Chapter 13: The Hunt
The pristine silence of the new house was no longer empty; it was now a workshop for obsession. The folding chairs were positioned facing a large, blank wall that had become their evidence board. Taped to it were the few tangible artifacts of their old life: a family photograph of a smiling John, his school ID, and the copy of the police report they had doggedly requested until it was handed over just to make them go away. In the center of it all, written in Noah's precise, blocky handwriting on a sheet of printer paper, was a single name:
DR. DOMAIN VOSS.
It was a declaration of war.
"We operate on two assumptions," Noah began, his voice low and steady, a general briefing his lone soldier. "One: He is involved. Either he is the Architect, or he works for him. Two: He believes he is invisible. He walked through a police investigation without a flicker of suspicion. He will not be expecting us."
Luna nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The grief was still there, a leaden weight in her chest, but it was now being forged into something sharp and purposeful. "So, we start with what we know. He's a forensic examiner. He worked at the Eldridge Forensic Laboratory, attached to the main hospital."
"His employment records, his background, his colleagues," Noah said, standing and pacing before the blank wall. "We need to build a profile. Not the one the police have. The real one."
Their first foray was digital. Sitting side-by-side at the cheap laptop they'd bought specifically for this purpose, they began their search. They started simply: "Dr. Domain Voss Eldridge."
The results were sparse and unhelpful. A few mentions in old, archived news articles about court testimonies in murder trials, his name listed among other expert witnesses. There was no social media presence, no professional profile on networking sites, no personal website. It was as if, professionally, he existed only in the footnotes of other people's tragedies.
"It's too clean," Luna murmured, scrolling down a page of search results. "For a doctor, even a forensic one, there should be more. A university alumni page, a conference attendance list… something."
"He's scrubbed himself," Noah concluded, his jaw tight. "Or he never allowed the information to exist in the first place. That in itself is a data point. It speaks to a man who values his privacy to a pathological degree. Or a man with something to hide."
They dug deeper, using the scant information from the news articles. They found the name of the medical school he'd attended, a prestigious institution on the other side of the country. Luna, using a carefully crafted story about being a journalist fact-checking for a medical publication, managed to get through to the alumni office.
"I'm sorry," the polite, distant voice on the phone said, "we cannot confirm or deny the attendance of any individual or provide any details without expressed written consent. It's policy."
Another dead end. Every official channel was a locked door. The system designed to protect privacy was now shielding a monster.
After two days of digital pounding against unyielding firewalls, Luna pushed back from the laptop, her eyes strained. "This is getting us nowhere. The internet only knows what people put on it. He hasn't put anything on it. We need to talk to people. The one thing a man can't completely erase is the memory of others."
Noah looked at her, a flicker of the old, vibrant Luna in her determined eyes. He nodded. "The hospital. We go to the source."
---
The Eldridge General Hospital was a monument to controlled chaos, a world away from the silent intensity of their new home. The air smelled of antiseptic and anxiety. Nurses glided through corridors with harried efficiency, orderlies pushed carts of linen and food, and the constant, soft chime of the PA system created a soundtrack of perpetual urgency. Luna and Noah moved through it like ghosts, feeling profoundly out of place amidst the living.
They found their way to the administrative wing of the pathology department, a quieter, more carpeted area that felt detached from the life-and-death struggles of the main wards. They approached a harried-looking woman at a desk labeled 'Department Head – Pathology.'
"Excuse me," Noah said, his voice carefully calibrated to be both authoritative and non-threatening. "We're hoping to speak with Dr. Domain Voss. Could you direct us to his office?"
The woman didn't even look up from her computer screen, her fingers never pausing their clatter on the keyboard. "Voss? He's not here. Retired."
The word hit them like a physical blow. Retired. It was so normal, so mundane. It was the word used for men who gardened and played golf, not for accomplices to mass murder.
"Retired?" Luna repeated, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. "When? This is… quite urgent."
That made the woman look up. She peered at them over the rim of her glasses, her gaze suspicious. "Urgent how? Are you family?"
"We're… former associates," Noah interjected smoothly, before Luna could say something more damning. "We worked with him on a case. We have some follow-up questions and were hoping to speak with him directly. It was a very sensitive matter." He layered his voice with a hint of professional confidentiality.
The woman's suspicion eased, replaced by the bureaucratic reflex of someone who just wants to clear her desk. "Yeah, well, he's gone. Left about… oh, two days ago. Sudden, too. Handed in his notice, cleared out his lab, and that was that. Didn't even have a proper send-off."
Six weeks. The timeline was a perfect, chilling fit. John had been murdered just over a month ago. Dr. Voss had confirmed the murder, delivered his prophetic warning, and then vanished from his professional life.
"Did he say where he was going?" Luna asked, her heart hammering. "A forwarding address? Anything?"
"Nope," the woman said, already turning back to her screen, the brief moment of human interaction over. "Just said he was retiring. Some guys just want to disappear, you know? Now, if you'll excuse me…"
They were dismissed. They stood there for a moment, stunned by the brick wall they'd just hit. He was gone. He had evaporated.
"He ran," Noah whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of fury and triumph. "He knew the connection would be made eventually, so he cut ties before the police even thought to look."
"But someone must know something," Luna insisted, her gaze scanning the corridor. "He worked here for years. He must have had… colleagues. Friends."
They began a slow, deliberate walk through the department, their eyes scanning nameplates on doors. They needed someone who looked approachable, someone less entrenched in bureaucracy. They found her in a small, cluttered office filled with textbooks and a thriving succulent plant. The nameplate read: Dr. Anya Sharma.
Luna knocked gently on the open door. The woman inside, young, with intelligent, kind eyes, looked up from her microscope slides.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
This time, Luna took the lead. She had rehearsed this. She let a little of her genuine, raw grief show on her face, not as a manipulation, but as a key.
"I hope so," Luna said, her voice softening. "My name is Luna. This is my husband, Noah. We… we lost our son, John, a little over two weeks ago."
Dr. Sharma's professional demeanor instantly melted into one of profound sympathy. "Oh, I'm so sorry. That's… that's awful."
"Dr. Voss was the one who handled his case," Noah continued, picking up the thread. "He was very… direct. He gave us a piece of information, something about our son, that no one else could have known. We just… we need to speak with him. To understand. It's a question that's haunting us."
They were not lying. They were simply weaponizing the truth.
Dr. Sharma's face fell. "Oh, I see. I'm so sorry, but Dr. Voss is gone. He retired."
"We heard," Luna said, taking a small step into the office. "It's just, the things he said… we have to talk to him. It's the only way we can possibly find any peace. Please, is there anyone who might know how to reach him? Did he have friends here?"
Dr. Sharma sighed, looking genuinely conflicted. "Domain? He wasn't really the 'friends' type. Brilliant, absolutely. The sharpest mind I've ever worked with. But… distant. Private. He kept to himself, mostly. I think I was one of the few people he even had coffee with occasionally, and that was just to discuss complex casework."
This was it. This was the crack.
"Anya… may I call you Anya?" Luna asked, her eyes pleading. "We have no one else to ask. If you have any way to contact him, even just a phone number he might still use… it would mean everything to us. We just need five minutes of his time."
Noah added, his voice low and earnest, "We are not trying to cause any trouble. We are just two parents trying to find a sliver of light in the darkest moment of our lives."
Dr. Sharma looked from Luna's tear-brimmed eyes to Noah's strained, desperate face. The professional boundaries warred with her basic human compassion. The compassion won.
"I… I shouldn't," she whispered, glancing nervously out her door. "It's a breach of protocol…"
"It would stay between us," Luna promised, her hand instinctively going to her heart. "We swear it. It would be for our ears only."
With a final, hesitant look, Dr. Sharma turned to her computer. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up an old departmental contact list. "He had a private mobile number he used for on-call emergencies. I don't know if it's still active, but…" She scribbled a ten-digit number on a sticky note, her hand moving quickly, as if she might change her mind. She pressed it into Luna's hand. "Please. Don't tell anyone you got this from me."
"We won't. Thank you, Anya. Thank you so much," Luna said, her fingers closing around the note as if it were a holy relic.
They left the hospital in a silence thick with anticipation. The sticky note felt like a live wire in Luna's clenched fist.
---
Back at the command post, the number was now the center of their universe. It was written on a fresh sheet of paper and pinned directly below Voss's name.
"A phone number is a footprint in the digital world," Noah said, his fingers already flying across the laptop's keyboard. "It's tied to an account, a billing address, a carrier. It leaves a trace."
Their first attempt was simple: they called it. It rang four times before going to a generic, computerized voicemail: "The person you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message."
Noah hung up. "No name. No identifying information. He's careful."
They spent the next several hours delving into the murky world of reverse phone lookups. The free services yielded nothing. The number was listed as 'unavailable' or 'private.' They paid for a premium search on a site that promised 'comprehensive background checks.' The result was the same: the number was registered to a 'Private Owner' with no associated address.
"It's a burner," Luna said, frustration creeping into her voice. "Or it's so heavily shielded it might as well be."
"Maybe not," Noah countered, his programmer's mind engaging. "A true burner is disposable. This is the number he gave his hospital. He intended for it to be a stable, long-term contact, just a private one. The carrier will have records. The IP addresses the phone connects to will have locations."
He began researching more advanced, grey-area methods. He found forums where technically savvy individuals discussed SS7 protocol vulnerabilities and methods of triangulating a phone's general location based on the cell towers it pings. It was complex, legally dubious, and far beyond their skill set.
"We can't do this ourselves," Noah admitted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "We need help. But who? The police are useless. A private investigator would ask too many questions, and we can't risk tipping Voss off."
It was Luna who, in a moment of desperate inspiration, thought of it. "Mark," she said suddenly.
Noah looked at her, confused. "Mark?"
"From the summit. Ivan's summit. The one who helped him. He was young, tech-savvy, part of that… underground network. If anyone knows how to do this quietly, it would be someone like him."
It was a long shot, a dangerous one. Reaching into that world was a risk. But they were out of safe options.
Using the same encrypted messaging app Ivan had used, Luna created a new, anonymous account. She spent hours lurking in the same forums where news of the Gatherings and protests was shared, looking for a username that matched the fervent, helpful young man from the news reports. Finally, she found a handle that seemed likely: 'Truth_Seeker_M.'
She typed a carefully worded message, posing as a journalist needing to verify a source's location for a story on government corruption. She included the phone number, asking if there was any way to trace its general area.
The reply came not from 'Truth_Seeker_M,' but from a different, more cryptic account: 'Echo.'
Echo: That's a dangerous question. Why do you ask?
Luna's heart pounded. She typed back, sticking to her cover story.
Anon: I need to confirm a source is who they say they are. I just need a city, nothing more. Can you help?
There was a long pause, then:
Echo: The number is active. It's not a cheap burner. It's a secured line, but everything leaves a shadow. The last consistent tower pings for this device aren't in Eldridge.
Luna held her breath. Noah leaned over her shoulder, his eyes glued to the screen.
Anon: Where?
Another pause, stretching into an eternity. Then, a single, devastating word appeared on the screen, a word that connected the pristine, logical horror of their son's murder to the fiery, chaotic hell consuming the nation.
Echo: Davenport.
The message window closed, and the account 'Echo' vanished, going offline.
Luna and Noah sat in the humming silence of their new home, the word burning in their minds.
DAVENPORT.
The epicenter of the riots. The heart of the Architect's rebellion. The city where the billboards had first appeared, where the protests had turned to bombings, where the army had been deployed.
Dr. Domain Voss, the calm, sharp-jawed doctor who had pronounced their son's death and prophesied the beginning of a nightmare, was not hiding in some quiet retirement village. He was in the belly of the beast.
Their hunt was no longer a search for a single man. It had become a journey into the labyrinth. And at the center of that labyrinth, they now knew with chilling certainty, waited the Minotaur.
---
Chapter 13 Ends
To Be Continued…