Chapter 2 - The Doctor Who Disappeared
Martha did not sleep.
At 5:42 the next morning, she stood across the street from a boarded-up rehabilitation clinic in Pawtucket and wondered whether she had finally lost whatever remained of her common sense.
The address on Maxwell's paper had led her there.
No sign.
No cars.
Nothing suggesting Dr. Samuel Mercer had ever been inside.
She crossed the street.
The front door was locked.
Around back, however, a service entrance stood slightly open.
Martha pushed it.
"Dr. Mercer?"
Nothing.
She entered.
Dust covered the reception desk.
Old therapy equipment sat beneath plastic sheets.
Then she heard movement.
Martha turned.
A gray-haired man stood in the hallway.
"You're Martha Kovak."
It wasn't a question.
Her heart hammered.
"Samuel Mercer?"
"Close the door."
She did not move.
"How do you know me?"
Mercer glanced toward the windows.
"Because I asked Maxwell to find you."
"You wrote the note?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're one of the few people who might understand what was done to him."
Martha stared.
"What was done?"
Mercer walked into an old examination room.
On a table waited a thick medical file.
He opened it.
"Maxwell suffered a spinal injury in the crash. That part is real."
"So he is paralyzed?"
"He was."
Martha's pulse quickened.
"Was?"
Mercer nodded.
"His spinal cord was compressed, not completely severed. Surgery went well. His prognosis wasn't certain, but permanent total paralysis was never the only possibility."
"Then why does everyone believe it was?"
"Because someone changed the records."
Martha felt sick.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"You were his doctor."
"I was removed from the case eleven days after surgery."
"By Adrian Vale?"
Mercer looked at her.
"You know about Vale."
"He manages Maxwell's treatment."
"Vale manages much more than treatment."
Mercer pulled out laboratory reports.
Martha recognized medication names.
Her eyes narrowed.
"This dosage—"
"Exactly."
"That's too high."
"Especially for someone undergoing neurological recovery."
Martha looked up.
"He's being deliberately suppressed."
"I believe so."
"Why?"
Mercer closed the file.
"That's what you need to discover."
Martha shook her head.
"No. I'm a housekeeper."
"You were a rehabilitation nurse."
"Not anymore."
"I know why."
The words struck hard.
Martha stiffened.
Mercer continued.
"The medication error."
Her throat tightened.
One mistake.
One exhausted overnight shift.
One mislabeled chart.
No patient had died, but someone had been hospitalized, and Martha had carried the guilt ever since.
"You investigated me?"
"I needed someone with enough training to recognize neurological recovery and enough reason to be underestimated."
Martha stared.
"You arranged for me to get the job."
"Indirectly."
Anger replaced fear.
"You used me."
"Yes."
At least he admitted it.
"Why not tell Maxwell yourself?"
"Because someone monitors him."
"Who?"
Mercer looked toward the hallway.
"I don't know."
Martha heard a car outside.
Mercer's expression changed.
"You need to leave."
"What?"
"Now."
He shoved the medical file toward her.
"Take this."
Martha grabbed it.
"Who is outside?"
"Go through the back."
"But—"
"Tell Maxwell one thing."
Mercer leaned close.
"The accident wasn't meant to kill him."
Martha froze.
"What?"
"It was meant to make him helpless."
Footsteps sounded in the reception area.
Mercer pushed Martha toward another door.
"Go."
She ran.
Twenty minutes later, Martha sat in her car staring at the medical file.
The implications were terrifying.
Someone had manipulated Maxwell's recovery.
Someone inside his circle needed him alive but physically dependent.
Why?
She returned to Rourke House shortly before seven.
Maxwell waited in his office.
"What happened?"
Martha placed the file on his desk.
He opened it.
His face became unreadable.
"Mercer is alive?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I don't know now."
She explained.
Maxwell listened without interrupting.
When she reached the part about the accident, he went still.
"It wasn't meant to kill you," Martha said. "Mercer believes someone wanted you helpless."
Maxwell stared through the window.
"That makes sense."
"How?"
He rolled toward a cabinet.
Inside were company documents.
"After Daniel died, control of the Rourke companies should have passed entirely to me."
"Should have?"
"My father's trust included a disability clause."
Martha understood.
"If you couldn't manage the companies—"
"Authority passed temporarily to three trustees."
"Who?"
"Claire Delaney."
Martha's stomach dropped.
"Adrian Vale."
Worse.
"And?"
Maxwell looked at her.
"My uncle Victor."
The pieces began aligning.
Three people benefited from Maxwell remaining disabled.
"But why haven't they killed you?"
"Because my death ends the trust."
"Who inherits?"
"My sister."
"I didn't know you had one."
"Most people don't."
Maxwell's expression softened almost imperceptibly.
"Elena left Providence twelve years ago. She wanted nothing to do with the family."
"So keeping you alive keeps them in control."
"Exactly."
Martha looked at the medical records.
"We need independent testing."
"We?"
She frowned.
"Don't make me regret helping you."
Something almost resembling amusement appeared in his eyes.
Then vanished.
"We can't use a local hospital."
"No."
"Vale would know."
"Probably."
Martha thought.
"I know someone."
That afternoon, Martha contacted Dr. Rebecca Sloan, a former rehabilitation colleague now working at a private clinic outside Boston.
They arranged everything quietly.
But before they could leave, Claire appeared.
"Mr. Rourke has an appointment?"
Maxwell's eyes narrowed.
"No."
Claire looked at Martha.
"Then why is the accessible van being prepared?"
Martha's heartbeat accelerated.
Maxwell answered calmly.
"I'm going for a drive."
Claire smiled.
"Of course."
But she knew.
Martha could see it.
They left twenty minutes later.
Halfway to Boston, Maxwell spoke.
"She's following us."
Martha checked the mirror.
A black sedan remained three cars behind.
"What do we do?"
"Change the plan."
Maxwell directed his driver toward a marina owned by Rourke Shipping.
They entered through a private gate.
The black sedan continued past.
Maxwell smiled faintly.
"Now we wait."
Ten minutes later another vehicle collected them from the opposite side.
Martha shook her head.
"You've done this before."
"I grew up in my family."
The clinic was almost empty when they arrived.
Rebecca greeted Martha with surprise.
"I thought I'd never see you in scrubs again."
"I'm not in scrubs."
"You know what I mean."
Rebecca examined Maxwell privately.
Reflex tests.
Electrical stimulation.
Sensory mapping.
MRI scans.
Hours passed.
Finally Rebecca entered the consultation room holding the results.
Her expression stunned Martha.
"What?"
Rebecca sat.
"Mr. Rourke, your spinal cord injury is significant."
Maxwell waited.
"But I cannot find any anatomical explanation for complete paralysis."
Silence.
Martha leaned forward.
"Can he walk?"
"Not today."
Maxwell's face tightened.
Rebecca continued.
"But there is nerve conduction below the injury."
"How much?"
"Enough that with intensive rehabilitation, I would expect meaningful motor recovery."
Maxwell stared at her.
"Meaning?"
"I believe you may be able to stand again."
For fourteen months, Maxwell Rourke had been told his legs were gone forever.
Now he closed his eyes.
Martha watched his hands grip the wheelchair.
"How long?" he asked.
"Months. Maybe longer."
"Could medication prevent recovery?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"Certain combinations could suppress muscle activity, increase weakness, interfere with rehabilitation, and mask progress."
Martha handed her the medication list.
Rebecca read it.
Her expression changed.
"Who prescribed this?"
"Adrian Vale."
Rebecca looked at Maxwell.
"You need to stop taking some of these."
"Immediately?"
"No. Absolutely not. Several require medically supervised tapering."
Martha nodded.
They developed a plan.
Secret therapy.
Controlled medication reduction.
No one at Rourke House could know.
On the drive home, Maxwell was silent.
Finally Martha asked, "What are you thinking?"
"That I've spent fourteen months believing half my body was dead."
She looked at him.
"And?"
"I'm wondering how many people watched me believe it."
When they returned, Claire waited in the foyer.
"Enjoy your drive?"
"Very much."
Her eyes moved to Martha.
That night, Martha helped Maxwell begin the new medication schedule.
"Try moving your toes."
"Nothing."
"Again."
Nothing.
"Again."
Maxwell glared.
"You enjoy giving orders."
"Only to difficult patients."
"I'm not your patient."
"Good. Patients usually listen."
For the first time, Maxwell laughed.
It was quiet and brief.
But genuine.
Martha smiled.
Then his right big toe moved.
They both stared.
"Do it again."
He concentrated.
Nothing.
Then—
movement.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But voluntary.
Martha looked at him.
Maxwell's eyes were wet.
He turned his face away before she could acknowledge it.
"Again tomorrow," she said softly.
He nodded.
Martha left his room near midnight.
She had almost reached the stairs when she noticed Claire's office door standing open.
Inside, the room was empty.
A document rested on the desk.
Martha shouldn't have entered.
She knew that.
She did anyway.
The document contained financial transfers from Rourke Shipping.
Millions of dollars.
Victor Rourke.
Adrian Vale.
Claire Delaney.
Martha reached for her phone to photograph it.
Then she saw another folder.
Her name was printed across the front.
MARTHA KOVAK
She opened it.
Employment records.
Nursing records.
Photographs.
Even pictures of her apartment.
Someone had been watching her months before she applied to Rourke House.
At the bottom was a handwritten instruction.
IF KOVAK DISCOVERS MOTOR FUNCTION, INITIATE PHASE TWO.
Martha's blood ran cold.
She turned the page.
There was only one sentence.
PHASE TWO: REMOVE HER AND TRANSFER MAXWELL.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Martha turned.
Claire stood in the doorway.
May you like
And she was smiling.
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