The Rescue Page 7

  Denise and Kyle were still in the hospital and had been allowed to sleep in the same room. Overnights were mandatory for both of them (or, rather, what was left of the night), and though Kyle could have been discharged the following afternoon, the doctors wanted to keep Denise in for an extra day of observation.

  The noise in the hospital made it impossible to sleep late, and after another examination of both of them by the doctor on call, Denise and Kyle spent the morning watching cartoons. Both were on her bed, pillows behind them, wearing ill-fitting hospital gowns. Kyle was watching Scooby-Doo, his favorite. It had been Denise's favorite as a child, too. All they needed was some popcorn, but the very thought made Denise's stomach turn. Even though the dizziness had subsided for the most part, bright lights still hurt her eyes and she had trouble keeping food down.

  "He's running," Kyle said, pointing at the screen, watching Scooby's legs turning in circles. (Eez runny)

  "Yes, he's running from the ghost. Can you say that?"

  "Running from the ghost," he said. (Runny fraw ah goz)

  Her arm was around him, and she patted him on the shoulder. "Did you run last night?"

  Kyle nodded, his eyes still on the screen. "Yes, eez runny."

  She looked at him tenderly. "Were you scared last night?"

  "Yes, he's scared." (Yes, eez scairt)

  Though his tone changed slightly, Denise didn't know whether he was talking about himself now or still talking about Scooby-Doo. Kyle didn't understand the differences among pronouns (I, you, me, he, she, and so on), nor did he use verbal tenses properly. Running, ran, run . . . it all meant the same thing, at least as far as she could tell. The concept of time (yesterday, tomorrow, last night) was also beyond him.

  It wasn't the first time she'd tried to talk to him about the experience. Earlier she'd tried to talk to him about it but hadn't gotten very far. Why did you run? What were you thinking? What did you see? Where did they find you? Kyle hadn't answered any of her questions, nor had she expected him to, but she wanted to ask them anyway. One day maybe he'd be able to tell her. One day, once he could talk, he might be able to think back and explain it to her. "Yeah, Mom, I remember. . . ." Until then, though, it would remain a mystery.

  Until then.

  It seemed as far away as ever.

  With a slow push, the door squeaked open.

  "Knock, knock."

  Denise turned toward the door as Judy McAden peeked inside.

  "I hope I'm not coming at a bad time. I called the hospital, and they said you both were up."

  Denise sat up, trying to straighten her wrinkled hospital gown. "No, of course not. We're just watching TV. C'mon in."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Please. I can only take so many hours of cartoons without a break." Using the remote, she turned down the volume slightly.

  Judy walked to the bed. "Well, I just wanted to come by to meet your son. He's quite the topic of conversation around town now. I got about twenty calls this morning."

  Denise angled her head, glancing proudly at her son. "Well, here he is, the little terror. Kyle, say hello to Miss Judy."

  "Hello, Miss Judy," he whispered. (Hewwo, Miss Jeewey) His eyes were still glued to the screen.

  Judy pulled up the chair and sat beside the bed. She patted him on the leg.

  "Hello, Kyle. How are you? I heard you had a big adventure last night. You had your mother really worried."

  After a moment of silence Denise prodded her son. "Kyle--say, 'Yes, I did.' "

  "Yes, I did." (Yes, I di)

  Judy glanced at Denise. "He looks just like you."

  "That's why I bought him," she said quickly, and Judy laughed. Judy turned her attention to Kyle again.

  "Your mom's funny, huh?"

  Kyle didn't respond.

  "Kyle doesn't talk too well yet," Denise offered quietly. "He's delayed in speech."

  Judy nodded, then leaned in a little farther as if telling Kyle a secret.

  "Oh, that's okay, isn't it, Kyle? I'm not as much fun as watching cartoons, anyway. What're you watching?"

  Again he didn't answer, and Denise tapped him on the shoulder. "Kyle, what's on TV?"

  Without looking at her he whispered, "Scooby-Doo." (Scoody-Doo)

  Judy brightened. "Oh, Taylor used to watch that when he was little." Then, speaking a little slower: "Is it funny?"

  Kyle nodded exuberantly. "Yes, it's funny." (Yes, eez fuh-ee)

  Denise's eyes widened just a little when he answered, then softened again. Thank God for small favors. . . .

  Judy turned her attention to Denise. "I can't believe it's still on the air."

  "Scooby? He's on twice a day," Denise said. "We get to watch it in the morning and the afternoon."

  "Lucky you."

  "Yes, lucky me." Denise rolled her eyes, and Judy chuckled under her breath.

  "So how are the two of you holding up?"

  Denise sat up a little higher in the bed. "Well, Kyle here is healthy as can be. From the looks of him, you'd think that nothing at all happened last night. Me, on the other hand . . . well, let's just say I could be better."

  "Will you be getting out soon?"

  "Tomorrow, I hope. Body willing, of course."

  "If you have to stay, who's going to watch Kyle?"

  "Oh, he'll stay with me. The hospital's been pretty good about that."

  "Well, if you need anyone to watch him, just let me know."

  "Thanks for the offer," she said, her eyes darting toward Kyle again. "But I think we'll be okay, won't we, Kyle? Mommy's had enough separation to last for a while."

  On the cartoon, a mummy's tomb suddenly opened and Shaggy and Scooby were off and running again, Velma close behind. Kyle laughed, without seeming to have heard his mother.

  "Besides, you've already done more than enough," Denise went on. "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to thank you last night, but--well . . ."

  Judy raised her hands to stop her. "Oh, don't worry about that. I'm just glad everything worked out the way it did. Has Carl stopped by yet?"

  "Carl?"

  "He's the state trooper. The one from last night."

  "No, not yet. He'll be coming by?"

  Judy nodded. "That's what I heard. Taylor told me this morning that Carl still had to wrap up a few things."

  "Taylor? That's your son, right?"

  "My one and only."

  Denise struggled with the memory from the night before. "He was the one who found me, right?"

  Judy nodded. "He was trying to find some downed power lines when he came across your car."

  "I guess I should thank him, too."

  "I'll tell him for you. But he wasn't the only one out there, you know. They had more than twenty people by the end. People from all over town went out to help."

  Denise shook her head, amazed. "But they didn't even know me."

  "People have a way of surprising you, don't they? But there are a lot of good people here. To tell you the truth, I wasn't surprised at all. Edenton's a small town, but it has a big heart."

  "Have you lived here your whole life?"

  Judy nodded.

  Denise whispered conspiratorially, "I'll bet you know practically everything that goes on here."

  Judy put her hand over her heart like Scarlett O'Hara and slowly drawled out the words.

  "Darlin', I could tell you stories that would make your eyebrows curl."

  Denise laughed. "Maybe we'll have a chance to visit sometime and you could fill me in."

  Judy played the innocent southern belle to the hilt. "But that would be gossiping, and gossiping's a sin."

  "I know. But I'm weak."

  Judy winked. "Good. I am, too. We'll do that. And while we're at it, I'll tell you what your mom was like as a little girl."

  An hour after lunch, Carl Huddle met with Denise and finished up the remaining paperwork. Lighthearted and far more alert than the evening before, Denise answered everything in detail. Even then--since the case was mo
re or less officially closed--it didn't take more than twenty minutes. Kyle was sitting on the floor, playing with an airplane that Denise had fished from her purse. Sergeant Huddle had returned that as well.

  When they were finished, Sergeant Huddle folded everything into a manila file, though he didn't rise right away. Instead he closed his eyes, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

  "Excuse me," he said, trying to shake the drowsiness that had come over him.

  "Tired?" she asked sympathetically.

  "A little. I had an eventful evening."

  Denise adjusted herself on the bed. "Well, I'm glad you came by. I wanted to thank you for what you did last night. You can't imagine how much it means to me."

  Sergeant Huddle nodded as if he'd been in similar situations before.

  "You're welcome. That's my job, though. Besides, I have a little girl of my own, and if it had been her, I would have wanted everyone within a fifty-mile radius to drop what they were doing to help find her. You couldn't have dragged me away last night."

  From his tone, Denise didn't doubt him.

  "So," she asked, "you have a little girl?"

  "Yeah, I do. Her birthday was last Monday. Just turned five. It's a good age."

  "They're all good ages, at least that's what I've learned. What's her name?"

  "Campbell. Like the soup. It's Kim's--my wife's--maiden name."

  "Is she your only child?"

  "So far. But in a couple of months she won't be."

  "Oh, congratulations. Boy or girl?"

  "Don't know yet. We'll be surprised, just like we were with Campbell."

  She nodded, closing her eyes for a moment. Sergeant Huddle bounced the folder against his leg, then rose to leave.

  "Well, I should be going. You probably need some rest."

  Though she suspected he was speaking more for himself, Denise sat up higher in the bed. "Well . . . um . . . before you go--can I ask you a couple of questions about last night? With all the commotion then and everything this morning, I really haven't learned what went on. At least, not from the horse's mouth."

  "Sure. Ask away."

  "How were you able to . . . I mean, it was so dark and with the storm . . ." She paused, trying to find the right words.

  "You mean, how did we find him?" Sergeant Huddle offered.

  She nodded.

  He glanced at Kyle, who was still playing with an airplane in the corner.

  "Well, I'd like to say it was all skill and training, but it wasn't. We got lucky. Damn lucky. He could have been out there for days--it's that dense in the swamp. For a while there, we had no idea which way he'd gone, but Taylor sort of figured that Kyle would follow the wind and keep the lightning behind him. Sure enough, he was right."

  He nodded toward Kyle with a look like that of a father after his son hits the game-winning home run, then went on. "You've got one tough boy there, Miss Holton. His being okay had more to do with him than any of us. Most kids--hell, every kid I know--would have been terrified, but your little boy wasn't. It's pretty amazing."

  Denise's brow furrowed as she thought about what he'd just told her.

  "Wait--was that Taylor McAden?"

  "Yeah, the guy who found you." He reached up and scratched his jaw. "Actually, he was the one who found both of you, if you want to get right down to it. He found Kyle in a duck blind, and Kyle wouldn't let go of him until we got him to the hospital. Clamped on to him like a crab claw."

  "Taylor McAden found Kyle? But I thought you did."

  Sergeant Huddle picked up his trooper hat off the end of the bed. "No, it wasn't me, but you can bet it wasn't because I wasn't trying. It's just that Taylor seemed to have a bead on him all night, don't ask me how."

  Sergeant Huddle seemed lost in thought. From where she was lying, Denise could see the bags under his eyes. He looked drawn, as if he wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed.

  "Well . . . thank you anyway. Without you, Kyle probably wouldn't be here."

  "No problem. I love a happy ending, and I'm glad we had one."

  After saying good-bye, Sergeant Huddle slipped out the door. As the door closed behind him, Denise looked upward, toward the ceiling, without really seeing it.

  Taylor McAden? Judy McAden?

  She couldn't believe the coincidence, but then again, everything that happened last night had fluke written all over it. The storm, the deer, the seat belt over her lap but not her shoulder (she'd never done that before and wouldn't do it again, that was for sure), Kyle wandering away while Denise was unconscious and unable to stop him . . . Everything.

  Including the McAdens.

  One here for support, the other one finding her car. One who knew her mother long ago and one who ended up locating Kyle.

  Coincidence? Fate?

  Something else?

  Later that afternoon, with the help of a nurse and the local telephone directory, Denise wrote out individual thank-you notes to Carl and Judy, as well as a general note (addressed in care of the fire department) to everyone involved in the search.

  Last, she wrote out her note to Taylor McAden, and as she did so, she couldn't help but wonder about him.

  Chapter 10

  Three days after the accident and successful search for Kyle Holton, Taylor McAden walked beneath the marlstone archway that served as an entrance and made his way to the headstone in Cypress Park Cemetery, the oldest cemetery in Edenton. He knew exactly where he was going, and he cut across the lawn, weaving around memorials. Some were so ancient that two centuries of rain had smoothed away nearly all the writing on the stones, and he could remember times he'd stopped to try to decipher them. It was, he soon realized, impossible.

  Today, though, Taylor paid them little attention as he moved steadily beneath a cloudy sky, stopping only when he reached the shade of a giant willow tree. Here, on the west side of the cemetery, the marker he'd come to see stood twelve inches high. It was an otherwise nondescript granite block, inscribed simply on the upper face.

  Grass had grown tall around the sides but was otherwise well tended. Directly in front of it, in a small tube set into the ground, was a bouquet of dried carnations. He didn't have to count them to know how many there were, nor did he wonder who had left them.

  His mother had left eleven of them, one for every year of their marriage. She left them every May, on their anniversary, as she had for the past twenty-seven years. In all that time she'd never told Taylor about leaving them, and Taylor had never mentioned that he already knew. He was content to let her have her secret, if by doing so he could keep his own.

  Unlike his mother, Taylor didn't visit the grave on his parents' anniversary. That was her day, the day they'd pledged their love in front of family and friends. Instead Taylor visited in June, on the day his father died. That was the day he'd never forget.

  As usual, he was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved workshirt. He'd come directly from a project he'd been working on, slipping away during the lunch break, and parts of his shirt were neatly tacked to his chest and back. No one had asked where he was going, and he hadn't bothered to explain. It was no one's business but his own.

  Taylor bent and started to pull the longer blades of grass along the sides, twisting them around his hand to get a better grip and snapping them off to make them level with the surrounding lawn. He took his time, giving his mind a chance to clear, leveling all four sides. When finished, he ran his finger over the polished granite. The words were simple:

  Mason Thomas McAden

  Loving father and husband

  1936-1972

  Year by year, visit by visit, Taylor had grown older; he was now the same age his father was when he'd passed away. He'd changed from a frightened young boy to the man he was today. His memory of his father, however, had ended abruptly on that last dreadful day. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't picture what his father would look like if he were still alive. In Taylor's mind, his father would always be thirty-six. Never younger, never
older--selective memory made that clear. And so, of course, did the photo.

  Taylor closed his eyes, waiting for the image to come. He didn't need to carry the photo with him to know exactly how it looked.

  It still sat on the fireplace mantel in the living room. He'd seen it every day for the past twenty-seven years.

  The photo had been taken a week before the accident, on a warm June morning right outside their home. In the picture his father was stepping off the back porch, fishing pole in hand, on his way to the Chowan River. Though he wasn't visible, Taylor remembered that he had been trailing behind his father, still in the house collecting his lures, scrambling to find everything he needed. His mother had been hiding behind the truck, and when she had called his father's name, Mason had turned and she'd unexpectedly snapped the picture. The film had been sent away to be developed, and because of that, it hadn't been destroyed with the other photos. Judy didn't pick it up until after the funeral and had cried while looking at it, then slipped it into her purse. To others it wasn't anything special--his father walking in midstride, hair uncombed, a stain on the buttoned shirt he was wearing--but to Taylor it had captured the very essence of his father. It was there, that irrepressible spirit that defined the man he was, and that was the reason it had affected his mother so. It was in his expression, the gleam of his eye, the jaunty yet keenly alert pose.

  A month after his father had died, Taylor had sneaked it out of her purse and fallen asleep while holding it. His mother had come in, found the photo pressed into his small hands, his fingers curled tightly around it. The photo itself was smudged with tears. The following day she'd taken the negative in to have a copy made, and Taylor glued four Popsicle sticks to a discarded piece of glass and mounted the photo. In all these years he'd never considered changing the frame.

  Thirty-six.

  His father seemed so young in the picture. His face was lean and youthful, his eyes and forehead showing only the faintest outlines of wrinkles that would never have the chance to deepen. Why, then, did his father seem so much older than Taylor felt right now? His father had seemed so . . . wise, so sure of himself, so brave. In the eyes of his nine-year-old son, he was a man of mythic proportion, a man who understood life and could explain nearly everything. Was it because he'd lived more deeply? Had his life been defined by broader, more exceptional experiences? Or was his impression simply the product of a young boy's feelings for his father, including the last moment they'd been together?