Chapter 4 – THE MAN IN THE CHAPEL

We spun around.

Standing beneath the awning of a stone mausoleum ten yards away was Dr. Whitmore. He was holding a large black umbrella, completely dry, looking as though he were waiting for a taxi rather than standing in a graveyard at midnight.

Gabriel raised his weapon instantly.

“Ah, Gabriel,” Whitmore called out, his voice echoing over the rain. “Always so eager to shoot. But if you pull that trigger, Isabella and Eleanor die. And little Leo? He hasn’t had his anti-seizure medication in twelve hours. The poor boy gets so frightened when the shaking starts.”

Vincent surged forward, his face twisted in rage, but his legs gave out. He collapsed into the mud, clutching his chest.

“Vincent!” I dropped beside him, pulling a syringe of adrenaline from my bag. I injected it directly into his thigh. He gasped, his eyes rolling back before focusing again.

“You see, Miss Cole,” Whitmore said, stepping slowly out of the shadows. “You shouldn’t have stopped the IV. I spent months carefully titrating his dosage. Just enough to keep him helpless, but alive. By stopping it cold, you triggered a massive withdrawal cascade in his nervous system.”

“You’re a doctor,” I yelled over the storm, shielding Vincent’s face from the rain. “You took an oath to do no harm!”

Whitmore laughed. It was a cold, bitter sound. “An oath? Vincent’s father didn’t care about oaths when he ruined my life.”

Whitmore stopped a few feet away. His eyes were dark, filled with a decades-old hatred.

“Thirty years ago, I was a brilliant surgeon,” Whitmore said quietly. “My son needed a transplant. A heart. We were at the top of the list. We waited months. Finally, the call came. A donor match. We were prepping for surgery when Vincent’s father, the great Don Moretti, marched into the hospital with his own brother, who had suffered a heart attack. Don Moretti bought the hospital board, threatened the surgical staff, and took the heart meant for my boy.”

Whitmore pointed a trembling finger at Vincent, who was struggling to his knees.

“My son died two days later,” Whitmore whispered. “Because of your family. So I made a vow. I became your private physician. I earned your trust. And when your precious little boy survived that car crash… I saw my chance to make you feel exactly what I felt.”

“Where is he?” Vincent growled, spitting blood into the mud.

“The chapel,” Whitmore said, gesturing behind him toward a crumbling stone building at the far edge of the cemetery. “Isabella and Eleanor are tied up inside. Leo is there, too. But there’s a catch.”

Whitmore reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote control with a single red button.

“I’ve wired the chapel doors with explosives. If Gabriel moves toward me, I press the button. If you try to call the police, I press the button.”

He looked directly at me.

“You, Nurse Cole. You will walk into the chapel alone. You will bring that silver rosary. Inside the chapel, you will administer the entire contents of those vials into Vincent’s mother.”

I recoiled in horror. “What? No. I won’t kill her.”

“If you don’t,” Whitmore said calmly, “I detonate the building. Leo dies. Isabella dies. Eleanor dies. You choose, Miss Cole. One life for three. A simple medical triage.”

I looked at Vincent. He was staring at me, his breathing shallow. He gave me a barely perceptible nod.

Go, his eyes said.

I stood up slowly, clutching the rosary with the milky vials. I picked up my medical bag.

“Leave the bag,” Whitmore commanded.

“I need my stethoscope,” I lied, my voice shaking. “To find a vein.”

Whitmore sneered but didn’t argue.

I walked past him, my shoes sinking into the mud, heading toward the dark silhouette of the abandoned chapel. My mind was racing. I was a nurse from Milwaukee. I paid taxes. I went to the grocery store on Sundays. Now I was walking into a rigged building to execute an old woman.

I pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the chapel.

It was dark, smelling of dust and mildew. A single battery-powered lantern illuminated the center of the room.

Isabella and Eleanor were tied to wooden pews, back-to-back. Eleanor looked unconscious, her head slumped forward. Isabella was gagged, her eyes wide with terror when she saw me.

And sitting on the altar steps, clutching a dirty blanket, was a little boy with dark hair and Vincent’s eyes.

He was shaking violently, his teeth chattering.

I rushed toward them, pulling the gag from Isabella’s mouth.

“Hannah! The doors—” she choked out.

“I know,” I whispered, glancing around. There were blocks of C4 strapped to the hinges of the heavy wooden doors.

“He wants you to kill my mother,” Isabella sobbed. “Do it. Please, Hannah. Save Leo.”

I looked at Eleanor, then at the little boy shivering on the altar.

Then I unzipped my medical bag.

I didn’t pull out a syringe.

I pulled out the folded train ticket with the child’s drawing. And then I pulled out a heavy roll of medical adhesive tape and a scalpel.

“I’m not killing anyone tonight,” I whispered.

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