A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(86)

“Back where?”

Gerard leaned across Wilkins again. “To Dan’s.”

“I don’t want to go to Dan’s house,” she said.

Wilkins elbowed Gerard. “To your house, then. Whatever.”

Chelsea hadn’t had time to sort out all of her impressions, but if these men knew she’d been taken from Dan Crane’s house, then Crane must have told them—sent them to get her. The policewomen had told her Dan Crane had been arrested. What could he want now? She felt a deep uneasiness growing in her. “No, thanks. I’ve already called somebody. They’ll be here in a minute.”

The two men both swiveled their heads to look around them. There were no other cars in the circle or near it. The only other person seemed to be a lone woman in blue scrubs walking up the sidewalk toward the hospital entrance carrying a black canvas shoulder bag.

“Your ride doesn’t seem to have made it,” said Wilkins.

Gerard was impatient. “Come on, Chelsea. It’s late. We drove all the way here just to give you a ride.”

“He told you to come and get me, didn’t he?” she said.

“Come on,” said Wilkins. “Get in. We can’t sit here all night. We can talk on the way.”

“No, thanks,” she said. She backed away from the curb and resumed her walk toward the building.

Gerard opened his door, jumped to the pavement, and hurried around the front of the truck to step in front of her. He held his arms out from his sides to block her path. “Hold it,” he said.

“Leave me alone,” Chelsea said.

She tried to sidestep Gerard, and then to run, but his arms encircled her from behind and lifted her off her feet. He took a step toward the truck with her.

At that moment the tall, dark-haired woman in hospital scrubs reached them. She shrugged the bag off her shoulder and delivered a fast right jab over Chelsea’s shoulder into Gerard’s face.

He pushed Chelsea aside and lunged toward the woman, but she had anticipated his move. She dodged his charge and delivered a practiced combination of four punches to his face and head. He kept his head low, wheeled around and tried to tackle her, but in the instant when he pushed off toward her she sidestepped, swatted his arm down and away from her, stepped into his wake, and pushed with both hands to increase his momentum and direct him onto the driveway in front of the truck.

Wilkins had begun to coast forward to keep abreast of Gerard and Chelsea. Now he jerked the truck to a stop too late to avoid hitting Gerard from the side. Gerard sprawled on the pavement, the wind knocked out of him by the grille.

Wilkins set the brake, flung open his door, and started to get out. But as he swung his legs out, the woman kicked the door so it swung into his right leg, then hit him in the face as he tried again to get out. She bent low to snatch the strap of her black bag off the ground and swung the bag at him as he cleared the car door. He caught the bag in both hands and looked elated for a moment, but she had not released the strap or stopped moving. She stepped past him, looped the strap over his head, and yanked it hard from behind. The strap choked him and pulled him backward off balance long enough for her to get her forearm around his neck and grasp her wrist with her other hand.

She squeezed hard as he bucked and struggled and clawed at her arms, but she had stopped the flow of blood through the carotid arteries to his brain, and in few more seconds he had lost consciousness. She dropped him at her feet, slipped the strap of her bag off his neck, and looked for Gerard.

Gerard, lying on the pavement in front of the truck, seemed to be catching his breath. He sat up and held his ribs where the truck had hit him. He saw the woman come toward the front of the truck and retreated across the driveway. “Stay back,” he said. “I’m suing you and your hospital.”

“Just go,” Chelsea said. “Both of you.”

Wilkins was now conscious. He sat up with difficulty, and then grasped the door handle of his truck to pull himself to his feet. He opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Hey, Chelsea,” said Gerard. “You think Dan is going to let you put him in prison? See you soon.”

“Shut up,” Wilkins said as Gerard climbed in beside him. He put the car in gear and drove around the circle too fast, and then off down the street.

Chelsea stood on the circle looking at the street. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”

The woman in scrubs stepped close to her and put her arm around her. Chelsea turned to the woman. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here. They were going to take me. I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t stop them.”

The woman said, “You’re Chelsea Schnell.” It wasn’t a question.

“You know me? I don’t remember you.”

“I’m not surprised. My name is Jane. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” said Chelsea automatically.

“Really?”

“No. I don’t feel great.”

She said, “I’d better give you a ride. Let’s walk. My car is down the street and around the first corner.” They began to walk together down the driveway and then along the street away from the hospital.

“I assume the doctors explained what happened to you?” the woman said.