Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Just finishing rounds.”

Peter eyed the tubes and machinery bristling around Mr. Gwadowski’s bed. “I heard you made a great save. A twelve-unit bleeder.”

“I don’t know if you’d call it a save.” Her gaze returned to her patient. “Everything works but the gray matter.”

They said nothing for a moment, both of them watching Mr. Gwadowski’s chest rise and fall.

“Helen told me two policemen came by to see you today,” said Peter. “What’s going on?”

“It wasn’t important.”

“Forgot to pay those parking tickets?”

She forced a laugh. “Right, and I’m counting on you to bail me out.”

They left the SICU and walked into the hallway, lanky Peter striding beside her in that easy lope of his. As they rode the elevator, he asked:

“You okay, Catherine?”

“Why? Don’t I look okay?”

“Honestly?” He studied her face, his blue eyes so direct she felt invaded. “You look like you need a glass of wine and a nice dinner out. How about joining me?”

“A tempting invitation.”

“But?”

“But I think I’ll stay in for the night.”

Peter clutched his chest, as though mortally wounded. “Shot down again! Tell me, is there any line that works on you?”

She smiled. “That’s for you to find out.”

“How about this one? A little bird told me it’s your birthday on Saturday. Let me take you up in my plane.”

“Can’t. I’m on call that day.”

“You can switch with Ames. I’ll talk to him.”

“Oh, Peter. You know I don’t like to fly.”

“Don’t tell me you have phobias about flying?”

“I’m just not good at relinquishing control.”

He nodded gravely. “Classic surgical personality.”

“That’s a nice way of saying I’m uptight.”

“So it’s a no-go on the flying date? I can’t change your mind?”

“I don’t think so.”

He sighed. “Well, that’s it for my lines. I’ve gone through my entire repertoire.”

“I know. You’re starting to recycle them.”

“That’s what Helen says, too.”

She shot him a look of surprise. “Helen’s giving you tips on how to ask me out?”

“She said she couldn’t stand the pathetic spectacle of a man banging his head against an impregnable wall.”

They both laughed as they stepped off the elevator and walked to their suite. It was the comfortable laugh of two colleagues who knew this game was all tongue-in-cheek. Keeping it on that level meant no feelings were hurt, no emotions were at stake. A safe little flirtation that kept them both insulated from real entanglements. Playfully he’d ask her out; just as playfully she’d turn him down, and the whole office was in on the joke.

It was already five-thirty, and their staff was gone for the day. Peter retreated to his office and she went into hers to hang up her lab coat and get her purse. As she put the coat on the door hook, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

She crossed the hallway and stuck her head in Peter’s office. He was reviewing charts, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Unlike her own neat office, Peter’s looked like chaos central. Paper airplanes filled the trash can. Books and surgery journals were piled on chairs. One wall was nearly smothered by an out-of-control philodendron. Buried in that jungle of leaves were Peter’s diplomas: an undergraduate degree in aeronautical engineering from MIT, an M.D. from Harvard Medical School.

“Peter? This is a stupid question….”

He glanced up over his glasses. “Then you’ve come to the right man.”

“Have you been in my office?”

“Should I call my lawyer before I answer that?”

“Come on. I’m serious.”

He straightened, and his gaze sharpened on hers. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

“Never mind. It’s not a big deal.” She turned to leave and heard the creak of his chair as he stood up. He followed her into her office.

“What’s not a big deal?” he asked.

“I’m being obsessive-compulsive, that’s all. I get irritated when things aren’t where they should be.”

“Like what?”

“My lab coat. I always hang it on the door, and somehow it ends up on the filing cabinet, or over a chair. I know it’s not Helen or the other secretaries. I asked them.”

“The cleaning lady probably moved it.”

“And then it drives me crazy that I can’t find my stethoscope.”

“It’s still missing?”

“I had to borrow the nursing supervisor’s.”

Frowning, he glanced around the room. “Well, there it is. On the bookshelf.” He crossed to the shelf, where her stethoscope lay coiled beside a bookend.

Silently she took it from him, staring at it as though it were something alien. A black serpent, draped over her hand.

“Hey, what’s the matter?”

She took a deep breath. “I think I’m just tired.” She put the stethoscope in the left pocket of her lab coat — the same place she always left it.

“Are you sure that’s all? Is there something else going on?”

“I need to get home.” She walked out of her office, and he followed her into the hall.

“Is it something to do with those police officers? Look, if you’re in some kind of trouble — if I can help out—”

“I don’t need any help, thank you.” Her answer came out cooler than she’d intended, and she was instantly sorry for it. Peter didn’t deserve that.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind if you did ask me for favors every so often,” he said quietly. “It’s part of working together. Being partners. Don’t you think?”

She didn’t answer.

He turned back to his office. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Peter?”

“Yes?”

“About those two police officers. And the reason they came to see me—”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I should. You’ll just wonder about it if I don’t. They came to ask me about a homicide case. A woman was murdered Thursday night. They thought I might have known her.”

“Did you?”

“No. It was a mistake, that’s all.” She sighed. “Just a mistake.”

Catherine turned the dead bolt, felt it drive home with a satisfying thud, and then slid the chain in place. One more line of defense against the unnamed horrors that lurked beyond her walls. Safely barricaded in her apartment, she removed her shoes, set her purse and car keys down on the cherrywood butler’s table, and walked in stockinged feet across the thick white carpet of her living room. The flat was pleasantly cool, thanks to the miracle of central air-conditioning. Outside it was eighty-six degrees, but in here the temperature never wavered above seventy-two in the summer or below sixty-eight in the winter. There was so little in one’s life that could be pre-set, pre-determined, and she strove to maintain what order she could manage within the circumscribed boundaries of her life. She had chosen this twelve-unit condominium building on Commonwealth Avenue because it was brand-new, with a secure parking garage. Though not as picturesque as the historic redbrick residences in the Back Bay, neither was it plagued by the plumbing or electrical uncertainties that come with older buildings. Uncertainty was something Catherine did not tolerate well. Her flat was kept spotless, and except for a few startling splashes of color, she’d chosen to furnish it mostly in white. White couch, white carpets, white tile. The color of purity. Untouched, virginal.

In her bedroom she undressed, hung up her skirt, set aside the blouse to be dropped off at the dry cleaner’s. She changed into loose slacks and a sleeveless silk blouse. By the time she walked barefoot into the kitchen, she was feeling calm, and in control.