Foreverinink Short Stories

The Surgeon

His eyes were deep blue and his hair ran down his neck in a rough ponytail—different from yesterday when he’d been bald with a pair of dull peepers. He’d also sported a full beard. Now, he was clean shaven. Padded leather shoes with elevated heels added a couple of inches to his height. Only three things hadn’t changed from the day before: his dark suit, the cunning mind housed by his thick skull and his incessant, maddening lust for revenge.

   The rain poured down on his back. The only thing shielding him was his suit jacket, as it made a dismal attempt to protect him from the showers. It was four in the evening and the sky was dark; completely invaded by clouds, reminding him why he hated England. He asked himself once again why he had sent his daughter across the channel. A hand instinctively flew to cover his mouth as a dreadful cough set over him. The hacking sound reminded him of a faulty engine. The coughing stopped momentarily and he drew his hand away from his mouth. Flecks of blood peppered the skin of his palm.

He didn’t have much time. His body was failing and he was without his medication; it would make him slow and drowsy, unable to think properly. He wanted to be fully sober for his task, no matter the repercussions on his health.

His steps were brisk, though he was not in a hurry. He never was. Hurrying always put one under unnecessary pressure. A mantra that had helped him numerous times during his career as a surgeon, where precision was paramount. A left turn took him from the main street to a residential area. The houses were small and none had second floors. But he knew that these brick residences cost quite a lot, especially in this part of London where space for housing was all but nonexistent. He adjusted the position of his briefcase in his hand. His arm and legs were beginning to tire out. He’d been walking for miles. He could have easily taken a taxi, but he preferred to walk. Exactly why at fifty nine, he was in peak physical condition. Unfortunately, his fitness didn’t take away the fact that he was old, and his body ached.

He pulled out a small Polaroid from his shirt pocket. His daughter’s smile was beautiful. It brought warmth to his heart and also overflowed him hate and rage. It was a photo of her just before she was off to Oxford University to study Journalism. In her eyes he had once seen a boundless future. Now all he saw were snippets of a headline: Accidental shooting. Eighteen year-old girl. Misunderstanding. Police Officer. And a name: Floyd McGregor. Each time, it made him regret sending her to Oxford. There were a good many Journalism schools in the United States. Sometimes the news of her death made him laugh. How does a cop accidentally fire over forty rounds of ordnance at a car, claiming he’d mistaken it for a stolen vehicle? The police force had eaten it. Floyd McGregor, the idiot officer hadn’t even been suspended. And accidental? All he saw was a dead Native American girl, a white police officer that had evaded any form of punishment and a society that generally didn’t give a shit.

He knew that McGregor would be at home. He’d taken a voluntary leave after the incident. Well when he was done, McGregor would be on a very long holiday, where it was summer all year round and the temperatures hopefully rivalled those of the Sun.

The house was the first on the left. It looked exactly like all the others on the street. A late model Buick in the driveway indicated that cops in the United Kingdom were probably payed more than their American counterparts. He quickly shielded himself from view using some hedges around the house that looked like they were long overdue shearing. He skirted the edges of the compound until he reached the rear of the building. The backyard was free of any clutter that came with having kids around. McGregor wasn’t a father. If he were he might have thought twice before shooting down a college student dead during Easter break. It was just as well, he wouldn’t be missed too much. He approached the door carefully. After a thorough examination, it was determined that there was no security system. He tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. This disappointed him slightly. He’d been counting on using his lock picking skills, which required as much concentration and precision as surgery.

He covered his mouth to muffle his coughs and advanced into the house. He was fairly certain that McGregor was asleep. He’d determined this through a social media account with which he frequently contacted the veteran police officer under the alias Kate, a lonely girl from California with double D cups. He fed McGregor with a few naughty photos a day he’d acquired from a shady website. This had kept the lawman suitably interested and surprisingly forthcoming with sensitive information. During their last chat, McGregor had confirmed that he’d be taking a nap at home. That was half an hour ago and McGregor seemed like one that napped long hours.

Even with this he couldn’t be sure. He was a careful man by nature. Something he’d inherited from his late father, an army lance-corporal who’d always looked, documented and deliberated before he leapt. He advanced slowly down the halls. He noticed the open rooms around him were furnished sparingly.

The master bedroom was at the end of a hall around one of the far corners of the building. The oak door opened soundlessly. McGregor lay sprawled on a queen sized bed. His sidearm lay on the dresser—amateur mistake. His father had always told him to grip the gun while asleep, or at least have it under the pillow. If there was a threat and your gun was too far, you were dead.

He smiled. This would prove right for McGregor.

He slowly reached for the gun on the dresser, all the time keeping his eyes on McGregor, watching for any sudden moves. He successfully acquired the weapon and slowly backpedaled. In the process he knocked over some books piled on the floor. The cop’s eyes flew open and he grabbed for the dressing table, no doubt seeking the solace of his gun. He was more than a little surprised to see it pointed at his head.

“Slowly lie on your back.” McGregor did as he was told. He was brave but not stupid. The tone in the man’s voice clearly indicated that non-compliance would end up with him in a box under six feet of dirt.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” McGregor did splendidly to hide the panic in his voice.

“Last name is Aqissiaq,” he said evenly.

“That gibberish doesn’t mean shit to me.” Aqissiaq tightened his grip on the gun, contemplating firing it. The scum hadn’t even bothered to find out her last name. No respect for the dead at all. A cardinal sin in his culture.

“My daughter’s name was Wachiwi.”

Realization, defiance and fear simultaneously spread over McGregor’s features. He went completely silent.

“Have you ever had a surgery?” Aqissiaq had set down his briefcase. He swung it open, his eyes and the gun still focused on the now terrified policeman.

McGregor remained listless.

The Native American seemed not to notice this. “Do you know what you need? A heart transplant.” He said this amid coughs. He was running out of time, he thought. He needed to move quickly.

He retrieved a syringe from his case. He was soon at McGregor’s bedside. The gun was now inches away from the lawman’s temple. Aqissiaq noticed how the other man eyed the needle. “It’s a neurotoxin. You won’t be able to move for a while after injection—” He coughed a few times. “—similar to what they use at hospitals for surgery. Only, this one will let you feel all the pain.” He smiled and rammed the needle into McGregor’s arm, drawing a pained grunt from him. It quickly took effect. Within twenty seconds, he felt like every limb had been filled with liquefied Lead.

The briefcase was soon emptied. Aqissiaq placed all his tools on the bed beside his ‘patient.’ He himself was already beginning to feel lightheaded and dizzy. There wasn’t time enough to take his meds. As he held up one of the scalpel knives, his hands shook violently. He’d lost his fine motor skills, but he was unperturbed. This was to be a far from successful surgery. His coughs had rose an octave, a precursor to his own death, although natural. He willed himself to go on. This surgeon still had one final job.