Page 126 of Axe-identally Married
My heart was pounding in my ears as I drove into town.God, please let him be okay.
Deciding to start at the rink, I headed past town hall and down Route 16. When I pulled off into the dimly lit parking lot, I held my breath. Immediately, his Tahoe came into view, where it was parked sideways, taking up two spots.
I pulled up, cut my engine, and jumped out.
What the hell?
Cole was in the driver’s seat, slumped across the center console, unconscious.
Hands trembling, I tore the driver’s side door open and reached across his body to feel for a pulse.
Okay, strong pulse. Good sign.
And then the smell hit me.
Alcohol.
Heart racing, I scanned the interior. Quickly, I discovered two empty bottles of whiskey on the floorboard and another, this one unopened, in his cupholder.
What was going on?
“Cole,” I said, shaking him. By the way his body was contorted, he hadn’t just fallen asleep.
“Cole.” I shouted, grabbing his shoulders forcefully and pushing him with all my might.
One of his eyes opened, and I shook him even harder.
I needed to get him out of the car and examine him.
Just as I was trying to figure out how to maneuver his giant shoulders out the door, sirens wailed in the distance.
“Cole,” I said, pulling him onto the cold ground and silently thanking him and my own determination for the strength I’d built over the last few months. The jostling and the cold asphalt were enough to rouse him, thank God, and give me access to examine him fully.
As the sirens got louder, I peered over my shoulder. Had someone called 911? It wasn’t a bad idea. Who knew what could have happened to him.
The police and fire trucks were pulling into the parking lot when another odor hit me. A terrible smell that made my nostrils burn, like gasoline and chemicals.
I waved, hoping to get their attention, but they passed by and didn’t stop until they’d pulled up to the side of the building. I straightened and took off for the emergency vehicles. It wasn’tuntil I was a few yards away that I noticed a massive hole in the side of the building and the Zamboni on its side in the embankment of snow by the parking lot, with shorting lights and sparking wires and hoses and valves leaking and spraying icy chemicals in every direction. Oh my God. What had happened?
“Ma’am,” a voice called out. “Please step back.”
The man was decked out in turnout gear, so it took a moment to recognize him as Matt Graves, whose kids were my patients.
“It’s Dr. Savard,” I said, shoving my freezing, shaking hands into my pockets. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Dunno. But we need to secure the scene. Please step back.”
With a nod, I spun, eager to get back to Cole. As the Tahoe came into sight, my heart stopped.
Chief Souza and his deputies were standing next to the vehicle. I took off, slipping on the ice but catching myself before I fell.
The chief stood over Cole, who was slumped against the driver’s side of the Tahoe, his hands on his belt and a look of pure pleasure on his face.
“Oh boy,” he said to Office Fielder. “Take photos. Do you see all those bottles?”
He tapped Cole’s leg with the toe of his boot and shook his head. “My, my. What kind of shit have you gotten yourself into now, boy?”
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping directly in front of Cole—who was awake but clearly not lucid—and forcing Chief Souza to take a step back.
