Chapter 6 - Night Sixty
November 17th arrived with a heavy, driving rainstorm that turned the streets of San Diego into slick, black rivers reflecting the amber glow of the streetlamps.
Inside 412 Birch Street, the house was completely silent save for the drumming of the rain against the glass windows and the rhythmic clicking of the old radiator in the hall.
At 7:00 PM, I sent Lumi to stay the night at Clara’s house. Maris had resisted the idea at first, but I had insisted, claiming that my "worsening chest pains" were frightening the child and that I wanted her away from the house while Reginald conducted his examination.
At 8:30 PM, a black Mercedes SUV pulled into the driveway.
Dr. Reginald Vance stepped out under a large black umbrella, holding a heavy, leather medical briefcase. He was a tall, sharply dressed man in his late forties with slicked-back silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the arrogant, precise posture of a surgeon who believed he was God in an operating room.
Maris met him at the front door, kissing his cheek with a quiet, efficient familiarity.
"He's in the living room," Maris whispered, her voice carrying clearly through the hidden microphone pinned beneath the lapel of my bathrobe. "He's very weak tonight. He took two of the B-complex capsules at noon."
"Good," Reginald replied, his voice a low, clinical baritone. "The digitalis should have his baseline heart rate floating around forty-five beats per minute. The succinylcholine will look completely natural on the monitor. Have you signed the updated insurance transfer forms?"
"They're on the kitchen counter," Maris said softly. "Four point two million from the trust, plus his six-hundred-thousand-dollar hospital life insurance policy. We close on the Swiss account on Friday."
I lay on the living room sofa, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, my eyes half-closed, my breathing shallow and irregular. Attached to my chest under my shirt were two micro-transmitters broadcasting directly to three police vans parked two blocks away down Birch Street.
The living room door opened.
Reginald walked in, setting his leather briefcase on the coffee table with a heavy thud. Maris stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, watching me with cold, detached curiosity—the look of a landlord inspecting a tenant who was finally moving out.
"Gideon," Reginald said, stepping over to the sofa and placing two fingers against my carotid artery. "Maris tells me you've had a rough night."
"Reginald..." I rasped, letting my head roll to the side, my eyes unfocused. "My chest... it feels like an anvil is sitting on my ribs."
"I know, son," Reginald said smoothly, opening his leather briefcase. Inside, laid out in custom foam cutouts, were vials of clear liquids, sterile alcohol wipes, and a heavy, six-inch tourniquet. "Your heart is struggling. But don't worry. I brought a specialized cardiac stabilizer from the hospital. It will relax the muscle and let you rest."
He picked up a glass vial, snapped the top off with a professional flick of his thumb, and drew ten cubic centimeters of clear fluid into a disposable syringe.
Maris stepped closer, staring down at my face.
"Is it painful?" she asked suddenly.
Reginald paused, looking up at her with a faint, chilling smile. "Not for long. He'll feel a slight heat in his arm, then a total relaxation of his muscles. Within sixty seconds, he won't feel anything at all."
Maris leaned down over me, her jasmine perfume washing over my face, her dark eyes looking directly into mine.
"You really were a sweet man, Gideon," she whispered, her fingers gently tracing my jawline. "It's a shame. If you hadn't been so curious about Lumi's trust, you might have lived long enough to enjoy the house."
I looked up into her eyes, my voice dropping its weak, raspy tone, becoming entirely clear, calm, and sharp as a scalpel.
"I didn't care about the trust, Maris," I said. "I only cared about the evidence."
Maris froze.
May you like
Reginald’s eyes widened behind his glasses as he raised the syringe toward my arm. "What did he say?"
Before Reginald’s thumb could touch the plunger, the front door of 412 Birch Street exploded inward with a deafening blast of wood and splintered iron.
