Page 28 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“Perfect depth,” I observe, studying the parted skin. Not deep enough to damage muscle tissue, just enough to slice through the dermal layer.

I continue with the second cut, beginning at his right shoulder.

The scalpel traces diagonally downward, destined to intersect with the first line.

Wendell thrashes against the restraints, each movement splashing tiny droplets of blood onto the plastic sheeting.

The mirrors capture his contortions from every angle—his wide eyes darting between reflections, watching himself being marked.

The blade completes its journey across his chest, crossing the first line at his sternum to form a perfect X. I step back, tilting my head to examine my work.

The X stands stark against his skin—not just a mark, but a signature.

“Do you know what this is?” I ask, gesturing at the X now carved into his chest.

“Please,” he sobs. “I’m a father?—”

“I’m signing my work,” I tell him. “I want you to know who’s doing this to you.”

Blood trickles down his torso in thin rivulets, pooling at the waistband of his pants.

“Fascinating thing about pain,” I continue, watching his face contort. “The brain processes it differently when there’s meaning attached. Random suffering feels more acute than pain with purpose.”

The X stands out against his skin.

“But you, Doctor—you understand why this is happening to you.”

I position the doctor’s head in the cranial frame, securing the titanium pins. Three points of contact—two at the temples, one at the forehead—creating the perfect triangle of stability. Just as he does with his patients.

“Don’t worry, I practiced this on a cantaloupe first,” I assure him, adjusting the last pin. “Twice, actually. The first one rolled off the table. Not my finest moment. Turns out, cantaloupes are surprisingly aerodynamic. Who knew? Not me, clearly, or I would have secured it better. ”

I push a leather strap between Wendell’s teeth, silencing his protests.

Guttural noises leak through the gag, primal sounds from the lizard brain that knows it’s about to die.

The fentanyl-ketamine cocktail works. He’s conscious, aware, but insulated from the full intensity of pain that would send him into shock.

Medical marvel, really. The things humans develop to hurt each other more efficiently.

We’re a fascinating species. Terrible, but fascinating.

“I’m using the exact pressure you recommend in your paper—forty-five inch-pounds of torque. Enough to prevent movement without fracturing the outer table of the skull.” I test the frame’s stability with a gentle tug. “Perfect.”

The marker feels light between my fingers, its tip squeaking against his skin as I draw the incision line.

My handwriting has always been atrocious.

My third-grade teacher suggested a career as a doctor just for that reason.

Ironic that I’m finally putting her suggestion to use.

Though I doubt this particular medical procedure was what she had in mind when suggesting I pursue healthcare.

I unwrap a sterile scalpel, holding it up to catch the light.

“Number fifteen blade. Your preference for the initial scalp incision. Sharper than the eleven, more precise than the twenty-two.” The blade hovers above his head. “Though I imagine you’ve never experienced it from this perspective.”

Blood wells from the incision, bright against his pale skin. I apply pressure with gauze, just enough to clear my field of vision without stopping the procedure.

“You told Anna Petrovich’s son that her memory loss was a progressive symptom of her condition.” I place hemostats along the incision line. “But we both know you damaged her hippocampus deliberately. You wanted to see if your technique could reverse it. Spoiler alert: it couldn’t.”

The skin peels back, revealing the gleaming white of his skull beneath. I reach for the drill, fitting it with the proper burr.

A prickle runs up my spine, the instinctual warning I’ve learned not to ignore. My eyes flick to the mirrors, searching for any inconsistency in the infinite reflections. The door is still closed, the blinds drawn. No cameras. Those were disabled days ago. The space is secure. It has to be.

Still, I can’t shake the sense of something—someone—just outside my perception. My grip tightens on the drill, the hum of its motor too loud in the silence.

“Temporary paranoia,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders to dispel the sensation. “A natural side effect of heightened adrenal response during intense concentration.”

I return to the task at hand, positioning the drill against Wendell’s exposed skull.

The whir of the motor fills the room as I create the first burr hole, where he accessed Jorge Vega’s brain.

Wendell’s eyes follow the movement, aware of what’s happening.

The medication keeps him from feeling the worst of it, but the cognitive awareness remains intact. Exactly as planned.

“What goes around comes around, Doctor.” The drill bites through bone, revealing the pulsing dura beneath. “Though in your case, it’s what gets cut around.”

I step back, admiring my handiwork. The skull flap comes away with a wet sucking sound, revealing the glistening pink-gray matter beneath. Dr. Wendell’s brain—the seat of his genius and his cruelty—pulsates with each heartbeat. Beautiful, in its way .

“There it is,” I whisper, leaning closer. “The prefrontal cortex. Home to our moral reasoning, impulse control, and decision-making capabilities. Yours seems to be structurally normal, which means your actions weren’t the result of a tumor or trauma. Just pure, unmitigated choice.”

Wendell’s eyes roll, fixed on the mirror I’ve positioned above him. There’s something poetic about forcing him to witness his own vivisection.

I select a delicate probe from my tray, holding it up for his inspection.

“This is similar to the tool you used on Michael. Your notes mentioned ‘minimal tissue disruption’ but the autopsy photos told a different story.” I position the probe at the edge of his exposed brain. “I wonder what your tissue disruption threshold feels like from the inside?”

The probe slides in with surprising ease. Brain matter offers such little resistance, like pressing into firm custard. Wendell’s body convulses against the restraints, his muffled screams vibrating through the leather gag.

“Fascinating reaction.” I adjust the angle. “That’s your amygdala responding to extreme fear. The same fear your patients felt when they woke up with unexplained deficits.”

His eyelids flutter, trying to close against the horror.

“Ah,” I say, tilting my head. “You’re trying to escape. Not physically, of course—you know that’s impossible. But mentally. You think if you close your eyes, you can pretend this isn’t happening. Fascinating.”

I reach for the smaller scalpel, the one designed for fine, precise work. “Let me help you with that.”

With two precise incisions, I sever the muscles controlling his upper eyelids. The delicate tissue parts under the blade, blood welling up around his eyes like crimson tears. The severed muscles retract, leaving his eyes permanently open, forced to witness every moment of his own dissection.

“There we go. Much better. Now you can appreciate my technique.” I dab away the blood with gauze. “Don’t worry about blinking—the saline drip I’ve set up will keep your corneas moist. I’m not a monster.”

I laugh at my joke. Wendell’s wide, unblinking eyes follow my movements, unable to escape the sight of his own exposed brain matter reflected from every angle.

“You know, most people never get to see their own brain. You should thank me for this educational opportunity.” I position a different probe at the temporal lobe.

“This next part might affect your speech centers. Hard to say exactly—brains are so individual, aren’t they?

That’s what makes your research so ethically problematic. ”

I apply gentle pressure, watching as slight tremors course through his facial muscles.

“Oops, that was the motor cortex. My mistake.” I withdraw the probe. “You know, for someone who’s spent his career poking around in other people’s gray matter, you seem distressed to have it done to you. Perspective is everything, isn’t it?”

Wendell’s eyes catch on the mirrors, his reflection fracturing into infinite versions of himself. Each one is trapped, restrained, and surrounded by the faces of his victims. His breathing grows more erratic as he shifts his gaze, finding no escape from the multiplied horrors.

The probe hovers between my fingers, poised above the intersection of cuts, when a muffled thump breaks the silence. I freeze, head tilting toward the sound .

There’s a scuffling noise coming from behind the large executive desk I’d pushed against the wall earlier. Something soft but distinct—fabric against carpet, the subtle whisper of controlled breathing.

Someone’s here.

I freeze, setting the probe down on the tray without a sound. One hand reaches for the gun I’d placed there earlier, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip. The weight of it is reassuring, a contingency I hoped not to need but prepared for anyway.

Every sense sharpens. The air turns colder against my skin as adrenaline floods my system. Dr. Wendell’s muffled whimpers fade into background noise as I focus entirely on the desk.

There it is again. The smallest shifting sound, almost imperceptible. Someone is trying very hard to stay silent and not quite succeeding.

I raise the gun and disengage the safety. The soft click sounds loud in the room’s tense silence.

“You know what they never tell you about DIY neurosurgery?” I say, easing around the perimeter of the room.

“The absolute mess it creates. My bathtub is going to look like a crime scene tonight. Actually, technically it will be a crime scene, so I guess that’s appropriate.

The things they don’t cover in YouTube tutorials, am I right? ”

Three more steps to clear my angle to the desk. Gun held steady, I scan the ground for shadows that might betray the intruder’s position.

“Let me just put some music on first. Nothing enhances cranial exploration like a little Mozart. Or would you prefer something more contemporary? You strike me as a Taylor Swift fan. No judgment. I’ve got an entire playlist called ‘Songs to Dismantle Moral Monsters By.’ Mostly indie pop, surprisingly upbeat for the subject matter. ”

I’m at the edge of the desk now, gun raised, ready to swing around. One deep breath.

I pivot, sweeping the weapon in a controlled arc toward the source of the sound.