21
Chelsea stood at the hospital entrance, staring out the glass at the circular driveway, hoping to spot the lights of her taxi as it drove in. It was night again, and she had spent the whole day in the hospital, being examined and medicated and questioned over and over by a steady stream of strangers. Now she was desperate to get away from this place.
She was wearing the same shorts and tank top she’d had on when the ambulance had brought her here in the morning, but a few minutes ago she had gone into the hospital gift shop and bought a blue sweatshirt that said UNIVERSITY AT BUFFALO MEDICAL SCHOOL. She had felt chilled, and also had a psychological urge to bundle herself up. The sweatshirt had been the only piece of clothing for sale that was for adults. It had occurred to her that if they’d sold pajamas to replace the gowns they gave you, the store would have gotten rich.
Today had been one of the worst days of her life. Every-thing said or done to her for the whole day since she had awakened to the sight of doctors had been prying and horrible. Anybody who had walked into her room had felt free to ask her all about the most personal aspects of her life—things that nobody had ever asked her, even her mother. And because she had been delivered to the hospital unconscious and helpless, they all acted as though she had to answer every question. The second policewoman had been the worst, because she kept asking a question and then supplying her own answer to it, so Chelsea had to keep correcting her answers.
Finally, a little while ago, she had pressed her own -question—when am I free to leave? She had asked it so many times in so many ways that she was sure the hospital staff had simply run out of ways of evading her. At last she had made them come in with a set of papers for her to sign in a dozen places. Even then she’d had to wait until an orderly arrived with a wheelchair to wheel her out to the door.
She had gone to the volunteer at the information desk to ask her for help getting a taxi. The volunteer was an older woman with white hair and a blue rinse who kept looking at her in a disapproving way. She had demanded to know why Chelsea didn’t have a family member or a friend to drive her home.
Chelsea said, “Because I don’t. I choose not to.” The woman had reluctantly lifted the telephone receiver and set it on the counter where Chelsea could reach it.
Chelsea dialed the operator and asked for the number of a taxi company. That had triggered a cheerful female machine voice that was more human than the old lady in front of her, reciting a phone number. Chelsea dialed it and said she wanted a cab to take her from the hospital to Avon right away.
The man with a foreign accent sounded as though he was on a speakerphone in the middle of a hurricane. She’d told him what she wanted again, but she wasn’t sure that he had understood her, and now, as time went on, she wasn’t sure whether what he’d said to her was yes.
Chelsea had been waiting for a long time, watching through the glass for a cab to come up into the circular driveway. She was aware that the woman at the information desk was staring at her and feeling delighted that the cab had not come. Chelsea raised her eyes to focus on the reflection of the woman in the glass, and verified that she was staring.
Chelsea pushed open the glass door and stepped out into the night air. It tasted fresh, and it was much warmer than the air-conditioned hospital had been. She wondered whether she had needed the sweatshirt or not, but admitted to herself that part of the reason she had bought it was that she had felt vulnerable and half-undressed in the shorts, tank top, and flip-flops.
She was glad to be outside. She walked out farther from the entrance and along the circular drive to the street. She couldn’t see a taxicab waiting where she might have missed it. She hadn’t had much hope for that anyway. When a cab came to a hospital it must pull up close to the entrance, and not make sick people walk far. She noticed a bus stop on the street only a few yards past the circle, though. That would be her last resort if she couldn’t get a cab, she decided. Then she remembered that she hadn’t seen a bus go by on the street in all the time she’d been waiting. Maybe they didn’t run this late. Maybe she should just call another cab company.
Chelsea turned and started back up the sidewalk toward the hospital entrance. It occurred to her that at this hour the emergency room probably had the most patients. She could go to that entrance and wait. Somebody might show up in a taxi too hurt or intoxicated to drive, or about to give birth. The cab driver would be delighted to get another passenger to take away from here.
There was the sound of tires squealing as a vehicle pulled onto the traffic circle behind her. She turned to look over her shoulder, but the vehicle wasn’t a cab. It was a big red pickup truck, and it skidded to a stop beside her.
“Chelsea!”
She stopped and stared at the truck’s open side window. The driver was Dave Wilkins, one of the men who had worked with Nick, and beside him was another, Ron Gerard.
Wilkins smiled. “Come on. Get in.”
“What are you two doing here?” Chelsea said.
Gerard leaned toward her across Wilkins. “We came to see you.”
Wilkins pushed him back. “Shut up,” he hissed.
Chelsea knew she hadn’t been meant to hear that. “It’s almost midnight. Visiting hours end at nine.”
Wilkins said, “We just heard they’d taken you to the hospital, so we figured you’d be in the emergency room. It took a while to find out you weren’t, and then find out you’d been admitted, and then that you’d just left. You’re lucky we found you. Come on. We’ll give you a ride back.”
“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.
“Yes.” Chelsea looked away from her, and a tear streaked down her cheek. “They said I was drugged.”
“Gamma-hydroxybutyrate.”
“GHB,” Chelsea said. “Of course I’d heard of it. They even warned us about it in health class, but I never thought it would happen to me. And the one who did it, I never . . .” her voice trailed off.
“You didn’t think he’d do that,” Jane said. “Don’t blame yourself for that. None of this is your fault. What he did was a crime.”
“There was a female cop in there trying to get me to accuse him of rape. But when I asked her about what other evidence they’ve got, she went kind of vague on me. There was more of the drug in his house, and that’s illegal, but it doesn’t stay in your system long, so that’s a problem. And it all just feels so overwhelming right now.”
“I understand.”
Chelsea didn’t seem to hear her, just kept talking. “My boyfriend got killed right in front of me two months ago. I loved him. He wasn’t perfect, but I loved him. Have you ever seen anybody shot through the head?”
“I’m afraid I have,” Jane said. “It’s better not to think about it all the time, so don’t. Let it fade. When it comes back to you, remind yourself that it’s the quickest, and one of the most painless, ways to die.”
“Right now I just can’t face any more of this.”
“You’re a strong young woman who has about eighty percent of her life ahead of her. Good things will happen.”
“Would you press charges if you were me?” Chelsea asked.
Jane said, “If the police officer advised you to do it, she thinks they could get a conviction. They don’t like to waste their time. But it would be an ordeal for you. I think they have his supply of GHB, and assuming the doctors have used a rape kit, there will be proof that you had sex with him. I don’t know whether I would cooperate on the charges or not. I think I would, but it’s up to you what you want to do. Did you love him?”
“I tried, but I couldn’t feel love for him. I was grateful to him for being nice to me, and I felt so alone. But for days I’ve been feeling like I made a terrible mistake, and wondering how to tell him.”
“What do you want to do now?”
“I want to go home, but I can’t. I’m scared to death of those two guys, and I’m even more afraid of him. He’s not the way he seems at all. He sent them to take me.”