Chapter 4 - THE VAULT OF TRUTHS
The overhead chandelier cast long, jagged shadows across the bedroom walls.
Dr. Whitmore’s hand was shaking slightly, the glass syringe pressed precariously against Chloe’s neck. The tiny drop of blood glistened under the bright lights.
“I’m not asking twice, Richard!” the doctor yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “The combination! Open the safe!”
Richard’s hands were raised, his broad chest heaving. “It’s a digital lock, Edward. I don’t have the code memorized. Vanessa changed it when we got married! Only she knows the sequence!”
The doctor cursed loudly. “Then drag her up here! Make her open it!”
“She’s in the basement panic room,” I said, stepping forward slowly, keeping my palms open and visible.
Dr. Whitmore’s wild eyes snapped toward me. “Shut up, maid! Don’t move an inch!”
“You need the safe open, right?” I kept my voice steady, eerily calm, channeling every ounce of courage I possessed. “You think the ledger and the trial logs are inside. But you’re wrong.”
The doctor frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I pulled the cream-colored envelope out of my apron pocket and held it up.
“Helena knew you were coming for her ten years ago,” I said, taking another slow step toward the fireplace. “She knew that if she kept the physical documents in the wall safe, you would eventually find them. So she built a decoy.”
Richard stared at me, his eyes wide with shock. “A decoy?”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti,” I said, my heart pounding against my ribs like a jackhammer. I looked directly at Dr. Whitmore. “The wall safe contains old bank statements and blank paper. The real evidence—the names of every corrupt politician, every syndicate boss, and every doctor involved in the illegal trials—isn't in this room.”
Dr. Whitmore’s face twisted in doubt. “You’re lying. You’re trying to stall!”
“Am I?” I tossed the envelope onto the mahogany vanity table right beside his medical bag. “Open it. That’s Helena’s handwriting. Read what she wrote about Briar Lane.”
The doctor hesitated. The syringe trembled against Chloe’s neck. He desperately wanted to believe the wall safe held the key, but the panic in his eyes betrayed him. He knew Helena Moretti had been a brilliant, paranoid strategist.
“Dad... my neck hurts,” Chloe whimpered softly.
Richard took half a step forward, a lethal, quiet rage building in his posture. “If you break her skin, Edward, I won't just kill you. I’ll make sure they bury you in an unmarked grave where nobody will ever find your bones.”
Dr. Whitmore swallowed hard. Greed and self-preservation warred in his expression. With his left hand, he snatched the envelope off the vanity, ripped it open with his teeth, and pulled out the folded note inside.
His eyes scanned the ink.
As he read the words, his face drained of all color. The arrogant, composed physician vanished.
“No... no, this is impossible,” the doctor whispered, his grip on the syringe momentarily slackening.
It was the opening Richard needed.
With the explosive speed of a striking panther, Richard lunged forward. He slammed his forearm against Dr. Whitmore’s wrist, forcing the hand holding the syringe upward just as the doctor instinctively tried to stab downward.
Clink!
The glass syringe shattered against the stone fireplace hearth, the clear liquid pooling harmlessly among the ashes.
Simultaneously, Richard grabbed the doctor by the throat, hoisting the seventy-year-old man off the floor with one hand and slamming him against the wall.
Chloe stumbled forward, crying out. I caught her in my arms, pulling her away from danger and holding her tight against my shoulder.
“You’re done, Edward,” Richard whispered, his voice dangerously low. He squeezed his grip on the doctor’s throat until Whitmore’s face turned a deep, bruised purple.
“Richard... please...” the doctor wheezed, clawing frantically at Richard’s massive forearm.
“You killed my wife. You terrorized my daughter,” Richard said, his eyes blazing with absolute fury. He dropped the doctor onto the floor like a sack of garbage. Whitmore curled into a fetal position, gasping for air and coughing violently.
Richard turned to me, breathing heavily. He looked at the cream-colored envelope lying open on the vanity.
“Emma... what did she write?” Richard asked, his voice shaking.
I picked up the note and handed it to him.
Richard unfolded the paper. As his eyes scanned the lines, a tear spilled over his eyelid, tracking down his scarred cheek.
“She knew,” Richard whispered, choking on the words. “She knew she was going to be murdered. And she wrote down the exact address of the medical facility where Whitmore was storing the trials.”
He looked up at me, then down at his trembling hands.
“Briar Lane,” Richard said. “That’s not just a house. That’s the front entrance of the underground clinic.”
Answer One: The envelope revealed that Briar Lane was the front for the syndicate’s underground medical clinic where the illegal trials were conducted.
Open Two: Who else in Chicago’s underworld was tied to the clinic? And what would happen when Richard went there to settle the score?
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the East Wing hallway swung open again.
Frank the chauffeur rushed into the room, panting heavily, holding a heavy-duty portable radio.
“Boss!” Frank yelled. “We’ve got a major problem!”
Richard snapped his head up. “What is it, Frank?”
“One of Vanessa’s guards managed to get a distress signal out before we locked down the basement,” Frank reported, his face grim. “A strike team from the syndicate is heading toward Briar Lane right now. They know the doctor failed, and they’re going to burn the clinic to the ground to destroy all the evidence.”
Richard’s expression hardened into pure ice. He looked down at Dr. Whitmore, who was still wheezing on the floor.
“Get up, Edward,” Richard commanded, grabbing the doctor by the collar of his expensive coat and yanking him to his feet.
“Where... where are you taking me?” the doctor gasped.
“To your clinic,” Richard said, his voice echoing with finality. “You’re going to help me burn your masters out before they burn the truth.”
He turned to Frank and me.
“Frank, secure the house. Keep my daughter safe.” Richard looked at me, his gaze softening just a fraction. “Emma... stay here.”
“No, Mr. Moretti,” I said, stepping forward, holding up the cream-colored envelope. “Helena left this for whoever found it. That means I’m coming with you.”
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Richard stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Let’s go hunting,” he said.
