12

TY SIMPLY COULDN’T BE WRONG. “According to the blueprints, the locker room is in the middle of the school, behind the administrative area.” Ty glanced at the excavator operator, the small group of searchers—the Marshall family, the PEAK team, Shae, Audrey, and a few parents along with Spenser—all wearing gloves and hard hats, and bearing flashlights and shovels. “Our best guess is that they headed there. It’s an inside room, and maybe they took cover in the shower stalls.”

Garrett had somehow procured a copy of the recent remodeling blueprints of the school, and Ty had spent much of the early morning scouring them.

Not that he could sleep, anyway. “You can’t rescue everyone.”

Maybe not, but he could try.

He had nearly leaped in front of Brette this morning as she dragged her bag downstairs just in time for her ride to show up. Yesterday’s raven-haired girl and her boyfriend, riding shotgun in the front of their Toyota Highlander. The man got out and tossed Brette’s bag in the back.

Ty had wanted to run out then, beg her not to give up—on herself. On them.

Apparently, he could be very, very wrong. Because when she’d kissed him in the parking lot at the hospital, he practically had them to the altar. At the very least, she’d ignited inside him all the reasons why he’d done the right thing in not giving up on her.

“Faith hurts too much.”

Indeed.

“Can’t you see that it’s time to give up?”

Yep. He’d let those words fortify him, turn him away from the door, stop him from raising his hand in farewell.

But it didn’t prevent the ache from digging into his chest and squeezing.

At the first dent of light, Ian came downstairs with an update on the equipment. Then Garrett and Jenny, who’d whipped up a batch of pancakes, put on coffee.

Ty had assembled an excavation plan by the time the rest joined them.

Now, he surveyed the building as he sipped the last of his coffee. He prayed that his hunch wasn’t just desperation, or a need to be in control. Thank you for that, Brette.

“The roof is still intact over the weight room, so if we can clear away the debris near the door, we can get inside. The locker room area has some damage, but we can’t get to the debris without getting a crane in here, so we’ll have to do our best to cut through the weight room. Watch for broken glass, and although the electricity is still out, there’s jagged wire and plenty of razor-sharp metal.”

He turned to the drivers of the excavator and the bulldozer. “I’m going to send a team with you, just in case we find something while you’re taking away the debris. Be careful.”

He glanced at Garrett, who met his eyes with a grim expression. “Let’s go.”

Garrett, Spenser, Jonas, Ned, and Gage headed inside, Ty behind them, leaving Ian to supervise the heavy machinery.

The school reeked of old milk, dirt, and decaying cement, arid and cold. Jonas and Ned cleared away the clutter of chairs in the hallway as Spenser led them toward the back of the building. Light glinted through the expansive gymnasium. Boards were ripped up and scattered into the hallway, flags from past championship wins lay tattered, and another trophy case spilled glass and achievements across the cement floor.

Ty held his phone, checking the photo of the blueprint. “To the right.”

Twisted, galvanized metal blocked the path to the locker room, but a small office off the hallway—perhaps the athletics office—led through to the weight room, albeit once the wood, cement, desks, filing cabinets, Sheetrock, and ceiling tiles were cleared away.

The group stepped up without a word and began to dismantle the mess. Outside, the engines on the equipment fired up, ricocheting the noise through the hallways.

Behind it all, Ty thought he heard a dog barking. Maybe just wishful thinking, but he clung to it.

They pried off Sheetrock, lifted the heavy filing cabinet from the room, and moved a metal desk. “We’ll need a chainsaw for some of these wall joists,” Garrett said. “They’re too heavy for us to lift. I have one in my truck.”

“I’ll get it,” Ty said and headed back down the hallway.

Outside, the excavators had begun to sift through the pileup of cars along the far edge of the school. The oldest part of the building, it now contained the theater. Or what remained of it.

As Shae, Jenny, and some of the other parents searched the cars, Kacey and Ian led the team that eyeballed the debris before it was extracted.

Ty headed to Garrett’s truck. Footsteps behind him made him turn—Gage ran up. “We need a crowbar too.”

Ty took down the tailgate and climbed onto the bed, then opened the box in back and dug out the chainsaw and a crowbar. He handed both to Gage, who took off for the building.

Ty jumped down, noticed Chet standing nearby, hanging up from a cell call. He came over. “Pete said he’s sending over some volunteers.”

Ty just stared at him.

“He’s trying to help, Ty. Don’t throw it away.”

“Of course not,” Ty said. He shook his head. “I just thought he thought . . . well, I know my hunches aren’t that popular—”

“Your hunch saved my life,” Chet said.

Ty frowned.

“After we crashed, you knew the storm was coming. You had a gut feeling about which direction to hike . . . I put every last smidgen of faith in your hunch, Ty, and you brought us home.” Chet pocketed his phone. “Of course, I did my fair share of praying for those two days.”

“I didn’t leave because I had a hunch. I left . . . I left because I was afraid you were going to die.”

“I nearly did.”

“Yeah, but . . . listening to you . . .” Ty blew out a breath. “Truth is, I was probably more coward than brave. I just couldn’t listen to you suffer. Not if I could do something about it.”

“There will come a day when you can do nothing for me. You’ll be helpless. You’ll have to stand there while I suffer. And then what are you going to do, Ty?”

Maybe she’d been right in leaving. Because maybe he wasn’t the hero he hoped to be.

Truth was, he so feared the world falling apart underneath him, he simply refused to let it happen. “I call it being a bully.”

Maybe, but he called it fear.

Fear of the storm. Fear of what could happen. Fear of collapsing in the snow, or worse, watching the people he loved die in his arms.

In fact, perhaps he lived in dread more than Brette. At least she had the courage to acknowledge it.

He spent his life dodging it. Controlling it.

Refusing to admit that most of the time, he just hoped he was enough to face whatever lay ahead.

Chet was still talking. “That’s why I knew we’d make it—I had faith in you. Because you don’t give up. You keep fighting—from staying sober every day to not letting that busted knee stop you. You’ve got what it takes, son. That’s why I keep holding out hope that someday you’ll get back in that chopper.”

“You do?”

“You’re a born pilot, Ty. You have the ability to think clearly under pressure, good instincts—yeah, you belong on this team, and even more, in the cockpit.”

Heat filled his chest.

“You belong on this team.”

“Let’s just find these kids,” he managed.

It could have been a good day.

“Give me the map, for Pete’s sake!” Brette leaned up between the seats of the Highlander—Nixon’s parents’ car, a loaner for this round of storm chasing.

Nixon sat with his computer on his lap, trying to read the amoeba writhing on the screen, overlaid upon a grid of the area. He examined it as if it might hold the hidden secrets of the universe.

She only wanted a tornado.

Brette smoothed the map out on her lap, then folded it so she could study the section.

They could practically see to Des Moines. The prairie was dry, brown, and dismal save for the mushroom of gray clouds. One in particular had puffed up and exploded outward from the congestion of clouds, its underside darkened and menacing.

They’d been following the radar for hours, taking back roads and highways, then back to gravel. Driven through two rainstorms—the forward scouts of the storm. Punched through to the other side to find an anvil Cu hovering, a cloud with a flat bottom and top, leveled by the higher atmosphere winds.

And still, no hook, no churning.

No drop.

The air smelled of rain, and somewhere at the base of the storm, in the distance, lightning flickered. “I’m hot, hungry, and I think I stink,” Geena said. “We’d better get some action soon or I’m finding a Dairy Queen.”

“I think we’re about a hundred miles southwest of Des Moines,” Brette said.

“Just tell us if there’s a road between here and that storm,” Nixon snapped.

“I hate the word rerouting,” Geena said, pulling over. “I’m not driving one more mile until we know if we’re heading in the right direction.”

“The right direction is directly toward that big black cloud,” Nixon said, not looking up from the computer.

Probably he was right. They could simply keep moving through the farm fields, working their way west, closing in on the bank of clouds.

Rain began to spit on the Highlander, a light spray from an overhead renegade, just a toddler compared to the massive front moving east.

“Okay, I think we’re coming up to a farm road. If we take it north, it should intersect a county road that’ll drive us right into the core.”

“I hate getting wet,” Geena said but put the car into drive. “We shouldn’t have done this without Jonas.”

“I can figure this out, Gee,” Nixon said, and Brette heard restraint in his voice. “I’ve been doing this with Jonas for years.”

“It’s different with Jonas,” Geena said. “He knows weather. Can read the clouds.” She braked as she came up to the road. “You are an excellent videographer, but you don’t know how to read the sky. Jonas can feel weather, it’s in his genes. No offense.”

Nixon said nothing, and Brette picked up her camera. From here, the storm looked immense but still unorganized, showers pinging the earth in dark patches.

The rain thickened.

Hail.

“Now we’re talkin’,” Nixon said, glancing back at Brette.

She white-knuckled her seat belt. Swallowed. Forced a smile.

Geena said nothing as they came up to the intersecting road. She turned right, pointed the Highlander at the storm, and hit the gas.

“The radar suggests something is forming, but—”

A branch skittered across the road, and Geena hit the brakes, scooted around it. “Are we heading into the core?”

Brette leaned forward, Jonas’s words on her lips. Do not punch the core.

“No. These are probably the RFDs—rear flank downdrafts. Just keep it steady.”

The heavy overlay darkened the road, and Geena flipped on her lights. Brette lifted the camera and shot pictures of the stray shafts of light punching through the layer of black like fingers from heaven.

More hail, thunder on the roof, and Geena eased up. “I can’t see. The wipers are going too fast.”

“Pull over,” Nixon said.

“No—we have to keep going!” Brette leaned forward. “Listen, we’ve been tracking this stupid storm for hours, and if all we get is a few storm clouds, then . . . we should be back at home, trying to find Creed.”

And there it was. The source of the churning of her gut. Why she hadn’t eaten at the last convenience store. Why the smell of Nixon’s sunflower seeds and Geena’s coffee turned her nauseous.

She shouldn’t have left.

She knew it even before Nixon had grabbed her duffel bag this morning. Knew it even before Ty left her room last night, his words radiating inside her. “You’re so scared that I will hurt you, that I might let you down, that you’ll run away, even if you don’t want to.”

She closed her eyes.

She just couldn’t live like Ty, with faith and hunches and the blind belief that everything would work out. God might have rescued him, but he hadn’t done a thing to save her.

Geena pulled over. “I can’t see anything. I think we need to ride it out.”

“The radar is frozen,” Nixon said.

Around them, the sky had turned a murky pea green, the fields almost black. Wind shook the car.

Geena reached out for Nixon’s hand.

Brette folded her hands on her lap and leaned her head into the seat.

“It’s behind us!”

Nixon’s voice raised her head, and she turned around.

There it was, out of the storm, dropping like a rope, a skinny side-winding funnel, white where the sun hit it.

It dropped right behind a farmhouse, in a field heading northeast, a hundred feet from the car.

Brette scooped up her camera and, without a moment to think, opened her door.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting the shot!”

The hail had stopped, but the rain pelleted her, slammed her against the car, soaked her through, icing her skin. She tried to focus the camera, but water bled down the lens.

The twister snaked, spiraling through the field, churning up the dirt.

And on the far side of the storm, the sky bled out into a pale, calm blue.

The roar of the funnel billowed up, but she snapped the shots, capturing the twister as it writhed across the field.

Then lightning flashed, a splinter from heaven with arms that crackled down and seared the earth.

“Please tell me you got that!” Geena said, opening her door.

“Yep.”

“Get in! We’ll go after it.”

Brette threw herself in the car, and Geena gunned the Highlander into a tight circle.

“Where’d it go?” Nixon peered out the windshield toward the funnel that was suddenly dissipating. “Are you kidding me?”

Brette watched, her heart sinking as the funnel twisted out into a thin curl and faded into the atmosphere.

He turned off his camera, dropped it on his lap. “Eight hours of driving for a three-minute funnel? And there’s probably hail damage to my dad’s car.”

“I can’t believe it dropped down behind us.” Geena met her eyes, but Brette couldn’t smile. She agreed with Nixon. They’d spent hours bracing themselves for a storm that barely materialized.

They drove past the farmhouse and spied a family emerging from a storm cellar in the front yard. A couple youngsters, their mother. Her husband, now surveying the damage to his field. The woman came up and took his hand. Brette turned to watch them.

It could have been much, much worse. But that was how it was—you saw the storm coming and hadn’t a clue how it might hit, how bad the damage might be, how you’d survive.

She settled back into the seat, checking her shot.

The water on her lens had flared out against the light of the storm, causing a rainbow effect into the receding tornado.

Or maybe the rainbow had been there and she hadn’t noticed it until now, because as they headed east, she glimpsed the faintest arch over the horizon.

“Can we get a sundae now?” Geena asked.

“Not quite yet, Gee,” Nixon said. He had pulled up his Doppler. “Look at this.”

Geena pulled over, and Brette leaned up.

“There’s another storm heading across South Dakota. We might be able to connect with it east of Sioux Falls, if we hurry.”

Geena collapsed her head back against the seat. “I just want some stinkin’ ice cream!”

But Brette’s gaze glued to the screen. “So, it’s heading straight east.”

“Well, it could deviate. But . . . yes.”

Brette ran her fingers across the screen. “Pan out.”

He widened the screen, and her finger continued until it hit . . . “Chester. If it doesn’t deviate, it’ll hit near Chester, maybe even dead-on.”

Silence.

“At this rate, it’ll hit in the night. Around midnight,” Nixon said.

“There won’t be any storm chasers to call in a funnel if it hits the ground,” Brette said.

“People will be in bed,” Geena added thinly.

Brette leaned back. “I’ll text Jonas.”

“Who is trying to find his brother.” Geena sat up, put the car into drive. “Is there any chance we could hit a drive-through?”

“We haven’t come this far to give up.” Ty said the words to himself twice before he uttered them to Garrett.

Grimy, strung out, and on edge, Garrett stared at the header beams of the weight room, now wedged against the locker room entrance. He looked like he’d like to hit something.

Likewise, Jonas stood not far away, finishing off the last of his water, his face streaked with sweat and cement dust. Four hours into the excavation and they’d managed to wedge open the door to the weight room, only to discover the roof had collapsed near the entrance to the hallway that led to the locker rooms.

Another two hours and they’d managed to dig a path to the door, which was blockaded by a web of steel girders.

“Will this help?”

Ty turned to see Pete picking his way through the rubble. He held what looked like a tire with hoses attached.

“It’s an airbag. I was thinking, maybe we just lift it and send someone in.”

Pete had arrived around lunchtime with food, water, and the local volunteer fire department. He’d helped the crew dig through the last of the debris, unearthing the girders.

“It’s an airbag jack. But it’ll lift three tons, so hopefully the girder mess isn’t more than that.”

He looked as grimy, as sleepless, as raw edged as the rest of them, and Ty tried to forgive him, even just a little.

Pete wedged the lift under the tangle of girders.

“Careful,” Ty said. “We don’t want it to fall and collapse the inner wall. There could be kids on the other side.”

Pete nodded, no animosity in his agreement. “We also have a stabilizer.” A young woman with blonde hair and wearing gloves and a T-shirt with the Red Cross logo brought over something that looked like a jack. Pete affixed it to the floor and tucked its U-shaped end into an arm on the girder.

“Katie, you work the stabilizer while I turn on the air hose.”

Pete had snaked out the hose to a compressed air tank. He now picked up a handheld gauge. “Stand back.”

He released the valve, and Katie worked the hydraulic pump as the bag filled. Garrett stepped back, casting his gaze overhead.

The girders creaked, something tore free, and cement crumbled to the ground. But the girder mass moved, a foot, then two, finally three feet off the ground, the maximum height.

Ty hit his knees. “I see the door on the other side. It’s open.”

Pete too knelt and grabbed his Maglite off his belt. Shined it in. “Hello! Anyone in there?”

Darkness echoed back, and the light pushed away nothing but emptiness.

“I’m going in,” Ty said. He reached for his own light, which was smaller but perfect to put in his mouth and hold there as he wiggled through.

“Ty—” Pete started, but Ty rounded on him.

“This is my rescue.”

Pete seemed to assess his words.

“Fine. Don’t get killed.” But something shifted in his eyes. A hint of friendship, perhaps, and Ty offered a quick, wry smile.

“If the wall comes down, don’t leave me to die,” Ty said.

“We’ll see.” But Pete grinned.

Ty hugged the rubble and noticed that Garrett had knelt next to him.

“Find them.”

Ty headed into the darkness, trying not to think of three tons—okay, probably less, but his brain had that number lodged inside—of steel above him as he struggled through, careful not to dislodge the precarious lift.

Please let it not crash down over me, crush me, paralyze—

He reached the door and slipped inside, his Maglite cresting through the hallway. The beam revealed two doors, both accessible. One to the men’s locker room, the other to the women’s. He got onto his knees and crawled toward the men’s entrance.

Not as demolished as he imagined it might be. He moved toward a trickling sound, his light casting over wet towels, shoes, soap, and other locker remnants. The beam spilled into the shower area. “Anybody here?”

Water puddled on the floor. He scrabbled farther into the room and cast the beam over the individual stalls. “Hello?”

He checked each stall, their tiles torn and spilled like teeth on the floor. Then he tunneled back out to the other side.

Please.

The women’s locker room fought his entry, something blocking the door. But he pushed the door halfway in and squeezed through. “Hello?”

This room had suffered more damage. A wall had crashed in from the weight room, and more litter had showered down from the ceiling. He panned his light across the room, over sheared lockers and shattered benches, finding the shower area.

Still intact.

And . . . oh no.

A leg. It protruded out of a shower stall, unmoving, the skin shiny as if old, the body still in death.

No, no. He scrambled over the benches and dumped out onto the floor.

He cast his light again toward the body, saw the feet, the odd angle of the legs, and he tried not to be ill. Still he pressed on. God, please.

He reached the stall and forced himself around the edge.

His heart snagged in his chest. He flicked the light over the body again, just to make sure.

A CPR mannequin. Full body, the kind students might practice on.

He leaned back against the wall, breathing hard.

Not a body. But still, the locker rooms . . . empty.

His entire body ached; he just wanted to sit here, listen to his heartbeat and wail.

He’d dragged everybody out here, made them all believe that he could find these kids . . .

“I just think you don’t like being helpless, so you keep reaching—”

“So, lying. Dreaming up a happy ending.”

Brette was right.

There were no miracles out there. No happy endings.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, hating the wetness there. How could he tell them that he’d found nothing? He worked his way out of the shower, over the wreckage in the locker room, and was just wedging himself into the hallway when Pete’s voice punched through.

“Ty—don’t come this way! The wall is collapsing!”

He dove back inside the locker room.

A blinding white pain streaked up his leg as his knee hit something hard—cement or a board—but he ignored it and curled into a ball just as the weight room wall collapsed inward. Cement chips, dust, and debris clogged his mouth, his nose. He lost his Maglite, and darkness fell.

Then everything went deadly silent.