The Surgeon (11 page)

stared at the ground, unwilling to watch the spilling of her
virgin blood. Unwilling to witness the horror.
Ah, but I would have watched! And so, too, would you
have. And eagerly, too.
I pictured the silent troops assembled in the gloom. I
imagined the beating of drums, not the lively throb of a
wedding celebration, but a somber march toward death. I
saw the procession, winding its way into the grove. The girl,
white as a swan, flanked by soldiers and priests. The
drumming stops.
They carry her, shrieking, to the altar.
In my vision, it is Agamemnon himself who holds the
knife blade, for why call it sacrifice if you are not the one who
draws the blood? I see him approach the altar, where his
daughter lies, her tender flesh exposed to all eyes. She
pleads for her life, to no avail.
The priest grasps her hair and pulls it back, baring her
throat. Beneath the white skin the artery pulses, marking the
place for the blade. Agamemnon stands beside his
daughter, looking down at the face he loves. In her veins
runs his blood. In her eyes he sees his own. By cutting her
throat, he cuts his own flesh.
He raises the knife. The soldiers stand silent, statues

among the sacred grove of trees. The pulse in the girl's
neck is fluttering.
Artemis demands sacrifice, and this Agamemnon must
do.
He presses the blade to the girl's neck, and slices deep.
A fountain of red spurts, splashing his face with hot rain.
Iphigenia is still alive, her eyes rolled back in horror as
the blood pumps from her neck. The human body contains
five liters of blood, and it takes time for such a volume to be
discharged from a single severed artery. As long as the
heart continues to beat, the blood pumps out. For at least a
few seconds, perhaps even a minute or more, the brain
functions. The limbs thrash.
As her heart beats its last, Iphigenia watches the sky
darken, and feels the heat of her own blood spout on her
face.
The ancients say that almost immediately the north wind
ceased to blow Artemis was satisfied. At last the Greek ships
.
sailed, and armies fought, and Troy fell. In the context of that
greater bloodshed, the slaughter of one young virgin means
nothing.
But when I think of the Trojan War, what comes to my

mind is not the wooden horse or the clang of swords or the
thousand black ships with sails unfurled. No, it is the image
of a girl's body, drained white, and the father standing beside
her, clutching the bloody knife.
Noble Agamemnon, with tears in his eyes.

seven
It's pulsating," said the nurse.
Catherine stared, dry-mouthed with horror, at the man
lying on the trauma table. A foot-long iron rod protruded
straight up from his chest. One medical student had already
fainted at the sight, and the three nurses stood with mouths
agape. The rod was embedded deep in the man's chest, and
it was pulsing up and down in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"What's our BP?" Catherine said.

Her voice seemed to snap everyone into action mode. The
blood pressure cuff whiffed up, sighed down again.
"Seventy over forty. Pulse is up to one-fifty!"
"Turning both IV's wide open!"
"Breaking open the thoracotomy tray--"
"Somebody get Dr. Falco down here STAT. I'm going to
need help." Catherine slipped into a sterile gown and pulled
on gloves. Her palms were already slippery with sweat. The
fact the rod was pulsing told her the tip had penetrated close
to the heart--or, even worse, was actually embedded in it. The
worst thing she could do was pull it out. It might open a hole
through which he could exsanguinate in minutes.
The EMT's at the scene had made the right decision: they
had started an IV, intubated the victim, and brought him to the
E.R. with the rod still in place. The rest was up to her.
She was just reaching for the scalpel when the door swung
open. She looked up and gave a sigh of relief as Peter Falco
walked in. He halted, his gaze taking in the patient's chest,
with the rod protruding like a stake through a vampire's heart.
"Now that's something you don't see every day," he said.
"BP's bottoming out!" a nurse called.

"There's no time for bypass. I'm going in," said Catherine.
"I'll be right with you." Peter turned and said, in an almost
casual tone, "Can I have a gown, please?"
Catherine swiftly opened an anterolateral incision, which
would allow the best exposure to the vital organs of the
thoracic cavity. She was feeling calmer, now that Peter had
arrived. It was more than just having the extra pair of skilled
hands; it was Peter himself. The way he could walk into a
room and size up the situation with just a glance. The fact he
never raised his voice in the O.R., never showed a hint of
panic. He had five years' more experience than she did on the
front lines of trauma surgery, and it was with horrifying cases
like this one where his experience showed.
He took his place across the table from Catherine, his blue
eyes zeroing in on the incision. "Okeydoke. We having fun
yet?"
"Barrel of laughs."
He got right down to business, his hands working in concert
with hers as they tore into the chest with almost brutal force.
He and Catherine had operated as a team so many times
before, each automatically knew what the other one needed
and could anticipate moves ahead of time.
"Story on this?" asked Peter. Blood spurted, and he calmly
snapped a hemostat over the bleeder.

"Construction worker. Tripped and fell on the site and got
himself skewered."
"That'll ruin your day. Burford retractor, please."
"Burford."
"How we doing on blood?"
"Waiting on the O neg," a nurse answered.
"Is Dr. Murata in-house?"
"His bypass team's on its way in."
"So we just need to buy a little time here. What's our
rhythm?"
"Sinus tach, one-fifty. A few PVC's--"
"Systolic's down to fifty!"
Catherine shot a glance at Peter. "We're not going to make
it to bypass," she said.
"Then let's just see what we can do here."
There was sudden silence as he stared into the incision.
"Oh god," said Catherine. "It's in the atrium."

The tip of the rod had pierced the wall of the heart, and with
every beat fresh blood squirted out around the edge of the
puncture site. A deep pool of it had already collected in the
thoracic cavity.
"We pull it out, we're going to have a real gusher," said
Peter.
"He's already bleeding out around it."
The nurse said, "Systolic's barely palpable!"
"Ho-kay," said Peter. No panic in his voice. No sign of any
fear whatsoever. He said to one of the nurses, "Can you hunt
me down a sixteen French Foley catheter with a thirty cc
balloon?"
"Uh, Dr. Falco? Did you say a Foley ?"
"Yep. A urinary catheter."
"And we'll need a syringe with ten cc's of saline," said
Catherine. "Stand by to push it." She and Peter didn't have to
explain a thing to each other; they both understood what the
plan was.
The Foley catheter, a tube designed for insertion into a
bladder to drain urine, was handed to Peter. They were about
to put it to a use for which it was never intended.

He looked at Catherine. "You ready?"
"Let's do it."
Her pulse was throbbing as she watched Peter grasp the
iron rod. Saw him gently pull it out of the heart wall. As it
emerged, blood exploded from the puncture site. Instantly
Catherine thrust the tip of the urinary catheter into the hole.
"Inflate the balloon!" said Peter.
The nurse pressed down the syringe, injecting ten cc's of
saline into the balloon at the tip of the Foley.
Peter pulled back on the catheter, jamming the balloon
against the inside of the atrium wall. The gush of blood cut off.
Barely a trickle oozed out.
"Vitals?" called out Catherine.
"Systolic's still at fifty. The O neg's here. We're hanging it
now."
Heart still pounding, Catherine looked at Peter and saw him
wink at her through his protective goggles.
"Wasn't that fun?" he said. He reached for the clamp with
the cardiac needle. "You want to do the honors?"
"You bet."

He handed her the needle holder. She would sew together
the edges of the puncture, then pull out the Foley before she
closed off the hole entirely. With every deep stitch she took,
she felt Peter's approving gaze. Felt her face flush with the
glow of success. Already she felt it in her bones: This patient
would live.
"Great way to start the day, isn't it?" he said. "Ripping open
chests."
"This is one birthday I'll never forget."
"My offer's still on for tonight. How about it?"
"I'm on call."
"I'll get Ames to cover for you. C'mon. Dinner and dancing."
"I thought the offer was for a ride in your plane."
"Whatever you want. Hell, let's do peanut butter
sandwiches. I'll bring the Skippy."
"Ha! I always knew you were a big spender."
"Catherine, I'm serious."
Hearing the change in his voice, she looked up and met his
steady gaze. Suddenly she noticed that the room had hushed
and that everyone else was listening, waiting to find out if the
unattainable Dr. Cordell would finally succumb to Dr. Falco's

charms.
She took another stitch as she thought about how much she
liked Peter as a colleague, how much she respected him and
he respected her. She didn't want that to change. She didn't
want to endanger that precious relationship with an ill-fated
step toward intimacy.
But oh, how she missed the days when she could enjoy a
night out! When an evening was something to look forward to,
not dread.
The room was still silent. Waiting.
At last she looked up at him."Pick me up at eight."
Catherine poured a glass of merlot and stood by the window,
sipping wine as she gazed out at the night. She could hear
laughter and could see people strolling below on
Commonwealth Avenue. Fashionable Newbury Street was
only one block away, and on a Friday night in summer this
Back Bay neighborhood was a magnet for tourists. Catherine
had chosen to live in the Back Bay for just that reason; she
took comfort in knowing that other people were around, even if
they were strangers. The sound of music and laughter meant
she was not alone, not isolated.
Yet here she was, behind her sealed window, drinking her

solitary glass of wine, trying to convince herself that she was
ready to join that world out there.
A world Andrew Capra stole from me.
She pressed her hand to the window, fingers arched
against the glass, as though to shatter her way out of this
sterile prison.
Recklessly she drained her wine and set the glass down on
the windowsill. I will not stay a victim, she thought. I won't let
him win.
She went into her bedroom and surveyed the clothes in her
closet. She pulled a green silk dress from her closet and
zipped herself into it. How long had it been since she'd worn
this dress? She couldn't remember.
From the other room came a cheery: "You've got mail!"
announcement over her computer. She ignored the message
and went into the bathroom to put on makeup. War paint, she
thought as she brushed on mascara, dabbed on lipstick. A
mask of courage, to help her face the world. With every stroke
of the makeup brush, she was painting on confidence. In the
mirror she saw a woman she scarcely recognized. A woman
she had not seen in two years.
"Welcome back," she murmured, and smiled.
She turned off the bathroom light and walked out to the

living room, her feet reacquainting themselves with the
torment of high heels. Peter was late; it was already eight-
fifteen. She remembered the "You've got mail" announcement
she'd heard from the bedroom and went to her computer to
click on the mailbox icon.
There was one message from a sender named SavvyDoc,
with the subject heading: "Lab Report." She opened the e-
mail.
Dr. Cordell,
Attached are pathology photos which will interest you.
It was unsigned.
She moved the arrow to the "download file" icon, then
hesitated, her finger poised on the mouse. She did not
recognize the sender, SavvyDoc, and normally she would not
download a file from a stranger. But this message was clearly
related to her work, and it had addressed her by name.
She clicked "download."
A color photograph materialized on the screen.

With a gasp, she jerked from her seat as though scalded,
and the chair toppled to the floor. She stumbled backward,
hand clasped over her mouth.
Then she ran for the phone.
Thomas Moore stood in her doorway, his gaze tight on her
face. "Is the photo still on the screen?"
"I haven't touched it."
She stepped aside and he walked in, all business, always
the policeman. He focused at once on the man who was
standing beside the computer.
"This is Dr. Peter Falco," said Catherine. "My partner in the
practice."
"Dr. Falco," said Moore, as the two men shook hands.
"Catherine and I were planning to go out for dinner tonight,"
said Peter. "I was held up at the hospital. Got here just before
you did, and . . ." He paused and looked at Catherine. "I take it
dinner's off?"
She answered with a sickly nod.
Moore sat down at the computer. The screen saver had
activated and bright tropical fish swam across the monitor. He

activated and bright tropical fish swam across the monitor. He
nudged the mouse.
The downloaded photograph appeared.
At once Catherine turned away and went to the window,
where she stood hugging herself, trying to block out the image
she'd just seen on the monitor. She could hear Moore tapping
on the keyboard behind her. Heard him make a phone call
and say, "I've just forwarded the file. Got it?" The darkness
below her window had fallen strangely silent. Is it already so
late? she wondered. Looking down at the deserted street, she
could scarcely believe that only an hour ago she'd been ready
to step out into that night and rejoin the world.
Now she wanted only to bolt the doors and hide.
Peter said, "Who the hell would send you something like
this? It's sick."
"I'd rather not talk about it," she said.
"Have you gotten stuff like this before?"
"No."
"Then why are the police involved?"
"Please stop, Peter. I don't want to discuss it!"
A pause. "You mean you don't want to discuss it with me."

"Not now. Not tonight."
"But you will talk about it with the police?"
"Dr. Falco," said Moore, "it really would be better if you left
now."
"Catherine? What do you want?"
She heard the hurt in his voice, but she did not turn to look
at him. "I'd like you to go. Please."
He didn't answer. Only when the door closed did she know
Peter had left.
A long silence passed.
"You haven't told him about Savannah?" asked Moore.
"No. I could never bring myself to tell him." Rape is a
subject too intimate, too shameful, to talk about. Even with
someone who cares about you.
She asked: "Who is the woman in the picture?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
She shook her head. "I don't know who sent it, either."
The chair creaked as he stood up. She felt his hand on her
shoulder, his warmth penetrating the green silk. She had not

changed clothes and was still dressed up, glossied up for the
evening. The whole idea of stepping out on the town now
struck her as pitiful. What had she been thinking? That she
could go back to being like everyone else? That she could be
whole again?
"Catherine," he said. "You need to talk to me about this
photo."
His fingers tightened on her shoulder, and she was
suddenly aware that he'd called her by her first name. He was
standing close enough for her to feel his breath warm her hair,
yet she did not feel threatened. Any other man's touch would
have seemed like an invasion, but Moore's was genuinely
comforting.
She nodded. "I'll try."
He pulled up another chair and they both sat down in front of
the computer. She forced herself to focus on the photograph.
The woman had curly hair, splayed out like corkscrews on
the pillow. Her lips were sealed beneath a silvery strip of duct
tape, but her eyes were open and aware, the retinas reflecting
bloodred in the camera's flash. The photograph showed her
from the waist up. She was bound to the bed, and she was
nude.
"Do you recognize her?" he asked.

"No."
"Is there anything about this photo that strikes you as
familiar? The room, the furniture?"
"No. But . . ."
"What?"
"He did it to me, too," she whispered. "Andrew Capra took
photos of me. Tied to my bed . . ." She swallowed, humiliation
washing over her, as though it were her own body so
intimately exposed to Moore's gaze. She found herself
crossing her arms over her chest, to shield her breasts from
further violation.
"This file was transmitted at seven fifty-five P.M. And the
sender's name, SavvyDoc--do you recognize it?"
"No." She focused again on the woman, who stared back
with bright red pupils. "She's awake. She knows what he's
about to do. He waits for that. He wants you to be awake, to
feel the pain. You have to be awake, or he won't enjoy it. . . ."
Although she was talking about Andrew Capra, she had
somehow slipped into the present tense, as though Capra
were still alive.
"How would he know your e-mail address?"
"I don't even know who he is."