Chapter Three

Seth

Seth was woken by his cell bleeping. The problem with sleeping with the light on was his subconscious didn’t always register that the sun had risen. It was a far cry from sleeping on the streets, where sunlight had pierced its way between his closed eyelids at the crack of dawn, and the darkness and cold of night had been terrifying and all-consuming. He shoved the thoughts aside, grabbed his cell with one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. The text was from Robert Nelson, one of the newspaper editors he regularly sold photos to.

—Got a job for you. Get your ass in here.

Seth grinned and hurried out of bed. He grabbed a quick shower and pulled on some clothes. After shrugging his leather jacket on, he paused to check the inside pocket. The taped-up tobacco tin he always kept there was still snugly in place. He wasn’t sure why it wouldn’t be, but he checked every day out of habit; just like he spent half his time looking over his shoulder.

It didn’t take him long to get to the Eastern Tribune’s office block, via the subway. Even though he wasn’t an employee, the security guard manning the front desk waved him up with a grin. Seth took the elevator to the tenth floor and headed straight to Nelson’s office. Though the door was shut, and he could hear voices inside, so he hung around outside for a few minutes. The door opened, and a flustered looking secretary bustled out.

“Seth, about bloody time; do you think I’m paying you to be late?” Nelson’s voice boomed from within the office.

“Sorry, I slept in.”

“Lazy bastard.” Rolling his eyes, Nelson chucked a lanyard at him. “There’s your pass. I want you to get downtown to the Metropolitan Hospital. They’re doing an impromptu press conference, to welcome their new Chief Physician. Do what you do best: get me a candid shot of the man, so I can get one of my reporters to do a write up on him.”

“Will do.” Seth plucked a candy from the jar on Nelson’s desk. “If you gave me a job, I’d be in the office ready and waiting to receive assignments.” He unwrapped the bright orange candy and popped it into his mouth, hoping he hadn’t overstepped. A permanent job would have been great; he knew his skills as a photographer were good enough. His stomach fluttered nervously as he crumpled the cellophane wrapper in his fist and then tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

Nelson waved him away. “I don’t hire any photographers; you know that. You all take better photos when you don’t know where your next paycheck is coming from. Go on, before you miss the whole press conference and ruin the story for me.”

Seth had known it was a long shot, but that didn’t stop disappointment from chasing the fluttering sensation in his stomach away.

“But keep taking great photos and I might up your rate.” Nelson folded his arms. “I’m nothing if not fair.”

“Thanks,” Seth mumbled as he waved and headed out of the office.

The Metropolitan Hospital was a squat grey building a couple of blocks from the closest subway stop. It seemed to be business as usual at the bustling ER entrance, but the quieter door leading to the wards had a pair of security guards watching it. Seth hurried over and flashed his press badge at them and was allowed through.

A crowd was standing in the lobby, mostly reporters and photographers.

“You’re just in time.” Lacey, one of Nelson’s reporters, sidled up to him. “Nelson texted to say you’d be coming.”

A lectern had been set up, with security guards flanking either side. A stern looking woman in a navy suit stood behind it.

“That’s Cynthia Brooks, the Executive Director,” Lacey explained. “No clue who the new Chief Physician is going to be. I didn’t even know they’d sacked the old one.”

Seth frowned. Lacey was generally the first to know about such things. She had contacts in pretty much every hospital and police precinct.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” he muttered.

Ms. Brooks tapped the microphone, creating a whine of feedback from the speakers. It had the desired effect of catching everyone’s attention and hushing the crowd of spectators.

“It is with great regret that I have to inform you of the untimely death of Doctor Anthony Carmichael,” she began. “Doctor Carmichael had worked at the hospital for many years, first as a resident and, finally, as our Chief Physician.”

“Dead?” Lacey whispered, her eyes widening. “He can have only been fifty or so.”

Seth took a couple of snaps as Ms. Brooks spoke, focusing tight on her face, so he could capture the deep lines on her forehead and around her dull eyes.

“However, we have been most fortunate that an excellent physician has been able to step into the role at short notice. Please, put your hands together and give a warm welcome to Doctor Charles Cook.”

Like all the other photographers present, Seth didn’t join in with the applause. Instead, he trained his camera in the direction Ms. Brooks had turned to face, ready to capture as many shots as he could of Dr. Cook.

Another security guard used a keycard to swipe open a door, allowing Dr. Cook to enter the lobby. Seth’s chest clenched and his finger froze on the shutter release at the sight of the all too familiar man. Dr. Cook was a short, stocky man, with jet black hair. He wore circular dark-rimmed glasses, which did nothing to make his face look warm. His craggy features looked like they’d been carved out of stone. In the ten years since Seth had last seen him, the only difference was a few more lines on his face, and his hair was just starting to gray at the temples.

Ms. Brooks started to rattle off Dr. Cook’s credentials, starting with his previous role and then moving backward. “I’m sure you can agree that Doctor Cook will be an excellent addition to Metropolitan Hospital,” she finished, just as Dr. Cook joined her.

“Thank you for the welcome,” he said, his voice smooth and thick as molasses. After shaking her hand, Cook turned to face the small crowd of journalists and photographers, his dark gaze traveling over each and every person present as he continued to talk.

Cook wasn’t the name Seth knew the man by. To Seth, he had only ever been the Doctor. He’d had a cruel reputation, and there were whispers he might have been connected to the mob. At fifteen, Seth had watched the Doctor execute his neighbor through the lens of the camera he held in his hands, and it felt like he’d been running ever since. He hadn’t even been sure the man was a real doctor. Knowing he was didn’t make Seth feel any better about coming face to face with him again.

None of the Doctor’s words reached Seth’s ears. Fear crippled him. He didn’t need proof, or a cause of death, to know that Dr. Carmichael was dead because of the Doctor. The Doctor had wanted this job, and he had taken it. The fact it was in the same city Seth had run to from Kansas was pure coincidence. Listening to Ms. Brooks’ speech, he realized the Doctor held positions in hospitals in four other cities since leaving Kansas, each one a move up the pecking order. He couldn’t help but wonder if the Doctor had killed his way up from resident to Chief Physician.

His arms started to sag, as though the camera he was holding was a lead weight dragging them down to reveal his face, just as Dr. Cook’s gaze reached him.

Please don’t let him recognize me. It wasn’t that slim a hope. Ten years, several of which had been spent on the streets, had to have changed him. Only he was pretty sure he hadn’t changed enough. Maybe in passing, on the street, he could walk past the Doctor and not draw his attention. But he wasn’t another invisible person on the street. He was standing there, with a camera in his hand, his eyes wide with fear, exactly as he had been the night the Doctor had first laid eyes on him.

Without ceasing his speech, the Doctor inclined his head a little and smiled coldly, as his gaze lingered on Seth and then slowly dipped to the old, battered camera Seth clutched.

He recognizes me. He knows what I have. Seth’s flight instincts finally kicked in as adrenaline coursed through his body, making his skin tingle. He turned to go, but Lacey grabbed hold of his arm.

“Where the hell are you going? The conference isn’t over yet. I know you’re good, but you can’t have the perfect shot yet.”

He shook her off, not trusting himself to speak, and then pushed his way through the people who had closed in behind him.

“Seth!” Lacey called after him far too loudly.

And now he knows my name. His skin turned to ice and his heart jackhammered as he sprinted out the door. The only thing he could think to do was run; it didn’t matter that he had no destination. All he knew was that if the Doctor caught him, he’d kill him. The thought left him numb, but also sent adrenaline rushing through his body.

He headed straight for the subway, jumping on a train that took him in completely the wrong direction for home or the Tribune. That didn’t stop him looking over his shoulder. Or from searching the faces of everyone on the subway, wondering if they were linked to the Doctor in some way, wondering if they were searching for him.

Seth’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding. By the time he picked a random station to disembark, his body was cold and damp with sweat. He needed to find a post office. The mistake he’d made as a frightened fifteen-year-old kid was to cling to his camera’s memory card, rather than turning it over to someone—anyone—who would have been able to use the photos and expose the Doctor. Why the hell he’d hung onto it for ten years, he wasn’t sure. But he knew, deep down, that every man, woman or child the Doctor had murdered in the intervening time was his fault. Dr. Carmichael’s death was his fault.

He’d run several blocks by the time he reached a post office. He was in an area of the city he’d never been to before. Nothing was familiar, which was probably a good thing. If he didn’t know where he was, how could anyone find him?

It was the hope he clung to as he pulled a padded envelope, a notebook and some rubber bands off the shelves. He wrote Nelson’s address at the Tribune on the front with a shaking hand and then wrote a quick note:

—You must print these photos. Seth.

His handwriting jerked all over the place, but he thought it was legible; just. He tore the piece of paper off the pad and folded it in half. Then he tugged the taped-up tobacco tin out of his inside jacket pocket. He stared at the rusted tin and the brown parcel tape that was starting to discolor and peel off.

God, please let the memory card work. He wasn’t religious. He’d never stepped foot inside a church or prayed to God once in his life. But now he wasn’t sure what else to do. He’d kept the memory card for a reason, maybe because one day, he’d hoped he would be brave enough to do something with it and expose the Doctor. Not that it was bravery fuelling his actions now. He wasn’t brave; he was terrified. He wasn’t convinced he could disappear like he had done ten years ago, when he’d been a foster kid no one really cared about. He was going to try, though. But in case he couldn’t—in case the Doctor did catch up with him—he had to get the photos into the hands of someone who could do something positive with them. He couldn’t stick his head in the sand any longer.

Taking a deep breath, he wrapped one of the rubber bands around the scrappy note and the tobacco tin, and put them and his press pass into the envelope. He sealed it up, making sure it was secure, before going to the counter to pay for everything and the postage.

He wished he wasn’t shaking and that his teeth weren’t chattering so loudly in his skull. He must have looked a state: his face sweat-soaked and probably pale, like some strung-out drug addict. By the time he’d paid, and the parcel had been taken from him, he felt like he might pass out.

Except he couldn’t. He had to keep running. He couldn’t go back to his apartment. He’d have to leave with the clothes on his back and the money in his pocket. He wouldn’t be able to use his credit card or withdraw cash from his bank, either. Was he being paranoid? Probably, but he hoped paranoia would keep him alive.

Outside on the sidewalk, he tossed his phone under the wheels of a passing car, listening to it crack and splinter into hundreds of pieces.

He checked his wallet. He probably had enough cash for a bus ticket. It didn’t have to get him far, just out of the city. He needed a head start in an unpredictable direction, and then he could hitchhike across the state. Find somewhere to vanish again for a while. He’d survived on the streets before; he could do it again.

His biggest regret was not being able to say goodbye to the handful of people that might give a toss about him: Nelson, Lacey, hell, even Joe the coffee truck driver and Cal would probably notice his absence. And Blue Eyes. Would he notice?

He kept looking over his shoulder. It was easy to see intent that wasn’t there. He kept breaking into a run, pushing past people who yelled or swore at him. He darted across the street as he made his way back to the subway. He couldn’t relax. His whole body trembled with the desire to run and never stop. The fear was exhausting. He needed to get on a bus; then he’d feel a fraction safer.

Two burly men were waiting at the bus station entrance. He recognized the guy on the left as one of the security guards at the hospital, although he was no longer in uniform. They appeared to be having an animated conversation, which was loud enough to catch snatches off above the hustle and bustle around them.

“Like the boss said, if he wants out of the city, this is the fastest way. We wait here,” one of the men growled to the other.

Seth turned to head back into the subway, but something hard pressed against his hip, through his coat. A strong hand grabbed his upper arm, and he was dragged close to a muscular man who was easily over six foot. God, he’d been stupid not to realize the other two wouldn’t be alone.

“The Doctor wants to see you,” the man informed him. “Don’t kick up a fuss.”

Seth glanced down as the hard object was thrust harder against him. It was the muzzle of a gun, mostly concealed by the man’s long woolen coat.

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” Seth hissed, before trying to pull away.

The man dug his fingers into Seth’s arm, making him squirm. He nodded his head towards a woman and her two children, who were just walking into the bus station.

“If you do anything but walk with me, I’ll start shooting.” He smiled coldly. “How many people do you think I can kill before my associates grab you?”

Seth clenched his fists. He couldn’t let anyone get hurt—or worse, killed—because of him. He couldn’t. He hung his head and, as the man nudged him forward with the gun, walked obediently.

“Better,” the man said. “This way.”

He was marched a couple of blocks away to a quiet back street where a dark blue car was parked. The other two guys from the bus station had beaten them there. They were leaning against either side of the car, close to the open trunk.

Away from the throng on the main roads, Seth twisted and kicked his captor hard in the shin. He tried to wrench his arm free, gritting his teeth as the man clung on roughly. He heard an odd crackling sound behind him. A burst of pain convulsed through his body from his lower back, slamming his teeth together and forcing his back and neck to arch. He crumpled, and he would have fallen if his captor hadn’t have held him upright by the arm.

One of the other men grabbed him from behind, handcuffing one wrist and then the other behind his back, as the first guy released him. A thick bag was thrust over his head and tightened around his neck, plunging him into suffocating darkness. He wriggled feebly as he was lifted by the legs and arms and tossed into the trunk. A second later, he heard the trunk thud shut and then there was the muffled sound of three doors slamming.

As the car lurched forward with a screech of tires, the only thing he could think was that he was going to die.