Chapter 3 - The Patient Who Was Supposed to Die
“They're saying I killed him?”
Clare snatched the tablet from Elena's hands.
The report carried the hospital's official seal.
Her employee number.
A description of the emergency procedure she'd performed.
And a statement claiming her actions had directly contributed to the patient's death.
At the bottom was Dr. Weber's signature.
“No,” Clare whispered. “I stabilized him. His oxygen level improved. I watched him start breathing normally.”
Elena enlarged the document.
“The report says he died at 4:06 this afternoon.”
Clare shook her head.
“That isn't what happened.”
Dominic moved closer.
“Tell me everything you remember.”
Clare looked at him.
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because somebody used your name to steal supplies from your hospital. They shot my brother when he started asking questions. We have the same enemy.”
“Unless that enemy works for you.”
The accusation hung between them.
Dominic didn't look away.
“That's a possibility I'm taking seriously.”
His answer surprised her.
She expected denial.
Instead, he turned to Marco.
“I want the original warehouse records. Not copies. Find out who released shipment 4418.”
Marco nodded and left.
Elena guided Clare toward a chair.
“Tell me about the patient.”
Clare closed her eyes.
“He was in his late fifties. Brought in after a traffic collision. Chest trauma. Trouble breathing. Dr. Weber recognized something in his paperwork.”
“Recognized what?”
“I don't know. But he went pale.”
She remembered the patient's bloodied coat being cut away.
A cracked silver wristwatch.
And the terrified expression on Dr. Weber's face.
“He kept asking whether anyone had contacted the police,” Clare continued. “Then the patient started getting worse.”
“And Weber froze?”
“He stood beside the bed while the man was dying.”
Clare swallowed.
“I kept waiting for him to act. Finally, I couldn't wait anymore.”
Elena nodded slowly.
“Your intervention wouldn't explain the cause of death listed here. There should be supporting records.”
“Then why would Weber sign it?”
Dominic answered.
“Because he needed the patient declared dead.”
Clare looked up sharply.
“You don't know that.”
“No. But I intend to find out.”
An hour later, Tommy briefly regained consciousness.
Clare was beside his bed when his eyes opened.
He looked at the ceiling, confused.
“Lucy?”
“She's safe,” Clare said gently. “You're at a surgical center. Your brother's here.”
Tommy tried to sit up.
Pain twisted his face.
“Don't move.”
He grabbed her sleeve.
“The blue ticket.”
“We found it.”
His eyes widened.
“Don't give it to Dominic.”
Clare hesitated.
“Why?”
Tommy's breathing quickened.
“His company... the trucks.”
“I know.”
“No. You don't.”
He struggled to speak.
“Forty kits went missing last week. Before that, sixty. Before that...”
His voice weakened.
“People died, Clare.”
Elena entered and checked his monitors.
“That's enough talking.”
Tommy shook his head.
“Listen. Noah Pierce.”
Clare leaned closer.
“Who is he?”
“The man you saved.”
Her stomach tightened.
Tommy gripped her hand.
“He found out where the supplies were going. He was going to expose everything.”
“Is he alive?”
Tommy's expression changed.
“I don't know.”
“Tommy, where is Noah?”
His eyes filled with sudden fear.
“They took him.”
Then he lost consciousness again.
Elena quickly checked him.
“He's exhausted. He needs rest.”
Clare looked at the folded drawing beside Tommy's bed.
A little girl had drawn a sun over three people.
And one of those people might never see another sunrise because someone was stealing medical supplies.
Dominic was waiting outside when Clare emerged.
“We're going to my distribution warehouse,” he said.
“Your brother just told me your trucks have been moving stolen hospital supplies.”
“I heard.”
“And you're still claiming you knew nothing?”
Dominic's jaw tightened.
“I knew we had a medical transport contract. I didn't know the shipments were stolen.”
“Those aren't the same thing.”
“No. They're not.”
Clare stepped closer.
“Then help me understand something. How does a man who controls an entire transportation company not know what his drivers are carrying?”
Dominic looked tired for the first time.
“Because I trusted someone to run that part of the business.”
“Who?”
“Cal Rusk.”
The name meant nothing to Clare.
Dominic explained that Cal had worked for his family for nearly twenty years. He managed drivers, shipping schedules, and freight contracts.
“He's practically family.”
Clare held his gaze.
“Sometimes family is exactly where people stop looking.”
Dominic didn't answer.
But when he walked toward the waiting SUV, his expression had hardened.
The Castellano distribution warehouse occupied an enormous brick building near the South Branch of the Chicago River.
A loading dock stretched along one side.
Three refrigerated trucks stood beneath powerful security lights.
Cal Rusk met them at the entrance.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, with thinning hair and deep lines around his mouth.
“Dominic,” he said. “What's happened?”
“Tommy's been shot.”
Cal went pale.
“Is he alive?”
“For now.”
“My God.”
His distress appeared genuine.
Then he noticed Clare.
“Who's she?”
“The nurse who saved him.”
Something flickered across Cal's face.
Recognition.
Or fear.
Clare couldn't tell.
Dominic held up the blue transfer ticket.
“Explain this.”
Cal examined it.
“Routine medical shipment.”
“Forty emergency kits?”
“That's what the paperwork says.”
“Authorized by a nurse who'd already been fired?”
Cal looked toward Clare.
“I wouldn't know anything about hospital staffing.”
“Then show us the receiving records,” Dominic said.
Cal hesitated.
“It's the middle of the night.”
Dominic's voice dropped.
“Open the office.”
Inside, Clare examined the shipping records while Dominic questioned Cal.
She didn't understand transportation contracts.
But she knew hospital supplies.
And something immediately caught her attention.
Several shipments listed emergency hemorrhage kits as surplus inventory.
“That's wrong,” she said.
Cal glanced over.
“What is?”
“St. Jude's was never sitting on surplus supplies. Last Thursday, we had to borrow kits from another hospital.”
Cal shifted.
“Inventory changes.”
“Not like this.”
Clare turned another page.
“And here's another shipment.”
Thirty emergency airway kits.
Twenty portable monitors.
Fourteen specialized emergency equipment packages.
All redirected to Meridian Private Medical Services.
All recorded as unnecessary stock.
Clare remembered the elderly man who'd nearly died waiting for equipment during a night shift.
She remembered a young mother bleeding after a car crash.
She remembered nurses apologizing to families because the hospital couldn't provide what it should have had ready.
Her stomach twisted.
“These supplies weren't surplus,” she whispered.
“Someone took them away from patients who needed them.”
Dominic studied the records.
The transport fees were enormous.
Far higher than ordinary deliveries.
“Who owns Meridian?” he asked.
Cal's silence was answer enough.
Dominic repeated the question.
“Martin Voss,” Cal finally said.
Clare looked up.
“Martin Voss is chairman of St. Jude's hospital board.”
Dominic stared at his longtime employee.
“And you never thought to mention that?”
Cal swallowed.
“The contract was approved. Everything went through the legal office.”
Dominic stepped toward him.
“Whose legal office?”
Before Cal could answer, a crash echoed from the loading dock.
Everyone turned.
A man staggered through the warehouse entrance.
His white shirt was stained with blood.
His glasses hung crookedly from one ear.
Clare recognized him immediately.
“Dr. Weber?”
The surgeon nearly collapsed.
Dominic caught his arm.
“What happened to you?”
Weber looked past him.
His terrified eyes settled on Clare.
“You shouldn't be here.”
Clare took a step forward.
“You signed a report saying my patient died.”
Weber's face crumpled.
“I know.”
“Did he?”
Weber shook his head.
“No.”
Clare felt the room tilt.
“Then where is he?”
Weber pointed toward the farthest refrigerated truck.
“Voss's people brought him here. They're moving him again before morning.”
Dominic turned toward Cal.
“Open that truck.”
Cal didn't move.
“Dominic, please.”
“Open it.”
Weber grabbed Clare's arm.
“He's been sedated. I tried to stop them.”
“Who?”
Weber's eyes filled with tears.
“The people who own our hospital.”
Dominic pulled the loading-bay keys from Cal's hand.
He approached the last truck.
Clare followed.
The rear doors swung open.
Cold air rushed over them.
Inside, among stacked medical containers, lay a man strapped to a transport stretcher.
His face was bruised.
A hospital bracelet circled his wrist.
And beneath a stained blanket, his chest rose with a shallow breath.
Clare recognized him.
It was the patient she had saved at St. Jude's.
Noah Pierce.
The man whose death report carried her signature.
Then Noah opened his eyes.
He saw Clare standing in the doorway.
May you like
And with barely enough strength to speak, he whispered:
“Get away from Dominic Castellano. His family started this.”
