Dorothea had trouble sleeping. Her mind preoccupied with worry of the future; her future and that of her husband and… of her only remaining though estranged son. Since the funeral she was thinking of Leonard more often than she pretended not to lately. The open wound in her soul at the loss of Lawrence needed to heal. In fact, because of Lawrence's passing, she had actually become more aware of the even older wound of rejection and neglect she had held against Leonard for so many unnecessary years, because of her own undisclosed fears, disguised as motherly concern or the negative extreme of indifference. And so, that too she humbly admitted to herself, needed mending. She wiped away tears with the back and front of her delicate hand.
To worsen matters she had also been plagued with the overwhelming feeling of imminent danger and no matter how she tried to reason with herself it just would not go away. Perhaps, one possibility she theorized, since her feelings were intimately connected with her religious upbringing and the built-in guilt that accompanied it, she expected punishment for her sexual indiscretion, though she was not in her own conscience at the time it was committed and should in all god's fairness be considered innocent. But then again once she regained her native consciousness she lied to her husband about the event and regardless of the justification a lie is a lie is a sin. Yet, somehow, deep within her soul she felt that in her case that maxim was not true and that her actions would, if they weren't already, be forgiven by god. She had prayed last night with the fiercest desperation she'd ever known—a plea stretched long and trembling in the dark. Yet even as the final whisper left her lips, the sacred act brought no solace. A slow, spectral dread still clung to her, as if fate itself were gathering on the horizon, its clouds thick with pain, misery, and—God help her—perhaps even death. The thought made her shudder. And then came Jack's revelation: their son, long buried and mourned, may not have died from natural causes and was instead a victim of foul play. It was all more than enough to turn the most avid, soundly sleeping individual into a hopeless insomniac. Dorothea removed a tissue from a tissue box on the nightstand and dabbed more tears from her eyes.
Boris Popov was a man of precaution. He believed in leaving nothing to chance. Chance would always tempt Murphy's Law and within the world of hardcore criminals and violence prone sociopaths it was a law which almost always led to a cold, early grave, or worse. Boris survived and thrived in a life of crime not just because of his ruthlessness, but mainly on his determined will to adapt and plan, meticulously. If there was any secret to life in general, Boris knew this to be it: Those who adapted and planned, survived, those who did not perished. It was simple and that is what also made it so difficult for many to do. If Boris knew his rivals and enemies remained one step ahead of the proverbial game, he preferred to double or even triple his efforts. Based on that essential philosophy one of the first rules of order wherever he went for any significant amount of time he would secure the services of a medical doctor and surgeon. It only made sense to him. If he ever got wounded he didn't want to receive treatment in a hospital. Hospitals couldn't be bribed and even if it were possible the price tag wouldn't be worth it. But a doctor or two was more in line with reality, less expensive overall and a lot easier to accomplish than most would think – and it helps to have an impressive source of money. Besides, a bribed doctor was in no position to inform police of injuries or wounds related to a possible crime that involved either a stabbing or assault with a deadly weapon.
Boris would first get a list of those doctors in which he was interested from either a phone book or preferably the internet. Before contacting them he would conduct a background check utilizing his various trusted contacts in government and other high positions; find out all he could that would be useful to him, especially where their personal finances were concerned. He preferred a doctor not just in debt, but desperately over his head with it. Generally that group was less reluctant to bribery and more likely to practice caution. He would then reach out to them at their offices, pretending interest in setting up an appointment for an examination. Once he and the doctor were alone in the examination room, Boris would allow the physician to perform an official medical examination on him so as to legitimize the visit and when completed he would make his offer. It could be anywhere from covering a mortgage or car payment for three to six months or just flat out cash in a suitcase which when displayed bearing crisp hundred dollar bills on top was almost impossible to resist. That would be his retainer for the doctors expertise were the unfortunate to happen requiring their care. And their commitment to him would be twenty four hour availability on short notice. It was like an insurance policy to keep the law from getting involved. Fortunately, it's been a service he's never had the displeasure of utilizing, until now…
Boris earned his reputation as an executioner, piling in his wake a count of thirty one bodies, including now Richard Jamison. This latest rub out however was not accomplished without Boris sustaining injuries. He had never before been harmed or hurt in any way, not even closely, in carrying out a hit. He blamed it on the spontaneity of the action. There just wasn't enough time for his usual thorough, time consuming planning to avoid such incidences. Another factor and probably the most pertinent of all was that the tall, elder, lanky motel owner not only surprised him by returning his own barrage of gunfire, but he fought with the lion's heart of a warrior, which a part of Boris could not help but to admire. He almost regretted having been the one responsible for taking such a noble creature from this life, but he had no time nor place in his heart for sentimentalism. He did what had to be done to cover tracks he was still in the early stages of making. Things hadn't gone the way Boris planned in his effort to rescue the new love of his life. By this time he wanted to at least be at the address listed on the driver's license scouting out the premises, as he further planned in his mind a possible course of action that would lead to the rescue of Michele' from her selfish captors, or it may have even come down to an interrogation if it turned out she had been secreted some other place.
Yes, it may be that Boris had been delayed, but he knew as long as he breathed he would allow nothing or no one to stop him from his accomplishing his self ordained mission.
The surgeon, a slender, distinguished looking gentleman in his mid fifties of Mediterranean decent and perfectly, though now gloved, manicured hands, inserted steel forceps into the wound. Though the area of Boris' shoulder where the bullet had lodged had been numbed, Boris winced from pain (or was it imagined discomfort from the applied pressure?) he felt at the surgeon's probing. He'd been tattooed with the raw instruments available in jail and dealt with the pain, but never had experienced such a violation as this to his sacred body.
"You are a very lucky man," the surgeon said in a voice honed to perfection in administering calm and comfort. "Mainly a flesh wound with some damage to the deltoid muscle. Bad but not life threatening. I'll give you some antiseptic to use on it when you change the dressing, as well as pain killers combined with a muscle relaxant. You're going to need them as you can imagine."
"I do not feel lucky," Boris bemoaned through clenched teeth.
"There," the surgeon said, "I've got it." He held up the flattened, twisted, blood-covered slug to inspect it. Impressed with its size he whistled. "Yessiree, Bob. You are damned lucky." The surgeon released the bloody projectile from the forceps into the surgical pan. A PING momentarily played on the air as the two metals made contact. "I collect guns for a hobby, and I can tell you this nasty little piece of lead was spit from a high caliber weapon." The doctor started cleaning the wound. "It's a miracle it didn't exit leaving a cave size hole in your back. More miraculous it didn't injure you more seriously or even kill you. Now that wound on your temple will require a few stitches. From the looks of it a bullet grazed you there. Little closer, my friend… curtains as they say. You truly must have an angel with you." The surgeon knew Boris had obviously been involved in a gun battle and also that he was not working in or with law enforcement which meant the man was some kind of an outlaw. There was a part of the doctor that was naturally curious to know more details, but he had no intention of satisfying that curiosity upon remembering how the story ended for the curious cat. This man was bad news and so the less he knew about him and the circumstances that led to him being shot the better. He had been paid to treat and release this man and not interview him regarding the unfortunate circumstances that led to his situation. The surgeon asked, "Feeling, okay? Not feeling like you're going to faint, are you?"
"I'm fine," Boris murmured with anxious determination. "How much longer?"
"I'd say… about maybe another thirty minutes and you're good to go." The doctor was also anxious to get this procedure over with. He knew this man was potential trouble and the longer he remained in his presence the less comfortable he felt. For all he knew who ever it was that participated in the gun battle with him could for all intents and purposes still be very much alive, pissed off and looking for or found out where his rival went. He could burst through that door any minute and start shooting the place up, this time making the doctor himself a victim not nearly as lucky as the man he was in the process of sewing up. Of course the surgeon was allowing his fearful imagination to run away with him, but one never knows. In any event he managed to calm himself as he placed a liquid antiseptic on the now stitched shoulder wound, spread a dab of antibiotic ointment on it as well; laid on a non-stick pad also treated with antibiotic and finally wrapped the dressing with roll gauze. All in all it was a job with which Boris felt very pleased – lucky for the surgeon. "Check the wound daily," the surgeon suggested, "to make sure its not getting infected. Change the bandage and dressing every other day until you notice its healing properly. Any complications arise, call me." He was really hoping that would not be the case. The doctor placed a hefty supply of gauze, bandages, ointment and antiseptic in a plastic bag and set it on the floor besides Boris, and then rummaged quickly through his medical bag to retrieve tools for stitching the head wound.
"No more needles," Boris said, as the doctor reached for a syringe that contained a local anesthetic.
"You sure?" the doctor inquired.
"I am certain," Boris said.
"Okay. You're wish is my command."