Chapter 6 - The Sanctuary of the Springs
The Saratoga Pediatric Clinic sat inside a converted Victorian house on Circular Street, surrounded by ancient elms that looked like white lace against the gray morning sky.
Billy pulled the dented, scraped Volvo into the rear alleyway, cutting the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of the cooling manifold. Billy sat for a moment, his forehead resting against the steering wheel, his chest heaving as he fought for every molecule of air.
"We’re here, girls," he whispered, his voice completely hoarse.
He climbed out of the car, his left leg nearly buckling beneath him. His knee had swollen to the size of a grapefruit under his trousers. He opened the rear door, scooping Lily and Clara into his arms. They were exhausted, their small faces pale, but their breathing was steady and their skin was warm thanks to the Volvo’s ancient, industrial heater.
He carried them up the wooden steps of the clinic’s back porch and knocked five times on the glass panel of the door, just as Donald had told him.
A minute later, a light came on in the kitchen. The door opened to reveal a woman in her early fifties wearing a heavy flannel robe and copper-rimmed reading glasses. Dr. Evelyn Vance took one look at Billy’s blue, exhausted face, then at the two identical white-blond girls in his arms, and her breath hitched.
"Donald called me from a satellite phone two hours ago," Evelyn said, stepping aside and pulling them into the warm, clinical interior. "He said you were coming. Bring them into the back examination room immediately."
She locked the heavy oak door behind them, pulling a thick green curtain across the glass.
For the next hour, Evelyn worked with the quiet, efficient discipline of a veteran physician. She checked Lily and Clara’s vitals, administered warm electrolyte fluids through small plastic cups, and applied a soothing zinc ointment to their wind-chapped cheeks.
Clara sat on the stainless-steel table, her small fingers clutching Billy’s thumb tightly. She still hadn't spoken a single word, but her eyes followed Evelyn’s movements with less fear now.
"Their physical recovery is remarkable," Evelyn said, walking over to Billy with a clipboard. She handed him a small cup of hot tea and an anti-inflammatory tablet for his knee. "They have no signs of permanent frostbite. But Clara’s mutism isn't mechanical, Billy. It’s psychological trauma. She witnessed the fire at Sterling Manor. She watched her mother disappear into the smoke."
"Is Eleanor Sterling really dead?" Billy asked, sipping the bitter tea.
Evelyn sighed, leaning against the counter. "The official police report says yes. But I’ve known Eleanor since she was a child. She was an Olympic-level swimmer and a brilliant engineer. She built an underground storm shelter beneath that manor three years ago when Harrison Vance first started making threats against her company. If she told those girls to hide in that box... she did it for a strategic reason."
Before Billy could respond, the clinic’s front bell rang. It wasn't a gentle chime; it was a continuous, aggressive buzz that indicated someone was holding their finger down on the intercom button.
Evelyn walked to the front window, peeling back a corner of the blinds. Her face went tight. "Billy, you need to hide. Now."
"Who is it?"
"It’s not Harrison Vance," Evelyn said, her voice dropping into a tense whisper. "It’s Child Protective Services. They have two state troopers with them. And they have a signed emergency placement order with Harrison Vance’s corporate seal on the header."
Billy stood up, his knee cracking loudly. He looked at Lily and Clara. He couldn't run anymore—the Volvo was dead, his lungs were failing, and the state had caught up to them.
"Evelyn," Billy said, his gray eyes turning hard as flint. "Is there a private office here with a secure phone line?"
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"Yes, my father's old study in the basement," she said. "Why?"
"Because it’s time to stop playing defense," Billy said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket—a list of former university students he had kept for ten years. "Harrison Vance thinks he owns the law. He forgets that the law is written by people who read history."
