Читать книгу Man Behind The Voice - Lisa Bingham - Страница 10

Jackson MacAllister groaned, his body pounding with a thousand aches, the worst of which seeming to center over his left eye. Inexplicably, his mind stumbled through a dense emotional fog, while his eyes stared at…

At what?

It took several long moments for Jack to realize that his face had been pressed into something soft. A balloon?

No.

An airbag.

In a sickening rush, he was inundated with memories. For most of the day, the weather had been cold, with the windchill factor causing temperatures to drop to well below freezing. Jack, who had been working with a filming crew near Estes Park, Colorado, had been eager to finish his assignment and begin the long drive to California.

With the road ahead of him and weeks of difficult stunt work behind him, Jack had been making good time out of the canyon. Traffic was sparse at eight in the evening. The weather had long since chased most of the skiers away.

Jack had been whistling softly to himself, enjoying the hot coffee he’d taken with him from the commissary and the soft music drifting from the speakers of his brand-new pickup truck. But then, Jack had topped the rise and taken a blind curve.

As soon as he focused on the scene awaiting him in the valley below, his good mood vanished. Silhouetted in the headlights of another car, he saw a three-car accident blocking the road in front of him.

Immediately, Jack’s instincts kicked in. Years of stunt driving for films made his actions second nature. He’d swiftly applied the truck’s antilock brakes, steering well away from the accident should he overshoot his mark. But just when he’d begun to believe he had the situation under control, the truck hit a patch of black ice and…

Jack winced, remembering the horrible screech of metal, the exploding whoosh of his air bag, the grinding explosive sound of his car colliding with the others. And then a scream.

A scream.

In an instant, his mind cleared and Jack was suddenly galvanized into action. Ignoring the aches and pains of his own body, he grappled with his door handle, all to no avail. The impact had dented the panel to a point where nothing short of the “Jaws of Life” would open it.

Reaching behind the bench seats of his pickup, he grasped a toolbox. Flinging open the lid, he removed a small metal awl. By placing the tip against the window and applying pressure…

Bam!

The pane shattered, spraying him with tiny chunks of glass. Tucking the awl and a small first-aid kit into the deep pocket of his jacket, Jack carefully slid through the aperture, assessing the scene that lay before him.

A delivery truck was evidently the first vehicle to hit the ice, skidding sideways across the road so that it was hit in turn by a large sedan, and then a smaller compact car.

Jack’s heart thudded painfully in his ears as he saw the damage his much larger vehicle had made to the tiny car. “Donormobiles” One-Eye Sullivan, Jack’s co-worker and friend, called the small compact cars. The diminutive vehicles were great on gas mileage and kind to the wallet, but in a high-impact crash they provided only a minor buffer between the driver and an oncoming car.

“Is everybody all right?” Jack shouted to a pair of figures who were beginning to emerge from the sedan.

“I think so,” an elderly gentleman called back.

Glancing behind him at the hill to ensure no other cars were about to hurtle toward them, Jack made a sweeping wave to the couple. “Get off the road and away from oncoming traffic.”

“What about the other drivers?”

“I’ll see what I can do. I need you to watch out for oncoming traffic and let me know me if you see any headlights approaching. That’s about the only warning we’ll get.”

“I’ll whistle at the first sign,” the white-haired gentleman said as he took his wife’s arm and hurried her toward the side of the road. “Come on, Martha. There’s a good girl. We’ll climb those rocks there so we’ll be out of the way.”

A movement from the direction of the delivery truck caught Jack’s attention.

“Are you all right?” he shouted to the driver.

The man was awkwardly cradling his arm against his chest, and even in the gleam of the headlights, he looked abnormally pale. Jack would bet the man had broken something during impact.

“Fine. Just a…bump.” He climbed from the driver’s seat and jumped to the ground, hissing in pain. In his good hand, he held a set of reflectors and a dozen flares. “I’ll just go mark the road to warn off any approaching cars. I’ve…” he sucked in his breath for a moment, waited, then continued “…I’ve called dispatch and…911. We should have some help here shortly. Go ahead and check that little car. I thought I heard…a scream.”

With a hiss, the first flare was lit, flooding the wreckage with a macabre reddish glow.

Movingly gingerly, Jack managed to crawl over the twisted wreckage of the compact car. To his horror, the wind shifted at that moment, bringing with it the overpowering scent of gasoline. Too late, Jack saw that a puddle of the liquid was forming beneath the mangled vehicle.

He opened his mouth to call to the driver, but the man was already halfway up the hill and there was no time to waste.

Scrambling to the far side of the car, Jack peered into the interior. The driver was slumped over the wheel, her long hair spilling around her shoulders. It was obvious from the condition of her own door that she had been attempting to get out of her car when Jack’s truck had veered out of control. If Jack had plowed into her a few seconds later…

Not wanting to think of the possibility, Jack rapped sharply on the passenger window.

To his relief, the woman moved, turning to gaze at him with wide-eyed confusion.

“I’ve got to get you out of there. Now. Are you pinned down in any way?”

She shook her head, then winced, gingerly touching her forehead where blood was pouring from a gash next to her hairline.

Jack yanked on the passenger door handle, to no avail.

“Cover your face with your arms. I’m going to break the window.”

As soon as she’d done as he asked, Jack angled his own head away, then pressed the tip of the awl against the window. Again, in a seeming explosion of glass, the window dissolved. Seconds later, he was reaching through to the woman in the car.

“Can you crawl out? Your gas tank is leaking and I’d feel safer if we could get you out of there as soon as possible.”

A wave of panic raced over her features, and as she stared at him wide-eyed, Jack noted that one of her deep blue eyes was slightly more dilated than the other. To a man who surrounded himself with carefully staged “accidents” as a living, he knew that it was a bad sign. Head injury.

“N-no. I’ve just got a bump.”

“Careful, then. We don’t know if you’ve injured your neck.”

“No. It doesn’t hurt.” She rolled as if to demonstrate. “It’s just my head. I banged it on the window frame.”

Inching onto her knees, she crawled over the gearshift. As soon as he was able to reach her, Jack slipped his hands beneath her arms to support her and gently lifted her from the car. But when she stumbled as he tried to set her upright, he swung her into his arms and held her against him like a child.

Her body was slight and slim, offering him no resistance—a fact that frightened him even more. She had tucked her head into the hollow of his neck. Against his own, her skin felt cool and clammy. He could see the color leeching from her face and knew she was going into shock.

Hurrying as quickly as he dared, Jack carried her well away from the scene of the accident. Laying her on a patch of bare, frozen grass, he ripped off his coat. After taking the first-aid kit from his pocket, he wadded the heavy down jacket into a ball and wedged it under her feet, elevating her legs as much as possible. Then, dragging his heavy sweater over his head, he knelt beside her, draping the wool over her torso.

“Y-you’ll be cold,” she whispered, her teeth already chattering from shock and the chill of the wind.

He shrugged, doing his best to pretend that wearing little more than a T-shirt in the gusting wind was no big deal.

“I’m fine. Right now, I’m more worried about you, Miss…”

She licked her lips, squinting up at him in the darkness. “Eleanor. Eleanor Rappaport.”

“Well, Eleanor. How’s the head?”

“Hurts.” She squeezed her eyes shut, blinked then opened them again. “I must have banged it on the side of the car when I tried to get out.” She frowned. “But then, I already told you that, didn’t I?”

Jack felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that it was because of his truck slamming into her that she’d been injured at all.

“Does anything else hurt?”

She shook her head. “I’m really…fine. Don’t know why…I feel so…shaky.”

He took her hand, squeezing it. “Don’t you worry. You’ve got a nasty goose egg beginning to swell over one eye. You’re bound to be a little woozy.”

Releasing her hand for just a moment, Jack tore open the first aid kit. Selecting a pre-moistened towelette, he swabbed the gash. To his relief he found that it probably wouldn’t require stitches.

Working as quickly as he could, he cleaned the area, then applied a thick gauze bandage. Then he touched her forehead again. She was cold. Cold, clammy and so very, very pale.

Her eyes suddenly opened. She blinked, squeezed them shut for a moment, then peered at him again.

“So blurry.”

Jack felt his mouth grow dry. “You can’t see?”

“I’m having trouble…focusing…on things.”

Since the fact evidently agitated her, he touched her cheek, then took her hand.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve probably got a concussion or something. A little rest and you’ll be fine.”

“You never…” she murmured, her voice faint and somehow fragile “…told me…your name.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Jackson. Jackson Mac—” He broke off, his head lifting. From far away he heard the faint wail of sirens.

“Hear that?” he said. “They’ve already sent someone to help. In no time at all, you’ll be safe and snug inside an ambulance.”

But when he searched her face for a sign of relief, he saw instead that she was gazing at him wide-eyed, a look of sheer horror spreading over her features.

“Jackson? Jackson!”

“Shhh,” he offered gently, calmly, even as his heart thudded in his ears and the wailing of the sirens grew louder and louder, scraping nerves already raw from the night’s events.

“I’m here, Eleanor,” he said, wondering if she were about to lose consciousness. Instead, as he bent low, he realized that her eyes were open, but they weren’t tracking him. She stared at him blankly, huge tears beginning to well up and spill down her cheeks.

“Jackson, I can’t see,” she cried, softly at first, then louder, the sobs tearing at his heart. “Jackson! I can’t see!”