Chapter 7 - The Transfer-7
At 9:15 AM the next morning, Abigail walked through the glass doors of Dr. Julian Vance’s private downtown diagnostic center. The building was a shrine to modern luxury—marble floors, frosted glass walls, soft jazz playing through hidden speakers, and plush leather seats in the waiting room. It was designed to project absolute authority and wealth, comforting desperate patients while quietly emptying their bank accounts.
Abigail wore a simple black coat and held a white envelope tightly in her hands. Inside was the $12,000 certified check provided by the Attorney General’s task force.
Naomi was sitting behind the reception desk, her face pale as she typed furiously on her keyboard. When Abigail entered, Naomi offered a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. The wiretap and data-extraction devices were active.
“Mrs. Riley,” Naomi said aloud, maintaining her professional cover. “Dr. Vance is waiting for you in his private office. Right this way.”
Naomi led Abigail down a quiet corridor lined with abstract art. She stopped outside a heavy mahogany door, turning to whisper rapidly: “Vance’s personal computer is connected to Sterling’s secure server right now. The task force is remote-cloning his hard drive as we speak. Just keep him talking in his office for ten minutes.”
Abigail nodded, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
“Come in!” Dr. Vance’s smooth voice called out.
Abigail opened the door and stepped inside. Dr. Vance was sitting behind an enormous glass desk, sipping espresso from a delicate porcelain cup. He stood up immediately, offering his signature warm, deceptive smile.
“Abigail! Wonderful to see you,” he said, extending a hand. “Did you manage to secure the funding for Spencer’s special Swiss medication?”
Abigail took his hand briefly, fighting the urge to recoil. “I did, Dr. Vance. It wasn't easy. I had to take out a high-interest loan against my house, but... anything for my son.”
Vance’s eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. “You are a true mother, Abigail. A hero. Please, sit down.”
Abigail sat across from him, placing the white envelope on the glass desk between them. “Before I hand this over, Doctor... I just need you to reassure me. Will this really cure him? Will he finally be free of this terrible disease?”
Vance picked up the envelope, opening it to inspect the cashier’s check. He ran a finger over the crisp paper, his expression filled with arrogant triumph.
“This new protocol has an eighty-five percent success rate in European trials,” Vance lied effortlessly. “Within two weeks, Spencer’s blood counts should stabilize completely. You won't have to worry about a thing.”
Because in two weeks, he’ll be dead, and you’ll be collecting three million dollars, Abigail thought, her pulse thumping in her ears.
On her wrist, Thomas’s old Timex watch ticked steadily. It was 9:28 AM. Two minutes until the federal marshals moved in at the hospital.
“Is there any paperwork I need to sign?” Abigail asked, stalling for time. “For the Swiss medical customs declaration?”
Vance waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. My clinical coordinator handles all the international shipping documentation. All you need to do now is go home and rest, Abigail. You look terribly tired.”
“I am tired, Doctor,” Abigail said quietly, looking him straight in the eyes. “I’ve been tired for ten years.”
Vance paused, catching the sudden shift in her tone. He narrowed his eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”
Before he could process her statement, his office telephone rang sharply. Vance frowned, picking up the receiver. “I thought I said I wasn't to be disturbed, Naomi—”
He stopped speaking. Abigail watched as the color instantly drained from Dr. Vance’s face.
“What do you mean, federal agents?” Vance stammered into the phone, standing up so fast his chair rolled back against the wall. “On what grounds?”
Abigail stood up calmly, adjusting her coat. She picked up the envelope containing the check from his desk and slipped it back into her purse.
“They’re at the hospital right now, aren't they, Doctor?” Abigail said, her voice dropping all pretense of vulnerability. “And I believe another team of agents is downstairs in your lobby as we speak.”
Vance dropped the phone receiver. It hung from its cord, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He stared at Abigail in utter shock and horror.
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“Who... who are you?” he whispered.
Abigail looked down at him with icy disdain. “I am the mother of the boy you tried to murder. And I am the widow of Thomas Riley.”
