Page 23 of For Mercy (Morgan Cross #16)

Dr. Thomas Bryant sank into his favorite leather armchair, relishing the rare quiet of an empty house. No patients to see, no hospital rounds, no urgent calls—just blessed solitude. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment.

"I should be relaxing," he muttered, a wry smile tugging at his lips. But relaxation had never come easily to Thomas. Even on his days off, his mind raced with unfinished tasks and looming responsibilities.

His gaze drifted to the basement door. The unfinished renovation project lurked below, a constant reminder of his overpacked schedule. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the chair.

"Might as well make some progress," he decided. "Sandra will be thrilled if I actually finish something around here for once."

Thomas retrieved his toolbox from the hall closet, the familiar weight oddly comforting in his hand. As a surgeon, he was used to precision instruments, but there was something satisfying about these rougher tools.

He pulled open the basement door, flicking on the light switch. The narrow wooden staircase creaked under his feet as he descended. The air grew noticeably cooler, carrying the faint scent of dampness.

Thomas wrinkled his nose. "Really need to get a dehumidifier down here," he mused.

At the bottom of the stairs, he surveyed the unfinished space. Bare concrete floors, exposed beams, and stacks of building materials greeted him. Half-completed drywall lined one wall where he'd started and abandoned the project weeks ago.

"Where did I leave off?" Thomas muttered, setting down his toolbox. He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, trying to recall his renovation plans.

The basement was meant to be a surprise for Sandra—a cozy den where they could unwind after long hospital shifts. But between emergency surgeries and board meetings, Thomas had barely made a dent in the work.

He sighed heavily. "I'm a better doctor than I am a handyman, that's for sure."

Still, he was determined to make progress today. Thomas rolled up his sleeves and picked up a piece of drywall, measuring it against the exposed studs.

As he worked, his mind drifted to his patients, upcoming procedures, the staff meeting next week. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

"One afternoon," he told himself firmly. "I can give Sandra one afternoon of undivided attention on this project."

But even as he said the words, Thomas knew it was a losing battle. His work was his life—it always had been. Sandra understood that about him, even if she wished it were different sometimes.

He cut the drywall, aligning it carefully against the wall. For now, at least, he could pretend to be just a regular guy working on his basement. Not Dr. Thomas Bryant, renowned surgeon with lives depending on him. Just Thomas, husband trying to do something nice for his wife.

The pretense was oddly comforting, even if it wouldn't last.

Thomas reached for his toolbox, the familiar weight of it grounding him in the present moment. As he set it down on the workbench, a faint rustling sound tickled the edge of his hearing. He froze, his hand still on the toolbox handle.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice echoing in the unfinished space. No response came.

Thomas shook his head, chuckling at his own jumpiness. "Get it together, Bryant. You're not in the OR now."

But as he turned back to his work, an inexplicable chill ran down his spine. The air in the basement seemed to shift, growing heavier, more oppressive. Thomas's analytical mind raced, trying to make sense of the sudden unease gripping him.

"It's just the dampness," he muttered, attempting to rationalize the feeling. "I really need to look into better ventilation down here."

He had barely finished the thought when a powerful arm clamped around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Thomas's surgeon's instincts kicked in, his body reacting before his mind could fully process what was happening.

"What the—" he began to shout, but a cloth pressed firmly over his nose and mouth, cutting off his words. The smell was sickeningly sweet, cloying, and instantly recognizable to his medical brain. Chloroform.

Thomas thrashed wildly, his elbow connecting with something solid behind him. He heard a grunt of pain, but the iron grip didn't loosen. His mind raced, cataloging his options, assessing his chances of escape with the cold precision he usually reserved for triage situations.

But even as he fought, Thomas could feel his limbs growing heavier, his thoughts becoming sluggish. The chemical was working with brutal efficiency, overriding his desperate attempts to stay conscious.

"No," he tried to say, but the word came out as little more than a muffled groan against the cloth. His vision began to darken at the edges, the basement fading into a swirling haze of shadows.

Thomas's last coherent thought was of Sandra. Would she come home to find the basement empty, tools abandoned, her husband vanished without a trace? The guilt of leaving her to face that horror alone was almost worse than the fear of what awaited him in the encroaching darkness.

As consciousness slipped away, Thomas felt himself being dragged backward, away from the safety of his home and into an abyss of terrifying uncertainty.

***

Consciousness returned to Dr. Thomas Bryant like a tide of icy water, shocking his system back to alertness.

His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, each pulse of pain threatening to split his skull.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his tongue thick and uncooperative.

As awareness crept back, a new sensation made itself known—a sharp, radiating ache from his shoulders, his arms pulled taut behind him.

Handcuffs. The realization hit him with a jolt of panic.

Thomas forced his eyes open, blinking rapidly to clear the fog from his vision. What he saw made his blood run cold, a chill racing down his spine despite the sweat beading on his forehead.

"What in God's name...?" he muttered, his voice a hoarse whisper.

He was seated at a table, but this was no ordinary dining room.

The space around him was a bizarre facsimile of a high-end restaurant, every detail meticulously arranged yet somehow fundamentally wrong.

Dim, golden light cast long shadows across carefully set tables, the warm glow at odds with the clammy fear gripping Thomas's heart.

His medical training kicked in, urging him to assess, to understand. "Think, Thomas," he coached himself. "What do you see?"

His gaze darted around the room, taking in the unsettling details.

The tables were set with fine china and gleaming silverware, but there wasn't a single mark of use on any of them.

At the far end, a bar stretched along the wall, bottles neatly arranged on glass shelves.

But as he squinted, Thomas noticed the labels were peeling, the bottles dusty and untouched.

A mechanical voice crackled to life, emanating from unseen speakers. The sudden intrusion of sound made Thomas flinch, his handcuffs rattling against the chair.

"Dr. Bryant," the robotic voice intoned, devoid of any human inflection. "The air in this room will soon fill with carbon monoxide."

Thomas's breath caught in his throat, his medical training immediately supplying him with the gruesome details of what carbon monoxide poisoning would do to his body. He struggled to maintain his composure, fighting against the rising panic.

"Why are you doing this?" he called out, his voice hoarse. "What do you want from me?"

The mechanical voice continued, ignoring his questions. "The key to your escape is in front of you."

Thomas's eyes darted forward, scanning the table before him. There, set in the center, was a massive bowl of steaming food. The pungent aroma wafted towards him, a bizarre contrast to the sterile, artificial environment.

"Your salvation lies within," the voice added, a hint of cruel amusement coloring the synthesized tones.

Thomas stared at the bowl, his mind racing. The key was inside the food? He tugged at his restraints, the metal biting into his wrists. He couldn't use his hands. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut – they wanted him to eat his way to freedom.

"This is insane," he muttered, sweat beading on his forehead. "You can't expect me to—"

"The clock is ticking, Doctor," the voice interrupted. "I suggest you start soon if you wish to survive."

Thomas closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. He was a man of science, of careful procedures and sterilized environments. The thought of burying his face in that bowl, desperately searching for a key with his mouth, made his stomach churn.

But as he felt the air growing heavier, an acrid taste beginning to coat his tongue, he knew he had no choice. With a deep breath, Thomas leaned forward, his face hovering over the steaming bowl.

As Thomas's face hovered inches from the steaming bowl, a sudden flash of memory struck him with such force that he jerked back, nearly toppling the chair.

"I know why," he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know why I'm here."

The realization hit him like a freight train, transporting him back three years to a sunny afternoon in Dallas. He and Sarah had been celebrating their anniversary, indulging in a romantic getaway filled with wine, pasta, and leisurely strolls through cobblestone streets.

"Sarah," Thomas murmured, his wife's name a prayer on his lips. How different things had been then, how carefree and unburdened. Until that fateful dinner.

The memory unfolded with cruel clarity. They had been seated at a quaint trattoria, the warm Italian sun casting long shadows across their table. The air had been thick with the scent of garlic and herbs, the chatter of fellow diners a pleasant backdrop to their meal.

Then, chaos erupted.

"Help!" A woman's panicked cry pierced the air. "Someone, please help!"