No Time to Wave Goodbye (26 page)

“Hello?” Pat said. “Vincent? Son?”

Vincent tried to answer.

“Vincent? Vincent? It’s his number but nobody’s there! Where …? Somebody tell Candy!” The screen went black. Pat couldn’t hear him. Vincent tried again. This time, the phone didn’t even make a connection.

Other phones, Vincent thought. The other phones.

He had left them behind, in the big reinforced pannier pack, stuck only the one into his pocket.

Why?

Ben had no use for them! He wouldn’t get squat up there. Lorrie didn’t. But maybe he would. Ben would try.

Ben should try.

Vincent knew he would try, at least.

So, for now, Vincent would handle it. Was there a choice? Didn’t he hear once—hadn’t he read that you rubbed snow on them? On frostbitten fingers and toes? Vincent stripped off his gloves and gasped at
the sight of his fingers. They were waxen, like Halloween dummy hands, despite all the time they’d spent in the relative warmth of the cabin. When the hell had this happened? Reaching down, Vincent pulled off the gloves, then rubbed snow between his palms. Carefully, he stowed the gloves in a pocket and stuck his hands inside his shirt under his arms, where he felt their stiff cold bash into his warm core and, distantly, like the sound of fireworks far away, he also detected a slight prickling in his palms and thumbs. Vincent kicked off his left snowshoe and was unlacing his right when he slipped back on his elbows. The pain in his ankle growled once more and then bit hard. Vincent fell over onto his back. The pain was a howl, keening.

The stars above him steered a hard right and disappeared.

At eight p.m., as the last light faded above the tree line, the canister of propane from Lorrie’s little outdoor stove breathed its last. Ben had finally found the tracker’s Jetboil, but it had burned no more than twenty minutes. So the little house fell into darkness and the cold curled against the windows like a waiting thing.

From his experience of the past five hours, Ben knew he had a good hour or more of heat left and an hour after that of relative chill.

It must have been harder going for Lorrie than she first thought, the new snow adding another layer, literally, to an already difficult situation. And as for Vincent … Ben was scared as hell for Vincent.

Tucked back in her blanket nest in the drawer, Stella slept quietly.

Glancing at his baby, Ben thought, What the hell? Why not try? Because it will kill me if it doesn’t work? I can wait. I can do anything, he thought. Grabbing one of the phones from the pack, he stepped outside into snow that swept over his ankles and crowded his knees in drifts. He closed the door behind him, first testing it to see that it would open again. Looking down, he could see a vague green smudge of lights, distant as a planet. He breathed a prayer and flipped the telephone open. He had a connection. Not daring to move, barely daring to inhale, Ben dialed his wife’s number.

“Eliza?” he said.

“Sam …” she answered, her voice blurred. “Sa …” She was gone. Two further calls yielded nothing but the red
FAILED
notation on the screen.

Ben went back into the cabin and chafed his cold hands. Stella slept on. Back outside, Ben faced the opposite direction and dialed Pat’s phone.

Someone picked up, but the only sounds were static, with the rhythm of speech. Damn it! The top of the line, when it came to cellular phones, was about as good as two cans and a string.

He dialed again.

“Hello?” Pat said, as clearly as though he were standing beside Ben in the darkness. “Who’s this?”

“It’s … it’s … it’s Ben, Pat. Pop. Dad. I have Stella. Send help. Send … anyone you can. Come to the trailhead.”

“Who is this?” Pat demanded. And then Ben was holding a dead phone. He almost shrieked from frustration, but was fearful that Stella would hear him, even through the door, and awaken. Then, nearly immediately, the mobile phone in his hand rang. Pat demanded, “Who is this? Is this some kind of joke?”

“It’s me. It’s Ben. Really. It’s Ben. Sam.”

“Cut it out,” Pat said.

“You were named by a nurse who took care of Grandma when Grandpa was on the road. Her name was Bridget and she named you after Saint Patrick. Grandpa was a cook in the war. Kenny shorts the shots drinks after the first three drinks,” Ben said.

“You are Ben. Where are you?” Pat asked. “We thought Eliza was high from the sedative when she told us you called her …”

“I’m up at this little cabin. Over fifteen miles in. And up. Isn’t Lorrie Sabo there yet? At the trailhead?”

“We’re
not there,” said Pat. “We’re at the inn. We were waiting for the sheriff to call. The only one up there at the trailhead is the sheriff, Sarah …”

“Lorrie didn’t come in yet?” Ben asked.

“Not that we know. Sam, stay on the line. Candy is calling Sarah … wait. Candy says Sarah has contacted … somebody. They’ll be there in … what? She says an hour if there’s a place to set it down. To set the helicopter down. Is there?”

“There’s a clearing about a hundred yards from here,” Ben said. “It would have to be a helluva good pilot. Is Eliza there?” There were more thumps and rustlings as more people crowded into the room on Pat’s end. Pat shouted to them at large, “They got Stella! Lorrie’s on her way to the trailhead. They got Stella!” There were cries and cheers. “Liza, it was Ben! It wasn’t a dream.”

Then Ben heard Eliza’s voice.

“Is she with you? Our baby? Sam, sweetheart? Did you find her? Are you holding her? Is she alive? Is she breathing?”

“She’s right here, Liza. She’s safe and sound,” Ben said softly. “I love you and she loves you.”

“Oh, Sam! Oh, Santa Maria, Santo Antonio, Santa Anna, forgive me my foolishness and greed and all my sins …” Eliza wept. “Oh, thank God.”

“She’s fine, Eliza. We’re fine.”

“Sam, I love you so much!”

“And I love you …”

“I never really believed … oh, I can’t wait to touch her! Please come now!”

“Let me talk to my father, honey,” Ben said.

“He’s not here. I’ll have to call him,” Eliza answered.

Abruptly understanding, Ben told her gently, “I don’t mean George now. It’s Pat I have to talk to, Liza.”

Eliza said, “Hurry back, Sam. Thank you, Sam. I love you. It all sounds so artificial. I can’t wait to see you.” She handed off the phone.

“Is Stella okay, Sam?” It was Pat’s voice again.

“She’s fine, but someone has to get here soon. But listen. Pat … first, someone has to find Vincent.”

Pat said, “What … Vincent? Where’s Vincent?”

“He left because the little cabin … Whittier’s cabin … it was getting
dark, the firewood was wet and we ran out of formula. There’s no heat, but we’re safe. We’re out of the wind.”

“Whittier? Where’s Whittier now, Sam?”

“He’s … Lorrie will explain. Or I will. I have shelter. You have to find Vincent first. And Lorrie,” Ben said. The line went dead. Ben grabbed another of the phones and punched in Pat’s number.

“Pat?”

“Yes?” Pat said. “Sam? Listen, the helicopter is coming for you …”

“Not me! Not yet! They have to find Vincent and Lorrie!”

“… on another trip, Sam …” Pat said, as the line began, ominously, to crackle, whatever momentary magic that had permitted the connection about to be snuffed, like a match flame guttering. Hearing Stella’s cry, Ben whirled toward the door, into the wind.

“What do you mean, Pop?”

“I’m here!” Pat’s voice came faintly. “Can you put a light on out there? Can you hear me, Sam?”

“I will! I’ll put all the flashlights out in front! That’s all I have.”

“Okay,” Pat said, fainter now.

“You can call me Ben, Pop,” Sam said, suddenly, softly. But no one was there.

Ben found six flashlights and set them heads up, in a line that ended in an arrow, on the shred of ornamental porch to the left of the door. There was barely room on the floor of the porch thing for a stool but there was less snow under the tiny overhang. Why had Whittier even bothered with it? Back inside, Ben wrapped Stella close against him in a cocoon of blankets, pressing the last of the chilly water to his daughter’s roseate mouth. As she drank, hungrily, Ben reached for a Coke and drained it in a single draft.

Barely thirty minutes later, he heard the whop-whop of the helicopter’s rotors, first indistinct but growing louder, closer. Then a light as blessed as morning swept the clearing with a mighty eye and a magnified voice spoke his name.

T
he helicopter carrying Ben and his baby set down a good distance out into the clearing, away from the trailhead.

“People are going to run out here,” the pilot said to Ben. “They always do. I don’t want them to get hurt.”

As the pilot slowed the blades and a soldier held Stella while Ben climbed down, it took his dulled mind a moment to recognize what he had glimpsed as they swept closer and closer to Durand. There were lights—lanterns swinging like pendulums, lights from filming crews mounted on cranes above him, lights like a necklace of yellow pearls from cars snaking up a road that must extend back two miles past Durand. As Ben marched closer, and shielded his eyes, the murmur he heard built to a roar. Everyone behind the police line was cheering. He picked out George and Elena in the silly matching red parkas they’d bought for their honeymoon. He spotted Kerry jumping up and down.
Lorrie had her goggles pushed back and Roman raced back and forth in front of her. Then, one slight dark form broke away, skipping neatly out of the grasp of a tall man and running straight for him like a sprinter. His whole life sprang into his throat. Only Beth heard Ben when he swallowed and croaked, “Ma.”

She stopped. And then she nodded, rushing forward.

Eliza was suddenly there, too, her arms around his waist, holding Stella between them. Ben pulled them close and thought, Now I can stop. I can relax and sleep forever. It’s over.

But reality snapped its finger under his nose and dragged him back out into the darkness under the whorl of gathering stars.

Lorrie was safe now but Vincent was still out there.

The helicopter surged to life and lifted again, this time with Beth climbing in beside the soldiers. The searchlight began to sweep the direction that Lorrie had pointed out. Holding Stella close, Eliza followed Sarah Switch to the waiting squad car, as reporters and people from the town and beyond closed around them.

Ben kept his place in the field. He was cold, but not so cold as Vincent must now be. After it was obvious to Candy that he would not follow her back to the warmth of the other car, she and Pat stood beside him.

“I’ll wait here for Vincent,” Ben said.

Candy said, “Makes sense.”

It was the phone’s insistent ringing that woke him. Where was he? Where was the phone? Vincent scrabbled for it on the ground and finally found it in an inside pocket of the vest.

His ankle was pulsing, a hot little nova, threatening to break the leather shoelaces. With the aid of his headlamp, he examined the ugly bulge of swollen flesh curling over the top of his boot under the sock. He was grateful at least that he could feel it, the ankle. Struggling to his knees, Vincent tried to stand, but the ankle shrieked and he fell back down. His pants were soaked through and he was shuddering as
if he were having a seizure. Vincent shrugged off the pack and scattered the contents in the snow. Sleeping bag, he thought, pulling off the layers of wet pants. He ripped the wrapper off a peanut-butter bar and stuck it in his mouth. And then he pulled the bag around him. Lying back against a hummock of snow, Vincent fumbled for the stadium warmers, cracking one, then two, then three of them open. He tucked them down into the recesses of his sleeping bag and felt them begin their warming but dimly—as though they were down the street, in another person’s house.

His cell phone rang again. This time, Vincent caught it in time, holding it between his palms.

“Vincent? Vincent!”

“Vincent,” he said. “Yes.”

“It’s Mom. Are you okay?”

“Okay. Yeah.”

“Ben’s here with the baby. Your words are slurring,” Beth said.

“I’m cold. I’m only cold.”

“Hold on, Vincent. The helicopter’s here. Can you hear it?”

“I can hear it. I’m not up on Everest, Ma. I’m cold is all.”

“I can hear you like I was standing next to you,” Beth said.

“I wouldn’t be so unpleased if you
were
standing next to me.”

“They’re fast. We should be there any minute,” Beth said. “Okay, I’m getting in the helicopter now …”

“All good, Ma. Let’s let them bring me in, in style. For the news cameras. I am an Oscar winner.”

Beth’s voice was drowned by the thickering of the blades but Vincent heard her say, “… a signal?”

A signal.

Vincent needed to think. He held his mind out and shook it like a box of nickels and fishhooks.

Well, his headlamp was one. It was a signal.

And the mirror.

Vincent placed the mirror on his chest and began to tilt it back and forth, back and forth. When the phone rolled out of his hands and disappeared
beneath the snow, he watched it as a dog might, curious but unable to act. He tilted the mirror once more, back and forth.

“Stay on the line, Vincent,” Beth called from the snow. Unaccountably, that seemed funny. “Vincent? Vincent?” Beth called again.

“I see a reflection down there,” said the second pilot. “Look. At two o’clock. I see someone shining something … there, just above that big clearing. I’m going to sweep it again. See it?” The medic riding shotgun nodded.

“I see it. Either it’s random glass …”

“No, it’s moving. Somebody’s moving it.”

“He’s not answering anymore,” Beth interrupted, leaning over to see, her stomach heaving at the sudden cant of the aircraft. “Do you think he’s conscious?”

“Either he’s moving it or the wind is,” the pilot said. “Could be the wind. But I just picked up something with the searchlight for a second that’s bright blue …”

“His sleeping bag is blue!” Beth said. “Did you hear me? He has a blue sleeping bag!”

Vincent lay in the snow and thought of summer light streaming through trees. He was riding his bike past the red house. Ben was shooting hoops but he saw Vincent and turned and walked toward him, growing taller and older as he walked. “Hey, Vincent,” he said. “Hey. Wanna play Make It, Take It? You scared?”