Brains

  “Do your best,” Lemieux called out.

  Dr. Overbridge did not slow or turn. “As if there was anything else,” he muttered.

  ◆◆◆

  When Jack arrived in the operating room, after having been delayed at administration for almost forty-five minutes, things were already well under way. The patient had been anesthetized, prepped, and draped, and Dr. Overbridge was just guiding the surgery resident through the skin incision. That was to be the extent of the resident's experience. There was no Neurosurgery residency at Our Lady, and so the General Surgery resident assigned to Dr. Overbridge had the rather uninviting task of opening the skin and closing the skin, and watching Dr. Overbridge do all the rest. Sometimes for hours. He would not even be trusted to do so much as hold a retractor or apply suction.

  “Jack Tucker, what in the name of all that is holy brings you to Owl's Pee? I haven’t seen you for like twenty years.” It was the anesthesiologist. Jack turned, and did a double-take. Felix.

  “I could ask you the same thing. I thought you were at Emory.”

  “Old news, Jack. When I split with Veronica, I wanted OUT of there. I've been here insulting the locals for the past five years.”

  “Sorry to hear you two split.”

  “You never were a good liar, Jack. You hated that woman as much as I did. I just hope you got smart and got rid of your ball and chain, too.”

  “Jennifer died.” Jack was getting increasingly uncomfortable. Felix had always been a little out there, but now he was showing a real meanness that Jack did not remember from their younger days. He did not want to talk about Jennifer, not with Felix, and really did not want to discuss Cathy with him. He was getting the sense that it would just lead to something unpleasant.

  “So, you're free like me! That's great! We should go bar-hopping. I know lots of babes who would love to take a tumble with a rich neurosurgeon. No strings attached.”

  “I'm not interested, thanks.” Jack did not engage. Instead, he walked over to the monitor to look at the MRI scan and angios. The patient had a fourteen millimeter aneurysm in the anterior communicating artery of the circle of Willis, where the large arteries of the brain joined together in the middle of the skull.

  “Bad anatomy for a coil,” Jack observed. “Makes sense he chose surgery.”

  “Correct,” replied Dr. Overbridge. “Straightforward case.” He had finished opening the skull, and was cutting through the dura, the thick leathery membrane protecting the brain. He was grateful that the patient was prepped and draped prior to Jack's arrival. He doubted that Jack would recognize the poet, but stranger things had happened.

  Jack watched him operate, his mind wandering a little. It was a somewhat strange fact of surgery, he thought, that attending surgeons essentially never saw anyone else in their specialties operate. You finished your training, then went out in the world and did your own thing. In neurosurgery, it was actually difficult to watch someone else work, unless you had a double-headed microscope. This OR had a video feed from the microscope, and Jack was watching on the monitor, but that did not give the stereoscopic view that the microscope provided. Overbridge was working smoothly and competently, and showed no signs of hesitancy or poor coordination. After thirty minutes, Jack was bored out of his mind. It was, indeed a straightforward, although tediously slow, case. It would be at least another thirty minutes before he even got to the area of the aneurysm.

  “Satisfied, Dr. Tucker?” Overbridge looked up from the scope.

  Felix chimed in “Is THAT why you're here? Checking up on Augie-doggie?” He laughed. “You needn't bother. Even this East L.A. boy can tell you he does nice work.”

  Jack decided to go. “Thank you for the demonstration, Dr. Overbridge,” he said for Felix's benefit. “I would love to discuss the case later. Are we still on for Friday?”

  “Indeed, that would be lovely. I will meet you there at seven.”

  ◆◆◆

  After Jack left, Dr. Overbridge twisted the base of the video camera as if by accident while adjusting the microscope, and the screen went blank. “Ah, Vicky,” he said, “would you be so kind as to see if someone from tech support could come and check the monitor? We seem to have lost video.”

  She left the room, and he asked the scrub tech to get an instrument from the large set of extras on the back table. While the tech was occupied, Overbridge pulled the mesh implant from under the instrument tray where he had hidden it earlier. He palmed the small device and returned to the surgical field. The tech had not noticed, and Felix was occupied reading a journal article. There was a small clip that attached to the cut edge of the skull, joined by a number of filaments to the mesh. The entire device, including the clip, was made of the new fiber, which Maxwell assured him would not be detectable on X-rays, CT scan, or MRI. He had made sure to keep his body in front of the scrub assistant, and with the camera out of commission, everyone else was blind. He slipped the mesh down the fissure between the two cerebral hemispheres, with the wings going up and over onto the top of the brain on both sides. It fit perfectly, the fine mesh appearing to almost melt onto the moist surface. He did not need to even irrigate. He asked for the aneurysm clip, and then pantomimed placing it on the artery. “Perfect,” he said aloud.

  Vicky glanced at him. That one word for Overbridge was the equivalent of a receiver doing cartwheels in the end zone. He was not normally prone to any type of display.

  He then closed the dura, and asked for tissue glue, which he used to seal the closure, and also to secure and seal the filaments as they came through the dural repair. They were coated with a special fibroblast-stimulating polymer, Maxwell had told him, and would become completely integrated into the closure. He then replaced the rectangle of bone, and secured it in place with the standard titanium plates, the connection socket attached to the long back side of the bone plate. He turned to the resident. “I think I'll close today, doctor. Please go to the recovery room and write orders.”

  Bill Brentwood opened his mouth to protest. After all, he had been standing in the corner of the room for the past three hours, not even able to watch with the video feed broken. After a pause, he thought better of it and turned towards the door. Overbridge methodically brought the scalp together in layers, using staples for the final skin closure, then carefully taped a light dressing to the skin.

  He looked around, satisfied. Felix was clearly playing Candy Crush Saga on his iPhone, Vicky was counting sponges with the tech, who had evidently noticed nothing out of the ordinary. He tapped the dressing gently three times with his index finger.

  Pierre Lemieux, para-Olympian and poet, was wheeled off to the recovery room. His name-band and paperwork identified him as one Jamie Wilson, a factory worker from Orange, New Jersey.

  ◆◆◆

  Cameron met up with Mitzi at the Mad Cow near Battery Park. Hailed by the Times as “New York's most flagrant assault on longevity,” it claimed the biggest and greasiest burgers in Manhattan. Mitzi was sold immediately, and the Mad Cow had been on her list ever since the Times review came out.

  Cameron had arrived first, and was contemplating his options when Mitzi rushed in and sat down. “What a weekend,” she started, as she waved for the waiter's attention. “Did you hear about the serial killer we brought in?” Cameron shook his head, and Mitzi shot him a surprised look. “Yeah, Arnie Atwood, we tracked him through his porn addiction, brought him in late Friday night. According to the Special Agents making the arrest, he was pretty enthusiastic in his confession, you know, proud crazy psycho, gave our guys the location of his body dump. I went up into the Catskills with the team Saturday morning. More of an entombment than a burial. There was this concrete bomb shelter, and he just tossed them in after a little dismemberment. What a mess. Spent the whole day taking pictures and trying to group them as best as I could. Sunday, I set up in the lab, you know, a separate table for each body. Pretty sure we have eight victims, eight skulls anyway, but some extra arms thrown in. Literally.” She
looked over her shoulder at the waiter, who had started to tap his pad with his pencil. “Oh yes. I'll have the double blue bacon with avocado. Extra bacon.” The waiter looked at Cameron.

  “I think I'll just have a Pepsi,” Cameron said, unable to face ground beef at this point.

  Mitzi had been talking non-stop, but finally she paused. “Okay, Romeo, what did your friend at Assguard have to say?”

  “Aasgard,” Cameron corrected.

  “Whatever. Spill.”

  “The upshot was that, if you had a seamless interface, you would truly be able to use AI algorithms to manipulate systems in ways that would make the NSA drool, particularly with financial systems, but potentially into military systems as well.”

  Mitzi was skeptical. “I don't see how it would help you with overcoming encryption, which would seem like more of a problem than the interface.”

  “That's what I thought as well, but they explained that it was the back and forth between human and computer that was one of the biggest speed-killers. They are actually working on artificial intelligence systems to mock that – you know, cut out the need for the human – but they were very clear that a better interface with an actual human brain would be superior, at least for the next decade or two.”

  Mitzi was thoughtful. “Let's assume the interface. What else would Perez need to make a system like that practical?”

  “First, he would need the right human. Control would be of paramount importance, so you would need someone reliable. Next, assuming the basic interface, you would need a really primo connectivity to the internet. Preferably something immense, like one of the streaming services, or even better, a cable company. Finally, the system you plug into would need to be a truly first-class super computer, in order to process things fast enough to make it worth it. Given those three things, there is no telling what you could accomplish. And Perez owns a telecommunications company, has access to no end of nerds, and can afford to build any computer he wants.”

  “So, maybe he is not planning to implant himself, but rather one of his computer whizzes. Some of those guys would be so into this they would probably agree, and perhaps longevity would be something that Perez would promise, but not deliver. Can you imagine, having the top of your skull removed for this thing?” Her eyes actually glittered a little as she said the words.

  Cameron stared at Mitzi. I bet she could be convinced to volunteer, he thought. He shook off the thought. “We need to find his lab.”

  “Could be anywhere,” Mitzi stated flatly. “The guy has assets all over the world.”

  “I don't think so,” replied Cameron. “The kind of access he needs requires that the physical location be where there is extensive infrastructure. All of his assets are in North and Central America, and probably only a handful of cities would be feasible. I think he is here.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I was brought here, wasn't I? He must have been here last week.”

  “That could easily have just been last week. For all you know, he is in Mexico City or Vancouver this week.”

  “No,” Cameron was insistent. “The whole attitude of his goons and all, it felt like we were going to the home base. I want to try and find out where high-power-consumption installations have gone in over the past couple of years and start looking.”

  “How will you do that without alerting the DDO? You're officially off of Perez.”

  “Not with CIA resources, obviously. What can you do for me at the Bureau?”

  “Nothing directly. Let me think about it. I'm sure, as they say, that I know a guy.”

  ◆◆◆

  “So good to see you again, Mrs. Tucker.” Señor Tapata, the Honduran Ambassador, offered his fleshy hand. She took it a little reluctantly, and, as she feared, he pulled it up to his lips and offered a slight bow. “I believe you have met our Minister of Health, Señor Villanueva,” he continued as he passed her hand to his colleague, who gave it a limp shake.

  “Of course, we met last April,” Cathy responded. When you were fishing for a bribe, she thought. She smiled. They were so close to getting everything approved to actually break ground on her Choluteca sewage project. “What do we need to do to wrap this up?”

  “The gang problem is so severe in Choluteca,” started Villanueva, “are you certain that we would not be better served moving it to Comayagua?” His mouth smiled slightly, but his eyes remained icy.

  “Really, Señor Villenueva, we have been over this and over this. The Lake Foundation would certainly entertain a proposal from the Mayor of Comayagua – he is your brother, is he not? However, that will need to be for our next project. We have spent literally years on the designs and plans for Choluteca, and none of that is transferable directly. Besides, Comayagua's current situation is much better than Choluteca's. Over ninety percent of homes are connected to the current sewage system, including those neighboring your textile factory, if I am not mistaken, as opposed to less than sixty percent in Choluteca.”

  Villenueva's face paled slightly. Bet you didn't know we'd found out about your factory in Comayagua, Cathy thought, more than a little self-satisfied.

  “I am sure we can work this all out,” smarmed Señor Tapata. “Maybe you would like to come over to the Embassy later to discuss it over dinner and drinks? My evening is free as my wife has flown back to Tegucigalpa for a few weeks.”

  I wonder, thought Cathy, if that works better on any of the other women in New York and Washington. She was always amazed that fat, balding, middle-aged men presumed that what they thought of as power and prestige were such aphrodisiacs. Particularly with that truly terrifying toupé. Or that weapon-of-mass-destruction cologne. She decided to zing him. “And I understand that Constanza is in Brazil for a little touch up.”

  At the mention of his mistress, Tapata smiled broadly. “I see you are well informed. Shall we say seven, then?”

  “Just get back to me when you have the final documents. I have a lunch appointment. With my husband.” She walked down the hall, away from the two men. She could almost feel them watching her. She was sure that she would have accomplished as much if she had stayed in her office and played Spider Solitaire on her computer.

  ◆◆◆

  In point of fact, she DID have a lunch appointment with Jack. They met at the coffee shop on Third Avenue, attached to the giant used-book store that was such a fun place to spend the afternoon browsing on stormy Saturdays. They also made killer French onion soup, and served it with an unending supply of crispy authentic bread and plenty of butter.

  “How was your morning, Sweetie,” she asked as she gave him a full body, head to toe hug. Jack, of course, was instantly unable to think about anything BUT simply hugging her, until she finally had to stage-whisper “We're in public, goose.” He laughed and looked around at the bustling lunch spot.

  “They can get their own girls.” It was his standard response.

  He told her about his trip up to Harlem, and about running into Felix.

  “You haven't mentioned him before. Was he a good friend?”

  “Pretty good, during residency, but he is different now. Less funny, more creepy. Maybe it's me. My tolerance for mean has decreased since you have shown me how wonderful it is to be positive.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Jack rocked slightly back and forth as he thought. “So, Felix was born in East Los Angeles in the late sixties, one of those poor immigrant families that should have guaranteed him a short, impoverished life. But Felix is brilliant. He powered through high school, scored a perfect 1600 on the SAT, which he must have mentioned at least weekly, went to Princeton on a scholarship, graduated Summa Cum Laude, then on with another scholarship to Yale Medical School, and finally to Columbia's residency program. We overlapped by about a year. Our wives really hit it off, but we didn't keep in touch after they moved down to Atlanta where Felix got a staff position at Emory. I have no idea how he ended up at Our Lady.”

  “Maybe we should have him over?�
��

  “No, I think I'd rather just let it slide.”

  Cathy could see he was uncomfortable about something, but decided to save it for later. “What about Dr. Overbridge?”

  “He seemed like nothing had ever happened. Operated smoothly, quickly, no problems or issues that I could see . . .” His voice trailed off and he stared at the corner of the ceiling, where a spider appeared to be wrapping up a fly.

  “One odd thing, though. As I think about it now, he made a really large bone flap, and more anterior than I would have chosen. He got great exposure, though, so I guess I really can't fault him. Everyone's technique is so individual. I was so steamed by Felix's crude innuendo that I was only half watching that part of the procedure.”

  ◆◆◆

  Back at OLSP, “Jamie Wilson” was doing very well. Awake, breathing on his own, able to eat a little, overall recovering nicely. No surprise to the ICU staff, as none of them had ever seen one of Dr. Overbridge's cases NOT do well.

  What DID surprise the staff was that Dr. Overbridge came by to see the patient. AFTER six. It was as though the sun had risen at two am. He simply NEVER came in after hours. There was also something odd in the way he spoke with the patient. He seemed to want to make sure he was thinking normally, which was understandable, but he also was showing definite signs of possibly caring for the man as a person. When he got the report from the nurse, he actually asked her to tell him about Mr. Wilson. Usually, he had no idea what the patients' names were, referring instead to the “Aneurysm in 315,” or whatever. Definitely odd.

  The truth was, he was very excited for the next stage of the project, and was anxious for Lemieux to recover quickly so that they could proceed. Redemption indeed. Everything appeared to be in order.

  Chapter 22