Page 144 of X Marks the Stalker
A sigh hisses through the earpiece. “I suppose I could do seizures next, but it’s so last season. Everyone expects seizures.”
“Your artistic integrity will recover,” I assure him. “Just keep it going a little longer.”
“Fine,” he huffs. “But I want it noted that I’m compromising my vision. This is the equivalent of selling out and doing commercials.”
I return to the panic room where Thorne continues working, his expression unchanged but a fine sheen of sweat now visible on his brow—the first sign of effort I’ve ever seen from him.
“Officer’s secure,” I report, peering at his progress. The electronic device now has more wires connected to it, and a small screen displays scrolling numbers. “How’s it coming?”
“It’s a Gertman Series Nine,” Thorne says, as if that explains everything. When I don’t respond, he adds, “State-of-the-art. Designed to withstand everything short of military-grade explosives.”
“But you can open it?”
“Nothing created by humans is foolproof,” Thorne says, turning back to his work.
“How much longer?” I ask, unable to keep the desperation from my voice.
“Rushing precision work rarely ends well,” Thorne replies, though his movements seem faster now. “Twenty minutes, perhaps less.”
“Does he even have twenty minutes?” I pace again, counting steps to keep myself from screaming. Five steps one way, five steps back. The panic room feels small.
Fifteen agonizing minutes pass as Thorne works, and Iwear a path on the floor. Finally, his device emits a series of beeps, and a satisfied expression crosses his face.
“Stand back,” he says, disconnecting the wires and returning his tools to the briefcase.
I move beside him as he places his hand on the vault handle. There’s a mechanical click, followed by a hiss of pressurized air.
The door swings open.
“Xander!” I push past Thorne, rushing into the dark space.
The vault is smaller than I imagined, with metal shelving lining three walls. And there on the floor, slumped against the back wall, is Xander. His skin has a bluish tinge, his eyes closed, his chest barely moving with shallow breaths.
“Xander!” I drop to my knees beside him, cupping his face. His skin feels cold and clammy beneath my fingers. “Xander, can you hear me?”
His eyelids flutter but don’t open.
I press my fingers to his neck, finding his pulse weak and rapid. “He’s alive, but barely breathing.”
Thorne steps into the vault, kneeling on Xander’s other side. He checks Xander’s pupils with a small penlight, then places two fingers against his wrist.
“Hypoxia,” Thorne pronounces. “We need to get him to fresh air immediately.”
Together, we hook our arms under Xander’s shoulders and drag him from the vault. His head rolls, and a soft moan escapes his lips—the first sound I’ve heard from him, sending relief coursing through me.
Thorne pulls a small black bag from inside his briefcase and unzips it. His hands move, extracting a compact oxygentank no larger than a water bottle and a clear mask attached to thin tubing.
“Step back,” he commands, not even looking at me as he fits the mask over Xander’s face.
I hover anxiously, my hands shaking as I watch him turn a small valve on the tank. The soft hiss of oxygen fills the silence.
“Will he be okay?” My voice cracks on the last word.
“The human brain suffers permanent damage after four to six minutes without adequate oxygen,” Thorne replies, checking Xander’s pulse again. “The vault wasn’t completely airtight. So I think he’ll be okay.”
He adjusts something on the tank. “His oxygen saturation is low, but not critical. He should recover without lasting effects.”
The word “should” lodges in my chest like a splinter.
