Surviving the Chase

by Lisa Renee Johnson

  Payton opened her wallet to retrieve the cash she had on hand. If a few dollars could make this little duo go poof until she could figure out what to do next, then so be it. She glanced at Lois, subliminally daring her to move, then tossed all the bills she had in Sheldon’s direction. They both looked down on him as he scrambled to pick the money up.

  “This is all the cash I have,” Payton said. “I’ll give you a call first thing tomorrow to get you the rest. After that, I want you to take your money and stay the fuck out of my life.”

  Keep reading to see where it all began

  With an excerpt from

  DANGEROUS CONSEQUENCES

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  CHAPTER 1

  Dr. Sydney Marie James panicked as her BlackBerry slipped out of her grasp and landed on the floor close to the front passenger door.

  “Shit!” she yelled. She could hear the exchange operator’s distant voice saying, “Hello? Hello?” But short of unlocking her seat belt and climbing across the seat to retrieve the phone, there was nothing she could do. She was en route to Children’s Hospital, initially on her way to work, but now she was responding to the trauma call she’d just received for an infant who needed immediate neurosurgery. Frustrated, she yelled into the confines of her SUV.

  “Hello. This is Dr. James. I’ve dropped my BlackBerry and can’t pick it up because I’m driving. But I’m on my way and should arrive at the hospital in about fifteen minutes.” She had no idea whether the operator could hear her, but it was worth a try.

  The traffic ahead crawled along. Morning commuters on their way to work congested the I-580 inlet that would take her toward downtown Oakland, making traffic a nightmare.

  “Come on,” Sydney hissed and blew her horn in irritation. Fresh perspiration trickled down her spine and mingled with the aging perspiration from her morning run. She was still dressed in black running tights, Saucony running shoes, and her favorite UCLA sweatshirt. She’d run her usual six-mile route at the Berkeley Marina, with the morning mist plummeting down onto her skin and a cluster of squawking seagulls out scavenging for any sign of food lulling her with their singsong pitch, which had helped to clear her mind. But that was forty minutes ago, when her world seemed peaceful and serene... before she received the emergency call during rush-hour traffic.

  She took her eyes off the road for a brief second to search the passenger seat littered with CDs. She wanted to hear a Ledisi song, the one she’d played while making love to Donathan earlier and during their romantic getaway at the Highlands Inn in Carmel. The soulful music soothed her, which was what she needed on most days while commuting from El Cerrito to Oakland in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  A gap in the blockage opened up. Sydney pushed hard on the accelerator, hoping that she wouldn’t run into another obstruction farther ahead. She had no idea which of her colleagues was on duty. It was probably Julia Stevens. But if Julia started surgery on the incoming patient, she would be required to complete it, adding additional hours to her already-long shift. Frantic to reach the hospital, Sydney drove in an unforgiving manner as drivers on either side of her attempted to jump out of their slow-moving lanes and into hers.

  “Not today, people!” Sydney bellowed. She accelerated in an attempt to prevent a red Nissan pickup truck carrying lawn-care equipment from swerving in front of her.

  The traffic came to a sudden halt. Realizing she was about to crash into a sea of stationary cars, Sydney instinctively slammed on the brake pedal with both feet and held her breath as she heard the tires screeching and smelled burning rubber. Her Range Rover came to a complete stop without a collision.

  “Thank God,” she exhaled, releasing her tight grip on the steering wheel.

  Then the scream of another set of tires, a loud thud, and the sound of shattering glass punched Sydney in the center of her back. Dazed, she moved her damp, dark brown hair out of her eyes and noticed light blue smoke merging with the morning smog, along with the overpowering odor of overheating antifreeze billowing past her windows. She peered into her rearview mirror and saw a Hispanic man getting out of the red Nissan pickup she’d earlier prevented from cutting in front of her. She watched the man walk to the rear of his truck, reach into the truck bed, and remove a shovel, knocking it against the lawn mowers, the noise loud enough to make her jump. Then he hastily approached her, swinging the shovel at the air.

  “Estupid pendeja! I can’t believe you just made me wreck my work truck,” yelled the man in a Spanish accent as thick as the fog that blanketed the San Francisco Bay.

  “Get out of the car, you pinche puta!” He slapped Sydney’s car window with the open palm of his thick, callused hand. The contact echoed loudly inside the car.

  Intimidated by the force and vulgarity of the man’s anger, Sydney stared at him through the speckles of spit on the glass that separated them. Bulging muscle cords in his neck and trickles of blood running down his forehead and pooling at his neatly trimmed mustache pointed downward to the shovel dangling from his left hand.

  As bile rose in Sydney’s throat, she attempted to calm down and think rationally. She glanced at the passing commuters, praying for someone to stop and help her. Instead, she found a string of spectators hoping the drama would unfold before they crept completely by and missed it.

  “Open the fucking door!” the man blurted as he yanked on the door handle.

  Her eyes glanced at the clock, then to the phone. She needed to call for help.

  “Get the fuck away from my car,” Sydney barked, hoping her angry words would bring this man to his senses.

  “I’m not playing around, lady.” The man began jerking on the door so hard that her car rocked. She unfastened her seat belt, climbed across the middle console, and retrieved the phone from the floor. She was so nervous that, instead of dialing 911, she dialed her husband. He answered after the first ring.

  “I must have dicked you down well this—”

  “Donathan!” Sydney screamed into the phone.

  “Get out of the car, you pinche puta!” The Hispanic man continued his tirade, drifting in and out of his native tongue. Holding the shovel high above his head with both hands, he slammed it into the hood, repeating his assault over and over again.

  “Get away from my damn car.” The loud thud of the shovel hitting the hood registered through the phone.

  “Sydney, who is that? Where are you?” Donathan demanded.

  “I was just rear-ended by this man, and he’s—”

  “I’m going to fuck you up just like you fucked up my truck. Get out, pendeja, before I smash your windows.” Sydney scrambled for her purse on the back seat. She reached inside and pulled out an old canister of pepper spray that she’d hoped she’d never have to use.

  “Where are you?” Donathan demanded again.

  “I-I’m on I-80, about to merge onto 580.” The hood of the truck absorbed another hit from the shovel.

  Her eyes went wide as the man shouldered the shovel and paralleled his feet, like he was Barry Bonds readying his swing and his strike zone was now the front windshield of the Range Rover.

  “Oh, God, nooooooooooooooooo!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Frazzled, Sydney stood on the shoulder of the road as she spoke into her cell phone to the exchange operator. “I’ll live.”

  Five vehicles were parked next to the guardrail, including two highway patrol cruisers. Sydney’s eyes were fixed on the Hispanic man being stuffed into the back seat of the police car. He was clad in jeans, cowboy boots, and a plaid button-down shirt, his hair short, neatly trimmed above his ears. He looked like a normal guy, but where normal people radiated a sense of calm, this man was pulsating with anger.

  When Donathan maneuvered his Harley onto the shoulder, Sydney ended her call with the hospital and watched as he parked and removed his helmet. His face was tense, and his forehead furrowed as he got off the motorcycle and made his way over to her.

  “Are you
okay?” Donathan asked, his eyes narrowed in confusion. He stole a glimpse of the hood, then pulled her into his embrace.

  “Punk motherfucker,” he mumbled under his breath. His tone was seething and harsh. She could feel his heart beating like it wanted to jump out of his chest, which matched the beat of her own. The possibility of becoming a road-rage statistic disturbed her as she listened to the two African American males in their mid-twenties give their statements to the officers. They’d arrived just in time to subdue the Hispanic man before he broke out the windshield with the shovel.

  “What happened?” Donathan questioned, his voice quivering with the fury he wanted to unleash.

  “Honey, I’m fine. I just happened to be on the highway in front of a lunatic this morning.”

  Sydney rubbed her hand across her upper chest region, where the seat belt had pressed into her during impact. As she took a peek inside her sweatshirt, Donathan’s eyes followed. The couple stared at an almost two-inch-wide bruise that reminded her of a beauty pageant sash. “You need to get that checked out—”

  “It’s just a bruise from the seat belt,” she said. “No big deal. I’m fine.”

  “Sydney, don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ crap. You might have fractured your collarbone.”

  In defense, she raised both hands. “Calm down, sweetie. I’ll let one of my colleagues check me out when I get to the hospital.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. James,” one of the officers said, interrupting their battle of wills. “Here’s my card. I’ve written the incident report number on the back. It will be a few days before the report is ready, but if you provide this number to your insurance agency, they will be able to obtain all the information they need. The district attorney will contact you soon to discuss the possibility of filing charges. All I need is your signature on this preliminary report and you are free to go.”

  “File charges?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In cases like this, that’s procedure.”

  “Well, what if I don’t want to file charges?”

  “Of course, she wants to file charges,” Donathan interrupted, his face twisted with confusion. He stretched his hand toward the highway patrolman. “Thanks, Officer.”

  “No problem, sir, glad we were all able to walk away without any casualties. Now, if you can just sign right here, Dr. James, you can be on your way.” Sydney nodded with understanding, took the clipboard from the officer, and scribbled her name.

  Donathan made his way over to the two Good Samaritans and thanked them. Sydney stood still for a moment. Was her erratic and aggressive driving the cause of the accident? As she headed toward her SUV, a wave of panic washed over her, and her hands shook as she buckled herself in. What would have happened to her had the Hispanic man actually gotten her out of the vehicle? Would he have hit her with the shovel? She could be dead. Her momentary theory of being responsible for the accident dissolved. She might have driven a bit erratically to prevent the man from cutting in front of her, but by no means was she the reason he rear-ended her.

  Donathan approached the driver’s side window. “Are you sure it’s drivable? We should have the highway patrol officer call a tow truck—”

  “Babe, I really don’t have time for that. I need to get to the hospital. The dents on the hood are from his shovel, not the impact, so it should drive okay.” One turn of the key and the engine hummed to life. “See, it sounds great.”

  After a moment of hesitation, Donathan conceded, and then leaned over the window to kiss her. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  Sydney took a deep breath and watched in the rearview mirror as her husband walked away.

  After a few false starts, Sydney pulled away from the shoulder into the oncoming traffic. She carefully negotiated the lane switches until she was in the farthest left lane, then refocused her attention on getting to the hospital. She turned up the volume on the sound system and sang out loud, trying to forget the horror of what had just happened to her.

  The bright red Emergency Medical Service helicopter was lifting off the landing pad by the time Sydney entered the doctors’ parking lot at Children’s Hospital. She killed the ignition and cut short her duet with Mary J. Blige. After she retrieved her gym bag from the back seat, Albert, the security guard, appeared out of nowhere.

  “Morning, Dr. James.”

  Sydney grabbed her chest. “Albert, you scared the shit out of me,” she said before she climbed out of the driver’s seat and closed the door behind her.

  “Sorry about that, Dr. James. Dr. Stevens mentioned you’d had an accident.” He stepped forward to examine the damage to the hood of the vehicle. Sydney had worked at the hospital for three years and was very familiar with the security staff. When she worked overnight shifts, Albert always made sure she got to her car safely.

  Sydney glanced at the speckles of dried spit on the driver’s side window.

  “Other than my bruised ego and being late for work, I’m fine, Albert,” she answered, and rushed through the secured entrance, checking her watch as the elevator doors closed behind her. It had been almost three hours since her shift began. She exited the elevator on the fifth floor and never looked up. Her subconscious mind guided the way to the doctors’ lounge.

  Minutes later, freshly showered and ready to begin her rounds, Sydney strolled down the corridor outlined by the dark blue baseboards and nursery rhyme murals of stars, cows, and moons. She stopped at the nurses’ station, but before she retrieved her clipboard, she stretched her arms above her head, twisting from side to side to relieve the tension in her middle back. Her private cell phone vibrated inside her pocket. She looked at the screen, but she didn’t recognize the number. “Sydney James,” she answered.

  “Sydney, is that you, babe?” the familiar yet unidentifiable voice said anxiously. “This is your neighbor, Barbara Brown, from across the street and—”

  “Mrs. Brown, is everything okay?”

  A clear image of her meddlesome neighbor took shape in her mind. Sydney was raised to respect her elders, but Mrs. Brown constantly tried her patience. If you looked up “nosy” in the dictionary, Mrs. Brown’s picture would be right there.

  “Hon, your house alarm went off about an hour ago, so I called the police. They’re here now to check it out.”

  Sydney glanced at her watch.

  “I told the police that you and Donathan were out of town and wouldn’t be returning for a few more days, so I—”

  “Mrs. Brown, we came back from Carmel last night. Donathan should be at home now.”

  “Well, I told Herbert that’s what I thought.” Her voice trailed off as she processed what she’d just said. “But I haven’t seen Donathan since you left.”

  Sydney shook her head in disbelief. She wasn’t in the mood for a dose of Mrs. Brown and her antics today.

  “Well, you gave me this number and told me to call you if there was ever a problem, and since I ain’t seen a hair of your husband since you left—”

  “Mrs. Brown, is the alarm still going off? What is it that the officers need?” Sydney struggled to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  “Well, they just need to verify things are okay. I didn’t want anything to happen to your house while you were away, so when I heard that alarm go off, I told Herbert I was going to call the police. I didn’t want you to come home and all your belongings be gone.”

  Sydney rolled her eyes upward and sighed. Gone? There was no way anyone was going to get anything out of the house without Mrs. Brown seeing or hearing something. She pulled at the black elastic band that held her hair in a ponytail. It was giving her a headache.

  “Mrs. Brown, thank you for looking out for us. We really appreciate it.”

  “Is there a number for Donathan that you want me to give to them?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m going to hang up and give him a call now.”

  “Alright then, sugah, you do that.”

  Sydney ended the call and immediately dialed her home number. Donathan p
icked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, boo,” she whispered into the phone as she headed down the hallway toward the neonatal intensive care unit. “I just got off the phone with Mrs. Brown. Apparently, the alarm went off about an hour ago and she called the police. They’re outside responding to her call.”

  “I set it off when I left earlier, but the alarm company called, and I took care of it. I swear, that lady has got too much time on her hands.”

  “I know, but at least she’s watching the house.”

  “More like watching other folks’ business.” He chuckled. “I don’t understand why she called the police because if she heard the alarm going off, she definitely had to hear me leave on the motorcycle. Did you get checked out yet?”

  “I’m starting my rounds now, but I promise to let someone look at me soon.”

  “You know, you could come back home, and I’d be happy to check you out thoroughly myself.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to wait until tonight to do my inspection.”

  Sydney giggled.

  “Alright, babe. I’m on my way out to talk to the men in blue.”

  “Okay.”

  After saying goodbye a second time, Sydney hurried down the hall and bumped into Dr. Miles Day exiting the double doors that led to the NICU. Miles was new to the neurosurgery team at Children’s, having only worked at the hospital for two months. In that short period of time, he had the female nurses taking bets on which one was going to run their fingers through the perfect-sized dreadlocks that rested neatly at the nape of his neck and which one was going to get in his bed first.

  “You’re definitely a sight for tired eyes,” he said warmly. She flashed him a brilliant smile in return.

  His six-foot-four lean, muscular frame towered over her. He was already dressed in street clothes underneath his lab coat—a black Ralph Lauren T-shirt, with the signature red polo horse, and expensive black slacks tailored to fall just above his Gucci sneakers. He fastened his eyes on the V-neck of her scrubs, skimmed her entire body, then took a slow return trip back to her face. Instinctively, Sydney drew her hand to the bruise across her chest.