Promise Me Eternity

by

Ian Fox

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

Ian Fox

Promise Me Eternity

Copyright 2011 by Ian Fox

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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* * * * *

If you love life, don’t waste time,

because time is what life is made of.

—Benjamin Franklin

* * * * *

Chapter 1

_________________________

Heavy gray clouds gathered and the wind blew
in short, powerful gusts. Beneath the swaying tree branches, the
light was faint. A tall figure, sharply outlined by the thin light,
stepped from the car, into the cold, dismal evening. Dr. Patterson
stood there a few moments waiting for his eyes to adjust to the
twilight, and then headed toward the road. The thoughts churning in
his head seared his brain and filled him with inexpressible fear.
His heart pounded in his chest, deafening him. It was all too
terrible to believe.

Even before reaching the side of the road, he
turned and looked back. He wanted to make sure he remembered how to
return to his car.

In the dim light the doctor stumbled over a
thick, twisted tree root sticking out of the ground. Losing his
balance he fell against a leafy branch that brushed his face with
hundreds of tiny dewdrops. At once he wiped his face and moved on
quickly.

But still he kept his right hand clenched
deep in the pocket of his blue velvet sports jacket, where he had
placed a thin hypodermic needle that contained a large dose of
insulin.

Murderer!
The word echoed in his
head.

Clenching his jaw, Dr. Patterson shook his
head once and continued walking.
I have to do this. This is for
Christine and me. I have to save her.

Murderer!

No. That’s not true! Please, just leave me
alone.

You’ll be punished for what you’re about to
do.

He stopped. A thorny plant had caught on his
pant leg.
I know what I’m doing. This will solve all my
problems. There’s no other way.
He pulled his leg free.

To get rid of the troubling voice, he focused
his attention on the horrific situation he was in. The
all-too-familiar dull ache spread like a weed through his gut and
left a bitter taste in his mouth—an ache that signaled his fear
about what was going to happen.
I’ll go to prison. If I don’t do
anything, I’ll go to prison. I have to do this.

For a moment, the voice grew still ….

I’ll be accused of a murder I didn’t do.
This is the only way to prove to them that I am not the one who did
it.

… Again, silence.

Dr. Patterson looked at the sky strewn with
gray clouds and peered for a few seconds at the half-moon, which
draped the woods in a faint silvery curtain of light. The tall
pines and broadleaf trees swayed gently, as if whispering to
themselves. He lowered his eyes and stumbled onward. The closer he
came to the road, the more his legs shook.

He stood still, wanting to think it through
one more time.
I have to stand at the side of the road and wait
for him. Christine said he would definitely stop. Once I’m in his
car, I’ll inject him with the insulin. After that, nobody can help
him. It will all be very simple.

A gust of wind blew in his face, ruffling his
hair. The doctor could hear a hollow rustling in the distance …
thousands of leaves quivering on their branches. He knew this
evening would be imprinted in his memory for as long as he
lived.

The narrow road where he waited was empty and
dark, without a single light. Every now and then a car went by.
Hungrily, he took a few deep breaths of damp air.

The doctor checked his watch.
If what
Christine said is true, then Carlo should be driving by sometime in
the next half-hour.

He walked along the edge of the road and
noted the overgrowth of dense bushes.

He thought about Helen and felt sorry for his
wife.
Why did I have to cheat on her? I should not have done
it.
He wondered if it was really God inflicting this wretched
punishment on him.
Who is behind it?

For almost a minute no car drove past. He was
trembling now and his teeth were chattering. Never before had he
felt so much fear. Never before had he been in a situation where he
had to kill someone.

He slipped his hand beneath his undershirt
and pressed it against his stomach, which had been protesting all
the while. He felt a little better as the pain eased for a
moment.

The lone figure saw lights in the road that
were rapidly approaching. He quickly pulled back his right hand and
stuck it in his pocket. He stared into the blinding distance,
listening to the sound of the engine and trying to guess what make
of car it was. The booming wind in the surrounding woods only made
him more nervous.

The next moment, white beams of intense light
dazzled him. He felt as if he were floating in empty space. He
wanted to look away but couldn’t. The light, which was growing
stronger and stronger, held him transfixed.

He heard a noise behind his back. Terrified,
he jerked his head to see what it was, afraid it might be a wild
animal.

Seeing nothing unusual, Dr. Patterson looked
back toward the road. The sharp light had disappeared, replaced by
the roar of an engine as a car rushed past, leaving a cloud of dust
hovering over the road.

Murderer.

I am not a murderer, damn it! Stop judging
me. I’m going to do something good.

Go home!

I won’t go home. I won’t let you scare me.
Leave me alone. This is the only way I can fix all my problems. God
will thank me for this.

Again he saw lights slicing the darkness and
wondered if this could be Carlo Vucci. Dread contorted his face and
he felt sick with fear. He strained his eyes as he peered into the
light, praying that everything would work out.

The light became whiter and more intense. It
burned his eyes but he did not want to look down. He knew this was
the only way.

The car slowed.

Oh my God. This must be Carlo. What should I
do?

The roar of the engine overtook his senses.
Seconds later the car slowly came to a halt.

Dr. Patterson knew he had to see it through
to the end. He had to kill this person.

Murderer!

Chapter 2

_________________________

Dr. Simon Patterson was a man of average
looks, forty-two years old, with round horn-rimmed glasses and
dark-brown hair, thinning a bit on top, which gave him a high
forehead. He was five-foot-eleven, with a slender, firm build. The
lack of excess fat was only because he often got so caught up in
his work that he forgot to eat.

He had just hurried into OR 26, where the
entire team was waiting for him, ready to begin the operation.

“As far as I’m concerned, you can go ahead
with the anesthesia,” he told Dr. Anita Carter, the chief
anesthesiologist, upon entering the operating room. “I’ll check the
X-rays one more time, then we can begin.”

An elderly man was lying on his back on the
narrow metal operating table. The CT scan and MRI showed he had a
brain tumor, but that it was not malignant.

Dr. Patterson rubbed his hands together as if
trying to warm them, and examined the X-rays. “I don’t think this
should be a complicated procedure. What do you say, Jerry?”

Dr. Jerry Duncan, Dr. Patterson’s assistant,
was almost always present when he operated. He was thirty-three,
with short, dark hair and a narrow, masculine chin. Girls always
turned their heads to look at him.

“I agree,” Jerry said.

Dr. Patterson scrubbed his hands thoroughly
at the sink. Nurse Esther Green helped him with his surgical gown
and thin latex-free gloves. Dr. Duncan had donned the same gear a
few minutes earlier.

Then Dr. Patterson sat on a stool at the
patient’s head and smiled at the team. This easygoing smile of his
signaled that the operation was about to start. “May I start
cutting?” he asked the chief anesthesiologist.

Dr. Anita Carter replied, “Hold on a moment.
I have to deepen the anesthesia slightly. It’ll only take another
minute.”

“Fine. Then I’ll tell you what happened to me
yesterday.”

They were all listening.

“I was walking downtown, looking for a new
pair of shoes. And you won’t believe it, but this young punk runs
right into me, there in front of the Sunrise Café. It all happened
so fast I nearly ended up on the sidewalk. Then the kid grabs hold
of his arm and I’m afraid he’s hurt himself. So I try to help him,
but he pushes me away and runs off.”

Dr. Leon Whitman, the assistant anesthesiologist,
said, “I bet you anything the kid was trying to rob you.”

“You’re absolutely right. Later, when I went
to pay for my shoes, I couldn’t find my wallet. It was really
embarrassing. If I ever get my hands on that little jerk …”

Everyone laughed except Dr. Carter, who
merely said, “You can start now, Dr. Patterson. The patient is
ready.”

Simon nodded and positioned his right hand.
Nurse Rosanna Adler, the head instrument nurse, knew exactly what
he wanted and handed him the black marker.

“Thank you,” he said, and marked out the cut
he was about to make on the patient’s shaved scalp. He handed back
the marker and was given the scalpel. He wrinkled his nose a few
times—it was obviously itching—and raised his head slightly.

He carefully cut into the skin. With the
aspirator, Dr. Jerry Duncan sucked up the blood trickling from the
incision. Dr. Patterson returned the scalpel and, with a
coagulation clamp, stopped the bleeding. This took about three
minutes.

He spent the next ten minutes using a
surgical saw and drill to remove part of the skull so he could get
to the dura. When he had cut through this outer membrane as well, a
yellowish tinge could be clearly seen on part of the brain. “Like I
said, the tumor’s not too big,” the surgeon commented.

Then, with scalpel and forceps, he proceeded
to separate the unhealthy from the healthy tissue. It took twenty
minutes. Meanwhile, Dr. Duncan continued to rinse and aspirate the
opening.

The operation lasted another half-hour,
during which time it was necessary to stop the bleeding, stitch up
the dura, reset the bone in place, and sew up the scalp.

Drs. Patterson and Duncan were the first to
leave the OR. The chief anesthesiologist and her assistant made
sure the patient woke up peacefully, then took him to Intensive
Care. The two instrument nurses cleaned up the operating room and
got it ready for the next operation.

Walking with his colleague from the OR wing,
Jerry Duncan observed, “That all went well. The patient took the
operation well, don’t you think?”

Dr. Patterson responded with a serious face.
“You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?”

Jerry hesitated. “No, not really.”

He looked over at him reproachfully. “The
patient was bleeding more than he should. I had to work hard to
stop it. I can only hope the bleeding won’t start up again.”

“I see. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Indeed. We’ll have another scan of the
patient’s head taken tomorrow after ten. Could you bring the
results to my office?”

“Sure. No problem.” He pointed with his chin.
“Want to get some coffee?”

“No thanks, Jerry. One coffee in the morning
is enough for me. I have to go get some files, but then let’s meet
in the third-floor hall.”

Jerry watched him walk away and wondered if
Dr. Patterson was entirely satisfied with him.

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Patterson was
asking a patient, Dean Farris, “How are you feeling?”

On the bed lay a young man in his early
twenties who had been seriously injured in a traffic accident. It
hurt as he opened his mouth. “A-a-a-ah.” He tried again.
“O-o-o-oh.”