Ill Wind by Nevada Barr Page A

Pull to the right. Pull to the right, please.” She repeated the command until the RV’s driver came out of his comatose state and began to slow, squeezing the oversized vehicle to the side of the road.
    “Damn. Just once I’d like to ride shotgun with a shotgun and permission to use it.”
    Stacy said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the road as he hunched over the wheel. Above the dark line of beard, his cheek was pale. Tension pulled his shoulders almost to ear level.
    Cliff Palace lot was full. They parked in a handicapped space near where the trail started down to the ruin and Anna called in: “Seven hundred, three-one-two, we’ve arrived on the scene.”
    Having taken the red trauma pack and an oxygen bottle from the trunk, she led the way down the crowded trail using “excuse me” the way a frustrated motorist uses the horn.
    As soon as they climbed the eight-foot ladder that brought them within the cliff dwelling, they saw the knot of people surrounding the sick child.
    On the periphery was Jamie Burke. The moment she noticed Anna and Stacy she marched toward them. They met halfway through the alcove and the interpreter started in: “It’s not like you weren’t warned, for God’s sake. Nobody listened. This time it’s a child. Solstice—”
    “Hold that thought, Jamie,” Anna cut her off. “I’ll get back with you this evening.” Dodging past the other women, she plowed through the tourists at a fast walk.
    Mesa Verde’s most famous cliff dwelling, Cliff Palace filled an alcove several hundred feet long. The dwelling itself was composed of two hundred and seventeen rooms, twenty-one kivas, and, at the far end, a four-story tower, the inside room of which boasted intact plaster with discernible paintings. The entrance to the tower was reachable only by ladder that led to a narrow path around yet another roofless kiva.
    In this congested part of the ruin was a frail-looking child. She strained for air with the rounded chest of those suffering chronic pulmonary disorders. Dark hair fell forward over her face, and stick-thin arms and legs poked out from beneath an oversized T-shirt. The child was propped in a sitting position against a stone wall built seven centuries before she was born. A man—probably her father—sat on the wall, one leg on either side, supporting her. A hand-lettered sign reading PLEASE DO NOT SIT OR CLIMB ON THE WALLS had tumbled to the path at the foot of the wooden ladder.
    The girl braced her hands on her knees and leaned forward. Tendons in her neck pulled like ropes with the effort of breathing, yet only squeaks of air were pushed out.
    Anna eased through the crowd and put down her gear. “Hi, I’m Anna,” she introduced herself as she removed a nasal cannula from the oxygen kit and fitted it to the cylinder. “What’s your name?” The girl hadn’t enough breath to spare for an answer.
    “Her name’s Stephanie,” the man seated on the wall answered for her. “Stephanie McFarland. She’s got asthma.”
    An ominous blue tint colored the skin around Stephanie’s lips and in her fingernail beds.
    “She was doing fine a bit ago, then she started feeling like she might throw up,” a thin-faced woman in her early thirties told Anna. “She’s been at altitude before and we’ve never had trouble like this. We’re from Denver. It’s nearly this high. Steph should be used to it. I’m her mom,” the woman finished in a whisper.
    “Well, Stephanie, we’re going to get you down to a doctor so you can breathe better, okay?” The girl nodded slightly, all her concentration taken by the effort of drawing and expelling air.
    “Meyers, hand me the—” Anna broke off as she looked over at Stacy.
    Clutching the red trauma bag to his chest as a frightened woman might clutch her baby, he stood at the edge of the circle of concerned onlookers. The blood had drained from his face and he was so pale Anna was afraid he was going to pass out.
    “Meyers!” she said