58. THE DOCTOR
THE DOCTOR
London, England
Fifteen years prior
Dr. Chescu , the sign said under the dim gas light next to a door into a shabby brick house.
Uriah had found out the random name from the sailors on his ship.
Mihai Chescu was an older man in his fifties, a widow, with a little daughter.
He was a trusted surgeon in precisely the part of London Uriah needed—impoverished, ridden with immigrants, where brilliant professionals were willing to do for a large sum of money what no reputable men in their profession would anywhere else.
It was deep at night when Uriah brought—carried—his little niece into the doctor’s house.
The place was dim but warm, with the overpowering smell of antiseptic and medicine. Bright carpets decorated the walls. Old portraits hung among them.
But the doctor’s room was void of any decoration except a table, a bench, a couple of chairs, and a cabinet with medical tools.
After a short inspection of the girl, Dr. Chescu raised his confused eyes at Uriah.
“But… sir, it is some sort of poisoning. The fever can be brought down. Her pain can be stopped. I shall give you the medication?—”
“That is not why I am here,” Uriah cut him off.
He put a pouch, heavy with gold, onto the desk, and in a chilling voice explained what he needed.
“But a surgery! What mad idea is that?” Dr. Chescu exclaimed, staring in shock at the money pouch, then wiped his sweaty forehead, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.
“Yes. A surgery. And I need you to put this”—at that, Uriah reached into his inside pocket and produced a red stone—“inside her.”
Dr. Chescu had done many things in his life. He had patched up criminals, cut off infected limbs, he’d ventured into brain surgery, a successful one at that, and had done procedures that made grown men vomit. Called “a gypsy doctor” and a brilliant one, he had saved lives, but he hadn’t taken any.
And now this…
“She is a child,” he said, dizzy from this vile offer. “I need you to leave. I don’t know what this sick plan of yours is. Nor do I know who referred you to me. Nor do I care about that.” He motioned to the pouch. “Leave at once.”
The door behind him squeaked, and a little shadow appeared in the crack. A pair of curious eyes stared at Uriah.
“Sweetheart, please, close the door,” Dr. Chescu said.
“Oh, what do we have here?” Uriah’s eyes suddenly came alive with a malevolent glint at the sight of the girl. He walked to the front door and invited one of his men in. “Take her”— he nodded toward the doctor’s daughter—“and keep her in that room.”
“You have no right to—” The doctor’s protest was silenced with a blow to his head so harsh that he sank to his knees. When he raised his eyes, the barrel of a gun was pointed at his face. The tall guard motioned the gun toward the door where the little girl’s shadow had disappeared.
“No-no-no-no-no! Please! Sir!” The doctor threw himself at the guard, who only shoved him away and walked into the adjoining room. “Stay quiet,” his voice echoed from there, followed by his daughter’s meek response.
Uriah motioned at little Grace. “You have an hour. And no choice. I’d hate to punish your little girl for this one.”
No begging helped. No rationalizing worked. The darkest night was when one had to hurt an innocent soul to save another.
Mihai Chescu didn’t know that Uriah always got what he wanted, and this was no exception.
“It will kill her,” the doctor said grimly, succumbing to the monstrous task.
“Then see to it that it does not,” Uriah answered coldly.
He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed at his chest. He watched with some sick curiosity as Dr. Chescu gave the girl a sedative mix, talked to her softly until her body became limp on the surgical table, then closed his eyes and recited what looked like a prayer before he undid part of her dress and prepped her abdomen for the task.
And Uriah watched, watched, watched… His eyes bore into the girl as the scalpel cut into her tender flesh. They shone with malice as blood pooled at the wound. They narrowed with sick curiosity as the stone he’d been hiding for years took a wash in carbolic acid.
For a brief moment, perhaps for the first time in years, the need for vengeance eased the claws around his neck as he watched the stone disappear in the freshly cut flesh.
What was ruining the truly catalytic event were the doctor’s pathetic sniffles.
But the doctor couldn’t help himself.
Never had he done surgery with tears dripping down his cheeks, his glasses smudged with them. His stomach was twisting, but his hands were as always steady.
When all was said and done, the little girl on his surgery table lay peaceful in her drugged sleep, her doll-like face pale like that of an angel.
The fresh scar on the right side of her abdomen, just below the ribcage, was neatly sewn.
The spot was the safest with the highest chance of her being healthy for years to come.
Yet Mihai Chescu felt like Frankenstein, the bile clogging his chest from what he had just performed.
“Well done,” said Uriah as he pushed off the wall and approached the table.
“She needs rest,” Dr. Chescu muttered, “and she needs medication and?—”
His voice trailed off as Uriah roughly picked up the girl and, calling for his guard, walked out of the room.
“A monster,” Mihai Chescu whispered.
And when his little daughter ran out of her room and wrapped her little arms around him, he broke down in tears and sank to the floor by her feet.
His daughter was only nine. She lowered herself to the floor next to him and stroked his balding head.
“She will be all right,” she said.
“She won’t,” the doctor sobbed.
“She will, dada. She will.”
“A stone sewn into a child. It’s… It’s monstrous! I am a monster!” sobbed Dr. Chescu, then grabbed his daughter’s little hand and kissed it. “I need to report it. I have to tell. I will be back, my sweets, I need to do something. You will be all right?”
She nodded and stood without moving, barefoot on the cold floor, watching her father dash out of the house, listening to the front door slamming shut and his hurried footsteps.
For some time, she stood motionless, clinging to the last traces of him, for she knew, sensed at that moment, that he would never come back.
That night, Dr. Mihai Chescu hurried toward the police station. Angry thoughts roared in his head. Bile was gathering in his throat. Tears kept coming.
He stopped on a poorly lit street, waiting for the approaching horse carriage to pass, when he was pushed from behind.
The horse screamed. The driver shouted. But Dr. Mihai Chescu didn’t make a sound as the churning wheels cracked his bones and split his skull, his death instant, while the mysterious stranger, who had pushed him, hurried into the darkness, away from the crime scene.