Strange Aeons [Book 1]

17. Sweet Dreams are Made of Death [part I]

The Boston Memorial was a majestic building. It was a tall, white structure, buzzing with activity. People going in, people coming out, ambulances coming and going and a hive of doctors and nurses constantly running around after this or that emergency.

It had a small but welcoming garden in front of it, with a tall, modern fountain and benches where patients and relatives could go for a walk without getting too far from the structure. The soothing sound of water and clear chirping of the birds in the tall green trees made it a good place for the personnel to take a break, too. Colored flower beds filled the air with perfume.

Psychiatry was one of the newest hospital wings. It had been rebuilt and enhanced thanks to an absurdly generous donation, and even its corridors smelt of brand new.

Vopros had entered the hospital and skillfully dodged many nurses who tried to come in his direction, with helpful smiles on their faces.

He had done at least once the half corridor, looking for a door with the doctor's name on it without finding it, when he turned around and found himself facing a woman. She was wearing pink scrubs and a steely gaze in her eyes. Her ample bosom was cruelly pressed against a fat bunch of files in her arms, and her pretty black eyes were looking at him from over her round glasses.

«Can I help you?» she asked, in the same tone other people would use to ask someone to go to hell and never come back.

«Yes. I look for doctor Grasshopper.» Vopros didn't lose his cool.

«Do you have an appointment?» she asked, a bit reassured to be facing a normal situation.

«No. I need doctor to take one.»

«Follow me then, I take all the doctor's appointments, let me look at his agenda...»

«I want to see doctor.» Vopros tried to repeat. But the nurse just looked at him sideways.

«I manage the appointments, so if you want to see the doctor, you'd better talk we me, right now. And if you want any hope to see him sooner than Christmas, you'd better stop throwing tantrums.» she said, unimpressed by Vopros's bossiness.

Vopros said nothing. He just turned on his heels and marched towards the exit of the wing. He went down one flight of stairs, reached the other's wing public bathrooms, closed into the first free one he found and stood, right in front of the toilet, for some seconds. Then he took out his flask and looked at it with an apologetic, regretful look. He opened it and pour some of its content down in the toilet.

This time, vodka mixed with water wasn't as effective, and it took him some more time and a greater effort to clearly focus on his target. The mixture of liquids showed him the corridor he had just left, with the nurse sitting at her desk with a very pissed off expression.

Then, he just waited.

Around noon, a man perfectly fitting Banshee's description entered his field of scrying, stopping to talk with the nurse.

At precisely noon, Vopros re-appeared in Psychiatry.

Fabrice Grasshopper, with a white coat with a golden treble clef pin glistening on his pocket, was still talking with the nurse when the woman noticed Vopros and jumped up as if she had been set on fire.

«Oh! It's you again!» she tried to control herself, but her hand was really near a hidden button under his desk.

Grasshopper turned towards the Russian, getting him in the sight of a pair of gentle, bright green eyes, gleaming with genuine curiosity. It took him way less than the nurse to assess the potential damage of the man in front of him.