Trauma (35 page)

In the intervening hours from when she heard the recording to her return to the hospital, Carrie did some digging on Cal Trent and sent an e-mail to David with a fairly exhaustive dossier. Admittedly, it gave them no real insights. Trent got his BS in mechanical engineering from the University of Miami, and went on to receive an MBA from Northwestern. He was an associate with the consulting firm McKinsey & Company, and worked for BEA Systems before he found employment with DARPA. Trent had been married for eighteen years, with two kids and a permanent residence in Bethesda. He seemed like a regular guy, though graft and corruption stained the noblest professions.

Carrie and David agreed not to play the recording for anybody—not Dr. Finley, and certainly not the police. They had nothing criminal to investigate, just a lot of innuendo. As for Dr. Finley, if he knew Carrie had secretly recorded Sandra Goodwin, she'd be fired in a heartbeat, and any hope of closure would be lost. So long as Dr. Finley employed her, Carrie could investigate Goodwin and Trent from the shadows.

Until Carrie was officially cleared to operate, all DBS procedures were on hold, and waiting patients would need to be rescheduled. During this downtime, Dr. Finley informed Carrie of his plans to conduct neurological exams on both DBS and regular VA patients, and get caught up on some backlogged paperwork. Carrie could not stay at home and do nothing all day, so she came to the VA to get caught up on her journal reading—or so she said to Dr. Finley. In reality, Carrie was there to keep her eyes and ears open.

When Dr. Finley invited Carrie to join him in examining another vet from the DBS program, Carrie jumped at the chance. It was Ram
ó
n Hernandez redux. This vet's name was Terry Bushman, an
ü
ber-fit male in his early thirties with short-cropped blond hair, his arms covered with tattoos and scars. Carrie asked the same questions of Bushman as she had of Hernandez. The answers were decidedly similar. No experience with voice illusion, no issues with his DBS, and while he expressed lingering PTSD symptoms, they were not nearly as debilitating as before. Same as Hernandez, there was some asymmetry of Bushman's neck where the stimulating wires had been tunneled from the scalp, and he had small scars on the chest where the generator was placed.

Near the end of the exam, Carrie asked Bushman to tell her how he got involved in the program.

“I was living at a halfway house,” Bushman said. He had a youthful voice, like a California surfer. “So, these guys from DARPA show up, give me all sorts of psych testing, and next I know I'm living at a different halfway house outside of Boston with wires in my head. Simple as that.”

Carrie had wondered if Ram
ó
n had recruited Bushman, or if he had ever met Abington or Fasciani. The answers were no to all. Carrie got some background on Bushman, and it seemed he had a decent relationship with his family, nothing like Abington. Carrie was willing to accept a dead end when she hit one. But still something did not make sense. Why would two vets seem perfectly fine and two others exhibit strange neurological behaviors?

Carrie joined Dr. Finley in the cafeteria for a post-exam coffee. It was approaching dinnertime, and Bushman was Dr. Finley's last patient of the day.

He was exuberant as ever. “I think in another week you should be recovered enough to get back to the OR,” he said. “When I first met Terry, he suffered from debilitating uncomplicated PTSD with persistent reexperiencing of the traumatic event, had trouble with crowds because he associated the stimuli with the trauma, and there was a lot of self-medicating going on. Now look at him.”

“It is impressive,” Carrie admitted.

“We have four cases like Terry Bushman and Ram
ó
n Hernandez. Four. Once we get to ten, I think we'll be able to trumpet success.”

“What about the others?” Carrie asked.

Dr. Finley's glow dimmed. “Not everyone gets better, Carrie. Not every drug, not every therapy works a miracle. But these four represent the possibilities. We need to stay positive.”

“Do you mind if I look over your patient records?”

Dr. Finley's prominent eyebrows rose an inch or so. “Um, I guess. Sure. Mind if I ask why?”

“Call it professional curiosity. I just really want to know these men.”

Carrie got a quick nod of approval.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I'll pull them together for you and you can look at them in the morning.”

Those files, Carrie believed, would show her whether other vets left the neuro recovery unit under special circumstances like Abington and Fasciani.

“Thanks, that would be great,” she said.

Dr. Finley stood. “Time for me to go home,” he said. “You should do the same. I'm worried you're going to push yourself too hard.”

Carrie thanked him for his concern, and returned to her office to gather her things. She was there only a few minutes before someone knocked on her door. Carrie's heart nearly stopped at the sight of Sandra Goodwin lurking in the open doorway, as if she'd been there watching for some time.

Without an invitation, Goodwin entered Carrie's incommodious office, sporting a chilly smile. She wore her hair up in a tight bun, and the harsh glare of the fluorescents highlighted the severe angles of her face. Goodwin's sharp eyes bore down on Carrie in a way that turned her blood to ice.

“Carrie, I'm glad I caught you,” Goodwin said in a honey-dripped voice. “Do you have a minute?”

“I was just heading out,” Carrie said.

“This won't take long,” Goodwin said coolly.

“Sure,” Carrie said. “What can I do for you?”

“I think you and I got off on the wrong foot,” Goodwin said. “And I'd like for us to be friends.”

Because you know I'm on to you,
Carrie thought.

“Sandra, I really don't know what you're talking about. I've kept a clear line between my job and what Evan does ever since our little chat. If you want to be professionally cordial, then perhaps you'll explain to me why you signed Abington and Fasciani out AMA.” Carrie almost let slip something about reliable neural-interface technology, which could have been disastrous if Goodwin found out she'd been bugged.

“I told Dr. Finley I had little choice. They were both extremely insistent.”

“I saw Fasciani after his surgery. He was so doped up on Valium I don't see how he could have done that.”

Something flashed in Goodwin's expression that gave Carrie shivers. “You saw him?” Goodwin asked. “Could you explain yourself, please?”

Carrie's chest tightened. Goodwin had her trapped.
Dammit!

“Yes, I went up to see him after my surgery,” Carrie admitted. “I honestly think this policy of yours is ludicrous.”

“Think what you will,” Goodwin said in a sharp-edged voice. “It's my law, and I'm surprised and more than a little disappointed you decided to ignore the directive.”

“Well, I apologize,” Carrie said, rather insincerely. “But you need to see this from my point of view.”

“You weren't credentialed by us, Carrie, and for that reason alone you have no business interacting with the patients outside the OR. I thought this was clear.”

Goodwin leaned against a wall and let her white lab coat fall open to show off the scrubs she wore underneath, as if Carrie needed the reminder they both were surgeons.

“Eric could not have possibly given his consent,” Carrie said. “He was too drugged.”

“But he did,” Goodwin retorted. “I was called to the floor and I signed the papers after he issued his demands. I spent time trying to talk him out of it. I'm sorry I don't have any of those conversations recorded so you could believe me.” She gave Carrie a foxy grin.

Carrie held her breath, paralyzed, expecting any moment to be accused of spying.

“What do you want me to say, Sandra? I'm not at all comfortable with how you've handled this. I did an invasive procedure on two men who checked out AMA and subsequently vanished. Something isn't right.”

Goodwin took a step into Carrie's office and gave a look meant to incite fear. “I'll tell you what isn't right,” Goodwin said. “I have a presentation due in a couple days for an upcoming meeting with the top brass here. I have to go through every surgical procedure from the past year and catalogue every complication. That's going to take me hours. If you so want to be a part of this team, I think you should do the work.”

“Me?” Carrie could not contain her incredulousness.

“It would be a shame to inform the VA of your unwillingness to follow my rules. I could get you suspended in about five minutes, and fired in a day. You'll be out of here quicker than it takes me to fill out an AMA form.”

Carrie eyed Goodwin with disgust. “That's blackmail,” she said.

“No, Carrie darling, it's called being a team player. Stay right here. I'll come down with the files. You don't have access to the electronic system, so I'm afraid paper will have to do. And I'm afraid you can't remove anything from the premises. But that's okay. You're used to working late nights, aren't you?”

The glimmer in Goodwin's eyes dimmed, along with her phony smile.

 

CHAPTER 47

“Drained” did not capture Carrie's whole-body exhaustion. The stacks of medical records took up most of her desk space. The work was decidedly tedious and excruciatingly time-consuming. Many of the files Carrie reviewed were several inches thick and offered no means by which to conduct a keyword search for complications. Carrie had to painstakingly review each case down to the last period. She could have punted on the whole thing, done a half-baked job, but that was not in her nature. If she were going to do something, even scut work, she'd do it right.

That was just her wiring.

The complications Carrie recorded on her impressive spreadsheet were commonplace and did not denote a pattern of incompetence, or at least nothing Carrie could derive from the data. The VA might not have state-of-the-art equipment like White Memorial, but it appeared to be a first-class facility with top-notch surgeons. Even though Carrie thought Navarro was an ass, and Goodwin a shrew, they each performed their respective roles admirably and even, at times, in exemplary form.

Carrie's grueling residency had trained her for endurance work, and she probably could have gone another hour before giving in to fatigue. Thankfully, that was unnecessary. Carrie closed the last manila folder and fired off a tersely worded e-mail to Goodwin with her Excel spreadsheet attached. Her findings corresponded with well-established industry standards. Stereotactic radiosurgery, more commonly known as “gamma knife” surgery, had the lowest rate of complications. By contrast, transsphenoidal surgery, a relatively safe procedure, had a statistically significant number of issues. The other surgical complications Carrie came across ran the gamut and included hematomas, infection, and leakage of cerebrospinal fluid. There were a number of non-neurosurgical complications like deep venous thrombosis, and a few cases of pulmonary emboli, cardiac arrhythmias, blood sugar and electrolyte imbalances, but all in all, the VA seemed to be well within the norm of surgical maladies.

Carrie massaged her eyes and took a long drink of the Diet Coke that had kept her alert these many hours. While Goodwin may have won the battle, the victor in the larger war had yet to be determined. Carrie was going to blow the lid off Goodwin's dealings with Trent. It was just a matter of time.

Carrie shut down her computer, collected her purse, and turned out the lights. Her depleted resolve sparked back to life as she closed and locked her office door. But the feeling was fleeting. Her limbs were heavy with fatigue, and the idea of making the long drive home seemed intolerable, perhaps even dangerous. Studies proved drowsy driving was equivalent to drunk driving, and her eyes were already closing. The on-call room beckoned her, and Carrie gave in. Four or five hours or so of sleep and she could be back at her desk, looking through the files Dr. Finley had promised to provide by morning.

Carrie headed to the on-call room through hospital halls that were deathly quiet, eerily so. She reached the stairwell without encountering a single person, unusual for any time, day or night. The harsh glare of the white vinyl floor was like needles in her eyes. Carrie made an unusually quick ascent to the third floor. A creeping fear tickled at the back of her neck that hastened her strides. Maybe it was the jogger in the park, or the car crash, but the quiet made her jittery.

All three on-call rooms were vacant, and Carrie opted for the one at the far end of the hall. She locked the door behind her and glanced at the time on the analog clock mounted to the concrete wall.

Three o'clock in the morning.

What a brutal day.

Carrie plumped down on the thin, unforgiving mattress and heard every click in her stiff and achy joints. At least she had on scrubs, which were just as good as pajamas, if not better.

For a moment she felt incredibly alone and lonely and wished David was with her. But the feeling faded as Carrie closed her eyes. Even her resentment and anger toward Goodwin could not keep her from drifting off. Exhaustion took over, and thoughts of David and Goodwin receded into the back of Carrie's consciousness. Her body melted into the bed, legs and arms became heavy as her breathing turned shallow.

The minute hand on the clock ticked off seconds like a hypnotic metronome. Then the noise was gone. All noise was gone.

Then sleep.

At last sleep, finally sleep.

Until something woke her.

Carrie's eyes fluttered open. She had no idea how long she'd been out. A few minutes? A few hours? The darkness was impenetrable, and she could not see the clock on the wall. Her body felt queasy, off-kilter from having woken up so suddenly. Her eyes would adjust to the dark, but right now Carrie could not make out any shapes at all. She might as well have been blindfolded. But her ears worked just fine and they picked up a faint noise, the slight sound of a metallic click. That noise must have awoken her. Carrie listened, but the only sound now was her heart slamming against her ribs.