Chapter 4 - The Unlikely Sanctuary
Fiona’s body went rigid, every muscle tightening into a knot of defensive panic. She brought her elbow back with all the force she could muster, intending to strike her captor in the ribs, but the arm was caught mid-air by a grip that felt like an iron vise.
"Be quiet if you want to keep breathing, nurse," a voice whispered in her ear. It was a rough, gravelly voice, thick with a Chicago south-side accent, but it didn't hold the murderous malice of Victoria or the frantic panic of Dr. Reed.
The hand slowly rolled away from her lips. Fiona turned her head in the dim, amber glow of the boiler’s pilot light. Standing before her was Marco, the head groundskeeper and a long-time enforcer for the Costello family. He was a man in his late 50s, his face lined with the deep, permanent scars of an old shotgun blast, wearing a grease-stained canvas jacket and carrying a heavy iron wrench in his right hand.
"Marco," Fiona gasped, her knees nearly buckling with relief. "They’re trying to kill Arthur. Victoria and Dr. Reed. They’ve been putting needles in his pillow. They’re poisoning him."
Marco didn't look surprised. He looked down at the floor, his jaw shifting as he chewed on an unlit cigar. "I’ve been tracking the doctor’s deliveries for two months, Miss Jenkins. The crates of medicine coming into this house didn't have the labels from the Northwestern pharmacy. They had the stamps from the commercial veterinary suppliers down at the stockyards. But I couldn't say nothing to the Don without proof. In this family, you accuse the wife of treason, you better have the ledger in your hand or you end up in the canal."
"I have the proof," Fiona said, pulling the blue towel from her pocket and opening it enough to let the copper sheen of the needles catch the amber light. "And the records are on the doctor’s personal tablet in the bedroom."
Marco looked at the needles, his old eyes narrowing until they were just two black slits in his scarred face. He let out a long, slow whistle through his teeth. "The little bastard. He’s the only boy the Don’s got left after the car accident in Milan. If Dominic finds out she touched the kid..."
Above them, the service stair door crashed open, the bright, white beams of high-powered tactical flashlights cutting through the brick arches of the cellar.
"Marco! Is anyone down there?" a guard shouted from the top of the stairs. "The mistress says the nurse is unstable. She’s tried to attack Dr. Reed."
Marco looked from the stairs to Fiona, then reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder of her cardigan, shoving her into a narrow gap between two massive oak wine casks that had been converted into storage lockers.
"Stay here and don't make a peep," Marco growled. He turned around, wiped a layer of coal dust over his face with his sleeve, and walked out into the center of the basement floor, waving his iron wrench toward the flashlights.
"Yeah, I'm down here!" Marco yelled back, his voice dripping with old-man irritation. "The damn sump pump is overflowing again because of the lake tide! What the hell are you guys making all that noise for? You’re going to wake the kid!"
The two guards descended the stairs, their boots clicking against the concrete, their flashlights illuminating the brick pillars. "The nurse went rogue, Marco. She’s somewhere in the house. The mistress wants her found before the storm clears. Have you seen her come through the service door?"
"Ain't nobody come through here but a couple of rats and twenty gallons of lake water," Marco said, spitting onto the floor. "You want to find her, check the conservatory. The glass roof always makes people think they can get out through the gardens."
The guards hesitated, their lights lingering on the wine casks for a fraction of a second before they turned back toward the stairs. "All right. Keep the basement door locked from the inside, Marco. If she comes down here, break her legs first and call us second."
"Yeah, yeah," Marco muttered, turning back toward the boiler as the sound of their boots faded into the upper floors.
May you like
Once the door clicked shut, Marco walked back to the casks and pulled Fiona out into the light. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, old-fashioned satellite phone with a thick rubber antenna.
"The house lines are monitored by Victoria’s people," Marco said, pressing the phone into Fiona’s hand. "But this goes straight to the Don't private boat in the Atlantic. He’s currently sitting in a hangar at LaGuardia waiting for the weather clearance. You call him, Miss Jenkins. You tell him what the Sandman did."
