Chapter 11 - The Architect of Despair and the Final Prescription
Charles stared at the patch,
the small,
white rectangle,
that held the power,
to stop a heart,
in seconds.
Warren stood in the doorway,
his silhouette framed by the flickering emergency lights,
looking like a man who had already died,
but had forgotten to lie down.
“How did you get out?”
Charles asked,
his voice a dry rasp,
as he backed away,
his hand searching the desk for anything,
a letter opener,
a heavy paperweight,
a weapon.
“The police are incompetent,
Charles,”
Warren whispered,
his voice smooth,
almost melodic,
the voice he used to comfort patients.
“They see a pharmacist,
and they see a servant of health.
They didn’t think to check my inner pocket,
for the sedative mist.”
Warren stepped into the room,
the door clicking shut behind him,
a sound that felt like a coffin lid closing.
“You think I’m a monster,”
Warren continued,
tilting his head,
watching Charles with those cold,
calculating eyes.
“But I am a provider.
I provided you with a career,
Charles.
I provided you with the guilt that made you the best surgeon in this city.”
“You killed Sarah,”
Charles spat,
his anger finally overcoming his fear.
“You pushed her,
and you let me believe it was my fault because I was too slow.”
Warren laughed,
a short,
sharp bark of a sound.
“You were slow,
Charles.
You were always slow.
Slow to realize that Lillian never loved you as much as she loved the stability I gave her.”
He held up the patch,
the adhesive glinting in the dim light.
“This isn't for you,
by the way.
This is for me.
But I need you to watch.
I need you to be the witness one last time.”
Charles realized with a jolt of horror,
that Warren wasn't there to kill him.
He was there to destroy him emotionally.
If Warren died in Charles’s office,
with Charles’s name on the insurance policy,
it would look like a murder.
It would look like the surgeon had finally killed the man who knew his secrets.
“Don't do it,
Warren,”
Charles pleaded,
stepping forward,
his doctor’s instinct clashing with his hatred.
“We can talk about this.
The insurance,
the money...
I don't want it.”
“It’s too late for talk,”
Warren said,
peeling the backing off the patch.
“The chemical clock is already ticking.
I’ve ingested the catalyst,
Charles.
The patch is just the final ingredient.”
He moved his hand toward his own neck,
but Charles lunged.
They collided in the center of the office,
knocking over a shelf of medical journals.
They wrestled on the floor,
two old men fighting over a history of lies.
Charles gripped Warren’s wrist,
trying to keep the patch away from his skin.
He could feel the heat radiating from Warren’s body,
a feverish,
unnatural warmth.
“You’re already sick,”
Charles realized,
noticing the jaundice in Warren’s eyes.
“You’ve been poisoning yourself.”
“A slow burn,
Charles,”
Warren hissed,
straining against him.
“To make it look like a chronic condition.
To make it look like you were treating me,
and failed.”
The level of calculation was breathtaking.
Warren had planned his own death as a final act of revenge against the man who had dared to save his wife.
Suddenly,
the door burst open.
Detective Morales stood there,
her weapon drawn.
“Drop it!
Now!”
she screamed.
But Warren was faster.
He slammed his hand against his own chest,
the patch sticking firmly to his skin.
He looked at Charles,
and smiled.
“Save me,
Doctor,”
May you like
he whispered.
“Save me like you saved her.”
