Chapter 24

As soon as we pulled out of the parking lot, Mr. Foster asked me, “How are your injuries?”

“Well,” I said, “following the x-rays, the doctor informed me I’d only wrenched my shoulder—no fractures or dislocations.” I just need to keep my arm in a sling for a couple of weeks. As for my leg, he wanted to give me stitches, but that’s when Garret invaded his mind.”

“Didn’t want the psycho stitching you up?” he asked with a grin.

I shook my head, just thinking about what that lunatic would do to me with a needle and thread.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a more somber tone. “I know a guy.”

I nodded and looked in my lunch sack. The sandwich appeared fully loaded with everything I could ever want. My stomach rumbled again.

Mr. Foster smiled. “Go ahead.”

I closed the bag and shook my head. “I don’t want to make a mess in your car.”

“Once my friend arrives, he’ll need to know when you’ve last eaten,” he said. “The sooner you eat, the better chances you’ll have of keeping it down.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Right.” Then I opened the back and pulled up half the sandwich, using the bag as a wrap to keep the mess to a minimum.

We arrived at a large house on the north side of Interstate 30. A man in a suite came out of the house and greeted Mr. Foster. “Frank, help Mr. Sutton inside.”

The man, Frank, came around to my side and waited while I climbed out. He moved to my left, but I shook my head and held out my right arm. Without a word, he took it and helped me toward the garage. Mr. Foster followed us.

Frank escorted me to a breakfast nook off the kitchen inside the house. I sat down at the table and thanked him. He nodded and left.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

Mr. Foster sat across from me. “He likes to help.”

I nodded and then asked, “I thought you were sending a car, not coming for me yourself.”

“True, but I also realized that you were probably more hurt than you let on, and I would rather show up personally to help than simply send someone who would probably end up asking me what to do at every turn.”

I frowned. “Am I that much of a ... threat?” I wasn’t sure how else to put it.

“No, not a threat,” he said. “Several of my people simply don’t know how to behave around someone they feel are ... shall we say, taking advantage.”

I shook my head. “I was just looking for help. At the very least, a ride away from the hospital.”

“I understand that, but not everyone would see it that way.”

I sighed. “Why does everyone have to judge?”

He took a breath to answer when Frank returned with another man. This man was tall, gangly, and balding. He wore a white dress shirt, black slacks, and a dark blue tie. He carried - and I kid you not - a classic black medical bag. When he spotted me, he stopped and said, “Did ze Fräuleins have zeir Mittelschmerz?”

I frowned and looked at Mr. Foster.

Mr. Foster stood up and walked over to greet this guy. The two of them shook hands and whispered a moment. Then they turned as one to look at me. The new man stepped past Mr. Foster toward me. “Come over here. I promise I vill heal you!”

He had a pronounced German accent, but I understood him well enough. I stood on my good leg and worked on pulling down my pants. He knelt next to me and looked at my leg. He pinched the wounds, and I nearly kicked him. “Zis ... is unacceptable!” he said, apparently not realizing just how loud he was.

“I can’t heal it myself,” I said and noted that his aura was normal. “What do you expect to do?”

He looked up at me with a laugh and said, “I am a god.” Then he looked back at Mr. Foster. “I require assistance!”

Frank moved up to help. Between the two of them, they got me up onto the table and situated so the doctor could better see my leg while sitting on a chair. Mr. Foster brought over a desk lamp and plugged it in. The light was so bright; I felt like they were using a small spotlight on me.

The Doctor - because what else would I call him? - looked closely at my wounds. He poked at both holes, which made me writhe on the table. “Ze healing is not as rewarding as ze hurting,” he said without looking up.

I glared at him. “Tell you what, you take the pain and I’ll be happy to quote silly sayings at you.”

Mr. Foster covered his mouth. Apparently, he was getting a good laugh out of our exchange.

Getting frustrated with the situation, I laid back on the table and did my best to relax. I focused on healing my leg again when I heard the Doctor say, “Vhat is happening?!” After another few seconds, he added, “Someone make zhe magic stop!”

Mr. Foster patted my shoulder. When I looked up at him, he shook his head.

“But it hurts,” I said under my breath. Then I looked over at the Doctor, who was staring back at me, not my wound.

“I believe you have something in your vounds,” he said, almost sanely. “Ve vill have to dig zhem out.”

“D-Dig?” I asked. “Dig what out?”

He shrugged and opened his bag. “I do not know. I vill find out, though.” Then he pulled out a syringe and a vial of fluid.

He unwrapped the syringe and set it on the table. Then he looked closely at the vial. “Ja, dis vill do.” He pulled the cover off the needle, poked it into the vial, and drew out some of the clear liquid. He dropped the vial back into his bag and reached for my arm. “Ve need to inject dis directly into a vein.”

I blinked, but allowed him to turn my arm the way he needed. He found the vein he wanted and injected me. It wasn’t bad going in, but then he asked, “Ver you at a hospital?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Did dey give you anyzing?”

I frowned. “Just a local in my leg.”

“A local vhat?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Frank pulled out a phone and started making calls.

“Have you eaten lately?” the Doctor asked.

I nodded. “A sandwich, about half an hour ago.”

“Vas it good?”

I nodded again. “Yeah. Really good.”

“Good! It should taste just as good coming back up!”

“Wait, what?” I started and then something flooded my head. It felt like someone had poured warm, comfy water under my skull. The room spun for a second, and then the nausea hit. I swallowed hard and fought to keep my sandwich down.

The doctor stood up and looked at Mr. Foster. “Mein freund, ve need to talk.”

Mr. Foster gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder - I think - and then the two walked away.

I heard some noises for a few minutes, or it could have been seconds for all I could tell. Nothing felt right. The room moved in oddly. The table felt like it was molding to my back. I’m pretty sure my pants slipped off because my feet got cold. Whatever the drug was, it was having some fun with me - and I didn’t like it.

All three men returned. I rolled my head toward Mr. Foster. “What did he give me?” I asked - I think.

He rested a hand on my shoulder and smiled down at me. I didn’t hear what he said because I could see straight up his nose and started counting his nose hairs. I got to a thousand and three before I felt a tug on my leg.

I rolled my head to the other side and looked down at the doctor. He was bent over, staring into a cave. The doctor had created a cave from my leg and several surgical clamps. He reached into my leg with another pair, and I felt another tug. It didn’t hurt. It was more like someone had simply reached into my leg and tugged on my bones. He withdrew, and the clamps held a large silvery thorn that looked big enough to be used as a writing quill, only without the feather.