Chapter 5 - THE DEAD MAN'S WATCH
The blaring fire alarm masked the sound of my ragged breathing. I pushed myself off the floor, pulling Ben behind me as Marcus stared at the charred silver watch in his hands.
“Your brother?” I asked, the pieces slamming together in my mind.
Answer one, open two. The arsonist Charles had hired twenty-five years ago—the man who died in our burning house—was Marcus’s younger brother.
“David,” Marcus whispered, falling to his knees on the dirty station floor. He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “Charles told me Daniel killed him. He told me Daniel caught David pouring the gasoline and beat him to death with a hammer before fleeing the fire.”
“My daddy didn't kill anyone!” Ben shouted, tears streaming down his face as he stared at his ruined cookies. “He tried to save him!”
Marcus looked at the little boy. “What do you mean?”
“Daddy told me,” Ben cried, his voice breaking. “He said the man with the gas can got trapped when the roof fell. Daddy burned his hands trying to pull him out. He dragged him to the back door, but it was locked from the outside. Daddy had to break a window to get out, but the man was too heavy to lift through it!”
The truth hit Marcus like a physical blow.
Daniel hadn't murdered the arsonist. He had tried to save him.
“The door was locked from the outside,” Marcus repeated, his voice hollow. “Charles was there. He didn't just lock Daniel inside. He locked my brother inside to ensure there were no witnesses to the arson.”
Reversal.
Marcus had spent twenty-five years helping Charles run an illegal empire because he believed Charles was helping him avenge his brother’s murder. But Charles was the one who had murdered him.
The heavy footsteps of Marcus’s men echoed down the corridor, searching for us through the chaotic crowd.
Marcus looked at the watch, then looked at me. His face hardened into a mask of pure, vengeful grief.
“Go,” Marcus whispered, standing up and stepping in front of us to block the corridor. “Charles has him at St. Jude’s Medical Center. Fourth floor. The private wing.”
“Marcus—”
“Go, Evelyn!” he roared over the siren. “Before I change my mind!”
I grabbed Ben’s hand and we sprinted toward the subway tunnels, disappearing into the labyrinth of New York just as Marcus’s men rounded the corner.
We rode the subway to Queens, hiding in the corner of a nearly empty car. We checked into a rundown motel using cash from my pocket. I locked the deadbolt and wedged a chair under the handle.
Ben sat on the edge of the sagging bed, looking utterly defeated. He had lost his cookie tin, the last physical connection he had to his daily routine with his father.
I sat beside him and wrapped my arms around him.
“You were incredibly brave today, Ben,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
“We have to go to St. Jude’s,” Ben cried softly, clinging to my blazer. “Charles is going to hurt him.”
“I know,” I said, my mind racing. “But Charles owns St. Jude’s. The doctors are his. The security is his. If we walk in the front door, we’ll never make it to the fourth floor.”
I thought about the illegal pharmaceutical smuggling Marcus had mentioned. The Zurich account. The shipments.
“Ben,” I asked, “when your dad was in the hospital, did you ever see boxes being brought into the private wing? Boxes with a blue medical cross on them?”
Ben sniffled and nodded. “Yeah. Late at night. The nurses said they were special supplies, but Daddy told me to stay away from them. He said they smelled like chemicals.”
They were using the private wing of their own hospital as a staging ground for the illegal drugs.
“We’re not going through the front door,” I said, standing up with a newfound, terrifying resolve. “We’re going through the loading dock.”
An hour later, covered in cheap rain ponchos I bought from a corner bodega, we slipped into the underground loading bay of St. Jude’s Medical Center. I recognized the delivery manifest codes on the clipboards—I was the CEO of the supply company, after all. I knew the security schedules.
We bypassed the guards during the shift change and rode the freight elevator to the fourth floor.
The private wing was eerily quiet. The lights were dimmed, and the air smelled heavily of bleach and sterile packaging.
We crept down the hallway, checking room numbers.
“It’s 412,” Ben whispered, pointing to a door at the end of the hall.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Twenty-five years. I was finally going to see him. I pushed the heavy wooden door open.
The room was dark. The machines were silent.
I flicked on the light switch.
The hospital bed was empty. The sheets were stripped, the mattress bare.
“Daddy?” Ben cried, running to the bathroom. Empty.
I stared at the cold room, panic rising in my throat.
“Looking for someone, Mrs. Keller?”
I spun around.
Standing in the doorway was the head nurse, a woman with cold eyes and a cruel smile. She held a clipboard in her hands.
“Where is my husband?” I demanded.
The nurse checked her watch. “Mr. Keller was transferred to the Havenwood Hospice Facility an hour ago. Per your brother’s orders.”
Hospice.
May you like
“He’s not dying,” I spat. “His condition is treatable!”
“Not anymore,” the nurse smiled darkly. “Charles decided the accelerated treatment was taking too long. Havenwood specializes in making sure patients slip away… very quietly.”
