Linder is calmly situated at the table, eyes fixed on the front door. The ceiling’s plain wood construction marred by rusty red fluid that had pooled in the corner and made its way outward, a few feet towards the center of the room.
He still felt the struggle of getting that old bastard up into the crawlspace in his back. The reward - his boss, Mr. Lockhardt - concluded his moaning a few hours before. The ghost had been given up. One less problem. Now there was just the issue at hand.
Three hard raps on the outer door frame announce his arrival. Linder rises from the chair and approaches the door slowly, first cracking it slightly, then swinging it wide. The older gentleman greets the younger man with a nod and enters.
“I’ll get him.” Linder says in a hushed tone, moves to the hall and out of sight.
He had gone to the doctor earlier that morning, requesting a house call with urgency. His uncle, visiting from Minnesota, suffered an injury while helping with some work at Mr. Lockhardt’s place - resulting in a badly crushed leg, for which he would require an amputation. A construct of pure fiction - but convincing enough for the doc.
The grizzled physician remains in the front room, giving the place a once over, spying the blood stains on the ceiling - the curious drippings onto the floor and the spillage down the wall.
His investigation is interrupted by Linder, who emerges from the hall with a hunting rifle pointed directly at him.
“What the Hell is this?”
Linder motions to the chair with the gun barrel.
The bewildered man is quick to be seated.
Linder explains what he needs from him - his face without expression - the doctor aghast.
“You are out of your mind!” he cries.
The rifle now pressing into his chest.
“I will not!”
Linder raises, cocks and lowers the rifle - pushing the barrel firmly into the man’s crotch. The doctor’s eyes, red and bulging, fill with terror. A few tightly stretched seconds later, he acquiesces.
Linder shackles him at the ankles, chains him to a bar on the wood stove and drops himself onto a chair.
The captive medical practitioner opens his bag, bringing out a brown glass bottle.
“Opium, mandragora, henbane.” he recites.
Linder leers at the familiar looking container.
“Just a crude mixture, all I had at short notice.”
The captor nods his approval, allowing himself only half a regular dose. He didn’t want to be incapacitated, should the good doctor get any ideas.
With extreme reluctance, the procedure is underway.
First, disinfecting the entire area. Next, ligating the main arteries and veins. Then, transecting the muscle tissue.
Finally, the steepest incline - sawing through the bone. That half-dose of anesthesia was now intruding upon the less than gracious host.
Just over an hour later, the procedure is successful - an above-the-knee leg removal. Linder takes several short, rapid breaths - sweat slithers from his brow.
“You will need follow-up treatment that I cannot perform here.”
“Take the foot, above the ankle.” Linder instructs.
The old man does as he’s told.
“Now, in the dish and in the oven.”
He follows Linder’s direction, placing the vessel into the already-lit wood stove.
Linder closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
Three hours crawl by, Linder nods towards the stove, the doctor gets to his feet and checks on the leg.
“Bring it.” Linder commands.
The doctor removes the shallow pot from the oven and places it in front of the younger man still positioned at the table - who is now in obvious pain, minus any anesthetic assistance.
“I will not be witness to this act of perversion.”
Linder glances up, sneers and passes him the keys to free himself. The nervous older man moves with haste, his shaking hands fumble with the locks until both shackles lay empty on the floor. He takes a few measured steps from the kitchen back to the dining area where Linder watches with an eagle eye.
It’s a stare-down. Linder, using one of his former employer’s crutches, grunts and lifts himself to a standing position. The doctor’s chest rising and falling as adrenaline shoots through his veins.
Linder motions to the door with his head. The doctor, taut as a wire, turns and advances to the exit.
Four steps. The sound of a rifle engaging. The old man stops, his figure still as set concrete, only inches from his escape. Pulse at a gallop, mind scattering. He turns to face what he knows he cannot change.
One shot to the center of his chest sends him sailing backwards, crashing into the door, sliding down onto the creaky floorboards. He fights violently to fill his lungs with air. The second shot ends his struggle.
Linder drops the rifle onto the dead man’s body and hobbles back to the table, easing himself down onto his chair. He configures a begrudging sigh, loosens the soaked bindings on his leg - allowing blood to flow freely - then indulges in the forbidden delicacy that lay before him.
