the time.

  Izzy says, “He’s already baked up a Dutch apple pie, and at the moment, he’s in the midst of whipping up a batch of those pecan tassies he makes.”

  “Yum,” I say, closing my eyes and imagining the taste. The pecan tassies are like tiny pecan pies in cookie form, and one of my favorite desserts. “How close is he to actually baking them, do you know?”

  “He was filling the little pastry cups while we were talking,” Izzy tells me. His smile broadens and he shoots me a conspiratorial look. “I’d say they’ll be ready right around the time we arrive at the house.”