Chapter Seventeen #3
More practically, where will you begin? I informed my uncle, who told me he wants no part in this, and I don’t blame him after all he’s been through.
And is the Hartfield Institute still standing?
Do we know? My guess is that any incriminating case notes and field research were either destroyed or moved to a secure location.
I would not be surprised if the research facility has been levelled and replaced by a car park or some other innocuous municipal building.
I am sorry I cannot be of more assistance, but as you know, I am leading a crusade of my own right now. That does not mean I will not help if you need me. We cannot correct these past wrongs, but we can and must do everything in our power to ensure they never recur.
That final night, I push through the double doors carrying my backpack and report to the sixth-floor duty nurse.
Maybe I can entice Nurse Anna to go for a cigarette again because, if Leblanc is awake and coherent, I need to find out more about the card and letter.
When the duty nurse looks up and sees me approaching, she begins chuckling.
“You lot are keen tonight, aren’t you? They’ve already sent someone.”
“Have they?” My guard is up instantly. I make sure to keep my expression neutral. “Do you know who?”
“A new chap. Not seen him before. A bit rude, actually. Didn’t even wish me a good evening.” I’m the only new person on the team, which confirms my fears. “Why? Should I be worried? He flashed me his ID.”
“No, no,” I reply, waving down her concern but check the wall clock. “We’ve had so many new people starting. The boss probably forgot to tell me. I have a lot of work on the open ward down on the third, so he’s probably doing me a favour. Let me go check anyway. Do you know where he is?”
“Probably gasbagging with Anna in six-forty. You know how she likes to natter.”
On the way to the room, I search for anything I can use as a weapon. Tucked in a crevice behind a fire exit, I remember seeing a discarded iron bar, probably left after the fire doors were upgraded. I also grab the utility knife from the cart and tuck that into my back pocket.
When I reach the ward, I lean the bar against the doorframe, then stand frozen, staring through the glass panel to assess the situation.
Nurse Anna is slumped in her chair. Her head has lolled to one side.
Sylvie has her eyes closed and appears peaceful.
An athletic figure dressed as a porter stands on the other side of the bed.
He removes air from a syringe of clear solution, holds the tube up to the light, and lets a squirt of liquid spring from the hypodermic needle.
Propped against the wheelchair outside the room, there’s an aluminium crutch. I grab the cuff end, twist the door handle and enter the room.
“What are you doing here?” I ask calmly, kicking a door wedge into place to prop the door open, with the iron bar within easy reach. “This is my shift.”
After glancing briefly at Sylvie, he gently places the syringe on the bed before looking up, smiling, and walking casually to my side of the room.
I notice a hand move behind him to his waistband.
A flash of silver slices the air before me.
Automatically, I swing the crutch to block the attack and follow up with blows to his head and torso.
The lightweight metal does no critical damage, but the surprise counterattack throws him off-balance and gives me a chance to drop the crutch, change weapons, and kick the door closed.
When we face each other again, I see the doubt morph into determination in his eyes—a predator who has underestimated his prey and now reassesses the fight.
He gains his composure quickly and turns to confront me.
From the efficient way he wields the knife between his waist and chest and close to his torso, I know he’s had training.
When he lunges forward, I parry with the metal bar, and I watch his eyes widen.
But the bar is heavy and not as easy to wield as a knife.
When one of my blocks misses, the blade sinks into my upper arm.
Agony becomes a catalyst, and a red veil descends. Everything inside me crystallises with focus and clarity. My body is possessed by a killing demon. Every cell in my body craves this man’s death. My own safety is secondary.
What happens next is a blur of automated defensive actions and responses. Consciousness resurfaces when a frightened voice calls my name across the room.
“Ga-ga-Gabrielle,” stutters Sylvie, the name Gabriel pushed out and softened into something attractive and feminine.
I find myself on the floor with the man unconscious beneath me. One of my knees is on his neck, the other on his midsection, and I hold the knife in both fists above my head, ready to plunge the blade into his chest. His face is bloodied and lifeless, but I feel him still breathing.
“Stop.”
Bewilderment quickly turns to clarity, and I assess the man. Reasoning kicks in. I will need him alive to answer questions. Still working automatically, I pull the cable ties from my pocket and secure his hands and legs. While finishing up, I hear Sylvie say something like ‘courier’.
I stand up from the floor and notice her wide eyes flick to the CCTV camera. An alarm sounds from outside the room.
“Cou-rez,” she calls out hoarsely, her eyes pleading, as she releases the red emergency cord dangling from the ceiling.
“Run.”