"We have a woman in delivery at the South Hollens Outlet Mall," the 911 dispatcher informs us in a steady tone. "The manager of Pearl's consignment reports that the woman's water appears to have broken. She is in labor and is isolated in one of the fitting rooms."
Heather seizes the radio and barks. "Copy. EMS 420 is on its way. ETA six minutes or fewer."
My mind shifts to the possible scenarios we might be facing. Almost all births occur at the hospital these days, but in the unfortunate but unlikely case of a very speedy delivery, it might force one to deliver in unsterile conditions. With any luck, this woman won't be far enough along to require that.
We streak down the street, rain splattering the front window in fat droplets. The windshield wipers are working as fast as they can, but never seem to be able to keep up with the rain at the best of times. Heather is forced to swerve around an asshole who thought he could beat the sirens and get through the intersection before having to pull over.
South Hollens Outlet mall is positioned in one of the nicer parts of town. If any part of South Hollens could be considered nice. It's all a shithole and has been since most of our industries moved to Portland. The Spades and the Kings war over what's left and anywhere the lines cross, there's death. I've loaded too many of my buddies into the back of the rig for comfort. And with Trent on the warpath, I can only hope I won't be doing it again soon.
We screech to a stop before the main entrance, and I'm out before Heather has the vehicle in park. My boots pound the pavement as I retrieve what we'll need from the back. Spiraling red and blue lights stab the gloom as I round the rig, a pair of uniformed men waiting outside. I can't tell if they're mall cops or South Hollens PD. I sprint past them and through the automatic doors that lead into the building.
A wave of artificially cooled air makes me shiver as it hits my already soaked skin. A group of milling shoppers stares as I race past. I've been in this mall a few times with Cleo, shopping for clothes for Bryan. It's the one thing that seems to pull her back from the edge when she's in a funk.
My steps falter for just a second. No... surely not...
Heather catches up to me a minute later, pushing a stretcher ahead of her like a battering ram, clearing a path through the gawking onlookers. It's funny how everyone sticks their nose in when something like this occurs. Heather will have to hold the crowds back so the poor woman in the shop doesn't end up giving the crowd a free show. Nosy bastards.
Pearl's consignment shop is at the far end of the mall, just beyond an unstable-looking train ride for the kids that frequent the mall. The banner of the store is cotton candy pink and bears a rattle and pacifier at the end as a cutesy exclamation mark. The manager is waiting for us beneath the neon sign, hands fluttering around her face like pale butterflies. Her mousey hair has come loose from its knot atop her head.
"She's in fitting room one," she frets, hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Poor thing's water broke about ten minutes ago and we couldn't find a damn phone. Come with me, please."
She sweeps inside and I follow. Heather has a harder time navigating the close-packed racks that lead back to the fitting rooms. She parks it near the front counter and joins me. We'll transfer the woman with a backboard if need be.
A low, pained moan meets my ears as we approach. The first thing I see is a black flat dangle off a shapely foot. I follow it up the line of a shapely leg and note with growing anxiety that the tawny tone is familiar. She hikes a maxi dress up around thighs I've had daydreams about for months. By the time I reach her face, flushed and scrunched in pain, I already know who I'm about to see.
Cleo has her back braced against a shallow bench seat, hands clutching the ledge with white-knuckled intensity. Her eyes lock with mine and go wide with shock.
"Ryker--ahhh!"
She bends double, chin resting on her chest as her entire body convulses.
"Hang in there, Cleo," I say, smoothing a hand over her hair. It's unprofessional, but I can't help it. I don't know what else to do to ease her pain.
Heather pushes into the dressing room behind me and kneels down beside her.
"Hello there, Miss," she says in a soothing tone. "I'm sorry to ask this, but I need to check your progress. We have to determine whether we can get you to the hospital in time to deliver the neonate, or if this has to happen here."
Cleo's gaze flicks up to me, wide and panicked.
"I c-can't have him here," she sobs. "I need a hospital. An epidural!"
I slide a hand into hers and she clutches it so hard the tips of my fingers purple. "Cleo, you have to do what's safest for the baby. You can do that for Bryan, right?"
Her gaze meets mine again, tears swimming across the rich brown of her eyes. She squeezes again and nods once.
"For Bryan," she whispers.
Heather hikes up Cleo's dress and I look away. Though I have every excuse to look--it is my job, after all--I don't. If I ever get a glimpse at Cleo, I don't want it to be like this. Her embarrassment is palpable. She doesn't want me to see, so I don't look until Heather has whipped a drape over Cleo's knees. Her head disappears for a second as she assesses Cleo's condition. I wait, breath still in my chest for the verdict. Then come the words that make my heart stutter with an echo of the earlier panic.
"The baby is crowning. I'm sorry Miss, but there's no time to wait. We need to get your pelvis elevated, and you will need to push."
I free my hand long enough to shrug out of my jacket. It's not much, but its bulk should help. I fold it into squares and get an arm under Cleo, lifting her ass slightly off the ground so I can slide my jacket beneath her. She whimpers once in pain.
"Okay," Heather says, lifting her eyes to meet Cleo's. "Now I need you to push."
Cleo closes her eyes, her lip trembles in a way that makes my heart squeeze, and fresh tears dew on her lashes. Then she bears down.
And that's when the screaming begins.
