Hunting the Doctor

Sarah sat in the stolen Subaru, the engine idling in the long-term parking lot of JFK. She stared at the text message on her burner phone, the screen casting a sickly blue light on her face. *Dr. Thorne.*

"He's playing us," Maya said from the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. "He was taken by Argus. If he's texting you, it's because they're letting him."

"Or because he escaped," Sarah said, though she didn't believe it. Thorne was old, frail, and compromised. He wasn't the escaping type.

"It's a trap," Maya insisted. "They want you to go to Vermont so they can grab you in a place where no one is watching."

"They're watching everywhere," Sarah said. She scrolled through the messages.

*I have the file,* Thorne's next text read. *The original admission form. The one with the real name.*

*Prove it,* Sarah typed back.

A moment later, an image loaded. It was a photo of a yellowed document, stamped with the logo of St. Jude’s Psychiatric Hospital.

*Patient: Eleanor Vance.*
*Admitted: Jan 14, 1988.*
*Guardian: Richard Caldwell.*

Sarah frowned. "Eleanor Vance? That's Elena."

"No," Sarah said, zooming in on the photo. "Look at the signature at the bottom."

The signature was shaky, barely legible. But it wasn't Elena's crisp, practiced script.

It was *Martha Gable*.

"Agnes said her sister was the decoy," Sarah whispered. "But what if she wasn't just a decoy? What if she was the original?"

"The original what?"

"The original Elena," Sarah said. "The woman we know as Elena... she took the name. She took the identity. But the woman in the hospital? The one who gave birth to the triplets? That was Martha."

It made sense. The coldness. The detachment. Elena hadn't bonded with the children because they weren't hers. She was just the manager. The handler.

"If Martha is the mother," Sarah said, "then she's the only one who can prove Caldwell is the father. She was there."

"And she's in a psych ward," Maya said. "Probably heavily medicated."

"Or heavily guarded," Sarah said.

She put the car in gear. "We're going to Florida."

Maya looked at her like she was crazy. "Florida? The text said Vermont."

"The text is a lie," Sarah said, pulling out of the parking lot. "Thorne isn't in Vermont. And neither is Martha."

"How do you know?"

"Because Thorne retired to a gated community in Boca Raton," Sarah said. "And in the background of that photo? There's a palm tree."

It was a small detail, a shadow in the corner of the frame. But it was enough.

"They moved her," Sarah said. "They knew we'd find the Vermont records. So they moved her to the one place they thought was safe. Thorne's house."

"He's hiding her?"

"He's keeping her," Sarah said. "Like a pet. Or a trophy."

The drive south was a blur of caffeine and paranoia. They ditched the Subaru in New Jersey and took a bus to D.C., then a train to endless suburbs of Florida. Sarah used the last of her cash to buy new clothes at a thrift store—oversized sunglasses, a sun hat, anything to hide her face.

They arrived in Boca Raton two days later. The heat was a physical wall, thick with humidity and the smell of cut grass.

Thorne's community was called *The Sanctuary*. Ironic.

"How do we get in?" Maya asked, looking at the guard shack and the wrought-iron gates.

"We don't," Sarah said. "We wait."

They parked their rental car—a beat-up Ford—down the street, hidden by a row of hedges. They watched.

For six hours, nothing happened. Golf carts buzzed by. Landscapers trimmed the already-perfect lawns.

Then, at 4:00 PM, a delivery van pulled up to the gate. *Medical Supplies.*

"That's it," Sarah said.

She got out of the car. "Stay here. If I'm not back in twenty minutes, call Helen."

"Mom—"

"Twenty minutes," Sarah repeated.

She walked to the service entrance. The gate was open for the van. She slipped through, blending in with a group of joggers.

Thorne's house was at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was large, beige, and utterly generic. The blinds were drawn.

Sarah circle around to the back. The lanai was screened in, overlooking a man-made lake.

She used the tire iron to pry open the screen door. It popped with a soft *snick*.

She stepped onto the patio. The sliding glass door was unlocked.

She slid it open and stepped into the cool, air-conditioned silence of the living room.

"Hello, Sarah," a voice said.

Dr. Thorne was sitting in a recliner, a glass of scotch in his hand. He didn't look surprised. He looked resigned.

"You're not in Vermont," Sarah said, gripping the tire iron.

"Vermont is cold," Thorne said. "Martha hates the cold."

He gestured to the hallway.

"She's in the guest room. Second door on the left."

Sarah didn't move. "Where are the guards? Where is Argus?"

"Argus doesn't know she's here," Thorne said. "Elena thinks she's dead. Caldwell thinks she's dead. I'm the only one who knows the truth."

"Why?" Sarah asked. "Why keep her alive?"

"Because," Thorne said, taking a sip of his drink. "I loved her."

Sarah stared at him. The man who had drugged her mother. Who had forged medical records. Who had facilitated the harvest of three children.

"You loved her?" Sarah asked, her voice dripping with disgust. "You let them use her. You let them steal her children."

"I saved her," Thorne said. "Elena wanted to kill her after the birth. She said Martha was a liability. I convinced her to let me handle it. I told her I'd lobotomize her. Make her forget."

"Did you?"

"I gave her enough sedatives to keep her docile," Thorne said. "But I never cut her. She remembers everything."

He put the glass down.

"She remembers the Senator," he said. "She remembers the promise he made her."

Sarah walked down the hallway. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She pushed open the second door on the left.

The room was dim, smelling of lavender and old paper. A woman was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, looking out at the lake.

She had grey hair, thin and wispy. Her hands were twisted with arthritis.

But when she turned, Sarah gasped.

It was Elena’s face. Older. Softer. But unmistakably the same bone structure. The same eyes.

"Martha?" Sarah whispered.

The woman looked at her. Her eyes widened.

"Sarah?" she rasped.

"You know me?"

"I know everyone," Martha said. "I watch the news."

She pointed to a small TV in the corner, tuned to CNN.

"You're fighting him," she said. "Richard."

"I'm trying to," Sarah said. "But I need proof. I need you to tell the world what he did."

Martha shook her head. "He'll kill you. Like he killed Thomas."

"Thomas isn't dead," Sarah said. "Or... he wasn't. Until two days ago."

Martha looked confused. "Thomas died in '05. Richard told me."

"Richard lied," Sarah said. "He lied about everything."

She knelt beside the wheelchair.

"Martha, I have Caleb. I have your son. He's alive."

Martha let out a small, strangled cry. "My baby?"

"He's grown," Sarah said. "He's safe. But he needs your help."

Martha reached into the pocket of her cardigan. She pulled out a small, silver object.

It wasn't a locket. It was a flash drive.

"I stole this," she whispered. "From Richard's briefcase. The night he came to take the babies."

"What is it?"

"The recordings," Martha said. "He recorded everything. For insurance. Against Elena."

Sarah took the drive. It was warm from Martha's hand.

"This proves he ordered the harvest?"

"It proves he ordered the *conception*," Martha said. "It proves he hired Elena to find a surrogate. It proves he paid for the eggs."

She looked at Sarah, her eyes fierce.

"It proves he's not just a father," she said. "He's an architect."

Sarah stood up. She had the smoking gun.

But as she turned to leave, she heard a sound from the living room.

A gunshot.

Then silence.

Sarah froze. She looked at Martha.

"Stay here," she whispered.

She crept down the hallway. She peered into the living room.

Dr. Thorne was still in his recliner. But now, there was a hole in his forehead.

And standing over him, holding a silenced pistol, was a man Sarah had never seen before.

He was tall, thin, wearing a grey suit. He looked like an accountant.

He turned toward the hallway.

"Miss Jenkins," he said, his voice calm, professional. "The Vice President would like a word."