Chapter 28 - The Swab and the Specter
The medical annex on the fourth floor of the federal courthouse was stark and sterile.
Dr. Robert Alpert, a weary-looking forensic physician appointed by the court, washed his hands at the metal sink while two armed federal marshals stood guard at the doorway.
I sat on the vinyl examination table, holding Maeve securely in my lap. Tyler stood behind me, his hands resting heavily on my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small, reassuring circles into my collarbones. Despite his calm facade, I could feel the tension vibrating through his fingers like an electric current.
"It will only take three seconds, Clara," Dr. Alpert said gently, tearing open a sterile paper packet containing a long cotton-tipped swab. "No needles, no blood. Just a gentle rub along the inside of her cheek."
Maeve looked up at the bright ceiling lights, kicking her little legs inside her footie pajamas. She had no idea that her entire existence, her family's freedom, and millions of dollars across two continents hung on the microscopic cells clinging to that piece of cotton.
"Go ahead, Doctor," Tyler said, his voice thick with emotion.
Dr. Alpert knelt down. I tilted Maeve’s chin gently upward. When the cotton swab touched the inside of her mouth, she made a startled face, squirming and letting out a short, indignant squeak.
"All done," Dr. Alpert said softly, withdrawing the swab. He immediately dropped it into a sterile plastic vial, snapped the lid shut, and applied a tamper-evident holographic security seal marked with an eight-digit federal serial number.
He turned to Tyler. "Now you, Mr. Mercer."
Tyler opened his mouth without a word. Dr. Alpert swabbed Tyler's cheek, placed the second sample into an identical vial, and sealed it with the corresponding serial marker.
"Both samples are secured," Dr. Alpert announced, turning to the two marshals. "They will be placed into the Department of Justice lockbox and transported directly to the state genomics laboratory in Albany for accelerated sequencing. The chain of custody logs will be signed by myself and Deputy Marshal Harris."
"Thank you, Doctor," Tyler said quietly.
We watched as the small silver lockbox was closed, padlocked, and carried out between the two armed marshals. For a moment, the heavy weight in my chest lifted slightly. The court had refused Helene’s private doctors. The samples were under federal lock and key.
We packed Maeve into her stroller and took the private service elevator down to the basement garage to avoid the media scrum that had gathered outside the courthouse steps.
As we reached the parking bay where Marcus’s sedan was waiting, Tyler suddenly stopped. His eyes narrowed, focusing on a dark utility alcove near the garage exit.
A man wearing maintenance overalls was leaning against the concrete pillar, speaking hurriedly into a small radio earpiece. As our footsteps echoed across the concrete, the man quickly tucked a device into his pocket and turned away.
"Tyler, what is it?" I asked, gripping the stroller handle.
"That wasn't courthouse maintenance," Tyler muttered under his breath. "Look at his shoes."
I glanced down. Beneath the rumpled work pants were pristine, handmade European leather oxfords—the exact same footwear worn by Helene Vanderberg’s private security detail on our porch two nights ago.
"Marcus," Tyler called out sharply. "Get Clara and Maeve into the car right now."
"Tyler, what are you doing?" Marcus asked, fumbling with his car keys.
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"He's tracking the courier route," Tyler said, his voice dangerously low. "They aren't planning to wait for the Albany lab to process that test. They're going to intercept the federal transit vehicle."
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