Broken Hope, page 1
Praise for “Broken Hope”
“Rubin’s revenge thriller is fast-paced and full of plenty of unexpected twists and turns…a true page-turner”
Kirkus Reviews
“This brilliantly clever, thought-provoking plot will keep the reader engaged from start to finish.”
Readers’ Favorite
“clever cat-and-mouse games…highly recommended”
D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
Praise for “Fatal Rounds”
"Rubin makes the most out of an uber-creepy premise in this superior medical thriller"
Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"A knockout that's just what the doctor ordered for thriller enthusiasts."
Kirkus Reviews
"A brisk, page-turning read."
Rachel Howzell Hall, New York Times bestselling author
Praise for “Fractured Oak” (pen name Dannie Boyd)
"Uniquely original and a fascinating read from cover to cover...deftly blends mystery, suspense, and magical realism."
Midwest Book Review
"a lyrical, inventive detective novel"
Akron Beacon Journal
"Two remarkable heroes enliven this absorbing crime story."
Kirkus Reviews
Praise for The Benjamin Oris Series
THE BONE CURSE: “A strong medical thriller—inclusive, skillfully written, and inviting.”
Foreword Reviews
THE BONE HUNGER: “The reveal is a real shocker, and Rubin’s winning lead is well-suited to sustain a series. This is just the ticket for Robin Cook fans.”
Publishers Weekly
THE BONE ELIXIR: “The author’s pithy writing keeps the story popping all the way to the rousing final act. A chilling supernatural tale with indelible characters.”
Kirkus Reviews
Broken Hope
Carrie Rubin
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2024 by Carrie Rubin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For more information, contact Indigo Dot Press, P.O. Box 13042, Fairlawn, OH 44334.
Indigo Dot Press
indigodotpress@gmail.com
First edition, 2024
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024906427
FIC031080 FICTION / Thrillers / Psychological
FIC031040 FICTION / Thrillers / Medical
FIC030000 FICTION / Thrillers / Suspense
ISBN 978-1-958160-07-7 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-958160-08-4 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-958160-09-1 (audiobook)
Cover design by Tea Jagodic (www.teajagodic.com)
To humanity. We’ve got this. Right?…
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Carrie Rubin
Prologue
Twenty Months Ago
The old woman hobbled into her Boston row house and hurried to her husband in the living room. Although the threat was gone, her body still trembled. She hugged her purse to her chest and eased herself onto the sofa, struggling to find the words.
Noting her distress, her spouse of fifty-nine years floundered for the TV remote and silenced the Seinfeld rerun. Had his Parkinson’s allowed, he would have leaped from his recliner and rushed to her.
“What is it, my dear?”
“Our doctor,” she managed to say. “Dr. Hope Sullivan. She saved my life today.”
Her husband relaxed. Hyperbole, that was all. “She saves our lives every day. Or at least the medicines she prescribes do.”
“No. She truly saved my life. I was mugged.”
This time the husband did rise—stiffly, tremulously. “My God, are you all right?” He shuffled to the couch and lowered himself down.
The wife unclenched her vise-like grip on her purse. “The fellow didn’t get anything. Tried to. Grabbed my bag right off my arm and ran.”
“I don’t understand. You have your purse.”
“I was in the alley behind Hal’s Bakery when he snatched it.”
Her husband frowned. “I’ve told you not to go there. Shortcut or not, it’s too deserted.”
“That’s when Dr. Sullivan made an appearance. Our very own doctor, jogging by at the moment he ripped my handbag away. At first, she and I just stared at each other. She was as shocked to see me as I was her. I thought I was hallucinating.”
“Did she call the police? Is that how you got your purse back?”
His wife uttered a strangled laugh and shook her head. “After Dr. Sullivan’s surprise wore off, she got mad, really mad. I’ve never seen such a fierce look on her face. She sprinted off after the man.”
The husband’s mouth dropped open. “No, our Dr. Sullivan? That woman is the gentlest creature I’ve ever met.”
The wife sank deeper into the sofa. The act of telling the story and knowing she was safe at home dissolved some of her anxiety. “Gentle she is, but not today. She rammed right into the man—he wasn’t much bigger than her—and tussled him for my handbag.”
“No!” the husband repeated.
“Yes. I could hardly believe my eyes. My doctor, wrestling with a purse thief on the ground. I worried she would get killed, or at the very least, end up in the hospital. I yelled for help, but no one was around. My phone was in my bag.”
The husband rested a shaky hand on his wife’s. “But she got your purse back.”
“She got my purse back. That awful man got away, though.”
The couple stared at the family photographs on the wall, each lost in their own thoughts.
Finally, the wife said, “We called the police. Told them what happened, described the fellow. I doubt they’ll find him. Besides, I have my handbag, so is there even a crime?”
“Of course there’s a crime. He can’t go around stealing purses.”
The wife shrugged. “Dr. Sullivan was really kind. Handled the police for me, ran back to the bakery to get me some water. I was too rattled to do much of anything.”
“That’s our Dr. Sullivan. The same woman who checked in on me every day when I was laid up with influenza.”
“After the police left, she walked me home. She changed, though.”
“Changed? What do you mean changed?”
“She got nervous. No, not nervous. Restless. Agitated, even.”
“Well, I should think I would be too after a purse-snatching.”
“It was more than that. I’ve always said she has a sadness to her. Those grieving eyes.”
“Maybe,” the husband replied, “but you’re better at picking up on those things than I am.”
“To be honest, her behavior concerned me. She kept muttering about all the terrible people in the world. That it wasn’t right so many of them got away with it. That someone should do something.”
“She’s not wrong.”
“Well, sure, but I told her we can’t have a bunch of vigilantes running around.”
“Not unless they’re Liam Neeson. He has a very particular set of skills.”
The wife chuckled but then sobered again. “After I made the remark about vigilantes, Dr. Sullivan got quiet. The rest of the way home she ruminated on something.”
“You should have invited her in. That was a brave thing she did for you.”
“I did. I mentioned you’d want to thank her too, but she said she had to leave. She had a look in her eye.”
“What kind of look?”
“A determined look. A fiery look. In fact, there was more life in those sad eyes than I’ve seen since we started going to her as patients.”
“Probably just the excitement of the ordeal.”
The wife hesitated. “Yes, probably so.”
She remained bothered, though, and not at all convinced.
Those fiery eyes had worried her.
1
Present Day
As a doctor, I don’t enjoy deliberately inflicting pain. My stomach twists
Tonight, the bare-chested wife beater tethered to a chair in the middle of my barn is in particular need of a tune-up, his wrists cinched behind his back with duct tape, ankles bound to the wooden legs, forehead strapped against the high seat back. His gray eyes shoot bullets at me, and his neck veins bulge, but he’s nothing but an oppressive abuser, one who hides behind an Armani suit and a Bvlgari briefcase and stinks of an after-work Scotch.
Slowly, I approach him. A pair of pliers rests in my palm, the steel cool against my hot flesh. My hands shake, and sweat beads on my temples, but despite eighteen months of this macabre pastime, I can’t shut these physiologic responses down.
The wife beater stares at the pliers and falls silent. His muteness won’t last, I’m sure, but I’ll savor it while I can because ever since the sedative wore off, he’s been cursing and yammering as if he’s the one who has been abused every day for the past several years. First it was all, “Look, lady, you’ve made a mistake. I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong guy.”
Then, after a smack to his face, which was necessary to make my point, he was all, “I’ll kill you, you psycho. I’ll kill you.”
Sure enough, as soon as I kneel in front of him, the pliers inches from his left nipple, his temporary silence ends.
“You stupid whore,” he hisses. “You’ll never get away with this.”
He didn’t call me a whore when I picked him up at the bar a few hours ago. On the contrary, he seemed more than eager for a night of extramarital fun. Too bad for him he’s getting the exact opposite.
“With talk like that,” I say through heavily painted lips, “how can the ladies resist you?”
Thick eyeliner and false lashes add to my camouflage, as does a long auburn wig which hides my chestnut, chin-length bob. The slinky dress I wore when I seduced him out of the bar and into my SUV has been replaced with cargo pants and a fleece hoodie.
I spread the jaws of the pliers and place them on his chest. Hopefully, with his head taped back against the chair, he can’t see my trembling.
“I’ll kill you,” he seethes again.
I squeeze the pliers, not too hard—I don’t have it in me to be that person—but enough to make him know I’m not messing around.
His obscenities ricochet around the empty barn. On my private piece of Massachusetts land, there is no one around for miles to hear him. Only the nesting birds on the roof that flutter away in alarm. He tries to squirm away from me, but not an inch of his body is mobile beneath the heavy tape. All he manages to do is nearly topple the chair over.
I catch him in time, my biceps straining against the load. Realigning the pliers, I squeeze his pec once more, not because I enjoy it, but because he did the same thing to his wife.
I know because I saw her in clinic. She’s been a patient of mine for three years.
She has never confessed to his beatings. There is always an excuse of a fall, an open cupboard, a slip on their too-slick stairs. But I’m not blind. I know what the bruises and markings of domestic abuse look like. And the damage he did to her breast? The jagged cuts and gashes, all because he thought she was having an affair with her pastor, a man she had sought out purely for counseling (at least from what I’d surmised)? Well, that can’t go unanswered.
He’s back to his initial pleading. “I mean it. I’m not the guy you’re looking for. You have to believe me.”
I stare at the crimson tissue the skin around his nipple has become. “Now you know how your wife felt when you took your man-sized tweezers to her breast.”
Or whatever it was he used. Once again, his wife wouldn’t cop to the abuse. Gave me some flimsy story about getting cut by a wayward underwire from her bra.
Yeah, right.
I open and close the pliers in my hand. “My tool is a bit more primitive than yours was, but you get the gist.”
The mention of his wife silences him. Nothing but the heavy breaths of a fearful man in pain follow. Even the hair follicles on his groomed chest prickle with anxiety. Or maybe it’s anger. Judging by his searing stare, if he were free of his binds he would try to shred me to pieces. With his hands, with the pliers, with whatever he could find.
“How do you know my wife?” he asks. “You can’t be her friend. She doesn’t have any.” He narrows his eyes and studies me, as if trying to figure out who I am. Even without my disguise he wouldn’t recognize me. He is too important to accompany his wife to a doctor’s visit.
“She doesn’t have friends,” I say, “because you control her every move.”
I lean over and rummage through my duffel bag on the dirt floor. Aside from two lantern flashlights, which illuminate the barn nicely, the bag is the only object inside the old outbuilding beyond the wife beater’s chair and the green tarp I rolled and dragged his sedated body in on.
The abuser’s degrading name-calling starts up again, everything from the B word to the C word, but as soon as I pull the knife from my bag, those nasty words pinch off in his throat and tighten into a squeak. His eyes grow wide. He tries to shift the chair backward but manages only a few scrapes over the straw-littered ground.
Approaching him, I run the shiny blade over my palm. I’m still sticky with nervous adrenaline, but I imagine he’s too scared to notice. I press the sharp tip of the knife against his neck. His yips become whimpers become begging.
“Please, please, I’ll do anything you say.”
“Anything?” Leaning close to his face, I drag the blade across his cheek, lightly enough to avoid drawing blood.
“Yes, anything!” His eyes dart back and forth in a downward direction, as if trying to follow the knife’s path.
“One, you’re going to admit you beat your wife.”
“Yes, yes, I admit it,” he sobs. “I’m sorry. She just makes me so irritated. She always—”
“Two, you’re going to apologize to her.” I step back and angle my head. “Honestly? If it were me? I’d report you and get you locked up in a place where you’re the punching bag.” I wink. “Or maybe something worse. How would you like that?”
Before he can respond, I rush back to him. His restrained body jerks as a whole. I poke the knife’s tip under his chin. A drop of blood drips down the blade, but I don’t worry about injuring him too deeply. I know where the major arteries are, and they aren’t there.
“For some reason, your wife insists she still loves you. Says she’ll deny everything if I report you.” I harden my voice and pull the knife back. “But it has to stop. Got it?”
His expression is that of a toddler who promises to be good. If he could move his head, he would probably nod enthusiastically like one, too, anything to show his sincerity. Unfortunately, like a wise parent, I suspect that promise will be broken. With men like him it often is.
My made-up face shifts closer to his. “Because if it doesn’t, if you don’t stop controlling her, belittling her, speaking with your fists and your tweezers, I’ll—”
