Tess Gerritsen - Under The Knife

The receptionist smiled. “This one will.”

Kate smiled back. “Then so can I.”

“Doctor, you’re wasting your time! Mr. Ransom never meets with defendants. Now, if you need an escort to find your way out, I’ll be happy to—” She glanced around in annoyance as the telephone rang. Grabbing the receiver, she snapped, “Uehara and Ransom! Yes? Oh, yes, Mr. Matheson!” She pointedly turned her back on Kate. “Let’s see, I have those files right here…”

In frustration, Kate glanced around at the waiting room, noting the leather couch, the Ikebana of willow and proteus, the Murashige print hanging on the wall. All exquisitely tasteful and undoubtedly expensive. Obviously, Uehara and Ransom was doing a booming business. All off the blood and sweat of doctors, she thought in disgust.

The sound of voices suddenly drew Kate’s attention. She turned and saw, just down the hall, a small army of young men and women emerging from a conference room. Which one was Ransom? She scanned the faces but none of the men looked old enough to be a senior partner in the firm. She glanced back at the desk and saw that the receptionist still had her back turned. It was now or never.

It took Kate only a split-second to make her decision. Swiftly, deliberately, she moved toward the conference room. But in the doorway she came to a halt, her eyes suddenly dazzled by the light.

A long teak table stretched out before her. Along either side, a row of leather chairs stood like soldiers at attention. Blinding sunshine poured in through the southerly windows, spilling across the head and shoulders of a lone man seated at the far end of the table. The light streaked his fair hair with gold. He didn’t notice her; all his attention was focused on a sheaf of papers lying in front of him. Except for the rustle of a page being turned, the room was absolutely silent.

Kate swallowed hard and drew herself up straight. “Mr. Ransom?”

The man looked up and regarded her with a neutral expression. “Yes? Who are you?”

“I’m—”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Ransom!” cut in the receptionist’s outraged voice. Hauling Kate by the arm, the woman muttered through her teeth, “I told you he was unavailable. Now if you’ll come with me—”

“I only want to talk to him!”

“Do you want me to call security and have you thrown out?”

Kate wrenched her arm free. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t tempt me, you—”

“What the hell is going on here?” The roar of Ransom’s voice echoed in the vast room, shocking both women into silence. He aimed a long and withering look at Kate. “Just who are you?”

“Kate—” She paused and dropped her voice to what she hoped was a more dignified tone. “ Doctor Kate Chesne.”

A pause. “I see.” He looked right back down at his papers and said flatly, “Show her out, Mrs. Pierce.”

“I just want to tell you the facts!” Kate persisted. She tried to hold her ground but the receptionist herded her toward the door with all the skill of a sheepdog. “Or would you rather not hear the facts, is that it? Is that how you lawyers operate?” He studiously ignored her. “You don’t give a damn about the truth, do you? You don’t want to hear what really happened to Ellen O’Brien!”

That made him look up sharply. His gaze fastened long and hard on her face. “Hold on, Mrs. Pierce. I’ve just changed my mind. Let Dr. Chesne stay.”

Mrs. Pierce was incredulous. “But—she could be violent!”

David’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Kate’s flushed face. “I think I can handle her. You can leave us, Mrs. Pierce.”

Mrs. Pierce muttered as she walked out. The door closed behind her. There was a very long silence.

“Well, Dr. Chesne,” David said. “Now that you’ve managed the rather miraculous feat of getting past Mrs. Pierce, are you just going to stand there?” He gestured to a chair. “Have a seat. Unless you’d rather scream at me from across the room.”

His cold flippancy, rather than easing her tension, made him seem all the more unapproachable. She forced herself to move toward him, feeling his gaze every step of the way. For a man with his highly regarded reputation, he was younger than she’d expected, not yet in his forties. Establishment was stamped all over his clothes, from his gray pinstripe suit to his Yale tie clip. But a tan that deep and hair that sun-streaked didn’t go along with an Ivy League type. He’s just a surfer boy, grown up , she thought derisively. He certainly had a surfer’s build, with those long, ropy limbs and shoulders that were just broad enough to be called impressive. A slab of a nose and a blunt chin saved him from being pretty. But it was his eyes she found herself focusing on. They were a frigid, penetrating blue; the sort of eyes that missed absolutely nothing. Right now those eyes were boring straight through her and she felt an almost irresistible urge to cross her arms protectively across her chest.

“I’m here to tell you the facts, Mr. Ransom,” she said.

“The facts as you see them?”

“The facts as they are .”

“Don’t bother.” Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out Ellen O’Brien’s file and slapped it down conclusively on the table. “I have all the facts right here. Everything I need.” Everything I need to hang you , was what he meant.

“Not everything.”

“And now you’re going to supply me with the missing details. Right?” He smiled and she recognized immediately the unmistakable threat in his expression. He had such perfect, sharp white teeth. She had the distinct feeling she was staring into the jaws of a shark.

She leaned forward, planting her hands squarely on the table. “What I’m going to supply you with is the truth.”

“Oh, naturally.” He slouched back in his chair and regarded her with a look of terminal boredom. “Tell me something,” he asked offhandedly. “Does your attorney know you’re here?”

“Attorney? I—I haven’t talked to any attorney—”

“Then you’d better get one on the phone. Fast. Because, Doctor, you’re damn well going to need one.”

“Not necessarily. This is nothing but a big misunderstanding, Mr. Ransom. If you’ll just listen to the facts, I’m sure—”

“Hold on.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a cassette recorder.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

He turned on the recorder and slid it in front of her. “I wouldn’t want to miss some vital detail. Go on with your story. I’m all ears.”

Furious, she reached over and flicked the Off button. “This isn’t a deposition! Put the damn thing away!”

For a few tense seconds they sized each other up. She felt a distinct sense of triumph when he put the recorder back in his briefcase.

“Now, where were we?” he asked with extravagant politeness. “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what really happened.” He settled back, obviously expecting some grand entertainment.

She hesitated. Now that she finally had his full attention, she didn’t know quite how to start.

“I’m a very…careful person, Mr. Ransom,” she said at last. “I take my time with things. I may not be brilliant, but I’m thorough. And I don’t make stupid mistakes.”

His raised eyebrow told her exactly what he thought of that statement. She ignored his look and went on.

“The night Ellen O’Brien came into the hospital, Guy Santini admitted her. But I wrote the anesthesia orders. I checked the lab results. And I read her EKG. It was a Sunday night and the technician was busy somewhere so I even ran the strip myself. I wasn’t rushed. I took all the time I needed. In fact, more than I needed, because Ellen was a member of our staff. She was one of us . She was also a friend. I remember sitting in her room, going over her lab tests. She wanted to know if everything was normal.”