Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) (17 page)

“I do. It’ll give her heart a little help, hopefully enough to avoid a transplant. That’s the worst case scenario, but I have to remind you that it’s still a real possibility.”

“If you need me to sign something I’m ready to.”

“Very well, Susan will get you the papers and we’ll get it done this afternoon.”

Before the senator could thank him, the doctor’s attention was drawn away by the loud beeping from the monitor bank.

“Bed six is in V-tach!”

The senator stood tight against the counter as the staff rushed past him and into the room. He watched through the glass as Dr. Fong gave orders and the staff repeatedly shocked the patient as they had his daughter. Drugs were pushed and within a minute the patient was back to a normal heartbeat.

All of this went unnoticed by Rita Lamar. As soon as her husband had left the room her gaze had returned to the bed holding her daughter. This time she focused not on her daughter’s chest, or her sleeping face, but on the chart left behind by the doctor. She squinted to see the tabs and their titles separating the three-inch thick binder into sections until she found the one she wanted.

With everyone’s eyes diverted elsewhere, she pulled the chart into her lap and flipped it open to the section she wanted.

LABS

Tabbing through the papers she quickly found one labeled CHEMISTRY and another that said HISTOCOMPATIBILITY. She chose two others that seemed to contain the most information and pulled them from the chart. Creasing and folding, she had them stuffed in her purse within seconds and the chart was placed back on the bed just as her husband turned and reentered the room.

“They got him back,” he informed her.

“Good,” she said, her voice cracking.

He once again grasped his wife’s hand in his own. He was surprised to find it sweaty.

Turkish Doctor Wanted by Interpol,
in Spotlight in Organ Trafficking Inquiries
November 09, 2011—New York Times
 

—TWELVE—

D
r. Dayo rubbed his eyes and sat up from leaning over the desk. There were still three charts waiting for his review on the right side of the desk. But the pile on the left contained twice that, and that was enough for one night. After a day of surgeries, including an emergency stab wound, he had given a lecture to some students, answered two requests for consult from other doctors, and then tackled the pile of charts. Since it was not long after the switch for daylight savings time, the sky outside was already dark, the only shadows being provided by the mercury lights in the parking lot.

He rubbed his neck as he made a halfhearted attempt at organizing his desk. Realizing it was going to stay a mess no matter what he did, he quickly gave up. Retrieving his coat from the rack by the door along with his helmet, he locked up on his way out. Christine had said goodnight hours ago and the outer office was dark. He navigated more by memory than anything else and managed to make it to the door without running into anything. Once out in the hallway, he looked both ways and saw no one but a night janitor polishing the tile floor at the other end of the hall. His shoes squeaked even louder now with no noise to compete with them.

Preferring to walk after sitting for so long, he made his way to the stairs. Two flights down he emerged into another hallway. This one showed some activity as the ER at Johns Hopkins was always busy. He passed an unconscious man being pushed on a stretcher heading for the CT scanner. His head sported a bloody bandage and his arms were red and scraped down to the raw tissue. A foot also stuck out at an odd ankle. The look from the tech who was pushing him said it all.

“Busy night?” Dr. Dayo asked.

“We’re packed, Doc. Five car pileup on 95. They’re still bringing them in. Better get out while you can.”

“I plan to.”

He left the man behind and continued on toward the ER entrance. He heard the chaos that was the Emergency Room well before he entered through the double doors. Here the noise quickly rose to a level that drowned out his squeaky shoes. The patients were stacked in the hallways, and he had to maneuver around the techs and ER nurses who rushed in every direction. An overdose chose to empty his stomach as Dr. Dayo passed, and he moved just in time to save his shoes. Approaching a trauma room, he saw a team working on a man in a similar state to that which he had seen in the hallway. The only difference was this man was still conscious and screaming in pain. The odor of alcohol could be smelled wafting off the man even from outside the room. The ER doctor looked up from his place at the head of the bed and caught Dr. Dayo’s eye. He just shrugged and smiled as he made ready to intubate the man on the stretcher. Another drunk driver, nothing new to him. Dr. Dayo moved on before he got the urge to step in. He sometimes missed the excitement of the ER, but not tonight, he was just too tired.

Stepping through another set of doors, he passed through the triage area. The waiting room was packed with all manner and color of people. Some visibly sick, others bloody and injured. A few had the fidgety look of those close to withdrawal and others looked perfectly fine, calmly waiting and sipping their vending machine coffee. He made his way through the throng until he was able to step outside and was greeted by Harold, one of the hospital’s longtime security people. While Johns Hopkins was one of the best hospitals in the world, it did not reside in the best part of town. Their security staff was larger than most hospitals of its size.

“Gettin’ while the gettin’s good, Doc?”

“You know it. Looks like a full house for some time in there.”

“Actually getting better now that the snow’s gone. Cuts down on all the homeless trying to get a bed for the night.”

“I know I’m ready for mine.”

“Give me a second and I’ll have Jerry walk you out.”

An approaching siren announced the arrival of another ambulance. The wail died as it rounded the corner.

“That’ll be the last one from the pileup,” Harold commented as he pushed buttons on the panel in his kiosk. The lights they triggered would tell the crew where to take their patient.

“You’re busy here. Tell Jerry I can make it fine myself.”

Harold frowned at that. He’d been a cop before taking this job, and he knew the area they were in all too well.

“Not safe, Doc. Jerry will be here in a few. What’s a few more minutes?”

“It’s all right. I’ll be on my bike and out of here before he gets here, but thanks.”

“All right, be careful.”

Harold shook his head as he watched the doctor walk off into the shadows toward the employee parking lot. Doctors were all the same he thought. They all thought they were untouchable. He hoped this one never had to learn the hard way.

Dr. Dayo made it through the gate and was fumbling with his keys in the faint light when he arrived at his bike. A new Harley Davidson. He had finally had the courage to ignore his wife long enough to buy it. He had secretly shopped for months before deciding on the make and model. One of the few pleasures he had was the occasional ride with a few of his surgeon buddies. He now paused for a moment to take in the lines of the sculpture of steel and leather. As much as he was a fan of the old-school Harleys, his love of cutting edge technology had won out and he had chosen the new V-Rod Nighthawk edition. Its black-on-black color scheme gave him a chill the first time he had seen it, and it still did today. Now that the weather had changed, he had taken every chance he could to ride it to work.

Still holding the helmet in his hands, he threw a leg over the seat and reached out with the key to start it up for a minute of warm up before he left. He was stopped short by something obstructing the key. He leaned over to see a big glob of something foul stuck to the ignition switch. Gum? Some damn kid? He poked at it. Wax. Someone had smeared wax over his ignition and it had dried there. He picked away at it with a fingernail and discovered it would come off. He had it halfway exposed when a voice interrupted his progress.

“Having some trouble, doctor?”

The voice had a condescending tone with a Spanish accent. Dr. Dayo straightened up to see two men watching him, one of them smoking a cigarette. He blew the smoke out forcefully before smiling at the doctor. He had greasy hair and a large tattoo on his neck. The other was just big and sported a Ravens Jacket.

Dr. Dayo looked toward the hospital, hoping to see Harold or Jerry walking toward him, but the lot was as empty as when he had arrived.

“Relax, Dr. Dayo. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

“Do I know you?”

The one talking took a long last drag on his cigarette before dropping it to the ground. He crushed it out with a steel-toed boot before once again smiling that smile, as if he were a cat playing with a mouse. The other just glared before slowly walking a wide circle around them. He kept his hands in his pockets, and Dr. Dayo shifted in the seat to keep them both in view.

“No, you don’t know me. But we know you.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing . . . nothing. Just to give you a message, that is all.”

Dr. Dayo swung his leg over the seat and turned so he could still see the man who had now moved behind him. The man didn’t stop, he merely continued to circle. Dr. Dayo tightened his grip on the helmet. The two men stood their ground, not impressed by his movements.

“And what message would that be?”

“You have a patient, a friend of ours, you might say. We want to be . . . reassured that you will do your best for him. You will do your best for him, right, Doctor?”

Dr. Dayo understood the Spanish accent now. Hernandez was evidently having second thoughts about his surgeon.

“The man’s heart is failing. He’ll die soon unless he gets a transplant. I have no control over that.”

“We understand that . . . but if a heart should come?”

Dayo grit his teeth. “He’ll get my best effort.”

The greasy one lost his smile before reaching in his pocket. Dayo stiffened and the man watched him with his hand frozen for a moment before he slowly withdrew the pack of cigarettes. He took his time tapping the pack before extracting one and lighting it. The smile returned.

“Very good, Doctor. That is what we like to hear. This man . . . he is very dear to us, you understand. I would hate to think what his death would drive us to do.”

Dayo just stood and waited, ready to swing the helmet if they came closer.

The smoker surprised him by clapping his hands and raising his arms wide as if to give Dayo a hug. The other one turned and started across the parking lot.

“I’m sorry to delay you, Doctor. I know you must be eager to get home to your wife, Anna, and your two boys. The older one can really swing a bat, yes? You should be proud.”

He made an elaborate show of putting his hands together as if in prayer and bowing before flashing the twisted grin as he spun on a heel to follow his companion. Dr. Dayo watched them until they disappeared into the dark streets.

Once they were gone, the doctor considered going back to the hospital, but he realized it was over. The men had sent their message, loud and clear. But what should he do now?

He threw his leg back over the bike and scraped the remaining wax away with the key before inserting it. The bike started with a throaty roar and he quickly revved the engine a few times to warm it up. The helmet went on after a look behind him and he quickly worked the gas and clutch to move the bike onto the street. He took several turns as fast as he could and drove home at well over the legal limit. Parking the bike outside the front door, he bounded up the steps and into the house.

“Anna!”

He moved toward the sound of the TV in the family room. Empty.

“Anna!”

He strode into the kitchen. Also empty. He pulled a knife from the block on the countertop before moving through the kitchen on the way to the stairs. A door opened in front of him and his wife emerged holding a basket of laundry.

“Matthew? Is that you yelling?”

Dr. Dayo quickly hid the knife behind his leg.

“Just me, honey. House was empty. I couldn’t find you or the boys.”

“The boys are at a sleepover. Are you okay?”

Dayo recovered quickly. “Yeah, just tired I guess. I’m gonna go upstairs and change.”

“Okay, come find me in the family room when you’re done? I’ll fix you a drink.”

“That sounds good.”

She pecked his cheek as she walked past with the laundry. He managed to keep the knife out of sight and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Pulling off the leather jacket, he flung it on the bed. The knife lay next to it and he stared at it for some time before moving it to the bottom of one of his drawers. He shed clothes as he walked to the shower. The water worked to clear his head, and he thought about what had happened and what he should do while the water flowed.

Eventually his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“You still in the shower?”

“Just getting out now,” he yelled.

“All right, I left your drink on the nightstand.”

“Thanks, honey, I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay.”

He quickly dried off and left the bathroom to pick up the drink. He drained half of it on his way back to the bathroom. He combed his wet hair back and examined himself in the mirror. He tossed back the rest of the drink before nodding to himself in agreement.