Cassie Miles - State Of Emergency

From the very start, they shared zero common interests. But Jordan had been blinded by Lynette’s astonishing physical beauty—her long, shining black hair, sapphire eyes and perfect creamy skin. Even now—with the marriage basically over—he fondly remembered her lush curves and full breasts. The thought of her naked body warmed him, and he reached across the king-size bed, hoping against the impossible that she might have joined him. For old times’ sake.

Groping at the pillow, he touched metal. His fingers closed around the grip of a handgun. His memory of Lynette’s perfume vanished as he caught the whiff of cordite and powder. This lightweight Glock automatic had recently been fired.

Jordan bolted from the bed, turned on the lamp and scanned the guest bedroom. Lynette’s antique furniture contrasted his laptop, printer and global cell phone. Nothing seemed to be out of place.

But somebody had been here. Somebody had left the gun.

He checked the clip, making sure the pistol was still loaded. He grabbed the cell phone before he opened the bedroom door and peered into the second-floor landing. One side of the hallway was open with a cherrywood railing that overlooked an atrium foyer. On the other side were the closed doors to guest bedrooms, all vacant.

His wife’s master bedroom suite was fifty yards away, at the south end of the house. Her double doors were wide open.

“Lynette!”

His voice echoed against the dark wainscoting and white walls, hung with original artwork. He didn’t call her name again. He was dead certain she wouldn’t answer.

Wearing only his boxer shorts, Jordan raced toward her suite. He burst through the sitting area into her white bedroom, stark as a glacial landscape. Track lighting blazed reflections against a wall of mirrors. At the foot of the four-poster bed, Lynette sprawled on the plush white carpet, stained crimson with her blood. Her lacy white nightgown hiked up to her thighs. She’d been shot in the chest.

Dropping the gun, Jordan fell to his knees beside her. At the base of her throat, he felt for a pulse. Nothing.

“Help!” Jordan yelled. The housekeeper ought to be downstairs. “Rita, help.”

Lynette’s blue eyes stared, blank and gelid. Her skin felt cool. She couldn’t be dead! There was color in her cheeks.

Jordan punched 9-1-1 into his cell phone. “Ambulance! Send an ambulance!” He gave the address. “How do I do CPR? Tell me!”

“Sir, if you will just stay on the line, I can—”

He threw down the phone. If there was life in Lynette’s body, he had to act fast. He straightened her legs. Her bare arms were slippery with blood. When he lifted her upper body, her head tilted back and her glossy black hair tumbled over his arm. For a moment, he cradled her against him. He’d wanted to end it. “But not like this. My God, not like this.”

Rita Ramirez, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway, wearing a yellow chenille robe.

“Rita,” he said, “you’ve got to help her.”

The housekeeper took a backward step. Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “Mios Dio, Jordan. What have you done?”

September 16, Cascadia, Colorado

“This is the wound.” With a red marker pen, Emily Foster drew two parallel dots, representing the fang marks of a rattlesnake, on the arm of a seven-year-old Brownie. The other eight girls and the troop leader stood in a tight circle around the Formica-topped table in the Cascadia Search and Rescue headquarters. “Can anybody tell me what to do next?”

“I know,” said an angelic little redhead. “You gotta shoot the dang rattler.”

“The snake will be gone.” Emily preferred not to discuss snakebite treatment in her first aid lectures. Given her druthers, she’d never talk about reptiles at all—those slimy, sneaky, altogether terrifying creatures. But kids always asked about worst-case scenarios. Potential encounters with rattlesnakes, cougars and grizzly bears were a lot more dramatic than learning how to identify poison ivy. “Anybody know what we do next?”

“Suck out the poison,” said Libby Hanson, the daughter of the troop leader. “Then spit it out.”

The red-haired cherub gave a naughty smirk. “What if somebody gets bit on the butt?”

“Gross,” said a tall, feminine girl with a long braid that hung to her waist. “I wouldn’t ever suck anybody’s rear end.”

“Except for Johnny Jamison,” the naughty angel said.

“Settle down, girls.” Yvonne, the troop leader and mother of four, spoke with the voice of authority, but the Brownies weren’t listening. They’d caught an extreme case of the giggles.

“Settle down,” Yvonne repeated. She held up her hand in the sign for quiet.

Those who weren’t making sucking noises on their arms were wiggling their skinny little bottoms at each other.

“Quiet!” Yvonne threatened, “Or no snacks.”

Immediate silence descended, and Emily nodded an appreciative thank-you. She’d never been comfortable with children, especially not in a group. Controlling them was like juggling spaghetti. “Actually, we don’t recommend the suck-and-spit method, anymore. First, we clean and disinfect the wound.” She pantomimed that action. “Then wrap an Ace bandage above the wound. Not too tightly. Most of all, you want the victim to remain calm.”

The supposedly snakebit Brownie eased into a prone position on the tabletop, and Emily completed the treatment by taping a folded gauze pad over the bite. “This is to apply direct pressure to the wound. Now, what’s next?”

“Get help,” said Yvonne’s daughter.

“That’s right.” Emily gave a thumbs-up. “Any other questions?”

Tall and Feminine raised her hand. “Is that your real hair color?”

Emily touched her curly blond ponytail. “Yes.”

“I wondered ’cause your eyes are kind of a weird green and not blue like most blondes.”

“Let’s get back to first aid, shall we?” Emily loosened the Ace bandage on her volunteer victim’s arm.

The irrepressible angel asked, “Did you have anybody die from getting bit by a rattler?”

“Never.”

“But you’ve seen people die ’cause you’re a nurse.” Before she moved to Cascadia three years ago, Emily had experienced more than her share of senseless, violent death when she worked in a Denver hospital emergency room. God, yes, she’d seen people die. The helplessness and horror branded deep into her soul. Real-life death wasn’t an appropriate topic for seven-year-old Brownies. “The important thing,” she said, “is to avoid danger. Can you tell me the first rule of mountain safety?”

“Think ahead and be careful,” they recited back to her.

“Second rule?” Emily asked.

“Be prepared.”

“And if an accident happens?” she prompted.

“Keep calm. Call 9-1-1. Use first aid.”

“I don’t get it,” said Tall and Feminine. “9-1-1 is Sheriff Litvak’s phone number. Why is it the same for Search and Rescue?”

“The 9-1-1 dispatcher contacts S.A.R.,” Emily explained.

“Does he call you at home? Like, what if you’re busy?”

“Drop everything and come running,” Emily said.

“We usually meet right here, behind Dr. Spence’s office.”

The headquarters for the mostly volunteer S.A.R. unit based in Cascadia, Colorado, was the size of a two-car garage and almost as glamorous. The furnishings included secondhand tables, chairs, desks and an ancient refrigerator. Their rescue equipment, however, illustrated state-of-the-art preparedness with skis, snow shoes, carry litters, pitons and miles of nylon rope. Sophisticated aerial-photograph maps covered every wall. There were walkietalkies, a satellite phone and two computers—electronics that were beyond Emily’s comprehension.