Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“I’m going with no.”

“Damn straight. Even if they believe it was their fault. Sick patients force doctors-and nurses-into having to make decisions. If we had more time, less pressure on us to act, the choices we made might have been Different. Continuing to help others with our talent and skill is actually honoring the memory of the patient who died. I don’t blame myself for Belle’s death. I blame the person who killed her. Same way as losing Sarah and Umberto isn’t on you, Nick. It’s on the people who killed them. We can’t bring them back, but we can still do more for them.”

Nick looked up at the dark rafters. “Here’s the thing with PTSD,” he said. “Some people think it’s in your head and that you can just snap your fingers or crank up your willpower and come out of it, or like MacCandliss keeps insisting, that it’s all manufactured for some secondary gain. But that’s not the case at all. It’s a chemical change where the thinking takes place, like an internal depression, or a cancer eating away at you. Much as you want to just shake the symptoms off, sometimes they won’t let go. So you end up walking around in circles, holding yourself hostage to the places and people where you feel most comfortable and safe, because the alternative means facing an unknown. I used to love the unknown. I was a pure adrenaline junkie. Rock climbing, skiing, you name it. But after watching Sarah get hacked apart by that truck moments before Umberto saved my life under that refrigerator, lying there, covered with broken bags of blood, that rush lost its appeal. I retreated into what was safest for me.”

“I know you’re hurting, Nick…”

Nick held up a hand, cutting her short. The scotch was settling in, doing what he wanted it to.

“No, let me finish,” he said. “Since losing Sarah, I know I’ve been a walking shell. But then you came along. And now, each day your strength is becoming my strength. You just have to be patient with me, Jill, and believe that I really do want to become the man-the doc-I once was. This struggle is a war, not a battle, but I feel the tide turning, and more important, I feel I want to work at it.”

“And I’ll help you as best as I can. I swear I will.”

Nick swung his legs around to face her.

“It makes all the difference,” he said, no longer able to keep his lips from hers.

As they were kissing, the bar erupted in a huge cheer. They quickly pulled away from one another, thinking for an embarrassed moment that the applause and shouts were for them.

“Back to your smoochin’,” the totally amused bartender said, pointing up at the TV. “Chelsea just scored the tying goal against Manchester United.”

“Maybe I’ll skip therapy,” Nick whispered in her ear.

“Maybe you won’t. We have time, baby. Step by step, we have time.”

“Let’s plan on meeting up with Saul, either at the hospital or at Noreen’s place, after my session. If I haven’t heard from Reese by then, we might have to find somebody else. I’m sure Junie knows who we can contact. She’s connected with everyone.”

“But you said yourself, we don’t know who we can trust or how deep this whole thing goes.”

“That’ll be a chance we have to take.”

Just then, Jillian’s cell phone rang. Nick perked up, thinking it might be Reese, but she let him know she did not recognize the caller ID. Her expression brightened, though, as soon as she answered. Over the din of the pub, Nick picked up only fragments of her brief conversation.

“Hi there, I’m so glad to hear from you… You do? Oh, my God, that’s fascinating. As I told you, I’ve been suspicious of the timing from the get-go… No, it’s not a problem. This is a good time… Sure, I can… Where?… Yeah, I know the place. I’ll meet you in an hour… Okay. See you there.” She set the phone down and turned to Nick. “Talk about things coming together.”

“What was that all about?”

“That was my condo’s insurance company. Now they’re thinking the fire was arson. Apparently, they actually have information about who might have set it. He wants to meet with me in an hour and go over their findings.”

“Is this the same fire inspector you told me about?”

“Exactly,” Jillian said. “His name’s Regis, Paul Regis.”

Nick’s ninety-minute eye movement therapy session was especially intense, but he was ready for it. Dr. Coletta Deems, his therapist, a tall, formal scarecrow of a woman, was impressed, and said so.

“You seem exceptionally focused today, Dr. Garrity.”

Well, uncovering a conspiracy of serial murder has that effect on me , he thought about saying, especially when combined with finding out that the woman of anyone’s dreams might be in love with me.

“I’m visualizing better,” he said instead. “Maybe today’s like the fifty-foot putt that keeps you coming back to the golf course.”

“Pardon?”

“Not worth repeating. I have a lot on my mind today, which makes my ability to control my thinking that much more surprising and satisfying.”

“So, where would you put your SUD score at this moment?”

Nick looked up at the Subjective Units of Distress chart on the wall of the tranquil therapy room. Ten was defined as “unbearably bad.” Zero was “absolute peace and serenity.”

Four, he decided, and said so.

Four: Somewhat upset to the point that you cannot easily ignore an unpleasant thought. You can handle it okay, but don’t feel good.

“Yes, I believe I’m under five.”

Deems was as delighted as she seemed capable of being.

“Progress is what we’re after, Dr. Garrity,” she said, adjusting her wire-rims. “No more or less than progress.”

“Progress,” Nick echoed, excited to share the news of his SUD triumph with Jillian.

“Oh, by the way, Doctor, you asked not to have our session interrupted for any call other than one from Don Reese.”

“Yes?”

“Well, he didn’t call, but a”-she checked a small slip of paper- “Mr. Mollender called about twenty minutes ago. He asked you to call him in the office. I have the number here.”

As soon as he could, Nick called Noreen Siliski’s office. The Mole answered on the first ring.

“Saul! Sorry I wasn’t able to take your call. You got anything?”

“I do. But I think we need to meet in person to discuss it. I’m still at Noreen’s office.”

“I… know. That’s the number I dialed. Did you find them?”

“The med student and the resident?” Mollender said vaguely. “Yes, yes, I think so. But I’d rather show you. Can you make it down here?”

Mollender sounded tense and exhausted, hardly like a man with any good news to share. Nick looked across at the SUD chart and decided he had drifted up to a five: Unpleasant feelings still manageable with some effort.

“It’s getting on rush hour,” he said, “but I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

“And Nick, do you still have the DVDs of Andy’s death?”

“Andy? You mean Umberto. I have one and I left the other one with Roger Pendleton, the perfusionist. I’m pretty sure I already told you that.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Mollender said.

The line went dead.

____________________

ON THE stop-and-go drive to Sutton, Nick tried unsuccessfully to reach Jillian and Junie. He did manage to catch Reggie at home, who told him that both his foster mother and the RV were gone, although he hadn’t seen her leave. Strange, Nick thought. Junie almost certainly was in the RV headed for D.C. to pick up the Professor, as they referred to this particular covering doc. There should be no reason why she wouldn’t answer her phone.