Chapter 3 - The Doctor Who Wasn’t Invited
Dr. Adrian Cross arrived at Rourke House disguised as a lawyer.
Martha thought that was absurd.
Maxwell thought it was necessary.
Adrian thought it was funny.
He was forty-five, lean, sharp-faced and annoyingly calm.
He carried a leather briefcase rather than a medical bag.
Evelyn led him upstairs believing he was reviewing trust documents.
Once the bedroom door closed, Adrian locked it.
“Very dramatic,” he said.
Maxwell glared.
“Examine me.”
“I see paralysis hasn’t improved your personality.”
“You’ve met before?” Martha asked.
Adrian smiled.
“Medical conference. He donated money and insulted the dessert.”
“It was terrible.”
Adrian opened the briefcase.
Inside were reflex hammers, sensory tools and a portable electrical stimulator.
For forty minutes, he examined Maxwell.
Light touch.
Pressure.
Pinprick.
Reflexes.
Muscle activation.
Voluntary attempts.
Martha watched Adrian’s expression become increasingly serious.
Finally he sat back.
“Well?”
Adrian looked at Maxwell.
“You were diagnosed as functionally complete?”
“Yes.”
“That is not what I’m seeing.”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened.
“How different?”
“You have preserved motor activity below the injury.”
Martha’s heart lifted.
Adrian continued.
“It’s limited. Weak. Inconsistent. But present.”
“Can I walk?”
“I did not say that.”
“Can I?”
“I don’t know.”
Maxwell looked away.
Adrian leaned forward.
“You also have severe deconditioning.”
“I’ve been in a chair fourteen months.”
“You’ve also been heavily sedated and overtreated with muscle relaxants.”
Martha crossed her arms.
“So I was right.”
Adrian looked at her.
“Who are you?”
“The maid.”
Adrian blinked.
Maxwell said, “It’s complicated.”
“I can tell.”
Adrian reviewed the medication list.
His expression worsened.
“Who prescribed all of this?”
“Vale.”
“Why?”
“Spasms. Sleep. Pain.”
“This combination is aggressive.”
“Dangerous?” Martha asked.
“Potentially.”
“Could it hide recovery?”
“Yes.”
Maxwell’s eyes hardened.
Adrian continued carefully.
“I’m not saying it was prescribed maliciously. But it could absolutely reduce participation in rehabilitation, alertness, voluntary motor response and functional assessment.”
“Could he have known?” Maxwell asked.
Adrian met his eyes.
“A competent neurologist should have considered it.”
Silence.
Maxwell asked, “Why did you stop taking my calls?”
Adrian looked confused.
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
“I was told you had withdrawn the consultation request.”
“By who?”
Adrian’s expression shifted.
“Your sister’s office.”
Martha closed her eyes.
Of course.
Maxwell’s voice became cold.
“What exactly did they say?”
“That your psychiatric team believed outside consultations worsened your obsessive behavior.”
Maxwell stared.
“My psychiatric team?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have one.”
Adrian went still.
Nobody spoke.
Then Martha whispered, “They told him you were paranoid.”
Adrian looked from her to Maxwell.
“This is bigger than poor treatment.”
Maxwell laughed without humor.
“You think?”
“We need imaging.”
“How?”
“I can arrange a private scan.”
“Without Celeste knowing?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
They planned carefully.
Nico Bell, Maxwell’s longtime driver, became the first outsider brought in.
Unlike the staff, Nico had been with Maxwell since college.
He hated Celeste.
This helped.
At eleven that night, Martha dressed Maxwell in dark clothes, removed his wheelchair cushion and helped transfer him into Nico’s SUV through the service garage.
“Are we committing a crime?” she whispered.
Maxwell looked at her.
“You work for me.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Probably.”
“Maxwell.”
He almost smiled.
It was the first time she used his first name.
At the Boston imaging center, Adrian met them through a loading entrance.
MRI.
CT.
Nerve conduction testing.
Hours passed.
Martha sat with coffee she never drank.
At 3:40 a.m., Adrian returned.
His face told her something had changed.
Maxwell noticed too.
“What?”
Adrian placed scans on the light board.
“The original spinal injury was serious.”
“How serious?”
“Compression fracture at T7, cord contusion, significant swelling.”
“That matches what I was told.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
Adrian pointed.
“The cord was not transected.”
Maxwell said nothing.
“You had an incomplete thoracic injury.”
“I knew that.”
“But this current imaging shows less structural damage than your functional presentation would suggest.”
Martha stared at the scan.
“So why can’t he move more?”
“Deconditioning. Medication. Lack of targeted rehab.”
Adrian paused.
“Possibly something else.”
“What?”
He held up an older scan.
“Your first hospital MRI.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed.
“You got that?”
“I called in favors.”
The old and new images appeared side by side.
Adrian pointed.
“See this?”
Martha leaned closer.
A dark area near the surgical site.
“What is it?”
“Postoperative swelling.”
“And?”
“Look at the date.”
Three weeks after Maxwell’s accident.
Then Adrian showed another.
Six months later.
The swelling had improved dramatically.
“According to this scan,” Adrian said, “you should have been reassessed for active rehabilitation months ago.”
Maxwell’s face became hard.
“Vale saw this?”
“He ordered it.”
Martha felt anger rise.
“He knew.”
Adrian remained cautious.
“He knew there was neurological preservation.”
“Would he know recovery was possible?”
“Yes.”
Maxwell whispered, “And he told me there was none.”
Adrian looked at him.
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
Then Nico entered.
“We have a problem.”
“What?”
“Someone followed us.”
Maxwell’s eyes sharpened.
“Who?”
“Black sedan. Rhode Island plates.”
Martha felt cold.
“Celeste?”
“Maybe.”
Adrian immediately began packing.
“We need to move.”
Maxwell looked at Martha.
“Take the scans.”
She did.
They left through another exit.
The black sedan followed for six blocks.
Nico turned sharply.
Then again.
The sedan stayed behind them.
Maxwell pulled out his phone.
“Don’t call anyone from the house,” Martha said.
“I’m not.”
“Who?”
“Someone I trust.”
Nico laughed from the front.
“That list is getting short.”
Maxwell ignored him.
He called a man named Gabriel Russo.
Former Providence detective.
Current private investigator.
More important: someone Celeste had fired two years earlier.
Gabriel answered at four in the morning.
“Either somebody died or you finally realized your family is insane.”
Maxwell said, “Both may be possible.”
The sedan disappeared after they crossed back into Rhode Island.
By sunrise, Gabriel was waiting in the library.
He listened to everything.
Then he asked the question nobody had asked yet.
“Who caused the accident?”
Maxwell stared.
“Truck crossed the median.”
“Driver?”
“Died.”
“Investigation?”
“Mechanical failure.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Who hired the mechanical expert?”
Maxwell already knew.
“Celeste.”
Martha felt her stomach drop.
Gabriel continued.
“Who selected Vale?”
“Celeste.”
“Who manages your medication?”
“Evelyn.”
“Who benefits if you remain incapacitated?”
Nobody answered.
They didn’t need to.
Gabriel looked toward the ceiling.
“Then stop treating the accident and the medical fraud like separate events.”
Maxwell’s face became dangerously still.
“You think Celeste tried to kill me.”
Gabriel shook his head.
“No.”
Maxwell frowned.
“I think someone wanted you alive.”
That was worse.
Martha understood immediately.
Dead men created inheritance fights.
Alive but incapacitated men could be controlled.
Gabriel leaned forward.
“A corpse loses everything once.”
May you like
He looked directly at Maxwell.
“A disabled king can lose it slowly while someone else signs his name.”
