Chapter Fifty-Six
Declan
“Declan,” Dr. Campos’s measured voice booms through Kent’s brightly lit home, ricocheting off the tiled walls and polished countertops. “How are you feeling?”
“What do you want, Doc?” The annoyance is palpable, a bitter reminder that I should have taken my friend’s advice to ignore his calls.
After a moment of crackling silence, Dr. Campos’s tone resumes, deliberate and steady.
“You must have expected my call.” His words are weighted, as if each syllable carries its own gravity.
“Sure,” I snap back with a sharp voice. “But what do you want?”
“It’s important that you come to my house,” he replies calmly. “I have a plan.”
“So, there’s a plan now?” I can’t help but let skepticism taint my tone. “Is this like the last plan? The one where you injected me with chemicals, tried to force nonexistent information out of my brain, and then had your assistant—rape me?”
A pause crackles through the line before he responds.
“Rape?” A note of genuine surprise slips into his voice. “No. It’s not like that at all. Now, if you’ll come join me—”
“I'm in the middle of something, Doc,” I cut him off, my words clipped with frustration as I end his sentence before it can fully form.
“Declan,” he insists, “will you please take me off speakerphone?”
“Sorry, Doc,” I reply with a wry chuckle that barely masks my underlying strain. “You called me. Either hurry up, or hang up.”
“Have it your way,” Dr. Campos responds, flustered. “I can think of nothing more crucial than sharing what I have to say. It may well save your life. Now, I am asking you, please, will you come—”
Before he finishes, I terminate the call abruptly, leaving my answer unspoken and the line dead.
“Who in the name of all things holy was that?” Kent blurts out, having quietly observed the entire conversation.
“How many times have I told you I’m not crazy?” I joke, noticing the wry twist of his lips that promises further sarcasm. “At least, not as crazy as you seem to think.”
“Are you going to tell me who that was now?” Kent presses, his concern unmistakable.
“That was the insane doctor who held me hostage,” I tell him, as if it’s just another day. “He only let me go last night.”
“Then you’re not going to see that wacko again, are you?” Kent asks, worry sharpening his tone as he studies my expression.
“I have to,” I reply, my hand clenching around my phone and keys with a determined grip. “He’s the only one who seems to understand what’s happening to me.”
Kent’s eyes flicker with protest, but seeing the stubborn set of my jaw tells him my mind is made up. With a resigned sigh, he walks me out.
“You better call me after this is sorted out,” he contends, enveloping me in a brotherly hug that speaks of deep concern. “I need to know you’re okay.”
“Thanks, Kent,” I say, sliding behind the wheel of my cherished, albeit battered car. “Now might be a good time for some prayers.” Without another word, I pull out of the driveway, the engine humming a discordant farewell.
At the far end of Kent’s street, where the quiet of a residential lane slowly dissolves into the loneliness of a ragged dirt field, an old set of railroad tracks stretches out, marking a forgotten boundary.
I remember when a large brick wall had once guarded this place, a barrier long ago crumbled when plans of urban development were rabid.
But times change, and strip malls are losing luster.
Now, as I drive slowly through blocks swallowed by twilight, I’m torn between nostalgia and resentment, the irony sharp when I spot a lone silhouette, a solitary woman sitting squarely on those weathered tracks.
“Daphne?” I murmur, the name trembling on my tongue, caught between hope and disbelief.
I pull alongside, leaning out with trembling hands, fogging up the driver-side window as I strain to see her clearly, my heart caught in a tug-of-war between reassurance and dread.
Then, as if reverberating my inner turmoil, the engine sputters and dies.
Anger and hysteria surge within me as I frantically turn the key in the ignition, my knuckles whitening around the wheel, a desperate prayer that the engine will roar back to life. But nothing happens. My shitbox has finally died. This is what I get for choosing not to drive Miss Paxon’s SUV.
“Son of a bitch! God dammit! Motherfucker!”
In a frenzied overflow of ferocity, I lash out physically, kicking, screaming, and letting my fists fly, until one lands hard on the rearview mirror.
The force splinters the glass into a chaotic web of cracks, that parallel the fragmented, conflicted reflections of my hopelessness, while distorting the dim streetlights into unsettling, abstract patterns.
Then, when my anger lulls, I unbuckle my seatbelt and swing open the door.
But it’s a temporary respite, as see the night’s last commuter train barreling down the track.
In a heartbeat, the lead car of the train hurls the carcass of my once reliable car down the tracks with me trapped mercilessly inside.
The locomotive’s desperate screech as it attempts to brake is a futile cry against the relentless tide of fate, its massive frame grinding into the wreckage as sparks and debris fly.
As the bitter smoke thins and the panicked screams of passengers fade into an eerie, haunting echo, a determined figure emerges.
The conductor, in a high-visibility jacket, who throws herself from the train.
Racing towards the twisted remains of my car, her wide eyes and urgent commands over the radio slice through my agony, commanding an ambulance with an authority that clashes violently with my own strife.
In that jarring, tumultuous moment, as the night swallows up the clamor of twisted metal and shattered fate, one chilling thought invades every conflicted fiber of my being. I might not live to see my twenty-eighth birthday at all.