Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

The end of the cord was dangling from his hand.

Tarasoft held out the scalpel. "You make the first incision," he said, and saw the look of dismay in the other man's eyes. You have no choice, Hodell, he thought. You're the one who tried to recruit her into the fold. You're the one who made the mistake. Now you have to correct it.

Hodell took the scalpel. They had not even begun to operate, and already sweat had broken out on his forehead. He paused, the blade poised over the exposed abdomen. They both knew this was a test — perhaps the ultimate one.

Go ahead. Archer did his part by taking care of Mary Allen. Just as Zwick did with Aaron Levi. Now it's your turn. Prove you're still part of the team, still one of us. Cut open the woman you once made love to.

Do it.

Mark shifted the scalpel in his hand, as though trying to get a better grip. Then he took a breath and pressed the blade to the skin.

Do it.

Mark sliced. A long, curving incision. The skin parted and a line of blood welled up and dribbled onto the surgical drapes.

Tarasoffrelaxed. Hodell was not going to be a problem after all. He had, in fact, passed the point of no return years ago, as a surgical fellow. A night of heavy drinking, a few snorts of cocaine. The next morning, a strange bed, and a pretty nursing student strangled to death on the pillow beside him. And Hodell with no memory of what had really happened. It was all very persuasive.

And there'd been the money, to cement the recruitment.

The carrot and the stick. It worked almost every time. It had worked with Archer and Zwick and Mohandas. And with Aaron Levi too — for a while. Theirs had been a closed society, meticulous about guarding their secrets. And their profits. No one else at Bayside, not ColinWettig, not even Jeremiah Parr, could even begin to guess how much money had changed hands. It was enough money to buy the very best doctors, the very best team — a team Tarasoff had created. The Russians merely supplied the parts and, when necessary, the brute force. In the OR, it was the team that performed the miracles.

Money alone had not been enough to keep Aaron Levi in their fold. But Hodell was still theirs. He was proving it now with every slice of his scalpel.

Tarasoft assisted, positioning retractors, clamping bleeders. It was a pleasure to work with such young and healthy tissue. The woman was in excellent condition. She had a minimum of subcutaneous fat and her abdominal muscles were flat and tight — so tight that their assistant, standing at the head of the table, had to infuse more succinylcholine to relax them for easier retraction.

The scalpel blade penetrated the muscle layer. They were in the abdominal cavity now. Tarasoft widened the retractors. Beneath a thin veil of peritoneal tissue glistened the liver and loops of small intestine. All of it healthy, so healthy! The human organism was a beautiful sight to behold.

The lights flickered and almost went off altogether.

"What's going on?" said Hodell.

They both looked up at the lamps. The lights brightened again to full intensity.

"Just a glitch," said Tarasoft. "I can still hear the generator."

"This is not an optimal setup. A rocking ship. The power going oft-'

"It's a temporary arrangement. Until we find a replacement for the Amity building." He nodded at the surgical site. "Proceed."

Hodell raised his scalpel and paused. He'd been trained as a thoracic surgeon; a liver resection was a procedure he'd performed only a few times before. Perhaps he needed extra guidance.

Or perhaps the reality of what he was doing was starting to sink in.

"Is there a problem?" Tarasoft asked.

"No." Mark swallowed. Once again he began to cut, but his hand was shaking. He lifted the scalpel and took a few deep breaths.

"We haven't a lot of time, Dr. Hodell. There's another donor to harvest."

"It's just… isn't it hot in here?"

"I hadn't noticed. Proceed."

Hodell nodded. Gripping the scalpel, he was about to make another incision when he suddenly froze.

Tarasoft heard a sound behind him — the sigh of the door as it whished shut.

Mark, staring straight ahead, lifted his scalpel.

The explosion seemed to punch him in the face. Hodell's head snapped backwards. Blood and bone fragments sprayed across the table.

Tarasoft spun around to look at the door, and he caught a glimpse of blond hair and the boy's white face.

The gun fired a second time.

The shot went wild, the bullet shattering a glass door in the supply cabinet. Shards rained onto the floor.

The anaesthetist ducked for cover behind the ventilator. Tarasoft backed away, his gaze never leaving the gun. It was Gregor's gun, compact enough, light enough, for even a child to hold. But the hand clutching that gun was shaking too hard now to shoot straight. He's only a boy, thought Tarasoft. A frightened boy whose arm kept wavering indecisively between the anaesthetist and Tarasoft.

Tarasoft glanced sideways at the instrument tray, and he spotted the syringe of succinylcholine. It still contained more than enough to subdue the child. Slowly he edged sideways, stepping over Hodell's body and through the spreading pool of blood. Then the gun swung back towards him, and he froze.

The boy was crying now, his breath coming in quick, tearful gasps.

"It's all right," soothed Tarasoft. And he smiled. "Don't be afraid. I'm only helping your friend. Making her well again. She's very sick. Don't you know that? She needs a doctor."

The boy's gaze focused on the table. On the woman. He took a step forward, then another. His breath suddenly escaped in a high, keening wall. He did not hear the anaesthetist slip past him and flee from the room. Nor did he seem to hear the faint rumble of the helicopter. It was approaching, preparing to land for the pickup.

Tarasoft took the syringe from the tray. Quietly he moved closer to the table.

The boy lifted his head and his cry rose to a despairing shriek. Tarasoft raised the syringe.

At that instant the boy looked up at him. And it was no longer fear, but rage that shone in the boy's eyes as he aimed Gregor's gun.

And fired one last time.

The boy would not leave her bedside. From the moment the nurses had wheeled her out of Recovery and into the SICU, he had stayed right beside her, a pale little ghost haunting her bed. Twice the nurses had taken him by the hand and led him out of the cubicle. Twice the boy had found his way back in again. Now he stood gripping the siderails, his gaze silently pleading with her to wake up. At least he was no longer hysterical, the way he'd been when Katzka had come across him on the ship. He'd found the boy leaning over Abby's butchered body, sobbing, imploring her to live. Katzka had not understood a word of what the boy was saying. But he'd understood perfectly his panic. His despair.

There was a tapping on the cubicle window. Turning, Katzka saw Vivian Chao motioning to him. He opened the door and joined her outside the cubicle.

"That kid can't stay here all night," she said. "He's getting in their way. Plus, he doesn't look very clean."

"Every time they try to take him away, he starts screaming."

"Can't you talk to him?"

"I don't know any Russian. Do you?"

"We're still waiting for the hospital translator. Why don't you exert some male authority? Just pull him out."

"Give the boy some time with her, OK?" Katzka turned and gazed through the window at the bed. And he found himself struggling to shake off the superimposed image that would haunt him for the rest of his days: Abby lying on the table, her abdomen slit open, her intestines glistening under the OR lights. The boy whimpering, cradling her face. And on the floor, lying in a lake of their own blood, the two men — Hodell already dead, Tarasoft unconscious and bleeding but still alive. Like everyone else aboard that freighter, Tarasoft had been taken into custody.