Page 83 of Capitol Matters

Per the receptionist’s instructions, I took a paper mask from the box on the counter and looped it over my ears. It blanketed my nose and mouth, immediately stifling.

Having no further guidance than the room numberleft me searching the walls for arrows to direct me to my destination. I hoped my late arrival had given his family time to clear out since I couldn’t begin to answer whatever questions they might have had. And, if they recognized me, I doubted they would be as subtly surprised as Miss Receptionist.

At last, I got enough sense of the place to find my way to Room 113.

Clear plastic sheeting hung inside the doorframe. I pushed through it into a standard hospital room outfitted with a single bed, IV pole, and accompanying monitor to track vitals. A pair of reclining chairs faced me from the opposite wall—empty, thank God.

In the bed, Tobin sat upright, looking gaunter than I remembered. His naturally tan skin had a yellowish pallor, and his expression was drawn but able to look spiteful as he glared at me.

“Did you come to finish the job?” he grunted.

“Don’t tempt me,” I replied. As I approached, the heartrate monitor began a steady climb.

“Why’d they let you in here?” he asked.

Passing him, I grabbed one of the recliners and dragged it to the bedside. My move toward sitting was interrupted by the crunch of the soda bottle in my pocket. I sprung back up, tugging it loose and setting it on the floor before dropping heavily into the seat.

“It’s like that when you’re dying,” I mused. “They wanna make sure everyone gets a chance to say their goodbyes, make peace, no regrets, all that.”

Sweat glistened on Tobin’s forehead and pasted his black hair to his brow. “Well, since I’m dying, I want toask you something. And I want the truth.”

“Shoot.”

“Is it true what they say about your finger tats?”

I glanced down at my hands clasped in my lap. Rings of black ink wound around every digit. “What do they say?” I asked.

The investigator drew a labored breath. “That they’re trophies from all the people you’ve killed.”

Sensational journalism, I could have claimed. Tabloids and their wild theories. There were plenty of mistruths spread about me, but this particular rumor was well-informed.

I didn’t respond before Tobin continued, “How many have you got, anyway?”

“Thirty,” I replied. “But I’m missing a few.”

“You sick fuck,” he seethed. The potency of his anger seemed to leech the life out of him, but he had enough vigor to prop up on his elbows. His body strained as he leaned toward me and said, “You know what I’d do if I could? I’d cut your damn hands off. Put them on display so I could have some trophies of my own.”

He would regret saying that after I saved his stupid life. Or not. He didn’t seem the type to learn even from lessons taught the hard way. I could relate.

I kicked back in the chair, pushing the footrest up and out. “Display like how? Wall hooks? Cell phone stand? Sex toys?”

The heart monitor beeped frantically. We’d gone from fear to rage in a matter of seconds. Tobin huffed and puffed as his cheeks lost color.

“Take it easy.” Sighing, I bent to retrieve the bottle from beside my feet. “This stuff is powerful, but I don’t think it’ll help if you stroke out.”

The investigator squirmed away as I raised the container to his line of sight.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

I spun the cap and let it fall to the floor, then gave the slime inside a swirl. “You didn’t get it from me, all right? It’s important no one knows I have this.”

If it worked, I was banking on his gratitude for a new lease on life to keep him from yapping about my ability to produce the secret ingredient to his survival.

“What is it?” he repeated.

“The cure.”

His eyes widened. “For the plague?”

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