Double Take Read Free

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