The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (34 page)

I ran to the other guy, who was still on the road where he’d landed, though he’d pushed himself into a seated position. His arms hugged his raised knees. His body was starting to shake, and he was muttering to himself. I got close and checked his vital signs. His pulse was thready, his skin damp and clammy.

“
Higado
,” he said.
“Higado. Higado.”
Whatever that was, he needed it badly.

“Call 911,” I yelled to Clancy. “This one’s going into shock! And bring a blanket if you have one!”

I unzipped his coveralls and awkwardly peeled them off him. Clancy ran to his car and returned with a rumpled flannel sleeping bag—a P.I.’s best buddy for long surveillance gigs.

I wrapped the soft sleeping bag around the victim’s trembling shoulders.

“Now what?” Clancy said.

“Now, you stay put until help comes.”

“What about you?”

I stepped into the coveralls and zipped them over my clothes, windbreaker, and shoulder-holstered gun. They fit fine.

“I’m going fishing,” I said.

I jogged over to the van, where the front passenger door hung ajar like a wayward wing. I hiked up and over the opening and leaned inside to take a look. The wide eyes of the driver, still belted behind the steering wheel, blinked up at me from below. I hoped he was confused enough by the accident that his addled brain would see my uniform and take me for another courier, sent by Chuy Dos.

“Higado?”
I said, my voice urgent.

He pointed next to him. A white plastic box with a black lid and handle, slightly bigger than a picnic cooler, was wedged at an angle between the seat and the dashboard. Every cell in my body ratcheted up to a state of high alert. ORGAN TRANSPLANT: HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE was stamped in red on the side of the container.

Even though I had guessed what was going on, I hadn’t completely believed it until I read those words. So it was true. Chaco was stripping gangbangers for parts.

I shimmied farther until I was bent in half at the waist and somehow grasped the black handle with my right hand. I tugged. The container wasn’t heavy, maybe five pounds, but the angle made retrieval impossible. I needed help, but I didn’t know how to ask for it.

And then I did.

“Ayúdame!”
I gasped to the driver.
“Ayúdame!”
He freed one arm from the seat belt and pushed as I pulled. Two more tries, and I had it.

I speed-walked to my car, the cooler cradled to my chest as I sent its contents good thoughts. I had no idea what protocol to follow when transporting live organs, but I figured a little loving-kindness couldn’t hurt.

In five minutes, I was at the airfield. I parked on the far side of the lot. Goodhue’s Mercedes was there. Then I heard a loud
phut-phut-phut
, and a cream-and-striped helicopter, lights flashing, lifted skyward and took off. Hopefully, Goodhue was on it. That would make my job a lot easier.

I paused to pat my chest and underarm, making sure my gun was snugly tucked away in the shoulder holster. My passport and extra money were also safe and sound. What was I forgetting?

Gus.

I set the cooler down gently, unzipped my coveralls, fished out my phone, and pressed her number. Her voice mail picked up right away. She must have turned her phone off. I decided to text her instead:
BAHA IS ON. TEN
.

Cryptic as hell, but I didn’t have time to explain. She was smart. She’d figure out what to do.

I hustled inside Premier Charters, holding tight to the cooler, a few folded $100 bills damp in one hand. But I didn’t need them.

“Hurry! They’re waiting for you.” The young man at the desk waved me straight out the back exit.

A second helicopter was poised on the tarmac, rotors turning slowly. This one was white, with a bright yellow nose and the initials EMS stenciled on its side in red. EMS: Emergency Medical Services. I was looking at the third steed in Premier Charter’s stable, and maybe the most essential one for GTG Services, Incorporated’s new line of business.

I took a deep breath, crossed the tarmac, and ducked inside. So far, I was getting by with the ruse. Amazing what the right uniform will do for a man. I was also helped by the fact that I didn’t have to pass through any security—the Wilson Combat Supergrade strapped against my chest would have ended this journey before it began, and I’d be begging for forgiveness from inside jail.

I moved farther into the cabin and nodded to the pilot, seated up front. It was Sam, another piece of luck. I widened my eyes and made the slightest of shakes with my head. He responded with a curt duck of the chin before returning to his instruments.

The spotless passenger area was about the same size as the other helicopter’s, but the far wall was taken up with a cot the length and width of a stretcher, cushioned with blue foam and belted with several wide red nylon straps. The headrest was slightly elevated, but the bed itself was empty. The surroundings mimicked an ICU. Several medical monitors hung overhead, and the locked metal storage lockers underneath were no doubt stocked with medical supplies. A pair of opaque curtains blocked any view from the large, curved side window.

Two high-backed leather seats faced each other on the near side of the cabin, each with their own set of plump aviation headsets tucked into a side pocket. One seat was occupied. I took the other and found myself facing a short, bushy-browed man in jeans and a tan linen sport coat, with a hooked nose, prematurely snow-white hair, and piercing black eyes. His hands were clasped in his lap, his fingers strong yet tapered, like a musician’s. He wasn’t so much handsome as compelling. And yes, he resembled a bird of prey.

I set the container gently on the floor in front of me and strapped in.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Sorry. The van got into a little accident on the way here.”

He jerked backward, as if punched by my words. “Jesus! How’s the liver?”

Hidago. Liver
in Spanish.

“Don’t know,” I said.

He reached for the container, but I clamped my legs around it.

“Sorry,” I said, thinking fast. “Orders. Not until we land.”

His round black eyes narrowed. “They didn’t tell me anybody else was coming.”

“They didn’t tell me, either.” I shrugged, indifferent.

We had a brief stare-down. I mentally crossed my fingers and executed a wild leap, suicidal, if I guessed wrong.

“My boss likes to keep things separate, Dr. Kestrel,” I said, and that did the trick.

He moved up front to Sam and tapped him on the shoulder. Sam lifted one cushioned earpiece to hear. “Let’s go,” Kestrel said, before returning to his seat and buckling in. He was clearly used to giving orders and used to people obeying them.

I studied him surreptitiously, as the helicopter machinery hummed to life. He gave off his own hum, one of sheer power, the total confidence that comes from being the best in your field. Genius carries a charisma all its own. I shook off the image of what his musician fingers might choose to do in their off hours. With Heather, say.

We lifted off. I took in several deep lungfuls of oxygen and tried to keep my mind on the job and my stomach in the same general vicinity as my head.

Kestrel watched me curiously. “You get airsick?”

“Only small aircraft,” I said.

“You get used to it,” he said. “I’ve got drugs, if you want anything.”

I’ll bet he does.

“No, thanks.”

Kestrel reached for a water bottle, set in a cup holder on his armrest. He twisted it open and fished a small Ziploc out of the front pocket of his sport coat. The contents were like a micro-version of Chaco’s bulging bags of pills. I spotted Oxycodone, Ecstasy, a couple of Xanax bars. He had a tiny trove of mind-altering treasure.

Dr. Kestrel sorted through the contents, his sharp nose overseeing the search like a predator’s beak. Finally, he pounced on two capsules, half blue, half white. He resealed the bag and returned it to his pocket. Then he tossed the pills back, followed by a chaser of water—a practiced, two-step motion. He noticed my stare. “We call these ‘Physicians’ Assistants’—they’ll keep you going for at least eight hours.”

“And they are … ?”

“Diet pills. Phentermine, to be exact. Lousy for weight loss but miraculous when you’re trying to function on little-to-no sleep.”

“They don’t interfere with your surgery skills?”

“I guess not,” he said. “I’ve been taking them for years.” His smile was smug. “Once I’m done with this procedure, it’ll be back to business. So no sleep tonight, either.” He patted his pocket. “Never mind, two more of these’ll keep me going until tomorrow night, when I’ll switch to Ambien. Welcome to the romantic life of a surgeon.” He didn’t seem too cut up about it. Maybe the speed had already started to dance in his bloodstream.

I thought through my next step. Kestrel obviously bought my new role as courier and didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t tattooed or Hispanic: once again, my “vaguely Asian” looks were helping me pass as something foreign, but not too foreign. I cleared my mind of any distracting jealous tugs and revisited what Heather had told me about Dr. K.: how the man was considered a god in his field. Fine, I would treat him like one.

“I find your talent humbling,” I said.

He beetled his brows, but his eyes glinted with interest.

“I mean, you hold people’s lives in your hands on a daily basis.”

He chuckled. “Along with their kidneys, lungs, and livers.”

“I can’t even imagine,” I said. “Clearly, you’re the best, since my boss chose you. If you don’t mind my asking, how much do you get paid for … ?” I nudged the cooler with my foot. “You know …”

He preened. “Performing a highly complicated emergency transplant procedure in a foreign country under impossibly challenging circumstances?”

I liked his attitude. I wouldn’t necessarily want a surgeon on uppers swapping out my liver, but as a talker, he was a detective’s dream.

He settled into his chair. “Maybe seventy grand per, but that’s gross pay. We net a helluva lot less. Not for this one, mind you. This one pays more.”

“So how long does an operation like this take?”

He motioned to the container. “This one? Six-to-eight hours. Maybe a little less. I’m fast. All depends on the state of that liver in there. You have to treat organs like newborns. If you put a banged-up liver into somebody, you’re asking for complications.”

Good to know. I made a vow to treat my liver like a brand new baby from now on. “How can you tell? If it’s damaged, I mean.”

He shook his head. “Can’t. Not until you remove it from the isosmotic solution. And even then, it’s not obvious.”

I nodded, as if I knew what he meant. The next couple of questions were delicate, but important.

“So this procedure, it’s … risky, right?”

Dr. K’s knee started jiggling. Excitement? Anxiety? I couldn’t tell.

“I’ve never done a partial before,” he admitted. “Live donor to patient.”

Partial? Live donor?
I hoped he didn’t register the shock these words triggered.

He ticked off more concerns. “Donor’s almost fifty. Patient’s a heavy drinker until recently. Not to mention the hepatitis B business. So, yeah, you could say it’s risky.”

I recalled John D’s tales of Bets McMurtry’s wild early years. “A sordid past, coming back to haunt her, eh?” I hoped he wouldn’t notice I’d switched to a gender-specific pronoun. It was a little interrogation trick that often worked wonders when digging for more information. Sure enough, he walked straight into my trap.

“Ha! I was part of the evaluation panel that turned her down in the first place. Her MELD score was off the charts.” He caught my raised eyebrows. “Model for End-stage Liver Disease. The higher the score, the faster you move up the list. But the rest of her numbers were in the cellar. Red flags all over the place. Hospitals tend to steer clear of transplants with elevated probabilities of rejection. They’re all about avoiding potential liability claims.”

“Right.”

“And even if the graft took, she’d probably require interferon treatment for the hep B afterward. Otherwise, we could be looking at the same story within a few years. So, like I said, the panel turned her down.” He smiled slightly. “And yet here we are. Ironic.”

“Very.”

Kestrel stretched his arms in front of him. He was compact, but his biceps were very strong and defined. Maybe he self-prescribed steroids, too. “We’ll see. The liver will take, or it won’t. She’ll stay off the sauce, or she won’t. Either way, I’m the best chance she has. Either way, I’ll get paid.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Hope we’re close. Livers last twelve hours max outside of their donor.”

I pictured Bets, with her cat eyes and acerbic mouth, lying somewhere inside that big white building in the desert, awaiting a second chance at health. She must be so scared. I glanced at the plastic container. What was I doing in the middle of all this?

But I kept going. I had to. I couldn’t bail even if I wanted to. I was 20,000 feet above sea level without a parachute. “So, they put up that medical facility fast, huh? Any idea who might have picked up the tab?”

He shook his head. “No idea. The place isn’t finished, but I guess they put a hurry-up on an OR and a single ICU unit when your boss’s numbers started crashing.”

My integrity machinery let out a small squeak. She wasn’t my boss, not anymore. And I might be about to cause her irreparable harm.

May I be serving the higher good. May my intentions and action, be noble and true.

“Whoever built it, though, guy’s a fucking genius,” Kestrel continued. “You wait and see. All those baby boomers desperate to jump the line for new hearts and lungs? We’re talking a multi-billion-dollar business. Standing room only.”

I glanced up front. Sam had moved one side of his headset just enough to free one ear.

Kestrel let out a small throat-sound of disgust. “As usual, we doctors will just get served the crumbs.”

“Pretty good-sized crumbs,” I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to haul them back in. Why risk insulting him now? Plus, I knew better. Never offer logic to a person locked in a personal drama of victimhood. Might as well tell a wounded soldier whose thigh has been shattered by a bullet, “Cheer up, at least you still have one good leg.”