Chapter 9 - THE THIRD PEW
"Step away from her," Dr. Vane commanded, her thumb pulling back the hammer of the chrome revolver with a sharp, heavy click.
The tunnel was dead silent except for the steady drip of water and the hum of the distant street traffic far above our heads.
I didn't move. I stood directly in front of Eleanor, using my body to block Dr. Vane’s line of fire.
"You won't shoot," I said quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the barrel of her gun. "If you kill me, the shot will echo straight up the utility shaft into the street. The police tactical team is already standing outside the pharmacy."
"The police are currently surrounding the wrong block," Dr. Vane replied, a small, chilling smile touching her lips. "I filed an emergency evacuation report three minutes ago reporting an armed hostage situation at the municipal bank across the avenue. Every unit in the precinct is three hundred yards away."
She raised the revolver higher, aligning the front sight with my left eye.
"You were a unpredictable variable," she said softly. "But variables can be erased."
Eleanor Vance suddenly stepped out from behind my back.
She didn't look afraid. She didn't look catatonic. She walked straight toward Dr. Vane, her brown coat open, her frail, stooped posture straightening until she stood tall beneath the dim tunnel bulb.
"Barbara," Eleanor said, her voice ringing clear, strong, and completely devoid of confusion.
Dr. Vane’s hand twitched slightly. For a fraction of a second, her professional composure wavered as she stared at the woman she had spent eight months manipulating.
"Eleanor," Dr. Vane murmured. "Go back behind him. This doesn't concern—"
"Arthur didn't hide the journals under the third pew," Eleanor said softly, taking another step closer to the gun.
Dr. Vane froze. "What?"
"I said that because I knew you were listening in the dark," Eleanor whispered.
She reached inside her brown wool coat, pulled out the small glass vial that had contained the amber chemical, and held it between her thumb and forefinger.
It wasn't empty.
When I had tackled the driver in the alley, Eleanor hadn't just stood there crying. She had swapped the amber vial from her coat with an identical glass ampoule of industrial concentrated insulin she carried for her diabetes.
Dr. Vane hadn't injected Eleanor with the synthetic neuro-inhibitor in the basement.
She had injected her with sixty units of pure insulin.
And Eleanor wasn't in a plastic state. She had been playing catatonic for the last twenty minutes to lure Dr. Vane into the tunnel.
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"You're a brilliant doctor, Barbara," Eleanor said, her clouded blue eyes burning with a cold, terrifying clarity. "But you never learned how to look a patient in the eye."
Before Dr. Vane could pull the trigger, Eleanor’s frail hand whipped forward, smashing the heavy glass ampoule directly into Dr. Vane’s open eyes.
