Chapter 4 - THE POISON IN THE VIALS
The black barrel was four inches from Clare's nose.
She could smell the gun oil.
She could see the rifling inside the dark muzzle.
Her pulse roared in her ears, but her voice did not break.
"A junk shop on 47th Street," she said.
"My eight-year-old son traded his comic books for it yesterday afternoon."
Sebastian did not lower the gun.
His eyes searched her face for a micro-flinch.
A tremor of deception.
He found only a mother who had looked death in the face every time her son's kidney filters beeped.
"This watch was taken from my father's dead body twelve years ago," Sebastian whispered.
"The night my spine was crushed in Detroit."
"The man who took it shot my father through the heart."
"Then he sold it for forty dollars to an old Polish man who sells broken lamps," Clare countered.
She reached out.
With one finger, she pushed the gun barrel three inches to the left.
"Now put that away."
"We have physical therapy to do."
Sebastian stared at her.
For five agonizing seconds, nobody moved.
Then, slowly, the hammer of the pistol was lowered.
Sebastian set the weapon on the walnut desk beside the watch.
He picked up the gold timepiece with trembling fingers.
His thumb traced the engraving of the falcon.
He pressed a tiny, concealed release catch beneath the hinge.
The inner caseback popped open with a dry metallic click.
Inside the hollow watch compartment lay a folded slip of translucent micro-film.
Sebastian did not open it.
He closed the case with a snap.
"Gabriel," Sebastian commanded without raising his voice.
Gabriel stepped out from the shadows near the bookcase.
"Find the shop on 47th Street," Sebastian ordered.
"Find who brought it in."
"Bring him to the cellar."
"Yes, Mr. Lombardi," Gabriel said, vanishing through the side door.
Sebastian turned his titanium chair toward the examination table.
"Get to work, Miss Bennett."
Clare helped him transfer onto the padded leather.
She rolled up his trouser legs.
His calves were atrophied, pale from a decade without bearing weight.
She took a bottle of warming oil from her bag.
She began working deep into the fascial planes of his left hamstring.
Her fingers applied firm, sustained pressure against the sciatic notch.
Sebastian groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
"Pain?" she asked.
"Burning," he grunted.
"Good. Burning means myelinated fibers are firing."
Clare moved her hands up toward his lumbar spine.
Her knuckles passed over a small, circular bruise on his lower left flank.
She stopped.
She pressed lightly on the discolored skin.
"How old is this bruise?"
Sebastian opened his eyes.
"Doctor Sterling gives me an intramuscular injection every forty-eight hours."
"A neuro-peptide stabilizer."
"To manage the phantom spasms."
Clare leaned down.
She sniffed his skin near the puncture mark.
A faint, bitter scent clung to the tissue.
Like crushed peach pits and synthetic alcohol.
"Where are the vials kept?" Clare asked sharply.
"In the medicine refrigerator in the bathroom," Sebastian said, frowning.
"Why?"
Clare walked into the adjoining marble bathroom.
She opened the small under-counter medical fridge.
A dozen small glass ampoules sat in a sterile plastic tray.
The label read: Neuro-Regen Complex - Experimental Lot 412.
Clare snapped the neck of an empty ampoule from the disposal bin.
She dipped the tip of her finger into the residual clear liquid.
She touched it to her tongue.
A sharp numbness spread across the tip of her tongue in three seconds.
Her eyes widened in horror.
"Curare derivative," Clare whispered, rushing back into the bedroom.
"Blended with synthetic botulinum toxin."
Sebastian propped himself up on his forearms.
"Speak English, Clare."
"This isn't a nerve stabilizer," Clare said, holding up the glass ampoule.
"It's a low-grade paralytic neurotoxin."
"Doctor Sterling has been micro-dosing your spinal cord for twelve years."
"Every time your nerves try to regenerate, this chemical shuts them down."
"He isn't managing your pain, Sebastian."
"He is keeping you in that wheelchair on purpose."
Sebastian’s jaw dropped.
His breath froze in his chest.
The twelve years of darkness.
The millions paid to research foundations.
The endless specialists who shrugged and told him to accept his fate.
It had all been engineered.
Before Sebastian could speak, the elevator chime in the private hallway sounded.
Heavy footsteps approached the bedroom doors.
"Mr. Lombardi?" a smooth, cultured voice called through the mahogany.
"It is seven o'clock."
May you like
"Time for your evening injection."
Doctor Sterling had arrived early.
