Chapter 6 - The Doctor in the Snow and the Sanctuary of the Underground
The blinding beam of the flashlight clicked off, plunging us back into the dim, swirling gloom of the falling snow behind the South Station freight yards.
I stood frozen, my fingers tightly gripping the handle of the heavy black Pelican case, my breath coming in ragged, freezing gasps.
Dr. Barrett walked toward me slowly, his hands held up open and empty to show he posed no threat.
“Clara, calm down,” he urged, his voice a low, urgent whisper that cut through the whistling wind.
“You shouldn't be out here alone. If Sterling’s men caught you in those tunnels, you’d already be dead.”
“You… what are you doing here?” I stammered, my legs trembling so violently I could barely keep my balance.
“How did you know I would be at South Station? Were you following me?”
Dr. Barrett sighed, stepping closer and gently taking the heavy Pelican case from my grip, setting it carefully inside the open side door of the gray delivery van.
“I wasn't following you, Clara. I was waiting for you,” he replied, pulling a heavy woolen blanket from the passenger seat and draping it over my shivering shoulders.
“Liam knew you would come here the moment you read his journal. He made me promise that if anything happened to him—or if I saw suspicious men asking about you at the hospital—I would bring this van to the rear access of the station at three in the morning.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning through a maze of suspicion and confusion.
“You helped him?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“You knew about the syndicate? You knew Liam was living a double life?”
“I knew what he told me, which was just enough to keep you alive,” Dr. Barrett said, gesturing for me to climb into the passenger seat of the van.
“Get inside, Clara. The engine is warm, and you need to sit down before you go into premature labor out here in the snow.”
The thought of my baby gave me the strength to move.
I climbed into the van, sinking gratefully into the worn cloth seat as the rush of warm heater air washed over my freezing face and hands.
Dr. Barrett closed the van door, walked around to the driver’s side, and slid behind the wheel, throwing the vehicle into gear.
We pulled away from the loading dock just as two dark sedans with tinted windows rounded the corner of the freight yard, their high-beam headlights sweeping across the empty snow.
“Hold on,” Dr. Barrett muttered, cutting the headlights and slipping down a narrow, unplowed industrial service road that led away from downtown Boston.
We drove in silence for twenty minutes, winding through the quiet, snow-covered backstreets of South Boston until the towering warehouses gave way to old brick residential buildings and narrow alleys.
Finally, Dr. Barrett pulled the van into the underground parking garage of an unassuming five-story apartment building with faded brick facade.
“Where are we?” I asked, pulling the woolen blanket tighter around my shoulders.
“Safe house number one,” Dr. Barrett said, cutting the engine.
“Liam bought this apartment under a corporate shell three years ago, right after you got married. He installed encrypted communication lines, reinforced doors, and a panic room. Not even the syndicate knows this place exists.”
We carried the Pelican case upstairs to apartment 3B.
The moment we stepped inside, the stark contrast between the outside world and this sanctuary was staggering.
The apartment was fully furnished, warm, and stocked with shelf-stable food, bottled water, and medical supplies.
There was even a small nursery set up in the corner bedroom with a crib, a rocking chair, and a mobile hanging from the ceiling.
I dropped onto the living room sofa, covering my face with my hands as the overwhelming weight of the last twenty-four hours finally crashed down on me.
Liam was dead.
I was running for my life from a ruthless criminal syndicate.
And I was eight months pregnant, hiding in a secret safe house with a doctor who had secrets of his own.
“Dr. Barrett,” I whispered into the quiet room, my shoulders shaking.
“Why did Liam trust you? Who are you really?”
Dr. Barrett walked into the kitchen, poured two cups of hot water, and handed me a mug of chamomile tea before sitting down in the armchair across from me.
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“My real name isn't Barrett, Clara,” he said quietly, removing his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbing his tired eyes.
“It’s Thomas Barrett Vance. Liam was my younger brother.”
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