Their Child?: Lori's Little Secret / Which Child Is Mine? / Having The Best Man's Baby. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Eight

      In the shadowed candle and lantern-lit recesses beneath the clubhouse, a deep hush descended.

      From above, there was silence. Terrible. Total.

      The monster had moved on.

      Tucker sat on the bench that a few kind souls had vacated for him when he came down the stairs with Lori limp in his arms.

      She lay stretched out beside him, too pale and very still. Her bright head, matted with blood, rested in his lap. Someone had handed him a clean white bar towel. He pressed it to the wound on her temple, watching it slowly soak crimson, the dark stain spreading, absorbing the white.

      He told himself the flow was slowing. But he really wasn’t sure that was true.

      Brody stood beside the bench holding Lori’s limp hand. His young face was set, his mouth a bleak line. Lori’s mother and father and Lena, Dirk at her side, hovered a few feet away, all of them silent as the quiet from above.

      Someone nearby spoke into the hush. “It’s over…”

      And then, from aboveground, came a slow, painful creaking sound. Something fell with a shuddering crash.

      “Oh, sweet Lord,” a woman cried.

      “What was that?” a man demanded.

      No one answered him. Who the hell could say?

      Tate pulled a cell phone from his inside jacket pocket. He flipped it open and gave it a try. “No go,” he said. “That big boy must have knocked out a tower or two.” Tate turned to the club manager. “You got a land line down here?”

      Near the wall, where water had begun to trickle down from broken pipes above, one of the bridesmaids spoke up. “There’s one right here.” She took the receiver off the hook and put it to her ear. Then she shook her head. “Dead.”

      All around them, people were trying their cells—and getting nothing.

      Tate said, “Okay. Let’s check out our chances of digging out of here.”

      He chose a couple of able-bodied men to go with him up the stairs. The club’s manager and two of the wait staff went the opposite direction, headed for the outside entrance, an in-ground steel door, mounted in concrete, reached by an underground corridor that ran out about ten yards from the clubhouse.

      Tucker left them to it. Right then, all he cared about was the unmoving, blood-spattered woman in his arms. No way would he leave her side. He stared down at her still face and a word burst like a bright light into his stunned mind: doctor.

      Damn. What was wrong with him? A doctor should have been the first thing he asked for once they made it down those stairs. He glanced up. “Doc Flannigan. Where’s Doc Flannigan?”

      Lori’s dad, shell-shocked as the rest of them, visibly shook himself. “The doc. Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” Heck raised his voice to his best booming roar. “Doc! We need Doc Flannigan over here, now!”

      The word went out through the cellar’s warren of rooms.

      “Doc Flannigan.”

      “Anybody seen Dr. Flannigan?”

      “Doc Flannigan. They need him up front.”

      A couple of minutes later, the tall, white-haired gent eased his way through the crowd. When he reached the bench, his silver brows drew together. “Oh, my.” He handed his jacket to Brody. “I wonder, could you hold on to this for me, young man—and move back over there just a little?”

      With obvious reluctance, Brody laid his mother’s hand gently on her stomach, took the jacket and stepped back. Tucker watched him, thinking what a terrific kid he was. Ten years old and holding it together with a building collapsed on top of them and his mother out cold and covered in blood.

      “Thank you.” The doctor sent the boy an encouraging smile as he rolled up his sleeves. He turned to Tucker. “Is she breathing normally?”

      “Yeah, as far as I can see.”

      The doc said, patiently, “Son, with her head in your lap like that, there is some restriction of the airways…”

      Calling himself ten kinds of thoughtless idiot, Tucker carefully eased out from under her, guiding her head to the bench with a cautious hand, keeping steady, gentle pressure on the wound the whole time.

      The doctor moved closer. “Any other injuries—beyond this nasty head wound?”

      Tucker said, “I don’t think so. But stuff was flying all over up there. She might have a bruise or a cut or two.”

      “Nothing major, though—other than that gash on her head?”

      Tucker frowned. “It was wild up there. I can’t say for sure…”

      “Let’s have a look, why don’t we?” The doctor glanced over his shoulder. “Bring that lantern close. Someone get me some clean towels, please. And something to cover her.”

      The man with the lantern stepped up and held it high. Two women moved off—presumably in search of the towels and a blanket.

      Dr. Flannigan examined the angry, swelling gash. Yes, Tucker thought with a grim surge of triumph, the flow of blood really had slowed. Flannigan gently poked and prodded. He checked Lori’s pulse and lifted her eyelids, one and then the other.

      About then, Tate and the men returned from the stairs.

      “That exit’s blocked solid,” Tate said, scowling. “We’ll have a hell of a time digging out that way…”

      Molly, who’d been hanging back near the wall, stepped close to her husband and slid her hand in his. Tucker guessed, from the look on her face, that she was thinking of their babies, hoping they were safe with the nanny in the basement at the Double T. Tate lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss on the fingers twined so tightly with his.

      The two women returned with a stack of bar towels, what looked like neatly folded tablecloths—and a bowl of water.

      “Water,” said the doc. “Wonderful.”

      One of the women spoke up. “There’s a laundry room, down the hall. The sink faucet in there is still working.”

      “Excellent.” Flannigan wet a towel. “Let’s see if we can get a better look here…” He dabbed at the bloody mess over Lori’s eye.

      About then, the club manager elbowed his way toward them from the other direction.

      Tate said, “Well?”

      The manager actually dared a smile. “The outside exit is clear. We can get out, no problem. Plus, there are choppers overhead and we heard sirens. Help is definitely on the way.”

      The E.M.T.s came down the corridor from the outside exit to get Lori. They loaded her onto a stretcher, carried her out and put her in the ambulance. They were headed for Tate Memorial, the hospital that Ol’ Tuck had generously endowed. Memorial was big enough to have state-of-the-art machinery, its own E.R. and a surgeon with a solid handle on head trauma.

      Tucker insisted on riding in the ambulance.