358 SNIFF. ®. (English version)
Chapter 1.
Doctor Robert Farach lived a strange life, conducting experiments in his studio laboratory. He owned a splendid penthouse that had previously been a dovecote, now converted. He worked for the private psychiatric hospital “Paracelsus,” located only two blocks from his home.
Robert was descended from Sephardic Jews, but he never went to the synagogue or prayed; his intense work actually prevented him from thinking about God. That very night, he was called by the hospital, which was owned by a finance man who never visited the place. He grabbed his briefcase and rushed out, running through the rainy and deserted October streets. A strange girl had been urgently admitted with very worrying symptoms of hypothermia and was completely catatonic.
When he entered through the hospital’s back door, the on-duty doctor was waiting for him. She fixed her gaze on Robert’s pupils but said nothing. The doctor was undoubtedly injecting himself with some substance to prolong his long hours of work and experiments, or at least she strongly suspected it. Doctor Farach was looking for a cure for cancer and would never tell; likewise, no one knew that the eminent psychiatrist was investigating the most deadly disease of the modern era in all its variants, nor how advanced his research was.
Roland Makensie was the man who brought the girl to the hospital; he had to wait for the police to arrive for questioning. Doctor María Stradivarius introduced him to Robert, after which the doctor locked himself in an isolated room with Roland to learn all the chilling details of that story, which was a priori totally incredible.
Roland was very nervous, and after an assessment, Robert consented to inject him with a calmative. About half an hour later, the drug took effect, and the principal attendant of the municipal cemetery began to speak. Apparently, the girl, he claimed, had emerged from a mausoleum, asking where her family was and what place this was. Initially, the therapist thought Roland was hooked on some hallucinogen, so he stepped out of the room for a moment and asked the doctor to order a toxicology report on the suspect. The supposed “zombie” was currently strapped to a bed and heavily sedated, as she had tried to scratch out a nurse’s eyes.
When the chief detective arrived at the hospital, Robert was still meeting with Roland. He went up with the homicide inspector to the secure room where the girl was confined. By then, they had already requested all kinds of reports on her and on Roland Makensie. But everything seemed very uncertain…
The girl’s name was Bhria Selena, and according to the report, she had died 48 hours earlier from an overdose of pure cocaine injected intravenously. She had no family and made a living selling high-end cars to people in the stock market. Tall, elegant, with whitish skin, reddish-blond hair, and greenish-brown eyes. An intelligent and beautiful doll who knew people in high finance and did business with them.
Robert left with Alan Rodriguez for the hospital cafeteria. The chief detective ruled out the possibility that Bhria had risen from the dead and asked for time to clarify the truth. For this reason, two plainclothes police officers would guard the supposedly “resurrected” woman until they knew for certain what they were dealing with. When the woman finally became a little more alert, Farach went up to observe her and review the medical report. Once he had read it, the psychiatrist’s face became even more bewildered, turning stony and cold. Captain Alan took the gravedigger into custody until further notice, arranging to meet the doctor the next morning.
Without delay, around four in the morning, Alan Rodriguez informed the psychiatrist that Roland had been released. Everything had been cross-checked: as predicted, the girl had died two days earlier and was buried in front of numerous witnesses, many of them of prestigious renown in the financial world. The Captain asked Robert what he had found out, and he replied that they had found sand in her lungs and no trace of cocaine in her blood. Also, there were no signs or scratches, making it improbable that she could have gotten out of the casket alone, much less broken the lid. He needed to know more about how the beautiful woman had managed to get out of the coffin and open the heavy mausoleum door from the inside, and of course, death by cocaine was totally ruled out.
The decorated detective told him that the forensic pathologist and other agents, along with the gravedigger, were inspecting the crypt and the cemetery surroundings, trying to find reliable evidence. They had also gone in search of the medical team that certified her death. Both reached the same conclusion. It was very clear that someone must have helped her get out of there, or she was never buried. And if so, what was the motive for this mysterious affair? With every passing minute, the situation became even more complicated. Robert waited until the morning to see Bhria again, as she was still heavily sedated and couldn’t articulate a word, remaining completely catatonic. Was she involved, or had she been used for some purpose? Perhaps it was just a vengeance, and no one could believe that she had come back from the dead like the biblical Lazarus by a miracle of Jesus of Nazareth. The truth is, the most reasonable assumption was that the whole thing was a setup, and the medical and police investigation was headed in that direction.
Chapter 2.
Around five in the morning, the doctor left for his studio to rest. Once there, and after taking a comforting shower, the phone rang. A very elegant male voice appeared on the other end of the line, saying:
“I know who you are and what happened to Bhria, but I can’t tell you. If you want to know more, look for a man named Tito Pandela. He has a VIP bar at 358 Rotterdam Avenue; the place is called ‘358 SNIFF.’ They won’t let you in—say you’re from Brouwer. And don’t you dare tell the police anything, or they’ll kill you.” The unknown caller then hung up…
He would have to put his intense experiments on cancer aside; this was undoubtedly a new challenge for the eminent psychiatrist’s curiosity. He didn’t know what to do; he felt exhausted. He also couldn’t delay the matter for too long, so he grabbed his syringe and injected a dose of the stimulant he himself had created. Heaven knows what drug it was, but fifteen minutes later, a taxi was taking him toward the most expensive neighborhood in the city, very close to the stock exchange and the major banks.
There was the venue and the discreet sign for 358 SNIFF. Two elegantly suited and burly men shielded the door, which was locked tight. The two guards saw him coming and didn’t move. Farach possessed a good demeanor and elegance. He said, “I’m here on behalf of Brouwer,” and without delay, they opened the door and let him pass without a word. Who is Brouwer? He kept wondering. For a moment, he regretted listening to the mysterious voice on the phone without even investigating the call. Now, he couldn’t turn back…
A girl with a narcotic perfume and enchanting hair came to meet him with a smile capable of defrosting Walt Disney. She was the club’s public relations person, named Rose McCormack. Robert was momentarily spellbound; he didn’t know what to say. Then, he exclaimed that he was from Brouwer and wanted to see Mr. Pandela. The exotic woman asked on whose behalf, and he replied, “Robert Farach, psychiatrist at Paracelsus Asylum.”
Tito Pandela was pushing fifty. Tall, in a six-thousand-euro tailor-made suit and possessing good manners, he was feeding his fish in a gigantic tank that sparkled in the sumptuous, hundred-square-meter office. From a glass window, he controlled the entire club, along with Rose, who left at her boss’s direction. Robert looked him in the eye and shook his hand. Immediately afterward, the owner of the VIP club asked how he could help. The doctor took out a photo of Bhria and asked if he knew the girl. Pandela said yes, that she had sold him a Ferrari 550 Maranello some time ago and that she also used to close her car sales deals there, usually with very rich people—exclusive, hard-to-find models.
“What happened?” the luxury proprietor exclaimed.
Robert told him that Bhria had risen from the dead the previous afternoon. Pandela smiled and offered his guest a drink… The shrewd Doctor Farach wanted to see Pandela’s reaction to his question, though he found nothing unusual, and graciously accepted the glass of exquisite, very expensive cognac. After serving the drink, Pandela looked at him more seriously and asked for his credentials before snapping:
“Do you personally know Brouwer?”
The doctor took out his documentation and said that whether he knew him or not was none of Pandela’s business. Pandela nodded, sat down opposite him, and explained that the beautiful and sophisticated Bhria used to come every night and consumed a lot of coke. None of those who knew her were surprised by the overdose, but now things had changed. “It was to be expected that Bhria would do something like that.” “Something like that?” Farach said. “What do you mean? You said she rose from the dead, didn’t you?” “Well, I mean she’s not dead. We still don’t know for sure what happened; we’re investigating it,” Robert replied. Pandela started to feel uneasy; something was bothering him, and he assured the doctor that he wouldn’t say more about the matter until he spoke with Brouwer. “Alright,” Robert replied. “May I ask you one last thing?” “Shoot, Doctor.” “May I have a drink in your club now?” “Drink whatever you want, but don’t talk about that girl down there. She owed a lot of money to some loan sharks who have been left unpaid.” At that moment, Pandela’s cell phone started ringing… “Wait, Doctor, don’t leave…”
The owner of 358 SNIFF received an unexpected call from Michael Brouwer, inviting Tito to take the psychiatrist in search of a certain person from the underworld who might know something. One of the club’s security guards accompanied them. Farach didn’t decline the offer. It was around seven in the morning, and the sun had already emerged from the darkness.
When they arrived at Mirto Caledonia’s house, he was lying dead on the rug in front of his television. Farach himself certified his death. “We must leave now, Doctor, you have to come with us; they will be here soon.” “No,” he said. “I’ll stay and wait for the police. Don’t worry, Brouwer already warned me, but I have to report this somehow. Bhria is guarded at the hospital.” “I understand,” said a very restless and hurried Tito. They both shook hands, and Pandela gave him a card so he could enter 358 SNIFF whenever he pleased…
Robert began to snoop around while the narcotics squad arrived. Of course, they wouldn’t find anything other than Mirto’s body, but Robert did find something. A photograph of Bhria with Mirto, in which both were on a yacht, hugging on the Italian Riviera, looking very happy. Also, about two hundred grams of pure cocaine, which the doctor kept in his jacket. He investigated the apartment, and when he started to hear the sirens, he saw something that gave him the chills. In the room adjacent to the small living room that led to the back door of the house, he saw a small laboratory—presumably for manipulating substances—but he also saw a dead man preserved in formaldehyde, several human heads, and small animals, all stored in enormous glass containers. He then fled, somewhat terrified, out the back door in a hurry. What would he tell the chief detective? He couldn’t reveal the source of Michael Brouwer, and the whole thing was starting to become too macabre and gruesome, with his life on the line. In a rush, he ran out the back door that bordered the highway. He was lucky enough to hail a taxi…
When he arrived at the hospital, the entrance was clogged with police cars, and the entire area was cordoned off. Something serious had happened. Farach rushed toward the back door. Captain Alan Rodriguez saw him arrive. “You look terrible. Where have you been?” Farach said he’d been having a drink and changed the subject with his characteristic mastery. Apparently, two hooded figures had stormed the asylum with tear gas and kidnapped Bhria Selena. “We don’t know anything else,” the detective added. Robert asked if there were any casualties in the assault. Alan replied no, everyone was fine. “Some lunatics tried to escape, but everything is under control,” he concluded. “Fancy a coffee, Doctor?” “No, Captain, I’m going to rest.” “Okay, I’ll expect you at the police station tomorrow around noon. We have matters to discuss. The investigation is blocked. Initially, everything points to the girl having been buried; the evidence determines this. How they did it, I don’t know. There are no tunnels or anything to suggest it was a setup. Do you think she could have medically resurrected?” “What about the doctors who diagnosed the overdose?” Farach inferred. “Everything is in order. The deceased’s blood samples indicated an overdose, and there are traces of cocaine. We haven’t been able to determine any foul play. The doctors who treated her are free of suspicion. We’re at a dead end, Doctor. Perhaps you can help us.” “Don’t doubt that I’ll do everything in my power, Detective. Now I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Captain.” “Good night, Doctor…”
Chapter 3.
When he arrived at his apartment, the entrance door was open, and everything inside was ransacked and destroyed. His first thought was to call Alan Rodriguez, but after a few seconds of deep reflection, he abandoned the idea. Luckily, his laboratory was safe behind a camouflaged, armored door he had installed long ago to keep his research safe from any unexpected intruder. The access door had been opened with the skill of a professional burglar, as it wasn’t forced; the same happened with the alarm, which had been disabled with a sophisticated, high-tech device, to the point that it still appeared to be functioning normally.
He took a quick look, and a priori, nothing seemed to have been stolen. What were they looking for? And, most importantly: Were they conventional thieves, or was this break-in related to his visit to 358 SNIFF and the house of the now-deceased Mirto Caledonia?
He packed a toiletry bag and some clothes, and after checking the door again and activating the alarm, he left to rest at a hotel. He needed deep sleep. I’ll see things more clearly tomorrow, he told himself. He began to entertain the idea that someone wanted to kill him, but he ventured he should think about whether to inform the police of everything that had happened since he received that call. At that precise moment, a second before leaving the penthouse, the phone rang again. Farach rushed to pick it up:
“Well, Mr. Farach. You should know now that you are the prime suspect in the Bhria case. They plan to arrest you tomorrow. They have left some clues in your apartment to incriminate you. Find them before leaving your house or disappear forever. Regarding the girl, you won’t see her again. Goodbye, Mr. Farach, and don’t dare go back to 358 SNIFF.”
A shiver ran down Robert’s spine. How does Brouwer know the police haven’t found the evidence yet? Brouwer’s voice continued:
“Look in the bathroom, in the medicine cabinet. You’ll find a pill bottle. It’s the key to incriminate you, and to understand what’s happening. Don’t worry, it’s safe. I’ve manipulated it so that Roland’s and Bhria’s fingerprints will appear on it.” The call ended.
Robert entered the bathroom and searched the medicine cabinet. He found a pill bottle from “Paracelsus.” The same name as the asylum where he works. The same bottle the police will use to incriminate him. But Brouwer had given him the key to deactivate the trap.
Robert’s phone rang again. It was a private number, but he already knew who it was. Captain Alan Rodriguez of the homicide police.
“Doctor Farach, I’ve received the report from my agents,” Alan said bluntly. “It says your apartment has been destroyed. What happened?”
Robert hesitated for a moment. Brouwer’s warning resonated in his head.
“Captain, as I told you, I’ve been out. I haven’t been to my apartment in hours. I don’t know what happened.”
“I believe you, but I’m not sure my team will. The scene will look like a robbery, but… things don’t add up. I suggest you come to the station for a chat. We can talk about what happened and what you know about the Bhria case. And while we’re at it, we’ll see if we can figure out what’s going on in your life.”
The detective’s voice was not that of a man who believed a lie. Robert realized he had to go, but he couldn’t show up empty-handed.
“Yes, of course, Captain. I’ll be there immediately.”
Chapter 4.
After hanging up, Robert knew that time was running against him. He couldn’t go to the police station without a solid alibi. With adrenaline pumping, he put the syringe and Mirto’s cocaine into his briefcase. He couldn’t lock himself in his private lab, as Alan’s detectives might be waiting for him. Luckily, they weren’t there. His only option was the “Paracelsus” asylum, which would be guarded somehow at that moment, but still offered him a chance since he knew the building.
Upon arrival, the entrance was full of police cars, with emergency lights still flashing. The psychiatrist rushed inside. He went up in the elevator with a well-thought-out excuse: he was going to his asylum lab to retrieve some files on Bhria Selena. His plan was simple: go, analyze, and then meet with Captain Alan.
Once in the lab, he locked himself in. He took out the pill bottle and the white powder. He knew that Roland’s and Bhria’s fingerprints were on the bottle, as the mysterious voice had said, but he also knew that the incriminating evidence wasn’t there yet. He had to be fast. His miraculous serum was safe.
Using his knowledge of psychiatry and pharmacology, he began to analyze the samples. The first thing he did was observe the cocaine, which was not pure. He realized it wasn’t a party drug, but a laboratory drug. Next, he analyzed the pills. He found something that baffled him: both substances contained the same component, a sedative that induced a state of deep catalepsy. A state that simulated death.
Robert realized everything. Bhria had not risen from the dead. She had been drugged to simulate an overdose, put in a coffin, and buried alive. But, for what purpose?
Arriving at the police station, the lights seemed like a beacon in the darkness. He got out of the car and walked firmly toward the entrance. Captain Alan Rodriguez was waiting for him at the door.
“Doctor Farach, I’m glad you came. Come in,” Alan said, gesturing for him to follow. The detective’s voice was flat, but the look in his eyes was anything but neutral.
They headed to an interrogation room. Alan offered him coffee.
“No, thank you, Captain. I’d like to know what you found in my apartment,” Robert said firmly.
“We haven’t found anything, Doctor. For now. We are waiting for the fingerprint and DNA report. But I’ll tell you what we did find: a photograph of a woman, a bottle of cognac, and a notebook. In the notes, there is information about a cancer vaccine.”
Robert remained silent for a moment, trying to process the information. Brouwer had said they left clues to incriminate him, but this was the first time Alan had mentioned a vaccine. What did his research have to do with all this?
“And what does my research have to do with the kidnapping of Bhria Selena?” Robert asked, trying to hide his surprise.
“That’s the question I’ll be asking you, Doctor. For now, I want you to tell me everything you know. From the moment you arrived at the hospital until this instant. Don’t leave anything out.”
Robert knew the truth was his only option. He knew he couldn’t lie, as Alan was too intelligent. He would have to tell him everything and trust that his statement would be worth more than the evidence against him.
Although the psychiatrist did not plan to reveal every secret, he was interested in what Alan Rodríguez might tell him. It was a game of chess, and every move had to be calculated.
“Captain, as I told you, I was at 358 SNIFF. And that’s where I believe the key to everything lies,” Robert said, dangling the bait. Alan, with an imperceptible gesture, leaned forward.
“Tell me, Doctor. Don’t omit anything. I promise you nothing, but if your story is convincing, we might reach an agreement.”
It was then that Alan launched a flurry of questions:
“Did you know Bhria Selena?” Alan asked.
Robert hesitated.
“Yes, I knew of her by reputation. She was well-known in financial circles. But I didn’t know her personally.”
“And would you know what kind of medicine or drug could put someone to sleep until they seemed dead?”
Robert paused. That was the question he had been waiting for. He had the answer in his briefcase.
“Captain, as a psychiatrist, I know many drugs that can simulate death. But Bhria Selena’s condition was peculiar. Her state of hypothermia and catatonia suggests a type of drug that is not common.”
“Could it be a type of sedative or a muscle relaxant?” Alan asked.
“No, Captain. It’s more than that. I believe the drug that was used is not on the market. A drug that could have been created in a laboratory.”
“And what does this have to do with you, Doctor?” Alan said, his eyes fixed on Robert’s.
The psychiatrist knew he couldn’t lie. He had to tell the truth in a way that wouldn’t incriminate him.
“Captain, as I told you, I was at 358 SNIFF. There, I learned something. The place is a façade for a false death business. It helps people with financial problems disappear to pay off their debts. That’s all I can tell you for now, and the information is not reliable…”
“And was Bhria Selena one of those people?” Alan asked, with a more serious tone.
“Yes, she was. They drugged her to appear dead, buried her, and helped her escape. Something went wrong.”
Alan remained silent, his eyes fixed on Robert’s. The psychiatrist hadn’t lied, but what he had told him was not what the detective expected. Robert also kept back part of the truth…
“Captain, in this briefcase, I have a syringe with a liquid and the cocaine I stole. Both contain an experimental drug that can simulate death. And on this paper, I have an extract of what I have been researching. A vaccine against cancer.”
Alan looked at him with skepticism but said nothing. His mind was elsewhere. The psychiatrist sensed that something was wrong with the captain. His mind and gaze seemed to be elsewhere at times.
“Tell me, Alan. Don’t forget that psychiatrists can read the mirror of the soul…”
“My wife is dying of cancer; she is in stage four.”
“I’m sorry, Alan. If you want and trust me, we can experiment with my vaccine. It must be effective, or they wouldn’t want to kill me.”
“Who would want to kill you?”
“You know who.”
“Yes. I know. I trust you, Doctor.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go to the hospital immediately.”
Chapter 5.
Alan and Robert got into the back seats of an unmarked car. A sergeant from the homicide unit installed the siren, and within minutes, they arrived at the private hospital covered by the insurance that benefited the unit’s most decorated agents. Psychiatrist Robert Farach urged the captain to step out of the room.
“Captain, I ask that you leave the room for ten minutes and close the door. For your wife’s sake, please leave and don’t let anyone enter,” he requested.
Alan, without hesitation, left the room. After the longest ten minutes of his life, Alan approached the room door. He didn’t dare open it, his hand pausing on the knob, dreading what he would find on the other side. At that instant, the door slowly opened.
Robert Farach stood there, his face imperturbable.
“You can come in now, Captain,” he told him, his voice calm and filled with a strange respect. “And don’t be alarmed by what you see. We will have to wait forty-eight hours.”
Alan entered the room, and his heart stopped. His wife, lying on the bed, looked dead. Her skin was pale, her lips colorless, and her breathing was undetectable. The silence in the room was absolute. The detective felt the world crashing down on him, an abyss of despair opening at his feet. He turned toward the psychiatrist, his eyes filled with rage.
“What have you done to her?” he roared. “You’ve killed her!”
“Captain, don’t be alarmed. She’s not dead. She is in a state of catalepsy. She has fallen into a state similar to Bhria Selena,” Robert said, with a calmness that Alan found mocking.
“Why? Why did you do this?” the detective asked, his voice trembling with fury.
“The vaccine isn’t ready yet. It was the only way to keep the cancer from spreading,” Robert said. “And I did it for love, for the same reason I’ve been working on this vaccine.”
Alan, his heart still beating a mile a minute, looked at his wife. He didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but the psychiatrist didn’t seem to be lying. At that moment, a noise in the corridor alerted him. They were two armed men, heading toward his wife’s room.
Robert pulled out a gun and fired at the ceiling. The men, surprised, stopped and ran, but other agents arrested them and took them to the police station.
“Captain, you should be the last one to throw in the towel,” Robert Farach interjected, his hand on Alan’s shoulder.
Alan, still weeping, looked up at the psychiatrist. His face, bathed in tears, was a mixture of fury, despair, and astonishment. The psychiatrist hadn’t lied. He had told him his wife didn’t believe she could be saved, and he had trusted the psychiatrist. And now, his wife looked dead.
“Don’t give up, Captain. There is still time to save your wife. Don’t lose her, because if you lose her, you won’t be able to keep living,” Robert said in a deep voice. “Don’t forget: wait forty-eight hours and give the hospital orders to only keep her well hydrated.”
The detective, who was accustomed to secrets, looked at him. The psychiatrist’s words reached his soul. The man who had been incriminating him was now his only hope.
Chapter 6.
Robert Farach left the hospital parking lot and returned to his penthouse. The captain’s words echoed in his head, but his mind was already focused on the next step. He had to protect his research, and the only way to do that was to return to his secret laboratory.
Upon reaching his apartment, he noticed something strange. The entrance was still intact, but the lock, which had been previously manipulated, seemed to have been forced again. Cautiously, he opened the door. A heavy silence greeted him, but it wasn’t an empty silence. It was a silence that concealed something, a presence.
Then he heard it. A slight creak, the sound of someone moving carefully in the darkness of his living room. There was no doubt; someone had broken in. Despite the destruction of the night before, the intruder was searching for something. Were they looking for the evidence that incriminated Robert, or something more valuable from his laboratory?
Robert’s heart raced. He could see the faint moonlight illuminating the ransacked furniture. He stood at the entrance, his brain working at full speed. The intruders could be the police, the 358 SNIFF organization, or some pharmaceutical company interested in his serum… All three options were dangerous, but only one wanted to kill him.
When he finally entered, his gaze fell on a bundle on his sofa, covered with a blanket. From beneath the blanket, a weak, whispering voice repeated his name: “Robert… Robert… Robert…”
As soon as Robert farach recognized the voice, he knew what to do. Quickly, he locked and secured the front door from the inside. Then, with surprising agility, he accessed his laboratory, revealing a hidden corridor in the darkness.
“Don’t move. I’m here,” Robert whispered to the figure on the sofa.
With one hand, he helped the woman stand up from under the blanket. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated her pale face and green eyes. It was Bhria Selena.
“They found me. I knew they would come. Help me…” she whispered, her body trembling.
Robert guided her through the secret corridor to the laboratory, where the lights turned on. Bhria looked around, astonished. The lab, full of medical equipment and vials of colored liquids, looked like something out of a movie.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be safe here. No one knows this exists,” Robert said.
Now, the woman who was supposed to be dead was at the heart of the mystery.
The psychiatrist scrutinized her vital signs: weak pulse, shallow breathing. There were no traces of the drug they had injected. The woman was healthy, though terrified.
With a look filled with a strange mixture of relief and triumph, Robert hugged her tightly and whispered in her ear, as if telling her the world’s biggest secret.
“You did it. We did it. The serum works.”
The woman who was supposed to be dead was not a victim but the greatest success of Robert’s life. Her “resurrection” was not a miracle but the result of an experiment that, now he knew for sure, had been a success. Bhria’s death and her subsequent appearance in the cemetery were proof that his serum, the vaccine he had sought for the woman of his life and for humanity, was real.
Chapter 7.
Robert Farach’s hand clung to Bhria Selena’s. Relief and triumph filled his soul. The crimes, the asylum, and the police no longer mattered. The woman of his life, the one no one knew, the one who had been at the center of all his secret investigations, was alive. The serum, his serum, worked.
The night softened, and the hours slipped by unhurriedly. Bhria showered in the apartment, washing the cemetery dust and the stench of formaldehyde from her body. She put on the clothes Robert offered her: a clean shirt and pants that were a bit too big. It was the first time in days she felt human again.
When she returned to the living room, Robert was sitting on the sofa, waiting. Seeing her, his heart beat with a force he hadn’t felt in years. She wasn’t a patient, she wasn’t a suspect; she was the woman he loved. He sat beside her, and a comfortable silence settled between them, a silence that was a promise.
Bhria took his hand. Her gaze was filled with a determination Robert hadn’t seen before.
“My love,” she told him, “I need you to help me. Take that notebook and a pen. Write everything down.”
Robert handed her a notebook and a pen. Let me take your notes myself…
“Tell me: how much money you owe and to whom you owe it.”
The psychiatrist, who had spent his life seeking a cure for humanity, now had his personal mission. His beloved, the woman who had sacrificed herself for him and the serum, was alive. And together, they would confront the loan sharks, the criminals, and the world that had almost destroyed them.
Robert and Bhria, now fugitives, did not waste a second. For the next 48 hours, they moved clandestinely. They abandoned the apartment, left the past behind, and focused on one thing: escape.
Robert, with his vast contacts and fortune, focused on a singular goal. The couple moved from one hiding place to another, changing cars, paying for everything in cash, and sleeping barely a couple of hours each night, always listening, always with an eye on the door. Paranoia became their new normal. The outside world, which was once a source of knowledge and curiosity for Robert, had become a battlefield full of dangers.
Finally, 48 hours passed until Robert Farach could rent a plane. It wasn’t a private jet, but a small cargo plane with an anonymously hired pilot, willing to ask questions only if paid enough. It was the only option for such a risky escape.
As the taxi headed to the airport with their suitcases, Robert saw, in the rearview mirror, that police cars were following them. The taxi stopped, blocked by a couple of cars. A group of officers, led by Alan Rodríguez, got out of their cars and headed toward them.
Robert’s heart stopped. Bhria, her eyes filled with fear, looked at him. The hope of a new beginning vanished, and the world darkened.
Then, a voice boomed over the police car loudspeakers: “Get out of the car. Get out of the car.”
Robert, with a calmness that frightened Bhria, turned to her. “Come on, my love,” he whispered. “Let’s get out. With our heads held high.”
They both got out of the car. Bhria, in her clean clothes and serene face, had nothing to do with the woman who had appeared in the cemetery. There were no traces of dirt, blood, or terror. She was a completely new woman.
Alan Rodríguez stopped a few feet away from them. His face, which had been filled with anger, turned pale when he saw Bhria. The woman he had seen at the asylum was a walking corpse; the one before him was a healthy, radiant woman.
“Your wife looks splendid; she doesn’t seem like the same person we found at the ‘Paracelsus’ asylum,” Alan said, his voice cracking.
Robert looked at him and said nothing. He felt relieved and grateful. Alan, the detective, approached him and Bhria.
“Also, apparently, there has been no crime. Because the gravedigger doesn’t know anything. No one knows anything,” Alan said, his eyes filled with tears.
The detective, in a final act of faith, turned around and headed for his car. “Farach,” he said, without looking at him, “I haven’t seen anything. You have… you have 48 hours to leave. After that, I will search for you all over the world.”
But before the taxi could start, Alan approached the window, opened the door, and hugged Robert Farach. He squeezed his hands tightly, thanking him in a deep and sincere way. Emotion prevented him from speaking, but Robert understood everything when he saw the smile of a man whose life had been given back. Then, Alan whispered something that only the two of them would understand.
“My wife got out of bed after 48 hours and asked for a Spanish potato omelet (tortilla de patatas).”
Alan did not answer. He got into his car and left. Robert and Bhria, their hearts pounding, got onto their plane and left.
As Robert took off with his beloved and his plane into the beautiful sunset of the city, an incredible queue of at least a thousand people surrounded the Paracelsus hospital. It had been rumored that cancer was cured there. The news of the potato omelet miracle had spread around the world, and people, with renewed hope, sought the same miracle. Robert’s pursuit was over, but his mission had just begun.
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