Return to Sender

by Fern Michaels

  “I can’t wait to see how this turns out,” Sally said as they walked down Madison Avenue, searching for a taxi. Neither was in a rush now that they were out of Harlem and away from Chelsea and the reporters.

  “Me either. This is a true life-changing moment. I don’t feel good about this, Sally. I feel soiled and dirty. It reminds me of when kids at school used to call me Miss Stinky Pants. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t wimp out now. Remember those mac-and-cheese days. Remember Will.”

  “I know, but it’s not poor Chelsea’s fault.”

  “Forget ‘poor Chelsea.’ I doubt the woman knows the word. Let’s take the subway, see what kind of weirdos are riding it this late at night.”

  Lin rolled her eyes. “And you think we look normal?”

  They eyed one another and burst into fits of laughter.

  Nick threw a jacket over his pajama top and slipped a pair of khaki slacks over the pj bottoms. By the time he located a comfortable pair of shoes, he was exhausted. He crept to the kitchen, where he took his private elevator down to the garage. Herbert had offered to come up and help him down, but Nick wouldn’t hear of it. Yes, he was sick, but there was no way in hell he was about to let the public know the extent of his illness. Not yet. He would not relinquish control. He had a way to go, but he was extremely confident he’d win the battle in the war to save his life.

  Herbert was waiting for him when the elevator doors swished open. “Good evening, sir.”

  Nick nodded. He didn’t want to chitchat. He would follow the ridiculous instructions the anonymous caller had given. If Chelsea had actually been kidnapped, he would find out soon enough.

  The odd thing about the entire situation was that the caller hadn’t asked for ransom! Nick’s instructions were to be at the location he was given at a certain time if he wanted his wife safely at home, where she belonged. Hell, there wasn’t even a hint of a threat. If this was something Chelsea had orchestrated to gain his attention, she was about to see a side of him that he knew she wouldn’t like.

  Once inside the car, Nick sank into the plush leather seats, thinking of a million different ways he’d like to kill Chelsea. Even after Nick had discovered that any unborn child Chelsea had carried until her miscarriage, if there had ever been a child, could not have been his, his father had threatened to disinherit him should he divorce. His father had not cared that Chelsea had tricked Nick into thinking that Nick and Chelsea had slept together the night they had met at the frat party. It had not mattered to his father that Chelsea had come to the frat party with knockout drops all prepared and had caught the big fish, Nicholas Pemberton, heir to Pemberton Transport. Pembertons did not divorce. So with the threat of disinheritance hanging over his head, Nick had stayed his hand. Hoping against hope that his father had not managed to tie his hands via his will, Nick had intended to divorce Chelsea soon after his father’s death. But the will had put an end to those plans.

  And now here he was, running around with his goddamned chauffeur in the middle of the night. She would pay for this, one way or another.

  Herbert waited until they were out of the garage before speaking. “May I ask where you would like to go, sir?”

  Nick was glad it was dark. Glad he wouldn’t be able to see the look on the old man’s face when he told him where he wanted to go.

  “Harlem. I need to go to Clinton’s office.”

  Herbert glanced in his rearview mirror. His look said it all. “Of course,” he replied.

  Nick felt obligated to the old man, hated that he’d dragged him out in the middle of the night. He owed him an explanation, even if it was a lie. “It’s a prank. Something set up by NYU, an initiation of sorts. Since I spoke at their inaugural banquet last month, they invited me to…help. I’d forgotten until the call came in. I’d prefer this remain within the confines of this vehicle.”

  “Absolutely, sir. My lips are sealed.”

  Nick admitted to himself it was a rather crafty lie. When Herbert saw who was waiting at the end of this long drive, he’d have questions, but Nick was in charge. He didn’t need to explain himself any more than necessary.

  The rest of the drive was silent, and for this boon Nick was grateful. It took too much of his waning strength to carry on a conversation. If he didn’t see a change in his health soon, he would have to tell his household staff and swear them to secrecy. They had to suspect he had something other than a bad case of flu. Chelsea had told all of them he had the flu. Of course, he could have that deadly bird flu, but Nick figured they wouldn’t fall for that, either, because he would’ve already died.

  “Sir, we’ve arrived,” Herbert stated half an hour later.

  Nick sat up straight and pushed the electric power button down, revealing the commotion on the darkened street. The night air was chilly and raw, settling into his already aching bones. He made a pretense of waiting. Then, when he could stall no longer, he eased out of the Lincoln. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Yes, sir,” came Herbert’s usual response.

  Expecting gangs, streets crammed with prostitutes and low-life scumbags, Nick was taken aback when he saw groups of people walking together, some in deep conversation, others laughing loudly, nothing even remotely menacing. Of course, this wasn’t his favorite area, but it certainly wasn’t what he’d envisioned. It had been years since he’d ventured into that neighborhood. In spite of its lack of crazies, psychos, and general nuts, he knew he wouldn’t return there anytime soon. If Chelsea pulled a similar stunt, she’d be on her own.

  It was slow going as he walked the short block to the former president’s office. He should have had Herbert drive him, but he preferred to keep whatever Chelsea’s surprise was between the two of them. At least for the moment.

  He shuddered when a gust of cool air greeted him. He should have worn a sweater under his jacket, but under normal conditions Nick wouldn’t even have bothered. Since getting sick, he found that he was cold most of the time.

  Up ahead he saw two men. They seemed to be fascinated with something or someone. He picked up his pace as much as he was able to. Who knew? They could be attacking Chelsea, which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, he thought as he trudged the last few feet to the front of Clinton’s office.

  At the top of the stairs leading to the former president’s office, Nick saw a woman in a wheelchair. She moaned softly, and her head appeared to be slumped at an unnatural angle. He forced himself up the stairs and, as he did so, he saw the two men racing down the street. He heard an engine crank, then tires squeal as a vehicle lurched out of the darkness. In the distance the car’s taillights glowed like two evil bloodred eyes.

  When Nick reached the top of the stairs, he was short of breath.

  Pausing for a few seconds to gain control of his failing body, he al most jumped out of his skin when he heard the moaning again.

  “Where…am I?”

  The woman in the chair was speaking and had his full attention.

  “Chelsea? Are you okay? What the hell happened to you?”

  She tried to look up at him, but her neck lolled to one side. “Nick,” she whispered.

  “I’m right here. Look, I don’t know how you got here or why you’re here, but we’ve got to get back to the penthouse.” Nick took stock of the wheelchair, unlocked the wheels, then walked behind to grasp the handles. Thank God there was a handicap ramp off to the right of the stairs. Using what was left of his waning strength, Nick pushed the wheelchair, stopped to catch his breath, then resumed pushing her back to the Lincoln.

  “Where am I?” Chelsea asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Not now. Let’s get you into the car. We can talk there,” Nick said between labored breaths.

  She must have understood what he said, because she didn’t utter another word while he summoned Herbert to help him ease her out of the chair.

  “Sir, this looks like more than a college prank. Should I locate a police officer?” asked Her
bert.

  “Hell no! The last thing I need is some nosy-ass cop asking questions. This is a college prank that went too far. I’ll take care of it. Now, help me get her into the backseat.”

  Between the two of them they managed to get Chelsea inside the car. Nick left the wheelchair on the sidewalk, knowing it wouldn’t remain there for long. Once Chelsea was inside the car, Nick got in beside her.

  “Herbert, take us home. And whatever you do, please don’t mention this ridiculous…adventure to any of the household staff.”

  “Of course, sir,” Herbert replied.

  Chelsea whimpered.

  Nick took her hand. “Shhh. Don’t say anything. Just relax.”

  A million different scenarios were running through his head. None of them gave him the slightest indication of what was wrong. He hadn’t looked at the caller ID when the so-called kidnapper phoned. He would as soon as they got home, but anyone in his right mind would know not to call on a traceable line. Nick tried to think of all the people he’d pissed off, but there were too many to enumerate. Chelsea didn’t have that many true friends, but he wasn’t sure that she had an enemy that would go to such lengths. And for what? To get him out of the house? That made no sense at all. If the incident was something Chelsea and one of her boyfriends had concocted, he’d make sure she suffered.

  Still, Nick couldn’t see Chelsea putting herself in such a risky situation. He was sure she was either drunk or had been drugged. Maybe she’d taken some of his sleeping pills. Whatever she’d taken, he couldn’t see her purposely going to Harlem in the middle of the night to wait for him to come to her rescue. Chelsea had to have been forced because she would never go to that part of the city willingly. It was simply beneath her.

  The traffic wasn’t heavy that time of night, and Nick was glad. The venture had cost him all his strength. Fifteen minutes later Herbert drove into the parking garage.

  “Herbert, if you’ll help me get Chelsea to the elevator, I think I can handle her from there.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, I can help you…inside.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Herbert.” Nick knew the old guy wanted to help, but he simply wanted to get inside and forget the world for the next few hours. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

  Herbert nodded.

  Chelsea was as limp as a wet noodle as they each took an arm.

  “Move your feet, Chelsea. I can’t do this alone,” Nick grumbled. Damn her for putting him in such a humiliating position.

  Chelsea put one foot in front of the other. When they reached the elevator, Nick grabbed his wife around the waist when Herbert released his hold on her.

  “I’ll take it from here. Remember, not a word to anyone,” said Nick.

  Herbert gave his usual nod and stepped back as the elevator doors closed.

  Nick held Chelsea upright as they rode up to the penthouse. What he’d really have liked to do was leave her in a heap right there in the elevator. When whatever she was on wore off, he figured she’d find her way home. But after all the bullshit he’d been through that night, he figured he might as well see that she was safe and sound.

  The door swished open. Nick practically dragged Chelsea to the living room. He plopped her on the leather sofa, found one of her jackets, and tossed it over her. Sure that nothing could be done about the situation until morning, Nick slowly walked back to his bedroom. Crawling into bed, he closed his eyes, and for a moment he felt a rush of fear so sudden, his heart raced and his mouth felt dry.

  What if he didn’t wake up in the morning?

  Chapter 8

  Jason Vinery used his foot to tap on the door. “Come on, my hands are full.” He was trying to perform a balancing act with three cups of coffee and the newspapers. The Times and the Post, a copy for him and copies for the girls. “Open the door!” he shouted.

  Lin was dreaming about a sexy, dark-haired man when she heard Jason at the door. “Is it morning already? Damn, I just went to sleep.” She listened for Sally, sound asleep in the upper bunk. “I know you’re awake, so get up.” Lin grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed. “If you don’t wake up, I’m going to drink all the coffee and make you wait.”

  Sally shoved the covers aside. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

  Lin laughed. “Yeah, so? What are you gonna do about it?”

  “It’s too early for this. Answer the door before someone calls the police.”

  Lin counted her steps as she walked to the front door. Ten. Big room, she thought.

  She unlocked the dead bolt, released the security chain, and saw Jason. “What are you doing here this early? I’ve had only two hours’ sleep, if that.” She opened the door, standing aside to allow Jason room to enter the cracker box.

  “I thought you might want to read how last night’s adventure played out. I even brought coffee. If you’d rather I leave…”

  Lin shook her head. “No, I’m just tired…. I didn’t sleep much. Come on in.”

  Jason sat the container of coffees on the small counter that constituted the kitchen. He reached in his pockets, removing sugar, cream, and stir sticks. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee,” he said, indicating the pile of sugars and cream.

  Lin took one of the large cups of Starbucks coffee and motioned for Jason to follow her to the sofa. “Let me see the papers.”

  Jason snagged a coffee for himself before bringing the papers over to her. “Tell me this isn’t good.”

  Lin was almost afraid to read them, afraid that somehow they’d been found out. She took a sip of hot coffee before reaching for the paper.

  “It made the front page,” Jason added.

  The Post’s headline: PEMBERTON WIFE VICTIM OF DOMESTIC ABUSE!

  Chelsea Pemberton was found drugged and beaten on the steps of former president Clinton’s office.

  It is unknown at this time how or why she was at that location. Sources believe she was taken to the location by her husband, Nicholas Pemberton, CEO of Pemberton Transport.

  Charges have not been filed at the time of this writing.

  The rest of the article was simply details about Pemberton Transport and the family.

  The headline of the New York Times blared: PEMBERTON PACKS A PUNCH!

  More of the same. Lin’s hands trembled when she placed the paper down beside her. “This is more than I hoped for! I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “Chalk one up for the good guys, Lin. It’s time Pemberton received some of the crap he’s been dishing out to others for the past twenty years. The man doesn’t have a lot of close friends. After these articles, I doubt that what few he has will want to be seen with him. Reputation is everything in his world.”

  “So what happens next? Will they arrest him?” Lin asked.

  “That’s up to Chelsea, if she convinces herself this really happened. If the DA’s office decides to pursue charges, he will be formally charged, will have to make a plea to the judge. I doubt it’ll go that far, since there is a proof factor involved here, but it’ll take him a while to erase this mess. He deserves it, Lin. He’s stepped on and kicked so many people since taking over as CEO that you’re just one of many who want to see him get what he deserves. The line is very long, trust me.”

  Briefly, Lin wondered if Jason had any idea exactly why she wanted to ruin Nick’s reputation. If he did, he’d kept it to himself.

  And the why didn’t really matter to Jason. Of that she was sure. She was certain he had plenty of reasons himself. Nick was a former client, something Jason had let slip when they first met, so Jason probably knew who’d been screwed by whom and for how long.

  Sally chose that moment to grace them with her presence. “So did it make the papers?” She reached for the Post and skimmed the feature story. “Whoa! This is good stuff, Jason. Do I smell coffee?”

  “There’s Starbucks in the kitchen. You might have to nuke it if you want it hot,” Lin added.

  Lin took another sip of coffee. “So what�
��s next on the list? I don’t see how we can top messing with his bank accounts and this.” She indicated the pile of newspapers on the sofa.

  “This is just the tip of the iceberg. You want something lasting, something that will plague him for the rest of his life.” Jason fur rowed his brow. “I think that’s what you’re looking for. Am I right?”

  Lin took a deep breath, suddenly unsure of just how much she wanted to mess with the Pembertons. Already she’d felt somewhat vindicated, but she knew it wouldn’t last. When she looked back on those times when Will was a toddler, all her struggles, she knew the two pranks, if you could even call them that, were nothing in comparison to what her son’s father deserved.

  “Yes, like I said before, I want him to feel fear, pure heart-pounding fear. Whatever it takes to do that, short of murder, I’m in.”

  Nick carefully opened his eyes, searching for the pearly gates of heaven. When he didn’t see them, he thought he’d been condemned to the fires of hell, until he saw Nora, his housekeeper, picking up the clothes he’d dropped on his way to bed last night. He’d man aged to survive another day.

  He looked to his right. The digital clock read 10:30. “Where is Mrs. Pemberton?” Nick asked, easing himself out of the bed.

  “I believe she’s in the shower. She mentioned she wasn’t feeling well when I came in this morning.”

  Nick’s thoughts raced back to the events of the night before. Someone had to pay for what she’d put him through, not to mention the embarrassment she’d caused him. He was sick, maybe dying, for God’s sake. Didn’t anyone care? Suddenly he felt like crying when he thought of how Herbert and his cronies were probably having a good laugh at his expense right then.

  “Would you like some tea and toast?” Nora inquired.

  No, what he’d like was his old life back. Before the leukemia. “No, I’m not hungry this morning,” Nick replied. “Thank you for asking,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Very well.” Nora made fast work of straightening the room. At the door she turned to him. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”