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An echoing, electronic buzz unlocked the door to The Surgeon’s cell. But Martin Whitly remained lying on his back, glaring at the ceiling above his cot with mild irritation in his eyes, irked that he’d been disturbed from his nap.
Mr. David poked his head into the cell, announcing, “Call for you.” He held the hallway phone in one hand, the pig-tail cord extended to its maximum reach.
“Is it another set-up?” Martin grumbled with a dash of spite. “Like last time, when I quote ‘tried to escape?’” What bullshit. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been hauled off to Riker’s. That was what Endicott was going for, he just knew it.
“It’s your daughter.”
Martin glanced over, hesitated only a second longer, then heaved himself to his feet and padded to the entryway. Mr. David moved back toward the phone’s base on the wall, giving the cord some mercy.
“I expect you’re going to piledrive me the second I step foot outside this door,” Martin mumbled with sarcasm, glancing outside the cell to ensure that no other untrustworthy guards were lying in wait for an ambush. The crotchety inmate was still bruised from yesterday’s ‘misunderstanding.’ He continued griping, “Or try to kill me when I turn my back.”
Mr. David gave him a deadpan look. Evidently, the guard did not think that the nefarious incidents which occurred during his absence were funny. Toting a grumpy, miserable look, Dr. Whitly ventured into the hall and finished his jokes with a bitter, “No? Good. I appreciate it.”
“You’re very welcome,” Mr. David muttered. Dr. Whitly came to stand beside the guard and lifted his cuffed hands to accept the handset from him. Mr. David remained close by, and although he’d repeatedly assured his patient that everything was going to be fine, the guard did glance at the red door down the hall.
Things were tense lately, to say the least. There was no telling what surprises would pop up next. Mr. David didn’t know exactly what The Surgeon had done, but he had apparently pissed off some pretty powerful people.
Martin held the phone to his ear and forced a cheerful tone through his voice box. “Hello sweetheart!” No one would have been able to guess that mere seconds ago, he was as cranky as a drenched cat. “How is my girl? Any news on–?”
Ainsley wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. “Dad, shut up,” she urgently hissed.
Martin shut up. Before he could ask what was wrong (because something was clearly wrong,) Ainsley rushed through what she needed to say. “Look, I don’t have much time, but I– I wanted to say, I love you.”
Dr. Whitly didn’t know which part of that sentence caused him more confusion and surprise. His expression shifted indecisively between a smile and a concerned grimace. “W– Ah, Ains… what d’you mean you… ‘don’t have much time?’” he laughed nervously.
She didn’t answer him, but he could hear her breath. “Ains?” he repeated expectantly, listening as hard as he could to try to translate her subtle sounds. His half-smile abandoned his facade, which was no longer a facade, but a genuine look of worry. He could hear her suffering through a silent sob. Crying.
“I love you,” her voice croaked. “I love you, dad.”
That didn’t matter to him at that moment. His daughter was wasting her breath, and wasting whatever amount of time she claimed she had. Martin wanted to know what was going on. “Ainsley, what’s wrong?” he demanded. Alarm congregated on the cusp of his stern voice, as if his words were preparing for an attack. But he employed what was left of his calm, patient reserves.
She didn’t answer.
Martin stared at the wall in front of him, his eyes searching through the detail of the painted bricks as if they displayed a map of encrypted answers. Mr. David warily watched his patient, and they both held their breath.
Dr. Whitly heard a muffled rattle on the opposite end of the line as the other phone was roughly handled. Ainsley cried out in the distance that had been placed between her and their call. “Ainsley?” he raised his voice so she could hear him, wherever she was.
Again, she didn’t answer him. But someone else did. “Hello, Martin.”
It was Endicott.
Endicott was what was wrong.
“Nicholas,” Dr. Whitly hissed, his fury boiling in an instant. “You leave her the fuck alone!”
“Sorry, I can’t quite hear you over the sound of your daughter screaming.”
Ainsley screamed.
Martin had heard too many screams in his lifetime not to know the difference between them. It was a language that only those familiar with them could translate, like how only a parent was able to immediately identify the cause of the various cries of their own infant. Hunger, fear, emotional anguish, or physical pain. Ainsley’s scream was born from a prolonged, invasive, searing kind of pain –the purpose of which was clearly to rip the sound out of her. Thanks to all of his experience, Martin could easily imagine the many inflictions that could elicit such a scream from his daughter.
Martin’s own scream was born from pure rage. “NICHOLAS!” he roared, his blood vessels swelling with heat and strength as an angered adrenaline surged through him. The phone felt like a pistol being pressed to his head, but he leaned into it, yearning to get to the other side of that weapon and turn it on his assaulter.
Endicott chuckled. “But don’t worry, she’s not going to be ‘alone,’” he promised with an audible grin. “Your son’s gonna join her soon.”
Fire burned in Martin’s eyes. It was nearly tangible enough to char the wall in front of him, yet he was frozen in place and struggled to breathe.
Mr. David stepped closer and raised a hand to take the phone. “Martin–”
The Surgeon took a large step away and bore his teeth, displaying a deep, silent snarl like that of a feral beast. He held up a finger of his free hand, which was chained beside the other. It was a reaction that warned, ‘do not fuck with me right now.’ Mr. David didn’t need to be told twice, and he heeded the warning. The guard gave the man his space, then moved to grab the wheeled cart with the other phone on it. He used it to dial the NYPD.
“Nicholas, if you harm them–” Martin seethed, returning his acidic attention to the wall.
“Already did,” Endicott interrupted, enjoying this.
“–You are going to swallow a KNIFE, I swear to God–” Wrath poured from Martin’s cavernous lungs, which in that moment were endlessly deep and entirely filled with hatred. “–I’m gonna shove a blade so deep down your throat–!”
“I warned you, Martin. You didn’t listen,” Endicott’s honey smooth voice smiled. “You brought this on them.”
“I–!” Martin’s rage shattered. He was unable to argue against or deny that. He flipped a switch, transitioning from detestation to desperation. “I lied, Nick, I lied.” There must have been a short in the circuitry of that switch, because his anger resurfaced in bursts. “I LIED, Goddamn it, I don’t know anything! Sophie didn’t tell me ANYTHING!”
“Too late, Martin. You can’t beg your way out of this, though I do love hearing it.”
The Surgeon’s fire extinguished. His passionate wrath could not stop Nicholas, no matter how fiercely it burned.
Behind him, he heard Mr. David talking to the NYPD on the other phone, explaining that they’d received a threatening call at Claremont and ordering the police to find Ainsley, now. It was no use. The police weren’t going to stop Nicholas either. There was nothing Martin could do to regain control of the situation. Nothing could wake him from this nightmare.
He’d never felt so helpless.
Endicott continued to taunt him. “I hope you love hearing them scream as much as I love hearing you begging for th–HHGK-!”
The Surgeon stared at the wall, wide eyed as he listened to Nicholas’ choked cry. It was a cry that he recognized all too well. Thanks to all of his experience, Martin could easily imagine the many inflictions that could elicit such sounds from his enemy. Endicott’s garbled sounds were those of a dying man.
A rattle accompanied the constricted sounds as the phone was dropped. Martin waited, studying the brick in front of him with bated disbelief.
Finally, he heard, “Dad?”
In the form of a relieved gasp, he answered, “Ains?”
“Hey,” she greeted plainly. Her voice was slightly trembling, but also calm, and emotionless. Numb. Her shock conflicted with her adrenaline.
He knew the feeling. “Hey,” he echoed.
They breathed together for a moment, each processing what had happened. After a long exhale, Martin hesitantly smiled. “Did you get him?”
“Yeah,” she answered hollowly. “I got him.”
Martin closed his eyes and grinned before hissing a violent, “Good.”
“Thanks for distracting him,” she huffed with faint humor. Dr. Whitly could hear her smile.
That was the true reason why she’d called him. The Surgeon’s grin spread. He couldn’t be more proud of her, even if her plan had given him a heart attack. “Anything for my girl,” he joked. But it wasn’t really a joke. He was still beaming when he asked, “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” she answered in the same emotionless tone. “Better than him.”
Martin chuckled.
It was then that he heard a door slam in the environment of Ainsley’s call. Malcolm’s distant, muffled voice cried, “Oh my God, Ains, what happened!?”
“Gotta go.” Ainsley hung up.
Martin removed the phone from his head and fondly smirked at it.
“The police are on their way,” Mr. David informed him, also ending up his own call to the cops.
Martin turned over his shoulder and delivered a pleasant smile to the guard. There was no need for him to be concerned any longer. “Oh, it’s fine now. She took care of it.” His happy expression remained on his face as he tenderly placed the handset back on the switchhook on the wall. “Everything’s alright.”
Mr. David cautiously stared at his patient as he walked back into his cell, knowing that everything was not alright. It was far from alright by any ordinary, sane standards. But in Martin’s mind, everything was bliss. The Surgeon settled himself on his cot and grinned at the ceiling above it.
He closed his eyes and imagined.