Chapter 7 - The Forged Signature
“Come on, little one. Breathe.”
The words were a frantic chant from the neonatal team huddled over the warming tray.
Arthur remained on his knees in the corner of the operating room. He didn’t dare look. He just stared at the white tiles, his large, rough hands twisting his canvas baseball cap into a knot.
For thirty years, Arthur Vance had fixed broken things. Engines, transmissions, busted pipes. He knew how to diagnose a problem, how to apply pressure, how to force dead metal back to life.
But he couldn’t fix this. He was entirely powerless.
“Still no pulse. Pushing epinephrine.”
On the surgical table behind him, Dr. Thorne was working frantically to stop Emily’s hemorrhaging. The monitor attached to Emily beeped wildly, her blood pressure still dangerously unstable from the preeclampsia.
“I need more suction!” Dr. Thorne yelled. “She’s losing too much blood. Hang another bag of O-negative, now!”
The room was a symphony of perfectly controlled chaos.
Arthur closed his eyes tightly. In the darkness of his mind, he saw Emily as a little girl, running across the greasy floor of his garage, holding a wrench she could barely lift, smiling a toothy grin.
“Heart rate is climbing! She’s converting!”
Arthur’s eyes snapped open.
From across the room, a sound cut through the noise of the monitors and the shouting doctors.
It was a small, wet, furious sound.
A cry.
Arthur scrambled to his feet. He looked toward the warming tray.
The tiny, blue infant was suddenly turning a vibrant, angry shade of pink. The baby girl kicked her legs, her mouth open wide as she let out a piercing, beautiful wail that filled the sterile operating room.
“We have respiration!” Sarah shouted, tears springing to her eyes beneath her surgical mask. “Apgar score is improving. She’s fighting!”
Arthur let out a breath he felt he had been holding for five years. He covered his mouth with his massive hand, weeping openly as he watched the nurses quickly swaddle his granddaughter in a warm blanket.
“The mother is stabilized,” Dr. Thorne announced, stepping back from the surgical table with a heavy sigh of relief. “Bleeding is under control. Close her up and get her to recovery.”
Arthur walked slowly over to the warming tray.
Sarah looked up at him and smiled. She gently lifted the tiny bundle and held it out.
Arthur wiped the grease and sweat from his hands onto his jeans before reaching out. He took the baby girl into his massive arms. She was so small she barely took up the space from his elbow to his wrist.
She stopped crying the moment she settled against his chest, her dark blue eyes blinking up at him.
“Hello, little fighter,” Arthur whispered, tracing her tiny cheek with the pad of his calloused thumb. “I’m your grandpa.”
The doors to the operating room suddenly swung open.
Sully, the retired detective, stepped inside. His tactical vest was slightly askew, and he looked incredibly grim.
“Arthur,” Sully said quietly. “You need to come out here.”
Arthur handed the baby back to Sarah, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “What is it?”
“It’s Mark,” Sully said. “He’s gone.”
Arthur followed Sully out of the O.R., leaving Emily and the baby safely under armed guard.
In the hallway, the scene was chaotic. Hospital security was interviewing witnesses, and two uniformed Chicago police officers were taking a statement from Jessica, who sat slumped in a wheelchair, holding an ice pack to her bruised face.
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Arthur demanded, his voice a low rumble.
“When the hospital lawyer ripped up the Power of Attorney, Mark knew the gig was up,” Sully explained, pointing toward the emergency stairwell. “He bolted. My guys chased him, but he had a car waiting by the loading dock. He drove right through the security arm.”
“Did he get the money?” Arthur asked, his blood running cold.
Jessica looked up from her wheelchair. She pulled the ice pack away from her face, her eyes filled with bitter resignation.
“Not yet,” Jessica said. “The trust doesn’t unlock automatically. It requires dual authentication. The birth certificate proving the child is born, and the physical silver key to open the vault at First National.”
Arthur patted the pocket of his canvas jacket. He still had the silver key.
“He can’t get the money without this,” Arthur said.
“You underestimate him, Arthur,” Jessica warned, shaking her head. “Mark is the legal trustee. If he shows up at the bank with the forged Power of Attorney—the original copy, not the one the lawyer ripped up—and claims he lost the key, the bank manager will drill the box for him. He has the cartel breathing down his neck. He is going to that bank right now to empty the vault before the police catch him.”
Arthur looked at the clock on the wall.
It was 11:45 p.m.
“The bank is closed,” Arthur said.
“Mark plays golf with the branch manager,” Jessica countered. “He can get him to open the vault at midnight for a cut of the money.”
Sully cursed under his breath. “I’ll call the precinct. We’ll send squad cars to First National.”
“They won’t make it in time,” Arthur said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Mark knows the city better than the cops. He’ll be in and out before they cross the river.”
Arthur turned toward the elevator.
“Where are you going?” Sully asked.
“To fix a leak,” Arthur replied.
Arthur stepped into the elevator, his hand resting heavily over the pocket containing the silver key. He pulled out his cell phone and made one phone call to a man he hadn’t spoken to since Emily’s mother passed away.
“Hello, Thomas,” Arthur said as the elevator descended. “It’s Arthur Vance. I need a favor at the bank.”
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Ten minutes later, Arthur’s rusted Ford F-150 tore out of the hospital parking garage, speeding through the rain-slicked streets of downtown Chicago, heading straight for First National Bank.
He was not going to let Mark Carter steal his daughter’s future.
