Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(54)
Maybe he could and maybe he couldn’t. From what I’d seen this morning, he was in no hurry to hurt anyone, and that was all to the good in my book. It could be that might change when it came right down to the wire; I couldn’t say. Regardless, I wasn’t about to place him in a situation that required him to use an ability that he was so obviously ambivalent about; not if I could avoid it.
“Against *s like this guy you shouldn’t have to,” I replied firmly before pounding on the door again. “So stick close.”
“Who is it?”
The wary question was easily heard through the cheap metal of the door. “Friends of Skoczinsky’s,” I answered. “We need a doctor.”
Silence. Then came a voice. “You have money?”
“I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t.” The jamb was scratched and the grain irregular beneath my hand, but it was enough to keep me upright. “Now hurry up and open the door before I give it a new puke paint job.”
There was the metallic chuckle of a lock tripping and the door opened, a rectangle of light in the dusk. Standing there in a dark blue robe over burgundy and white striped pajamas was Santa Claus. His pink scalp peeked through snow-white hair. His short beard was as curly as the cocker spaniel my mom had had before she died, and his eyes, half hidden behind bifocals, were the same limpid brown. Just how goddamn disturbing was this? Forget the better mousetrap; someone had built a better pervert. He was a malignant hook concealed in the bait of pudgy cheer.
Robe straining over the swell of belly, Vanderburgh looked me up and down. Full pink lips curved into a distasteful sneer. “You couldn’t have made yourself more presentable first?”
He had a lot of gall. He hadn’t wasted any spit and polish on the outside of his squalid shack, but he was bitching at me over some dried blood. I can’t say that I was much in the mood to hear it, whether it came directly from old St. Nick’s mouth or not. “And my money’s just as dirty as I am,” I drawled, “but I bet you’ll take it just the same.” Pushing past him without an invitation, I blinked. What he hadn’t wasted on the outside he’d run wild with on the inside. There wasn’t much space in the small living room, but what there was he’d filled with plush furniture, lamps of jeweled glass, and finely woven rugs that covered a dingy tile floor. The television was plasma and hung like a cherished painting in a place of honor on the far wall.
“Nice. I guess you don’t shoot all your cash into a vein.” I wanted nothing more than to sink onto that soft, soft sofa and sleep for days. But even if I’d trusted Vanderburgh enough to shut my eyes, it simply wasn’t in the cards.
“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.”