Booked for Murder

by RJ Blain

  “Wuss,” I muttered, but I held out my hands for lunch. “Thank you for fetching lunch for me. This makes being knocked out in my own home a little less painful.”

  “You could use the sleep,” he replied, giving me my container. “Enjoy.”

  I’d enjoy nothing about the rest of my day, but I kept my opinion to myself. Complaining wouldn’t do any good.

  It never did.

  Sixteen

  My magic wanted me to live.

  I skirted the delicate line between being awake, enjoying a dream, and suffering through a nightmare. A tiny part of me recognized my state as somewhat conscious, which offered me the illusion I might be able to escape from the recollections of my past mixed with my sleep-befuddled brain doing its best to cope with the reality of my life.

  The memory of right before the crash came back to me with crystal-clear clarity. I moved my foot from the gas to the brake, allowing the car to coast, the tires slipping before rolling on the asphalt. I observed the car behind me, aware the driver had lost control of his vehicle from the way he slid on the oil-slicked roads.

  I slid, too, but it’d taken light, alternating taps of the brake and gas to restore what I’d lost.

  I resumed coasting, satisfied the car would do what I needed when the moment came, and it would. It was a matter of seconds. I couldn’t swerve, not without killing me and my precious passenger. I couldn’t do anything other than position for the crash and hope for the best.

  Damned weather, turning a scenic drive into a disaster.

  It’d been a while since the last rainfall, and a lot of cars journeyed on the stretch of road between the cluster of nearby cities, turning the pavement into a unique peril. I’d spent years practicing how to keep control of a hydroplaning car, something I mimicked using special tarps and water, which did a damned good job of emulating the dangerous conditions I might encounter when the weather had a mind of its own and too many didn’t take proper care of their vehicles.

  I doubted the driver behind me realized he’d lost traction, sliding despite his efforts to stop before hitting us.

  Bradley kept talking, although his words remained lost to me.

  All my attention focused on making sure his prized beauty of a car did its final task without fail.

  If I let him hit me straight in the back, the curve ahead would prove our deaths, plummeting us into a ravine. If he rammed us into the rock cut, they’d need a shovel and bucket to collect our remains. No matter what I did, our vehicle would be shunted into a dangerous position, but I could force him to ram my side of the car and clip the rock wall, slowing us enough we wouldn’t go over the edge. My side of the car would take most of the damage.

  Too many ifs plagued the scenario, but if I did everything just right, Bradley might walk away.

  I accounted for the rain, waited for the last moment, and pumped the brake, turned the wheel, and made sure the bastard behind me hit me at an angle while I slammed the brakes, the only choice I had without crushing Bradley into the rock wall on one side or knocking us off the road into the ravine on the other.

  Instead of only blackness, new memories trickled in. Smoke choked off my breath, and while somewhat aware of my surroundings, my eyes no longer worked.

  I could taste blood in my mouth, hot and fresh from a jagged wound in my throat.

  I didn’t need my eyes to fix that. I became aware of my magic, which I usually kept on a close leash, slipping out of my grasp. It still obeyed somewhat, staunching the flood of blood from my torn carotid. Maybe it understood if I continued to bleed from there, my lifespan would be measured in minutes.

  Any other day, that would have scared me.

  A new memory formed, one that slid into its rightful place, as gentle as a feather drifting down from the sky on a still day.

  The magic I’d buried wanted me to live, and it listened to another’s will, as though it needed direction and couldn’t quite figure out what it should do despite understanding if it did nothing, I would die. I’d never believed my magic twas capable of independent thought or feelings. It’d been a part of me since I’d been a child, a lifeless thing I breathed life into.

  My magic wanted me to live.

  It could learn, and as more memories flooded in, I recognized who had taught it what it needed to know.

  Bradley.

  He lived, and although he used only one hand, he fought a battle he won without realizing why. Where he touched, my magic followed, closing the wounds that would have otherwise taken my life. My magic continued to learn, and the external wounds ceased bleeding, although Bradley had no way of knowing he worked a new magic, one that bound me to the life I’d willingly given.

  Beneath the relief I’d done everything just right came a second emotion, one I’d done my best to ignore. Nothing good could come from me harboring any form of love for a man I worked for, one I’d sworn to give my life for if necessary.

  The crystal clarity returned, and another facet returned, one that should have haunted me for years instead of hiding in the darkest recesses of my mind.

  Pride in my work and flimsy sheets of paper with my signature on them hadn’t forced me to turn the wheel as I had without hesitation. Duty hadn’t played any part of my decision.

  I loved him enough I hadn’t wanted to see a world without him in it, even if it meant throwing everything away.

  Rather than fading to the silent dark I expected, flashes of light, hazy voices, and tortured breaths stolen accompanied the hammering of a frigid rain. Somehow, the rain washed away the blank spaces, penetrating through the fog I hadn’t realized I’d battled.

  “It would be a mercy to let her go.”

  That voice I remembered, that of a doctor I’d loathed for reasons I hadn’t understood.

  I understood those reasons now. Of course I would resent someone who’d wanted to pull the plug and end a life I still fought for despite being unaware of it. The memory of his name slid into place.

  Dr. Geran Avers.

  What an asshole.

  “Is she in pain, then?” Bradley asked.

  “No. We have not recorded any significant brain activity in a month. Even if she does awaken, it is probable she will enter a vegetative state and stay there.”

  “If she isn’t in any pain, then it doesn’t hurt anything for me to continue paying your hospital for all costs of her care. There is no mercy in murder, and killing her when she could survive is murder. She’s not dead yet.”

  I’d have to thank him for that one. I’d also have to set him straight on a few things.

  I’d given my life for his, and he’d secured mine. Tit-for-tat.

  Idiot man.

  “She might never awaken.”

  “But she might.”

  “Even if she survives, the physical therapy is practically insurmountable. Nobody goes through a crash like that and walks.”

  “I did.”

  The memory faded away, and the conversation repeated itself several times with minor variation, although Bradley refused to budge, ordering the doctors to continue my care despite their protests over impossibilities. Then the conversation changed.

  Their voices no longer seemed quite so far away.

  “I think you like flying me in from New York once a week. Did you miss me that much, Dr. Avers?”

  For the first time, the doctor chuckled. “I’m looking forward to making you leave my hospital.”

  “We’ve talked about this before. I’m not authorizing her removal from life support.”

  “She was taken off life support this morning.”

  Silence. “She’s breathing on her own.”

  “I appreciate you did not jump to the incorrect conclusion. Two days ago, she stabilized on her own, and we began preliminary testing to see if she could survive without life support. Early this morning, she passed our final checks, which is when I called you to ask you to come in. You have some decisions to make.”

  “What decisions?”

>   “It is about her foot. We are evaluating our options, and we are not confident in recovery. We are recommending amputation.”

  I could make a few guesses on why that particular memory had been ejected into the ether, and I’d be asking Bradley if that conversation had actually happened or my twisted psyche hated me. If it had, I’d be marching across the country and kicking Dr. Avers in the groin for even thinking about amputating my damned foot.

  “That’s her driving foot, and I absolutely will not authorize amputation unless she’s at risk of dying from infection or she decides otherwise. It is her choice, and as it was not amputated immediately following the crash, I will need a second opinion on that recommendation.”

  “It’s prohibitively expensive—”

  “Do I look like I care how much it costs? Did I care that your hospital charges fifteen thousand a day for life support care? If I wasn’t concerned about those fees, why would I care about the rest of it? Once she wakes up, you will act like you expect to work on rehabilitating her foot. The cost is of no issue to me.”

  “It takes a great deal of resources—”

  “If you are unwilling to do the work, I will find someone who is.”

  “It’s not that. The treatments would be excruciatingly painful.”

  “You do not get to decide what she is willing or not willing to endure. That is only a decision she can make, and you will abide by whatever choice she makes.” Bradley’s tone allowed no argument, and I gave the idiot doctor credit. He kept his mouth shut.

  The conversation explained a lot about all the little things I’d wondered about over the years, including Bradley’s callous way of telling me to bugger off until I reached my prime.

  He’d understood me better than I’d believed possible.

  My twisted psyche spared me from reliving when he’d come into my hospital room, looked me over, and told me the next time he wanted to see me was when I was back in my prime. That hadn’t worked out in the way I’d thought.

  Life rarely worked out like I thought it would.

  A beep drew me from my memories, and I recognized the sound as a heart monitoring machine, something I shouldn’t have been hearing.

  I’d been at home having weapons calibrated to me. That shouldn’t have landed me in the hospital. A surge of panic snapped me awake, and the machine squealed, informing the world my heart rate had spiked.

  “You’re fine, Janette,” Bradley said. “If you could stop having panic attacks every damned time you start coming around, I’d really appreciate it. You’re going to give me a panic attack at the rate you’re going.”

  Someone snorted, and I recognized the disgruntled sound as coming from my podiatrist, Dr. Mansfield. She always sounded like that when it came to me. “It’s perfectly natural for someone to react like that, Mr. Hampton. She knows what the monitors sound like, and it’s perfectly reasonable for her to have a trauma-based reaction to them. Ignore him, Janette. Try to take some deep breaths. You had a reaction to the mix of painkillers, sedative, and a circulation problem in your foot. It seems you were unconsciously regulating the circulation in your foot, and once you started taking the painkillers, it disrupted your abilities just enough you could no longer do that. That’s why your foot swelled this morning. Unfortunately, the swelling damaged some delicate bones in your foot, so I needed to perform corrective surgery last night. In good news, it was a quiet night, so we had the staff on hand needed for the operation and you have someone paying the bill, so I was able to get a lot of good work done on it. In bad news, every time I’ve tried to bring you out of sedation, you’ve flown straight into a panic, like now. I’ve been putting you under all afternoon because I can’t give you a chill pill right now. So, if you can’t get your heart rate back somewhere safer on your own, I’ll have to sedate you again.”

  Okay. I could work with that information. I started with breathing. Breathing helped. It only took a few breaths to confirm I wasn’t intubated, which put me way ahead of the game. If I went through the rest of my life without a tube shoved down my throat, I’d be happy. Trying to talk didn’t end well for me, and I ultimately huffed at my dry tongue and uncooperative mouth.

  “Let’s try you on some water,” my doctor suggested, and she held a straw to my mouth. A few sips helped a lot, and I sighed my relief.

  “This sucks,” I complained.

  Bradley grunted. “I’m sorry.”

  “Doc, make him stop.”

  “Mr. Hampton, be quiet or wait in the hall. I’ve learned she does not like when people pointlessly apologize to her. You didn’t do anything, so don’t apologize for what you didn’t do. Now, Janette is at fault for not disclosing her abilities, as it would have helped to know why certain symptoms hadn’t occurred which I expected, but I am also not upset, as I fully understand the reasoning for secrecy. Are you ready for the bad news?”

  I cracked open an eye, grunted at the hospital room, a sight I never wanted to see again despite my understanding I’d have to spend time in them if I wanted my foot to ever heal right. My foot, elevated in a sling and hidden within a cast, promised misery to come, especially as the cast went right up to my damned knee. “You’re going to make me use a wheelchair, aren’t you?”

  “For two weeks, yes. I’m sorry. You can’t put any significant weight on your foot at all until then. At most, you can rest your foot on the floor while seated. In a week, I can start doing the treatments needed to strengthen the bones enough that you can use a boot again. I had to break and realign quite a few bones in your foot, and it will take a great deal of magic to get you out of that cast. Otherwise, you’re looking at eight weeks in the wheelchair.”

  “I’m going to stink if I’m stuck in a wheelchair for even two weeks.”

  I’d learned the hard way I needed a caretaker when in a wheelchair, as I couldn’t handle everything on my own.

  My doctor laughed. “Yes, stinking is a unique peril due to having a leg cast you can’t get wet for two weeks. You can bathe as long as you have help and don’t get it wet. You’ll likely have to cope with sponge baths until you’re out of the cast. Once you’re out of the cast, you’ll find you’ll have better mobility, but you’ll be in a different type of medical boot for six months. It can get wet, but you can’t take it off for a minimum of two months. Yes, I know that’ll be miserable to sleep in, but it’s necessary.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Your left leg has been carrying so much of your body weight that your spine has suffered as a result. The boot will be weighted to force you out of the habit of leaning all of your weight to your left side and make certain you don’t undo the repairs we did on your spine while we were dealing with your foot last night.”

  Crap. They’d done work on my spine? “Is my spine okay? I need that. How weighted are we talking about for the boot?”

  Bradley grinned and sat beside me, although he offered no commentary.

  “You will be cursing me for the first few weeks, as you’ll be dragging your heavy boot around. Your spine is fine now. It added twenty minutes to the procedure, and we didn’t need to do more than encourage it to realign. We have a surgeon on staff who has a good ability for the operation. You’ll be stiff for a week or so, but that’s it. However, the boot situation gets worse.”

  “How could it possibly get worse?” I reached for the cup, and my doctor handed it to me, hovering while waiting to see if I had the coordination to keep a hold on it. While my hands shook, I managed to hold it on my own.

  However small, I’d accept the victory.

  “Every two weeks, I will be adding weights or replacing the boot as needed.”

  “You’re a terrible person, Dr. Mansfield.”

  She laughed. “I’m such a terrible person, I know. You’ve had a rough night, although you probably don’t remember most of it. You were pretty out of it the first few times we tried to rouse you. I told Mr. Hampton to let you have your panic attack this time without freaking out.”

&n
bsp; “Someone should just add to my medical record that I do that,” I muttered before taking another sip of water. The machine quieted, which made relaxing easier. “How long will I be in here?”

  “You have options. You’re out of the danger zone, although I want to observe your vitals for three more hours before authorizing your release. If there are no problems in three hours, and you promise to stay in your wheelchair where you belong or stay seated without putting unnecessary weight on your foot, I’ll let you out today.”

  “Please clarify what I can and can’t do with my foot, because I really don’t want to mess this up.”

  “Normal sitting with your feet on the floor or on a rest is fine. The cast is designed to keep your foot completely immobile. You just can’t put your full weight on it. In a week, once you’ve had a chance to heal, you’ll be back here for the next phase.”

  I wondered how the hell I’d be able to do anything useful while stuck in a wheelchair for a few weeks. “Can I sit on a stool?”

  “I see no reason why you can’t, although you would need help getting onto the stool.”

  I directed my attention to Bradley. “Did you get my new friends calibrated before I tried to kick the bucket on you?”

  That got a scowl out of him. “Yes, they’re calibrated. We only noticed you were having difficulties when we were going to put you to bed and you started to wheeze. You were fine upright, but once we went to lie you flat, that’s when the trouble started. At that point, I called my doctor, who told me to call your doctor, and Dr. Mansfield had me call an ambulance. Since all of the prescriptions were verified, that part of things is fine.”

  “Honestly, I would have authorized that sedative myself because I know you’re usually fatigued. Now I’m thinking that fatigue is due to you constantly manipulating your own body with your magic without being aware you’re doing it. It would also explain why you managed to score on your rating test like you did. You’ve been constantly tapping your magic, so your reserves are low. Your blood chemistry has always been exceptional when there’s evidence it shouldn’t be. I may have taken advantage of the situation to do some preliminary checks on your internal organs.”