Robin Cook - Host

Lynn ignored the nurse as she had out in the hallway. Any vestigial hope that the patient might be some other Michael Pender vanished the moment Lynn could see him. It was definitely her dearest friend. She was absolutely sure even though part of his face and his body was covered with surgical drapes. Michael was in a sitting position, with an endotracheal tube in place and his eyes taped shut. The breathing bag on the anesthesia machine was rhythmically expanding and contracting with his breathing. The cardiac monitor was beeping a steady signal. The surgeon had already turned a scalp flap and was preparing to drill a burr hole.

Without a second’s hesitation, Lynn stepped over to the anesthesia machine and bent down to look at its side. She wanted to see the number. As she feared, it was machine 37. She straightened up. The nurse who had run in after her again loudly ordered her out of the operating room, telling everyone that Lynn was apparently deranged.

Continuing to ignore the nurse, who was again trying to get ahold of Lynn’s arm, Lynn turned to the circulating nurse. “You have to get another anesthesia machine stat! This one’s trouble! People don’t wake up.”

“Please!” the first nurse said, resorting to begging. “You must leave!”

Benton recovered his shock and, after fumbling on the surface of the anesthesia machine, came up with a filled syringe. Without warning he came at Lynn like a bull in a china shop, causing another similar syringe perched on the anesthesia machine to fall to the floor. The nurse who had come in behind Lynn let go of Lynn’s arm and stepped back in fright.

Thanks to Lynn’s inherent and honed athleticism from her years playing lacrosse, she easily eluded Benton, effectively ducking under his arm and running around the operating table with the idea of keeping it between herself and the enraged anesthesiologist. When Benton started one way, Lynn went the other. While they were jockeying for position, Lynn again urged the circulating nurse to get another anesthesia machine. “If you do that, I will leave,” Lynn yelled. “Otherwise I’m going to stay in here until you do.” Her voice echoed off the tiled walls.

The circulating nurse was confused as to what to do and looked toward Benton for direction.

“I’m getting hospital security,” the first nurse declared. Without waiting for a response from the operating team, she disappeared out the door into the OR hallway.

Dr. Norman Phillips, who had been momentarily paralyzed by this unexpected spectacle during his case, quickly recovered. He handed off his craniotome, which he had been about to use, to the scrub nurse and stepped back from standing directly behind Michael. Obviously willing to break scrub — contaminate his gloves and gown — by holding his arms and gloved hands out in front of himself, he threatened to block Lynn from moving in his direction so that she couldn’t continue circling the operating table.

Lynn immediately took the neurosurgeon up on his offer to join the confrontation. She wanted to be as disruptive as possible, knowing that if the surgeon broke scrub he’d have to start all over again, wasting significant time in the process. Her hope was to maximize the delay in order to keep anything from happening to Michael until help, in the form of Markus Vandermeer, somehow got there. The problem was, she didn’t have any idea of how long that might be. What Lynn didn’t want was to have both Benton and Norman get ahold of her at the same time. She could well imagine what was probably in the syringe.

Pretending for the moment she was on a lacrosse field and that she was playing men’s lacrosse and not women’s, she body-checked Norman at full speed, hitting him with her shoulder and driving upward. She had seen Carl do it in old films he had from his college days. It worked superbly, catching the neurosurgeon completely off guard and knocking him off his feet to sprawl on the floor. She knew that was breaking scrub about as much as humanly possible.

Benton, rushing up behind Lynn, caught sight of this impressive display and skidded to a stop. Lynn took the opportunity to give a sharp chop with the edge of her hand to Benton’s outstretched forearm with the hand holding the syringe. The syringe flew from his grasp, and falling to the floor, it spun safely under the operating table.

Lynn ran back around to the other side of the room after leaping over Norman, who was struggling to catch his breath. Spinning around, she waited for the next attack. Benton went back to the anesthesia machine, pulled out a small drawer, and struggled to get a new syringe filled with a mammoth dose of midazolam. Norman picked himself up off the floor, checking to be sure he had no broken bones.

“A different anesthesia machine!” Lynn yelled yet again to the circulating nurse or anyone else who would listen. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll leave if you get it and use it.” She didn’t know if the planned surgery was indicated or not. Her guess was that it was not, but the surgery per se wasn’t her main concern. It was the number 37 anesthesia machine.

“Dr. Rhodes?” the circulating nurse said. “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” Benton sneered. He got the syringe filled and tossed aside the vial. Again prepared, he looked over at Norman, who’d now totally recovered. Both nodded and turned their full attention to Lynn. They then started around the OR table in opposite directions with the idea of trapping her.

Having been successful using the body check with Norman and still definitely reluctant to deal with both men at once, Lynn immediately launched a similar attack on Benton as she had done on Norman. Accelerating to near full speed, she ran at him. And once again, just before impact she crouched slightly so that when she hit him she could lunge upward with the point of her shoulder. At the last second before contact, Benton reared back defensively, having witnessed the effect on Norman. The ploy managed to cushion the collision significantly. But it also meant that both he and Lynn lost their footing with her momentum.

Lynn fell directly on top of Benton. She could hear the wind whoosh out of his lungs, and then she felt him struggling vainly to catch his breath even more than what Norman had experienced. Scrambling to her feet, she realized he had managed to stab her with the syringe, whether he meant to or not, when they when they met head-on. Buried almost to the hilt, it was still sticking out of her forearm.

But she didn’t have time to worry how much of the contents might have been injected or whether it had been enough to compromise her. There was a more pressing problem. Norman had come around the operating table and was rushing at her like she had done to him, and as close as he was at that moment, there was no chance for her to be offensive. Instead, like she had done hundreds of times while playing lacrosse, she stepped aside at the very last moment like a matador, and the man mostly missed her. Yet he was able to grab a handful of her scrub top as he sailed past, and because of it, managed to keep his feet.

With as much force as she could muster, Lynn tried to tear herself free from Norman’s clutches, but he held on and even managed to get a ahold of her left wrist with his other hand. Lynn reached up with her free hand and grabbed his face mask and gave it a fearsome yank, snapping his head forward before the elastic broke. But he didn’t let go of either her clothes or her wrist. She struggled madly to get away, but no matter what she did, Norman held on.

Having caught his breath, Benton came to Norman’s aid. After suffering a few significant slaps in the face, he was able to get Lynn’s still-free arm. But that still left her feet and legs free.

Lynn struggled as much as she could, kicking both of them in the legs at least once. She was aiming higher but unable to manage it.