“No, a portion I spent on this.” He lifted a pistol from his robe pocket and pointed it at me. It wasn’t anything fancy—your standard .38 available at any pawnshop—but it would do the job as well as the pricier models. Those soft brown eyes had become small, hard stones. “Now, let me see the color of your money. And, gentlemen, credit cards are not accepted.”
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.”