“Don’t call the cops.”

“You think I’m an idiot? They would just take the money from me.”

Franny nodded, swept up the key, and left. Parking in front of the room he unlocked the door and left it standing open while he went back for Baba Yaga. She weighed next to nothing, but it was still almost too much for his shoulder and side. By the time he carried her through the door his legs were shaking and tears of pain were rolling down his cheeks. He collapsed onto his knees and dropped the old lady. She gave a moan, and a babble of Russian. Her eyes rolled back and Franny panicked.

“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit, don’t die.”

He checked her pulse. Nothing. He had taken CPR as part of his training for the NYPD. He leaned down ready to start CPR, then jerked away from that slack mouth wet with drool. Did she have to be conscious to use her power? Or would her spit kill him? He decided not to find out. He started chest compressions and felt a rib break beneath his clasped hands. The old woman gave a gasping breath.

Shaking in reaction Franny gritted his teeth and lifted her onto the bed. He returned to the van for the satchel, then sank down onto the other bed. He pulled the pistol out of his waistband and set it next to him.

A knock at the door jerked him from a sleep he hadn’t intended to take. He yelled as the sudden clenching of his muscles tore at the wound in his side. He groped and found the pistol. Clutching it tightly he tottered to the door, and looked through the peephole. It was the woman from the front desk. He opened the door. She carried a paper bag that sported a spreading grease stain on the bottom, and was filling the room with both strong and tempting odors. She also had a bag of clothing and toiletries and the requested medicine.

“Thanks,” Franny said, and he handed over the second hundred. He hesitated then said, “Wait.” He went to the bed and pulled out another two hundred dollars.

The woman was staring blank-eyed at Baba Yaga unconscious on the bed in her absurd evening gown.

“Your grandma don’t look so good. You don’t look so good.”

“Yeah. We need a doctor. One with your discretion.”

“What? What is this dis … dis—”

“Somebody who won’t talk.”

“I don’t know any doctors.” Franny closed his eyes and swayed. Hopelessness washed over him. “But I know a vet,” she added.

“I’ll take anything.” He handed her the money.