by Merry Jones
‘We’ll get your clothes later. Tomorrow.’
Hank stood still, refusing to move. ‘Man.’
Man?
‘Pants. I. Man.’
Hank was refusing to go out in his underpants? Well, he was right. He was a man and deserved his dignity.
‘Hank, look.’ Harper opened the closet and pulled out his robe, trying not to act frantic. ‘It’s important that we leave now.’ She wrapped the robe around his shoulders. He looked like a heavyweight on his way to the ring. Rocky escaping from the Neurological Center. She led him to the door. ‘We’ll get your stuff later.’
‘Hoppa. What.’ He repeated her name, unable to articulate all his questions. But he followed. Slowly, limping, leaning on her, Hank made it to the wheelchair, and Harper whirled it around and shoved it toward the open door.
They were almost there when a tall, familiar-looking man with lopsided hair walked up, greeting them with a crooked, skinny smile.
‘Going somewhere?’ Steven Wyatt stepped in front of the door, blocking their way. Harper stepped back into the room. Wyatt made her uneasy. Especially after Anna reported what he’d said about her to Ron.
‘It’s awfully late for a stroll, don’t you think?’
‘Hank couldn’t sleep.’
Dr Wyatt sighed, eyeing the blood on her cheek, raising an eyebrow. ‘Forgive me for being blunt, Mrs Jennings. Didn’t you see Dr Kendall this evening?’
What? How did he know that? Obviously, Ron had told him. But why? And why had Wyatt mentioned that she’d been with Ron right in front of her husband? Harper’s neck got hot. She glanced down at Hank, saw the unmoving back of his head. He didn’t seem suspicious. Or at least the back of his head didn’t.
‘Ronald Kendall.’ Dr Wyatt repeated. ‘You met him earlier, did you not?’
‘Um.’ It was the best answer Harper could come up with. She wanted to run and began turning the wheelchair, hoping to get away before Wyatt could say more, but he stepped forward, still blocking the door.
‘The problem, Mrs Jennings, is that Dr Kendall is unaccounted for. He’s not here and doesn’t answer his cell. You saw him last. So. Where is he?’
What was she supposed to say? That Ron was out cold, his skull crushed on her hallway floor?
‘Maybe he’s busy.’ Maybe. If being in a coma or bleeding to death qualified as busy. She shrugged, tried an innocent smile, felt her lips quiver. ‘I’m not in charge of Dr Kendall’s schedule. Can you excuse us, Dr Wyatt?’
But Dr Wyatt didn’t excuse them. In fact, he moved closer, looming over Hank’s feet, smelling like peppermint. Like breath mints. Harper’s memory stirred, flashing to the Suspension Bridge, the man holding her over the edge, the terror of dangling. The scent of peppermint. Had it been Dr Wyatt? He was as tall as the mugger, but was he sturdy enough to lift her? Alarm bells rang out; she pictured Dr Wyatt in a hooded sweatshirt and ski mask.
‘Where is he, Mrs Jennings? Did you explain the numbers to him?’
Wait. Dr Wyatt knew about the numbers? Obviously, Ron had told him. Harper lost the smile, fumbled for an answer. ‘What numbers?’
‘Hoppa.’ Hank twisted to look up at her. ‘What?’ He worked on another word, but Dr Wyatt’s voice drowned out Hank’s.
‘We need to talk, Mrs Jennings.’
‘Sorry.’ Harper had no intention of staying there. ‘We’re on our way—’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘Not,’ Hank objected, raising an arm, pointing to the door. ‘Go. Now.’
‘Five minutes. That’s all.’ Dr Wyatt was long and lean, his face hollow, his limbs wiry like her assailant’s. In the struggle on the bridge, she’d dug her nails deep into the guy’s flesh. Subtly, she glanced at Dr Wyatt’s hands. One was in his pocket; the other hung by his side, facing away; she couldn’t see if either had deep scratches.
‘Hoppa?’ Hank was annoyed. ‘Now. Out go.’
‘OK. We’re going.’ But she didn’t move, couldn’t with Wyatt in the way.
Dr Wyatt leaned closer, lowering his voice. His warm peppermint breath hit her face, turned her stomach. ‘Mrs Jennings. I don’t care about blame or punishment. I simply want the drugs back. The Center needs them. Dr Kendall and I are under significant pressure to recover them. And I’m convinced you have information about where they are.’
‘I told Dr Kendall everything I know.’ Harper turned the wheelchair; Dr Wyatt stepped sideways, obstructing them.
‘Where is Dr Kendall?’ he growled. ‘And where are the missing drugs?’
Harper sized him up. Could she take him down?
‘You’d be wise to cooperate, Mrs Jennings.’
Really? He was threatening her? Harper’s nostrils flared. ‘Dr Wyatt. Can I see your arms?’
Wyatt blinked rapidly, his head tilted. ‘What?’
‘It was you, wasn’t it? On the Suspension Bridge—’
‘On the what? Mrs Jennings. Just tell me what I need to know.’ Dr Wyatt wheezed. He waited.
‘I don’t know anything.’
Wyatt sighed deeply. Watched the ceiling. Didn’t step out of the way. ‘You know, every doctor in the country considered your husband beyond hope, but our Center accepted him, because our experimental procedures could help him. When he came in, he could barely form a syllable. Now, after just a few weeks, he’s conducting basic conversations.’
‘What’s that got to do with the stolen drugs?’
‘Research, Mrs Jennings. It’s all about research. Our work is cutting edge. But no advances occur without risk. Wouldn’t it be a shame if, say, your husband’s case, which started out so promisingly, were to take a sudden, unfortunate turn?’
Harper met his eyes. ‘Dr Wyatt, I’m taking my husband home. You can’t touch him. Do not threaten us.’
The snaky smile wriggled across Dr Wyatt’s face. ‘I’m not threatening; I’m stating fact. If you take him away now, in the early stages of his course of treatment – who knows? He might revert to his former state. Or worse. You don’t want to terminate his care so abruptly. You need us.’
Glaring, Harper warned, ‘Get out of our way.’ She shoved the wheelchair forward, rolling it into Wyatt’s leg.
Dr Wyatt didn’t flinch; his voice was controlled, deep. ‘Tell me where the pills are.’
‘Or what?’ Harper blinked. ‘You’ll throw me off a bridge? Oh, wait – you already tried that.’
Dr Wyatt moved closer, his fist digging into his pocket. ‘Ron Kendall and I have disagreed all along on how to handle this situation, but make no mistake: our work and the Center must and will prevail. We will not let our efforts be eradicated by a few college kids and a paltry teaching assistant.’
‘Get out of the way—’
‘OK, Mrs Jennings. Go.’ Dr Wyatt’s tone feigned resignation. ‘But if more people get their hands on those drugs, the results will be on your shoulders. If they are taken in uncontrolled dosages, you can’t – you don’t want to imagine what will happen. You think a few deaths are upsetting? We could have hundreds of them. Mrs Jennings, we could have mayhem.’
Dr Wyatt glowered; his voice rumbled.
‘I’ve lost sleep over this, Mrs Jennings. I don’t have a shred more energy or patience. The Board delegated our committee to take care of this, but, frankly, I can’t rely on Kendall. He’s a philanderer, as you know, distracted by his libido.’
‘Hoppa?’ Oh God. Did Hank suspect?
‘And I suspect that same libido is what has led you here tonight, trying to remove your husband from the Center.’
‘Hoppa.’ Hank repeated.
‘No.’ She didn’t sound convincing, even to herself. ‘Ron Kendall has nothing to do with this—’
‘Hoppa.’ Hank insisted, waving, pointing to the door.
Finally, Dr Wyatt and then Harper turned to look. And froze.
Ron Kendall teetered in the doorway, holding an ice pack to his still bleeding head.
Wyatt gaped at him. ‘Mother of God, Kendall.�
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Harper stood, wordless and not moving. The man’s head was caked with crusting blood, and he could barely stand.
‘Help. Call.’ With his strong arm, Hank wheeled his chair to the side of the bed, reached for the call button.
‘Did you find the pills? What happened to you?’ Dr Wyatt sputtered.
Ron nodded toward Harper. ‘She . . . hit me.’
‘May I help you?’ The wall speaker squawked.
‘Blood. Help,’ Hank yelled. ‘Hurt. Now.’
‘No. It’s OK.’ Wyatt quickly contradicted Hank, his voice full of authority. ‘This is Dr Steven Wyatt. I have everything under control.’
‘Help,’ Hank argued.
‘Never mind. I have it.’ Dr Wyatt prevailed. ‘Thank you.’
‘No,’ Hank insisted, glaring into Wyatt’s eyes, but the call light was off; help was not to come.
‘OK, Kendall.’ Dr Wyatt put his arm around Ron, helping him to the easy chair. ‘Let’s think. Quickly. Before we get you treated, we have to agree on a story. What should we say?’
‘Say?’ Ron had no wind. His voice was faint.
Dr Wyatt helped him to the easy chair. ‘Problem is, if we tell them Mrs Jennings did this, they’ll investigate and the whole sorry situation – her role with the drugs, and the drugs’ role in the killings – all of it could come out.’ He lifted the ice pack and examined the wound on Ron’s head. ‘Christ. That’s quite a wound. She really clobbered you.’
Ron didn’t answer, looked dazed.
‘OK – how’s this? We’ll take you to the hospital. The ER. We’ll say you got mugged. Didn’t see the assailants. Random crime.’
Ron was covered with blood smears and sweat; his eyes were dull, his skin pasty. His breathing was ragged. ‘She knew. And uh . . . about the drugs . . . and uh, knew the dead kids.’
Wait. What?
His voice was faint. ‘She did it. All. Must have killed them.’
Wait. What was Ron saying? That Harper had killed her students? What? He was accusing her of murder?
‘Really?’ Dr Wyatt turned toward Harper, glowering. ‘Mrs Jennings? Well, no surprise. I always thought you were behind this—’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘Too late, Mrs Jennings. You know, two minutes ago, I might have been willing to forget about the deaths of your students in return for the drugs—’
‘You’re nuts.’ Harper was aghast.
‘But, frankly, you’re too dangerous a woman. Bashing in Ron’s head? Killing your students? You pose a major threat to all of us. And I’m tired. I need to clean up this mess.’
He stepped closer. Harper backed up, positioning her body to jab his gut and land a knee in his groin. She would have, too, if she hadn’t stumbled over a wheel of the hospital bed, tripping backwards on to the mattress. Dr Wyatt smiled his snake grin, grabbing her arm with one hand, removing a syringe from his pocket in the other. No scratches or gouges, Harper noticed as she kicked. The flesh of his lower arms was unmarked.
‘Wait.’ Ron’s voice was a weak rasp. ‘Wyatt—’
Squirming, off balance, Harper glanced at Ron, saw him struggling to stand, unsteadily dropping back on to the chair. Wyatt twisted her arm behind her back and stood over her; Harper swung her free hand, clawing, flailing to get free. But Wyatt was surprisingly strong, and his knee was lodged on her scarred thigh, his long fingers tightened above her elbow, holding firm. Harper wiggled, punched, yanked, bucked to no avail. Spring at him, she thought. Just arch and slam your head right into his face. But unable to get leverage, she lurched without momentum. As the needle touched her flesh, Harper stiffened her biceps, resisting, aware that she would be injected with something lethal, that she was about to die.
Hank, she thought. She needed his face, to see it one more time. She looked around, searching for him, finding his wheelchair, empty. Oh God. Hank? Where was he? She couldn’t die without seeing him. The tip of the needle pricked her arm, and she drew a deep breath, twisting her back, still fighting when, inexplicably, Dr Wyatt released her. His mouth flinched, his eyes fluttered and his body crumbled to the floor.
Harper scrambled up off the bed, staring. The syringe rolled slowly from Wyatt’s limp hand.
Dr Wyatt had almost killed her. But Hank – Hank had decked him?
Hank stood over Wyatt, rubbing the fist of his strong arm. ‘Now. Go,’ he urged. Just like that, as if it were no big deal. Hank had saved her life.
He stood off balance, his weight on his stronger leg, and Harper ran to him so fast that she almost knocked him over, hugging, holding on. Kisses peppered the top of her head, forehead and mouth. Then he reminded her, ‘Help. Now.’ He pointed to Ron, who had slipped backwards, half-conscious, muttering in the chair.
‘And uh . . . She stole the pills . . .’ Ron blithered. ‘And uh . . . must have killed them.’
‘He. Needs.’
Damn. They needed to move. Ron might bleed to death while she canoodled with Hank right in front of him. She hurried Hank back into his wheelchair. Wyatt stirred, regaining consciousness, his fingers groping the floor.
Where was the syringe? She saw it, kicked it under the bed, but realized that he probably had dozens more of them. Kneeling on her sore leg, she pushed him down and reached into his pocket, found a bunch of syringes, loose papers and prescription pads. Harper kept the needles but let the papers fall, pushing Hank’s chair to the door. They were almost out of the room when she stopped and turned.
On the floor beside Wyatt, among the contents of his pocket, were some scraps of paper. Including a tattered list of numbers, written in Graham Reynolds’ loopy scrawl.
Harper shook her head, trying to grasp what she saw. Wyatt had had the numbers all along? If so, it must have been Wyatt who’d knocked her out. Wyatt who’d taken the numbers from her bag. Wyatt who had killed Monique and Larry?
But that made no sense. Why would Wyatt kill to get the numbers if he didn’t know what they meant? Never mind. She didn’t need to understand his reasons. She needed to leave. Now.
Quickly, Harper scooped up the papers, stuffed them into her bag and raced down the hall with Hank in the wheelchair. This was no good. Hank wasn’t strong enough to take the stairs, but they had no time to wait for the elevator. Any second, someone would find Ron, and Wyatt would recover and say that she’d attacked Ron and stolen drugs and murdered her students. In seconds, security and half the clinic staff would be chasing them. No, she and Hank had to get out of sight, fast. But where? And how?
Harper looked up and down the hall and, watching over her shoulder, she swerved suddenly, aiming the chair into a room directly opposite the elevators.
The man on the bed was unconscious; he wouldn’t mind if they hung out there for a bit. Dumping the syringes into the trash, she picked up his phone and made her almost routine phone call: 911.
It would take a while for police to arrive. Meantime, Harper kept her eyes on the hallway and the elevator. Commotion rumbled in and around Hank’s room; apparently, Ron and Dr Wyatt had been discovered. An orderly ran by, pushing a gurney. Two security officers rushed down the hall, a phalanx of nurses behind them. Hank sat alert, silent, watching the elevators. When the doors opened to let someone out, he pointed, and Harper dashed, shoving the wheelchair out the door, across the hall, into the car, where she punched the button for the first floor. Finally, she let herself exhale. In a few seconds, they’d be in the lobby. Then out the front door, on to the Ninja – somehow, she’d get Hank on to it – and they’d ride to safety.
Except that the elevator doors didn’t close. They stood gaping, exposing the two passengers, inviting anyone – including Dr Wyatt and a new syringe – to step inside.
‘Go.’ Hank directed the door. Harper pounded the ‘door close’ button, repeatedly pushed ‘L’ for lobby. She looked out, saw a throng of agitated staff rushing toward them. Come on. She pushed the buttons again. Suddenly, the elevator buzzed a loud, cloying electronic complaint. And, finally,
excruciatingly slowly, just as the men and women in powder-blue coats descended on them, the doors edged together and slammed shut.
The elevator jerked, descending, three, two, one, lobby. The car jolted to a stop. The doors slid open. Cautiously, Harper wheeled Hank out. The first floor, so far, was quiet. No doctors with dripping needles. No nurses in pursuit. Nothing obstructing the front door. Escape was seconds away; the Ninja waited in the lot, just outside. Almost within view. All they had to do was keep moving past the Sleep Clinic and the coffee shop and they’d be safely outside, trying to balance on the back of the bike.
Harper tried to look normal, not to move too fast. Not to draw attention. She started across the lobby as a phone rang. The security guard at the reception desk answered. Getting the call to stop them? Damn. Before he could look around, Harper thrust the chair into a side corridor and sped ahead, looking for another way out.
The door was unlocked; Harper wheeled Hank inside without thinking about where it led. The lights were low; the space divided into cubicles where patients lay sleeping, their heads and bodies wired, their brain and other functions being monitored on remote computer screens. Harper slowed, recognizing the Sleep Clinic, Dr Wyatt’s turf. Quietly, she peered around the corner, located the nursing station. Avoiding it, she steered in the opposite direction, wheeling Hank along the row of cubicles, peeking behind curtain after curtain, letting the bluish glow of night-lights spill on to her face, looking for an empty spot where they might hide.
Nothing. Every bed, every cubicle was filled with sleep patients. Pushing Hank, she hurried along but stopped suddenly at cubicle four and doubled back to cubicle two, as her mind registered what she’d seen there: the patient in two was Anna. She was asleep. And strapped to the bed.
Explaining that she’d be right back, she left Hank’s wheelchair by Anna’s curtain and rushed to the girl’s side. She was too still, her skin too gray, her arms bound too tightly. Harper touched her neck, felt for a pulse, found a surprisingly strong one.
‘Anna, it’s Loot.’ Even if she couldn’t move, Anna could hear her. ‘They’ve got you tied up. I’m going to loosen the restraints.’
