Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel by Hannon Irene

Author:Hannon, Irene [Hannon, Irene]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: FIC042060, Private investigators—Fiction, FIC042040, Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction, FIC027110, Women journalists—Fiction
ISBN: 9781441240606
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

13

Ken stared at the syringe in his hand and swiped at the film of sweat beading on his upper lip. “I can’t do this.”

His father’s unyielding gaze locked on him. “Yes, you can. You have to. I can’t do it one-handed. The degeneration is too advanced. Look.”

Alan Blaine lifted his hand, once strong and steady as it wielded a scalpel with confidence and precision during even the most delicate neurosurgery. Ken had watched his dad plenty of times. The talent and dexterity in his fingers had been awesome.

Now the arm that had guided that scalpel was thin and weak, the muscles atrophied, the fine motor skills in those once-adept fingers deaf to the commands of his brain.

As his father clumsily tried to pick up the fork on the tray of his wheelchair, tears flooded Ken’s eyes, blurring his vision.

The utensil clattered to the hardwood floor in his parents’ bedroom.

Ken bent to pick it up, choking back a sob as he returned it to the tray.

“If I hadn’t fallen two weeks ago, it would be done already.” His father’s mouth tightened in disgust as he inspected the plaster cast and sling immobilizing his broken left arm. “Now I need your help. I’d ask your mother, but she wouldn’t approve—nor have the fortitude for the task. I know you’re only sixteen, but you have the inner strength to deal with this—and the courage.”

No, he didn’t. His insides were quaking just thinking about it.

When he didn’t respond, his father groped for his hand. Although his words were slurred these days, his eyes were every bit as alert and decisive as they’d always been.

“Please. Help me.” There was a touch of desperation in his voice now.

That was something Ken had never heard before.

His heart began to pound, just like the breast of the terrified robin he’d once rescued after it got trapped in the protective netting around his mother’s ornamental peach tree.

“I . . . I can’t.” He choked out the words, clinging to his father’s hand as he pleaded with the man he’d loved, admired, and tried to emulate his entire life. “Please don’t ask me to do this terrible thing. It’s wrong.”

“It isn’t a terrible thing. And I wouldn’t ask you to do anything wrong.” His father struggled with the words, working hard to form them into coherent sounds. “This will be a blessing. I’m not going to get better. You know that. We’ve talked about it. ALS is merciless. Soon I’ll be bedridden. Paralyzed. Unable to speak. I may need a feeding tube to eat and a ventilator to breathe. And in a few months or a year, I’ll die anyway. I want to go on my own terms, before I lose any more of my dignity.”

“But it’s . . . it’s murder.” Ken barely whispered the word.

“No, it’s not.” His father’s voice steadied, a hint of the old forcefulness and resolve adding weight to his words. “I’m asking you to do this. That makes all the difference.”

“It’s still against the law.

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