Thriller (18 page)

she pointed it at Dmitri’s temple. “Stop!
Let him go.
He can’t hurt

us now!”

Dmitri gave no sign he heard. He continued to strangle

Olenkov, while Olenkov’s chest heaved.

“Dammit,
stop,
Dmitri! The sheriff’s department will arrest

him. You’ll be able to fly to Moscow. You can be with Nina!”

At Nina’s name, Dmitri went rigid. His curses turned to mutters. Still, his hands remained locked around the assassin’s neck,

and his knees crushed the man’s chest. Olenkov’s eyes were

closed, but his raw rasps told her he was alive. The awful sound

of approaching death filled her mind. Her husband, her mother

and many of her colleagues had died violently. She wondered

how she managed to survive. Maybe she was the one in the

nightmare.

She clasped her wound and worked to strip the anger and pain

from her voice. “You and Nina have a real chance. I’d give a lot

to have the chance you have.”

At last, Dmitri’s shoulders relaxed. As he stood and walked

away from the unconscious Olenkov, his upper lip rose with distaste. He did not look at Olenkov.

Sickened by Olenkov, disgusted by her misjudgment, she

turned away from Olenkov, too.

In the distance, sirens screeched. Dmitri lifted his chin, listening as they drew near. “When Nina was born, I was in hiding. My wife’s parents raised her. She is twenty-three now.” He

paused. “My fault. I wanted to know about her so bad that I finally wrote her last year. That is probably how he traced me.”

Liz’s breath caught in her throat. “So Nina is—?”

“My daughter.” Dmitri smiled a brilliant smile. “Thank you.”

He headed for the door and opened it. Behind him, the night

sky that had seemed so drab now shone like ebony. The oncedistant stars sparkled brightly.

Gingerly, he touched his wound. “Not bad. How are you?”

“I’ll live. Olenkov told me Nina was your wife.”

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His hand fell from his shoulder. Pain torqued his flat features.

“Her name was Natalia. Olenkov terminated her.”

“How horrible. I’m sorry.” So Olenkov had lied about that, too.

“Are you sure my father didn’t do it?”

He shook his head. “As soon as the Carnivore found us,

Olenkov scrubbed my wife. That pissed off the Carnivore. He

said he was hired for wet jobs on criminals—not dissidents. So

when the bastard tried to scrub me, too, the Carnivore shot

him.”

Liz stared. Her father had saved Dmitri? She felt a strange kind

of awe. She had always accepted the government’s version of the

Carnivore’s career as an assassin. But then, he had never said anything to make her think otherwise. What else had she missed?

“He sneaked me out of the Soviet Union,” Dmitri continued.

“We almost got caught twice. We walked three days across terrible ice and snow into Finland.” He swallowed and looked away.

“They say he was a killer, but he was very good to me.”

As if it were yesterday, pieces of her childhood returned. Liz

remembered holding her father’s hand as they laughed and he

led her in a race across the Embankment. Their long conversations as they sat cozily alone to drink tea. The gentle way he

brushed away her hair to kiss her cheek. She might have been

wrong about him. What else had she missed? For her, the hunt

had just begun.

In 1982, Michael Palmer, then a practicing E.R. physician on

Cape Cod, exploded on the literary scene with his first

thriller,
The Sisterhood
, which made the
New York Times
bestseller list and was translated into thirty-three languages.

Since then, he has written nine more thrillers of medical suspense. Palmer attended Wesleyan University with Robin

Cook, and the two of them performed their residencies at

Boston’s Massachusetts General Hospital at the same time.

Later, Michael Crichton’s work and Cook’s success with

Coma
inspired Palmer to write and, between the three writers, the genre of medical suspense became firmly established.

Palmer sees the thriller as distinct from classic detective

stories. Two of his favorites are William Goldman’s
Marathon

Man
and James Grady’s
Six Days of the Condor
. In Palmer’s

thrillers, his protagonists are drawn into the story because of

something they do professionally. They are not detectives and

are not out to solve mysteries. Rather, their goals are simply

to be the best physicians they can be. They’re usually pulled

into the story against their wills and eventually must defeat

the forces impinging on their lives, or be destroyed in the

process. Of course, along the way, a catharsis occurs, but what

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also distinguishes Palmer’s work is a frightening aspect that

leaves readers wondering if such a thing could actually happen to them.

Palmer has never before collaborated with another writer

on a project, but
Disfigured
is coauthored with Daniel James

Palmer, the middle of his three sons. Daniel is a professional

songwriter, musician and software manager.
Disfigured
was actually Daniel’s brainchild. And although Maura, the protagonist, is not a physician, the theme is medical, and like most

of Michael Palmer’s main characters, she’s drawn unwillingly

into the story.

We have your son. The picture enclosed is not a fake, this

is not a hoax, and we cannot be bought. If you want to see

your son alive again you will read this letter carefully and

follow our instructions precisely.

At 4:00 p.m., on June 23, you have face-lift surgery scheduled on your patient, Audra Meadows, of 144 Glenn Cherry

Lane, Bel-Air. During the procedure, you will inject 5cc of

isopropyl alcohol around the facial nerve on both sides of

her face. The resulting paralysis of her facial muscles must

be complete and irreversible. If you fail, if she can lift even

the corner of her mouth, you will never see your son again.

A copy of this note and photo has been placed on David’s

bed for your wife to find. Do not alert the authorities or anyone else. Choose to do so and you have sealed David’s fate.

Dr. George Hill, the plastic surgeon to the stars, slumped down

onto the cool marble of his foyer, his heart pounding. Just minutes before, the persistent ringing of the doorbell had awoken

him. The manila envelope was propped against the front door.

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Hill pushed himself up and studied the photo of his son.

David’s hair was shorter than when he saw him last. Was it two

months ago? Certainly no more than three. His eyes, always

bright and intelligent, were blindfolded. He was sitting on a

metal folding chair holding a sign that read:

June 22

2:00 a.m.

2:00 a.m.
—just three hours ago. Shakily, Hill made it to the

phone in his entertainment center and called his office manager.

“Hi, it’s me,” he said.

“Gee, even without checking my caller ID I guessed right,”

Joyce Baker replied. “I suppose 5:00 a.m. gave it away.”

Odd hours and interruptions during her limited personal time

were her curse for running George Hill’s medical practice for fifteen years. He was at the top of the heap of plastic surgeons in

southern California, if not the country, and he was determined

to remain there.

“Have you given anyone in our office access to the new appointment scheduling program?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m the only one with a log-on password.”

“Has anyone asked you about any client’s appointment? Anyone at all?”

“Absolutely not,” Joyce said. “What’s this all about? Which

client?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “Mrs. G. is scheduled to have some

more work done Sunday night at the surgical center, that’s all.”

“I know that. I scheduled her.”

“Well, she thinks a reporter knows about it.”

“Goodness. I really don’t see how that’s—”

“Listen, Joyce, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later.”

This had to be an inside job, he was thinking, someone in the

office or the surgicenter. The nature of his patient’s procedures,

let alone the precise time they were to be done, were more closely

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guarded secrets than the formula for Coke. Although she was not

an A-list celebrity, Audra was still special to him—his Mona

Lisa, his Sistine Chapel. Unlike with his other celebrity triumphs,

he hadn’t once leaked to the press that he was the artist behind

her remarkable, enduring beauty.

He paced about his Malibu mansion for a time before working up the nerve to call Maura. As his ex-wife, she, above all,

would understand the moral dilemma in which he had been

placed, and as David’s mother, she had the right to share in the

decision that could have her son dead in less than two days.

Maura Hill pounded along Overland Avenue, pushing harder

with each step.
A few more minutes, baby,
she gasped.
A few more

minutes
. After years of all work and no exercise, she had begun

running, then running long distances. Now she was hoping not

only to run the L.A. marathon, but also to qualify for a number.

However, her dream might have to wait. David’s grades and his

attitude had been slipping at school lately—too much MTV and

guitar, his teachers had said, to say nothing of the hormonal

chaos of being fourteen. To that list Maura could add: not enough

father. She knew David’s potential, and was hoping that she

might show him by example how hard work and perseverance

could pay off. Next year, maybe. Right now he needed a supportive, present parent.

Maura ran along the paved walkway to the three-bedroom cape

where she and David lived. The house was quiet. As usual, her

kid would take some major prodding to get up for school, but

he would have to get up now if he wanted a ride. She had an early

faculty meeting at Caltech where she taught computer science.

The ringing phone startled her. George’s number came up on

the caller ID. “Bastard,” she instinctively muttered to herself. She

had come to accept the fact that, after he discovered his remarkable talent for plastic surgery, he became totally selfabsorbed and a lousy, philandering husband, but having him

honestly believe that dinner or a ball game every couple of

months equaled being a good father was too much.

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“Hello, George,” she said coolly.

Maura listened intently and blanched as Hill spoke. Still holding the phone, she sprinted down the hallway toward David’s

room.
It’s not possible,
she thought. She had kissed David goodnight before she went to bed. He couldn’t possibly be gone. She

opened the door to David’s room and gasped. The unmade bed

was empty, and his window wide-open. The curtains fluttered

like ghosts in the early-morning light.

“Who is she?” Maura shouted, bursting into her ex-husband’s

elegant Beverly Hills office.

Hill, who was slouched on a chair in his waiting room, drinking whiskey out of a tumbler, barely lifted his head.

“Her name is Audra Meadows,” he said, finishing the whiskey

and pouring another. “She’s been a patient of mine for years.

David’s only been gone for a few hours, Maura. Shouldn’t we call

the police?”

“You read the note.”

“Then what should we do?”

“First of all,
we
should stop drinking ourselves into oblivion

so our brains can at least function with some clarity. I want to

see that woman’s file.”

“But doctors are sworn—”

“Jesus Christ, George! Give me her file or I swear I’ll trash this

office until I find it. This is our son!”

Hill retrieved Meadows’s record from his fireproof vault and

handed it over. Maura’s eyes widened as she looked through

twelve years of surgical notes and photos—the usual Hollywood

tucks and augments on her body, plus eight or nine procedures

on her face. Even prior to the first of those, Audra Meadows was

a strikingly beautiful woman. Her naturally high cheekbones

were what others craved. Her almond eyes were a deep green,

exotic and alluring. She was, quite simply, a version of perfection. And yet with each subsequent procedure, imperceptible unless the photos were viewed in sequence, Hill had preserved and

even improved upon her vibrant, ageless visage.

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“Why on earth was she a client?” Maura asked.

“Like many of my patients, Audra sees in herself imperfections

others don’t.”

Maura grimaced. Such vanity.

“So, who would want to hurt this Audra person so badly that

they’d be willing to kill my son—I’m sorry, I mean
our
son?”

George shrugged.

“Somebody envious of her looks?”

“Or of your skill. Perhaps they’re trying to ruin you.”

“I’ve thought about that. This is a competitive business—

especially in this town.”

Maura’s eyes narrowed.

“George, if it comes to saving our son, you are going to do

what they’re asking, aren’t you? You will do the injection.”

Her ex hesitated.

“That procedure will paralyze her facial muscles forever,” he

said. “Even if I do it there’s no guarantee they’ll let David live.”

“But we have no choice!” Maura screamed. “Can’t you do it