Booked for Murder

by RJ Blain

  I would need to ask Bradley’s mother to look into any legislation that might cover such changes, as I could think of many ways such reforms could result in a complete loss of Federal disaster management, leaving local governments to handle events on their own.

  Reform could be good, but it’d been a long damned time since I’d seen reform serve the people more than the politicians.

  “Accountability is never a bad thing,” I replied, as anything else I said would be a lie, reveal more than I wished about my personal feelings, or otherwise embarrass me.

  “It’s not, and charities have been left to do whatever they want however they want without any form of accountability. This hurts everyone, as well-intentioned citizens end up giving their money to sharks who don’t spend it where they should. Solid reforms will change that for the better.”

  “How will the charities be held accountable?”

  “There will be a set of guidelines provided by the government that will detail how charities can operate, who the benefactors may be, how much of the funds can be used to pay staff and overhead, and so on. Charities will also be required to fairly pay their permanent staff, and there will be guidelines about how they can use volunteer labor. Many charities take advantage of well-intentioned volunteers, so the reform will tackle making certain all volunteers are handled in an acceptable fashion.”

  It only took a few moments of thought to come up with at least ten reasons why her proposal would be a disaster in the making and supported my fear her actions would dismantle most charities, who relied on volunteers to operate many of them.

  The profitable charities would adapt.

  Places like soup kitchens and shelters would fail, and the lower classes would suffer.

  As I’d inevitably lose my temper if we talked about her charity reform much longer, I pointed in the direction of the vendor stands. “Where did you get the idea for the craft sale? Some of the artisans are incredibly talented. I made several purchases on my way here.”

  “I love art,” Senator Maybelle replied, and she smiled at me. “What did you acquire, if I may ask?”

  I retrieved my book from the safety of my purse, slipped my finger into my book to hold the page, and pulled out the bookmark, showing it to her. “I’m a librarian, so when I saw this, I had to get it. There was a set of all seasons, although the rest are safely packed in my purse.”

  The senator took my bookmark, looking it over. “It’s beautiful. I love seeing the delicate care artisans take with something so many view as useless when they’re truly enriching. So few people truly read now. How do you feel about that?”

  “Libraries bring the community together,” I replied. “It is a place anyone may go to learn, seek advice, or find work. Even the small branches have outreach programs to help the unemployed find work.”

  “Oh?” She handed my bookmark back to me, and I returned the bookmark to its rightful place before sliding it back into the safety of my purse and zippering it closed so the temperamental weather didn’t ruin one of my new acquisitions. The entire time, I wondered if Senator Maybelle counted as one of the people who no longer truly read.

  Once my book was safely stowed, I replied, “Yes, of course. Libraries are a public service, and we do everything we can for our patrons. My branch is in a historic building, so we work to keep that piece of history intact while maintaining a place of knowledge and learning. We run various programs to help young adults learn how to present themselves during job interviews, we help children who are struggling to read learn and enjoy books, and we expand horizons. We even help politicians local to us research their legislation when it’s asked of us.”

  “Would you say public servants, such as yourself, are paid sufficiently?”

  I sighed at the question, one I got often enough. “While I wouldn’t say no to a raise, I do make enough to get by. I do live frugally in many ways, but I was able to buy my ticket and purchase luxuries today. The city only has so much they can pay us, and New York has a great deal of failing infrastructure that needs to be addressed. The lower pay is a sacrifice I’m willing to make because of the importance of what I do.”

  Senator Maybelle smiled. “What would you do if your position was more valued? How would your life change?”

  “I would inevitably spoil my cat,” I admitted with a grin. “I would enjoy the little things more, I’m sure.” Then, aware of how she valued art, I added, “I would be able to buy more of those beautiful trinkets that exist only to be admired and treasured. I’d also go on a vacation.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but where would you vacation?” Her gaze fell onto my wheelchair.

  I waved my hand to dismiss her concern. “The cast comes off in a few weeks, and then I’ll start physical therapy and get to wear a medical boot while my foot heals. As for where I’d go, I’m not sure. I haven’t discussed it with my partner yet.”

  “Your partner? You’re married?”

  “Oh, no. Not yet. He is my fiancé, and we are in progress of planning our engagement party, which is why I do not yet have a ring. We have officiated the engagement contract, but these things take time to do properly. He’s very thorough.”

  “Thorough is a good thing. A gentleman who cares enough to be formal for the engagement is interested in a long-lasting relationship. What are your feelings about a mandatory engagement period to lessen the probability of divorce later?”

  Oy. The senator didn’t pull her punches. “I guess it really depends on if either person in the relationship is abusive. If the one party becomes abusive after the engagement period, the victim should not be obstructed from leaving the relationship. Beyond that, I suppose it is a matter of maintaining personal freedom. The nice thing about freedom is having the ability to make mistakes. If all marriages require extensive engagement periods, I expect fewer people will get married and the birth rate will substantially drop due to people being unwilling to face the social stigma of having a child outside of engagement or wedlock. I suspect the percentage of single women will sharply increase, because those who love each other will sleep together, and they will do so in defiance of any controlling laws the government may wish to put into place. I guess it depends on what your actual goal is with such a policy. Is it to improve familial relations, or is to appeal to a prejudiced audience?”

  Senator Maybelle’s smile slipped, but after a few moments, she recovered. “How interesting. Few are bold enough to actually debate with me at a rally. How unusual. This was not what I expected when I walked over to say hello.”

  Of course. So many viewed the physically disabled as mentally disabled. “It’s my foot that’s broken, not my brain, Senator Maybelle.”

  “I see that. Let’s assume I wanted to do both, improving family life while appealing to a prejudiced audience. How would you accomplish that?”

  “There’s no easy solution to that problem, Senator Maybelle. You either support the abused or the abusers. If you want to improve family life, you have to address the abusers. You have to ask yourself how many in that prejudiced audience consist of the abusers or the abused. Who do you truly want to favor? That’s the one thing most agree on. Abusers are the ones with the power, so if you chose the abused, you’re choosing the underdog. Only you have the answer to that question. Who do you actually support? That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  Behind the senator, someone screamed, and my magic flared to life at the unexpected surge of blood leaving the body. A distant curse behind me registered through my shock. The blare of gunfire, close enough to hurt my ears, rang out. Senator Maybelle opened her mouth, her body jerked, and she fell. Her body shimmered, but through the haze, crimson sprayed from her forehead, hung in the air, and snapped back into her body before the entry hole closed.

  The slimy, oily, hot, and greasy feel of contaminated blood assaulted my senses.

  Gunfire rang out again, and agony tore through my abused, broken foot. The intensity of the pain shocked me into silence. Several more
shots rang out. One round thumped into Senator Maybelle’s fallen body, and someone nearby screamed, and my magic registered another strong source of blood. A woman screamed, the shrill cry of the dying.

  I remembered that sound. Every time I’d gone into the emergency room to do what I could to save lives, I’d left with at least one new memory of death.

  While years had separated my last trip to the hospital as a volunteer rather than a patient, the magic within me remembered. I remembered. In a way, the throbbing agony in my foot helped. My focus narrowed to the hearts pumping life-giving blood out through severed veins and arteries. I couldn’t fix the veins or the arteries, but I could redirect the blood so the victims still living might survive.

  Nothing would save Senator Maybelle; my magic confirmed her heart no longer beat, and blood seeped out from a hole torn through it. Her brain no longer contained blood, confirming an exsanguinator had completed their foul work.

  I closed my eyes and focused on those who mattered, the living who wouldn’t survive until an ambulance arrived if I didn’t act.

  With three people fighting to survive, all fallen nearby, I needed to touch at least two of them, which meant coming into contact with the senator’s contaminated blood. I addressed the bleeding in my foot first, a simple enough task, as my magic had already begun its work without me, mirroring the memory of the crash when Bradley had inadvertently taught the power within me how to save my life.

  Lurching off my wheelchair, I fell over the senator’s body, yelping at the stabbing pain through my foot. I crawled the few extra feet to reach the nearest of the bleeding bodies, stretching out my hand. My fingers dipped into blood.

  Some believed exsanguinators could only bleed out their victims, practicing the darkest of magic without regard for human life. When wet against my skin, I could read the state of the victim’s body, hissing at the low oxygen levels, which would lead to death as quickly as the woman’s steadily dropping blood pressure. Two wounds stole her life, and while the one through her arm would cause me problems, the one through her upper body had damaged her aorta, which would lead to her death within minutes.

  Until a mender could restore the critical artery, I would have to contain the blood, controlling every element of her respiratory and circulatory systems to keep her organs from suffocating while maintaining her blood pressure.

  She had already bled enough she danced at death’s door.

  I hated to lose. Tears burned my closed eyes, and I checked her blood again, cursing over our incompatible types.

  To give her mine, I would have to change the very nature of my blood so it would be compatible with hers, else I’d kill her. I extended my reach, discovering a matching source nearby: Senator Maybelle’s contaminated blood.

  I couldn’t purify the blood and keep the woman alive—and if I used it, my blood would become contaminated as well.

  No matter what I did, I couldn’t win. Considering Senator Maybelle hadn’t died from whatever it was lurking within her veins, we wouldn’t die, not immediately.

  A shortened life beat no life, and some choices weren’t choices at all.

  Senator Maybelle no longer needed her blood. The woman struggling to breathe did. I oxygenated as much of the senator’s blood I could with the lingering air left in her lungs, siphoned the tainted, crimson fluid out through the hole in her heart, and eased it into my patient’s entry wound, making use of the hole in her aorta.

  Over the years, I’d clocked in hundreds of hours controlling transfusions, and my magic remembered. Without any concentration required from me, it did the slow, tedious job of integrating the new blood to the woman’s body and keeping it within her arteries and veins where it belonged.

  Drop by precious drop, I replenished the woman’s blood, taking care to introduce only what her body could accept without sinking her deeper into shock and killing her.

  I turned my attention to the next victims, reaching out to determine who needed my help the most.

  While both had been shot, neither would die, especially if I patched the holes until a doctor or nurse could tend to them. Neither required a transfusion, although both needed me to keep their blood contained.

  I’d never tried to save three at once before while keeping most of my blood where it belonged.

  As I expected, Senator Maybelle’s blood contaminated mine, and while my magic rejected the incompatible blood type, the hot, greasy, and slimy sensation seeped into my foot.

  The magic within me surged, and it assimilated the substance, transforming it into fuel it used to redouble its efforts to save the three who’d been shot far worse than me. For a moment, I faltered, so startled I lost my hold on my ability to control blood.

  My magic continued its work without me, and it transformed the slimy, greasy sensations into soothing warmth. I broke free of my astonishment, focused on my breathing, and concentrated, monitoring the beating of three hearts and encouraging their strained lungs to provide life-giving oxygen to the rest of their bodies.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Twenty-Two

  Some things I could never forget.

  Sometimes, life made no sense. Mine rarely made sense, and the times it did, I wondered when everything would fall apart. When volunteering in the hospital, I had been fully aware of my every action, especially when it came to the magic so many loathed and feared. With three people to keep alive, I abandoned the careful practices I’d cultivated, scrambling to do everything I could to keep them stable for as long as possible. The woman’s heart stuttered often thanks to her torn aorta and her erratic blood pressure. Every adjustment I made created some consequence or another. Sometimes, her blood pressure spiked, making her heart work harder to do its job. Sometimes, her blood pressure plummeted, likewise adding strain. The rare times I got everything right, I stole the few moments to confirm I hadn’t lost control on the other two victims.

  Despite the long odds, I won the small battles along with the war.

  Through it all, the contamination in my blood offered a soothing warmth, one that fed my desperate magic. A magic similar to mine encroached on my territory, and I pushed back, delivering the equivalent of a slap to the back of the hand. The touch turned tentative, and I waited, observing. Exsanguinators couldn’t mend bone or flesh, and when the torn aorta began to heal, I waited for the injury to close sufficiently to contain the woman’s blood before releasing my hold and redirecting my attention to her lesser injuries.

  Menders could work better when they didn’t have to worry about blood loss, and nobody could prevent blood loss better than an exsanguinator.

  If only the medical field embraced us rather than shunned us. I knew few names, but I remembered every life I had saved—and every life I’d taken to save another.

  Some things I could never forget.

  Time flowed differently when caught in magic’s gentle hold, but little by little, I withdrew my influence, allowing the bodies of the three victims to resume surviving on their own. When the woman no longer needed me, I allowed myself to relax, although I remained aware of her body, which still struggled to cling to life. The other two victims stabilized, and I pulled my influence away from them.

  They didn’t need me, nor would they unless something went wrong.

  Enough had gone wrong, but death had come calling, and I refused its call. I found comfort in the knowledge nothing I could have done would have saved the senator. Later, it would bother me I’d taken her blood without her consent, but she had no more use for it.

  She came across as the kind to refuse to be a donor because she believed doctors would harvest her organs even if she had a hope of survival. I’d served on the front lines in trauma situations often enough to understand the truth.

  No doctor wanted to lose the war against death. An organ transplant turned tragedy into hope, but I’d never met a good doc who’d liked admitting defeat in the first place. When transplants went well, such as the one with my adopted spleen, it helped e
ase the pain of the tragedy, but the tragedy itself remained.

  The docs had lost a war, but they turned their defeat into a victory for another patient rather than lose them both.

  Only when satisfied we wouldn’t be losing any of the three other victims did I fully release my hold on my magic and focus on my foot.

  Big mistake.

  The instant I concentrated on my own body, I received the bill for neglecting my foot in the form of pain. Passing out sucked, as did the tedious process of clawing back to coherency with a fucking beep for company.

  I hated the damned beep, and I wanted to chuck the monitor at a window. Rage beat panic, and I concentrated on how much the fucking beep annoyed me rather than freak out over my status as hospitalized.

  Again.

  Stupid hospitals.

  No, stupid asshole murderer who busted up my busted foot, thus landing me in the hospital. Again. I wondered if I still had a foot, and I found my painless state disconcerting at best.

  My mangled foot should have hurt, and while it couldn’t do its job quite right and often tormented me, I liked my foot. I didn’t want to lose it. Did no pain mean I’d been given the good drugs? Did no pain mean I had no foot?

  I could work with being under the influence of good drugs, although they often packed side effects capable of turning me into either a nuisance or a comedian. I sometimes even remembered life while drugged.

  As I wouldn’t figure out if I was drugged or a candidate for a peg until I checked, I cracked open an eye to check out the general vicinity of my feet.

  A honking big cast gobbled up my poor right leg, including the all-important foot-shaped ending.

  Good. I liked my foot, and I would miss it if someone took it away from me. Satisfied with the status of heavily drugged but in possession of two feet rather than one, I debated my options, deciding I needed to check my surroundings next. The dim illumination implied I’d opted to return to consciousness in the middle of the night, the good drugs had kept my heart rate from skyrocketing and informing the nurses I was trying to give them gray hairs through a panic attack, and I’d emerged from the rally alive and about as well as I could get.