Page 22 of X Marks the Stalker
“Xander?” Thorne prompts.
“I—”
The door opens again, and Ambrose strides in, leaning on his cane more heavily than necessary. He’s in full veteran mode tonight, wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. It makes him look like he’s about to lecture on World War II tactics at Harvard.
“Gentlemen,” he says, nodding. “Apologies for my tardiness. I was making a final assessment of our potential target.” He places a manila folder on the table with theatrical precision. “Dr. Malcolm Wendell, chief of neurosurgery at Boston Memorial.”
Ambrose taps the folder with one finger. “Wendell served as a combat medic in the Gulf War. But our paths never crossed.”
I suppress a smile. His backstory is getting more realistic lately. Progress.
He opens the folder, displaying crime scene photos he’s not supposed to have.
“I count seven suspicious deaths in the past year alone. All patients with no connections, all homeless cases where his ‘mercy’ wouldn’t raise flags.”
Thorne examines the evidence, face impassive. “Your assessment?”
“He’s violating the most sacred oath of medicine,” Ambrose says, his voice dropping. “As we used to say in Delta Force Ranger Team Six, a medic who betrays hispatients is lower than whale shit, and that’s at the bottom of the ocean.”
My fingers tap against my thigh, a nervous rhythm I can’t control. I should be focused on this, but my thoughts keep drifting to Oakley’s board, to the connections she’s making to Blackwell.
“I’ll take him,” I hear myself say.
Everyone turns to me.
I never volunteer for targets. I’m the surveillance guy, the eyes and ears. I like to watch more than I like to kill. But if I want any chance to convince them to take down Blackwell in the future, I need to prove I can handle hard cases with no issues. Show commitment.
“You want this target?” Ambrose asks. “I thought this one would fit Lazlo, you know, hospital connections? Hospitals are nightmares for clean work. I’ve been tracking this guy for weeks and haven’t found a single viable approach. Even I’d think twice about this one.”
“Exactly why I should take it,” I say. A difficult, high-risk target that nobody wants, perfect for building the credibility I’ll need later. “His security setup interests me.”
“Xander does love impossible puzzles,” Calloway admits, looking at me curiously.
“He’s got that look,” Lazlo announces to the room, pointing at my face. “Right there. That’s the look he gets when he’s lying but thinks he’s being super convincing. The left corner of his mouth twitches exactly 0.2 millimeters.”
“What look? There’s no look.” I touch my face. “This is my natural expression.”
“There it is again! Classic symptom of AFS. AcuteFabrication Syndrome. First described in the Journal of Made-Up Psychology, volume never.”
Darius’ phone buzzes. He glances down, then lets out a strangled groan. “Son of a—” He catches himself, but his composed expression shatters, jaw tightening with genuine distress. “The Ravens just lost to the Jets. On a Hail Mary. My perfect season is over.”
He slams his phone face-down on the table, running a hand over his face. “I had Lamar starting, too. That’s thirty-eight points gone. Thirty-eight!” His polished attorney demeanor cracks, revealing the neighborhood kid from West Baltimore.
“Fascinating,” Thorne says. “If we could return to the matter at hand?”
Darius slips his phone into his pocket, muttering something about “lucky socks” being in the wash.
“Ah, I see what’s happening here,” Lazlo says, leaning forward with an unsettling gleam in his eyes. “Our friendly neighborhood stalker doesn’t want the target. He wants us to stop peeking into whatever or whoever has been occupying his attention lately.” He taps his temple. “Doctor’s intuition. Never fails.”
Heat creeps up my neck. This is why I need to take the Wendell case. I can feel them closing in on me, circling like sharks smelling blood in the water.
“That’s—that’s completely unfounded,” I manage. “Methodologically unsound conclusion based on insufficient data points. And you’re not a doctor.”
“He’s blushing!” Lazlo announces, pointing at my face like he’s discovered a rare medical condition. “Look at that,actual human emotion from our robot! Quick, someone take a picture before it disappears. We need to document this for the scientific community.”
“I don’t blush,” I protest, knowing full well my face is betraying me. “It’s just warm in here. Ventilation systems in buildings this old are notoriously inefficient. I could draw you a diagram of the airflow problems if you’d like.”
Calloway smirks. “Who is she? Or he? Or they? I’m not judging your surveillance kinks.”
