Chương 14
“I’m very persuasive.”
“You’re terrifying.”
Hannah looked toward him.
“You punched a wall.”
“It was a bad wall.”
“That is not helping your case.”
For ten seconds, the room became almost ordinary.
Then Martin’s laptop chimed.
He looked down.
“What?”
He did not answer.
“Martin.”
“I got the pharmacy incorporation records.”
Hannah moved closer.
“And?”
Martin spoke slowly.
“Stamford Compounding Services changed ownership four years and ten months ago.”
“Who owns it?” I asked.
“A holding company.”
“Name.”
“Arcadia Medical Holdings.”
“Who owns Arcadia?”
“I’m tracing it.”
Cross said, “That sounds familiar.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know.”
I heard him stand.
“Wait.”
He paced once.
“Arcadia.”
The name sat in the room.
Then he stopped.
“Pier 17.”
My chest tightened.
“What about it?”
“One of the containers.”
“What?”
“The consignee.”
Cross’s voice changed.
“I remember because Voss made a joke about the name.”
“Arcadia what?”
“Arcadia Agricultural Supply.”
Martin was already typing.
Hannah whispered, “That cannot be coincidence.”
“No,” I said.
“But it can be structure.”
Martin looked up.
“Same registered agent.”
My pulse began to pound.
“For both companies?”
“Yes.”
“Name.”
Martin read from the screen.
“Calder & Wynn Corporate Services.”
Cross swore quietly.
“Do you know them?”
“Everybody knows them.”
“Explain.”
“They form shell companies.”
“Legally?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is doing a lot of work.”
“They handle private equity, foreign investors, holding structures.”
Martin interrupted.
“They’re legitimate enough to survive scrutiny.”
“That is not the same as clean.”
“No.”
I reached for the edge of the desk.
“Trace directors.”
“I am.”
Martin’s typing became rapid.
Cross said, “If Arcadia Medical and Arcadia Agricultural are connected, someone from Pier 17 stayed close enough to know your treatment.”
“Yes.”
Hannah’s voice was quiet.
“And close enough to keep paying for it.”
The implication moved through us.
Hale might not be the architect.
He might be part of something older.
Or compromised.
Or afraid.
I disliked every possibility.
My phone rang again.
Nobody moved at first.
Then Hannah checked the screen.
“It’s Navarro.”
“Speaker.”
She answered.
“Dr. Navarro.”
“Mr. Mercer, I need you to listen carefully.”
Her tone erased everything else.
“What happened?”
“I reviewed the electrophysiology again and spoke with a colleague in neuro-ophthalmology.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t want you using any eye medication unless we identify it first.”
“We already stopped.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because your retinal responses are reduced but present, and your cortical responses are stronger than I expected.”
“That still doesn’t mean vision.”
“No.”
She sounded impatient with the distinction now.
“But it means I want to test whether there is suppressed visual function.”
“How?”
“Controlled conditions.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Do it tonight.”
“I don’t have the staff.”
“I’ll pay.”
“This is not a catering problem, Mr. Mercer.”
Cross muttered, “I like her.”
Navarro continued.
“You also need time off the drops.”
“How much?”
“At least twenty-four hours, preferably longer.”
“What happens after that?”
“We test light perception, contrast responses, motion detection, and several reflexive visual tasks.”
“Will I know immediately?”
“Some of it.”
I swallowed.
“What are you not saying?”
Navarro went quiet.
Then she said, “There is a possibility that your conscious perception has been suppressed by more than structural injury.”
Hannah gripped the back of the chair.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It could involve medication.”
“Could.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Neurological adaptation.”
“Trauma.”
“Yes.”
“Psychological.”
“Possibly.”
Cross said, “You mean his brain could have stopped using information that was still getting through?”
Navarro answered carefully.
“In simplified terms, yes.”
I hated simplified terms.
They always made impossible things sound tidy.
“What would recovery look like?”
“I cannot predict that.”
“Blur?”
“Possibly.”
“Light?”
“Possibly.”
“Shapes?”
“Possibly.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes.”
The word landed cleanly.
I respected her for not softening it.
“Tomorrow,” I said.
“Nine.”
“I’ll be there.”
The call ended.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Martin’s laptop chimed again.
He stared at the screen.
“Grant.”
“What?”
“I found a director for Arcadia Medical.”
“Who?”
Martin looked toward Cross.
Cross seemed to understand before the name was spoken.
“No.”
Martin read it anyway.
“Elaine Dane.”
The surname hit the room like a dropped weight.
“Lewis Dane’s sister?” I asked.
Cross whispered, “Florida.”
Martin nodded.
“Current address is Jacksonville.”
I heard Hannah inhale.
The contractor who disappeared before police could question him had a sister connected to the company that now owned the pharmacy supplying my medication.
“Call her,” I said.
Martin shook his head.
“Not yet.”
I turned toward him.
“You work for me.”
“Yes.”
“And for once, I’m going to earn the part where that means I tell you no.”
“Why?”
“Because if she is connected to fraud, an explosion investigation, or medical concealment, calling her tells her exactly what we know.”
Cross agreed.
“He’s right.”
I hated that they were.
“What do you suggest?”
Martin closed the laptop halfway.
“We find Voss first.”
“How?”
Cross had already taken out his phone.
“I know where to start.”
“Without alerting Hale.”
“I won’t call Hale.”
“You already did.”
Cross absorbed that without defense.
“You’re right.”
The lack of argument made me angrier than an excuse would have.
“You do not make one more decision for me.”
“Understood.”
“No filtering.”
“Understood.”
“No protection.”
Cross looked at me.
“That one I can’t promise.”
I almost snapped.
Then he added, “But I can promise to tell you when I’m doing it.”
It was not enough.
It was more honest than what we had before.
“Find Voss.”
Cross dialed.
While he waited for someone to answer, I stood near the window I could not see.
The glass felt cool beneath my fingertips.
Outside, a lawn mower started somewhere beyond the south hedge.
The sound was ordinary and irritating and absurdly comforting.
Tomorrow, I might still be blind.
That possibility remained larger than everything else.
Not Hale.
Not Cross.
Not the account.
Not Pier 17.
Blindness had shaped itself around my life until losing it, even partly, felt almost as frightening as keeping it.
May you like
I had learned where every object belonged.
I had learned how to enter a room without admitting fear.
