Double Take
Page 4
His words made sudden sense to her. With all her remaining strength, Julia grabbed his wet collar. “Please, please, not the hospital, please not the paramedics, no doctors, oh God, please, Cheney—”
“Look, Julia, you’re—”
“I’ll die if you take me to a hospital.”
It was the utter certainty in her voice that stopped him cold. He flipped off his cell. “All right, no hospital. What, then? Where do you live?”
He realized she was afraid to tell him. He saw some tourists standing a few feet away, looking toward them, speaking among themselves. “This is just great. I save your butt and you’re scared to tell me where you live. Will you at least tell me your last name, Julia?”
She started to shake her head but it was simply too much trouble. She whispered, “Julia ... Jones.”
“Oh yeah, like I’m going to believe that one. Give me your address or I’m driving you right over to San Francisco General.”
She gave him her address. Deadening fear settled inside her, jagged and hard. Her jaw throbbed, and sharp licks of pain suddenly leaped to life in every part of her body. But there was his coat— “I hope I don’t ruin your lovely jacket. This is very fine wool.”
“Like your leather jacket, it’s been through the wars.”
Cheney began the long trek back to the entrance of Pier 39, her wet leather jacket over the top of his coat. He shook her every once in a while and said each time, “Don’t go to sleep. I mean it.”
He thought she said she wasn’t stupid, but couldn’t be sure.
CHAPTER 3
Most stores on the pier were closed and dark, and tourists were thin on the ground. A woman with two children in tow asked if he needed assistance.
“No, I’ve got things under control. Thank you.”
“That’s nice of her,” Julia said, nodding at the woman, who was staring after them. Cheney grunted. He was wet and cold, his feet squishing in his nicely polished leather boots. Her head lolled on his shoulder.
“Wake up!”
“Yeah, okay,” but her voice was slurred. “Why isn’t your coat wet?”
“I was bright enough to toss it, my gun, my wallet, and my cell on the pier before I jumped in after you.”
After ten minutes of hassle with the parking garage attendant, which included trying to get Cheney to go back to Pier 39 to get his ticket validated so he wouldn’t have to pay the huge parking fee himself, he navigated over to Lombard, left up Fillmore, then right on Broadway until she said, “It’s that one, there, on the left, no lights on.” He pulled into the driveway of a mansion—no other way to refer to the incredibly beautiful three-story brick house with tall thick bushes enclosing it on both sides. He could make out ivy climbing the pale brick walls. He parked in the empty triple driveway, a marvel in San Francisco, where trying to find a parking place to pick up your dry cleaning could make a saint go postal. Cheney was sure the views from all the windows were to die for.
“Nice digs,” he said.
He’d been talking nonstop to her, no, more at her, really, but she’d occasionally murmur an answer so he knew she was hanging on. His car heater had been blasting full force and he wondered why his wet clothes weren’t steaming by now. He knew his bringing her home was absurd. Well, if she needed medical help, he knew a doctor who owed him a favor. He’d never forget Dillon Savich telling him at Quantico that it was always smart to have a physician in your debt because you simply never knew when you’d need to call in the marker. Now was probably the time. She was shivering violently, despite his coat, despite the incredible heat from the heater.
“Your purse,” he said. “You don’t have it.”
“I didn’t have a purse. My house keys were in my pocket wrapped in a twenty-dollar bill.”
He felt inside both pockets of her wet leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled wet Kleenex. “No keys. How am I going to get you inside your house?”
He saw she was trying to figure this out. He waited, then asked her again. “I’m thinking,” she said, and she sounded unsure. That worried him and he wondered what Dr. Ben Vrees was doing this fine Thursday evening on his houseboat in Sausalito.
He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her, hard.
“How do I get in, Julia?”
She said, without pause, “There’s a key beneath the pansies at the bottom of the second pot by the front door.”
“Oh, wow, what a great hiding place,” and he rolled his eyes.
“Look, Julia, you’re—”
“I’ll die if you take me to a hospital.”
It was the utter certainty in her voice that stopped him cold. He flipped off his cell. “All right, no hospital. What, then? Where do you live?”
He realized she was afraid to tell him. He saw some tourists standing a few feet away, looking toward them, speaking among themselves. “This is just great. I save your butt and you’re scared to tell me where you live. Will you at least tell me your last name, Julia?”
She started to shake her head but it was simply too much trouble. She whispered, “Julia ... Jones.”
“Oh yeah, like I’m going to believe that one. Give me your address or I’m driving you right over to San Francisco General.”
She gave him her address. Deadening fear settled inside her, jagged and hard. Her jaw throbbed, and sharp licks of pain suddenly leaped to life in every part of her body. But there was his coat— “I hope I don’t ruin your lovely jacket. This is very fine wool.”
“Like your leather jacket, it’s been through the wars.”
Cheney began the long trek back to the entrance of Pier 39, her wet leather jacket over the top of his coat. He shook her every once in a while and said each time, “Don’t go to sleep. I mean it.”
He thought she said she wasn’t stupid, but couldn’t be sure.
CHAPTER 3
Most stores on the pier were closed and dark, and tourists were thin on the ground. A woman with two children in tow asked if he needed assistance.
“No, I’ve got things under control. Thank you.”
“That’s nice of her,” Julia said, nodding at the woman, who was staring after them. Cheney grunted. He was wet and cold, his feet squishing in his nicely polished leather boots. Her head lolled on his shoulder.
“Wake up!”
“Yeah, okay,” but her voice was slurred. “Why isn’t your coat wet?”
“I was bright enough to toss it, my gun, my wallet, and my cell on the pier before I jumped in after you.”
After ten minutes of hassle with the parking garage attendant, which included trying to get Cheney to go back to Pier 39 to get his ticket validated so he wouldn’t have to pay the huge parking fee himself, he navigated over to Lombard, left up Fillmore, then right on Broadway until she said, “It’s that one, there, on the left, no lights on.” He pulled into the driveway of a mansion—no other way to refer to the incredibly beautiful three-story brick house with tall thick bushes enclosing it on both sides. He could make out ivy climbing the pale brick walls. He parked in the empty triple driveway, a marvel in San Francisco, where trying to find a parking place to pick up your dry cleaning could make a saint go postal. Cheney was sure the views from all the windows were to die for.
“Nice digs,” he said.
He’d been talking nonstop to her, no, more at her, really, but she’d occasionally murmur an answer so he knew she was hanging on. His car heater had been blasting full force and he wondered why his wet clothes weren’t steaming by now. He knew his bringing her home was absurd. Well, if she needed medical help, he knew a doctor who owed him a favor. He’d never forget Dillon Savich telling him at Quantico that it was always smart to have a physician in your debt because you simply never knew when you’d need to call in the marker. Now was probably the time. She was shivering violently, despite his coat, despite the incredible heat from the heater.
“Your purse,” he said. “You don’t have it.”
“I didn’t have a purse. My house keys were in my pocket wrapped in a twenty-dollar bill.”
He felt inside both pockets of her wet leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled wet Kleenex. “No keys. How am I going to get you inside your house?”
He saw she was trying to figure this out. He waited, then asked her again. “I’m thinking,” she said, and she sounded unsure. That worried him and he wondered what Dr. Ben Vrees was doing this fine Thursday evening on his houseboat in Sausalito.
He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her, hard.
“How do I get in, Julia?”
She said, without pause, “There’s a key beneath the pansies at the bottom of the second pot by the front door.”
“Oh, wow, what a great hiding place,” and he rolled his eyes.
