Patient (20 page)

“Yes.”

“Well, now he’s up on Surgical Seven, shrieking at the nurses because there are none of the special spinal tap sets on the floor that he insists on using.”

“Oh, yes. The famous Gilbride kit.”

Jessie tried to stay focused on Catherine and their conversation, but she kept picturing Alex, alone in the morgue, loading the body of his nemesis onto a borrowed stretcher for the trip to a hearse.
Five years
.

“Special spinal needle, special pressure monitor, special clamps, special drapes, special disinfectant,” Catherine was saying. “Everyone else uses the standard, disposable kits, but Carl insists on his wacky setup.”

“I know. He insists that the residents use it, too, but unless he’s watching they never do. It’s become sort of a joke passed on from class to class. It’s just one of those power things, Catherine. Carl demands the kits simply because he can.”

“Well, now he’s up there berating anyone and everyone because there aren’t any.”

“He’s stressed. This Count Hermann thing has turned his world upside down. Surely central supply must have some of his sets made up and sterilized.”

“One, thank God. They’re sending it up now. But Jessie, you’ve got to do something to calm the man down before we have a mass walkout on our hands. Or before I slip twenty of Valium into his butt. He’s always been hard on people, but never this abusive. It’s really appalling.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

They heard Gilbride ranting the moment the doors opened on Surgical Seven.

“You know how much time I’ve wasted up here, waiting for this? I could have seen half a dozen patients in my office! From now on, I want at least two Gilbride kits on this floor at all times, is that clear?”

Clutching the sterile, towel-covered tray that held his precious spinal tap set, Gilbride was still railing at one of the nurses as Jessie approached.

“Carl?”

He whirled to face her.

“I don’t want to hear anything from you either, Doctor,” he snarled. “This is my service, and I’ll run it my way. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He was muttering unintelligibly as he turned away. Just behind him, Jessie could see the candy striper, Lisa Brandon, emerging from Sara’s new room. She was looking back over her shoulder into the room, saying something about getting more lotion. To Jessie, watching the catastrophe develop, the collision seemed to take place in slow motion. Gilbride took two rapid steps backward and was turning when he slammed into Lisa, driving her back a few feet and almost knocking her down. The Gilbride kit—the only one in the hospital—went clattering to the floor.

For two or three stunned, silent seconds, Gilbride could only stare down at the broken tubes and contaminated instruments. Then he transferred his gaze to Lisa.

“God damn it!” he bellowed. “Who the hell are you?”

Without waiting for a response, he reached down and snatched Lisa’s laminated ID from where it was clipped to her jacket pocket. He studied the picture, then looked at the woman, then looked back at the ID.

“I ... I’m sorry,” Lisa stammered. “I really am. It was an ac—”

“What in the hell kind of an ID is this?”

“What do you mean?” Lisa asked.

Jessie took a step closer. To her left, Orlis Hermann and one of her sons were standing by the door to their room, taking in the scene.

“I mean this thing is fake. The ID number doesn’t start with a V like all volunteers’ numbers do, and you can’t possibly have gotten this just three weeks ago, because if you did, you’d still be in orientation, and not up here putting your hands on my patients and smashing into me. Now, who in the hell are you?”

He nearly shrieked the words.

“Dr. Gilbride, if we could just speak in private,” Lisa said, urgently, but quite calmly and with surprising authority.

“Nonsense! I want security called. I want you out of here right now.”

“Dr. Gilbride, please, I—”

Gilbride turned to the unit secretary.

“Get security up here right now,” he bellowed. “In fact, tell them to call the police.”

Jessie kept her eyes on Lisa Brandon, who appeared furious and somewhat uncertain as to what to do, but not at all intimidated.

“Dr. Gilbride, quiet down,” she said firmly. “I
am
the police. FBI.”

She handed him a leather case with a badge. Then, just as quickly, she took a step forward, produced a pistol that had been concealed above her boot, and leveled it expertly at Orlis.

“Don’t move, Mrs. Hermann,” she said. “Or should I say, Madame Malloche.”

Orlis just looked at her, her lips pursed in a strange half-smile.

“Madame Malloche will do just fine, dear,” she said. “Arlette Malloche.”

There was a momentary silence, which was broken by the soft, distinctive spit of a silenced revolver. A dark hole materialized in the center of Lisa Brandon’s forehead, just above the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, God!” Jessie cried, rushing toward her as the FBI agent lurched backward and fell heavily to the floor.

“Don’t move and don’t bother checking her,” a man said. “I couldn’t possibly miss at this range.”

Jessie’s head swung toward the voice. Standing in the doorway of his room, the silenced pistol in his hand still smoking, was Eastman Tolliver.

Chapter 27

THE MOMENT LISA BRANDON’S BODY HIT THE TILED floor, Arlette Malloche and her team of three “stepchildren” were in action. Armed with semiautomatic weapons, moving with speed and skill, they fanned through Surgical Seven as if perfectly prepared for the situation.

The woman who had posed as Hermann’s daughter dashed from room to room, disconnecting the phones and throwing them into the hallway. The younger of her “brothers” hauled a suitcase from their room and raced out toward the doors connecting the tower portion of Surgical Seven with the main hospital. The second man, who seemed to Jessie to be the leader of the three, emerged from their room with a tool kit, and headed toward the elevators. Meanwhile, Arlette, her weapon at the ready, assisted Claude Malloche as he directed the shift nurses, Jessie, Gilbride, and Catherine Purcell to move over to the nurses’ station.

Physically, Claude Malloche still looked like Eastman Tolliver, but there the similarity to the man he had portrayed ended. His facial expressions, the set of his jaw, his posture, demeanor, and even his English were completely changed. The kindness and patience in his eyes were gone, replaced by the kinetic alertness of a tiger.

“Down, right now!” he ordered to Jessie and the others. “Sit on the floor against that counter.”

Four nurses, two aides, a lab tech, and Jessie did as they were ordered. As she slid to the floor, not far from Lisa’s body, Jessie realized that thirteen-year-old Tamika Bing—the girl so traumatized by her loss of speech that she had been virtually catatonic since awakening from anesthesia—had witnessed the killing. The girl remained motionless, propped up in bed as usual, staring straight ahead. But Jessie could tell she was riveted on the scene evolving outside her room. She wondered what the grand total of Malloche’s victims would be if all the witnesses like Tamika Bing and relatives like Alex Bishop were counted as well.

It was that notion that made Jessie suddenly appreciate how clearly she was thinking—how calm she was, given their situation and the unspeakable violence she had just witnessed. Perhaps her clarity reflected the realization that she, of all of the captives, was in no danger—at least not for the time being. Malloche did have a brain tumor, and he had chosen her to be his surgeon. She was safe. But soon, very soon she suspected, demands were going to be made of her. When that time came, she had to be ready with a few demands of her own.

“What in the hell is going on here?”

Carl Gilbride had not taken his place with the others. Instead, he had stepped forward, hands on hips, to confront Malloche.

“Let’s see,” Malloche said with syrupy sarcasm. “To the best of my recollection, the woman lying over there identified herself as an FBI agent, pulled a pistol from her leg holster, and ordered my wife not to move. Then I shot her. I do not believe a medical degree is required to determine that she is dead.”

Jessie was in position to see Carl’s expression—a strange mix of defiance and utter befuddlement.

“You’re not Eastman Tolliver,” he said, clearly unable to put the pieces together.

“Brilliant deduction, Dr. Gilbride. If you must know, I borrowed Eastman Tolliver from among the correspondences I found in your office. His secretary in California was kind enough to inform me he was out of the country for several weeks. Now, I’m telling you one last time to get down on the floor with the others.”

“Carl, please do as he says,” Jessie urged softly.

“I ... I will do no such thing,” Gilbride blustered. “I simply will not tolerate someone coming onto
my
service, in
my
hospital, and pushing people around and shooting them. We have patients to care for here.”

Moving like a striking snake, Malloche whipped the barrel of his pistol across Gilbride’s cheek. The neurosurgical chief lurched backward, clutching his already hemorrhaging wound, and dropped heavily to his backside just a foot or so from Jessie.

“That wasn’t necessary!” Jessie snapped at Malloche.

She grabbed a box of tissues from the counter above her and pried Gilbride’s hand away from his cheek. The gash was only about an inch and a half long, but deep—just below the cheekbone, and almost through to his mouth. It would be no problem to sew, but even sutured by a crackerjack plastic surgeon, the resulting scar would be a reminder every time Carl looked in the mirror—provided he survived long enough to do that. She placed a wad of tissue on the wound and set Gilbride’s hand against it with the whispered instruction to press hard.

“Oh, it
was
necessary, and it
was
deserved,” Malloche replied. “I hope you can all see that your health, your pain, your very survival mean nothing to me. Nor do your precious egos. So keep quiet unless you are asked to speak, and do as we say, and you have every reason to expect that you will not end up either like our FBI friend over there, or even like our esteemed neurosurgical chief.” He stepped forward and looked down at Carl with disdain. “Dr. Gilbride, you are a hollow, fatuous ass of a man. It was you who was responsible for Rolf Hermann’s death, not any mechanical failure of your robot. That device functioned perfectly, but you didn’t. Your arrogance, greed, and surgical incompetence killed that man as surely as if you had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I want you to hear that. I want them to hear it.” He gestured to the group huddled on the floor and continued the sweep of his arm to include the rest of Surgical Seven.

“Excuse me,” Jessie said calmly, “but could you please tell us exactly who Rolf Hermann was?”

Malloche’s expression was smug.

“He was a count, actually, although a rather penniless one. He was delivered to me by the neurologist—I should say the
late
neurologist—whom I went to see in consultation. I asked about patients whose tumors were similar to mine. Count Hermann was beginning to develop neurologic weakness. I still had no signs except for my seizures. Hermann was told by the man, as was I, that his tumor was virtually inoperable. If we did insist on surgery and could find a neurosurgeon who would attempt it, there was a very high, if not certain, risk of serious neurological impairment.”

“So the Count was a stalking horse for you—a test case.”

“I am nothing, dear Doctor, if not careful,” Malloche replied. “I assured Rolf that whatever happened here in America, his family would be well cared for. That was far more than his so-called doctors in Germany were able to offer. At worst, he knew his wife and children were provided for, and he would get the services of one of the finest neurosurgeons in America. At best, he would have a cure from his brain tumor, and financial security for the rest of his life. Not a bad deal, if I do say so. Not a bad deal for me either, considering the outcome of poor Rolfs operation.”

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. No one moved. The buzz of patient calls for assistance echoed down the hallway, but went unanswered. One by one, the three young killers returned, each whispering a report that clearly pleased Malloche. The five terrorists huddled, while Arlette continued to keep her weapon aimed at the group on the floor—specifically at Carl Gilbride. Finally, Malloche turned and spoke to the captives.

“The doors onto Surgical Seven have been sealed and wired with enough explosives to blow the top off of this building.” He nodded toward the younger of the two men. “Armand, here, was personally trained by me, so I can assure you he has done an expert job. And Derrick, over there, has seen to it that only one of the elevators will stop at this floor, and then only when I wish it to.” The other man, broad shouldered and Aryan, with a blond crew cut, did a half-bow for the captives. “And finally, you should meet Grace, who left a girls’ finishing school right here in Boston to seek adventure in Europe, and found it with our merry band. She has disconnected all the phones, except the one here in the conference room. No one, but no one, will make contact with the outside unless I allow it. Is that clear? ... Dr. Gilbride?”

“C—Clear,” he managed.

“Dr. Copeland?”

“I want that poor woman’s body moved into the back room, where the patients can’t see it,” Jessie said.

Malloche’s expression remained unchanged, except for his eyes, which narrowed as he studied her. She had no doubt he understood the significance of her demand. The battle of their wills had begun.

“Derrick,” he said finally, in English, “would you please do as Dr. Copeland requests.”

“Very well,” Derrick replied, his English heavily accented.

“There,” Malloche said. “I’ve shown my good faith. Now, I think you and I must speak in private. The rest of you will be allowed one by one to get a chair to place right here. Armand will accompany you. From now on, no one will leave this spot unaccompanied whether it is to go to the bathroom or to see one of the patients. Dr. Copeland?”

He motioned her toward the small conference room to the left of the nurses’ station.

“Before we speak,” Jessie said, “I want to go in and talk to the child who has witnessed all this.”

“Another demand. My, my. Very well, then. Grace?”

Grace, her gun hanging at the ready from its shoulder strap, walked Jessie into Tamika Bing’s room and stood by the doorway, a respectful distance away. Jessie pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat.

“Tamika, I’m sorry for what you have just seen. I know it was awful for you,” she whispered. Not surprisingly, the girl continued staring straight ahead. “Some very bad people have taken over up here. One of them needs an operation just like you had. After the operation is done, they’ll leave. Meanwhile, I don’t think anyone is going to be allowed up here, including your mother. Do you understand? ... Tamika?” Jessie stood, then bent down and kissed the girl on the side of her forehead. “Hang in there,” she whispered.

By the time Jessie emerged from Tamika’s room, each of the staff was seated on a chair in front of the counter, and one of the nurses had pulled a chair over for Carl and was helping him into it. Humiliated and physically beaten, his authority stripped away, he seemed to have aged twenty years in just an hour.

“Carl,” Jessie said softly, “I’ll sew that cut up as soon as I can. Meanwhile just stay right here and keep pressure on it.”

Gilbride nodded vacantly.

“So,” Malloche said to her, “I have honored two of your requests. Now we should talk.”

He unscrewed the silencer, slipped it into his pocket, and holstered his gun. Then he followed her into the conference room and motioned her to a seat across from him.

“Sit, please, Doctor,” he said. “We have some business to discuss.”

“Your tumor.”

“I would like you to take it out as soon as possible.”

“If I refuse?”

Malloche gauged her resolve, then retrieved a phone, plugged it in, and dialed a local number.

“Put her on,” he said.

Malloche passed the receiver over.

Jessie listened to a few seconds of silence, then a tentative “Hello?”

Emily!

“Em, it’s me. Oh, God, are you okay?”

“He hasn’t hurt me, but he won’t tell me anything. What’s going on?”

Malloche took the phone away before Jessie could reply.

“She’s safe for the moment,” he said, setting the receiver down. “But I will not hesitate to order her killed if you fail to cooperate. I believe you are a very capable surgeon with a special piece of equipment. I want this tumor out of my head.”

“ARTIE’s not ready for this.”

“I believe it is. I want the surgery done by you, with MRI guidance and robotic assistance, tomorrow.”

“I need time to check the system. We’ll have to get your lab work done, and you need to be examined by an internist and an anesthesiologist. I also need to speak to people about adjusting the schedule. ... I’m not in charge of the OR.”

“Tomorrow.”

“If there’re problems with the operation, do I end up like poor Sylvan Mays?”

Malloche looked genuinely impressed.

“I assume our FBI friend had you looking for me?”

“She had me on the alert, yes. She didn’t want anyone else to know who she was.” Jessie forced herself to back up the lie with a steady gaze. “Later, when I thought Rolf Hermann was you, I tried to tell Carl, but he didn’t believe a word of what I said.”

“Good old Carl.”

“So, answer my question. Do I have any assurances you’ll let me live?”

“If you do your job and do it well, you have nothing to fear. You also have my promise of what will happen if you refuse to do this operation. As to what will happen if there are complications, I cannot say. My family is very devoted to me.”

“The day after tomorrow,” Jessie said. “You’ll be seriously affecting your chances if we have to do this as a semiemergency.”

Malloche weighed the demand.

“You’re going to cause a large number of people great inconvenience,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Only if everything is ready. And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I want Emily DelGreco to assist me in the OR.”

“I can’t allow that. Carl Gilbride will assist you.”

“Please. Carl’s incompetent. You said so yourself. And right now, he’s a doddering wreck. Emily’s the very best I have ever worked with. Keep her away and you only hurt yourself.”

Again, Malloche took time before replying.

“You win again,” he said. “But I promise you, if there is a problem with any phase of this procedure—any problem at all—not one patient or staff member on Surgical Seven will leave this hospital alive. Is that clear?”

Jessie took a deep breath.

“Clear,” she said.

She had gotten Emily back and had given Alex added time to act, once he discovered Hermann was not Malloche. That was the best she could do.

“Could you tell me one thing?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“How are you going to keep an entire hospital floor sealed off without a massive response from the outside?”

For the first time since their discussion began, Claude Malloche smiled.

“It’s a bit like bridge,” he said. “As long as you play as if the cards most dangerous to you are in the hand of the opponent who is positioned to do you the most harm, you will generally be a step ahead.” He slid the phone across to her. “Call Richard Marcus and tell him it is essential that he meet us just outside the pathology office in ten minutes.”