Page 27 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

W endell’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 to secure 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 we begin 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.

I cross the distance in three heartbeats. The syringe finds the exposed skin of his neck, my thumb depressing the plunger in one smooth motion.

“You know why I’m here, don’t you, Doctor?” I whisper, as recognition floods his widening eyes.

The methohexital works fast. His body goes slack against mine, eyes rolling back as consciousness slips away. I catch his weight before he hits the floor .

I drag him to the chair, securing each limb with medical-grade restraints, cinched loose enough to prevent circulation issues but firm enough to eliminate any possibility of movement. I check his pulse—strong and steady. His head lolls forward, chin resting against his chest.

I step back to assess my work. The mirrors reflect his unconscious form from every angle, multiplying him into an audience for his own reckoning. It’s like the world’s most disturbing Zoom call.

I adjust the surgical lights, ensuring no shadow will offer him refuge when he wakes. Dr. Wendell’s eyelids flutter, consciousness returning in sluggish waves. The anesthetic is wearing off right on schedule.

“Welcome back, Dr. Wendell.”

His eyes snap open, pupils dilating as he processes his situation.

He tests the restraints binding his wrists, ankles, and torso.

The chair doesn’t budge. I reinforced it myself, calculating for a panic-factor multiplier of two point seven times standard human strength.

Engineering would have been my fallback career if the surveillance-and-occasional-murder gig fell through.

“What—who are you? What is this?” His voice cracks, throat still dry from the sedative.

I pull a chair opposite him, sitting with perfect posture.

“I’m someone who’s been watching you for quite some time, Doctor. We’re here to discuss your extracurricular activities. Specifically, your research on neural pathway modifications in living subjects.”

Wendell’s face hardens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I place the first photograph in front of him. Anna Petrovich, age sixty-seven, admitted for routine treatment of early-onset dementia. I tape it to the mirror directly in his line of sight.

“You bypassed hospital protocols to perform unauthorized procedures on Mrs. Petrovich. You accessed her frontal lobe using an experimental technique you were denied permission to test.”

I place a second photo. Then a third. Fourth. Fifth. Taping each face to the mirrors until his reflection fractures between their accusing eyes, multiplying alongside his victims in a kaleidoscope of consequence.

“Michael Chen. Sarah Williams. Jorge Vega. Rafael Nunez.”

With each name, I recite dates, procedures, and modifications to their charts. The tiny inconsistencies I’d found. The pattern is only visible when you know where to look.

“You said it was a stroke,” I continue. “But we both know Mr. Chen never had vascular issues. You created a lesion in his anterior cingulate cortex to test your theories on pain response.”

Wendell’s eyes pinball around the room, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down his temples.

His breath comes in short, panicked gasps.

The leather creaks as he strains against the restraints.

“You can’t do this,” he rasps, his voice raw with desperation. “You— This is insane! You’re insane!”

“I’d appreciate a more specific diagnosis, Doctor. ‘Insane’ is hardly DSM-compliant terminology,” I reply, adjusting my gloves. “Though given your history of falsifying medical records, perhaps accuracy isn’t your strong suit. ”

Sweat drenches Wendell’s collar. “This is absurd. I’m a respected neurosurgeon?—”

“Who lost research funding three years ago for ethical violations.” I pull out hospital records, board reviews, rejection letters. “Your ‘breakthrough technique’ was deemed too risky. And yet, you conducted your research, anyway.”

His professional mask slips, just slightly. “You can’t understand the importance of my work. These were terminal cases?—”

“Mrs. Williams had five more years, according to her oncologist.” I tap her photo.

“Mr. Vega was recovering from his stroke. And Mrs. Petrovich’s family was never informed about the ‘complications’ you introduced.

Let’s not rewrite history, Doctor. You’re not Galileo being persecuted for scientific vision; you’re Josef Mengele with better credentials. ”

“I have money. A lot of money. Whatever you want?—”

“I already have everything I want from you, Doctor. Your complete attention.”

His face contorts. “Please. I have a wife. Children.”

“So did Jorge Vega. You read his chart before surgery. His wife had planned a surprise party for their anniversary. Did you think about them while you were ‘exploring neural pathways’ in his temporal lobe?”

“It was for science! These techniques could someday save millions!”

“You falsified consent forms.” I continue placing photos around us. “You erased the video from the surgical suite on sixteen separate occasions. You deliberately selected vulnerable patients—new immigrants, elderly patients without family, those least likely to question your authority.”

“Please,” he whispers, voice breaking as he stares at the faces surrounding him, his own reflection trapped among them. “I can stop. I’ll never touch another patient.”

“That part is true,” I agree, reaching for the scalpel. “You won’t.”

The mirror reflections cast back multiple versions of myself approaching Wendell, creating an army of exacting shadows.

Wendell’s chest heaves. I’ve removed his coat and shirt for better access. The pale expanse of his skin stretches taut with each panicked breath.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” he gasps.

I position the scalpel at his left shoulder. “You falsified data in your published research. You experimented on unconsenting patients. You’re responsible for sixteen deaths that were classified as complications.”

The tip of the blade presses against his skin. “But your greatest crime was believing you’d never face consequences.”

The first incision is precise—a diagonal line from his left shoulder downward across his torso toward his right hip. Wendell screams, the sound bouncing off mirrored surfaces, multiplying like his reflections. Blood wells, brilliant crimson against pale flesh.