Chapter 3 - The Surgeon’s Verdict
Sarah walked across the linoleum floor with a heavy, mechanical stiffness, her sneakers squeaking softly against the wax. She ignored Marcus completely as he stepped forward with his hands half-raised, whispering her name. She walked straight past him, stopping only when she reached my side, where she let out a long, shuddering breath and pressed her forehead briefly against my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the fine, uncontrollable tremors shaking her frame.
“How is he?” I asked quietly, looking past her toward Dr. Vance.
Dr. Vance sighed, wiping his brow with the back of a gloved hand he had just pulled off. He looked around the small circle of family members before speaking.
“Mr. Harrington made it through the primary surgery,” the doctor said, his tone professional, measured, and cautious. “We managed to close the laceration on his right arm, repair the torn muscle tissue, and control the internal bleeding. Given that he was on high-dose anticoagulants for his stroke history, the blood loss was severe. We had to pump three units of plasma into him just to stabilize his blood pressure on the table.”
Marcus pushed his way past Aunt Linda, stepping into Dr. Vance’s immediate personal space. “Is he conscious? Can I see him? I’m his son.”
Dr. Vance looked down at Marcus with mild, clinical disapproval. “He is currently in a medically induced coma in the surgical ICU, Mr. Harrington. His body underwent massive traumatic shock. Between the physical impact of the animal strike, the profound blood loss, and his pre-existing neurological history, waking him up right now would trigger dangerous blood pressure spikes. We need him stable for at least twenty-four hours before we even attempt to lighten the sedation.”
Sarah raised her head from my shoulder, her eyes cold and hard as flint. She looked directly at her brother. “He didn't just get hit by a boar, Marcus. The surgeon said the angle of the bruising on his torso and legs indicates he was knocked down hard before the animal ever gored him.”
Marcus’s face went instantly pale. He took a half-step back, his hands fluttering nervously near his pockets. “What? That’s… that’s ridiculous! The boar charged him! I told you, it came out of the treeline!”
“The wildlife control officer interviewed outside already told the desk sergeant that wild boars don’t typically attack unless cornered or provoked,” Sarah said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy whisper. “And Dad was out in the open pasture clearing brush. There was nothing to corner him. Unless someone chased him there.”
“Are you insane?!” Marcus shrieked, his voice cracking with sheer panic. “You think I pushed him into a wild animal? Listen to yourselves! You’re all acting like a damn lynch mob!”
“Nobody said you pushed him into an animal, Marcus,” I said, finally stepping out from behind Sarah and reaching slowly into my coat pocket. I pulled out Arthur’s mud-stained phone and held it out so the harsh fluorescent light glinted off its cracked screen protector. “We just said you were arguing about money. And according to your own words out in that field, he wouldn't drop it.”
Marcus stared at the phone as if it were a venomous snake coil ready to strike.
“Where did you get that?” he whispered, his voice trembling.
“You dropped it when you panicked after the ambulance arrived,” I lied smoothly—a tactical fabrication designed to see how he reacted to the physical evidence of his presence near the fall site.
Marcus fell right into the trap. “I didn't drop it! It was in his coat! He must have dropped it when he fell!”
I didn’t correct him. I just let his admission hang in the air like a foul odor. He had just confirmed, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had been close enough to Arthur at the exact moment of the fall to know where the phone was located—contradictory to his earlier claims that he had been twenty yards away clearing brush when the attack happened.
Uncle Paul caught the slip immediately. He crossed his arms, his jaw tightening into a granite block. “You said earlier you were down by the tractor shed when you heard him scream, Marcus. The tractor shed is a hundred yards from the pasture line. How did you know where the phone fell from his coat?”
Marcus swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward the exit doors. The net was closing, and he knew it. He had spent his entire life talking his way out of bad investments and family debts with fast charm and smooth lies, but this wasn't a bad stock tip. This was a potential murder investigation.
“I… I saw him drop it when I ran over to help!” Marcus stammered, backing away toward the sliding doors. “You’re all sick. You’re twisting everything I say because you’ve hated me since I bought the sports car. I’m going home. Call me when the old man wakes up—if he wakes up.”
May you like
Without waiting for another word, Marcus spun on his heel and bolted through the hospital doors, disappearing into the cold autumn night.
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