He finishes the call and leans over Mitzi. ‘Stupid question, but how are you feeling?’
‘Like shit in a blender.’ She thinks of what she just said. ‘Scrub that. I never want to hear the word shit again.’
‘We have a hospital near Temple. Doctors are on standby to check you out.’
‘I don’t care. I just want to speak to my girls.’ She tries to sit herself up and falls back, wincing with pain.
‘Relax. I’ve called the FBI and they’ve got people on their way to Stockton where Amber called you from.’
‘Have you found Jade?’
‘Not yet. We still don’t know where she is, and nor do your colleagues. But we’re working together on it.’
Mitzi’s spirits sink. The whole point of her going in there and surrendering to those damned people, was to buy the time necessary to recover both her girls. She looks to Dalton. ‘You got a phone?’
He holds one out.
‘Call that hospital for me; I have to talk to Amber.’
He gets reception, then ER, then the administrator and finally Mitzi’s daughter. ‘Amber, hold on, I’m going to put your mom on the line.’ He passes the handset to Mitzi.
‘Baby, is that you? Are you all right?’
‘I guess.’ The teenager is sat beside Betty Lipton waiting for a doctor. ‘My hand aches in a really weird way. It’s like all my finger’s still there and someone’s squeezing it in pliers or something.’
Mitzi feels her heart break. ‘Be strong, honey. Have they given you anything for the pain?’
‘Yeah, they’re being real nice, Mom.’ There’s an awkward silence and then she adds, ‘ Mom, I’m sorry about what happened. They just grabbed us — I had no time to shout to Jade or—’
‘Baby, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You’re safe now, that’s all that matters. I’m still in London but I’ll be on a plane real soon and with you in less than half a day.’ She looks to Dalton for reassurance and he gives her a silent nod.
‘I love you, honey. I love you so much and I’m coming home to look after you and make sure you are all right.’
‘I love you too, Mom.’ She can’t hold back the tears now. Tears of relief. Tears of trauma.
‘Don’t cry, sweetheart, you just hang in there now. Get some rest and do whatever the doctors tell you. You hear me?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ She blows her nose on a tissue the nurse passed her. ‘Mom, is Jade all right?’
‘She’s going to be fine as well.’ She looks up at Dalton but this time there’s no reassuring nod. ‘We’re Fallon women, aren’t we? And you know us girls always come out winners.’
166
There’s an empty seat in the ER waiting room, three rows back, four seats from the end. Chris Wilkins slides his big frame onto the grey plastic.
It’s the perfect place to sit and watch.
He hears names being called. Sick people hobble into curtained cubicles to see exhausted medics. Trolleys pass, bearing horizontal patients and vertical drip stands. Minute by minute the scene repeats itself.
He watches and listens. Finally, he sees her. A nurse has an arm around Amber and a suited woman is on her other side, guiding her down the corridor.
Wilkins drops the newspaper he hasn’t been reading and tags along. Overhead signs signal different departments. He hangs back to avoid being seen.
Part way down a corridor they head into an area marked X-RAY.
Wilkins walks slowly along the passage and stands in the doorway. The department is jammed with people waiting to be scanned. The woman in the suit speaks to the receptionist and they’re told to go straight on through.
Wilkins steps into the corridor and checks his escape routes. Either back the way he came, or through a door marked Emergency Exit. By his reckoning, the latter will bring him out close to the staff parking lot and the car he’s broken open.
He walks into X-Ray reception and keeps his head down and face away from the nurse behind the desk.
As he approaches the closed theatre doors, he hears her call after him, ‘Excuse me, sir. You can’t go in there.’
He pushes a door open.
Two women turn and stare at him. His eyes flit across the room. The Fallon girl isn’t there. He can’t see her anywhere.
A nurse approaches him. ‘You need to wait outside, sir.’ She puts her right arm on his shoulder and tries to usher him out.
He shakes her off. ‘Where’s the girl? The girl you were with?’
The comment sparks the suited-woman into life. ‘Who are you?’
He shifts his jacket so they see his gun. ‘I’m a federal agent. I’ve been sent to protect her.’
They both look relieved.
‘She’s just using the washroom,’ says the nurse. Her face lights up as over his shoulder she spots her returning. ‘Here she is now.’
Amber catches the nurse’s eye. And a glimpse of the man. She recognizes him instantly.
He starts to turn.
Amber grabs the handles of a wheelchair by the door and runs it hard into him. Extended metal foot rests smash into his shins. Wilkins loses balance and falls.
‘It’s him!’ screams Amber. ‘The man who took me.’ She runs from the theatre.
Wilkins has lost neither gun nor focus. He scrambles to his feet. The charge nurse bars the doorway.
Wilkins shoots her in the chest and steps over the body.
There are screams all around him. He shuffles out into the waiting room, his right ankle burning with pain. Scared patients jam up the reception. ‘Get the fuck outta my way!’ He raises the gun and they clear his path.
In the corridor, he catches sight of Amber running through a mass of people. He lets off two high shots and they bring down part of the ceiling. Everyone but the girl hits the ground. An alarm goes off behind him. He ignores it and tries not to rush his shot. She’s twenty yards away weaving left and right. Smart kid.
But not smart enough. He squeezes the trigger.
A roar bowls down the corridor.
Amber throws up her arms and falls face first.
An alarm goes off in front of him. More people spill into the corridor. They’re coming from all directions. He has to get out of there. Has to make it to the parking lot and the waiting car.
Wilkins snatches another shot at the fallen body and runs.
167
More than anything, Mitzi wants to shower.
She lets the hospital medics stitch up her shoulder and give her a booster jab, then she grabs a luxury white robe from a brass hook on the back of an expensive oak door and tells them all to scram.
The en-suite bathroom to the private room where she’s being treated has one of those waterfall showers that she’s seen in expensive hotels.
Mitzi turns it on full, dips her head under the warm water and stands there with one hand on the wall to make sure she doesn’t slip or pass out. Once she’s acclimatized, she grabs shampoo and pours out enough to soap a field of sheep.
Her face is greasy and tender. Blood has dried and clogged inside her nostrils. For almost a minute, the water runs red while she cleans herself up. Inevitably, she gets her shoulder-dressing wet. She’s too sore to wash anything below knee height and too stiff to raise her legs. Right now, she’d pay a thousand bucks for someone to scrub her feet.
The cubicle glass is completely steamed up by the time she gingerly steps out and eases her battered body into the fresh-smelling white robe.
With some difficulty, Mitzi manages to towel surplus water off her hair and opens the door to the hospital room.