Chapter 3 - The Scent of Blood
The celebration began ninety minutes after Abigail walked out of the hospital lobby.
From the passenger seat of an unmarked black sedan parked across the street from the hospital’s service entrance, Abigail and Arthur watched through high-powered telephoto lenses.
A man wearing an expensive suede jacket and Italian leather sneakers walked out of the side exit. He was moving with a brisk, athletic stride, carrying an athletic duffel bag over his shoulder. There was no limp. There was no wheezing. There was no hand pressed against the ribcage.
It was Spencer.
He took out his smartphone, brought it to his ear, and let out a booming laugh that Abigail could hear through Arthur’s directional surveillance receiver.
“It’s done,” Spencer said into the phone. “The old lady folded like a wet napkin. I have sixty in cash in the bag. Tell Calum I’ll meet him at the marina at two. And tell Chloe to pack her bags for Atlantic City—we’re taking the weekend off before I have to go back in for my ‘chemo round.’”
Arthur tapped the record button on the digital audio console. “He’s arrogant. He isn’t even using a burner phone.”
“Who is Chloe?” Abigail asked, her eyes fixed on her son’s bouncing stride.
Arthur turned his laptop toward her. On the screen was the social media profile of a twenty-four-year-old woman with platinum-dyed hair, posing on the deck of a yacht in Miami.
“Chloe Mercier,” Arthur said. “Spencer’s girlfriend of eight months. According to public records, she works as a ‘promotional model’ for Calum Vance’s offshore sports-betting syndicate. She’s the one who introduced Spencer to Calum in the first place.”
Abigail stared at the photograph. Chloe was wearing diamond hoop earrings and holding a glass of vintage champagne. Abigail looked down at her own wrists; the faint pale line where her wedding bracelet had sat for thirty-four years was still visible against her aged skin. She had sold that bracelet for eight hundred dollars to pay for Spencer’s “experimental pain injections” three weeks ago.
“Follow him,” Abigail said.
The black sedan tailed Spencer’s silver BMW—the leased vehicle he kept hidden—as it wound its way through the industrial outskirts of the city toward the marina.
The marina was a desolate strip of gray concrete and rotting piers on the bay, populated mostly by rusty trawlers and a few oversized luxury cruisers belonging to local loan sharks and union bosses.
Spencer parked outside a dockside diner called *The Rusty Anchor.*
Through the tinted glass of Arthur’s car, Abigail watched her son enter a private back booth. Waiting for him was a man with a shaved head, wearing a black leather coat and a thick gold chain: Calum Vance. Beside Calum sat Chloe Mercier, chewing gum and tapping her long acrylic nails against a cocktail glass.
Spencer tossed the duffel bag onto the table.
Calum unzipped it, took out two bundles of cash, flicked through the edges with a tattooed thumb, and nodded. Then, in full view of the restaurant window, Spencer pulled Chloe toward him and kissed her on the mouth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, sliding it across the table to her.
Chloe opened it and squealed, throwing her arms around Spencer’s neck.
“A Cartier watch,” Arthur murmured, looking through his lens. “Retail price: fourteen thousand dollars. He bought it this morning before he checked into the hospital bed.”
Abigail did not cry. Her chest felt as if it had been carved out with a dull blade, leaving a cavern of granite.
“He told me he hadn't eaten solid food in four days,” Abigail whispered. “He told me the pain was so bad he wished he were dead.”
“Abigail,” Arthur said, placing a firm, fatherly hand on her wrist. “The lottery trust was officially ratified twenty minutes ago. The state treasurer has verified the claim. You are now the sole beneficiary of *The Phoenix Trust.* You have thirteen million, two hundred and forty thousand dollars sitting in an escrow account at J.P. Morgan Chase. You can walk away right now. You can buy a villa in Tuscany. You can leave this city and never look back. The police will pick him up for the cash fraud within forty-eight hours.”
Abigail turned to look at Arthur. Her eyes were wide, clear, and terrifyingly cold.
“If the police pick him up for sixty thousand dollars, his lawyers will cut a deal. He’ll serve two years in a minimum-security camp, come out, and find another victim. That isn't justice, Arthur. Justice is when a man chokes on the very meal he cooked for someone else.”
“What are you planning?” Arthur asked.
May you like
“He thinks I have David’s union pension,” Abigail said. “He thinks there is still meat on the bone. Let’s make him believe the bone is made of solid gold.”
***
