Chapter Eleven
“Thinking will not overcome fear but action will.”
~W. Clement Stone
Everything after the police entered happened too fast. Angel could barely get a word out to calm the officers. The police ordered them to put their hands on the back of their heads and lie down on the floor. Brian resisted while spewing a few Scottish invectives, but two officers grabbed his arms and quickly cuffed his hands. Two other officers entered the room.
“Is that you, Gillian?”
“Oh God, yes, Johnny, it’s me. Please tell these officers to release my friend. He works here and lives with my family. We were closing up when these two men entered the clinic.” She touched her fingers to her throat. They came away sticky and red with blood.
“Oh! I’m…I’m…cut…” Then her breath whooshed out in one quick release before everything blackened.
Angel woke with a cool, wet cloth held against her neck and Johnny gently pressing her head between her knees. “Take slow breaths. Don’t sit up until the dizziness passes.”
“Where’s Brian?” She sat up too quickly and her vision blurred. She gripped the cloth at her neck, closed her eyes, and took a slow, deep breath releasing through opened lips.
“I’m right beside ye, Angel. Dinnae fash, all is well.” She hadn’t realized he’d been holding her hand until that moment.
A sudden ruckus at the door diverted everyone’s attention. “What’s happened here? Johnny Kirkman, is that you? What’s happened, where’s Gillian?” Char pushed passed the other officers like the bow of a ship parting the deep blue sea and rushed to her friend. Char knelt beside her and cringed when she looked at Angel’s jaw. When Angel refolded the bloodstained cloth from her neck, Char blanched further. Scowling, Char turned to scan the chaos of broken chairs, patient files strewn across the floor, and Angel followed her assessment. Three officers hauled the battered thugs out to waiting patrol cars. Char narrowed her gaze on Brian. “What the hell is wrong with you?” She swatted his shoulder with a closed fist. “Why didn’t you protect her? Oh, my God, are you okay, honey?”
“I’m okay, I’m fine.” And then, she wasn’t.
She tried to wrap her arms across her chest with limbs that wouldn’t cooperate. Violent shivers shook her whole body, and she couldn’t feel her hands or feet. Brian and Char both spoke to her, but all sound rushed in her head as though through an echoing tunnel garbling their words. When she tried to focus on them, their images blurred, and when she tried to speak a retching sob escaped her lips.
The next thing she knew, Brian had lifted her onto his lap. Strong arms wrapped tightly around her body as he pulled her against his hard chest. Char stroked a hand over her hair. Angel burrowed into Brian’s warmth and tucked her head into the crook of his neck. The tang of male sweat and underlying scent of Ivory soap anchored her senses as she let everything else blur to white background noise.
“My wee braw lass, mo chridhe, hush, haud yer wheesht now, it’s over.” Why was he hushing her? She had no awareness of making any sound. “We’re all safe.” Brian crooned softly in her ear. As he pressed his lips against her temple, she became aware of a vibration in her throat. She must be making noise, but she couldn’t seem to hear it.
Johnny called her name. He wanted her attention, but her head felt like a lead weight on her shoulders. “Gillian, Gillian Angelina, can you hear me?”
It took every ounce of strength to lift her head, but when she did, she folded her lips tightly over her teeth and bit down on a surge of bitter bile. In a flash, the world tilted back to rights.
She pushed herself to her feet, glaring at the room’s disorder, her hands akimbo on her hips. “What a mess! This is going to take hours to clean up.” She stomped around slapping files onto the desk, righting furniture with sharp smacking movements and tried to ignore all protests and attempts to divert or question her. Johnny pulled out his pad to jot down comments about the evening’s event; she snapped short answers and glared at everyone who caught her eye. Anger and action proved far better than utter terror.
They’d given a complete, albeit curt accounting to the officers. In the middle of promising to appear at the station in the morning to review and sign reports, her father arrived like an unleashed storm. He immediately reexamined the nick at Angel’s throat, applied a bandage, barked orders to everyone, including new directives to revise the clinic’s alarm system.
As soon as possible, Alistair ushered Brian and Angel to his waiting sedan. “Why is Char capable of driving her car and I’m not?” she seethed. Her father’s tone gentled, yet maintained a steely edge. “Get in the car Angel, no arguments, please.”
The lights in the house blinded Angel when they walked into the living room. Granny M brought in a tray with mugs of hot chocolate and oatmeal raisin cookies, her solution to all upsets. Mother kept frantically wringing her hands, while Brian, with controlled calm, answered all questions from Alistair, mother, and Granny. Char sat primly next to her on the sofa offering interjections and fierce glowers at Brian.
It neared midnight and Angel, sickened over constantly rehashing events, cut someone off in the middle of a statement and launched from her seat. “Enough! I’ve had enough. We’ve covered all salient points, the thugs are in custody, and I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”