Booked for Murder

by RJ Blain

  One more setback with my foot probably wouldn’t kill me.

  Well, unless my magic continued to insist on masking severe health problems. That might kill me. I eyed my casted foot, wondering what sort of fresh hell waited for me whenever I got it off. How much damage could a bullet do to a foot? When I thought about it that way, I marveled I had a foot at all.

  Satisfied with my foot’s situation, I investigated the rest of my room, startled to discover I had one of the rare single occupancy hospital dungeons. A cup with water and a straw waited within easy reach, and after taking a moment to confirm which arm was cursed with the IV line, I reached with my free hand, snagged it, and took a sip with the straw, offering relief to my poor parched mouth and throat. Bracing for the worst, I swallowed.

  I experienced none of the discomfort I associated with recent intubation, something not even painkillers fully removed.

  All in all, while I got to enjoy yet another stay in the hospital, I was already ahead of the game.

  I could work with that.

  Boredom kicked in within a few minutes. Outside of standard hospital charts, including the loathed pain chart, I had a single minor water spot on the ceiling to amuse me and little else. Someone had tilted the monitor with my vitals so I couldn’t read it, and someone had turned the IV stand so I couldn’t check its display, either.

  What sort of terrible person left a librarian completely alone in a hospital room without anything to read?

  On second thought, had I actually survived? I could readily believe I’d entered some form of hell.

  I counted to a thousand, muttered curses, and eyed the bedside button. Bothering the nurses, who had long, hard jobs, wasn’t my style, so I settled with glaring at the damned thing since whining for a book probably wouldn’t get me anywhere. Sulking wouldn’t, either, but I indulged as I lacked anything else to do.

  I counted to ten thousand before a nurse came in doing the rounds, and when she spotted me observing her with interest, she offered a smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “Too good for the situation.” I pointed at my foot, winced at the tug of the catheter in my arm, and switched hands to gesture to my cast. “That should hurt, but it doesn’t. I’m ready for the regular questions, as I’m betting the doctors are busy with other patients who need them more than I do, as I’m feeling no pain beyond the damned catheter. I don’t suppose I can pay you to take the damned thing out, can I?”

  The nurse chuckled, plucked the clipboard hanging off the door, and flipped through the sheets. “I’m afraid the catheter needs to stay for now. How would you rate yourself on the pain chart?”

  “Put me at a solid zero, although the catheter might annoy me into a one or two if I can’t remember to keep that damned arm still. Why is it my foot doesn’t hurt but the catheter does? That’s not fair.”

  “Before we discuss your foot, can you give me your name?”

  “Which one? The birth one or the current one? My first name is Janette. Actually, if we can skip the last name portion of this exercise and skip straight to my address, you’d become my favorite nurse on this entire planet. I’ve come to the conclusion the IV line is feeding me some pretty damned good drugs right now, although I’m highly disappointed that the catheter still stings.”

  “Manic reactions to the drug you’re on is quite normal, and it was selected due to your unfortunate tendency to panic following sedation,” the nurse replied. “Where do you live?”

  I gave her my address, included my age, my driver’s license number, and rattled off every other vital statistic I could think of to prove I still retained my memory. After I ran out of the usual questions a nurse might want answered to check my memory, I frowned and added, “I’ll likely be staying at one of the Hampton’s residences until I’m mobile again, and I don’t care what they say, after I can move again without dealing with the urge to throw my wheelchair down a flight of stairs, I will enjoy my apartment without them dragging me out of it every night.”

  She laughed. “Do you remember why you’re here?”

  “With unfortunate clarity. Someone assassinated Senator Maybelle at her political rally. My foot got in the way of one of the bullets, and at least three other people were also shot. I did what I could for the other victims, but I probably adrenaline crashed at some point.” I considered what I remembered. “I overexerted my ability.” I tensed, waiting for the nurse’s reaction.

  “Yes. You’re a rather skilled exsanguinator. We called the hospital you used to volunteer at for assistance, as we were not sure how to work around you. You maintained blood flow for a patient with a torn aorta for over three hours before we could get a doctor in who was experienced with your ability and could work around you. You kept rejecting interference from other exsanguinators and menders who did not approach the situation in a way you anticipated. Unfortunately, you weren’t responding to verbal communication. Your method of refusing their assistance was quite interesting.”

  Crap. I remembered having done something to prevent anyone from bothering me while I worked, and I could think of only one thing I may have done to stop an unwanted individual from interfering with me. “Please tell me I didn’t whip them on the back of the hand with somebody’s blood.”

  “You used your blood, but yes, that is what happened. It was good fortune one of the paramedics on the scene recognized you, had worked with you before, and had a rough idea of how you typically operated, although he’d never seen you treat three patients at one time.”

  I sighed. “I apologize.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You knew what you were doing, although we were eager to get you into the operating room and wished we could have treated you sooner. We had to address your injuries last because of the situation, but everyone will survive with minimal impairments. There were some legalities we had to address, however.”

  “Senator Maybelle isn’t a flagged donor. Because she no longer needed her blood and matched the blood type of the chest gunshot victim, I stole her blood, which could be considered a mutilation of a corpse charge,” I guessed.

  “Yes. Senator Maybelle’s family, upon report from the morgue on her immediate death, opted against pressing charges.”

  “Why are you telling me that?” I asked, tilting my head to the side at the oddity.

  “It was requested we notify you if the subject came up.”

  Bradley’s mother. “Right. I gave an attorney power of attorney, and now wherever I go, she’s nearby lawyering on my behalf but more on the behalf of her son. I can’t escape. She probably figured I’d worry myself sick over it if allowed. She’s not wrong. Oh, well.” I had no idea what kind of drugs the nurses had spiked my IV line with, but they made my life easier to handle. “You’re not going to amputate my foot, right? I really want to keep my foot.”

  The nurse approached and checked the IV stand, making a notation onto the clipboard. “As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll tell the doctor you’re conscious and sociable. She’ll explain everything.”

  “Is this doctor going to upset Dr. Mansfield? Because Dr. Mansfield is going to be pissed if her hard work was further undone. She gets pretty upset about that. I don’t want her to contemplate my death.”

  Laughing, the nurse shook her head. “The doctor is Dr. Mansfield, so I’m certain she is pleased with the quality of her work. I believe her only complaint involves having to operate in a hospital she’s unfamiliar with, with staff she’s never worked with before.”

  “If I forget to tell her I’m sorry, please tell her I’m sorry for me.”

  “I’ll mention it to her, but I expect she will be here within a few minutes, as she was hoping you’d come around during the night, as she preferred to deal with your anxiety attacks outside of visiting hours.”

  “I’m really sorry about that.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she replied. “Dr. Mansfield will be able to answer all of your questions, so please be patient for a few more minutes.”

  “
Is there any chance someone left me a book?”

  “Yes, there is a bag for you that should have a book in it. Dr. Mansfield will handle that.” The nurse returned the clipboard to its proper place and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Before I had a chance to get bored, my podiatrist opened the door, snagged the clipboard, and slapped the side of her leg with it.

  “I may be drugged silly, but even I can tell when I’m in trouble with my doctor.”

  Dr. Mansfield pointed the clipboard at me. “You are something else.”

  “In my defense, I didn’t put my foot in front of a bullet on purpose. It just sort of happened. And then I prioritized based on severity, and my foot lost that contest. If it helps, I did make sure I wouldn’t bleed to death first. I can’t save others if I bleed to death, so I got that part right.”

  “Well, your memory of the incident seems unimpaired. I was concerned about potential trauma. You’re absolutely correct on that front.”

  “If someone drove a sports car into my foot, I might have a problem, but bullets are not sports cars. If you wish to discuss trauma, I refused to get anywhere near Bradley’s car.”

  “Which happens to be your preferred color of the same model involved in the crash. I’m aware. I intend to have you both go through therapy until you’re capable of driving the vehicle without issues. You’ll also undergo therapy for this latest incident.”

  Well, that would make a mess of my near future. “I suppose witnessing someone murdered right in front of me, when I’m not the one doing the killing, might classify as traumatic.” I pointed at my foot. “If I lose that, I’m definitely going to be traumatized.”

  “You’re not going to lose your foot.”

  “That’s something.” I glared at the cast, which was bulkier than my old cast. “I’m not even going to be able to use a wheelchair with that thing. I’ll try to move it, and the weight of it will anchor me to the floor.”

  “While I’m relieved the current drug you’re on has mitigated your tendency to panic upon waking in a hospital, I am concerned.”

  “I’m concerned, too. I’m not going to be able to move at all with this thing. My foot is more secure than Fort Knox right now. Nobody is getting to it. You’ll need a chainsaw to free me from its clutches.”

  “I’m sure we can handle removing your cast when it’s time for it to come off.” Dr. Mansfield checked my IV stand, confirmed the readings on the clipboard, and flipped through the pages. “There are a few issues I need to cover with you before I’ll allow visitors. I’ve barred visitation due to your tendency to panic while coming out of sedation, although we only had four failed attempts to safely rouse you this time.”

  “I even woke up without an audience,” I reported.

  “Yes, we were using the heart rate monitor with a low threshold for an alarm to allow the nurses to be able to work with other patients without having to be on constant observation. We’ll try this drug again for future procedures, as you seem to be having a far better time tolerating your situation while on it, and I’ll be looking into anxiety medication for you for future hospital stays. It would be foolish of me to presume you will have an easy time coping with hospitalization.”

  “I like doctors but being an inmate sucks.”

  She chuckled. “You’ll be here for three or four days. Two days from now, we’ll be evaluating how your foot is healing, and you’ll undergo another procedure. If everything goes well, you’ll be here for another twenty-four hours post-op and leave with a lightweight medical boot.”

  “Wait, lightweight? I thought you were going to put me in a heavy thing to force me to walk on that side.”

  “I’ve changed the plan following your latest operation. In some ways, the bullet was a blessing in disguise. While it broke bones in your foot, I was able to correct a lot of your prior injuries while addressing the trauma from being shot. You’re now eight months ahead of schedule. I was able to work with several menders to restore a great deal of your bone and muscle strength. In even better news, we had a medically trained exsanguinator in the operating room, and he was able to direct the cardiovascular menders on how to restore proper circulation to your foot.”

  Wait. A medically trained exsanguinator? “Repeat that?”

  “Which part?”

  “About the exsanguinator.”

  “Ah, I see. The exsanguinator is a member of the armed forces who is trained as a field medic. As Senator Maybelle’s death classifies as an assassination, the military was called in to review the case along with the FBI. I don’t fully understand the legalities, but I appreciated his assistance, as Senator Maybelle was on a new prescription to treat a medical issue, one that contaminated your blood along with the blood of the other victims. The drug was initially developed for military use to combat ability fatigue, but it’s in development as a general treatment for ability degradation. The side effects are not well documented, but it’s doubtful you will suffer from any long-term consequences, as the substance was removed from your bloodstream. Apparently, if taken for too long, it can become very addictive, but short-term usage can allow magic to be used extensively with minimal consequences. Essentially, the drug was why you were able to push the limits of your general abilities and treat three patients at one time. It was giving your natural abilities a significant boost. It is probable you were functioning at a complete 100% magical aptitude rating while under the influence. It took him several hours to purify your blood, which had to be done before we could begin treatment on your foot.”

  I remembered the hot, slimy, and greasy contamination in Senator Maybelle’s blood, and I needed to ask Bradley to have Mickey check into the medical industry for any relevant research on the subject. “Why was she on it?”

  “That is private information.”

  “Magical aptitude degradation?” I guessed, well aware there were drugs on the market available to treat such a disorder—and a senator pushing through ability reforms would not want her aptitude rating to drop below the threshold for her benefit. “It felt similar to the one prescription I was given.”

  “I can neither deny nor confirm that,” Dr. Mansfield replied.

  “What’s the deal with my foot, really? I’m prepared to grudgingly accept if you have to cut it off.”

  “We are not going to cut your foot off, Janette. Your foot is healing well, and you’re ahead of schedule for a recovery, not for an amputation. Your blood chemistry is back to normal, your foot’s circulatory problems have been addressed, and we did another round of treatments on your lungs while we were there, as your blood oxygen levels without influence of your magic were below acceptable ranges. The exsanguinator helped maintain oxygenation while the menders worked on restoring your organs to functional levels. We also took the time to do a proper check on your spleen.”

  “How is my adopted spleen doing?”

  “Very well. The transplant is being consider a complete success. We also did an aptitude test post operation.”

  Uh oh. While most aptitude rating tests were done while the person being tested was conscious with special bracelets meant to monitor and rate, someone skilled could adjust their rating. The more expensive test, which most insurance companies refused to cover and cost thousands of dollars, could test aptitude ratings through more invasive means, best done while under sedation and impossible to falsify. “How’d I do?”

  “98.7% is your new registered aptitude rating. We suspect because of the refined work involved with constantly oxygenating your own blood and correcting your circulatory problem, you further developed your magical ability. This, however, could be a significant problem for you because of the nature of your ability. With your physical health problems being handled properly, your magic will no longer have an outlet. You will have to do daily exercises to use your ability so it doesn’t bottle up.”

  I grimaced at the thought of my magic erupting due to disuse and accumulating, something I’d been warned about could happen to ade
pts who weren’t vigilant about their abilities. “And my 17.2% rating?”

  “The exsanguinator who came to assist with your treatment confirmed that a high-grade adept who is constantly draining their ability doing refined work can register that low. It’s more impressive you were able to maintain the working on yourself for so long. I do have some good news for you, however.”

  “You do? What good news?”

  “Your ability has been declared unsuitable for military use, and I have a recommendation for you to attend medical courses so you can work in volunteer positions, and if you would like to change careers, a recommendation would be issued for you to attend medical school. Exsanguinators require a special exemption for medical school, and I have the documentation signed, certified, and in the safe in my office. An official copy will be given to you upon your release from the hospital, so you can keep it in a safe place. Your demonstration at the rally has done substantial work in favor of exsanguinators in the medical field. Without you, at least one of the patients would have died before trained medical professionals arrived.”

  “It’s rather difficult to survive through a torn aorta.”

  “That it is. So, you have options should you wish to receive formal medical training, and you will find it will be easier for you to volunteer in local hospitals and medical centers.”

  Several years ago, I would have done anything for the option of becoming a doctor or nurse, being able to save lives for a living. Now, I rode too many horses as it was, and I would have to think long and hard about what I wanted—and if I could accomplish everything I wanted to do with my life.

  Figuring out what the hell I actually wanted to do with my life needed to come first.