Chapter 6 - The Return to Birch Street
The house at 412 Birch Street felt like a mausoleum when I walked through the front door at 3:30 p.m. on Friday.
The sleet from the night before had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle that tapped relentlessly against the living room bay windows. The air inside smelled faintly of the lemon floor polish Maris had used before leaving, mixed with the stale ghost of tomato soup from the night before.
Detective Miller’s tech crew had spent the morning working in complete silence.
There was a micro-pinhole camera embedded in the frame of the mirror above the foyer coat rack. Another was hidden inside the smoke detector in the kitchen. A third was aimed directly at the basement door. A transmitter the size of a postage stamp was taped to the underside of the dining table, and a thin, medical-grade wire was taped across my chest beneath my thermal undershirt, sending my pulse, respiratory rate, and vocal audio straight to the surveillance van parked down the block behind an overgrown hedge.
At 4:15 p.m., Dr. Evans administered two drops of ophthalmic scopolamine into my eyes and gave me a mild intramuscular dose of an antihistamine.
Within thirty minutes, the effects settled in: my mouth felt parched, my eyelids grew heavy, and my balance acquired a subtle, sluggish sway. My pupils dilated to the width of pennies, giving my gaze the hollow, unfocused look of a man suffering from acute neurological distress.
"You look convincingly toxic, Gideon," Miller’s voice crackled softly through a microscopic earpiece fitted deep in my right ear canal. "Subject’s vehicle just turned onto Birch Street. Gray Audi SUV. She’s three minutes out. Get into position."
I sat at the kitchen table, leaning my head on one hand, leaving an empty glass of water beside the open pill bottle on the counter. The two poisoned capsules were gone—safely stored in the police evidence locker—replaced by two empty gel caps that had been dissolved in warm water to leave a faint, white powdery residue on the rim of the glass.
Outside, the tires of the Audi crunched over the gravel driveway.
A car door slammed. High heels clicked against the wet wooden porch steps.
The front door unlocked with a smooth, familiar click.
"Gideon?" Maris called out. Her voice was bright, musical, and completely normal. "Honey, I'm home! The drive was absolute hell through the construction, but I couldn't bear another night in that hotel."
I didn't answer. I let out a low, groaning breath, keeping my head slumped toward the table.
Her footsteps clicked along the hardwood hallway. She paused at the kitchen threshold.
Through my half-closed eyelids, I saw her. She wore a stylish camel-hair coat, black leather gloves, and an oversized cashmere scarf. She held her designer handbag in one hand and her car keys in the other.
She looked at me. Then, her eyes drifted immediately to the counter—to the empty glass, the white residue, and the opened supplement bottle.
A slow, predatory smile touched the corners of her mouth before she wiped it away, replacing it instantly with a mask of frantic horror.
"Gideon!" she cried, dropping her handbag onto a chair and rushing toward me. "Oh my god, Gideon, what’s wrong with you?!"
She took my face in her gloved hands. Her touch was icy cold. She tilted my chin up, studying my blown pupils, the dry pallor of my skin, and the shallow rise and fall of my chest.
"I... I don't feel good, Maris," I slurred, letting my tongue drag across my dry teeth. "Head... head is spinning. Chest feels... tight."
"Oh, sweetheart," she cooed, her voice dropping into that soothing, terrifyingly sweet register she used when talking to Lumi. "You look terrible. Did you take the vitamins I left for you?"
"Took them... after breakfast," I mumbled, letting my arm slip off the table to dangle limply toward the floor. "Can't... can't catch my breath. Call... call 911, Maris. Call the unit."
She stroked my hair gently, her leather gloves smooth against my forehead.
"Of course, my love," she whispered. "I'm going to call them right now. But first, let’s get you away from this cold table. Let’s get you down to the couch, okay?"
She didn't reach for her phone. Her hands went under my armpits, hoisting me up with surprising strength.
"Where’s Lumi?" she asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she looked around the empty room. "Why isn't she here?"
"Maya's house," I breathed out, leaning my dead weight against her shoulder. "Sleepover... birthday party. Dropped her off... at noon."
Maris let out a soft, relieved breath against my neck. "Good. That's very good, Gideon. It’s better that she isn't here to see this."
She wasn't steering me toward the living room couch.
Her grip was firm, her shoulder driving me forward, step by slow, stumbling step, down the dark hallway.
May you like
Toward the open door of the basement.
***
