Leave Yesterday Behind

by Linwood, Lauren

  “You think he’ll try with me again, don’t you? That’s why the plainclothesman is outside. That’s why you haven’t allowed visitors or the press.”

  She brushed a tear from her cheek. “I can’t live my entire life in fear. I can’t.”

  He placed a reassuring hand over hers. “We’ll catch him.”

  Callie bit her lip. “I’m a wimp, Waggoner. I’m not brave enough like some action movie chick. I can’t—I won’t—be bait for this guy.”

  He laughed softly. “We never ask that kind of thing in real life, Callie. That’s only in books and the movies.”

  She placed her hand atop his and squeezed. “Well, I feel like running. As far away from the city as possible.”

  “I don’t blame you, kid.”

  “I need to go home. To Louisiana.”

  Chapter 6

  “What do you mean, I can’t go home? They actually have medical professionals in Louisiana, Dr. Maxwell. It isn’t the backwater bayou you think it is. Why, they even have color TV and cable, I’m told. And they might get the Internet any day now.”

  Her physician looked down his patrician nose at her, ignoring Callie’s flippant remarks. “You must remain in the New York City area for a few weeks, Miss Chennault. Travel would be quite difficult for you.” He cleared his throat, which she found to be only one of his many annoying habits. “Besides, you have the best medical care available to you right here in Manhattan. Why would you even consider going anywhere else?”

  She had never liked him. Not since she opened her eyes and found him hovering. Now this idiot wasn’t going to let her go home? She needed to go back to Aurora. She couldn’t explain it to this tight-ass, but she didn’t want to remain in New York any longer.

  Not with Lefty still at large.

  She’d given her attacker that nickname. The whole Lipstick Larry thing left her cold. That’s what the press had labeled the nut job. She liked Lefty better. It didn’t threaten her as much.

  And she felt she was hanging on to her sanity by a slender thread as it was.

  “Miss Chennault?”

  Callie shook her head and rejoined reality. “A brown out, doc. I had them all the time before the attack. Sorry. What did you say?”

  “That in a few months, if you still feel this urge to return to your . . . roots, we can surely accommodate your request. I will make inquiries. We will see you wind up in suitable hands. When the time is appropriate.”

  She frowned. “When can I leave here? Go back to my apartment? I have cabin fever. I’m tired of scratchy white sheets and constantly being awakened just to give me a sleeping pill so I can sleep. You’ve poked and prodded me enough. I want my own bed. And my dog in that bed. That would be the best medicine of all.”

  Dr. Maxwell fiddled with the chart in his hands, his nose crinkling in disgust. “I suppose we could send you home tomorrow, but you will need around-the-clock care. You are very weak, Miss Chennault. Much weaker than you realize.”

  Score one for the doc. Callie knew he was right about that. She couldn’t even swing out of bed and make a quick bathroom run alone. It turned into a major ordeal every time she had to tinkle. It made her thankful she had a strong bladder since it meant fewer trips now that the catheter was out.

  “Then I’ll hire someone. Just let me go home. Please.”

  “I have the perfect person,” a voice said.

  She looked over Maxwell’s shoulders and spotted Waggoner. “Detective. What a surprise.”

  Actually, she was glad to see him. He’d stopped by every day for a week. Kept her posted on the news conference he held and updated her on more than he probably should have. If she could’ve picked a father, she would’ve wanted one like Waggoner—a little gruff, funny, and with a tender heart.

  He stepped into the room. “My niece, by marriage, is an RN. A petite, redheaded spitfire. Used to do hospice care, but it killed her marriage. Phil, my wife’s nephew, said she got too involved with her patients, which made his life an emotional roller coaster. Divorced her after a couple of years.”

  “You can’t mean Gretchen Monroe?” Dr. Maxwell asked, a look of horror on his face.

  Waggoner smiled. “Yeah. You know her?

  Maxwell sniffed. “She is very unorthodox. I don’t know if Miss Chennault needs that kind of disorder in her life.”

  Callie grinned. “She sounds perfect.” Anyone the doc didn’t like would be right up her alley. She glanced at Waggoner.

  “How can I get in touch with her?”

  The detective returned her smile. “I can have her here in less than an hour. She was coming over to have coffee with my wife this morning.”

  He pulled his cell out and punched it once. “Hey, babe. Gretchen still there? Uh-huh? Put her on.” He cupped the phone. “My wife and I still see her. Phil? We sorta gave up custody of him.”

  Waggoner removed his hand. “Hey, Gretchen. I know you’re between jobs. I found one for you. You’ll like her a lot. Uh-huh. Yeah. She’s one of my cases. We’re . . . uh-huh. Right. Okay. Room 642. Come on over. I’ll give your name to the guard posted outside.”

  He slipped the phone inside his jacket pocket. “She’ll be here soon.”

  The physician snorted. His blatant disgust amused Callie. She put on Jessica’s sweetest smile.

  “Would you meet personally with us to go over any instructions, Doctor?”

  Maxwell glared at her. “I have other patients to see. I’ll get back here when I can.”

  She knew he would keep them waiting, but she smiled all the same. “Thank you so much.”

  The doctor strode from the room. Waggoner came closer and pulled up a chair. “Guess we ticked off Mighty Doc.”

  She laughed and held her side. “Don’t be funny, Detective. I will not forgive you if I split these stitches. I refuse to be held hostage here another day.”

  “You might split them anyway.” Waggoner leaned forward in the chair, his countenance serious. “We got him.”

  His words stunned her. “You . . . you . . .” She couldn’t spit anything out, her mind going numb.

  He nodded. “The picture we released based on your completed description brought a flurry of activity. It usually does. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s a wash. But this time, we hit pay dirt pretty quickly. Five of the first seven calls logged sent us looking in the same direction. Two knew the guy’s name. Worked with him in a hardware store in the Bronx. The others were all customers who’d been waited on by the creep.”

  He sat up, his face more serious now. “Except the one call from his P.O., that is. We nabbed the guy in the middle of his bi-weekly check-in. He lawyered up fast, but we have him in custody. Apartment’s already been swept. More than enough evidence that ties him to your attack. He even had your purse. You can relax, Callie. We got him.”

  She began to cry and couldn’t stop. The floodgates opened, and Niagara Falls spilled over. Waggoner came and sat on the bed. He wrapped his arms around her and let her dump a river down his shirtfront.

  Relief was a big part of it. She realized she’d been tense ever since she’d awakened in the hospital. Fear would come and go in uncontrollable waves. Even knowing she was safe in a public facility with an armed guard stationed only a few feet away, she still had bouts of terror. Nightmares, too, came and went.

  And now he’d been caught. She was safe. That is, if the legal system could scrape together the proof in the proper manner and convince twelve citizens to lock Lefty away forever.

  Her crying subsided, and she leaned back into the pillows, spent. Waggoner pulled a few tissues from the box beside the bed and handed them to her. She blew gently, as any pressure caused her entire right side to throb. She wiped her eyes and then smiled at her new savior.

  “Thank you.” Her voice quavered sligh
tly.

  “That’s my job, Callie. Getting the bad guys.” He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “And now I’ve matched you and Gretchen up, too. It’s a great day all around.”

  He stood. “You need some time to be alone and process all this. I’ll let you soak it in.”

  “You’ll come by tomorrow? Or better yet—I’m going home. Would you mind . . . I mean . . . could you stop by my apartment?”

  “Sure, kid.” He smiled. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll be your ride home. How about that?”

  Callie’s spirits soared at him. “Can we use the siren? I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  He laughed. “Whatever you say. You’re the famous Callie Chennault. Your wish’ll be my command.” He rested his hand on the doorknob. “We’ll keep the police detail in place till tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

  Callie raised a hand in goodbye as he opened the door and left.

  She took a deep breath and realized how utterly exhausted she was. She closed her eyes.

  She was safe.

  Callie stretched lazily as she awoke. She sucked in her breath quickly as the pain rocked along her side in ripples.

  “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”

  She opened her eyes to find a beautiful redhead with large blue eyes and creamy skin sitting next to her bed.

  “You must be Gretchen.”

  “The one and only.” The woman stood and took her wrist in a professional manner, studying her watch. She nodded to herself, a satisfied smile playing about her lips.

  “I talked to the girls at the nursing station. Between them and reading your chart, I’m pretty much up to speed.” She took her seat again.

  Callie nodded. “We’re supposed to meet with my doctor sometime later today. What time is it?”

  “A little after three.” Gretchen sighed. “I heard you have Hannibal the Horrible. Maxwell’s nickname, you know.”

  She shuddered. “He is a first-class jerk. And he doesn’t want to let me go home to Louisiana. He seems to think it’s locked in the Middle Ages. Or worse.”

  Gretchen studied her. “Hmm. You’re a Southern gal. No accent, though. Although I’ve heard Jessica lay a Southern one on before.”

  “That was eons ago. When she . . . oh, don’t tell me you’re a Sumner Falls fan.”

  The nurse laughed. “Wasn’t until I started hospice care. You wouldn’t believe how many sick people enjoy watching soaps. I guess they like escaping from their own problems. Sure, they enjoy watching their game shows or the morning news programs, but they love their soaps. And you, in particular.”

  “Seriously? Jessica can be a real bitch sometimes.”

  “But a vulnerable one. That makes a difference. I had a patient once—Henry Greenley. Admitted to seventy-five, but I think he was well into his eighties. Diagnosed with inoperable cancer. We spent his last six weeks together. He wouldn’t miss a day of you. Even at the end, when he was in and out, I’d make sure the TV was tuned to your show so he could hear your voice.”

  Gretchen stood, her arms wrapped around her. “Remember the moody chef you married?”

  Callie raised her eyebrows. “One never forgets marrying a moody chef, no matter how long ago it was.”

  “Well, Henry was pissed that you two were together. It was just before he died, and he hadn’t been able to follow much of anything. He slept more and more. But he opened his eyes wide and clutched my hand and asked me if Jessica and that temperamental chef were really going to get married.”

  Gretchen laughed. “I told him yes, that the moron proposed to you on that day’s show. Henry said that Jessica was too good for that bastard because he’d never treat her right.” She looked down at Callie. “Those were his last words before he slipped into a coma.”

  Her throat grew tight. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Yeah, Henry knew that creep wasn’t the one for Jessica. Despite all her bravado, Jessica’s got that lost little girl side. People want to protect her. People like her, deep down. They may love to hate her at times because she’s got so much and she causes so much trouble and makes so many mistakes—but that’s why they always keep forgiving her and taking her back. She’s a very human character, Callie. You should be proud of the work you’ve done.”

  “Thank you.” It came out a whisper. She felt raw, almost as much as she had when she’d awakened from Lefty’s attack.

  “Well, Dr. Horrible will give us a boatload of instructions, but you and I will pretty much piece together what’s best for you. I’ll cook for you and help you in all your personal matters. Get you to your medical appointments. And as soon as we can, we’ll start some physical therapy.”

  Gretchen sank back down and pulled out a notepad and a pen from her purse. “Let’s get some basics down first. I don’t think you’ll have a restricted diet. Your injuries wouldn’t prevent you from eating what you wanted. And I’m sure after being in here, you’ve been dreaming of plenty of things you’d like to scarf down.”

  Gretchen studied her a moment. “You look a little on the skinny side. What presses your buttons? Pizza? Ice cream? Chocolate?”

  Callie moaned. “You just named my three favorite food groups. What I wouldn’t give for a Dove Bar and a pizza buffet.”

  “Anything you don’t like?”

  “Liver. Anchovies. Beets. And English peas. Yuck to the max. I love tuna casserole, but I pick out all the peas in it.”

  “Okay. I’ll go over to your apartment later and throw out what needs to go from the fridge. Poke around and get some ideas of what you might want me to stock up on.”

  “I use Sam’s in the Village for my groceries and sundries. I’m on account there.”

  Gretchen made a note. “That’ll be helpful. I’ll also straighten up, change the sheets, make everything nice and cozy for your return. I’ll go through your messages and make a list of who’s called and what about. Once we get home, you might want to let me know who you have to talk to, who gets the ‘wait until she’s stronger’ line, and which ones I need to dump.”

  Callie smiled. “You’re so organized. It sounds like we’re going to get along great. Besides the fact that Dr. Horrible didn’t want me to hire you. That told me right away that we’d click.” She thought a moment. “Are you allergic to dogs?”

  “No. Do you have one? Who’s been feeding and walking it?”

  “My best friend, Beth, has graciously taken in Wolf.”

  “Romy? Romy de Shoenberg? Oh, all my patients were so sorry when she died in that avalanche, escaping from that serial killer. She was a real favorite.”

  Callie smiled. “She did go out in a pretty spectacular way. She told the writers to make it big and make sure she’d never be able to come back. She was getting married and wanted to stay home and have kids. She didn’t want any temptations whispering in her ear to come back to the show. She wanted a clean break.”

  “Now she could always come back as her evil twin. It’s been done to death, but the fans would love that. Maybe she and Jessica could be best friends and cat fight over—”

  “Whoa. Slow down, girl. Jessica is on the shelf for now. That’s one thing I’ll need to talk to my agent and the show about.”

  Gretchen’s eyes widened. “No more Jessica? Then Sumner Falls might as well throw in the towel.”

  “No guilt trips, Gretchen. It’s something I’ve been thinking about even before this mess happened. I think Jessica needs to go off on an extended European vacation. For a year at least.” Callie massaged her stiff neck. “I need some time to think about what I want to do. I’ve spent my entire adult life playing Jessica. I might need to see what else is out there.”

  “Okay. Shall I set up a meeting with your agent? Would you rather it be over the phone or in person?”

  She thought a mo
ment. “I think face to face. Harry’s been good to me. I’ll be going home tomorrow. Make it for the day after that. All my numbers are in the address book next to my landline and also programmed into my cell. Beth took it back to my apartment, so I’m sure it’ll be easy to spot. I’ll write down a few key names for you, and who they are.”

  Callie scribbled away, including a few instructions Gretchen would need.

  “I’ll call the management team and be sure you’re given full access. Would you see that Beth is there when we get home tomorrow? I’d love if she would bring Wolf home.”

  Gretchen smiled. “He’ll be the best medicine for you. And don’t worry, I’ll walk him and everything. I’m crazy about dogs. My ex hated them. And I spend so much time with my patients, I never thought it was fair to have one.”

  “You’ll love Wolf. He’s an Akita, a Japanese breed. Bigger than a German shepherd. Fluffiest white coat you’ve ever run your fingers through. And he’s the only dog I’ve ever had that didn’t have chronic bad breath.”

  “He sounds adorable.”

  A sharp rap on the door startled them both.

  A look of mischief crossed Gretchen’s face. “It’s The Hannibal Show, now playing in Room 642. I guess we better get this over.”

  Callie smiled at her fellow conspirator. “Come in,” she called.

  Chapter 7

  Callie watched the scenery rolling by, excitement building within her. As they passed the lush, green trees that lined the Louisiana highway, she knew she was almost home.

  Home.