Page 19 of North

Please, Selah, be here…

The emergency-room doors of Cascade Medical in Leavenworth slid open with a hiss, and the wall of noise hit North like a physical blow. Phones rang at the information desk in the lobby jammed with people. Not a big place—it seemed about the size of a large northern lodge, with timber framing and an alpine feel. Not the kind of place to handle a train wreck, despite the relatively few cars on the Empire Builder. According to the report on the radio as North had driven through the mountains from Seattle, the entire train consisted of ten cars, plus a freight car, two locomotives, and a caboose. Two hundred plus passengers, including the crew.

And it seemed all two hundred had landed in this tiny nine-bed hospital.

People sat on the floor, some of them holding gauze to their heads, others simply curled up with backpacks or hospital blankets. A baby cried, the mother walking the corridor past the information desk to calm it.

Gurneys were pushed against the walls, a few people hooked up to IVs, and nurses shoved in and out of a large door that led to the ER area.

Despite the antiseptic setting, the odor of smoke and tragedy permeated everything. It mingled with the coppery tang of blood, with fear and sweat and something burning that might have been dinner in the cafeteria long, long ago.

North’s tactical watch read 12:17 a.m. His entire body ached, his eyes gritty. The little Sonic had done its best, but he’d crawled up the massive climbs into the mountains, and frankly, he might have been able to run here faster.

He headed to the front desk, stopping behind a younger man with a hand pressed to his gut. Seemed he’d already received medical help, because he wore a bandage on his forehead, taped up as if there might be stitches underneath.

North glanced around the room, his gaze falling on each person.

Ahead of him, the man asked about painkillers. Received a vague We’ll get to you answer. He sighed and moved away, and North filled his spot.

He pulled out his phone, thumb sliding over the screen to find her picture. Selah, laughing at something off camera, her head thrown back. He’d taken it in Mariposa, before everything went wrong. The sun had caught her hair, turning the blonde strands to gold, and her eyes…Oh, those eyes. They held something fierce and tender at once, could cause a storm in his heart and heal it, maybe both at the same time.

“Hi,” he said to the very tired woman at the desk, who looked at him with barely concealed impatience. “I’m looking for this woman.” He flashed her the picture. “Her name is Selah. Selah Silver. She was on the train.”

The woman gave him a grim look and turned to her computer. “What was her name again?”

“Selah.” He spelled it. Then, “Silver.”

She shook her head. “No one has registered under that name.”

“Is it possible she came in as a Jane Doe?” And the words, spilling out of his mouth, turned him sick, his gut a fist. Because then she would have been unconscious. Maybe unrecognizable. Maybe from a fire…

He put his hand on the desk, his knees buckling.

The woman rose. “Okay, sir, you need to sit down.”

He held up a hand. “I’m fine. Can I show this picture around to your staff?”

She pinched her mouth. “I’m sorry, sir. Look around. If she’s here, she’s being taken care of, I promise.” Her voice had softened at the end, but she flicked a glance past him.

He turned, spotted a couple local cops in the lobby. Right. The last thing he needed was trouble.

“Feel free to show the picture to anyone in the lobby,” she said.

He nodded and held up his phone, started around the room. “Has anyone seen this woman?” Most barely looked up, a few glanced at his phone, so many just shook their heads. It wasn’t a large room, so it didn’t take long.

He stood, staring at the ER door, debating⁠—

“North.”

He turned, and it took a second to place the man striding toward him. He hadn’t seen York Newgate since the craziness in Lauchtenland, when the Russian Bratva tried to deploy a dirty bomb over a football stadium as part of a bigger, tangled plot to drag America into a war.

York wore a canvas jacket, dark pants, boots, and fatigue on his face. His blond hair was dark with sweat, his face etched with the kind of exhaustion that came from hours of searching through wreckage for survivors.

“Tell me you found her.” The words scraped North’s throat.

York’s jaw tightened. “I arrived an hour ago. We’ve been through every admission. Every room. She’s not here.”

“Is she…how about…” His voice cracked.