Chapter 13 - The Trap at Saint Jude’s
The administrative wing of Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital is quiet on Sunday mornings.
The smell of floor wax and antiseptic fills the long, cream-colored hallway of the fifth floor.
Dr. Harold Sterling sits behind his mahogany desk, reviewing patient intake files under a green reading lamp.
He is seventy years old, with thinning silver hair and hands that tremble slightly with Parkinson’s.
The door to his private office opens without a knock.
Dr. Sterling looks up over his half-moon reading glasses, his scowl deepening.
“Excuse me, visiting hours for the private pavilion do not start until—”
He stops speaking as Brennan Vance steps into the office, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Brennan looks like a ghost that has clawed its way out of an ash pit.
His suit is wrinkled and stained, his coat smells of smoke, and his right arm hangs in a sling.
His eyes are hollow, bloodshot, and rimmed with dark, violent shadows of exhaustion.
“Brennan?” Dr. Sterling sets his pen down, his voice rising in alarm.
“What on earth happened to you? I saw the news about the fire at Oakridge Manor.”
“Did the police find the boy? The authorities called me yesterday asking for medical archives.”
Brennan walks across the office with a slow, mechanical limp, stopping right before the desk.
He places both hands flat on the polished wood, leaning down until his face is inches from Sterling’s.
“Why did you keep the duplicate evaluation records, Harold?” Brennan whispers, his breath ragged.
Dr. Sterling’s face instantly drains of all color, his lips trembling slightly.
“I... I don’t know what you mean, Brennan. All records were sealed under the family court order four years ago.”
“Elliot has them,” Brennan growls, his voice cracking with rage.
“He broke into the cellar safe before the house burned down.”
“He took the original psychiatric evaluation stating he had sociopathic conduct disorder.”
“And he took the invoice showing I paid you two hundred thousand dollars to alter the date on the report.”
Dr. Sterling pushes his chair back, his hands shaking violently against his desk blotter.
“Brennan, you asked me to backdate that evaluation so Clara could maintain custody during the lawsuit!”
“You told me it was to protect your family from public scandal!”
“I did it to protect my life from that monster!” Brennan roars, slamming his fist onto the desk.
The desk lamp rattles, the green glass shade vibrating against its brass base.
“And now Elliot is using those documents to destroy me, Harold!”
“He contacted Arthur last night. Arthur’s corporate attorneys just filed an emergency petition in probate court.”
“They are freezing every account associated with the Vance family trust!”
“My credit lines are completely shut down! The insurance company won't pay out a dime for the house until the arson investigation clears!”
“Sarah took June to her mother’s estate in Pennsylvania and filed for immediate legal separation!”
Dr. Sterling stares at Brennan with wide, terrified eyes, realizing the full magnitude of the collapse.
“What do you want me to do, Brennan? The state medical board is already looking into my historical billings.”
“If they subpoena the hospital archives, I will lose my medical license! I could go to federal prison!”
Brennan pulls a small, silver micro-cassette recorder from his coat pocket and sets it on the blotter.
“You are going to sign an affidavit stating the documents Elliot has are stolen medical forgeries.”
“You are going to declare that Elliot fabricated the doctor’s notes to frame me for child neglect.”
“And you are going to issue an emergency psychiatric committal order for him right now.”
Dr. Sterling shakes his head frantically, backing toward the tall file cabinets behind him.
“I can’t do that, Brennan! That’s perjury! The boy has digital backups of our email correspondence from four years ago!”
“How do you know that?” Brennan demands, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.
Dr. Sterling swallows hard, his gaze shifting nervously toward the connecting consultation room door.
“Because he showed them to me twenty minutes ago, Brennan.”
Brennan’s body goes rigid as if struck by lightning.
The brass handle of the connecting door turns with a soft, smooth click.
The door swings slowly open.
Elliot steps out into the office, dressed in a clean black woolen sweater and dark slacks.
Behind him stands Detective Hayes, accompanied by two state troopers with their service weapons drawn.
Detective Hayes holds up a small, black audio monitor, its green receiving light glowing steadily.
“We’ve been listening to every word since you stepped off the elevator, Mr. Vance,” Hayes says calmly.
Brennan turns around slowly, his chest heaving as if the room had run out of air.
He looks at Dr. Sterling, then at the police, and finally at Elliot.
Elliot stands by the bookcase, his hands resting casually inside his pockets.
His expression is completely still, devoid of triumph, devoid of hatred, devoid of humanity.
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“You were right about one thing, Dad,” Elliot says softly, the word dripping with venomous irony.
“The look on your face really is pretty funny.”
