"Furthermore, the lab results show dangerously elevated heavy-metal levels in the patient's system. In other words, the water and food he's been consuming contained extremely high concentrations of metallic elements."
"The patient is hanging by a thread. His immune system has completely collapsed."
I was on the brink of death, clinging to my last breath. My attending physician worked frantically to keep me alive, his voice raw and desperate:
"Darrell Lambert, don't give up! Fight! You have to want to survive!"
"You can pull through this. Don't you dare let go!"
"I have a pretty good idea what you've been through. If you die like this, wouldn't that be the most pathetic ending imaginable? You need to get better. You need to get back on your feet and make them answer for what they did to you..."
The doctor was doing everything he could to drag my survival instinct back from the edge.
And his words burrowed in. They reached me. The heart monitor, its line nearly flat, finally stuttered back to life.
...
After signing the sixth critical-condition notice, Kerry Gilbert wore an expression of deep concern. Behind that mask, he was practically giddy.
While I was alive, he didn't dare flaunt his relationship with Linda. Too many eyes watching, and Linda was a woman obsessed with appearances.
But once I was dead, he could step right into my place. Officially. Openly.
"Linda, what the doctor just said sounded really serious. You don't think Darrell's actually going to..." He trailed off, his brow furrowed with practiced worry.
The head kidnapper was busy groveling at Linda's feet:
"Ms. Fox, I'm sorry. Me and my boys went too far with him..."
"If he really doesn't wake up, I can't take that kind of responsibility..."
Linda waved a dismissive hand, her face utterly blank.
"Don't worry about it. He just bit his tongue. People don't drop dead from that."
"Besides, hospital doctors always love to exaggerate. Creating a sense of crisis keeps them relevant. Don't give it a second thought."
Then she turned her gaze to the kidnapper. "Alfred Dale, starting today, you take your crew to the shipyard I've arranged overseas. You disappear. And you never show your face in front of Darrell Lambert again. Not for the rest of your life."
"The fee we agreed on will be wired to your account in a single transfer. At noon, round up your boys and head to the Grand Union Hotel. I should treat you all to a proper celebration."
"You got it."
Alfred turned and walked out of the hospital.
At noon, Linda, the mastermind behind the entire production, sat at a round table surrounded by her cast of "actors."
Alfred had the good sense to vacate the head seat and usher Kerry into it.
"Kerry, this seat belongs to you today. Everyone here knows it. Darrell Lambert is the man Ms. Fox keeps around for show. But you? You're the real deal."
Kerry shot to his feet. "No, no, I couldn't. Not with Linda here. I can't sit at the head of the table..."
He made a show of standing.
"Sit down."
Linda's voice was soft, her gaze on Kerry warm with affection. "They're right. I've made you play second fiddle in public long enough. At a table like this, you deserve to sit where the man of the house sits."
The meal began. Linda raised her glass to the group and offered a few gracious words. She looked every bit like a director delivering her wrap-party speech after the final scene had been shot.
A thunderous round of applause swept the table, and the feast officially got underway.
Three rounds of drinks in, Kerry draped his arm over Alfred's shoulders. His expression was one of morbid curiosity, but underneath it, he was savoring every word. He put on a look of reluctant sympathy.
"Alfred, man, what exactly did you guys do to Darrell these past three years? The state he was in today... that was rough."
Alfred tipped his head back and drained his glass of liquor, then grinned. "Eh, just a few little tricks."
Alfred's boys jumped in one after another, each eager to claim credit:
