Summer Session (31 page)

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.’

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.’

Harper tried, but had trouble untying the knots. Why were they tied so tightly?

‘Psst—’

Harper jumped, spun around before realizing who’d made the sound.

‘Loot, there’s scissors in that drawer.’

‘Anna. I thought you were slee –’

‘I didn’t know who was coming, so I pretended.’ Her whisper was quick, impatient. ‘Quick. Before someone comes. Can you find them?’

Harper moved fast, opening the drawer, taking out the slender scissors, snipping.

‘Dr Wyatt drugged me, Loot. He’s nuts.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here.’ Harper began cutting. The straps were thick; the scissors small.

‘He said I knew too much. About the drugs—’

‘You’ll be OK.’ She had one of Anna’s arms freed, was working on the other.

‘Hoppa? Go.’ Oh great. Hank was shouting, letting the whole clinic know they were there. ‘Hoppa.’

‘Hank! Shh! One minute.’ Harper kept her voice low, working the scissors, making little progress.

‘Loot,’ Anna whispered, nodding at Harper’s shoulder.

Harper stopped cutting, stopped breathing. Her bones got cold.

‘Mrs Jennings, why didn’t you come when your husband called?’

Slowly, Harper turned to face Dr Wyatt. Fully recovered from Hank’s knockout punch, he casually dropped a syringe into a biological waste container, and brushed off his hands. Oh no! Hank!

‘What did you do?’ Harper charged, ramming full force into him.

Dr Wyatt, almost a foot taller, doubled over, winded, his hairpiece askew. But he held on to her. ‘Settle down—’

She thrust herself back toward Anna, who lay with her eyes closed, again feigning cataplexy. Dr Wyatt stepped forward, reached into his pocket. How had he replaced the syringes so quickly? How many did he have? Harper backed away, moving around Anna’s bed.

‘There’s really no point in resisting, Mrs Jennings.’ Dr Wyatt moved closer, following her. ‘The police already know about your attack on Dr Kendall and your drug ring with your students. Until they arrive, I have no choice but to hold you here.’

Harper’s back was to the wall. She had nowhere to go. Dr Wyatt stood between her and Anna’s bed, and, this time, Hank couldn’t rescue her. She was cornered, had no room for a kick; Wyatt was going to inject her. Harper looked at the needle, planning. She could duck at the last moment. Or cold-cock him. Or grab his arm and flip him, put him in a headlock, even bite him. Maybe butt him with her head. But before she decided on her final moves, Dr Wyatt yowled. His mouth opened, contorted with unpleasant surprise, and he spun around, turning his back.

From which protruded the handles of a small, fairly dull, but nonetheless effective pair of scissors.

The police arrived, and, in moments, ambulances scooped up Ron, who was barely conscious, and Dr Wyatt, who was barely alive. Hank was out cold on a gurney, sedated, his mouth hanging slack. Anna refused to go to the hospital. She huddled close to Harper, sipping a Cherry Coke someone had given her. Harper was concerned about Anna, had seen her hovering over Dr Wyatt after stabbing him, patting his torso, as if to comfort him. She hoped Anna wouldn’t agonize over what she’d done; the man had clearly intended to harm them both.

Detective Rivers’ eyes were bloodshot and tired. ‘You’re a walking crime scene,’ she greeted Harper.

‘Sorry, Detective.’ Harper steeled herself, ready to be handcuffed for attacking Ron. ‘It was self-defense, but I admit it. I hit him.’

‘You hit someone?’ Anna sat up, eyes wide.