by R. J. Blain
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“Well, your lungs will need some more work, but that’s something physical therapy can address. We’ve already done the critical work on them. Your cardiovascular system is all right, but you’re having some problem with your kidneys and liver.”
The thought of something being wrong with my lungs worried me, but I decided to focus on my other poor, abused organs first. “Wait. My kidneys?”
I understood the potential problems with my liver, as it held a lot of responsibility for blood health and chemistry.
“It appears you have been using your kidneys as a general disposal of toxins, including infections, from your blood stream. I am not fully clear on how you’ve been doing this, but I’m assuming your magic has somehow been depositing the various wastes to your kidneys. While it’s contained to your kidneys right now, you have a rather nasty little infection as a result. You will be on an antibiotic for the next three weeks. One of the other surgeons kindly purged your kidneys for me, but we’re going to have to figure out how to prevent you from experimenting on your body. You need your kidneys. They serve a very specific function. That function is not as a depository for infections sourced from your foot.”
“But how is my spleen?”
“Your adopted spleen is fine. Yes, we checked it. I had neglected to mention you have an adopted organ before the operation, as I was expecting a foot operation not a full-body exploratory surgery, but it is what it is. One of the surgeons got very, very confused because he’s specialized in transplants. Spleens are not typically transplanted. Unfortunately, there’s only one successful spleen transplant on record.”
Crap. “Can I please have a pass on that? I’d also like to mention I love that you’ve taken to calling it my adopted organ.”
“You can have a pass this once. You were honest enough with me on how your foot was mangled, you told me you had a transplant done unrelated to your foot, and I recognize severe trauma when I see it. If your method of coping with trauma is to take on a new name and bury the circumstances, I’m certainly not going to argue with that.”
I could work with it. “Technically, I got the spleen as a result of the same accident that mangled my foot.”
“And because of your specific type of magic, and as we don’t know what the lack of a spleen would do to your abilities, you were fast-tracked to be the first recipient of a spleen donation.”
“I guess there’s a lot of spleens available, aren’t there? That part of it bothers me.”
“Your donor didn’t need it anymore, and he made it clear he wanted to give all of his organs to science or to people in need. His heart went to a young lady in Europe, both of his lungs were donated, as were most of his other organs. He had brain cancer, and why waste the chance to give life to others? There wasn’t anything wrong with his other organs. He took the case to court because he wanted to make sure he had recipients lined up and prepared. You were the surprise recipient, as the accident happened during the window for donation. Your medical file is extensive, and I spent most of this morning reading through it for a better idea of what I’m working with. You’ll have a few other doctors on your team, as I want to make sure there’s no issues with your donated organ. It’s been a few years since your last checkup for your spleen.”
“Well, yeah. My adopted spleen would make it easy to figure out who I am,” I mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it, Janette. We take patient confidentiality seriously here, and it’s none of my business if you’ve opted to take a different last name. I’m primarily concerned about making sure you heal without impairment. Mr. Hampton has volunteered to help handle the matters of your care, although he’ll have his hands full helping you into his vehicle. The wheelchair we have for you folds, so it’ll fit in the trunk of his car, but it’ll make things a little more difficult on you. You won’t be in the wheelchair long enough to justify a customized van. Try not to wreck this wheelchair. You cannot roll them up or down the stairs ahead of you and hop after it on one foot.”
“That was the only way I was getting it up to my apartment.”
My doctor sighed. “Mr. Hampton will be handling the details, so please do not trash this wheelchair.”
“I fixed the last one.”
“You duct taped it.”
“It worked.”
“Please do not break this wheelchair.”
I sighed. “I’ll try not to, but if I do, he’ll replace it. And if he has to replace it, it’s because he wasn’t carrying it down the steps for me so I could hop down them at my leisure.”
My doctor did not look impressed with me.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mansfield. I’ll do my best to limit her chances to break the wheelchair.”
“I wish you the best of luck with that.”
Seventeen
This sucks.
To my shame, I’d been doing a lot more work on my own body with my magic than I’d realized, and with the various medications doing a good job of disrupting my abilities, my doctor couldn’t get my blood oxygen levels where she wanted, which meant I got to stay an extra night in the hospital for observation.
It took several tests to determine my lungs, even after the first round of surgery, were not operating at full capacity. To my dismay, I would need substantial physical therapy and some magic to correct the problem. The magic part of the equation came in the form of one of the surgeons, who knocked me out and had his way with my internal organs. The physical therapy part was dumped onto Bradley’s lap, as he foolishly volunteered.
I needed to have a long talk with him about his willingness to take over my life.
At five the following evening, my doctors released me back into the wilds of society, and to add to my disgust, I got to wear a disruptor around my wrist, and it would be removed along with the cast. The model would allow a minor amount of my magic to bleed through, enough to keep the discomfort of wearing it at a minimum.
My body needed to heal, and it wouldn’t heal if I continued to use my abilities to circumvent nature’s intent.
I tried to wheel myself out, but I made it halfway down the hallway before I got a dose of how much I’d been using my magic to keep my blood oxygenated. Torn between crying and screaming my frustration, I settled with a grumbled, “This sucks.”
Bradley took over pushing my wheelchair. “Your aptitude rating is probably going to get upgraded due to this stunt, too. The doctors explained the entire situation to me. You should be grateful you got the watered down version. I needed a dictionary to understand them. They spent hours explaining the terms to me so I could follow along.”
“I broke my lungs, basically.”
“No, you weren’t using them because they were broken. They were already broken. From what I can tell, you were using five percent of your overall lung capacity in order to survive. So that five percent did the entire work for your whole body. They figure you were pulling oxygen in from your airways in addition to the lungs. They’re not really sure how you’ve managed so much with such a reduced lung capacity. But, in good news, the foundations for healing are in place, so you just need to exercise and make your lungs do the work rather than your magic. From what they can tell from your records, they did a decent job with you out west, so I don’t have a case against them, but they also weren’t as proactive about your treatment as they should have been.”
I recognized when Bradley would fight a battle because he wanted to. Arguing with him or trying to convince him against waging war on my previous doctors would do zero good. Turning my attention to more immediate matters, I asked, “But will my new friends work, Bradley? I wanted to try out my new guns.”
“They’ll work fine. I’ve tested mine while wearing disruptors. It’ll be fine. Time at the firing range will be good for you. And if you don’t qualify, it’ll be fine. You’ll be in your new boot before the qualification test, and we can figure something else out if needed.”
“There’s no way
I can pass the qualification test like this.”
“We’ll figure something out. I’ve learned to expect miracles from you, so if anyone can figure out how, it’s you. It’s even possible they’ll give you a medical exemption.”
“I find that highly unlikely.”
“Should I get the medical exemption, you will owe me a favor, which I can claim at any time of my choosing. The favor will be legal. Otherwise, there will be no restrictions on what I may request.”
If he landed a medical exemption for the biggest hurdle in our plans to investigate six horrific murders, he’d deserve whatever favor he asked of me. “Fine.”
“Good. Thank you for not arguing with me. I look forward to calling in my favor at a later time.”
“Don’t sound so confident. I read the requirements for the investigator cells. They want to disband them.”
“I think you’ll find you’ll have good luck on that front. The FBI and the local law enforcement agencies are drawing blanks on the case, and they want help. When the cell is registered, it’ll be flagging one of the older cases. That is factored into qualifications, and we have your old qualification records. You were in the top percentile then, and they’ll consider that when they’re reviewing your records. I’m confident I can get the medical exemption.”
When wasn’t Bradley confident? One day, I would enjoy knocking him down a few pegs. “What have I missed thanks to my inability to stay out of a hospital?”
“Not a whole lot. We have information on the first murder, and we have the timeline. We have a lot of blanks, but we’ll talk about it as soon as I get you home.”
I narrowed my eyes. “My home, I presume?”
“No. Mine. Unlike yours, mine has undergone some renovations to be wheelchair accessible, so you’re stuck with me for the next two weeks. I lured your cat into her carrier with the help of the brush, and she has taken over your bedroom as her domain. She’ll be allowed to explore the rest of the house as soon as we figure out where to put litter boxes and scratching posts for her amusement. My mother also ordered six cat trees.”
“Six? Why six? Six is a crazy number, Bradley. Ajani does not need six cat trees.”
“One for your bedroom, one for my bedroom, one for the living room, one for the main library, as my mother is convinced the librarian will want to visit the library as often as possible, one for the indoor pool room, so your cat can watch you while you swim during physical therapy, and one for the gym, so your cat can mock your pitiful efforts to rehabilitate your lungs.”
“The Hampton family residence is too big,” I complained.
“It really is, but you’ll have everything you need while you’re stuck in a wheelchair. We might go to your parents’ place instead for dinner, but it’ll be hard to get you around their farmhouse.”
Narrow hallways and wheelchairs didn’t mix. “No kidding. Someone would end up carrying me. I don’t even think I could navigate through there with crutches. Forget the wheelchair. It’d barely make it through the front door. I don’t want to be carried.”
“You’re going to have to get used to it for a few weeks. It’s just two weeks, and it’s difficult to get the vans with the customizations needed for a wheelchair. I did get a handicap tag for the mirror when you’re in the car. It’s only valid if I’m taking you somewhere, but the car has it. Ren took the paperwork into the DMV this morning and picked everything up. There’s a card for our wallets, too, in case anyone gives us any problems.”
“People are stupid,” I complained.
“Yep. I look fine, Ren looks fine, so why do we get the tag? It’s pretty obvious you’re not fine, but if they don’t see you and see the car, they’ll bitch about it. I’m expecting it.”
“I was already entitled to a tag if I claimed it,” I admitted. “I just never claimed it.”
“Ren noticed when he went into the DMV. They pulled your record, saw the flag, and issued the tag based on that. They don’t care if you’re the driver or not. I got the feeling they’re happier you’re not.”
“Are you going to tell me anything else I won’t like?”
“I’m going to tell you a lot of things you won’t like.”
“Tell me something I’ll like. I’ve heard enough things I won’t like for today. And yesterday, too. I have busted lungs.”
Even talking tired me out. I gave it twenty minutes at the range before the strain of holding the gun steady exhausted me.
“Meridian had an idea on how to keep you in the cell even if you aren’t in the shooter position.”
“Isn’t that illegal? Having two shooters?”
“That’s how I’m going to get your medical exemption. I’m going to ask them if they really want you taking another spot you’re qualified for and having two capable shooters on the team, because you qualify for multiple roles. And they can’t bar you out of the spot if they won’t allow you to qualify because of your foot.”
“That’s a bit mean of you, Bradley.”
“It really is. And when they find out my mother is the attorney, they’re going to give me the exemption, as my mother will be delighted to take the licensing board to court for barring the handicapped from working in viable roles. Shooters need to be able to shoot a gun, not run a marathon. She’s already started building the case. I foresee changes to how they handle shooters in the future. Those qualifications will probably ease somewhat, although they’ll have more stringent requirements for new teams moving forward.”
I could live with being used to give people better chances of surviving the court system. “I’ll play that game. What do you need me to do?”
“Get your aim at a hundred yards as good as it can be.”
“I’m going to need a lot of range time at that, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to shoot at one time right now.”
“Do your best. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”
Would my best be good enough? That was always the question I struggled with. Whatever. It would have to be.
I couldn’t allow the brutal murders of so many people to remain a mystery, not when I might be able to do something about it. If the law couldn’t bring justice, I would.
How?
That I didn’t know, not yet.
The Hampton family had several residences, and had I been wise, I would have requested we stay at the Manhattan home, which was actually four floors of a skyscraper they owned. Instead, he took me out to the Hamptons, a two-hour drive from the city. Half an hour into the drive, I clued in where we were going.
The mansion, three stories tall and excessive in all ways, made an imposing sight by the ocean, and unless a lot had changed in the past few years, the property boasted extensive gardens, easy access to the beach, and enough rooms for the entire household to be in residence at one time.
His choice of prisons would make going to the range difficult at best.
“Bradley,” I complained from my place in the front passenger seat, which had the most leg room. He’d taken the back seat across from me so he could talk my ear off at his leisure while Ren drove.
“I’m aware you know my name. You’ve used it many times this drive. I think you’ve used it on me almost at a rate of once per minute.”
“How am I supposed to work from the fucking Hamptons?”
“We have the internet and cellular service. What else do you need?”
“Easy access to the library.”
“Your branch has been closed for two weeks, so you can’t even go into the library until then. The timing is perfect. I’ll even be a gentleman and help you with the renovation planning should you become bored.”
“What about the range?”
“There’s one a mile from the house. More importantly, there is one in the house.”
Wait. What? The Hampton family had installed a gun range in the house? “You have to be kidding me.”
“He’s not kidding. He refused to carry a firearm without having a place to practice, and unlike yo
u, he is not naturally skilled with a firearm. He had a ten stall firing range installed as a detached basement. So technically it isn’t in the house. It’s near the house, and you can access it from a hallway in the actual basement. The Hampton family had the range made to professional standards.”
“Professional standards? What does that even mean?” There were regulations all firing ranges had to meet, but I’d never heard anyone call the regulations professional standards before.
“It’s suitable for law enforcement of all stripes to get hours in as long as they’re properly registered, and the range meets all legal requirements.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You tore up your perfectly nice yard to install a firing range?”
Bradley grinned. “It also doubles as a bomb shelter, too. The walls are a mix of modern materials meant to eliminate ricochet blended with magic that also eliminates ricochet and muffles the sound of gunfire.”
“Really? A bomb shelter? Why a bomb shelter? Who uses bombs nowadays?”
“Terrorists, really. The military does at times, and they’re available for war-time use, but it’s a defensive structure capable of withstanding both magical and mundane attacks.”
“What do you know that I don’t?”
“I know that there are millions of Americans who don’t have a high enough magical aptitude rating to qualify for a lot of services they need, and when they reach the boiling point, there will be a revolution, and only an idiot isn’t ready for it. My family has already decided what our action plan will be.”
I stared at him, my mouth dropping open as I processed his words.
A bomb shelter made a great deal more sense when viewed in the light of a civil war. “What sort of action plan are we talking about here?” I avoided the news unless I couldn’t because of work, but even I could recognize he made a very good and chilling point. “They’re not wrong.”
