Double Take (2 page)

“Excuse me, ma'am. That's Alcatraz out there, isn't it?”

She turned to see a tall black man, firm-jawed, wearing glasses, a long belted coat, standing close, smiling down at her.

She smiled up at him. “Yes, it is.”

“I'm going to visit tomorrow. But tonight—do you know when the next ferry leaves for Sausalito?”

“No, but it's never long between runs. The schedule is on the side of the building over there, not five minutes from Pier 39—” As she turned slightly to point, he smashed his fist into her jaw. The force of the blow knocked her back against the wooden railing. She saw a bright burst of lights before her eyes, then she saw the flash of something silver in his hand, something sharp—dear God, a knife. Why? But words froze in her throat in a thick veil of terror. All her focus was on that silver knifepoint.

She heard a man shout, then heard, “FBI! Stop now, back away from her, or I'll shoot!”

The man with the knife froze an instant, then cursed. He hefted her up and threw her over the railing into the bay. She splashed into the icy water and rolled over the mess of black rocks that stabbed her like stiletto blades. She tried to struggle, but knew in a flicker of consciousness that she wasn't going to escape this, that she was going to fall and fall—was that a seal honking? Was that someone shouting? It didn't matter because everything was going black as her body settled into the jumbled rocks at the bottom of the bay, the water smoothing over her. Her last thought, really more an echo, was that she wouldn't ever get to be happy again.

CHAPTER 2

The weight on her chest was rhythmic and hard, yet somehow separate from her body. Then someone's mouth was against hers, and a huge burst of hot air blasted down her throat, deep, filling her. It felt odd, but then it simply didn't matter. She drifted away.

A man's hard-edged voice shouted in her face—“Don't you let go! Do you hear me? You come back here. Now! I had trouble enough getting you out of the damned bay, not a ladder in sight. Lucky we didn't both drown, so don't you dare let go on me!”

She felt a slap, two, on her cheeks, sharp, stinging, then more hard pressing against her chest, and that brought her closer. The pressure came inside her, hard and harder still, and she felt each and every sharp blow all the way to her backbone.

“Come on back now! Dammit, breathe!”

His mouth was on hers again and his breath was hot again, blessed heat that burrowed deep inside her. She was so cold, freezing, but that hot breath was like a bellows pumping through her. Suddenly, she wanted that heat. She sucked it in madly.

The man's voice, his breath hot on her cheek now, said over and over, “That's it, that's right, come on now, you can do it. Don't give up.”

“More,” she whispered, not knowing if she'd even spoken aloud. He flipped her onto her stomach and began pounding her back with his fists. When water spewed out of her mouth, he quickly pulled her onto her side. She heaved and gasped, so cold she wanted to scream, but he slapped her back hard again with the heel of his hand and more water gushed out, then slowed to a dribble, snaking down her chin.

She wheezed and shuddered and said, her voice hoarse, “The seals aren't honking anymore.”

The sharp slaps against her back stopped. The man said, “Yeah, they've closed down for the day. Hang on now.” He rubbed her back rhythmically, and she coughed again, hoarse and loud, and more water dribbled out of her mouth. Where was all that water coming from?

When he couldn't get another drop of water out of her, the man pulled her up to a sitting position and forced her head between her knees. She breathed hard, couldn't seem to stop shuddering.

“Good, that's it, keep sucking in air.” He yanked off her wet leather jacket and pulled his heavy sports coat around her.

She hiccupped. “My jacket, my poor jacket. I've had it since I was a sophomore at Boston College.”

“It's so tatty it'll have to survive. What's a little water? Hey, I came out of the Crab House and saw that guy clip you on the jaw—and I saw the knife. When I yelled at him, he knew time had run out and he threw you over the railing. He knew I couldn't chase him then, knew I was going right for you, had to get you out of the water. I couldn't even shoot at him—there wasn't time.”

“Shoot him? What on earth do you mean?”

Another man's voice came out of the darkness. “Hey, Cheney, can't I leave you alone for a single minute? Where's June? I thought she only came out for a cigarette. I thought you came out to fetch her. What's going on here? Who is this?”

The man sprinted over, squatted beside the two of them, and stared down at her, his expression appalled. “What happened here? Did she try to commit suicide?”

He'd asked the man who'd rescued her, the one called Cheney, but she was alive, thank you very much, and so she answered, “No, a man punched me, but he ran out of time before he could finish me off, so he threw me over the railing. It happened so fast I didn't have time to react at all. He—Cheney—stopped him. He saved me.” She paused, giving him a crooked grin. “That's a strange name but I'm used to strange names. Mine's not strange, it's sort of boring, really.”

“What is your name?”

“I'm Julia.”

Cheney smiled, kept rubbing her back. “It's not all that boring.”

The other man stared at her like she was nuts, but she really didn't care. She felt wonderfully tired and slumped back against Cheney's hands. “My jaw feels like someone exploded a bomb inside my face.”

“Yeah, I'll bet,” Cheney said. “No, no, don't you let go now. Straighten up, you can do it.” Cheney lifted her back to a sitting position, pounded her back a couple more times. Thank the good Lord there was nothing left to come up. “That's it, no more water in you. Now get yourself together, Julia. You're going to be all right.” He grabbed her arms and shook her. “Time to get a grip here. Come on now!”

She opened her eyes and yelled, “Stop it, you baboon! My head's going to break off my neck.”

He stopped shaking her. “Okay, but don't try to fade out again or I'll whack you some more.”

She heard a woman's voice. “Cheney? Manny? What's going on here? I finished my cigarette, but neither of you were at the table when I went back inside. Linda said Manny had come to look for you, Cheney. Come on back inside, they just brought our dinner. Hey, what's this?”

Cheney slowly got to his feet, pulling Julia up with him, anchoring her against his side so she wouldn't fall on her face. No, that wasn't going to work. He picked her up in his arms. “Sorry, June. I guess you could say I'm back on duty. You and Manny go back on in and enjoy the cioppino, it's supposed to be the Crab House specialty, the best in San Francisco. This is work, so I've got to attend to it. I'll call you later.”

“I'm not work. I'm Julia.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly eight o'clock.”

"Oh dear. I don't think I'm going to be able to make dinner with Wallace.”

June said, “What does she mean, she's Julia? You're sopping wet, Cheney. Who is this woman, what—”

Manny said, “Cheney, you want me to call 911?”

“Nah, you go back in and entertain everyone. I'll do it. Sorry, June. I'll call you tomorrow.” Cheney hoped the now quiescent woman in his arms wasn't going to freeze to death on him, particularly not after all his hard work, not after he'd bundled her in his wool sports coat.

Manny said, “We've just seen our tax dollars at work. Come on, June. Cheney, thanks for the excitement. Call me tomorrow, let me know what happens.”

Cheney nodded to Manny as he pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911. “I need an ambulance at Pier 39—”

His words made sudden sense to her. With all her remaining strength, Julia grabbed his wet collar. “Please, please, not the hospital, please not the paramedics, no doctors, oh God, please, Cheney—”

“Look, Julia, you're—”

“I'll die if you take me to a hospital.”

It was the utter certainty in her voice that stopped him cold. He flipped off his cell. “All right, no hospital. What, then? Where do you live?”

He realized she was afraid to tell him.

He saw some tourists standing a few feet away, looking toward them, speaking among themselves. “This is just great. I save your butt and you're scared to tell me where you live. Will you at least tell me your last name, Julia?”

She started to shake her head but it was simply too much trouble. She whispered, “Julia . . . Jones.”

“Oh yeah, like I'm going to believe that one. Give me your address or I'm driving you right over to San Francisco General.”

She gave him her address. Deadening fear settled inside her, jagged and hard. Her jaw throbbed, and sharp licks of pain suddenly leaped to life in every part of her body. But there was his coat—“I hope I don't ruin your lovely jacket. This is very fine wool.”

“Like your leather jacket, it's been through the wars.”

Cheney began the long trek back to the entrance of Pier 39, her wet leather jacket over the top of his coat. He shook her every once in a while and said each time, “Don't go to sleep. I mean it.”

He thought she said she wasn't stupid, but couldn't be sure.

CHAPTER 3

Most stores on the pier were closed and dark, and tourists were thin on the ground. A woman with two children in tow asked if he needed assistance.

"No, I've got things under control. Thank you.”

“That's nice of her,” Julia said, nodding at the woman, who was staring after them. Cheney grunted. He was wet and cold, his feet squishing in his nicely polished leather boots. Her head lolled on his shoulder.

“Wake up!”

“Yeah, okay,” but her voice was slurred. “Why isn't your coat wet?”

“I was bright enough to toss it, my gun, my wallet, and my cell on the pier before I jumped in after you.”

After ten minutes of hassle with the parking garage attendant, which included trying to get Cheney to go back to Pier 39 to get his ticket validated so he wouldn't have to pay the huge parking fee himself, he navigated over to Lombard, left up Fillmore, then right on Broadway until she said, “It's that one, there, on the left, no lights on.” He pulled into the driveway of a mansion—no other way to refer to the incredibly beautiful three-story brick house with tall thick bushes enclosing it on both sides. He could make out ivy climbing the pale brick walls. He parked in the empty triple driveway, a marvel in San Francisco, where trying to find a parking place to pick up your dry cleaning could make a saint go postal. Cheney was sure the views from all the windows were to die for.

“Nice digs,” he said.

He'd been talking nonstop to her, no, more
at
her, really, but she'd occasionally murmur an answer so he knew she was hanging on. His car heater had been blasting full force and he wondered why his wet clothes weren't steaming by now. He knew his bringing her home was absurd. Well, if she needed medical help, he knew a doctor who owed him a favor. He'd never forget Dillon Savich telling him at Quantico that it was always smart to have a physician in your debt because you simply never knew when you'd need to call in the marker. Now was probably the time. She was shivering violently, despite his coat, despite the incredible heat from the heater.

“Your purse,” he said. “You don't have it.”

“I didn't have a purse. My house keys were in my pocket wrapped in a twenty-dollar bill.”

He felt inside both pockets of her wet leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled wet Kleenex. “No keys. How am I going to get you inside your house?”

He saw she was trying to figure this out. He waited, then asked her again. “I'm thinking,” she said, and she sounded unsure. That worried him and he wondered what Dr. Ben Vrees was doing this fine Thursday evening on his houseboat in Sausalito.

He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her, hard.

“How do I get in, Julia?”

She said, without pause, “There's a key beneath the pansies at the bottom of the second pot by the front door.”

“Oh, wow, what a great hiding place,” and he rolled his eyes.

“Let's just see you find it,” she said, her voice sharp and nasty.

He smiled. She was back with him.

It took him at least three minutes to dig all the way to the bottom of the six-inch pot filled with bright purple pansies to find that damned key, which he then had to wipe on his once-very-nice black wool slacks. He'd pulled them out of the back of his closet for his first date in a good two months. June Canning, a very nice woman, a stockbroker for the Pacific Stock Exchange. He sighed. Oh well, who wanted to spend time between dinner courses outside with a woman who still smoked? And in California?

No alarm sounded when he unlocked the door. Big mistake, he thought. He went back to his Audi, a car that was a bit on the small side for a man his size, sure, but he could park it just about anywhere in the city, even in the narrow alley beside his cleaners. He hauled her out and held her against his side.

Once inside, he found the hall light and flipped it on. He gawked, couldn't help it. He'd never been in such a spectacular house in his life. Truth be told, he'd visited quite a few beautifully restored homes in Pacific Heights over his last four years in San Francisco, but none of them had been on this magnificent scale. But he didn't pause, he simply guided her straight up the wide maple staircase with ornately carved pineapples atop the two newel posts. It wound to a wide landing on the second floor and looked back down into the large entry hall. The ceiling over the entry hall was three stories high, cathedral tall, with an antique gold and crystal chandelier hanging down at least eighteen feet. He wondered how much that sucker weighed, and what you had to do to clean it.