Page 69 of Booked for Murder

It took several tests to determine my lungs, even after the first round of surgery, were not operating at full capacity. To my dismay, I would need substantial physical therapy and some magic to correct the problem. The magic part of the equation came in the form of one of the surgeons, who knocked me out and had his way with my internal organs. The physical therapy part was dumped onto Bradley’s lap, as he foolishly volunteered.

I needed to have a long talk with him about his willingness to take over my life.

At five the following evening, my doctors released me back into the wilds of society, and to add to my disgust, I got to wear a disruptor around my wrist, and it would be removed along with the cast. The model would allow a minor amount of my magic to bleed through, enough to keep the discomfort of wearing it at a minimum.

My body needed to heal, and it wouldn’t heal if I continued to use my abilities to circumvent nature’s intent.

I tried to wheel myself out, but I made it halfway down the hallway before I got a dose of how much I’d been using my magic to keep my blood oxygenated. Torn between crying and screaming my frustration, I settled with a grumbled, “This sucks.”

Bradley took over pushing my wheelchair. “Your aptitude rating is probably going to get upgraded due to this stunt, too. The doctors explained the entire situation to me. You should be grateful you got the watered down version. I needed a dictionary to understand them. They spent hours explaining the terms to me so I could follow along.”

“I broke my lungs, basically.”

“No, you weren’t using them because they were broken. They were already broken. From what I can tell, you were using five percent of your overall lung capacity in order to survive. So that five percent did the entire work for your whole body. They figure you were pulling oxygen in from your airways in addition to the lungs. They’re not really sure how you’ve managed so much with such a reduced lung capacity. But, in good news, the foundations for healing are in place, so you just need to exercise and make your lungs do the work rather than your magic. From what they can tell from your records, they did a decent job with you out west, so I don’t have a case against them, but they also weren’t as proactive about your treatment as they should have been.”

I recognized when Bradley would fight a battle because he wanted to. Arguing with him or trying to convince him against waging war on my previous doctors would do zero good. Turning my attention to more immediate matters, I asked, “But will my new friends work, Bradley? I wanted to try out my new guns.”

“They’ll work fine. I’ve tested mine while wearing disruptors. It’ll be fine. Time at the firing range will be good for you. And if you don’t qualify, it’ll be fine. You’ll be in your new boot before the qualification test, and we can figure something else out if needed.”

“There’s no way I can pass the qualification test like this.”

“We’ll figure something out. I’ve learned to expect miracles from you, so if anyone can figure out how, it’s you. It’s even possible they’ll give you a medical exemption.”

“I find that highly unlikely.”

“Should I get the medical exemption, you will owe me a favor, which I can claim at any time of my choosing. The favor will be legal. Otherwise, there will be no restrictions on what I may request.”

If he landed a medical exemption for the biggest hurdle in our plans to investigate six horrific murders, he’d deserve whatever favor he asked of me. “Fine.”

“Good. Thank you for not arguing with me. I look forward to calling in my favor at a later time.”

“Don’t sound so confident. I read the requirements for the investigator cells. They want to disband them.”

“I think you’ll find you’ll have good luck on that front. The FBI and the local law enforcement agencies are drawing blanks on the case, and they want help. When the cell is registered, it’ll be flagging one of the older cases. That is factored into qualifications, and we have your old qualification records. You were in the top percentile then, and they’ll consider that when they’re reviewing your records. I’m confident I can get the medical exemption.”

When wasn’t Bradley confident? One day, I would enjoy knocking him down a few pegs. “What have I missed thanks to my inability to stay out of a hospital?”

“Not a whole lot. We have information on the first murder, and we have the timeline. We have a lot of blanks, but we’ll talk about it as soon as I get you home.”

I narrowed my eyes. “My home, I presume?”

“No. Mine. Unlike yours, mine has undergone some renovations to be wheelchair accessible, so you’re stuck with me for the next two weeks. I lured your cat into her carrier with the help of the brush, and she has taken over your bedroom as her domain. She’ll be allowed to explore the rest of the house as soon as we figure out where to put litter boxes and scratching posts for her amusement. My mother also ordered six cat trees.”

“Six? Why six? Six is a crazy number, Bradley. Ajani does not need six cat trees.”

“One for your bedroom, one for my bedroom, one for the living room, one for the main library, as my mother is convinced the librarian will want to visit the library as often as possible, one for the indoor pool room, so your cat can watch you while you swim during physical therapy, and one for the gym, so your cat can mock your pitiful efforts to rehabilitate your lungs.”

“The Hampton family residence is too big,” I complained.

“It really is, but you’ll have everything you need while you’re stuck in a wheelchair. We might go to your parents’ place instead for dinner, but it’ll be hard to get you around their farmhouse.”

Narrow hallways and wheelchairs didn’t mix. “No kidding. Someone would end up carrying me. I don’t even think I could navigate through there with crutches. Forget the wheelchair. It’d barely make it through the front door. I don’t want to be carried.”

“You’re going to have to get used to it for a few weeks. It’s just two weeks, and it’s difficult to get the vans with the customizations needed for a wheelchair. I did get a handicap tag for the mirror when you’re in the car. It’s only valid if I’m taking you somewhere, but the car has it. Ren took the paperwork into the DMV this morning and picked everything up. There’s a card for our wallets, too, in case anyone gives us any problems.”

“People are stupid,” I complained.

“Yep. I look fine, Ren looks fine, so why do we get the tag? It’s pretty obvious you’re not fine, but if they don’t see you and see the car, they’ll bitch about it. I’m expecting it.”