Page 67 of X Marks the Stalker
“Time constraints. I also need medical supplies. Specialized ones for opening a skull.” I glance at my screen, at the images of Wendell’s victims. “I want him to experience what his patients felt. I want him conscious while I work.”
“Jesus, Xander.” Lazlo sounds impressed rather than disturbed. “That’s twisted. I love it.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“I’ll text you a list. There’s a medical supply warehouse with minimal security. I can have everything ready by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
After hanging up, I return to my planning. Every detail matters. Every contingency must be planned for.
My phone pings with Lazlo’s list. Cranial drill. Retractors. Neural probes.
I organize my approach. Entry points. Security bypass. Staff schedules. Escape routes. Each component locks into sequence.
By dawn, I have a complete plan for dealing with Dr. Malcolm Wendell. The monster who thinks a medical license gives him the right to violate others will experience his own medicine. Poetic justice, delivered with surgical precision.
And after Wendell, Blackwell. After Blackwell, anyone else who dares touch what’s mine.
Chapter 17
Xander
Wendell’s private office is silent except for the soft click of instruments as I arrange them in perfect symmetry on the sterilized tray. Scalpels. Retractors. Bone saw.
“Symmetry matters in these things. The punishment should fit the crime.”
My father’s voice echoes in my skull. He’d approve of the organization, if not the purpose. At least, he would if he’d ever looked up from his Wall Street Journal long enough to notice I existed.
I check the syringe of methohexital. The anesthesiologist’s best friend. Quick onset, short duration, minimal side effects—the pharmaceutical equivalent of a Tinder date. Swipe right, get what you need, and they’re gone before breakfast. Perfect for knocking the good doctor out just long enough tosecure him.
My phone vibrates with a proximity alert. Wendell’s Mercedes just turned into the parking lot.
Right on schedule—one of the few positive qualities I’ve observed in the doctor. Punctuality matters, even for terrible people.
“Showtime,” I whisper. The familiar calm settles over me. This is when everything else falls away—social awkwardness, second-guessing, the persistent image of Oakley’s bruised face that’s been haunting me.
Now there’s only the plan, the execution, the precise sequence of events I’ve rehearsed in my mind twenty-seven times. Twenty-eight if you count that weird dream where Wendell turned into my third-grade math teacher. That was disturbing on multiple levels.
I position myself behind the door, a syringe concealed in my palm. The vast room stretches around me, transformed from a medical sanctuary to an interrogation chamber.
Plastic sheeting crinkles underfoot, covering every surface from the polished tile floor to the mahogany desk in the corner. Medical cabinets line the walls, their glass fronts reflecting the harsh lights. Supply carts stand at attention, their contents reorganized to my specifications.
I snap the last glove in place, adjusting the plastic coveralls that whisper with every movement. The room shimmers with reflections—ceiling, walls, floor—all transformed into mirrored surfaces arranged at precise angles. My face multiplies into infinity around me, an army of judge, jury, and executioner watching from every direction as I make final adjustments to the chair.
I’ve even adjusted the climate control to a brisk sixty-two degrees, optimal for keeping the good doctor alert once webegin our consultation. It’s the little touches that transform a mundane execution into a bespoke experience. The difference between fast food and fine dining, really.
A whisper of something floral tickles my nostrils. I pause, inhaling. Perfume? No, something subtler. Floor detergent? The scent drifts past before I can identify it, a ghost of fragrance that doesn’t belong in this sterile environment.
Footsteps approach in the hallway. The doctor has arrived.
“It’s showtime, Doctor,” I murmur to the empty room, wondering if talking to myself constitutes a concerning behavioral pattern. Then again, growing up in a household where you’re treated like decorative furniture develops certain coping mechanisms.
I ghost through the shadows, every sense heightened as the door clicks open. Dr. Wendell enters, flipping on lights with the casual confidence of a man who believes he’s alone.
He freezes mid-step. The plastic sheeting catches his eye first, then the chair with restraints, and the surgical instruments arranged in a familiar formation. His medical brain processes it all in an instant.
“What the—” His hand fumbles for the door handle behind him.
