Chapter 3 - The Patient Who Should Not Know Her Name.
Pavel Dravik survived the first hour.
That was not the same thing as surviving the night.
The bullet had entered beneath his left ribs and damaged his spleen before lodging near the posterior abdominal wall. Surgery took 2 hours.
Blythe was not in the operating room.
She remained in the ER, because that was where she belonged.
Mara arrived at 4:20 wearing a visitor badge and the expression of a woman who had already argued with hospital administration.
Blythe met her near the vending machines.
“You cannot question my patient.”
“I know.”
“You cannot send people into restricted areas.”
“I know.”
“You cannot threaten anyone.”
“I know.”
Blythe narrowed her eyes.
“That sounded too easy.”
“I have worked around hospitals before.”
“Why?”
Mara paused.
Blythe caught it.
“Why?”
“Mr. Vanek’s business has required medical care.”
“That is a very polished sentence.”
“It is still true.”
Blythe looked toward the trauma hallway.
“Who shot Pavel?”
“We don’t know.”
“Why did he have a card telling me to ask Soren?”
“We don’t know.”
“Does Soren know?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“Why?”
“Because him entering an emergency department while police are likely to question a shooting victim creates problems.”
That made sense.
Blythe hated that it did.
Mara leaned against the vending machine.
“Can you tell me anything about Pavel’s condition?”
“No.”
“You already did by saying he survived surgery.”
“I said he survived the first hour. You inferred the rest.”
Mara almost smiled.
“Fair.”
Blythe crossed her arms.
“Did he know me?”
“No.”
“Then whoever put the card in his pocket did.”
“Likely.”
“What if he put it there himself?”
“Possible.”
“Then he knew.”
“Yes.”
Mara looked around.
“Did he speak before surgery?”
“No.”
“Was he conscious in the ambulance?”
“Paramedics said intermittently.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Not to me.”
Mara nodded.
She did not press.
Blythe noticed.
“You’re better at boundaries than Soren.”
“No.”
Mara’s mouth curved.
“I am better at recognizing when crossing them will fail.”
“That counts.”
Blythe’s pager vibrated.
She looked.
Bed 14.
She started away.
Mara called after her.
“Ms. Carver.”
Blythe turned.
“If Pavel wakes and asks for you by name, call me.”
She stared.
“That is disturbingly specific.”
“I know.”
At 7:05, Pavel woke.
Not fully.
Enough.
Blythe was not assigned to his post-op floor.
That should have ended it.
Instead a hospital unit coordinator called the ER.
“There’s a patient asking for you.”
Blythe’s chest tightened.
“Who?”
“Pavel Dravik.”
She closed her eyes.
Of course.
She told the charge nurse where she was going.
Not Mara.
Not Soren.
Hospital chain.
Her world.
Pavel lay in a monitored surgical step-down room with 2 Chicago detectives outside.
That complicated everything.
Blythe introduced herself to the nurse.
“I was in the trauma bay.”
The nurse nodded.
“He keeps saying your first name.”
“Did anyone tell him it?”
“Not me.”
Blythe entered.
Pavel’s face was gray.
Oxygen under his nose.
He opened his eyes.
“Blythe.”
She stopped 4 feet from the bed.
“How do you know my name?”
His lips moved.
She stepped closer only enough to hear.
“Vanek.”
“What about him?”
Pavel swallowed.
“He didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
The heart monitor ticked steadily.
Pavel’s eyes drifted toward the door.
“Photo.”
“You know who posted it?”
He blinked once.
Maybe yes.
Maybe pain.
“Who?”
“Inside.”
Blythe frowned.
“Inside what?”
“His house.”
Her pulse changed.
Someone inside Soren’s organization.
“Who?”
Pavel’s breathing roughened.
The monitor increased.
Blythe reached for the call button.
He caught her wrist.
Weakly.
Not threatening.
“Tell him…”
She looked down at his hand.
“Tell him what?”
“Black Harbor.”
His fingers loosened.
“Black Harbor.”
Then his eyes closed.
Blythe called the nurse.
Within seconds, staff filled the room.
Pavel had not arrested.
He had simply exhausted himself.
Blythe stepped into the corridor.
The detectives looked at her.
One approached.
“What did he say?”
Blythe’s mind moved fast.
She was a nurse.
Not a criminal investigator.
Not Soren’s messenger.
If she lied to police, she stepped somewhere she did not want to stand.
“He said my name.”
The detective waited.
“And?”
“He said ‘Vanek.’”
The detective’s eyes sharpened.
“What else?”
“Black Harbor.”
The second detective wrote it down.
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know.”
That was true.
The first studied her.
“You know Soren Vanek?”
“No.”
A technical lie.
The detective noticed.
Blythe corrected.
“I met him last night for less than 2 minutes.”
“Why?”
“A man at the gala was harassing me. I asked Mr. Vanek for help.”
“You chose Soren Vanek?”
“I chose the nearest large man who looked difficult to argue with.”
The second detective almost smiled.
The first did not.
“You know who he is?”
“I found out this morning.”
“And now one of his people arrives shot and asks for you.”
“Yes.”
“That seems convenient.”
“For who?”
The detective did not answer.
Blythe’s phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She ignored it.
The detective glanced down.
“Should you answer that?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I am talking to you.”
Another buzz.
Then another.
The detective’s eyes narrowed.
“Ms. Carver, if you’re in danger—”
“I may be.”
“From Vanek?”
Blythe thought about Soren standing in her hallway asking rather than ordering.
She thought about the photograph.
Hartfield.
Pavel.
Someone writing a story.
“I don’t know.”
The detective gave her a card.
“Call me before you call him.”
Blythe took it.
“Who says I was going to call him?”
The detective looked at the matte black emergency phone shape in her scrub pocket.
Blythe sighed.
Fair.
She went to the employee locker room.
Only there did she check the messages.
All from Dana.
CALL ME.
CALL ME NOW.
BLYTHE THIS IS NOT FUNNY.
She called.
Dana answered immediately.
“What the hell?”
“What?”
“There are people outside your building.”
“Police?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you know?”
“I drove by.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t answer for 2 hours.”
“I was working.”
“I know. I panicked.”
Blythe sat on the bench.
“What did you see?”
“2 black SUVs.”
That could mean Soren.
Or someone pretending.
“Do not go back.”
“I’m already gone.”
“Good.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Are you lying?”
“Somewhat.”
Dana swore.
Blythe closed her eyes.
“Go home. Lock your door. Do not post anything.”
“You sound like a hostage negotiator.”
“I feel like 1.”
After the call, Blythe dialed Mara.
No answer.
She called the black emergency phone.
Mara answered instantly.
“Where are you?”
“Hospital.”
“Pavel woke.”
Silence.
“What did he say?”
“Before I tell you, I need 1 answer.”
“What?”
“Who is Black Harbor?”
Mara did not speak.
Blythe stood.
“That is not encouraging.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Pavel.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Tell him Black Harbor.”
Mara cursed quietly.
“What is it?”
“A company.”
“What kind?”
“Shipping.”
“Owned by Soren?”
“Indirectly.”
“Legal?”
“Mostly.”
Blythe laughed once.
“That is a terrible adverb.”
Mara continued.
“Black Harbor handles container inspection, bonded storage, and private freight.”
“And?”
“It was compromised 6 months ago.”
“Compromised how?”
“Information leaked. Routes. names. clients.”
“Inside job.”
“We assumed.”
“And Pavel found out who?”
“Maybe.”
Blythe remembered.
“Inside his house.”
Mara went silent.
“What?”
“He said the photo came from inside Soren’s house.”
“That is not what you said.”
“He said ‘inside his house.’ I assumed organization.”
Mara’s breathing changed.
“Mr. Vanek has a private residence staff.”
“Who has access?”
“Very few.”
“Hartfield?”
“No.”
“Then why did Pavel have a message for me?”
“I don’t know.”
Blythe heard a car door on Mara’s side.
“You’re going somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To Mr. Vanek.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
Blythe almost smiled despite herself.
“There it is.”
“Ms. Carver.”
“Pavel used my name. Somebody photographed me treating him. My apartment is being watched. I am already involved.”
“We can bring Soren to you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not having a crime lord visit my hospital.”
Mara went quiet.
Fair.
“Meet in a public place,” Blythe said.
“That is not ideal.”
“It is my condition.”
Mara sighed.
“7:30. Lincoln Park Conservatory parking lot. North side. Cameras.”
Blythe appreciated the adjustment.
She changed out of her scrubs after shift.
At 7:28, Soren’s car arrived.
One car.
No convoy.
Mara drove.
Soren got out alone.
Blythe stood beneath a streetlight.
“You told police about Black Harbor,” he said.
Not accusation.
Fact.
“Yes.”
His face remained still.
“Why?”
“Because a shooting victim said it to me while 2 detectives were outside.”
Soren nodded.
“Good.”
That surprised her.
“You’re not angry?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because asking you to lie to police would turn a problem around me into a crime by you.”
Blythe stared.
That was more ethical reasoning than she expected from the most feared crime lord alive.
“Low bar?” he asked.
She almost laughed.
“Very.”
He looked toward the park.
“Pavel is one of my logistics auditors.”
“What does that mean in normal language?”
“He checks whether people steal from me.”
“Do people steal from you?”
“Yes.”
“What happens when he catches them?”
Soren looked at her.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“How much you want to know about me.”
The answer was honest.
Blythe respected it more than she liked it.
“Tell me only what affects me.”
“Then here is what matters. Pavel was investigating Black Harbor. 3 days ago he disappeared. Yesterday he sent Mara a blank message.”
“Blank?”
“No text. Only metadata from a phone he should not have been using.”
“Location?”
“Alderton Hotel.”
The gala.
Blythe’s stomach tightened.
“He was there.”
“Yes.”
“Was he the one who photographed us?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did he plant the card?”
“Likely.”
“Why would he involve me?”
Soren’s jaw tightened.
“That is what I am trying to understand.”
Blythe watched him.
“You think somebody wanted the photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Hartfield.”
“Maybe.”
“Stop saying maybe.”
“I do not lie by upgrading uncertainty.”
She blinked.
Fair.
He continued.
“Everett Hartfield is a public philanthropist and private investor. He also controls a minority share in 2 Black Harbor contractors.”
“Does he work for you?”
“No.”
“Against you?”
“Usually for himself.”
“Then why was he afraid of you?”
“Because men like Hartfield fear anyone who can make their social protection disappear.”
Blythe looked away.
Cars passed.
Ordinary life again.
Soren said, “Pavel believed someone close to me was selling Black Harbor information.”
“Who?”
“He never named them.”
“Inside your house.”
Soren’s eyes sharpened.
“That phrase bothers you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“My private residence is not used for business.”
“Who lives there?”
“No one.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“That counts.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Staff?”
“Housekeeper. cook. driver rotation. Mara sometimes.”
“Security?”
“Emil.”
Blythe remembered the guard.
“Anyone else?”
Soren’s face changed.
“My sister.”
“You have a sister.”
“Yes.”
“Lives with you?”
“Temporarily.”
“Why?”
“Does that affect you?”
“Maybe.”
He almost smiled again.
Then Mara stepped out of the car.
“Soren.”
His attention shifted.
“What?”
She held a phone.
“A hospital employee just sent this.”
Blythe’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
Mara turned the screen.
A security image from Northwestern’s staff entrance.
Everett Hartfield walking inside.
Timestamp 7:11 p.m.
Blythe’s pulse jumped.
“He’s at my hospital.”
Soren’s face became very still.
“Why?”
Mara scrolled.
“Visitor log says he asked for Pavel Dravik.”
Blythe looked at Soren.
“He knows Pavel is alive.”
Soren looked back at her.
“And he knows you treated him.”
The threat had moved from the internet into her workplace.
Blythe pulled out the detective’s card.
Soren saw.
“Call him.”
She did.
No argument.
No attempt to control it.
That mattered.
The detective answered.
Blythe said, “Everett Hartfield is at Northwestern asking for the shooting victim.”
The line changed instantly.
“Are you there?”
“No.”
“Stay away.”
“I’m a nurse there.”
“Tonight, you are not.”
Blythe hated the sentence.
But before she could respond, another message arrived on her phone.
Unknown number.
A live photograph.
Pavel’s hospital room.
Empty bed.
Cut IV line.
The caption:
TOO LATE.
Blythe’s blood went cold.
She showed Soren.
His expression did not change.
Mara’s did.
“Pavel was moved?”
Blythe called the surgical unit.
The nurse answered.
Then panic.
“His room is empty.”
Police had been outside.
Hospital staff had been nearby.
Pavel Dravik had disappeared from the ninth floor of a major hospital.
Soren looked at the photograph.
Then at Blythe.
“Someone has access to more than my house.”
Blythe understood.
Hospital records.
Security.
Visitor logs.
Her schedule.
The photo at her ER door.
This was not simply Soren’s internal leak.
May you like
Somebody had built a bridge between his world and hers.
And Everett Hartfield had walked across it.
