was
probably his car. He had taken great pains to walk as straight a path as
possible on the way back to the road and had still missed the Bug by at least
an eighth of a mile. He sank to one knee, gulping fresh air, trying to catch
his breath while still holding the crash victim.
He wondered how
much damage he was doing to the young woman by carrying her. Moving her at all
was a calculated risk—if she had suffered a broken neck or back, he could be
causing irreparable damage—but leaving her at the scene of the crash and
waiting for rescue vehicles that might arrive too late had been out of the
question. If her injuries didn’t kill her, the northern Maine chill might. Even
this close to June, on a clear night like tonight the temperature could easily
dip below freezing.
Shane staggered to
his feet. He half-walked, half-trotted to his car, reaching it after what felt
like half an hour but was probably no more than five minutes. He yanked the
passenger door open and lowered the young woman onto the seat as gently as he
could. Blood dribbled out of the gash in her leg, but the flow seemed to have
slowed. He lowered the seat back as far as it would go and reached into the rear
of the vehicle, feeling around until he found the heavy winter coat he kept for
emergencies. He secured the still-unconscious woman with the safety belt, and
then propped her injured leg on the coat. He slammed the door closed and
sprinted around the front of the car, dropped into the driver’s seat and fired
up the engine.
He wheeled onto
the empty road, then glanced at his injured passenger and blinked in surprise.
She had awakened and was staring at him. Her eyes were open and she watched him
intently, but she had not moved.
“It’s okay,” he
said softly, not wanting to frighten her. “You were in a plane crash and I’m
taking you to the hospital.” He cranked the temperature knob to the right,
knowing the resulting rush of air would barely qualify as lukewarm.
Her eyes fluttered
and Shane thought she was about to lose consciousness again but she didn’t.
“Major Wilczynski,” she said weakly.
Shane shook his
head. “You were the only survivor. Everyone else in the cockpit was dead. I’m
sorry.”
She lay back on
the seat, eyes closed, then bolted upright in a panic, groaning and holding her
head the moment she did. She steadied herself and reached into the back pocket
of her bloody jeans and withdrew a tattered envelope. “Thank God,” she
muttered, collapsing back onto the seat.
In the distance
Shane could hear the scream of sirens growing steadily louder. The rescue
vehicles were beginning to home in on the crash site. Shane wondered whether he
should turn around and wait for them. Maybe handing this woman off to an
ambulance crew would be wiser than driving her to the hospital himself.
But they were less
than five minutes away from Bangor proper, less than ten minutes from the
hospital, and as someone who had grown up in this remote area, Shane knew how
vast the wilderness really was. The rescue crews could be well within earshot
and still not find the site for twenty or thirty minutes. Or more.
He flipped on the
Bug’s dome light and glanced repeatedly at the injured woman as he drove. Blood
continued to leak from her thigh. Her jeans were covered in it, some half-dried
and crusted, the rest glistening wetly in the dim light. Her skin color was a
shocking white, not surprising considering her blood loss. He decided he was
doing the right thing.
Flipping off the
interior light, he said, “Don’t worry, we’ll be at the hospital in just a few
minutes.”
She mumbled
something in return and he missed it. “What?”
“I said no
hospitals.”
Shane shook his
head. He must have heard her wrong. “You have to go to the hospital—you look
like death warmed over.”
“You really know
how to sweet-talk a girl.”
“Sorry about that,
but you definitely need medical attention.”
“No,” she
repeated emphatically.
probably his car. He had taken great pains to walk as straight a path as
possible on the way back to the road and had still missed the Bug by at least
an eighth of a mile. He sank to one knee, gulping fresh air, trying to catch
his breath while still holding the crash victim.
He wondered how
much damage he was doing to the young woman by carrying her. Moving her at all
was a calculated risk—if she had suffered a broken neck or back, he could be
causing irreparable damage—but leaving her at the scene of the crash and
waiting for rescue vehicles that might arrive too late had been out of the
question. If her injuries didn’t kill her, the northern Maine chill might. Even
this close to June, on a clear night like tonight the temperature could easily
dip below freezing.
Shane staggered to
his feet. He half-walked, half-trotted to his car, reaching it after what felt
like half an hour but was probably no more than five minutes. He yanked the
passenger door open and lowered the young woman onto the seat as gently as he
could. Blood dribbled out of the gash in her leg, but the flow seemed to have
slowed. He lowered the seat back as far as it would go and reached into the rear
of the vehicle, feeling around until he found the heavy winter coat he kept for
emergencies. He secured the still-unconscious woman with the safety belt, and
then propped her injured leg on the coat. He slammed the door closed and
sprinted around the front of the car, dropped into the driver’s seat and fired
up the engine.
He wheeled onto
the empty road, then glanced at his injured passenger and blinked in surprise.
She had awakened and was staring at him. Her eyes were open and she watched him
intently, but she had not moved.
“It’s okay,” he
said softly, not wanting to frighten her. “You were in a plane crash and I’m
taking you to the hospital.” He cranked the temperature knob to the right,
knowing the resulting rush of air would barely qualify as lukewarm.
Her eyes fluttered
and Shane thought she was about to lose consciousness again but she didn’t.
“Major Wilczynski,” she said weakly.
Shane shook his
head. “You were the only survivor. Everyone else in the cockpit was dead. I’m
sorry.”
She lay back on
the seat, eyes closed, then bolted upright in a panic, groaning and holding her
head the moment she did. She steadied herself and reached into the back pocket
of her bloody jeans and withdrew a tattered envelope. “Thank God,” she
muttered, collapsing back onto the seat.
In the distance
Shane could hear the scream of sirens growing steadily louder. The rescue
vehicles were beginning to home in on the crash site. Shane wondered whether he
should turn around and wait for them. Maybe handing this woman off to an
ambulance crew would be wiser than driving her to the hospital himself.
But they were less
than five minutes away from Bangor proper, less than ten minutes from the
hospital, and as someone who had grown up in this remote area, Shane knew how
vast the wilderness really was. The rescue crews could be well within earshot
and still not find the site for twenty or thirty minutes. Or more.
He flipped on the
Bug’s dome light and glanced repeatedly at the injured woman as he drove. Blood
continued to leak from her thigh. Her jeans were covered in it, some half-dried
and crusted, the rest glistening wetly in the dim light. Her skin color was a
shocking white, not surprising considering her blood loss. He decided he was
doing the right thing.
Flipping off the
interior light, he said, “Don’t worry, we’ll be at the hospital in just a few
minutes.”
She mumbled
something in return and he missed it. “What?”
“I said no
hospitals.”
Shane shook his
head. He must have heard her wrong. “You have to go to the hospital—you look
like death warmed over.”
“You really know
how to sweet-talk a girl.”
“Sorry about that,
but you definitely need medical attention.”
“No,” she
repeated emphatically.
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