Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

"She was admitted eight hours ago. Almost from the moment she arrived, her condition deteriorated. At five o'clock she coded. Ventricular tachycardia. Twenty minutes ago, she coded again. That's why she's intubated. She was scheduled for surgery tonight. The team was ready. The OR was ready. The patient was more than ready. Then we find out the donor went to surgery hours ahead of schedule. And the heart that should have gone to this woman has been stolen. Swlen, Dr. DiMatteo."

Still Abby said nothing. She was translured by the ordeal she was witnessing in Cubicle Five. At that instant, Nina Voss's eyes lifted to hers. It was only a brief meeting of gazes, an appeal for mercy. The pain in those eyes left Abby shaken.

"We didn't know," Abby whispered. "We didn't know her condition was critical…"

"Do you realize what will happen now? Do you have any idea?"

"The boy-' She turned to Aaron. "The boy's alive."

"What about this woman's life?"

There was no reply Abby could make. No matter what she said, how she defended herself, she could not justify the suffering beyond that window.

She scarcely noticed the man crossing towards her from the nurses' station. Only when he said, "Is this Dr. DiMatteo?" did she focus on the man's face. He was in his sixties, tall and well dressed, the sort of man whose very presence demands attention.

Quietly she answered, "I'm Abby DiMatteo." Only as she said it did she realize what she saw in the man's eyes. It was hatred, pure and poisonous. She almost backed away as the man stepped towards her, his face darkening in rage.

"So you're the other one," he said. "You and that chink doctor."

"Mr Voss. Please," said Aaron.

"You think you can fuck around with me?" Voss yelled at Abby. "With my wife? There'll be consequences, doctor. Damn you, I'll see there are consequences!" Hands clenched, he took another step towards Abby.

"MrVoss," said Aaron, "Believe me, we'll deal with Dr. DiMatteo in our own way."

'! want her out of this hospital!! don't want to see her face again!"

"Mr Voss," said Abby. "I'm so sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am-'

"Just get her the hell away from me!" roared Voss.

Aaron quickly moved between them. He took Abby firmly by the arm and pulled her away from the cubicle. "You'd better leave," he said.

"If I could just talk to him — explain-'

"The best thing you can do right now is leave the ICU."

She glanced at Voss, who stood squarely in front of Cubicle Five, as though guarding his wife from attack. Never before had Abby seen such a look of hatred. No amount of talking, of explanation, could ever get past that.

Meekly she nodded to Aaron. "All right," she said softly. "I'll leave." And she turned and walked out of the MICU.

Three hours later, Stewart Sussman pulled up at the curb on Tanner Avenue, and from his car he studied number 1451. The house was a modest cape with dark shutters and a covered front porch. A white picket fence surrounded the property. Though it was too dark for Sussman to see much of the yard, instinct told him the grass would be trim and the flowerbeds free of weeds. The faint perfume of roses hung in the air.

Sussman left his car and walked through the gate and up the porch steps to the front door. The occupants were home. The lights were on, and he could see movement through the curtained windows.

He rang the bell.

A woman answered. Tired face, tired eyes, her shoulders sagging under some terrible psychic weight. "Yes?" she said.

"I'm sorry to disturb you. My name is Stewart Sussman. I wonder if I might have a word with Joseph Terrio?"

"He'd rather not speak to anyone right now. You see, we've just had a… loss in the family."

"I understand, Mrs…"

"Terrio. I'm Joe's mother."

"I know about your daughter-in-law, Mrs Terrio. And I'm very, very sorry. But it's important I speak to your son. It has to do with Karen's death."

The woman hesitated only a moment. Then she said: "Excuse me," and shut the door. He could hear her call: "Joe?"

A moment later the door opened again and a man appeared, eyes red-rimmed, every movement sluggish with grief. "I'm Joe Terrio," he said.

Sussman extended his hand. "Mr Terrio, I've been sent here by someone who's very concerned about the circumstances surrounding your wife's death."

"Circumstances?"

"She was a patient at Bayside Medical Centre. Is that correct?"

"Look, I don't understand what this is all about."

"It's about your wife's medical care, MrTerrio. And whether any mistakes were made. Mistakes that may have proved fatal."

"Who are you?"

"I'm an attorney with Hawkes, Craig, and Sussman. My speciality is medical malpractice."

"I don't need any attorney. I don't want any goddam ambulance chaser bothering me tonight."

"Mr Terrio-'

"Get the hell out of here." Joe started to close the door, but Sussman put out a hand to stop it.

"MrTerrio," Sussman said quietly. Calmly. "I have reason to believe one of Karen's doctors made an error. A terrible error. It's possible your wife didn't have to die. I can't be certain of that yet. But with your permission, I can look at the record. I can uncover the facts. All of the facts."

Slowly Joe let the door swing open again. "Who sent you? You said somebody sent you. Who was it?"

Sussman gazed back with a look of sympathy. "A friend."

Never before had Abby dreaded going to work, but as she walked into Bayside Hospital that morning, she felt she was walking straight into the fire. Last night Jeremiah Parr had threatened repercussions; today she'd have to face them. But until Wetfig actually stripped her of her hospital privileges, she was determined to carry on as usual with her duties. She had patients to round on and cases scheduled for the OR. Tonight she was on call. Damn it, she was going to do her job, and do it well. She owed it to her patients — and to Vivian: Only an hour ago, they had spoken on the phone, and Vivian's last words to her were: "Someone there has to speak up for the Josh O" Days. Stay with it, DiMatteo. For both of us."

The moment Abby walked into the SICU, she heard the instantaneous lowering of voices. By now, everyone must know about Josh O" Day. Though no one said a word to Abby, she could hear the nurses' quiet murmurings, could see their uneasy looks. She went to the rack and gathered her patient charts for rounds. It took every ounce of concentration for her to complete that one task. She placed the charts in a rolling cart and wheeled it out of the station, to the cubicle of the first patient on her list. It was a relief just to step inside, away from everyone's gaze. She shut the curtains, blocking the view through the doorway, and turned to the patient.

Mary Allen lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her sticklike arms and legs drawn up in a foetal position. Mary's open lung biopsy two days ago had been followed by two brief episodes of hypotension, so she'd been kept in the SICU for close observation. According to the nurse's notes, Mary's blood pressure had remained stable for the past twenty-four hours and no abnormal cardiac rhythms had been noted. Chances were, Mary could be transferred today to an unmonitored room in the surgery ward.

Abby went to the bedside and said, "Mrs Allen?"

The woman stirred awake. "Dr. DiMatteo," she murmured.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Not so good. It still hurts, you know."

"Where?"

"My chest. My head. Now my back. It hurts all over."

Abby saw from the chart that the nurses had been giving morphine around the clock. Obviously it wasn't enough; Abby would have to order a higher dose.

"We'll give you more medicine for the pain," said Abby. "As much as you need to keep you comfortable."