Booked for Kidnapping (Vigilante Magical Librarians Book 2)

by R. J. Blain

  “That’s a possibility. Feet are complicated, and in some cases, pins and rods and metal parts are better in the long term for the patient. That’s one handy ability, Mr. Hampton,” my doctor complimented. “Excellent. How much infection was there?”

  “Enough they removed a huge amount of her foot getting rid of it, then they used the bone mender to restore what was taken by pillaging from her left. They restored everything at one time.” Bradley’s father scowled. “I remember this from my classes, but this was an amputation-level infection. They tore out that much.”

  “Don’t be so cranky. It’s a solid medical procedure, and it’s done with some patients if the right doctor is available. Usually, it’s done with hands for musicians, artists, and those who simply cannot manage their normal lifestyle without a certain finger or their entire hand. It’s also prohibitively expensive, so most have it done through a medical school program. They would be charged at cost for the operation, which is still expensive, but it’s critical for teaching new bone menders how to handle this sort of procedure.”

  “How many bone menders can do work on this level?” I asked.

  Dr. Mansfield frowned, pulled her phone out of her pocket, and made a call. “Yvon? Mind coming over? Our patient is awake, and Mr. Hampton used his talent to give us a better idea of the procedure. We’d like to pick your brains.” After a pause, she laughed. “Not literally. You’re useless to us if we were to remove your gray matter from your skull.”

  “They tortured her,” Bradley’s father grumbled.

  “And she can’t remember it, so I would do your best to not worry about it. You can’t change it, and while she paid a hefty price in the form of pain, they did what we otherwise couldn’t because of that pain. It takes a particularly ruthless doctor to be willing to subject someone to that. I couldn’t do it.”

  Somehow, that comforted me. “I probably would have let you, though. As long as I wasn’t isolated. I’ve learned I hate isolation.”

  Unlike his father, Bradley relaxed, and he smiled at me. “I don’t like they hurt you, but I’ve always admired your determination.”

  Someone knocked at the door, and a moment later, one of my original doctors, who’d fought rather hard to preserve my foot, strolled in through the door. I pointed at him. “You’re not the asshole!”

  Crap. I clapped my hands over my mouth, heaved a sigh, and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I am not the asshole,” the older man replied, and he grinned at me. “She means Dr. Avers. She was not shy about informing him he was an asshole, as he kept proposing we amputate her foot. While I didn’t get to finish the work I helped to start, I admired how you got up and left the hospital when you determined you did not appreciate what your medical staff discussed. For the record, I was always on your side, and you made it clear you wanted to keep your foot, so that was the only acceptable option.”

  “My main podiatrist was a woman,” I said, frowning as I couldn’t remember the man being one of the vocal leaders of the medical staff.

  “Yes, she was. I was called in as a consultant and supporting staff for her. Your case was above her skill level, but with my help, it was within her abilities. Had I been leading the team, I would have evicted Dr. Avers altogether.”

  “I really appreciate that.”

  “Now, what questions do you have about your foot? I am here, and if I can’t answer, I know who can.”

  I vaguely remembered liking the man, although my feelings towards him hadn’t prevented me from bailing and running back to New York. As it would drive Dr. Mansfield halfway to crazy, I pointed at my right foot and asked, “So, you won’t have to amputate it?”

  Yvon tossed his head back and howled his laughter. “Your foot is safe from us evil feet thieves.”

  “I like this one, Dr. Mansfield. He actually has a sense of humor.”

  “Much like yours, delightfully twisted and oddly morbid.” She sighed. “Mr. Hampton confirmed they did one operation for all of the work on her foot, starting with the infection removal and ending with bone mending and the pins and rods currently installed.”

  Yvon whistled. “You’re one tough woman, Janette. That level of pain can be so intense it can kill somebody. The first time that sort of operation was tried, we lost a patient on a table due to pain-induced cardiac arrest. The current death rate for similar operations is twenty-five percent; unless we can induce a full medical coma, which is dangerous in its own right, most sedatives can’t handle the amount of pain we put the patients through—and there are consequences to using those sedatives. If you were partially conscious for the procedure, your doctor wanted you to get through it alive. He—or she—would have been able to monitor your risks of cardiac arrest and deal with a heart attack in progress. It’s much harder to prevent or treat cardiac arrest in a comatose patient when we’re working that sort of procedure. By the time we notice the preliminary symptoms, it’s often too late. This specific procedure is notorious for trouble, so it’s limited to medical schools with the world’s best leading the operations so student doctors can learn through observation—and treat potential cardiac arrest. Mr. Hampton, was there any evidence of a cardiac incident during the procedure?”

  “How would I tell?” Bradley’s father asked, and deep lines formed along his brow, a match for his scowl.

  “A very sudden departure from consciousness, loss of breath, dizziness, and discomfort in the chest.”

  After a moment of concentration, he shook his head. “I’m not detecting anything like that. There also doesn’t seem to be any concern among the doctors. One person seems to have been given the job of attending to Janette. During some of the worst parts, there is a sense of someone holding and comforting her. Janette had no negative reactions to this.”

  “Illusionist,” Yvon stated, nodding his head. “The illusionist would have manipulated her perceptions and inserted the most comforting individual possible to reduce trauma. We use illusionists when possible during operations in case the patient comes out of sedation unexpectedly, particularly on touchy procedures. This buys time for sedation to be used again so the operation can continue. In her case, that wouldn’t have been possible, so the illusionist would have manipulated her perceptions to insert the most comforting individual they could from their knowledge of her. Usually a loved one, a parent, or close friend—or someone trusted. It’s possible the illusionist formed a rapport with her prior to the operation and then used magic to erase the memories.”

  “Is that possible?” I asked.

  “An adept illusionist can do it, yes. But the strength of illusionist required is on par with the bone mender who’d done the work. They are few and far between. I can think of only two or three in the United States skilled enough to work the operating rooms.”

  “Would any of them involve themselves in an operation like this?” Dr. Mansfield asked.

  “Absolutely. All of them would, especially if they thought they could get away with it. Young Janette here has a very good reputation among those in the medical field. Long before you called me for consulting work today, I had indulged in creating a treatment plan and was debating how to implement it. That she went on to save numerous lives at great cost to herself? Yes, if given an opportunity, I could easily see many a brilliant mind performing a very questionable operation like this.”

  Well, that seriously changed how I viewed doctors. “How long would that operation have taken?”

  Yvon nodded at Bradley’s father. “He can tell you exactly how long it took, if my understanding of his abilities is correct.”

  “I can. There’s a clock attached to the machines they had her connected to; it has the date and time on it.”

  “Wait, you can tell that?” I blurted.

  “I’m not the only one who fibs a little regarding my abilities. It’s bad enough the government knows what they do about what I can do. But yes, I can. Your surgery took place in early September, and it lasted twenty-sev
en hours. There must have been several teams doing the work.”

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Yvon confirmed. “Removing the infection and identifying the ruined bone would have taken some five to eight hours, maybe longer depending on the severity. The next phase would be the preparation for the next part, call it an hour while someone made certain to control her bleeding and keep a close eye on her foot for complications while preparing the bone from her other foot. After that, it would have been a long haul for the bone mender. Twenty minutes minimum per bone to do so safely, and there were a lot of bones mended. There are twenty-six bones in the foot, and those bones work with the help of over a hundred tiny muscles, tendons, and ligaments. A second mender would have had to begin restorative work at the same time the bones were being worked on to make certain the foot would recover. It’s quite complicated. I would have expected thirty to forty hours using several shifts of surgeons for the amount of work needed when I’d first seen you. Twenty-seven hours is quite the feat.”

  “I see you’re a fan of the medical team,” I said, raising a brow at Yvon’s enthusiasm.

  “Oh, yes. It’s masterful work. Everything about your operative and post-operative care has been a masterpiece. Your foot has become a work of art. It will cause you pain in the future, and while you wouldn’t want to run races on it, you could if determined enough. You’re determined enough, so please spare my peace of mind and don’t run races. Start with walking, at a leisurely pace.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “But who?” Bradley’s father asked.

  “That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it?” Yvon stared at my foot before shrugging. “At least I can perhaps provide the why, in that many in my field have expressed interest in taking on her treatments. Good deeds deserve reward, and she has the lives of many on her hands—and not in death, but in health. But that still leaves the who. Most curious, indeed. But rest easy tonight, Janette. Your foot is a masterpiece, and while you will limp on bad days, you will have plenty of good days.”

  I could live with that, but I would still hunt for the truth.

  Why try to kill Senator Westonhaus only to kidnap me?

  THIRTEEN

  I’d have to find a way to thank him for that.

  Not long after I finished dinner, Bradley and his father clocked out, going from alert to sound asleep in a matter of minutes. After having slept the day away, I doubted I could nap even if I wanted to, which I didn’t. As such, I prowled the room, found my laptop, booted it up, and went to work piecing together the missing months of my life.

  I began with my email, aware my family and friends had taken the time to try to keep me up to date with the events I’d missed, both big and small. Bradley took the top spot as the one who’d sent an email most days, sometimes several times a day.

  He never expressed his loneliness, but I could read between the lines.

  Before, I’d disappeared as a reaction to his words, accepting a challenge he hadn’t meant to make in that fashion. My kidnapping had redefined everything. Before, I believed he’d held confidence I’d been lurking around some corner. My kidnappers had stripped him of that confidence, leaving behind someone who clung to scraps of hope, using my email address as a lifeline.

  I read through his first, and he’d taken the time to tell me how everyone had reacted to the video. The blame and anger I expected never manifested, although he warned me my best enemy would help me pick a switch when I got home. While he doubted Beatrice would ever admit to missing me, he’d caught her crying once, and he swore he wouldn’t tell anyone other than me and Mickey.

  I’d have to find a way to thank him for that.

  As expected, my parents had taken the news hard, blitzing through the various stages of grief in record time before settling down at pissed at my fiancé for his failure to predict my recklessness so he could come to the rescue like some knight in shining armor. Rolling my eyes at that, I continued to read, taking the time to come to terms with the turbulence among my friends and family.

  In good news, if I could call it that, the problems that had been plaguing us before the memorial had vanished like wisps of smoke on a strong wind. According to Bradley, priorities had changed. Beatrice just wanted her best bitch back, and she felt she should have listened more and felt less.

  I understood that.

  Mickey took the methodical, emotionless route, reporting back facts and details, with the rare comment about how I would have been able to handle various disasters at work with grace. Meridian emailed once a month, keeping her communication to one or two lines.

  It would take a long time for me to learn how to cope with people actually missing me.

  Much like a pack of wolves hunting injured prey, after a few months of coming to terms with the reality I might not come back, the tone of the emails changed. Their attention turned away from keeping me in the loop to what they did to get closure, and most of them kept a close eye on Senator Westonhaus. His run for the White House evoked a myriad of reactions, although most raged he used my name to improve his political standing.

  Bradley led the charge with his suspicions of Westonhaus having something to do with my disappearance, as all the pieces fell together too neatly, too orderly, creating the perfect storm for his political success. Every time the senator’s campaign ratings dwindled, he concocted some way to bring me back to life in the memories of voters, taking advantage of my selfless acts to add fuel to the fire of his selfishness.

  In a way, I felt like I was the one running to be the president, not him. Very little of his campaign focused on his deeds.

  What a bastard.

  I remembered, at least in part, what Senator Westonhaus had said, and composing an email to Bradley, I informed him about how the man claimed to be against the bill he supported and that the upper echelons of the United States dictated who did what in the government, effectively reducing the whole concept of checks and balances to rubble and ash. I made it clear I wasn’t sure if I believed the senator, but if he had spoken the truth, nothing was as it seemed—and that those murdered by the so-called serial killer might have faced a government executioner instead.

  However much being a vigilante appealed to me, I had no idea how we could even hope to topple an entire corrupt government, if Senator Westonhaus had spoken the truth.

  I couldn’t tell.

  When I wasn’t typing, I watched Bradley sleep, wondering if it would be possible for everyone to one day recover from what the months had done to them. I finished my email, sent it, and opened a document so I could take notes on every speculation I could come up with. As far as starting points went, it was shaky at best and unlikely to lead anywhere productive, but I needed a beginning, even if it wasn’t the right one.

  The hours dragged, and when I couldn’t come up with a single new thing to add to my list, I crawled into bed with Bradley, doing my best to keep from waking him. I failed, and he snagged me, dragged me across the mattress, and held me close. “My turn. You’re not escaping me this time,” he murmured before nuzzling my neck. Within a few moments, his breathing returned to the steady rhythm of sleep.

  I made a note to demand a scientific explanation for his ability to pass out in moments, where I often tossed and turned for at least twenty minutes before falling asleep unless I’d ventured into the realm of critically exhausted. To one-up him, I held onto his wrist, snuggled closer, and closed my eyes, allowing my thoughts to wander where they wished.

  Bradley clutching me close and hissing curses at somebody woke me, and I yawned, stretched, and considered hissing, too. After a few moments, I identified Bradley’s father as the culprit, and the older man battled with his son for control over the blanket, and Bradley managed to keep one arm wrapped around me at the same time.

  “What are you two doing?” Somehow, I’d kept my hold on Bradley’s arm, but I had a free hand, and I grabbed the blanket. “Don’t you go stealing my blanket.”

  “It’s time to
get up.”

  “Fucking lies!” I lurched upright and slapped Mr. Hampton’s hands. “My man, my blanket.”

  Bradley laughed, and he sat up, too. “He wasn’t trying to make me leave bed. He just wanted me awake. I’m sure he would have given you the blanket back once he finished bothering me.”

  “Not really,” his father replied. “I want you both awake. I have succeeded. It’s time for lunch, as you both slept through breakfast. I have the sworn word of a doctor I’ll need medical care if I don’t do my fatherly duties and feed you.”

  “She really will inflict pain and suffering on him, Bradley.” My stomach chose that moment to inform me it needed another salad—and maybe some meat as a starter course. “I’ll take a steak and salad, Mr. Hampton. Please.”

  “Do you want your salad loaded with every topping I can get on it?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll also get you the kind made of vegetables, too, so your doctor doesn’t hang me out to dry.”

  “That seems fair,” I conceded.

  “And you, Bradley?”

  “I’ll take the steak and skip the salads.”

  “You’re getting the vegetable kind of salad, and I expect you to eat it.”

  “Cheese, Dad. No salad is worth eating if there’s no cheese.”