Winter's Secret (14 page)

Out of the still darkness, two more snowmobiles barreled over the snow and swerved into the parking area, and then three more snowmobile-suited bodies vanished into the barn. They'd start drinking soon. He could move in anytime now. The two deputies would follow him and make sure no one got away. While one deputy stayed to pick up stragglers, he and the second deputy would cuff the half dozen, take them in and book them, and then call sleeping parents out of bed to come claim their errant offspring. He drew in a deep breath. A fun evening for all.

His pager vibrated. He glanced at it: "Deputy Four responding to a disturbance at Flanagan's. Code three." So the other deputy was keeping busy too.

Time for action. Rodd flashed the light twice to his counterparts and then ran straight for the entrance to the bam. Exhilaration banished the cold. He reached the shadowed comer of the bam when the sound of another snowmobile sped up, then halted. A long shadow betrayed another figure hustling into the bam.

His pulse throbbing in his ears, Rodd waited tense moments, then moved around to the side door everyone else had used. He shoved the door open and flashed his large lantern flashlight inside. Seven shocked faces stared back at him. There was a rush toward him. He stepped in and slammed the door behind him. "Freeze! I'm the sheriff. This kegger is over!" The deputies were right behind him.

Two of the teens put up their hands as though Rodd had a gun in his hand instead of a flashlight. Rodd flashed the beam of light from face to startled face, then around the interior. "Where's the keg? Which one of you is standing in front of it? Don't waste my time."

"There isn't any keg," a young male voice squeaked and cracked. "We were just figuring out that somebody played a joke on us."

"Everybody against the wall there." They obeyed him. Rodd played his light carefully over every part of the old, cavernous bam.

"Somebody played a joke on us, Sheriff," the same voice apologized in a tone that begged for leniency.

Somebody fooled me too
.

Not revealing his chagrin, Rodd spoke in his sternest voice, letting everyone know he wasn't letting anyone off. "Then you're fortunate. That means you're only guilty of trespassing. Put your hands on your heads and walk outside single file." The teens followed his order. Outside, his deputies took over.

Sour defeat choked him. Someone had played him for a fool.

His pager vibrated again. He read the message: "Breaking and entering" followed by an address on the other side of the county near Flanagan's. Another dose of adrenaline shot through him.

A terrible premonition twisted his stomach. "Take care of this! I've got another call!" Rodd broke into a run. He jogged steadily, breaking through the dry snow, sliding and skidding over patches of ice. Reaching his Jeep in seconds, he turned onto the road, his siren blaring, his lights flashing. His foot on the gas pedal pushing the needle on the speedometer to near sixty, he lifted his cell phone to his mouth. "Give me the details."

In her trailer, Wendy paced the small rectangle of the living room. The sky outside the small windows showed black satin night and golden streetlamp glow. She'd changed out of her holiday dress in the afternoon intending to take a nap. She'd been on call for the clinic last night and hadn't slept well. Exhausted, she still hadn't been able to relax and take a much-needed nap. She couldn't forget the kegger.

She had no doubt the sheriff would handle things well. She felt sorry for the foolish kids who would be picked up at the kegger and for their embarrassed parents. But mostly she agonized over why Trav hadn't arrived home with Sage by now. She glanced at the old half melted, mushroom-shaped clock over the stove. Nearly 11:30 p.m. Where could they be? Sage would not go to the kegger, Wendy insisted to herself.

She stopped in front of the telephone for the thousandth time. She could dial the Dietz number. But what would she say? What would she do if Sage and Trav weren't still there? What if Trav's old truck had broken down or failed to start in this cold?

The phone rang. She picked up the receiver.

"Wendy, is that you?"

Her mother's voice brought moisture to Wendy's eyes. "Mom, hi. Happy Thanksgiving."

"Same to you, dear. How did the dinner at church go?"

"Fine."

"Is Sage there?"

"No, she's out with Trav." Wendy wouldn't worry her mother.

"Oh." A pause. "We went out for dinner. Jim didn't want me to cook."

"That's nice."

"I missed you girls today."

"We missed you too, Mom." She thought she heard tears in her mother's voice.

"I didn't know ...it's so ...hard being ...away from you girls and from Dutch—"

"Mom, it takes time to adjust; you know that." Fear shot through Wendy like an icy wind. Would this stress cause her mother to begin drinking again?

"Don't worry. I didn't call to worry you. And I'm going to AA every week down here. Jim goes with me."

"I'm glad." But not completely reassured. Mom would say she was going.
Oh, Lord
...

"Well, it's late. I'll talk to you soon. Give my love to Sage and your grandfather."

"I will, Mom." Wendy slowly put the receiver back.

Worry over her mother falling off the wagon shifted to frustration.
Mother, you should be here. I need you
. The thought hollowed her out, taking her back seventeen years. She remembered the winter afternoon her mother, Doreen, had brought Sage, only three days old, home from the hospital. Ma Ukkonen, who had kept Wendy while Doreen was in the hospital, had brought her home to straighten up the trailer for the new baby's homecoming. When her mother had come in, little Sage had been put into Wendy's arms. The remembered thrill of having a sister washed through her. After Ma had left, her mother had taught Wendy how to diaper Sage and make her a bottle. Then leaving Wendy all alone, to take care of a newborn, Doreen had fled to Flanagan's.

After all these years, Wendy experienced that same fear, the same feeling of being deserted, of being left with responsibility too large, too heavy for her. Over the past couple of years, she'd watched with some trepidation as Sage and Trav drew closer. It wasn't the family feud that concerned her. It was the fear that Sage might make the same mistake their mother had made—marrying too young. Wendy wanted college for Sage, then perhaps marriage. Worry over Sage increased now, weighing on her, pressing in on her, making it hard to breathe.

"Oh, Father," Wendy prayed aloud, "I'm only twenty-six, too young to take care of a teenager. I'm not Sage's mother. I'm just her sister. What do I do? Do I call? Do I wait?" Wendy slumped down at the tiny table and bent her head into her hands. "Am I worried over nothing? Tell me what to do."

As she'd always done, she combed her memory, bringing up Bible verses she'd repeated over and over when she'd felt afraid. "I will be a father to the fatherless. ... I am your Rock and salvation. ... I lift my eyes to the hills from whence my help comes.... "

Her heart slowed to normal. God, her Father, had never forsaken her. His strong arms wrapped around her. She calmed.

Then she heard the distinctive rattle of Trav's beater truck as it pulled up beside the trailer. The last trace of Wendy's fear vanished, leaving her weak with relief.

Sage and Trav surged inside, laughing and shivering. "Wendy, hi!" Sage greeted her.

Thank you, Father
. "Where have you been?" Wendy asked, concealing her worry with effort. "Did you have car trouble?"

"Didn't you see my note?" Sage asked, looking around the small kitchen area. "Oh, here it is." Sage plucked a piece of paper that had slid under the table, half behind the counter. "It must have blown off when we slammed the door." Sage read aloud, '"Wendy, we drove to the movies in Iron Lake. Home after midnight.'"

Wendy closed her eyes. With all the stress gone, she sagged against the chair. "You went to the movies?"

"Sure. Where did you think we went?"

Wendy hoped her sister would never know the answer to that question. "I didn't know what to think." The phone rang. She reached for it.

"Wendy, is that you?" Dr. Doug's familiar voice came over the phone. "We're swamped at the clinic. Can you come in?"

"I'll be right there." Wendy hung up and grabbed for her coat. What had happened at the kegger? Or was this about something worse?

Chapter Eight

Her hands covered with latex gloves, Wendy wiped her moist brow with the back of her arm. The fluorescent lighting in the clinic's emergency room cast a sickly glow over everything. She blinked to make her eyes focus. The wall clock read 3:36 a m. Where was the sheriff? Had the kegger been scotched without a hitch?

'We're almost done here, Wendy." Dr. Doug, the grandson of Old Doc Erickson, snipped the last suture on the drunk's forehead. He turned to the young deputy standing in the doorway. "You can take this one now. I'll send over pain meds as soon as I'm done." He looked to Wendy. "How many left?"

"I'll see." She tore off her gloves and dropped them into a biohazard container. Victims from a brawl at Flanagan's had overwhelmed Dr. Doug and the two night nurses. Since Sage had come home safe and sound, Wendy had been able to come in. Now she hoped Rodd had taken care of the kegger and was home in bed after a day's work. He was due for some good news.

Mind-dulling fatigue lay across her aching shoulders, threatening to bring her to her knees. Too many long days and short nights for too long. I
needed the sleep I didn't get all week and that nap I didn't get today
.

The radiologist, who also had been called in, met Wendy outside the ER near reception. "These are your Uncle Dutch's X rays. He's the last." He motioned toward a lone gurney against the wall.

At the mention of his name, Uncle Dutch glanced over. "Am I dead yet?" His voice was slurred with alcohol and fatigue.

Fighting a sinking feeling, Wendy sighed. "I'll take him to Dr. Doug."

"Fine," the nurse at the desk agreed. "I'll finish up all the paperwork so you can leave when he's done."

Wendy nodded but knew she'd barely have time for a catnap before she started her morning schedule for the day after Thanksgiving. Before she pushed her uncle's gurney toward the ER, she leaned over and kissed his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Rough."

Wendy believed him. His lip was split. One eye was swollen shut and his neck was bruised. It wasn't the first time she'd seen him like this, but it pained her more each time. Had the sheriff been at the brawl too? She shied away from that thought. "You're not twenty anymore," she murmured, wishing she could convince her uncle to give up drinking and brawling. Over ten years ago, her mom had finally gone to AA, but not until she'd been threatened with the loss of her children.

Dutch gave her his usual cocky smile, but his split lip made it more of a half smile. "Just need the love of a good woman to settle me down."

You need the Lord, she mentally corrected him. As a child, Harlan had taken her to Sunday school each week. When she would come home, she'd always sing Uncle Dutch her Sunday school songs. And when she'd invite him to go to church with her, he'd laugh but would always swing her into his arms for a big hug. She swallowed deeply and blinked her eyes, warding off the tears. In spite of this, one tear trickled down her cheek.

"Don't cry, Wendy girl. I'll be fine. A patch of ice got me. That's all."

A patch of ice in the middle of a brawl outside Flanagan's. Sucking in air, she nodded and tried to give him an encouraging smile.

A deputy passed her, leading away the disheveled prisoner-patient Dr. Doug had just finished. Wendy pushed her uncle into the ER and handed Doug the X rays.

He clipped them up and studied them. "You won't be fighting again anytime soon, Mr. Rieker."

"Why?"

"You've broken your left wrist."

Uncle Dutch started to swear, then stopped. "Sorry, Wendy girl."

She patted his shoulder.

"Guess it's good I'm right-handed," Dutch muttered. The muted sound of a siren outside made everyone's head turn.

"Wendy, I can take care of putting your uncle's cast on. Go take care of the incoming emergency." The doctor motioned her away. Suppressing a yawn, Wendy hurried out into the hall.

Rodd burst through the automatic doors with Mrs. Zabriski, an older woman in his arms. "She's having trouble breathing and she's hurt her ankle!"

Wendy grabbed the closest wheelchair and ran to him. The icy cold of the dark hours of early morning flew in her face from the open door, the sudden shock of seeing Rodd here with Mrs. Z making her feel her fatigue.

"What next?" the night nurse at the desk complained.

Wendy agreed wholeheartedly but merely nodded, too tired to waste breath talking. She pushed her wheezing gray-haired patient into an examining area and began to take her vitals.

"I'm ...fine, Wendy, except for...my ankle ...and my ... asthma. You know ...being out in this cold is no ...good for me. And I'm so tired. I'm too ...old to be up ...all night."