Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

Moore found himself leaning close to the window. His hands had tensed, and his pulse quickened.

“The boat brings you to shore and you step out. You walk up the path to the house and open the door. Inside is a single room. It has a nice thick carpet. And a chair. You sit down in the chair, and it’s the most comfortable chair you’ve ever been in. You are completely at ease. And in control.”

Catherine sighed deeply, as though she had just settled onto thick cushions.

“Now, you look at the wall in front of you and you see a movie screen. It’s a magic movie screen, because it can play scenes from any time in your life. It can go back as far as you want it to. You are in control. You can make it go forward or backward. You can stop it at a particular instant in time. It’s all up to you. Let’s try it now. Let’s go back to a happy time. A time when you were at your grandparents’ cottage on the lake. You are picking raspberries. Do you see it, on the screen?”

Catherine’s answer was a long time in coming. When at last she spoke, her words were so soft Moore could barely hear them.

“Yes. I see it.”

“What are you doing? On the screen?” asked Polochek.

“I’m holding a paper sack. Picking berries and putting them in the sack.”

“And do you eat them as you pick?”

A smile on her face, soft and dreamy. “Oh, yes. They’re sweet. And warm from the sun.”

Moore frowned. This was unexpected. She was experiencing taste and touch, which meant she was reliving the moment. She was not just watching it on a movie screen; she was in the scene. He saw Polochek glance at the window with a look of concern. He had chosen the movie screen imagery as a device to detach her from the trauma of her experience. But she was not detached. Now Polochek hesitated, considering what to do next.

“Catherine,” he said, “I want you to concentrate on the cushion you are sitting on. You are in the chair, in the room, watching the movie screen. Notice how soft the cushion is. How the chair hugs your back. Do you feel it?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Okay. Okay, now you’re going to stay in that chair. You are not going to leave it. And we’re going to use the magic screen to watch a different scene in your life. You will still be in the chair. You will still be feeling that soft cushion against your back. And what you’re going to see is just a movie on the screen. All right?”

“All right.”

“Now.” Polochek took a deep breath. “We’re going to go back to the night of June fifteenth, in Savannah. The night Andrew Capra knocked on your front door. Tell me what is happening on the screen.”

Moore watched, scarcely daring to breathe.

“He is standing on my front porch,” said Catherine. “He says he needs to speak to me.”

“About what?”

“About the mistakes he made. In the hospital.”

What she said next was no different from the statement she had given to Detective Singer in Savannah. Reluctantly she invited Capra into her home. It was a hot night, and he said he was thirsty, so she offered him a beer. She opened a beer for herself as well. He was agitated, worried about his future. Yes, he had made mistakes. But didn’t every doctor? It was a waste of his talent, to cut him from the program. He knew a medical student at Emory, a brilliant young man who’d made just one mistake, and it had ended that student’s career. It wasn’t right that Catherine should have the power to make or break a career. People should get second chances.

Though she tried to reason with him, she heard his mounting anger, saw how his hands shook. At last she left to use the bathroom, to give him time to calm down.

“And when you returned from the bathroom?” asked Polochek. “What happens in the movie? What do you see?”

“Andrew is quieter. Not so angry. He says he understands my position. He smiles at me when I finish my beer.”

“Smiles?”

“Strange. A very strange smile. Like the one he gave me in the hospital…”

Moore could hear her breathing begin to quicken. Even as a detached observer, watching the scene in an imaginary movie, she was not immune to the approaching horror.

“What happens next?”

“I’m falling asleep.”

“Do you see this on the movie screen?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“I don’t see anything. The screen is black.”

The Rohypnol. She has no memory of this part.

“All right,” said Polochek. “Let’s fast-forward through the black part. Move ahead, to the next part of the movie. To the next image you see on the screen.”

Catherine’s breathing grew agitated.

“What do you see?”

“I–I’m lying in my bed. In my room. I can’t move my arms or my legs.”

“Why not?”

“I’m tied to the bed. My clothes are gone, and he’s lying on top of me. He’s inside me. Moving inside me…”

“Andrew Capra?”

“Yes. Yes….” Her breathing was erratic now, the sound of fear catching in her throat.

Moore’s fists clenched and his own breathing accelerated. He fought the urge to pound on the window and put an immediate halt to the proceedings. He could barely stand to listen to this. They must not force her to relive the rape.

But Polochek was already aware of the danger, and he quickly guided her away from the painful memory of that ordeal.

“You are still in your chair,” said Polochek. “Safe in that room with the movie screen. It’s only a movie, Catherine. Happening to someone else. You are safe. Secure. Confident.”

Her breathing calmed again, slowing into a steady rhythm. So did Moore’s.

“All right. Let’s watch the movie. Pay attention to what you are doing. Not Andrew. Tell me what happens next.”

“The screen has gone black again. I don’t see anything.”

She has not yet shaken off the Rohypnol.

“Fast-forward, past this black part. To the next thing you see. What is it?”

“Light. I see light….”

Polochek paused. “I want you to zoom out, Catherine. I want you to pull back, to see more of the room. What is on the screen?”

“Things. Lying on the nightstand.”

“What things?”

“Instruments. A scalpel. I see a scalpel.”

“Where is Andrew?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not there in the room?”

“He’s gone. I can hear water running.”

“What happens next?”

She was breathing fast, her voice agitated. “I pull on the ropes. Try to get myself free. I can’t move my feet. But my right hand — the rope is loose around my wrist. I pull. I keep pulling and pulling. My wrist is bleeding.”

“Andrew is still out of the room?”

“Yes. I hear him laughing. I hear his voice. But it’s somewhere else in the house.”

“What is happening to the rope?”

“It’s coming off. The blood makes it slippery, and my hand slides out….”

“What do you do then?”

“I reach for the scalpel. I cut the rope on my other wrist. Everything takes so long. I’m sick to my stomach. My hands don’t work right. They’re so slow, and the room keeps going dark and light and dark. I can still hear his voice, talking. I reach down and cut my left ankle free. Now I hear his footsteps. I try to climb off the bed, but my right ankle is still tied. I roll over the side and fall on the floor. On my face.”

“And then?”

Andrew is there, in the doorway. He looks surprised. I reach under the bed. And I feel the gun.”

“There’s a gun under your bed?”

“Yes. My father’s gun. But my hand is so clumsy, I can barely hold it. And things are starting to go black again.”

“Where is Andrew?”

“He is walking toward me….”