Chapter 2 - The Admission on the Seventh Floor
The University of Chicago Medical Center’s East Pavilion was lit by cool white fluorescent panels that reflected off white linoleum floor tiles. At one-thirty in the afternoon, the seventh floor was completely clear of visitors. Three campus police officers stood near the heavy double doors at the end of the hall, their hands resting near their belts.
Sebastian stood outside Room 712. He had removed his jacket and tie; his white shirt was stained with dried red wine at the hem and grease from Claire’s sweater across the chest.
Dr. Richard Miller, the head of maternal-fetal medicine, came out of the room holding a silver clipboard. He was a man in his late fifties with gray hair cut short and eyes that had seen forty years of high-risk trauma.
“How is she?” Sebastian asked.
Miller did not answer immediately. He turned his back to the hallway, walked to the small wall-mounted desk near the nurse’s station, and signed his name three times on a yellow form.
“Mr. Carter,” Miller said, turning around slowly. “If your wife had remained in that house for another forty-eight hours, she would have died of cardiac failure brought on by severe electrolyte imbalance and acute protein-calorie malnutrition.”
The words hit Sebastian like physical blows, but he didn't move. “And the child?”
“The child is alive,” Miller said. His tone was strangely flat, devoid of the professional optimism he usually maintained. “The fetal heart rate is elevated—one hundred and seventy-eight beats per minute—and the ultrasound shows marked intrauterine growth restriction. He weighs less than three pounds. At thirty-three weeks, he should be closer to four and a half.”
Miller leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Her hemoglobin level is 5.2. Normal for a third-trimester woman is twelve. She has severe peripheral edema in her left leg—not from normal pregnancy swelling, but from a deep vein thrombosis that has been untreated for at least three weeks. If that clot moves an inch, she suffers a pulmonary embolism.”
“Why didn't she tell me?” Sebastian’s hands closed into fists at his sides. “I called her every night at nine o'clock. I asked her if she had eaten. I asked her if she was taking the vitamins. She said yes every single time.”
Miller pulled a printed sheet of paper from the bottom of his clipboard.
“She didn't tell you because she was being systematically poisoned with low-dose scopolamine and heavy sedatives,” Miller said.
Sebastian stared at him. “What?”
“The blood panel came back twenty minutes ago,” Miller continued, pointing to a series of red numbers on the lab report. “We found traces of transdermal scopolamine—a drug used for motion sickness that, in continuous doses, causes profound confusion, memory loss, extreme dry mouth, and total compliance. She wasn't answering your questions from her own mind, Sebastian. She was reading from a script someone was putting in front of her.”
Miller took a step closer to the door of Room 712.
“And there’s something else,” Miller added. “Her belly is covered in small, circular bruising. Not from falls. From daily subcutaneous injections.”
“Injections of what?”
“We don't know yet,” Miller said. “We’ve sent the compound to the toxicology lab in toxicology. But whatever it is, it wasn't prescribed by any physician registered in the state of Illinois. Who was managing her care at home?”
“My mother,” Sebastian said. The word felt like lead in his mouth. “And Dr. Harold Vance.”
Miller’s face grew cold. “Vance is an orthopedic surgeon. He hasn't held obstetrical privileges in fifteen years. Why was an orthopedic doctor administering daily injections to a high-risk pregnant woman?”
Before Sebastian could answer, the double doors at the end of the hallway swung open.
Arthur Vance, the head of private security for Eastbridge, walked quickly down the corridor. His gray suit was damp from the rain outside, and he held a thick manila folder under his arm.
“Mr. Carter,” Vance said, stopping two feet away and ignoring Dr. Miller. “We have a situation at the house.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother left thirty minutes after you did,” Vance reported. “She took her personal luggage and three iron boxes from the safe in her suite. She’s currently at the private aviation terminal at O’Hare. A Gulfstream G450 registered to Sloan Medical Logistics—a subsidiary of Vance’s holdings—is on the tarmac with its engines running.”
Sebastian turned to Miller. “Keep her locked down. No one enters that room without my written authorization and a guard present.”
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“Where are you going?” Miller asked.
“To O'Hare,” Sebastian said. “To collect the rest of the story.”
