Page 31 of Mr. Strategic

The ambulance was here in a commendably short time, the EMTs strapping Reuben into a stretcher and loading him into the back of the ambulance.

I could only hold his hand and anxiously hope whatever Michael had done wouldn’t kill him.

“Coming along?” one of the EMTs asked, and I nodded, following them into the back of the ambulance.

Even though it was only a few minutes away, it seemed to take forever to get to the hospital.

And when we arrived, there wasn’t anyone at the intake desk.

How strange.

They rushed him back, and no one told me to stay there, so I followed.

“What’s wrong with him? Is he going to be OK?” I cried.

They were racing down the hall, and I was forced to sprint to keep up with the team.

“He’s going to need surgery,” one of the EMTs shot back. “In here, please.”

Chapter Eleven

“Wait, am I allowed to be here?” I asked in shock as I jerked around to notice I was standing beside Reuben’s prone body in the sterile white operating room.

But the EMTs were all gone. The door was closed.

The physician on duty hooked poor Reuben up to the machines with hasty, jerky motions.

“What’s going to happen to him?” I cried, my eyes glued to the monitor where his heart rate seemed to dip to dangerous levels, then spike alarmingly. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I don’t know, Lavender,” came a steely, hard voice I recognized instantly. “That’s up to you.”

I screamed as my blood froze in my veins, sending a cold, unspeakable horror through me.

The doctor drew his mask down with long, strong fingers and I saw the features of my husband Michael.

“What—how did you?—”

“Clever girl. You were so hard to get to,” he said, and his voice was composed, but his very appearance belied his voice, like it came from another human entirely.

There were strange scratches and gouges on his face. Like he’d been throwing himself against the bars on Reuben’s fence.

His eyes looked wild, untamed, and he raised a scalpel in the air. The shiny metal tool glistened in the harsh fluorescent lights of the operating room.

“What did you do?” I whispered.

“Nothing,” Michael said, “Except made goddamn sure he’d need to be here for open heart surgery.”

“You—” I gasped, feeling almost faint with horror.

“You’re--insane.”

Michael gripped the scalpel with his fingers, the frighteningly sharp tool cutting through his flesh.

“I think I am, my darling. I’m afraid you’re the only thing that’s kept me sane.”

The smile split his face open, and in my heated gaze his white teeth seemed sharp, predatory.

He was insane, out of his mind, a madman!