“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
The concern on Mick’s face—that would be Sergeant Mick McKee of Neenah Police Department’s K-9 unit—momentarily gave way to confusion and then denial. “Of course you were right to call me, Gareth. What happened?”
“I’m perfectly okay. They just don’t want me to drive. I need a ride home.”
I put a cautious hand to the small square dressing over the two stitches on my forehead. I wasn’t even sure where my vehicle was. Still at the crash site, probably. With fifty-plus other disabled vehicles.
On the other side of the curtained ER bay, a wiry, dark-haired emergency room doctor looked up from her clipboard and interjected, “Not exactly. He’s got multiple bruises and contusions, not to mention a concussion. We’ll release him if he’s got someone to stay with for the next forty-eight hours.”
“A slight concussion,” I objected.
“A concussion is a concussion,” Dr. Farahani said in a we don’t play that here kind of voice.
“Jesus Christ. The I-41 was you?” Mick sounded aghast.
“I can’t take all the credit. There were at least forty-nine other cars involved.” I made myself look at him directly for the first time since he’d arrived. He was the same as always. Big and handsome. Broad shoulders. Blue eyes. Okay, his blond hair was a little shaggy, and the gold bristle on his jaw was not typical, but he was on vacation.
Mick continued to stare at me in consternation. If he was uncomfortable, reluctant about having to ride to the rescue, it didn’t show. But it wouldn’t. Mick was one of the good guys.
Even when he was the guy ruining your life.
I said to Dr. Farahani, “You said yourself you don’t really have the space for me.”
“Provided you have someone you can stay with.”
I opened my mouth, but Mick interrupted, “Sure. He’s staying with me. That’s decided.”
She nodded in approval. “Deputy Shaw has had a busy morning. Just to recap, when he hit the back of the semi, his airbags deployed, he was hit in the face, and lost consciousness—”
“For maybe a couple of seconds,” I again objected.
Mick’s mouth opened but he did not interrupt.
“He came to and spent the next forty-five minutes in freezing temperatures, climbing over crushed cars and breaking windows trying to get people out of their vehicles.”
“It wasn’t just me. Trooper Yablonski was there, too.”
“I know Yablonski,” Mick said automatically.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” I said.
Mick looked confused, understandably. I wasn’t even sure what I meant. It’s not like Mick was bisexual.
Dr. Farahani looked up at him. “I’m comfortable letting him go home, provided someone stays with him tonight and tomorrow. He can sleep all he wants—you don’t need to wake him every hour.” She considered me thoughtfully. “He’s complaining of headache and occasional dizziness.”
“I wasn’t complaining. I was reporting.”
Farahani and Mick exchanged looks. Farahani said, “He’s going to feel tired and foggy for the next couple of days. Rest and hydration will help. Some good choices would be unsweetened herbal teas like chamomile or mint, coconut water, broth-based soups, hydrating fruits like watermelon and oranges, and vegetables like cucumber and celery.”
I shuddered.
“Or plain old water, if he prefers. Just keep him topped up. And keep the day quiet.”
“Keep the day quiet?” I frowned over that one.
“Achievable goals,” she said. Mick smiled at me, but I didn’t get the joke.
“No driving, no caffeine, no alcohol, and he can’t return to work until he’s been cleared.”
She handed Mick the discharge papers before I could reach for them.
“Anything specific I should watch for?” Mick asked.
I said darkly, “Don’t get me started.”
Mick did a double take. Farahani said, “Watch for changes. Signs of deterioration. If his headache gets worse, if he can’t stop vomiting. If you see increasing confusion, slurred speech, weakness, or if you have trouble waking him. If any of that happens, bring him straight back or call 911. Otherwise, sleep is the best possible thing.” She glanced at me. “For both of you, ideally.”
“What does that mean?”
Mick laughed.
“Yeah, but really.”
“I stitched the cut in his forehead. The stiches will dissolve. He’s had a tetanus booster. As far as pain medication, over-the-counter Tylenol should be fine.”
“Thanks, doctor.” Mick folded the discharge papers and stuck them in the pocket of his dark blue winter jacket. I stepped down from the examining table, moving slowly and carefully, trying to test my balance without looking like I was testing my balance.
Dr. Farahani turned to me, said with unexpected sincerity, “Thank you for what you did today, Deputy Shaw. Your actions were truly…heroic.”
I looked up at her in surprise. Heroic? I didn’t feel heroic. I felt like I hadn’t done enough. Like I’d been yanked off the field before halftime.
Her brown eyes were kind. “You’re still pumped on adrenaline and nervous energy, so you’re not feeling the full effects of what you’ve experienced. You won’t feel so lively when you crash, so be prepared and listen to your body. Rest. Recuperate.”
I muttered, “You couldn’t think of a word besides crash?”
“Does he have to sign something?” Mick asked.
“He does. Yes.” Dr. Farahani nodded to the burly nurse hovering in the doorway. The nurse stepped into the cubicle and Farahani slipped out, moving on to the next emergency. There would be no shortage of emergencies that day.
The nurse held out a tablet. His burly forearms were covered in inked roses and crosses and skulls. I signed with one finger. The result looked nothing like my name.
“Nice sleeves,” I said.
“This says you received your instructions,” the nurse replied. “It doesn’t say you’ll follow them.”
That seemed overly pessimistic.
Mick, holding my coat and staring grimly at the dark drops of blood scattered across the front, glanced at me. “He’ll follow them.”
That seemed overly optimistic.
Either way, my balance was definitely off, and I was afraid to make any move that convinced somebody I needed an overnight hospital stay. Mick solved the problem by taking my arm, scraping the divider curtain aside, and escorting me out of the cubicle.
The corridor was busier than it had been when they brought me in. Busier and louder. Someone was calling for a wheelchair. Two EMTs rolled past with a man whose boots hung over the end of the stretcher, leaving small clumps of melted snow on the LVT flooring. A woman in a silver parka followed them, clutching one glove in both hands. I moved aside to let them through, bumping into Mick who shifted his grip, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulders.
Which was unnecessary and out of character, though unexpectedly comforting. His faded aftershave made a pleasant change from disinfectant, damp wool, and blood.
“I’m okay,” I told him.
“I know.” But he kept his arm around my shoulders as we made our way to the heavy access control door. He held the door open for me.
The lobby was packed. Every chair was occupied—and more people leaned against the walls. The overhead holiday music blanked out every few seconds as yet another doctor was summoned to Emergency. Everyone looked exhausted and stressed and worried. Everyone looked up every time a door opened, searching the faces coming through, before returning to frantically scrolling through their phones. I had a confused impression of a middle-aged woman knitting a blood-red stream of never-ending scarf, an elderly man still wearing a navy knit cap dusted with snow. A little girl, thumb in mouth, slept peacefully cradled against his shoulder.
I slowed, trying to remember. There had been a child in the blue minivan. Had we got her out? I couldn’t recall. It was all starting to run together. Mick’s hand returned unobtrusively beneath my elbow, not hurrying me just offering support.
I looked up at him. “Do they know yet—?”
How many fatalities?
That was the question but this wasn’t the time or place to ask it. Mick shook his head, guiding me forward past the Christmas tree that stood beside the information desk, red and green lights blinking proceed with caution over a pile of suspiciously similar-looking wrapped boxes. Past the security desk. The guards nodded gravely to us.
Mick helped me fumble my way into my coat, which felt like an unreasonably complicated effort. His expression was serious, his breath light against my face as he drew up the zipper. He unwound the plaid scarf around his neck and wrapped it around mine. I opened my mouth to object, but the automatic doors opened on a gust of frigid Wisconsin air, and I gasped.
The bitter cold was a shock after the sterile warmth of the hospital; my nose stung, my bruised face ached, my stitches throbbed. I felt dizzy again, and I didn’t object when Mick took my arm.
He nodded toward a low bench a few feet from the entrance. “You wait here and I’ll get the car.”
“I’m fine. Where are you parked?”
Mick steered me toward the bench. “Clear on the other side of the parking lot. Sit.”
My legs seemed to fold on their own accord. I sat.
“I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder, and vanished into the whirl of white. Even in the shelter of the hospital overhang, wind tugged at my coat and made my eyes water. It had been worse a few hours earlier. Zero visibility, the overpowering smell of gasoline, screams of people inside their vehicles…
I covered my stinging face with my gloved hands and breathed quietly into the shelter of them.
I can’t do this.
Then I wondered what it was I thought I couldn’t do.
After a few moments, I wiped my eyes, stared out across the parking lot—cars parked every which way, more people heading for the emergency entrance—all of it blurred into unsettling brights and shadows with each wet gust of wind.
I drew in a slow, deep breath. And then another.
A silver Toyota 4Runner pulled up at the curb. I squinted at it, taking a moment to realize it was Mick’s. For some reason I’d been imagining him driving his black and white SUV, but no, of course not. He was off-duty—and spending his precious vacation time driving through the storm of a century to retrieve me.
I rose. Mick got out, crossed the pavement and wrapped his arms around me. He didn’t move and after a moment I leaned into him. I wasn’t sure why he was hugging me so tightly or why I was letting him hug me at all, but…it wasn’t in me to move out of his arms.
He said something quietly that I couldn’t quite catch, let me go, mostly, and opened the car door, helping me in. I felt for the seatbelt as he slammed the door and went around to the driver’s side.
The radio was very loud.
The National Weather Service described strong westerly winds creating sudden whiteout conditions on north–south roads in the Fox Valley, where less snow fell than in other parts of the region!
Mick climbed in and turned the radio off. He threw me a quick assessing glance, looked in his rearview, put the SUV into gear.
As we pulled away from the curb, I said wearily, “What a pain in the ass. Thank you for coming to get me. I was sure you’d be in Florida.”
“I flew back this morning.” He turned up the heater, flipping the vents my way. “I heard about the crash on the way from the airport.” He added grimly, “At last count the number of cars involved was up to seventy.”
“Seventy. Jesus.” I stared out the foggy window at the crowded parking lot. The snow had slowed, but the wind drove loose snow across the ground, lifting in sudden sparkling showers. A lot of the cars had wreaths with red ribbons or antlers with bells on their grills.
Two days till Christmas.
Christmas felt like something that happened on other planets.
“It feels like a long time ago,” I murmured.
“The accident?”
Was that what I meant? I wasn’t sure.
Another ambulance was arriving as we pulled out of the parking lot.
“Are you warm enough?”
I glanced at Mick. He was not looking at me. His attention was on navigating the icy patches of roadway. “Yes.”
Actually, I felt cold to the core. But that was probably more about shock than climate control.
“We’ll be home in fifteen.”
“About that,” I began, “Why don’t you go ahead and drop me at my place? I’m absolutely fine.”
Mick scowled. “Hell, no I’m not dropping you at your place. You’re staying with me for the next forty-eight hours. I gave my word.”
I made a scoffing sound. “You said, ‘sure, he can stay with me’. It wasn’t a legally binding contract. You were being polite.”
“I wasn’t being polite. I’m not being polite. I’m being…” He trailed off, which I felt proved my point.
“Sure, but honestly, I would prefer if you just dropped me off. I want to be home. I want my own bed.”
“I know. I wish I could do that for you. I’d be happy to drive you home and stay with you, but your apartment isn’t going to work for BOLO. And he’s already spent a week on his own.”
BOLO. Right. I was pretty sure Mick’s K-9 partner had not actually spent a week on his own, although I was briefly distracted by the idea of a giant German Shepherd kicked back in Mick’s easy chair binge-watching Scooby-Doo movies and gorging himself on Benebars.
“Exactly. BOLO needs some quality time with you and I really would rather—”
Mick said tersely, “Shut up, Gareth. You’re staying with me. That’s it. That’s final.”
“You don’t want to add kidnapping to those other charges.”
The minute I said it, I wished I hadn’t. Mick was silent and then he said in a subdued, un-Mick-like voice, “Gareth—”
I said quickly, awkwardly, “No. That wasn’t—I’m being funny. Only not very.”
“I did want to talk to you. I do want to talk to you.”
“No. Really. There isn’t anything to say. Anything you have to say. I’m—I apologize for not…responding. That was—that’s all on me. We’re good.”
He threw me a quick look. “Are we?”
“Of course. Yes. Of course we are.”
He was silent again.
The windshield wipers thumped and squeaked, busily beating back the silent explosions of snow against the glass.
Mick said—maybe to himself, “This probably isn’t the time.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Hell, it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Mick said grimly, “I don’t agree with that.”
I had a pretty good idea of what he meant, and I maybe even concurred. But I didn’t want to pursue it. Couldn’t. It still hurt. I said again, earnestly, “Really. Mick. It’s ancient history.”
He didn’t answer. His profile looked bleak as he navigated the snowy road.
I’ve known Mick since he and my brother Michael—yeah, Mick and Mike—were at the academy together. After graduation, they were partners on patrol for a few years. And if you don’t know, partners are like family. Sometimes dysfunctional family. Sometimes closer than family. Anyway, Michael eventually moved up through the ranks and Mick moved to the K-9 unit where he was eventually promoted to Sergeant. But he and Michael stayed close and Mick has been a fixture at family get-togethers for the last fifteen years. When I was about twenty, I was a little bit in love with him, which I think he knew and which he was very nice about. Mick is always nice about people falling in love with him. He’s had a lot of experience with it.
“Anyway, I’m engaged now,” I said.
Mick went perfectly still. Eyes on the road, he said expressionlessly, “Are you?”
“Yep. Trooper Yablonski said she was going to marry me, and I said sure.”
Mick relaxed. He asked gravely, “Does she know you’re gay?”
“Yep. I told her. She said that was even better because that way I wouldn’t be bugging her for sex all the time.”
Mick laughed.
“She’s a great girl.” My throat closed unexpectedly. You don’t go through something like Yablonski and I had—was it just a few hours ago?—and not form a bond. She was the only other person in the world who knew what it had been like that morning.
For an instant I was back there on Interstate 41, stumbling blindly from vehicle to vehicle, heart pounding so hard I could hardly get my breath, terrified of what I was going to find behind every cracked or fogged-up window, praying for the cavalry to arrive—hoping I was not the cavalry—and all the while more and more cars continuing that inexorable icy slide and crash and crush.
Mick’s voice yanked me back to the here and now. “It’s a fucking miracle there are no fatalities so far.”
“A Christmas miracle,” I agreed huskily.
He glanced at me, glanced again, and asked for the second time, “Are you warm enough?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“I’m glad you called me.”
Mick had been my last resort. Michael was on his honeymoon. My sister, Adeline, was in the hospital delivering her firstborn—and our parents were there to cheer her on. My best friend and former partner Pete Collins was having Christmas with his folks in Michigan. My ex-sister-in-law Francie was vacationing with her new boyfriend in the Bahamas. My first-grade teacher—I’m kidding. About Mrs. Schwarzrock. But it was true that I’d run out of options.
I said only, “I’m glad you answered.”
