The Surgeon (18 page)

"And I'm trying to keep you alive. I need to know the truth."
"I've told you the truth! Now I think it's time for you to leave."
She crossed to the door, yanked it open, and gave a startled
gasp.
Peter Falco stood right outside, his hand poised to knock.
"Are you okay, Catherine?" asked Peter.
"Everything is fine," she snapped.
Looking at Moore, Peter's gaze sharpened. "What is this,
police harassment?"
"I'm asking Dr. Cordell a few questions, that's all."
"That's not what it sounded like in the hallway." Peter looked
at Catherine. "Do you want me to show him out?"
"I can deal with this myself."
"You're not obligated to answer any questions."
"I'm well aware of that, thank you."
"Okay. But if you need me, I'm out here." Peter shot a last
warning glance at Moore, then turned and went back to his
own office. At the other end of the hallway, Helen and the
billing clerk were staring at her. Flustered, she shut the door

again. For a moment she stood with her back to Moore. Then
her spine straightened, and she turned to him. Whether she
answered him now or later, the questions would remain.
"I've kept nothing from you," she said. "If I can't tell you
everything that happened that night, it's because I don't
remember."
"So your statement to the Savannah police was not entirely
true."
"I was still hospitalized when I gave that statement.
Detective Singer talked me through what happened, helping
me piece it together. I told him what I thought was correct at
the time."
"And now you're not sure."
She shook her head. "It's hard to know which memories are
real. There's so much I can't remember, because of the drug
Capra gave me. The Rohypnol. Every so often, I'll have a
flashback. Something that may or may not be real."
"And you still have these flashbacks?"
"I had one last night. It was the first one in months. I thought I
was over them. I thought they'd gone away." She walked to the
window and stared out. It was a view darkened by the shadow
of towering concrete. Her office faced the hospital, and one
could see row upon row of patients' windows. A glimpse into

the private worlds of the sick and dying.
"Two years seems like a long time," she said. "Time enough
to forget. But really, two years is nothing. Nothing. After that
night, I couldn't go back to my own house. I couldn't set foot in
the place where it happened. My father had to pack up my
things and move me into a new place. There I was, the chief
resident, accustomed to the sight of blood and guts. Yet just
the thought of walking up that hallway, and opening my old
bedroom door--it made me break out in a cold sweat. My
father tried to understand, but he's an old military man. He
doesn't accept weakness. He thinks of it as just another war
wound, something that heals, and then you get on with your
life. He told me to grow up and get over it." She shook her
head and laughed. "Get over it. It sounds like such an easy
thing. He had no idea how hard it was for me just to step
outside every morning. To walk to my car. To be so exposed.
After a while, I just stopped talking to him, because I knew he
was disgusted by my weakness. I haven't called him in
months. . . .
"It's taken me two years to finally get my fear under control.
To live a reasonably normal life where I don't feel as if
something's going to jump out from every bush. I had my life
back." She brushed her hand across her eyes, a swift and
angry swipe at her tears. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"And now I've lost it again. . . ."
She was shaking with the effort not to cry, hugging herself,

her fingers digging into her own arms as she fought for
control. He rose from the chair and crossed to her. Stood
behind her, wondering what would happen if he touched her.
Would she pull away? Would the mere contact of a man's
hand repulse her? He watched helplessly as she curled into
herself, and he thought she might shatter before his eyes.
Gently he touched her shoulder. She didn't flinch, didn't pull
away. He turned her toward him, his arms encircling her, and
drew her against his chest. The depth of her pain shocked
him. He could feel her whole body vibrating with it, the way a
storm batters a swaying bridge. Though she made no sound,
he felt the shaky intake of her breath, the stifled sobs. He
pressed his lips to her hair. He could not help himself; her
need spoke to something deep inside him. He cupped her
face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her brow.
She went very still in his arms, and he thought: I've crossed
the line. Quickly he released her. "I'm sorry," he said. "That
should not have happened."
"No. It shouldn't have."
"Can you forget it did?"
"Can you?" she asked softly.
"Yes." He straightened. And said it again, more firmly, as
though to convince himself. "Yes."

She looked down at his hand, and he knew what she was
focusing on. His wedding ring. "I hope for your wife's sake that
you can," she said. Her comment was meant to instill guilt, and
it did.
He regarded his ring, a simple gold band that he had worn
so long it seemed grafted to his flesh. "Her name was Mary,"
he said. He knew what Catherine had assumed: that he was
betraying his wife. Now he felt almost desperate to explain, to
redeem himself in her eyes.
"It happened two years ago. A hemorrhage into her brain. It
didn't kill her, not right away. For six months, I kept hoping,
waiting for her to wake up. . . ." He shook his head. "A chronic
vegetative state was what the doctors called it. God, I hated
that word, vegetative. As if she was a plant or some kind of
tree. A mockery of the woman she used to be. By the time she
died, I couldn't recognize her. I couldn't see anything left of
Mary."
Her touch took him by surprise, and he was the one who
flinched at the contact. In silence they faced each other in the
gray light through the window, and he thought: No kiss, no
embrace, could bring two people any closer than we are right
now. The most intimate emotion two people can share is
neither love nor desire but pain.
The buzz of the intercom broke the spell. Catherine blinked,
as though suddenly remembering where she was. She turned
to her desk and pressed the intercom button.

to her desk and pressed the intercom button.
"Yes?"
"Dr. Cordell, the SICU just called. They need you upstairs
STAT."
Moore saw, from Catherine's glance, that the same thought
had occurred to them both: Something has happened to
Nina Peyton.
"Is this about Bed Twelve?" asked Catherine.
"Yes. The patient just woke up."

eleven
N   ina Peyton's eyes were wide and frantic. Four-
point restraints held her wrists and ankles to the bedrails, and
the tendons of her arms stood out in thick cords as she fought
to free her hands.
"She regained consciousness about five minutes ago," said
Stephanie, the SICU nurse. "First I noticed her heart rate was
up, and then I saw her eyes were open. I've been trying to
calm her down, but she keeps fighting the restraints."

Catherine looked at the cardiac monitor and saw a rapid
heart rate but no arrhythmias. Nina's breathing was rapid as
well, occasionally punctuated by explosive wheezes that
expelled blasts of phlegm out the endotracheal tube.
"It's the ET tube," said Catherine. "It's making her panic."
"Shall I give her some Valium?"
Moore said, from the doorway, "We need her conscious. If
she's sedated, we can't get any answers."
"She can't talk to you anyway. Not with the ET tube in."
Catherine looked at Stephanie. "How were the last blood
gases? Can we extubate?"
Stephanie flipped through her papers on the clipboard.
"They're borderline. P02's sixty-five. PC02 thirty-two. That's
on the T-tube at forty percent oxygen."
Catherine frowned, liking none of the options. She wanted
Nina awake and able to talk just as much as the police did,
but she was juggling several concerns at once. The sensation
of a tube lodged in the throat can induce panic in anyone, and
Nina was so agitated that her restrained wrists were already
chafed raw. But removing the tube carried risks as well. Fluid
had accumulated in her lungs after surgery, and even while
she was breathing 40 percent oxygen--twice that of room air
--her blood oxygen saturation was barely adequate. That's
why Catherine had left the tube in place. If they removed the

tube, they would lose a margin of safety. If they left it in, the
patient would continue to panic and thrash. If they sedated her,
Moore's questions would go unanswered.
Catherine looked at Stephanie. "I'm going to extubate."
"Are you sure?"
"If there's any deterioration I'll re-intubate." Easier said than
done was what she saw in Stephanie's eyes. After several
days with a tube in place, the laryngeal tissues sometimes
swelled, making re-intubation difficult. An emergency
tracheotomy would be the only option.
Catherine circled around behind her patient's head and
gently cupped her face. "Nina, I'm Dr. Cordell. I'm going to
take the tube out. Is that what you want?"
The patient nodded, a response that was sharp and
desperate.
"I need you to be very still, okay? So we don't injure your
vocal cords." Catherine glanced up. "Mask ready?"
Stephanie held up the plastic oxygen mask.
Catherine gave Nina's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She
peeled off the tape holding the tube in place and released air
from the balloonlike inflator cuff. "Take a deep breath and
exhale," said Catherine. She watched the chest expand, and

as Nina released the breath, Catherine eased out the tube.
It emerged in a spray of mucus as Nina coughed and
wheezed. Catherine stroked her hair, murmuring gently as
Stephanie fastened an oxygen mask in place.
"You're doing fine," said Catherine.
But the blips on the cardiac monitor continued to race by.
Nina's frightened gaze remained focused on Catherine, as
though she was her lifeline and she dared not lose sight of her.
Looking into her patient's eyes, Catherine felt a disturbing
flash of familiarity. This was me two years ago. Waking up in
a Savannah hospital. Surfacing from one nightmare, into
another . . .
She looked at the straps holding Nina's wrists and ankles
and remembered how terrifying it was to be tied down. The
way she'd been tied down by Andrew Capra.
"Take off the restraints," she said.
"But she might pull out her lines."
"Just take them off ."
Stephanie flushed at the rebuke. Without a word she untied
the straps. She did not understand; no one could understand
but Catherine, who, even two years after Savannah, could not
abide sleeves with tight cuffs. As the last restraint fell free, she

saw Nina's lips move in a silent message.
Thank you.
Gradually the beep of the EKG slowed. Against the steady
rhythm of that heartbeat, the two women gazed at each other.
If Catherine had recognized a part of herself in Nina's eyes,
so, too, did Nina seem to recognize herself in Catherine's.
The silent sisterhood of victims.
There are more of us than anyone will ever know.
"You can come in now, Detectives," the nurse said.
Moore and Frost stepped into the cubicle and found
Catherine seated at the bedside, holding Nina's hand.
"She asked me to stay," said Catherine.
"I can call in a female officer," said Moore.
"No, she wants me," said Catherine. "I'm not leaving."
She looked straight at Moore, her gaze unyielding, and he
realized this was not the same woman he had held in his arms
only a few hours ago; this was a different side of her, fierce
and protective, and on this matter she would not back down.
He nodded and sat down at the bedside. Frost set up the

cassette recorder and took an unobtrusive position at the foot
of the bed. It was Frost's blandness, his quiet civility, that
made Moore choose him to sit in on this interview. The last
thing Nina Peyton needed to face was an over-aggressive
cop.
Her oxygen mask had been removed and replaced with
nasal prongs, and air hissed from the tube into her nostrils.
Her gaze darted between the two men, eyes alert to any
threats, any sudden gestures. Moore was careful to keep his
voice soft as he introduced himself and Barry Frost. He
guided her through the preliminaries, confirming her name
and age and address. This information they already knew, but
by asking her to state it on tape they established her mental
status and demonstrated she was alert and competent to
make a statement. She answered his questions in a hoarse,
flat voice, eerily devoid of emotion. Her remoteness
unnverved him; he felt as though he were listening to a dead
woman.
"I didn't hear him come into my house," she said. "I didn't
wake up until he was standing over my bed. I shouldn't have
left the windows open. I shouldn't have taken the pills. . . ."
"What pills?" Moore asked gently.
"I was having trouble sleeping, because of . . ." Her voice
faded.
"The rape?"

She looked away, avoiding his gaze. "I was having
nightmares. At the clinic, they gave me pills. To help me sleep.
"
And a nightmare, a real nightmare, walked right into her
bedroom.
"Did you see his face?" he asked.
"It was dark. I could hear him breathing, but I couldn't move.
I couldn't scream."
"You were already tied down?"
"I don't remember him doing it. I don't remember how it
happened."
Chloroform, thought Moore, to subdue her first. Before she
was fully awake.
"What happened then, Nina?"
Her breathing accelerated. On the monitor above her bed,
the heart tracing blipped faster.
"He sat in a chair by my bed. I could see his shadow."
"And what did he do?"
"He--he talked to me."

"What did he say?"
"He said . . ." She swallowed. "He said that I was dirty.
Contaminated. He said I should be disgusted by my own filth.
And that he--he was going to cut out the part that was tainted
and make me pure again." She paused. And said, in a
whisper: "That's when I knew I was going to die."
Though Catherine's face had turned white, the victim herself
looked eerily composed, as though she were talking about
another woman's nightmare, not her own. She was no longer
looking at Moore but staring at some point beyond him,
seeing from afar a woman tied to a bed. And in a chair,
hidden in the darkness, a man quietly describing the horrors
he planned next. For the Surgeon, thought Moore, this is
foreplay. This is what excites him. The smell of a woman's
fear. He feeds on it. He sits by her bed and fills her mind with
images of death. Sweat blooms on her skin, sweat that
exudes the sour scent of terror. An exotic perfume he craves.
He breathes it in, and he is excited.
"What happened next?" said Moore.
No answer.
"Nina?"
"He turned the lamp on my face. He put it right in my eyes,
so I couldn't see him. All I could see was that bright light. And