Thomas Perry - The Face-Changers

“You tell me.”

“Surgeons like me could do things that we would never dare try now: virtually nothing would kill a patient if you could keep him alive for twelve hours. It might very well make procedures like kidney or heart transplants into historical oddities.”

“The man down the hall is the one who’s going to do that?”

“We don’t know if anyone will. He’s doing research in that area. It’s rare for a person like him to turn to basic research, so there’s been a lot of speculation, some tantalizing rumors. A few surprising early results have been published.”

“So he might?”

“All I’m sure of is that he’s something that seldom comes along. Twenty or thirty years ago, he was already one of the very best practicing surgeons in the country—the best hands, a temperament that was all concentration, an immediate understanding of the ways each technical advance could have been used to save the last patient, and how he would use it to save the next one. He’s still doing it, year after year after year, getting better at it. And he never forgets anything, so all of that knowledge has been building. He’s reaching a point now—a kind of peak—that hardly anyone ever reaches, because by the time you know that much, it’s too late. Right now, he has as much scientific knowledge as anyone, the experience of bringing thousands of patients through the most difficult surgery, and he’s so deeply respected that if he wants to try something, the money and the facilities will come to him. I don’t know of anybody else like that. If he’s lost—destroyed—maybe nobody will be in that position again for fifty years.”

Jane studied Carey for a moment. “And if he isn’t lost?”

“What do you mean?”

“I assume this process or formula or whatever would be patented, so we’re talking about a lot of money? Nobel Prize, that kind of thing?”

Carey shook his head. “I know him. He’s the one I picked to learn surgery from. I spent four years following him around from morning until night, listening to everything he said, watching everything he did. He makes decisions to keep people alive, and when he does, nothing else matters to him: money, egos—his or anyone else’s.”

“What if somebody got in his way—this other doctor threatened to make the giant step impossible? What if all the thousands of people he might save would be lost unless he sacrificed the life of one single person? Would he do it?”

Carey shrugged. “It’s an impossible situation. For one thing, that kind of act would require that he believed he was the only one in the world who could ever make the next step. To believe that, you’d have to ignore what’s in all those medical journals—tiny contributions that add up. What I was telling you is that I have a feeling that he might provide a short-cut, and it would be a shame if we missed it.”

Jane considered for a moment. “So we have a special man, who did you what’s probably the biggest favor of your life, and who might be on the edge of inventing the cure for just about everything.”

“I know,” said Carey. “Why does a person like that need to disappear? An investigation will show he didn’t do it, or a trial will, anyway. But he’s convinced that whoever planted the evidence that he’s a murderer has that figured out, and won’t let it get that far.”

Jane shrugged. “If there is such a person, that’s probably what he would want. It’s easy to get somebody killed in prison, and hard to keep a frame from falling apart. But if there is no such person, then he’s as safe in police custody as he would be anywhere. Running is what you do if nothing else will keep you alive.”

“I’m convinced that he can’t be wrong about the existence of the framer. The police in Illinois didn’t just pull him in for questioning. They arrested him and showed him a lot of manufactured evidence.”

Jane stared at Carey for a long moment, then straightened. Her eyes had changed. They were quick and alert now. She began to pace. “We’d better get started. I’ve taken too much time with this. You know how rescue crews try to get a person to the hospital in the first few minutes—what do you call it—when you can still do something?”

“Golden time.”

“Well, this is his.”

“You’ve decided to take him out without talking to him?”

She looked at him in surprise. “This isn’t between him and me. When you asked me, you made the decision. That doesn’t mean I’ll succeed, or that when it’s over, you won’t wish you hadn’t asked.” She walked past him to glance out the window. “Is there a policeman on guard with him right now?”

“Yes,” said Carey. “They have him handcuffed to the bed in pre-op. He’s been arrested.”

“How bad is the wound?”

Carey shrugged. “Not life-threatening, but I don’t have the pictures yet. He’s lost some blood. The bullet passed through, but I’m guessing it left bone fragments. And he’s not young.”

“How ‘not young’?”

“Sixty-seven.”

“Healthy sixty-seven or weak sixty-seven?”

“Healthy.”

“He’d better be. Describe him.”

“I told you. His mind is—”

“Not that,” she interrupted. “His looks.”

“Maybe a bit over six feet. A hundred and sixty-five. Gray hair.”

“Beard or mustache?”

“No. It makes your mask hot and itchy. He’s a surgeon.”

“Is the anesthetist someone you can manipulate a little?”

“Within limits. It’s Shelton. He won’t do anything illegal.”

“He doesn’t have to. You’ll just have to give him good enough reasons to do what you want.”

“Maybe I can get him to do that. He respects Dahlman, and if Dahlman tells him I’m right, he’ll go along.”

“Dahlman. Is that the patient?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s going to be in the operating room besides you and Shelton?”

“Darlene Brooks will be surgical nurse. Shelton will have one of his people. Sylvia Stern will assist me.”

Jane stared at the wall to avoid being distracted. “How long will the operation take?”

“A half hour to four or five, depending on whether there are bone fragments, or if vessels need to be tied off or if I find nerve damage.”

“All right,” she said. “Here’s what you do. Go in while they’re prepping the patient, get rid of the cop and the handcuffs. Whatever you have to say, say it.”

“No problem with the handcuffs, and the police don’t go into the O.R. when we operate on a prisoner. But they do wait outside.”

“Then Shelton. Have him order the full-dress general anesthetic, then change it to something else after you’re in there.”

“Something else?”

“This is your field, not mine. Say what doctors say—you’re worried about his age, or something. Put him out for a half hour, do what you need to, then wake him up.”

“I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to do what needs to be done by then.”

“And I can’t guarantee anything will happen afterward either. Just make sure he’ll live. If he’ll be in terrible pain, shoot some local painkillers into him, but nothing that dulls his brain.”

“I’ll do my best. Then what?”

“Give the cops a little preparation. Tell them he’s going to stay unconscious and the cops will contaminate his wound or hamper his recovery if they bother him before morning. Tell them where he’s going to be afterward. Where would that be?”

“The recovery room.”

“No good. We need to send him someplace else. Where would that be?”

“Intensive care—”

“Someplace where there won’t be a million nurses watching him.”

“His room, I suppose. I’m sure the police would like it if he were in an isolated place where he wouldn’t attract attention.”