Робин Кук - Charlatans

“I have yet to investigate the case,” Noah said vaguely.

“I hope the case is going to be presented at next week’s M&M Conference.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Noah said. “It was a tragedy, which certainly needs to be aired to see if we can learn anything to keep it from happening again in the future.”

“Didn’t Dr. Mason have two other cases going at the exact same time? That’s what I heard.”

“I will be checking in on that for certain,” Noah said.

“I hope you do. I happen to know that was the situation, and I personally think that concurrent surgery shouldn’t be allowed here or anyplace. Plain and simple. Not in this day and age.”

“I’m not fond of the practice myself,” Noah said. “Now, if you can excuse me, I have to get over to Broomfield Hall.”

While Noah had been briefly speaking with Helen Moran, the covey of first-year residents that he had seen approaching had grouped themselves around him. The moment he was free, a batch of simultaneous questions erupted about the on-call schedule. Jokingly, Noah held up his hands as if he needed to protect himself, then pointed toward the exit. “How about we all go next door and get some coffee? I promise I’ll answer all your questions.”

As Noah watched Helen recede in the direction of the door, there was another tap on his shoulder. This time it was significantly more forceful, causing Noah to have to take a step forward to maintain his balance. With a twinge of irritation, he spun around to complain, but then swallowed his words. He found himself facing Dr. Mason. The man’s expression had changed from boredom to a scowl.

“I heard what you said to that woman,” Mason growled. “Let me tell you, my friend! You’d better tread lightly about this Vincent case or you are going to be in big trouble.” To emphasize his point, Mason stabbed Noah a number of times in the chest with one of his thick index fingers.

“Excuse me?” Noah managed. He’d heard Mason clearly but needed a moment to process what was obviously a threat.

“You heard me, you freaking Goody Two-Shoes. Don’t you dare turn this Vincent disaster into a cause célèbre against concurrent surgery. If you do, you’ll be messing with the most powerful surgeons here at the BMH who need double booking to meet demand of their services. You hear what I am saying? And let me remind you: The muckety-mucks in Admin feel the same, since we bring in the cold cash to run this place. You got it?”

“I hear you,” Noah managed. He stared into Mason’s unblinking black eyes. The man had his considerable chin tucked back like a boxer’s. “I will investigate the case thoroughly and present the facts dispassionately. That’s all.”

“Bullshit, my friend. Don’t take me for a fool! You can skew the facts whatever way you please. But I am warning you, Anesthesia screwed up, plain and simple, by giving the wrong anesthesia, compounded by the patient himself, which should have been discovered by Admitting. Keep it simple or, believe me, you are going to be looking for work.”

“I will not skew the facts,” Noah said, gaining a smidgen of confidence. He knew intuitively that Mason was in the wrong in trying to dictate the outcome of the M&M Conference. Yet as a realist, Noah also knew he was now deep into the proverbial minefield.

“Really?” Mason questioned superciliously. “Well, let me tell you a fact. Bruce Vincent was alive when you came flying in and sliced open his chest like the cavalry arriving at the last second. The only problem is you killed the patient. That is a fact.”

Noah swallowed. His mouth had become dry. There was some truth to what Mason was saying, but had Noah not “sliced” into Vincent’s chest, Vincent would have been dead in about three or four minutes. It had been a gamble, but a gamble that had not paid off. Still, someone could make the argument that Noah had been too rash, and that maybe the patient should have been merely defibrillated externally and bronchoscoped as an emergency.

“You’d better think about it long and hard!” Mason growled. He poked Noah a final time, hard enough to force Noah to take a step back. Then Mason turned on his heel and churned angrily through the crowded pit and out of the amphitheater like a speedboat in a packed harbor, leaving Noah in his turbulent wake.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 5, 10:48 P.M.

A light rain was falling as the late-model black Ford van with its snub nose and rakish headlights pulled over to the curb on a dark residential street in Middletown, Connecticut. There was no lettering on the nondescript, workaday vehicle with Maryland tags. The headlights switched off, but the engine kept running to keep the air-conditioning functioning. There was only one pedestrian visible down near the end of the street, walking a small white dog. He quickly disappeared into one of the homes, leaving the street deserted. Lights were on in many of the modest two-story houses that lined both sides of the street, although mostly on the second floors. It was bedtime in most of the households.

There were two men in the van’s front bucket seats, dressed in lightweight summer suits with black ties: George Marlowe’s was dark gray; Keyon Dexter’s was black. Both men were in their late thirties, athletic appearing, and were clean cut in a military fashion, with short hair and closely shaved faces. Both had been in the Marines and had been deployed to Iraq, where they had met in a special cyber unit. Keyon was African American, with medium dark skin; George was Caucasian and blond. They were staring out the windshield at a Craftsman-style house with tapered columns supporting a hip-roofed porch two houses down and across the street from where they were parked. Incandescent light spilled out of the first-floor windows, but the overhead porch light was off and the second floor was dark.

“Check and see if he is online now,” Keyon said from the driver’s seat. “And while you are at it, recheck the GPS coordinates. We wouldn’t want to be arresting the wrong dude.”

They both chuckled at such a suggestion as George opened his laptop, booted it up, and then let the fingers of both hands rapidly type on his keyboard. He was clearly adept at keying his laptop.

“He’s online,” George said presently. “Probably trolling and causing mischief as usual. And we’ve definitely got the right house.” He closed the computer, reached around, and put the machine on one of the rear seats. The back of the van was filled with sophisticated electronic surveillance and computer equipment.

“So now we get to see the real Savageboy69,” Keyon said.

“My guess is that we are not going to find a stud,” George said. “Ten to one he’s going to be a boring, colorless, middle-aged guy.”

“You got that right,” Keyon said. “I’d wager him being a real candy-ass despite his online persona.” They both laughed again. They knew that in current lingo, Savage boy was the same as Fuck boy in the world’s teenage smartphone “connected culture” and in rap lyrics. Neither man could define the term precisely, although both knew exactly what it meant, something like the way they thought about the concept of pornography, which they also struggled to define but felt they knew when they saw it.

“I’m hoping he’s home alone,” Keyon said. “That will make things a lot easier and cleaner.”

They had already run the house through a number of databases to find out the current owner. It was Gary Sheffield, age forty-eight, who was divorced five years ago and worked for an insurance company as a statistician. He had no criminal record and no children.

“Are you ready?” George said.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Keyon said. He turned the van’s ignition off. Suddenly there was the sound of crickets, particularly when they opened the van’s doors. It was a warm summer night. The rain had stopped. From all directions came the hum of window air conditioners.