Chapter 6 - The Dead Doctor
The first gunshot hit the metal door.
Jonathan shoved me to the floor.
Victor grabbed the notebook.
Another bullet tore through the thin aluminum wall and exploded a cardboard box behind us.
Mrs. Henderson was no longer with us.
Thank God.
Jonathan fired back through the door.
Someone shouted.
Then silence.
“Back exit?” Victor asked.
I pointed toward the rear wall.
“There isn’t one.”
Jonathan scanned the storage unit.
“Then we make one.”
He kicked aside boxes until he found a maintenance panel.
The walls between units were thin corrugated metal.
Victor grabbed a metal shelf support.
Together, the men slammed it against the panel.
Outside, footsteps approached again.
I stuffed the tape, microfilm and notebook into my bag.
“Faster!”
The metal bent.
Another gunshot.
Jonathan grunted.
Blood appeared on his shoulder.
“Jonathan!”
“Keep moving.”
Victor tore the damaged sheet back far enough for me to crawl through.
I squeezed into the neighboring unit.
Victor followed.
Jonathan came last.
We ran through three rows of storage units before an alarm began screaming.
Police sirens approached.
The attackers disappeared.
Jonathan survived.
The bullet had passed through the soft tissue of his upper arm.
At the hospital, Victor sat beside me in the waiting room.
Neither of us spoke for almost twenty minutes.
Then he said, “Caldwell died in Switzerland.”
“So you were told.”
“I attended the funeral.”
“Was there a body?”
Victor stared at me.
“No.”
I almost laughed.
Nobody in this family ever seemed to see a body.
My mother.
Me.
Now Henry Caldwell.
People simply died on paper, and everyone wealthy enough accepted it.
Victor called Catherine.
She didn’t answer.
Again.
Nothing.
On the fifth attempt, her phone went directly to voicemail.
Victor stood.
“I’m going home.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“You think I’m staying here after someone shot at us?”
“Emily—”
“I want answers.”
An hour later, we reached the Whitmore estate.
The front gates were open.
Too open.
Security staff were missing.
Victor knew immediately.
“Something’s wrong.”
We entered through the main doors.
The house was enormous and silent.
A vase had been knocked over in the foyer.
Victor called Catherine’s name.
No response.
We found her phone on the kitchen floor.
A message had been typed but never sent.
VICTOR, MY FATHER—
That was all.
Victor’s face went gray.
Jonathan had remained at the hospital, so it was only the two of us.
“We call the police,” I said.
Victor nodded.
Then a voice came from behind us.
“No police.”
We turned.
A man stood at the end of the hallway.
He was in his seventies.
Tall.
Thin.
White hair.
He held no weapon.
He didn’t need one.
Two armed men stood behind him.
Victor whispered, “Henry.”
Dr. Henry Caldwell smiled.
“Hello, son-in-law.”
My stomach turned.
“Where is Catherine?”
“Safe.”
Victor lunged forward.
One gunman raised his weapon.
I grabbed Victor’s arm.
Caldwell sighed.
“You always were emotional.”
“You threatened your own daughter.”
“I protected her.”
“You experimented on children!”
Caldwell looked at me.
“So Sarah’s records survived.”
He knew immediately.
That frightened me.
I held my bag closer.
Caldwell noticed.
“There they are.”
“You’re not getting them.”
He smiled.
“Emily, I’ve been trying to recover those records since before you learned to speak.”
“Did you kill my mother?”
Victor shouted, “Don’t answer him!”
But Caldwell did.
“No.”
I stared at him.
“Who did?”
“Richard Whitmore.”
Victor shook his head.
“You’re lying.”
“Your father discovered Sarah intended to expose the trials. He ordered her stopped.”
“That doesn’t mean he killed her.”
“No. But his security chief did.”
“Name.”
Caldwell smiled.
“Why should I make this easy?”
I stepped toward him.
“Because if you wanted us dead, we’d already be dead.”
His smile widened.
Carl used to smile like that when I made a clever move in chess.
The thought sickened me.
“You are Sarah’s daughter.”
“Unfortunately for you.”
Caldwell laughed softly.
“I liked Sarah.”
“You experimented on her child’s father.”
“That was complicated.”
“Explain it.”
Caldwell motioned toward the sitting room.
“Let’s behave like civilized people.”
We sat under the watch of armed men.
Caldwell poured himself whiskey.
“Whitmore Medical was failing. We had developed an immune-modulating compound that showed extraordinary promise.”
“On children?”
“On terminal patients with no alternatives.”
“Without informed consent.”
His expression hardened.
“History judges successful medicine differently than failed medicine.”
“Children died.”
“Children who were already dying.”
Victor’s fists clenched.
“You dosed Carl.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Caldwell took a drink.
“Carl found the research.”
My breath caught.
“He threatened to expose it?”
“At first.”
Caldwell stared into his glass.
“Then he asked to participate.”
Victor looked stunned.
“No.”
“He believed the treatment might work.”
“He wasn’t sick!”
“No. But his mother had died of aggressive lymphoma. Carl learned he carried a genetic marker we were studying.”
Victor whispered, “He volunteered?”
“For the first dose.”
The words hung in the room.
“The later doses?” I asked.
Caldwell did not answer.
“You gave them without consent.”
“He wanted out.”
My stomach turned.
“So you kept experimenting.”
“His reactions were valuable.”
Victor stood.
“You monster.”
The gunmen stepped forward.
Caldwell waved them back.
“Sit down.”
Victor remained standing.
“You poisoned my brother.”
“No.”
“He developed cancer!”
“Twenty-five years later.”
“Because of you.”
“Possibly.”
Victor lunged.
A gunman struck him across the face.
He fell.
I screamed.
Caldwell remained calm.
Then a woman’s voice came from the doorway.
“Enough.”
Catherine stood there.
Victor looked up.
“Catherine.”
She rushed to him.
Her father watched without emotion.
Catherine turned on Caldwell.
“You promised no one would be hurt.”
“And no one has been.”
“You had Jonathan shot.”
“An unfortunate reaction from security personnel.”
She slapped him.
One gunman moved.
Caldwell raised a hand.
“Let her.”
Catherine looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I stood.
“You brought him here?”
“No.”
“He found me.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because he has my son.”
Victor froze.
“Which son?”
“Daniel.”
Their oldest.
Forty years old.
A father himself.
Caldwell spoke casually.
“Daniel is comfortable.”
Victor looked ready to kill him.
“What do you want?”
Caldwell looked at my bag.
“The notebook. The tape. The microfilm.”
I slowly removed the cassette.
“You get Daniel back if I give these to you?”
“Yes.”
“You swear?”
Caldwell smiled.
“I learned long ago not to swear to Whitmores.”
I looked at Catherine.
Then Victor.
Then the tape.
Carl had hidden this for decades.
Sarah had died protecting it.
Ruth had devoted her life to keeping it safe.
I could not hand it over.
So I lied.
“Fine.”
I placed the cassette on the table.
Caldwell nodded to one of his men.
“Bring Daniel.”
The man left.
Minutes later, Catherine’s son entered.
Bruised.
Terrified.
Alive.
His mother ran to him.
While everyone watched them, Victor looked at me.
I gave the smallest shake of my head.
Because the tape on the table was not Sarah’s recording.
It was an old cassette from one of my childhood boxes.
The real evidence remained in my bag.
Caldwell picked up the tape.
He smiled.
Then he turned toward me.
“You know, Emily, Carl underestimated you.”
My heart stopped.
He flipped the cassette over.
My name was written on the label in pink marker.
EMILY — AGE 6 — CHRISTMAS SONGS
Caldwell laughed.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”
The gunmen raised their weapons.
May you like
Caldwell’s smile vanished.
“Search her bag.”
