Return to Sender (10 page)

We’ve got ten seconds. Ready?”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Lin whispered, still shocked at what they were doing.

Swiftly, the doors opened, Jason ran out, and then Sally hit the
CLOSE
button.

Together, Sally and Lin counted. “One, two, three…eight, nine, ten.”

Sally hit the
OPEN
button, grabbed Chelsea’s legs. Lin had both arms secured. With their prisoner swinging like a hammock between them, they ran as soon as they spied Jason’s flashing head lights. His timing was impeccable.

They tossed Chelsea in the backseat, and both women climbed in after her.

Careening out of the parking lot, Jason almost hit a pedestrian.

“Asshole,” he shouted. “Damn New Yorkers never pay attention.”

Lin looked at Sally and smiled. Sally was the first to speak. She whispered so both could hear her. “So you’re not always the cool cucumber you claim to be.”

“Hey, I didn’t plan on running over someone,” Vinery shot back.

“Sorry. I’m just trying to lighten things up,” Sally said.

“They’re lively enough. Thank you very much,” Lin said in a low voice. “Think she can hear us?”

“No. Stop worrying. As soon as we dump her off, she’ll probably wake up screaming. Let’s prepare for the worst. I bet her mouth runs like a nasty case of the shits,” said Jason.

“That’s disgusting,” Sally said with a smile.

“Yeah, it is,” Lin added.

“Sorry, girls.”

The rest of the short drive was silent, all three absorbed in their own thoughts. Each wondering if that night would be their last night of freedom.

N
ick heard Chelsea’s loud shouting from the front of the penthouse but didn’t bother trying to find out what her problem was. He was too sick to get out of bed. He’d vomited nonstop the entire afternoon. Only in the past hour had the waves of nausea subsided. Nick wasn’t sure how much more of the chemotherapy treatments he could stand. Dr. Reeves had explained to him that his treatment would be very aggressive, almost deadly in its side effects.

He’d heard a few of the other patients complaining, saying that sometimes they’d prefer death to the horror of the treatments. At the time he’d laughed at them. At the moment, however, he agreed with them completely. He’d lost twelve more pounds according to the doctor. Nick couldn’t remember the last meal he’d kept down; hell, he couldn’t remember his last real meal. He’d been reduced to green and yellow Jell-O and weak chicken broth. He craved a shot of good whiskey, but alcohol wasn’t allowed during the treatments.

In his weakened state, he felt like less of a man, and he hated the feeling. Depending on others to do the very basic tasks he’d never given much thought to was demeaning. A male nurse helped him shower. Helped him dress. Savile Row was no longer his mode of dress. Ralph Lauren pajamas and cotton socks comprised his daily wardrobe. Nick thought that he was experiencing what it must be like to get old. Though nothing about his body worked right, his mind was as clear and crisp as a waterfall. That was what had him so pissed.

Shiploads of merchandise waited for his decision—Gerald couldn’t seem to do anything right. Nick planned to relieve him of his duties as soon as he returned to the office. Rosa called him daily with reports. Pemberton Transport was by no means in trouble, but a few more months of backlogged shipments, and it would show. Nick needed what little energy he had to fight this belittling disease.

His cell phone rang. Since it was in the bed next to him, he answered. “Hello.”

“Is this Nicholas Pemberton?”

“Who wants to know?” he shot back. Nick smiled, thinking he sounded more like himself than he had in days.

“It doesn’t matter who wants to know. If you’re as smart as you think you are, you’ll listen, because I’m only going to say this once.”

“Who is this?” Nick demanded.

“You’re not very smart, are you?”

Nick took a deep breath. “What do you want?”

“Listen very carefully. I have your wife. She is alive and well. She’ll be returned to you that way if you follow these instructions exactly.”

Nick burst out laughing. “Is this some kind of a joke? Because if it’s not, then keep the bitch. Do whatever you want with her.” Nick punched the
END
button, grateful for the laugh.

The phone rang again. Nick answered.

“This isn’t a joke. If you look around your penthouse, you’ll find Mrs. Pemberton is nowhere to be found. She is wearing a beautiful pink silk gown.”

“Hold on.” Weak, Nick managed to hobble to the hallway. “Chelsea, where are you?” He waited for an answer. Nothing. He’d try another tactic, one sure to send her running to his room. “Chelsea dear, I promise to open all your charge accounts first thing in the morning.” Still nothing. He spoke into the cell phone. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. Now, I want you to listen and listen good. I’ve repeated myself one too many times already. This is what you have to do if you want to see your wife alive.”

Nick listened to the ridiculous instructions. He was tempted to hang up but figured he needed Chelsea around just in case the nurse didn’t show up. If not for that, he would have told the caller, who obviously thought he gave a hoot about his wife, to buzz off.

Chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all, he congratulated himself on the performance he had put on over the years to give whoever this was the impression that he gave a damn about Chelsea rather than wishing with his entire being that she would just die. But since, for the moment, she was still useful to him, he took great care to remember all the details.

Lin pushed the beat-up wheelchair slowly, as though it took every ounce of energy she possessed. Lucky for them, Chelsea was still out cold. Just in case she started to rouse, Jason had given her a second shot, but with less Valium. It was in her pocket, in a zip-lock bag. Sally walked alongside her down Madison Avenue. They both looked like homeless hookers. They were receiving stares from everyone, though none of the well-dressed New Yorkers would look her or Sally directly in the eye. Lin could have cared less. She was disguised with a hat and more piled-on make-up. She knew there was no chance of running into Will or Nick. They knew for a fact that Nick was home, safely tucked in bed.

Jason had carefully outlined their route. From Madison Avenue they would walk to Herald Square, where they would take either the N, Q, or R train to Times Square. From there they would catch the number 1 train straight to Harlem. Once there, they were to deliver Chelsea to the steps at the offices of former president Bill Clinton. Re porters from the
New York Post
and the
Times
would be waiting.

“What are you thinking?” Sally asked.

“You really want to know?”

“I asked you, so I guess I do,” Sally insisted.

“I’m thinking it’s not going to be so easy pushing her through the subway.” Lin laughed. “Seriously, I’m nervous. If this works, I’m going to laugh my ass off. If it doesn’t, I was thinking what I would say to Will to explain all…this.”

“Stop worrying. We’re not going to get caught, and if Will does find out, you’ll deal with it, just like you’ve dealt with problems in the past. Don’t borrow trouble, Lin.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Lin shoved the chair over a metal grate on the sidewalk, thankful Chelsea was thin.

People scattered around Herald Square like ants at a picnic. Lin and Sally maneuvered the wheelchair down the steep flight of steps leading underground to the N, Q, and R trains. Once on the platform, they waited along with dozens of others for their train. They barely had time to wheel Chelsea onto the train before the electronic doors closed. Ten minutes later they arrived at Times Square.

“Let’s hurry. The number one train doesn’t come as often as the others, according to Jason,” said Lin as she pushed Chelsea, who, thank God, appeared to be ill and just sleeping.

Sally ran ahead to locate the track for the train to Harlem.

Through the throngs of people ahead of her, Lin caught a glimpse of Sally waving her hands in the air. She’d located the train. Lin elbowed and shoved her way through the passengers emerging from the incoming trains. She was out of breath when she caught up with Sally.

“This way,” Sally shouted.

Lin pushed Chelsea onto the train, thankful they were on the last leg of the journey. When the doors finally closed, Lin, who was out of breath and sweating like a mule, spoke up. “I think we’ve both lost our minds.”

“Just wait until tomorrow, when this hits the papers!”

“Yes, but we don’t know if that’ll happen. Jason didn’t make any promises, only that he would ‘leak’ the story to those reporters. What they choose to do with the information is up to them and their respective newspapers.” Lin wasn’t sure if she wanted to see tonight’s stunt plastered on the front page of a newspaper.

Mentally chastising herself, she knew she had to focus on the ultimate goal: ruin Nicholas Pemberton’s reputation, no matter what it took. This stunt was only the beginning. Lin prayed for forgiveness. Daily. At the rate she was going, she’d soon be asking by the hour.

The subway cars traveled so fast that Lin had a death grip on one of the metal poles that paralleled the seats. With her other hand she clung to one handle of the wheelchair, while Sally gripped the other. It was all she could do to maintain her balance.

The train came to an abrupt stop, announcing their arrival in Harlem. Hustling Chelsea in the wheelchair was easier this time around. It was late, and there weren’t that many people hanging around, waiting to travel to and from Harlem.

“Let’s get a taxi. Jason said there would be several waiting.”

True to his word, there was a line of taxis waiting as they emerged from the subway.

Sally found a van that was equipped to hold the wheelchair. Lin had worried about this, wondering how they were going to manage the chair and Chelsea. Things were running as smooth as silk.

“Where to, ladies?” the taxi driver inquired. “I ain’t so sure yous should be out in this part of town at this time of night. While it ain’t as bad as it used to be, it ain’t too safe.”

“We want to go to President Clinton’s office,” Lin said quickly.

The whites of the driver’s eyes glowed like shiny pearls as he gazed at them through his rearview mirror. “You for real? I can tell ya this. It ain’t open.”

“We’re meeting someone,” Sally offered.

“Well, then let’s not keep your folks waitin’.” The driver shifted the van into drive and sped away from the curb as though he were in a NASCAR race.

When they managed to get both the wheelchair and Chelsea out of the van, Sally paid the driver, giving him a hefty tip, with the promise of more to come if he would agree to wait for them three blocks from Clinton’s office. The driver agreed. Crazy women, some one had to look out for them. And it was easy money. His wife was going to be so happy.

Winded as she pushed the wheelchair uphill, Lin stopped to catch her breath. “Five minutes, and that’s it. I refuse to stay here any longer than that. Just so you know.”

“What makes you think I want to hang around here any longer than we have to? Come on, let’s get her to the steps like we promised. From there the reporters can take over,” Sally said. “If they even show,” she added.

Once they’d adjusted the locks on the wheelchair, they waited exactly five minutes. As soon as they saw two men with camera equipment walking toward them, they hurried down the steps and ran the three blocks to where the handicapped taxi waited. They jumped inside the van, telling the driver to take them back to Madison Avenue.

“You girls sure are a long way from home. I can tell by them accents. But don’t worry. I didn’t see a thing that ya did. No, sirree, I did not see a thing.”

Lin creased her brow. She whispered in Sally’s ear, “Do you think he’ll report what he saw?”

“I doubt it, but it doesn’t matter. We’re not going to look like we do now. Remember?”

“True.”

For the next twenty minutes, both women were silent. When the van reached their destination, Sally crammed another wad of money in the man’s hand before hurrying to catch up with Lin, who’d taken off the second they came to a stop.

“I can’t wait to see how this turns out,” Sally said as they walked down Madison Avenue, searching for a taxi. Neither was in a rush now that they were out of Harlem and away from Chelsea and the reporters.

“Me either. This is a true life-changing moment. I don’t feel good about this, Sally. I feel soiled and dirty. It reminds me of when kids at school used to call me Miss Stinky Pants. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t wimp out now. Remember those mac-and-cheese days. Remember Will.”

“I know, but it’s not poor Chelsea’s fault.”

“Forget ‘poor Chelsea.’ I doubt the woman knows the word. Let’s take the subway, see what kind of weirdos are riding it this late at night.”

Lin rolled her eyes. “And you think we look normal?”

They eyed one another and burst into fits of laughter.

Nick threw a jacket over his pajama top and slipped a pair of khaki slacks over the pj bottoms. By the time he located a comfortable pair of shoes, he was exhausted. He crept to the kitchen, where he took his private elevator down to the garage. Herbert had offered to come up and help him down, but Nick wouldn’t hear of it. Yes, he was sick, but there was no way in hell he was about to let the public know the extent of his illness. Not yet. He would not relinquish control. He had a way to go, but he was extremely confident he’d win the battle in the war to save his life.

Herbert was waiting for him when the elevator doors swished open. “Good evening, sir.”

Nick nodded. He didn’t want to chitchat. He would follow the ridiculous instructions the anonymous caller had given. If Chelsea had actually been kidnapped, he would find out soon enough.

The odd thing about the entire situation was that the caller hadn’t asked for ransom! Nick’s instructions were to be at the location he was given at a certain time if he wanted his wife safely at home, where she belonged. Hell, there wasn’t even a hint of a threat. If this was something Chelsea had orchestrated to gain his attention, she was about to see a side of him that he knew she wouldn’t like.

Once inside the car, Nick sank into the plush leather seats, thinking of a million different ways he’d like to kill Chelsea. Even after Nick had discovered that any unborn child Chelsea had carried until her miscarriage, if there had ever been a child, could not have been his, his father had threatened to disinherit him should he divorce. His father had not cared that Chelsea had tricked Nick into thinking that Nick and Chelsea had slept together the night they had met at the frat party. It had not mattered to his father that Chelsea had come to the frat party with knockout drops all prepared and had caught the big fish, Nicholas Pemberton, heir to Pemberton Transport. Pembertons did not divorce. So with the threat of disinheritance hanging over his head, Nick had stayed his hand. Hoping against hope that his father had not managed to tie his hands via his will, Nick had intended to divorce Chelsea soon after his father’s death. But the will had put an end to those plans.

And now here he was, running around with his goddamned chauffeur in the middle of the night. She would pay for this, one way or another.

Herbert waited until they were out of the garage before speaking. “May I ask where you would like to go, sir?”

Nick was glad it was dark. Glad he wouldn’t be able to see the look on the old man’s face when he told him where he wanted to go.

“Harlem. I need to go to Clinton’s office.”

Herbert glanced in his rearview mirror. His look said it all. “Of course,” he replied.