Lucy took a few deep breaths and banished all negative thoughts from her mind. There was nothing but her breath, the pond, and the panting dog leaning against her leg. She felt the warmth of the dog’s shoulder against her thigh, and savored it. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, feeling the delicious heat. Then she opened them and saw something in the patch of reeds that shouldn’t be there. Something pink.
Maybe it was just a bit of clothing, something that had gotten caught in the reeds. She studied the ice, which looked thick enough to support a single person, but she knew these early freezes could be deceptive and she didn’t dare trust it. She needed to get closer to investigate that blob of bright pink, and she knew there was a narrow, hidden path occasionally used by trout fishermen in the spring. Now, however, after a summer’s worth of growth it was going to be tough going and she didn’t want to struggle with the dog as she battled her way through the thick underbrush, so she tied Libby to a tree. “Stay!” she added for good measure, then began making her way along the peninsula, pushing branches out of her way and scrambling over rocks until she was blocked by a thick curtain of leafless hanging vines that she suspected was poison ivy. She couldn’t go any farther but was close enough to get a good look.
A bit of hot pink fleece, she realized, and more. Pink fleece and long blond hair. She gasped, her hand flew to her mouth. Oh, no. She reached for her cell phone, fumbling with the zipper on the pocket, and dialed 9-1-1.
As soon as the dispatcher assured her that help was on the way, Lucy made a second call, to her boss at the Pennysaver, Ted Stillings. She was a part-time reporter, feature writer, and copy editor at the weekly paper, and knew she’d stumbled onto a big story. And it was deadline day, too, which made it breaking news.
“A woman in the pond?” asked Ted. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know,” replied Lucy.
“And you’re sure she’s dead?”
“Not sure, but I think it’s pretty likely,” said Lucy, her voice tight with dread. “I couldn’t get close enough for a good look. She’s too far out from the shore and I sure wasn’t going out there. The ice is too thin and the same thing would happen to me—I’d fall right through. I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a risky thing.”
“Well, stick with it, Lucy. Deadline’s not until noon and I may be able to get more time from the printer. I’ll get right on that.” He paused, then added, “Get as many pictures as you can, okay?”
“Okay,” promised Lucy, ending the call and making her way back through the brush to the logging road.
She’d no sooner got there when Libby announced the arrival of the first responders. Her loud yips and enthusiastic jumps threatened to snap the leash that kept her fastened to the tree. Lucy untied her but held tight to the leash, watching as the town’s special brush-breaking truck lumbered into view. The regular fire trucks were much too big to negotiate the old, uneven dirt logging road so the rescuers had taken the smaller truck that was equipped to fight forest fires. The truck was towing a trailer carrying an inflatable boat used for water and ice rescues, and an ambulance followed close behind, lurching from side to side as the driver attempted to avoid boulders and potholes.
“Where’s the victim?” asked Jim Carstairs as he leaped out of the truck.
“Out there,” said Lucy, pointing to the reedy patch.
“We’ll need to use the inflatable,” he said, spotting the bit of hot pink fleece in the distance.
Lucy watched as two firefighters, apparently the youngest and fittest members of the crew, suited up in bright orange protective suits while the others unloaded the inflatable from the trailer and carried it to the shore. The guys in the orange suits fastened toggle straps that connected their suits to the inflatable, then began pushing the inflatable out onto the ice. They didn’t get too far before the ice gave way and one man plunged into waist deep water. Then they both got into the inflatable and began using oars to propel the craft through the mix of ice and water.
“I’ve never seen one of these ice rescues,” said Lucy, speaking to Jim, who as captain was supervising the operation. “It looks really difficult . . . and risky, too.”
“We train for them every year,” he replied. “The guys know what they’re doing.”
“Any chance that the victim is alive?” she asked, watching as the two firemen struggled to lift the woman’s body into the inflatable.
“Doubtful,” said Carstairs, striding toward the crew members who had remained on the shore and blowing a whistle—the signal for them to begin pulling on the rope connected to the inflatable, bringing the victim and crew safely to shore.
Lucy snapped photos of the operation with her smartphone, noting that the victim remained motionless, showing no signs of life, and the crew members were subdued. The rescue operation had become a recovery.
When the inflatable reached the shore, an EMT examined the victim, then stepped away, shaking her head. Lucy found herself drawing closer for a better look and was shocked to see the victim was a beautiful young woman, dressed for a run in a pink fleece and black tights. Her long blond hair, which blew gently in the breeze, was held by a jaunty pink knitted headband and an earbud
