Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

Abby, her hands dripping from the obligatory ten-minute scrub, had just walked into the OR to find Zwick and the two nurses grinning at her.

"I never thought that one would get hooked. Not in a million years," said the scrub nurse, handing Abby a towel. "Just goes to show you, bachelorhood is a curable illness. When did he pop the question, Dr. D?"

Abby slipped her arms into the sterile gown and snapped on gloves. "Two days ago."

"You kept it a secret for two whole days?"

Abby laughed. "I wanted to make sure he wasn't going to suddenly change his mind." And he hasn't. If anything, we're more sure of each other than ever before. Smiling, she moved to the table. The patient, already anaesthetized, lay with chest exposed and skin stained a yellow-brown from Betadine. It was to be a simple thoracotomy, a wedge resection of a peripheral pulmonary nodule. Her hands moved through the pre-op routine with the ease of one who's done it many times before. She lay down sterile cloths. Fastened clamps.

Lay down the blue drapes and fastened more clamps.

"So when's the big day?" asked Zwick.

"We're still talking about it." In fact, she and Mark had done little but talk about it. How big a wedding?Whom to invite. Outdoors or indoors? Only one thing had been decided for certain. Their honeymoon would be spent on a beach. Any beach, as long as there were palm trees in the vicinity.

She could feel her smile broadening at the prospect of warm sand and blue water. And Mark.

"I bet Mark's thinking boat," said Zwick. "That's where he'll want to get married."

"Not the boat."

"Uh oh. That sounds definite."

She finished draping the patient and looked up as Mark, freshly scrubbed, pushed through the doors. He donned gown and gloves and took his place across the table from her.

They grinned at each other. Then she picked up the scalpel.

The intercom buzzed. A voice over the speaker said, "Is Dr. DiMatteo in there?"

"Yes she is," said the circulating nurse.

"Could you have her break scrub and come out?"

"They're just about to open. Can't this wait till later?"

There was a pause. Then: "Mr Parr needs her out of the OR."

"Tell him we're in surgery!" said Mark.

"He knows that. We need Dr. DiMatteo out here," repeated the intercom. "Now."

Mark looked at Abby. "Go ahead. I'll have them call one of the interns to assist."

Abby backed away from the table and nervously stripped off her gown. Something was wrong. Parr wouldn't pull her out of surgery unless there was some kind of crisis.

Her heart was already racing as she pushed through the OR doors and walked to the front desk.

Jeremiah Parr was standing there. Beside him were two hospital security guards and the nursing supervisor. No one was smiling. "Dr. DiMatteo," said Parr, 'could you come with us?"

Abby looked at the guards. They had fanned out to either side of her. The nursing supervisor, too, had shifted position, taking a step back.

"What's this all about?" said Abby. "Where are we going?"

"Your locker."

"I don't understand."

"It's just a routine check, Doctor."

There's nothing routine about this. Flanked by the two guards, Abby had no choice but to follow Parr up the hall to the women's locker room. The nursing supervisor went in first, to clear the area of personnel. Then she beckoned Parr and the others inside. "Your locker is number seventy-two?" said Parr. "Yes."

"Could you open it please?"

Abby reached for the combination padlock. She made one spin of the dial, then stopped and turned to Parr. "I want to know what this is all about first."

"It's just a check."

"I think I'm a little beyond the stage of high school locker inspections. What are you looking for?"

"Just open the locker."

Abby glanced at the guards, then at the nursing supervisor. They were watching her with heightened suspicion. She thought: I can't win this one. If I refuse to open it, they'll think I'm hiding something. The best way to defuse this crazy situation was to cooperate.

She reached for the lock, spun the combination, and tugged it open.

Parr stepped closer. So did the guards. They were standing right beside him as she swung open the locker door.

Inside were her streetclothes, her stethoscope, her purse, a flowered toilet bag for on-call nights, and the long white coat she used for attending rounds. They wanted cooperation, she'd damn well give them cooperation. She unzipped the flowered bag and held it open for everyone to see. It was a show and tell of intimate feminine toiletries. Toothbrush and tampons and Midol. One of the male guards flushed. He'd gotten his thrill for the day. She zipped up the bag and opened her purse. No surprises in there either. A wallet, chequebook, car keys, more tampons. Women and their specialized plumbing. The guards were looking uncomfortable now, and a little sheepish.

Abby was starting to enjoy this.

She put the purse back in the locker and took the white coat off the hook. The instant she did, she knew there was something different about it. It was heavier. She reached into the pocket and felt something cylindrical and smooth. A glass vial. She took it out and stared at the label.

Morphine sulphate. The vial was almost empty.

"Dr. DiMatteo," said Parr, "Please give that to me."

She looked up at him. Slowly she shook her head. "I don't know what it's doing there."

"Give me the vial."

Too stunned to think of an alternative action, she simply handed it to him. "I don't know how it got there," she said. "I've never seen it before."

Parr handed the vial to the nursing supervisor. Then he turned to the guards. "Please escort Dr. DiMatteo to my office."

"This is bullshit," said Mark. "Someone set her up and we all know it."

"We don't know any such thing," said Parr.

"It's part of the same pattern of harassment! The lawsuits. The

HARVEST

bloody organs in her car. And now this."

"This is entirely different, Dr. Hodell. This is a dead patient." Parr looked at Abby. "Dr. DiMatteo, why don't you just tell us the truth and make things easier for all of us?"

A confession was what he wanted. A clean and simple admission of guilt. Abby glanced around the table, at Parr and Susan Casado and the nursing supervisor. The only person she couldn't look at was Mark. She was afraid to look at him, afraid to see any doubt in his eyes.

She said, "I told you,! don't know anything about it. I don't know how the morphine got in my locker. I don't know how Mary Allen died."

"You pronounced her death," said Parr. "Two nights ago."

"The nurses found her. She'd already expired."

"That was the night you were on call."

"Yes."

"You were in the hospital all night."

"Of course. That's what being on call means."

"So you were here on the very night Mrs Allen expired of a morphine OD. And today we find this in your locker." He set the vial on the table where it sat, centre stage, on the gleaming mahogany surface. "A controlled substance. Just the fact it's in your possession is serious enough."

Abby stared at Parr. "You just said Mrs Allen died of a morphine OD. How do you know that?"

"A postmortem drug level. It was sky high."

"She was on a therapeutic dose, titrated to comfort."

"I have the report right here. It came back this morning. 0.4

per litre. A level of 0.2 is considered fatal."

"Let me see that," said Mark. "Certainly."

Mark scanned the lab slip. "Why would anyone order a postmortem morphine level? She was a terminal cancer patient."

"It was ordered. That's all you need to know."

"I need to know a hell of a lot more."

Parr looked at Susan Casado, who said: "There was reason to suspect this was not a natural death."