Read Online 045147211X by Denise Swanson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Denise Swanson
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dived down to the bottom. Thankfully, the water’s buoyancy made it relatively easy to bring the person to the surface. Getting them out of the pool was an entirely different matter.
Although she was ninety-nine percent certain there was no one else around, Skye screamed for help. She continued to shout as she moved the drowning victim toward the ladder and used the strap of her goggles to secure the individual to the step.
Climbing out of the water, Skye lay down with her head and shoulders over the pool edge, hooked one leg through the ladder railing for leverage, and untied the fastenings. Finally, inch by painful inch, she hauled the person up onto the concrete apron.
She was grateful she’d started lifting weights in the home gym Wally had installed in one of the extra bedrooms. She still didn’t have much upper-body strength—she’d barely passed her last lifeguard recertification test. But two or three months ago she would have never been able to boost someone out of the water without the aid of a shepherd’s crook, a rescue tube, or a backboard.
Heck! Before the weight training, she was lucky to get herself up the metal rungs, let alone someone else.
Turning the casualty over, Skye squeezed her eyes shut. It was Blair. Considering the Miata parked outside, she’d known there was a good chance it might be the science teacher, but she’d purposely stopped herself from contemplating the drowning victim’s identity.
Giving the person a name made the situation too real. And if it was real, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done. Because if she thought too much about what was happening, it might immobilize her.
Struggling to stay calm, Skye pretended this was just a routine training exercise and Blair was a CPR manikin. She immediately checked the teacher’s throat for blockage, then pinched her nose shut and blew into her mouth while she watched to see if Blair’s chest rose. When there was no movement, Skye readjusted the woman’s head so that the chin was pointing upward and tried the rescue breaths again. The chest still didn’t rise, so Skye started compressions.
The movies and television made it seem that a drowning victim should be turned on his or her side to get the water from their lungs. But in reality, CPR was more effective, and the chest compressions would also pump out the fluid.
Skye wasn’t sure how long she tried to resuscitate Blair, but after what seemed like forever, she had to admit that the teacher was dead. There was nothing Skye could do to bring her back. She needed to inform the powers that be, starting with her husband.
Having discovered bodies before—too many timesfor comfort—she knew the drill. But instead of moving, she heard herself whimper and realized she was perilously close to a total breakdown. This was no time to lose it. She dug her fingernails into her upper thigh, and the sharp pain shocked her back into focus.
She didn’t have the luxury of giving in to her feelings. She had to notify the authorities and then contact Homer. She glanced at the wall clock. It was 6:36. The staff would begin to arrive in less than forty-five minutes and the students half an hour after that. Decisions had to be made. If the school was going to be closed for the day, the parents and the bus company had to be alerted sooner rather than later.
But Skye remained kneeling beside Blair, a voice inside her head whispering that she’d just had a fight with this woman the day before. Her last thoughts about the teacher had been hateful ones. The queasiness returned, and her stomach roiled. Suddenly, she gagged.
Stop it, Skye ordered herself. You are not only a consultant for the police department, but you’re a psychologist. You’ve been taught to remain unemotional, to dissociate yourself from the situation, and to disconnect your emotions. She swallowed hard, got to her feet, and thought about the measures she needed to take.
First, get her cell
Although she was ninety-nine percent certain there was no one else around, Skye screamed for help. She continued to shout as she moved the drowning victim toward the ladder and used the strap of her goggles to secure the individual to the step.
Climbing out of the water, Skye lay down with her head and shoulders over the pool edge, hooked one leg through the ladder railing for leverage, and untied the fastenings. Finally, inch by painful inch, she hauled the person up onto the concrete apron.
She was grateful she’d started lifting weights in the home gym Wally had installed in one of the extra bedrooms. She still didn’t have much upper-body strength—she’d barely passed her last lifeguard recertification test. But two or three months ago she would have never been able to boost someone out of the water without the aid of a shepherd’s crook, a rescue tube, or a backboard.
Heck! Before the weight training, she was lucky to get herself up the metal rungs, let alone someone else.
Turning the casualty over, Skye squeezed her eyes shut. It was Blair. Considering the Miata parked outside, she’d known there was a good chance it might be the science teacher, but she’d purposely stopped herself from contemplating the drowning victim’s identity.
Giving the person a name made the situation too real. And if it was real, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done. Because if she thought too much about what was happening, it might immobilize her.
Struggling to stay calm, Skye pretended this was just a routine training exercise and Blair was a CPR manikin. She immediately checked the teacher’s throat for blockage, then pinched her nose shut and blew into her mouth while she watched to see if Blair’s chest rose. When there was no movement, Skye readjusted the woman’s head so that the chin was pointing upward and tried the rescue breaths again. The chest still didn’t rise, so Skye started compressions.
The movies and television made it seem that a drowning victim should be turned on his or her side to get the water from their lungs. But in reality, CPR was more effective, and the chest compressions would also pump out the fluid.
Skye wasn’t sure how long she tried to resuscitate Blair, but after what seemed like forever, she had to admit that the teacher was dead. There was nothing Skye could do to bring her back. She needed to inform the powers that be, starting with her husband.
Having discovered bodies before—too many timesfor comfort—she knew the drill. But instead of moving, she heard herself whimper and realized she was perilously close to a total breakdown. This was no time to lose it. She dug her fingernails into her upper thigh, and the sharp pain shocked her back into focus.
She didn’t have the luxury of giving in to her feelings. She had to notify the authorities and then contact Homer. She glanced at the wall clock. It was 6:36. The staff would begin to arrive in less than forty-five minutes and the students half an hour after that. Decisions had to be made. If the school was going to be closed for the day, the parents and the bus company had to be alerted sooner rather than later.
But Skye remained kneeling beside Blair, a voice inside her head whispering that she’d just had a fight with this woman the day before. Her last thoughts about the teacher had been hateful ones. The queasiness returned, and her stomach roiled. Suddenly, she gagged.
Stop it, Skye ordered herself. You are not only a consultant for the police department, but you’re a psychologist. You’ve been taught to remain unemotional, to dissociate yourself from the situation, and to disconnect your emotions. She swallowed hard, got to her feet, and thought about the measures she needed to take.
First, get her cell
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