CHAPTER 204 Dead Doctor
*Noah*
The spring sun blazed high, a fierce, unyielding eye in a sky of relentless blue, its midday rays burning through the hospital parking, heating the asphalt until it shimmered. I slouched in my truck, the leather seat creaking under me, sweat prickling my neck as I wrestled with my next move. The air carried the sweet, fleeting scent of blooming dogwoods, a cruel reminder of spring’s false promises in this tangled mess of a town. I had sent Sarah to nudge Bo for backup, hoping he’d spot Pete slinking around like the snake he was.
Getting Virtue out of this sterile fortress was a lost cause. No way could I smuggle her past the nurses’ hawk-like glares or the security cameras blinking like sleepless sentinels. I’d have to play the repentant fool, swallow my pride, and grovel at her feet for my behavior earlier. She’d probably buy it—
small towns let a man off the hook if he flashes a sheepish grin.
I was about to swing open the truck door when the Sheriff’s cruiser roared into the lot, its tires screeching as it claimed a spot near the hospital’s curb. My gut twisted. Liam and Dan leapt out, their shoes hitting the pavement with purpose, practically sprinting toward the entrance. Apologizing now was suicide—Liam would know something's up, and he’d sniff out my game in a heartbeat.
Nothing was going right. Liam and Pete were supposed to be dead, not strutting around with more lives than a stray cat dodging traffic. My plan was falling apart faster than a cheap sweater.
My phone buzzed, the screen flashing the name of St. Elizabeth’s hospital director. I answered, leaning back, the truck’s interior smelling faintly of stale coffee and desperation. “Doc, what’s the problem?” I said, half-hoping he’d offer to wheel Virtue out on a silver platter. But with Liam prowling the halls, that was highly unlikely.
To my shock, the doctor's voice crackled with news. “I just got a call from Pete McDowell. He’s been found.” My grip tightened on the phone. *Pete*, *that slippery bastard*. “Two female paramedics snatched him during the parade. Makes my job easier—I know the only two on duty. I’ve paged them to my office for questioning.”
“So, what do you need from me?” I snapped, irritation flaring. Pete knew I didn’t work on a whim.
“He wants you to transport the two ladies to the old pizza factory after I sedate them,” the doctor said, his tone flat, like he was reading off a script.
“No can do, Doc,” I shot back, my voice sharp as the spring wind rattling the truck’s windows. “Get Rodney to do it or someone else on Pete's payroll. Better yet, find a nurse drowning in debt and let them square it with blood money. Tell Pete if he wants this town back by sunrise, I need to focus. Just... just fucking give me his number, and I’ll tell the bastard myself.”
“Fine, hold on a sec—” the doctor's voice cut off. Silence stretched, thick and heavy, like the humid air before an April storm. A full minute ticked by... I felt my pulse began to race.
“Doc? You there? Hello?” I checked the phone—call still active, but dead quiet. “Hello? Doc? *Doc*?”
*Goddamn it*. I hung up, adrenaline surging, and bolted from the truck, my boots pounding the asphalt as I charged toward the hospital. Pete’s number was a lifeline, and I had to get it, even if I had to pry it from the doctor's cold hands. I knew where to find Pete, but I needed that direct line to cut through his games.
Inside, I bypassed the elevator’s claustrophobic hum, its cameras waiting to trap me like a rat in a cage. I took the stairs two at a time, my breath ragged, the spring warmth doing nothing to cool the fire in my chest. CCTV be damned—I was a ghost.
At the top, a figure barreled down toward me, face buried in a hoodie. *That kid from Bo’s place*, always skulking in that worn gray sweatshirt. He didn’t glance up, just brushed past, leaving a faint whiff of cigarette smoke.
I paused outside the doctor's office, my chest heaving despite those morning runs with Sarah. Spring’s pollen-heavy air didn’t help. I knocked. Nothing. Knocked again. Silence. The doorknob turned under my hand, smooth and cold, and the door swung open.
There, sprawled on the floor, was the good doctor, his pristine white coat crumpled around him, his face locked in a wide-eye grimace. *Oh*, *shit*.
After the chaos with Ford Martin and Theodore Cohen, I couldn’t afford to be pinned as a killer. My work was clean—Abigail and Nicole looked like accidents, and I’ve kept it that way. I shut the door, wiping my prints from the polished handle with my sleeve, and hightailed it out, my heart slamming as I wove through the hospital’s antiseptic halls. I didn’t stop until I was back in my truck, the door slamming shut like a coffin lid.
Slumped over the steering wheel, I gulped for air, my mind racing through the haze. I leaned back, the day’s heat pressing in, and let my mind shift gears—Pete was still out there, but I had time to play this right. A plan sparked, sharp and ruthless. I had proof Liam orchestrated the Highland Oaks massacre—enough to bury him. Why not pin the doctor's death on him too? Let him and the Sheriff choke on their own schemes.
I fished out a prepaid burner from Chicago, its weight reassuring in my hand, and dialed. A man’s voice answered, low and steady. “You deliver the package yet?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m at the building now,” he replied, the sound of distant machinery humming in the background.
I fired up the truck’s ignition, the engine snarling as I peeled onto the road. With one hand, I dialed another number on the burner. A woman’s voice answered, crisp and official.
“FBI,” I said, my voice steady as the spring sun climbing higher. “I’d like to report a crime.”
If they moved fast, they might crash the wedding of the century.
Pete could sit tight, biding his time like a card shark holding a weak hand. He didn't plan to make his play until later in the day anyway. By then, I’d have Virtue sobbing against my chest, her tears hot and real, locked in my grip with no chance for Pete to pry her loose. The day’s heat pressed through my truck’s window, carrying the faint stink of asphalt and cut grass, but it wouldn’t shake my plan—Pete’s moves were too slow, and I was already three steps ahead.
Now, time to suit up and enjoy the show.
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