It wasn’t an unexpected turn of events; business was business. I opened up my wallet to flash the money at him. It was the only thing it held. My ID, genuine and fabricated, was hidden in a much more secure location. “There you go. Happy?”
He was. Six-gun-packing Santa clucked his tongue in satisfaction and laid his gun on the mosaic-inlaid coffee table. “Go to the back and try not to drip any bodily fluids on your way.”
Nudging Michael ahead of me, I obeyed. The back room was twice the size of the living room. There were cabinets of drugs and supplies, a low bed with plastic sheets, and a portable X-ray machine. “Sit down.” The esteemed ex-doctor waved a plump hand at the bed before pulling over a wheeled silver tray laden with instruments. He didn’t bother to ask what the problem was or give a heyhowyoudo as I took a seat. He had no bedside manner whatsoever. Wielding a pair of surgical scissors, he put a hand on my shoulder, shoved me flat, and deftly sliced my shirt up the middle before I had the chance to slip it off. After a quick look, he grunted and went to work.
He cleaned the wound efficiently but without a whole lot of tender loving care. I gritted my teeth and endured it. Filling the raw channel with antibiotic cream, he covered it with a bandage and tape. “Hardly worth my valuable time,” he grunted as he flexed gloved fingers painted with dabs of red. “Let’s see if the head trauma is a tad more interesting.”
At the head of the bed Michael bristled slightly but kept an even tone. “He has a concussion. Even I can see that and I’m no doctor.”
There was an assessing look aimed at my brother, and it was one I didn’t care for . . . not at all. “A concussion, you say. Aren’t you the knowledgeable boy? Well, could be or perhaps it’s more than that.” Strong fingers mercilessly probed the gash in my scalp. “A slow bleed in the brain is a possibility, but without a CAT scan there’s no reliable way of knowing.” Cold, avid eyes moved from Michael to peer at me over the top of crescent- shaped lenses. “Then again the fact that you haven’t dropped dead yet can be counted a good sign.”
“Thanks. That’s a real comfort,” I muttered.
If he noticed the sarcasm, he was unfazed by it. “You’ll need stitches and IV fluids for the blood loss. Local anesthetic and painkillers are available at an extra charge.”
Hippocrates would be so proud. “Give me the local and a bottle of pain pills. I prefer to dose myself.” If there was any doping to be done, I didn’t trust Vanderburgh to do it. “What about the dizziness and nausea?”
“They’ll pass,” he said dismissively as he reached for a syringe and a rubber stopper vial. “I can give you something for it until then. Of course, it’ll cost—”
“Extra. Yeah, I gathered that.” The sharpness of a needle bit at my skin and filled it with a cold, numbing liquid. I was glad he hadn’t decided to shave a patch of my hair for the stitches. That would be taking my new look a step too far.
Michael was still at my side and looking less impressed with the ex-doctor all the time. He’d been fine through the dressing of the gunshot wound, but now at the sight of needles piercing flesh, a sliver of discomfort showed. That was only going to get worse when it was his turn. The memories made in the Institute basement were going to color anything medically related with suspicion and anxiety. I couldn’t change that or erase the past, but I still had some minor tricks up my sleeve.
“Misha.” Snagging his sleeve, I suggested, “Maybe you should check the car. Make sure you put it in park. With driving as shaky as yours, better safe than sorry.”
“Shaky?” It wasn’t outrage on Michael’s face. He had his emotions far too battened down for something as overt as that. Control was the name of the game, and it was a game that had kept him alive longer than that poor doomed roommate of his. That type of ironclad restraint wouldn’t allow for visible wrath, but it had no problem with annoyance.
“Why do you think I’m so nauseated? Forget concussion. It’s car sickness. You drive like a drunken grandma.”
The annoyance went from mild to a diamond-hard intensity. “I do not. And, by the way, I was not the one who ran over the statue of a large purple pig.”
“Now you’re just being petty,” I rejoined. “That pig died for the greater good and you know it.”
By the time Vanderburgh finished with the stitches, Michael had decided it wasn’t worth wasting valuable oxygen to argue with me, as I was clearly insane. Bending down to examine the results, he relented, “It looks better. Quite a few stitches, but I don’t think it should scar too badly.”
“What’s one more?” I asked wryly before sitting up. Within five minutes I had an IV going into the crook of my arm. I’d chosen the IV bag myself. As I’d said to Michael, better safe than sorry. “Okay, Doc.” The man was no more a doctor than I was despite his years of med school, but I had even less desire to say his name. It was bound to taste foul, like rot. “Now we have a more complex problem.” I explained, in very general terms, about the tracer planted in Michael. Being more specific wasn’t to our advantage. The man would sell us out in a heartbeat if he knew whom to get the money from.
“Intriguing.” Those repulsively fleshly lips pursed. “If it’s not too deep, it may be possible to remove it. I’ll need an X-ray first for location. That’s going with the assumption that it has a metallic component.”
“Yeah, here’s hoping,” I said, standing. Towing along the IV pole, I moved in front of the doctor. He’d left his gun in the living room, carelessly enough, but mine was still here with me. Retrieving it with one smooth motion, I centered it directly between his eyes. The muzzle indented rosy skin just below the V of silver-tufted eyebrows. “I’d just like to go over a few things with you first, Babysitter.” I smiled. It wasn’t a wolfish smile or that of a shark. It was merely a simple friendly one. After all, weren’t we beginning a trusted doctor-patient relationship? Didn’t I have Santa’s best interests at heart? Sure I did.
“First, you perverse prick, look at him like that again and I’ll kill you.” I didn’t bother to elaborate. He knew all too well which look I was referring to. “No warning. No second chances. Just a bullet to that squatting cancer you call a brain. Second, when you remove the tracer, you’ll be a damn sight more gentle with him than you were with me.” I pressed harder. “Are we clear?”
Those round eyes seemed to sink deeper into doughy flesh like oven-wizened raisins. He’d survived what couldn’t have been a cushy prison stretch; he wouldn’t scare too easily. But then again, I wasn’t trying to frighten him. I was only giving him the unvarnished truth, and that could be more terrifying than any threat. “I’m not—,” he started to deny. They always denied, his kind. Always.
“Are we clear?” I cut him off as a reddened bruise began to form beneath the metal.
He gave in to the inevitable. “We’re clear,” he said tightly.
“Great. Clarity is good for the soul.” I let the gun drop to my side. “Michael, are you ready?”
He had been or at least he thought he had been until that moment. Looking at the hospital-style bed so similar to the one from the Institute, he came within a hairbreadth of losing it. It wasn’t anything as noticeable as trembling or fear-sweat slicking his face. He simply went still. It wasn’t a human stillness. It was the crouch of a cocky jackrabbit frozen under the gaze of a hawk; it was the inner core of a stone hovering on the lip of an avalanche. He wanted to move; he wanted to run, but I couldn’t let him go. With that chip in place, it was only a matter of time until they found us again. He couldn’t ever be free until he lay down on that bed.
Trailing IV tubing, I placed a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed lightly. “It’s about time you kissed those assholes good-bye, don’t you think?”
He exhaled, then gave a wooden nod. “I think. I do think.” Making it to the bed under his own power, he lowered himself onto his stomach. The thin pillow was ignored and pushed aside as he used his folded arms instead. Despite his adult response, he’d never looked younger or more lost, not even when I’d plucked him from the heart of the Institute in the middle of the night. I dragged up a chair beside him, rested the gun in my lap, and ordered, “Get started, Doc. We don’t have all night.”
As he was pushing the X-ray machine in our direction, I reached out and pulled Michael’s left hand from beneath his head. Simple human contact was something he’d been deprived of most of his life. Here was hoping it could help him now. “Squeeze it as hard as you want, kiddo. It won’t break.”
A green and blue stare reminded me that actually it could, if he wanted it to, or worse. But he remained quiet and let his hand lie loosely in my grip. It was only after the X-ray was developed and his bare lower back was swabbed with Betadine with meticulously professional care that his hand swiveled in mine and tightened until my bones creaked. “Butch and Sundance,” he offered in a barely audible whisper.
It was a distant echo of a long-past conversation, one he didn’t remember and one I couldn’t forget. Swallowing thickly, I asked, “What about them?”
