Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (170 page)

Terrance groaned. “I told her not to get involved. Why didn’t she listen? Now she’s going to lose her job and we need that paycheck more than ever.”

“Focus on Namibia,” she said, more sternly. “Your marital troubles can wait.”

“Okay, right. Yeah, I’ll do that. Let me make a few calls and I’ll get back to you.”

Sarah hung up the phone. She would take care of Terrance’s marital problems for him. No more Julia, no more problems. He could thank her later.

She drained the coffee mug, then glanced into the hallway to see if the secretary had arrived yet to get her more coffee. But it wasn’t even seven, and Maggie wouldn’t show up for another hour. Reluctantly, Sarah made her way to the break room to get her own refill.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Julia’s eyes blinked open. She slid a few tangled strands of hair out of her eyes and slowly sat up in the back seat of the car. Her back was killing her. For the most part, she was in good shape, but when she slept on a hard surface, or went camping, she was stiff for hours.

Easily half her patients were spine patients – they were in neverending supply, always hoping the next surgery would end the pain that consumed their lives. She tried to discourage most of them from surgery. Her standard line was that there were few good reasons to have a first back surgery, but all kinds of reasons to have a second and third.

Seeing as much back pain as she did, she took care of her abdominals. Although her trips to the gym were usually confined to the first three weeks of January each year, she did manage to do a quick abs workout most days, and took pride that she’d never once missed work or been laid up with back pain. Unlike Terrance. About twice a year he’d throw out his back in some stupid tug of war match or trying to do too much in the garage and would be out of commission for a week, downing all the muscle relaxants and pain killers she’d let him have.

Terrance.
That thought brought to her mind the grim reality she found herself in.
What would Terrance say?
Against everything sensible he’d told her, she’d violated direct orders.
How many people had died?
Scenes from the prior day’s battle played through her mind until she shook her head and rubbed her eyes.

What was she thinking? It was
Terrance
who had lied, had pretended to help, acted as though he understood what she was feeling, then probably turned her in to Markov. It was confusing and frightening how quickly things had spiraled out of control.
Enough.
She had to make a plan. She sat up and watched Ian’s chest rise and fall as he slept. He was snoring lightly, but the sound gave her comfort, as if to reassure her that someone was here with her. She’d got him into this mess, put the implant in his head. Granted he hadn’t exactly helped by shooting up the place and killing half a dozen guards, but what was he supposed to do, imprisoned in that awful place by the people he’d risked his life to protect?

The biggest danger he faced right now was from that implant. All it would take was a plane, or a radio tower, or someone on the ground. Fry his brain. That’s exactly what they would do. She had to believe they had the capability to send a program to his implant that would cause massive bursts of electrical activity. No. They’d probably hit the brain with rhythmic pulses, like a strobe light. Status epilepticus—uncontrolled seizures.

But there was no way to take out the implant. She had no tools, no staff, no monitoring equipment. Cutting the wires might help, but left him exposed to what could be a greater risk. It would be like walking around with a lightning rod into his brain.

What about the control? Could she damage it? Disable it? No, too risky. She could cause exactly what she hoped to prevent. She didn’t understand the electronics enough. Never enough damn time to learn everything. It was like a ticking bomb, just waiting for someone to detonate it, keeping time with its state of the art microlithium battery.

The battery!
Yes, that was it. She could take out the battery. Without power, the device would sit idle in his chest, but would still be connected to the leads preventing stray currents.

She reached forward and grabbed Ian’s forearm. “Ian!” she whispered. “Wake up!” Why was she whispering? “Ian!” she shouted.

He grunted and jerked awake. The disorientation cleared after an instant. “Julia. Where? What’s the matter?”

“The battery! We’ve got to take out the battery!”

“What time is it?”

“It’s time to take out your battery! Don’t you see? That will disable the implant.”

Ian rubbed at his eyes. “I just fell asleep.”

“We’ve got to do it now. Before morning. Why take chances? ‘There’s got to be a hospital around here somewhere.”

“And we’re going to check in at the ER and ask them to take out the battery from my top secret brain implant? I’ll end up back at the psych ward.”

“No, silly. These sleepy little hospitals have NO security. We’ll walk right into the OR and I’ll take it out myself. But we need to move. It’s almost three in the morning.”

“That’s what it feels like. But yeah, I hadn’t meant to stay in one place so long.”

“
Come on!
” she urged, but Ian was already fumbling for his keys, and reaching for the ignition. She jumped out of the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Where to?” he asked, as he pulled the car onto the dirt road.

“Back to Monticello,” she answered. When we passed through I saw a hospital sign. It’s probably only a half hour from here.”

________

Their car was the only one on the road. Monticello was barely a town, really. Highway 191 served as Main Street and there were half a dozen other streets that branched off with houses and businesses mixed together. This time of night, they could drive the length of town in three minutes.

They followed the signs and pulled up outside of San Juan County Hospital on First North and Fourth West. A few scattered cars sat in the parking lot. They parked and Julia motioned for Ian to follow around the dimly lit back entrance. The door was open.

A white-tiled hallway stretched in front of them with large signs pointing to “Clinics,” “Radiology,” and “Emergency.” Julia veered away from Emergency and toward Radiology. All these hospitals were organized more or less the same way. You could just about guarantee that the inpatient wards would be on the second floor, pathology in the basement, ER and imaging on the first floor. In two turns she found the door to the operating room.

Julia heard footsteps. Ian grabbed her and pressed her against the wall. She glanced at him and shook her head, then pushed his arm away. She strode forward casually after motioning for Ian to follow. As they turned the corner, a middle aged woman in scrubs came down the hallway toward them.

As she saw Julia and Ian, she paused. “Hey, do I know you?”

Julia smiled. “Not yet. I’m Heather. This is John.”

Ian nodded. He looked tense.

Julia continued, “Just coming on shift. I’m moonlighting in the ED. I work in Saint George, usually.”

The woman smiled back. “Who’s the hunk?”

Julia winked and said, “Nobody. Promise you won’t tell?”

The woman gave her a crooked smile and walked down the hallway. “See you around.” She looked back over her shoulder at Ian. “See you around too, I hope.”

Julia walked a few steps, then doubled back.

Ian looked angry. “‘Promise you won’t tell?’ We could have avoided her.”

“Relax. I know how these people think.”

“What if she were from the ED?”

“She’s not the type. Her scrubs were tucked in. She had tape and scissors in her front pocket and didn’t look angry. She’s a floor nurse.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “You know, you might have a future as a field agent.”

“Good, because I’m going to be in the market for a new job soon.”

Julia walked right through the front door of the deserted foyer to the operating room and turned behind the nurse’s desk and white board, through a set of blue curtains and down the main hallway to a pair of wooden doors with small inset windows. She whispered to Ian. “Here’s the OR.”

Ian followed and hopped up on the table in the center of the room. “I’ll just make myself at home.”

Julia was already in the back supply room, rummaging through stacks of sealed blue and white plastic containers with surgical trays. She fished out a central line tray, and grabbed a few packages of sterile towels, a boat of 4x4 gauze pads, a few proline sutures, a half sheet drape, and a couple pair of sterile gloves. Finally, she found the tips for the bovie cauterizer, and walked back into the room. She reviewed the procedure in her mind.

Had to move fast. No need to gown up – this was going to be in and out. She pushed the equipment to the side of a metal instrument stand, then opened the tray and unfolded the blue paper to create a sterile field. She opened each of the items she’d brought in turn and dropped them onto the blue paper. “You ready?”

“Are you sure we want to do this? I mean, maybe the implant could still be useful.”

She heard the conflict in his voice and turned to face him.
After all he’d been through, why wouldn’t he want it disabled?
“I thought we’d agreed. That thing is dangerous. There’s no telling what they could program into it,
or already have.
”

Ian frowned. “I guess that’s right. Maybe I’m just not liking all the long sharp things on the table.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“This one should be quick. We’ll just use local anesthetic.” She attached the tip to the bovie and dropped the stylet onto the sterile field.

Her hands moved automatically, overlearned from a decade of practice. In two minutes she was ready. She put on her gloves, popped the top off of the small sterile bottle of lidocaine in the tray, and drew up a 10 cc syringe with the clear fluid. She changed needles and then turned to Ian.

His eyes fixed on the 2-inch needle at the edge of the syringe. Oops she’d forgotten to sterilize his chest. The nurses always took care of that.

She put the needle down. “Need your shirt off.”

Ian unbuttoned the shirt and slid his arms out.

“You know I’m starting to get turned on by this routine.” he said with what sounded like false bravado. “A few more surgeries and I’ll need a cigarette after.”

“Just close your eyes,” she said softly. “This is an easy one, I promise.” She took the brush and painted the orange soap over the scar on his chest. With one hand, she took a few pieces of gauze and dabbed at the soap, resting her hand on his chest.

She didn’t want to move her hand. Maybe she was just tired, but the touch felt so welcome, even through the glove. What she wanted to do was sweep her hand along his chest, comfort him.

Julia slid the needle next to the scar as gently as she could, injecting the anesthetic like a clock face sweeping around the scar with small movements. Then she turned the needle deeper, and injected the muscle. Ian kept his eyes closed.

She replaced the needle on the table and clasped her hands together, waiting while the anesthetic worked. She was glad to be helping. No question she was in deep trouble, but right then, seeing him on the table in flesh and blood, she didn’t care about anything else. Career. Marriage. Too complicated. This was easy.

Julia spread the drape over his chest, square hole over the scar. Then she took the scalpel, and sliced through his chest. She flipped the bovie on and singed the spots of blood that pooled on the edge of the incision with the familiar crackling sound and smell of charred flesh.

“Doing OK?”

“OK.” Voice tight.

She spread the wound with a hemostat, then used forceps to probe the outline of the implant computer. She knew exactly where it was.
Now where was the battery?
Gingerly, she traced the contours of the electronics, trying to remember the layout.
There.
Lower right corner. She made a small incision through the muscle, in the direction of the fibers, and quickly stopped the bleeding.