7
DRAKE
W e almost fall down about ten times, but somehow I manage to land on both feet down at the bottom of the stairwell. Wanda is breathing calmly against my chest, a peaceful smile on her pretty face, her eyes closed, eyelids gently fluttering like she’s in a deep dream.
“What did that bastard Lenny dose her with?” Muttering to myself, I creep towards the stairwell door, press my ear to the fire-proof metal, listen for the sounds of chaos in the lobby.
Nothing but silence, which puzzles me at first, then makes me smile.
We’re one floor beneath the lobby, I realize. It’s the private underground parking lot that’s reserved for doctors and senior staff only. All other parking is outside in the open-air lots.
Pushing open the door, I step into the empty underground garage and look around. There are cameras, of course. But I don’t give a damn right now. Don’t think anyone else gives a damn right now either. With Lenny splattered all over the parking lot and no clear explanation of what the hell happened, it’s going to be a while before anyone starts looking for me.
But they will start looking for me, that’s for damn sure. And for good reason.
Now the adrenaline of the fight starts to leave my body, and suddenly I realize how totally insane what I’m doing right now is going to look. Hell, I’m carrying an unconscious, drugged-up female patient out of a hospital after shoving her doctor out of the seventh-floor window. Sure, I didn’t mean to kill Lenny, but . . . oh, wait, I did mean to kill the bastard.
Actually, yeah, fuck Lenny, comes the deadly response from that protective animal that’s awake and alive in me, in total control of my body and mind, my heart and soul, my fate and destiny.
My destiny who is slumbering like a fairytale princess in my arms right now, totally trusting me to keep her safe from the dragons.
Shaking my head to clear it, I consider my options and quickly realize that there’s really just one sensible option.
Take Wanda back into the hospital. Get her to the ER. Make sure Lenny didn’t give her too much of whatever sedative he pumped into her veins.
But something irrational in me refuses to let go of my Wanda. Tried that once and look what happened. Nope. Not letting my woman out of my sight again. Not now. Not ever.
Carefully placing Wanda on the hood of a Jeep Cherokee, I do a quick evaluation. Her breathing is regular and steady. Her skin doesn’t feel too hot or too cold. There’s healthy color in her cheeks. Her pulse is normal.
All she needs is rest. She stays with me. I am a doctor, after all, right?
“Damn right,” I mutter after checking her pulse again, then exhaling hard and heading for the side-door leading to the street.
It’s only when I step out into the sunny side-street, away from the parking lot where Lenny’s corpse is hopefully being eaten by local vultures, that I realize I’m technically kidnapping Wanda, committing a federal crime, am probably going to have the FBI on my ass once the cops get here and they grill that security guy and look at all the camera footage.
Footage that’s going to show a deranged doctor in a blood-streaked lab-coat carrying a bundled-up woman in his arms. For a fleeting moment I consider getting to Wanda’s parents in the cafeteria, but by now they’re probably at Level 10 on the stress-o-meter, and with Wanda passed out, I can’t reasonably expect them to simply go along with whatever psycho-level plan is hatching in my broken brain.
But the plan continues to hatch, and now I’m running like a maniac down the side-street, cutting across an abandoned lot, circling around to where my black BMW -Series is thankfully parked in a relatively isolated spot.
In the distance I can hear the chaos in the hospital parking lot. Cops are already here, it seems. There are random screams as passers-by and rubberneckers flock to see Lenny’s broken corpse sprawled on the roof of some unfortunate guest’s Honda Odyssey or something.
The spectacle is enough that I get to my car unnoticed. Within seconds I’ve got Wanda in the backseat, wrapped carefully in that blanket, secured tight with all three rear seatbelts wrapped around her body. Then we’re on the move, and minutes later we hit the open freeway heading south.
After a long exhale, I glance over my shoulder and smile when I see Wanda still breathing slow and steady, that half-smile still on her beautiful face. For one blissful moment everything is perfect, the universe is in balance, I want nothing more out of life than to see Wanda happy and peaceful.
But the relief doesn’t last, because the moment I see that my exit is coming up, it hits me that I can’t go home because that’s the first place the cops will check. And I can’t go to my clinic because that’s the second place the cops will check.
Yeah, eventually I’m going to have to face the cops and clear everything up, but I can’t do it until Wanda is awake and alert and in her senses. She can’t vouch for me if she’s in a drugged-up state and talking about unicorns and rainbows while slurring and giggling. And anyway, I can’t allow her to answer any questions about what I did to Lenny in that room. It would be manslaughter at best, homicide at worst.
Which means I need to keep Wanda hidden until I can follow through on my plan.
Keep her with me until it’s safe.
Twenty-four hours should do it.
That means the rest of today and all of the night.
Motel might work. This is Vegas, and there are a bunch of places that don’t ask for ID or credit cards, places that might even overlook a blood-spattered doctor carrying a drugged-up woman in his arms. But no way I’m taking my sweet angel to some seedy Vegas motel. Besides, if the cops do find me there, it’s going to look pretty fucking sketchy.
“As if it doesn’t look sketchy as hell already,” I growl to myself, speeding past my exit, then taking the bypass and heading west, away from my clinic because I can’t go there right now.
There’s only one place where I can go right now, and although it’s the third place the cops will come looking for me, it’s my best chance to stay hidden until the morning.
Until my plan goes into effect.
So I gun the engine of my BMW, grinding my teeth as I prepare for the inevitable argument that’s going to erupt when I pull into that driveway and pull out my precious cargo.
But I’ve done enough dirty work for the guy. Now it’s his turn to cover for my dirty deeds.
After all, he is my Dad.