Evelyn reached for the older landline phone on the desk. “I’ve got a dial tone.”
“Call 911. Let them know the area along Amish Road was hit and to send everything available. Then phone the Criminal Investigation Division on post. Talk to Colby Voss. Tell him the Amish need help.”
“Colby would tell you to stay put, Frank. You’re still on convalescent leave.”
Ignoring her concern for his well-being, Frank patted his leg for Duke to follow him upstairs.
Another close call. Was God trying to get his attention? A verse from scripture floated through his mind, Come back to me.
In the kitchen, Frank yanked his CID jacket from the closet and grabbed leather work gloves he kept nearby. Pushing through the back door, he stopped short and pulled in a sharp breath at what he saw—a different kind of war zone from what he’d experienced in Afghanistan, but equally as devastating.
The tornado had left a trail of destruction that had narrowly missed his sister’s house. He searched for the Amish farmhouses that stretched along the horizon. Few had been spared. Most were broken piles of rubble, as if a giant had crushed them underfoot.
A sickening dread spread over him. The noise earlier had been deafening. Now an eerie quiet filled the late Georgia afternoon. No time to lament. People could be trapped in the wreckage.
“Come on, boy.” Frank quickly picked his way among the broken branches and headed for the path that led through the woods. He ignored the ache in his hip, a reminder of the IED explosion and the building that had collapsed on top of him. Thankfully, a team of orthopedic surgeons had gotten him back on his feet. A fractured pelvis, broken ribs and a cracked femur had been insignificant compared with those who hadn’t made it out alive.
Still weak from the infection that had been a life-threatening complication following surgery, Frank pushed forward, knowing others needed help. Skirting areas where the tornado had twisted giant trees like pickup sticks, he checked his cell en route and shook his head with regret at the lack of coverage.
At the foot of the hill, he donned his leather work gloves and raced toward the Amish Craft Shoppe. A brother and sister in their teens usually manned the store.
“Call out if you can hear me,” he shouted as he threw aside boards scattered across the walkway leading to the front porch. “Where are you?” he demanded. “Answer me.”
Duke sniffed at his side.
“Can you hear me?” he called again and again. The lack of response made him fear the worst and drove him to dig through the fallen timbers even more frantically.
An Amish man and woman tumbled from a farmhouse across the street. Their home had lost its roof and a supporting side wall.
The bearded man wore a blue shirt and dark trousers, held up with suspenders. Dirt smudged his face and his cheek was scraped.
“The store was closed today,” he shouted, waving his hands to get Frank’s attention. “The youth are at a neighboring farm.”
“You’re sure?” Frank was unwilling to give up the search if anyone was still inside.
The man glanced at the woman wearing a typical Amish dress and apron.
“Jah, that is right,” she said, nodding in agreement.
“What about your family?” Frank called. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Thanks to God, we are unharmed, but our neighbors are in need.” The man pointed to the next farmhouse and the gaping hole where the wall and roof had been. He and his wife ran to offer aid.
Before Frank could follow, he glanced at the nearby barn. The corner of one wall remained standing, precariously poised over a pile of rubble. At that moment, the cloud cover broke, and the sun’s reflection bounced off a piece of metal buried in the wreckage.
Something chrome, like the bumper of a car. The Amish didn’t drive automobiles, but a traveler passing by could have been seeking shelter from the storm.
He raced to the barn and dug through the debris. “Shout if you can hear me.”
A woman moaned.
“Where are you?” Frank strained to hear more.
All too well, he knew the terror of being buried. His heart lodged in his throat as the memories of Afghanistan played through his mind.
Duke pawed at a pile of timber, his nose sniffing the broken beams and fractured wood.
He barked.
“Help.”
Working like a madman, Frank tossed aside boards piled one upon the other until he uncovered a portion of the car. The passenger door hung open. Shoving fallen beams aside, he leaned into the vehicle’s interior.
A woman stared up at him.
“Are you hurt?”
She didn’t respond.
Hematoma on her left temple. Cuts and abrasions. She was probably in shock.
“Can you move your hands and feet?”
She nodded.
“Stay put, ma’am, until the EMTs arrive. You could have internal injuries.”
She reached for his hand and struggled to untangle herself from the wreckage.
“You shouldn’t move, ma’am.”
“I need help.” She was determined to crawl from the car.
“Take it slow.” Frank had no choice but to assist her to her feet. She was tall and slender with untamed hair the color of autumn leaves. She teetered for a moment and then stepped into his arms.
He clutched her close and warmed to her embrace. “You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“But—”
She glanced over her shoulder. He followed her gaze, his eyes focusing on a second woman.
Black hair. Ashen face. A bloodstained jacket lay wadded in a ball at her waist.
Pulling back the covering, Frank groaned. Her injury hadn’t been caused by the storm.
She’d taken a bullet to the gut.
Where were the emergency response teams?
Police, fire, EMTs?
Frank removed his belt and wove it under the victim’s slender waist. Determined to keep her alive, he cinched the makeshift tourniquet around the rolled-up jacket to maintain pressure and hopefully stop the flow of precious blood she was losing much too fast.
He
