Chapter 3 - The Secret Regimen
The hydraulic lift groaned as I secured the canvas sling beneath Maxwell’s shoulders and thighs. Even with his core muscles limp, he weighed well over two hundred pounds of dense bone and hardened muscle. I worked with the practiced efficiency of someone who had spent thousands of hours in clinical trauma wards, but my skin prickled with goosebumps.
Every time my fingers brushed his bare skin, heat radiated through me. He was watching every twitch of my hands, evaluating me like a chess master deciding whether a newly acquired pawn was worth keeping on the board.
"You aren't a maid," he said as I lowered him into his custom titanium wheelchair.
"I have two references and a spotless background check from the agency," I replied, grabbing a dry terrycloth robe and draping it over his broad shoulders.
"Your hands don't hesitate. You knew how to balance my pelvic tilt without asking. And you recognized neuromuscular blockade by reflex." He leaned back, letting me dry his dark, wet hair with a towel. "A woman with your skill set doesn't clean baseboards for twelve dollars an hour in South Providence unless she's running from something worse."
My hands paused for a fraction of a second against his scalp. The memory of flashing red lights outside St. Jude’s Medical Center, the screaming mother, and the altered chart that had stripped my nursing license flashed across my mind like a fresh burn.
"Everyone in Rhode Island has things they’d rather not discuss, Mr. Rourke," I said evenly, stepping around to buckle his footrests.
"Fair enough," he murmured. "Then let’s talk about survival."
He reached beneath the armrest of his wheelchair, his fingers finding a hidden seam in the leather upholstery. With a tiny click, a thin false panel popped open. Inside lay two glass ampoules filled with clear saline solution and a sterile 5ml syringe.
"Where did you get these?" I whispered, astonished.
"One of my old union captains still has a daughter working in medical supply," Maxwell said. "I can't smuggle pills out, but I managed to get these in. The problem is Vance. He watches the needle go into my port every single day. I can't switch the dose myself from this chair without him noticing the angle."
"He uses an IV port?"
Maxwell pulled the lapel of his robe aside, revealing a subcutaneous port-a-cath surgically implanted just below his left collarbone. "He flushes it with what he calls 'liquid multivitamin and nerve calmative.' Ten ccs. Every day at 3:00 PM."
I checked the wall clock. It was 2:48 PM.
Twelve minutes.
"If I replace his syringe with saline, he'll feel the difference in resistance," I analyzed rapidly, the clinical machinery in my head spinning at full throttle. "Saline has a different viscosity than a concentrated neuro-inhibitor. If Vance is an experienced doctor, his thumb will tell him the liquid is too thin."
Maxwell's eyes darkened. "Then what do you suggest, Martha?"
"We don't replace the liquid. We compromise the delivery." I dropped to my knees, inspecting the port. "The silicone septum in these ports can be blocked if you insert a micro-filament of medical wax. The plunger will depress, Vance will think he injected the full dose, but ninety percent of it will divert into a cotton backing taped under your collar."
A slow, terrifying grin touched the corners of Maxwell Rourke’s mouth. It was the first time I had seen him smile, and it sent a cold shiver straight down my spine.
"Resourceful," he murmured. "There's paraffin wax in the emergency drawer by the sink."
I sprinted to the cabinet, pulling out the small block of sealing wax used for medication jars. Using a sterile needle from his hidden stash, I carved a microscopic plug, warming it with my fingertips until it was pliable enough to coat the inner chamber of the spare catheter needle.
My hands were flying.
2:54 PM.
"You do realize what will happen if this fails?" I whispered, my fingers working feverishly against the side of his neck as I prepped the modified hub against his skin.
"If it fails, I die paralyzed," Maxwell said, his voice flat and devoid of self-pity. "If it succeeds, I take back my city. And you, Martha... you will never have to clean another floor for the rest of your life."
Heavy footsteps echoed outside in the hallway. The brass handle rattled.
"Hide the kit," Maxwell ordered, slumping his head forward, his spine instantly sagging into the hollow, defeated posture of a dying cripple.
I shoved the wax and spare needles into my apron pocket just as the door swung open.
Dr. Ronald Vance stepped into the bedroom. He was a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive cashmere sweater, carrying a polished leather physician's bag. Behind him, Julian Rourke stood leaning against the doorframe, chewing on an unlit cigar, his sharp, handsome features radiating an arrogant boredom.
May you like
"Afternoon, brother," Julian said, his eyes scanning the room like a vulture looking for fresh meat. "Delaney said the help was causing trouble up here."
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