Chapter 4 - The Coma and the Crypt
The scarred man sat on the hospital floor, his face pale, staring up at the barrel of his own gun held by a furious, blood-stained doctor. He swallowed hard, the bravado completely drained from him.
"I don't know nothing," the thug wheezed, holding his stomach. "Marcus just told us to bring the girl back. He said she knows where the ledger is."
"Where is Marcus Vance right now?" Robert demanded, stepping closer, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. He wasn't a violent man, but the sight of his broken son in the ICU and the terror in Joanna’s eyes had awakened something primal within him.
"He's... he's in New York," the man stammered. "He's running operations out of a warehouse near the Brooklyn navy yard. That’s all I know, I swear! He’s got half the city’s docks under his thumb."
Before Robert could reply, the sound of running footsteps echoed from the hallway. Three hospital security guards, accompanied by two on-duty police officers who had been managing the highway pileup victims, burst through the broken door.
"Drop the weapon!" one of the officers shouted, drawing his service pistol.
Robert immediately lowered the gun, setting it carefully on the bedside table and raising his hands. "Officer, I am Dr. Robert Wright, Chief of Surgery. These two men broke into a patient's room, threatened a mother and her newborn child, and were armed. I disarmed them in self-defense."
The officers looked at the broken door, the bald man groaning on the floor with a broken jaw, and the scarred man trembling under Robert’s gaze. They quickly moved in, handcuffing the two thugs and pulling them to their feet.
"Are you alright, Dr. Wright?" the security guard asked, wide-eyed.
"I'm fine," Robert said, exhaling a long, ragged breath. He walked over to the bathroom door and knocked gently. "Joanna, it's safe. You can come out."
The door opened slowly, and Joanna stepped out, her eyes scanning the room. When she saw the men in handcuffs being led away by the police, she let out a sob of relief, collapsing slightly against Robert, who caught her warmly.
"They're gone," Robert whispered, rubbing her back. "But this isn't over. They know you're here. Marcus will send more men when these two don't report back."
The police officer stepped over, holding a notepad. "Dr. Wright, we need to take a statement from you and the patient. And we need to process this weapon."
"Of course," Robert said. "But first, I need to move this patient and her child to a private, secure VIP wing under direct hospital guard. Her life is in imminent danger."
The officer nodded. "We’ll station a man outside her new room."
An hour later, Joanna and her baby were safely settled in a hidden, restricted-access room on the hospital’s executive floor. Robert sat by her bed, watching her nurse the infant. The little boy was quiet now, entirely unaware of the storm raging around him.
"What are we going to do, Robert?" Joanna asked, her voice hollow. "Even if the police are here, Marcus has resources. He won't stop until he gets that ledger. It contains enough evidence to put him away for life."
"Where is it, Joanna?" Robert asked gently. "Do you know where Logan hid it?"
Joanna shook her head miserably. "The night he left, he only told me one thing. He said, 'If anything happens to me, tell my father to look where the anchor rests.' I didn't understand what it meant. I didn't even know he had a father who was alive."
Robert froze. Where the anchor rests.
Memories flooded his mind—images of a small, lakeside cabin in upstate New York where he used to take Logan and his mother every summer. Logan’s mother had loved that place. Near the wooden dock, there was an old, rusted iron anchor embedded in a concrete base—a decorative piece they had bought at an antique market when Logan was ten. Logan had buried a time capsule beneath it that very same summer.
"He hid it at the cabin," Robert murmured, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. "He hid it in the one place he knew I would understand."
"But Logan is in a coma," Joanna reminded him, looking toward the window. "We don't know if he'll ever wake up to testify. If Marcus finds out he's here, he'll try to finish the job."
"He won't get the chance," Robert said, his voice hardening. "I'm going to get that ledger. I'm going to bring it to the federal authorities myself, and I'm going to dismantle Marcus Vance’s empire before he can take another breath near my family."
He stood up, kissing Joanna gently on the forehead, then looked down at the sleeping baby. "Take care of my grandson, Joanna. I'll be back soon."
Robert walked down to the ICU to check on Logan one last time before leaving. His son lay under the harsh fluorescent lights, a machine breathing for him, his face pale and still. Robert sat beside him, taking Logan’s cold, limp hand in his own.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, son," Robert whispered, tears stinging his eyes. "I'm sorry I let my own grief blind me to yours. But I'm here now. I'm going to fix this. Just hold on. Fight for your son. Fight for Joanna."
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The cardiac monitor gave a steady, unchanging beep. Logan didn't move.
Robert squeezed his hand, stood up, and walked out into the cold, rainy night. He had a three-hour drive ahead of him, into the dark woods of upstate New York, to dig up a ghost from his past.
