Blindsight

SUMMARY:
Robin Cook is back-with a shocking story of medical conspiracy. Today, organ transplants are common miracles of science. But if the supply cannot meet the demand, how far will people go to find donors? Dr. Laurie Montgomery, a forensic pathologist, learns the terrifying answer when she investigates a series of fatal "overdose" of young professionals. Some crimes are beyond comprehension. But seeing is believing.

Blindsight

Book Jacket

Rating:

Tags:
Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Mystery fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Fiction - Espionage, Thriller, Large type books, Espionage, Onbekend, Psychology, Psychopathology, Medical, Medical novels, Addiction, Drug abuse

SUMMARY: Robin Cook is back-with a shocking story of medical conspiracy. Today, organ transplants are common miracles of science. But if the supply cannot meet the demand, how far will people go to find donors? Dr. Laurie Montgomery, a forensic pathologist, learns the terrifying answer when she investigates a series of fatal "overdose" of young professionals. Some crimes are beyond comprehension. But seeing is believing.

ABOUT THE E-BOOK
Nice Book. Reader's choice.
Table of Contents
Blindsight
Prologue
Epilogue
Copyright Notice
This book was hand-copied right by mad Benedictine monks.

Blindsight
Robin Cook

The cocaine shot into Duncan Andrews' antecubital vein in a concentrated bolus after having
been propelled by the plunger of a syringe. Chemical alarms sounded immediately. A number of
the blood cells and plasma enzymes recognized the cocaine molecules as being part of a family of
compounds called alkaloids, which are manufactured by plants and include such physiologically
active substances as caffeine, morphine, strychnine, and nicotine.
In a desperate but vain attempt to protect the body from this sudden invasion, plasma enzymes
called cholesterases attacked the cocaine, splitting some of the foreign molecules into
physiologically inert fragments. But the cocaine dose was overwhelming. Within seconds the
cocaine was streaking through the right side of the heart, spreading through the lungs, and then
heading out into Duncan's body.
The pharmacologic effects of the drug began almost instantly. Some of the cocaine molecules
tumbled into the coronary arteries and began constricting them and reducing blood flow to the
heart. At the same time the cocaine began to diffuse out of the coronary vessels into the
extracellular fluid, bathing the hardworking heart muscle fibers. There the foreign compound
began to interrupt the movement of sodium ions through the heart cells' membranes, a critical
part of the heart muscle contractile function. The result was that cardiac conductivity and
contractility began to fall.
Simultaneously the cocaine molecules fanned out throughout the brain, having coursed up into
the skull through the carotid arteries. Like knives through butter, the cocaine penetrated the
blood brain barrier. Once inside the brain, the cocaine bathed the defenseless brain cells, pooling
in spaces called synapses across which the nerve cells communicated.
Within the synapses the cocaine began to exert its most perverse effects. It became an
impersonator. By an ironic twist of chemical fate, an outer portion of the cocaine molecule was
erroneously recognized by the nerve cells as a neurotransmitter, either epinephrine,
norepinephrine, or dopamine. Like skeleton keys, the cocaine molecules insinuated themselves
into the molecular pumps responsible for absorbing these neurotransmitters, locking them, and
bringing the pumps to a sudden halt.
The result was predictable. Since the reabsorption of the neurotransmitters was blocked, the
neurotransmitters' stimulative effect was preserved. And the stimulation caused the release of
more neurotransmitters in an upward spiral of self-fulfilling excitation. Nerve cells that would
have normally reverted to quiescence and serenity began to fire frantically.
The brain progressively brimmed with activity, particularly the pleasure centers deeply embedded
below the cerebral cortex. Here dopamine was the principal neurotransmitter. With a perverse
predilection the cocaine blocked the dopamine pumps, and the dopamine concentration soared.
Circuits of nerve cells divinely wired to ensure the survival of the species rang with excitement
and filled afferent pathways running up to the cortex with ecstatic messages.
But the pleasure centers were not the only areas of Duncan's brain to be affected, just some of
the first. Soon the darker side of the cocaine invasion began to exert its effect. Phylogenetically
older, more caudal centers of the brain involving functions like muscle coordination and the
regulation of breathing began to be affected. Even the thermoregulatory area began to be
stimulated, as well as the part of the brain responsible for vomiting.

Thus all was not well. In the middle of the rush of pleasurable impulses, an ominous condition
was in the making. A dark cloud was forming on the horizon, auguring a horrible neurological
storm. The cocaine was about to reveal its true deceitful self: a minion of death disguised in an
aura of beguiling pleasure
.
Prologue
Duncan Andrews' mind was racing like a runaway train. Only a moment ago he'd been in a groggy, drugged stupor. Within seconds his dizziness and lethargy had evaporated like a drip of water falling onto a sizzling skillet. A rush of exhilaration and energy consumed him, making him feel suddenly powerful. It was as if he could do anything. In a glow of new clarity, he understood he was infinitely stronger and smarter than he'd ever realized. But just as he was beginning to savor this cascade of euphoric thoughts and this enlightened view of his abilities, he began to feel overwhelmed by intense waves of pleasure he could define only as pure ecstasy. He would have shouted for joy if only his mouth could form the proper words. But he couldn't speak. Thoughts and feelings were reverberating in his mind too rapidly to vocalize. Any fear or misgivings he had been feeling only minutes ago melted in this newfound rapture and delight.
But like his torpor, the pleasure was short-lived. The blissful smile that had formed on Duncan's face twisted into a grimace of terror and panic. A voice called out that the people he feared were returning. His eyes darted around the room. He saw no one, yet the voice continued its message. Quickly he looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. It was empty. Turning his head, he looked down the hallway toward the bedroom. No one was there, but the voice remained. Now it was whispering a more dire prediction: he was going to die.
"Who are you?" Duncan screamed. He put his hands over his ears as if to block the sound out. "Where are you? How did you get in here?" His eyes again raced searchingly about the room. The voice didn't answer. Duncan didn't know it was coming from inside his head. Duncan struggled to his feet. He was surprised to realize he'd been on his living room floor. As he rose, his shoulder bumped against the coffee table. The syringe that had so recently been in his arm clattered to the floor. Duncan stared at it with hatred and regret, then reached for it to crush it between his fingers. Duncan's hand stopped just short of the syringe. His eyes opened wide with confusion mixed with a new fear. All at once he could feel the unmistakable itch of hundreds of insects crawling on the skin of his arms. Forgetting the syringe, Duncan held out his hands with his palms up. He could feel the bugs squirming all over his forearms, but no matter how hard he searched he couldn't see them. His skin appeared perfectly clear. Then the itch spread to his legs. "Ahhhhhh!" Duncan screamed. He tried to wipe his arms, guessing the insects were too small to be seen, but the itching only got worse. With a shiver of profound fear it dawned on him that the organisms had to be under his skin. Somehow they had invaded his body. Perhaps they had been in the syringe. Using his fingernails, Duncan began to scratch his arms in a frantic attempt to allow the insects to escape. They were eating him from within. Desperately he scratched harder, digging his nails into his skin until he drew blood. The pain was intense, but the itching of the insects was worse.

Despite the terror of the insects, Duncan stopped his scratching, as he became aware of a new
symptom. Holding up his bloodied hand, he noticed that he was shaking. Looking down at himself he saw that his whole body was shaking, and the tremors were getting worse. For a brief instant he thought about calling 911 for help. But as the thought crossed his mind, he noticed something else. He was warm. No, he was hot!
"My God!" Duncan managed when he realized that sweat was pouring from his face. With a trembling hand he felt his forehead: he was burning up! He tried to unbutton his shirt but his tremulous hands were incapable. Impatient and desperate, he ripped the shirt open and off. Buttons flew in all directions. He did the same with his pants, throwing them to the floor. But it was to no avail; clad only in his undershorts, he still felt suffocatingly hot. Then, without a moment's warning, he coughed, choked, and vomited in a forceful stream, spattering the wall below his signed Dali lithograph. Duncan staggered into his bathroom. Through sheer force of will he got his shaking body into the shower and turned on the cold tap full force. Gasping for breath, he stood beneath the cascade of frigid water. Duncan's relief was brief. Involuntarily a pitiful cry escaped from his lips, and his breathing became labored as a white-hot pain stabbed into his left chest and ripped down the inside of his left arm. Intuitively Duncan knew he was having a heart attack. Duncan clutched his chest with his right hand. Blood from his abraded arms mixed with water from the shower and swirled down the drain. Half-falling and half-staggering, Duncan stumbled from the bathroom and headed for the door of his apartment. Never mind that he was near naked, he needed air. His broiling brain was about to explode. Using his final reserve of strength, he gripped the knob to his front door and yanked it open.
"Duncan!" Sara Wetherbee cried. She couldn't have been more startled. Her hand was poised inches from Duncan's door. She had been about to knock when Duncan yanked it open and confronted her. He was clad in nothing but soggy Jockey shorts. "My God!" cried Sara. "What's happened to you?" Duncan did not recognize his lover of two and a half years. What he needed was air. The crushing pain in his chest had spread throughout his lungs. It felt as if he were being stabbed over and over again. Blindly he lurched forward, reaching out to sweep Sara from his path. "Duncan!" Sara cried again as she took in his near nakedness, the bleeding scratches on his arms, his wild, dilated eyes, and the grimace of pain on his face. Refusing to be thrust aside, she grabbed his shoulders and restrained him. "What's the matter? Where are you going?" Duncan hesitated. For a brief moment Sara's voice penetrated his dementia. His mouth opened as if he were about to speak. But no words came. Instead he uttered a pitiful whine that ended in a gasp as his tremors coalesced into spasmodic jerks and his eyes disappeared up inside his head. Mercifully unconscious, Duncan collapsed into Sara's arms. At first Sara struggled vainly to hold Duncan upright. But she was unable to support him, especially since Duncan's jerks became progressively more violent. As gently as possible Sara let Duncan's writhing body fall across the threshold, half into the hall. Almost the moment he touched the floor, Duncan's back arched up and his jerks rapidly coalesced into the rhythmical throes of a grand mal seizure. "Help!" Sara screamed as she glanced up and down the hall. As she might have expected, no one appeared. Aside from the noise Duncan was making, all she could hear was the percussive thump of a nearby stereo.