Brains

  Overbridge went over to the back table, and carefully removed the plastic packaging from the mesh, which allowed it to spring open to the shape of the brain. He carried it carefully over to his patient, and lined it up so that the connector was around on the back. He paused, about to place it on the brain, when the scrub tech reached in and squirted the implant with saline. It promptly melted into a mass resembling wet toilet paper. His heart nearly stopped. He turned to the tech. “Did I not tell you to keep water away from the device?”

  His face behind his mask must have looked frightening, for the tech visibly quailed and managed to croak out “I thought you would need to moisten it. I'm so sorry.”

  He tried to spread the mesh between his fingers, but it was useless. There would be no possibility of placing it correctly. Overbridge's chest felt tight. He looked toward Maxwell, who simply smiled and said, “Don't worry doctor, I brought an extra implant.”

  Overbridge had them get him a fresh set of dry gloves, and accepted the mesh directly from Maxwell, instructing the hapless tech to keep his distance. He carefully started on the front of the brain on the left, and manipulated the mesh onto that side, then the other, and finally around to the back. It fit perfectly. He then irrigated with saline, and watched with satisfaction as the mesh disappeared onto the surface of the brain.

  He started to close. At this point, the surgery had been going for about seven hours. And a new presence was in the operating room. Felix. What was Felix doing here?

  “Afternoon, Augie,” he almost bellowed. “What on earth got the Great Man here on a Sunday? Trying to keep from burying your mistakes?”

  Overbridge just blinked at him, as Dr. Fujami gave the report to Felix, then turned to him. “Sorry to leave you,” she said, “but I am on Alitalia to Rome at 7:30, gotta get home and meet my husband. Felix is relieving me.”

  Felix, unlike Michelle Fujami, had always taken a keen interest in every procedure, particularly neurosurgery. He watched as Overbridge closed the dura, then with increasing interest as he cut a groove in the back of the skull and re-positioned the bone so that the connector fit precisely in the groove. “What is that?” he demanded.

  Maxwell piped up. “The stimulator for the new microfibrillar mesh anti-edema implant.”

  “Never heard of it.” Felix sounded suspicious. “I try to keep up to date.”

  “Then you should have seen the article in July's Neurosurgical Review,” put in Overbridge. “Now kindly keep it down as I try to get some work done here.”

  Felix busily looked up the abstract on the OR computer. He was interested, and more so as he tried to search for more information on line. There was none. He went over to the trash and started poking around.

  “What'cha doing?” It was Susie, the circulating nurse. They had a history.

  “I think Fujami accidentally threw away a bottle of Fentanyl. I can’t balance the narcotic log without it.” Susie offered to help, and he asked her to check the other garbage bag. He found what he was actually looking for, the sterile wrapper from the mesh packaging. There were no markings. No corporate logos, no instructions, no warnings.

  “Found it,” he said, holding up the narcotics bottle he had palmed earlier. Susie came back over and managed to brush her chest against his arm as she looked at the bottle in his hand.

  “Oh good.” Her eyes wrinkled in the corners as she clearly smiled at him from behind her mask. He went back to his machine and sat down, as the tech asked for some more sponges.

  Felix was more than a little troubled. He was no fool, and had been watching surgery for many years. Neurosurgical anesthesia had been his particular interest. This whole procedure made no sense. This should have been a routine, two-hour case, no reason to expose the whole brain. None. Shouldn’t have needed a shunt, and if it had, then a standard V-P shunt would have been fine. And Overbridge was behaving strangely. Even for him. He had actually been chatting with the nurse and the tech, for goodness sake. Telling stories. Not at all the silent aloof surgeon Felix was used to seeing. Like a magician’s patter, he muttered to himself. What could possibly really be going on?

  When Dr. Overbridge flipped the front of scalp back into place, Felix became even more confused. It was a face he recognized. He looked at the chart. Luis Martinez. He looked at the patient. Juan Carlos Perez. What was going on? He started to say something, but decided to wait until a more private time. If Perez is involved, appearing to know more than I should would definitely be dangerous.

  ◆◆◆

  Overbridge finished just before three p.m., eight hours after starting the case. After accompanying Luis to recovery, he walked back through the OR towards the changing room. Maxwell stayed in recovery, ostensibly filling out a report on his laptop, but actually to watch and listen to the recovery room nurses.

  Felix was waiting for Overbridge in the corridor.

  “What just happened?”

  “I have concluded another successful operation.” He turned and started away.

  “What is going on with you and Juan Carlos Perez?”

  Overbridge started at the name. He stared at Felix for a long minute. It was possible, he realized, that he would need help to get out of this situation. Why not Felix? Because he was an oafish buffoon? Despite his inappropriate demeanor, Overbridge knew he was competent, and, he had to admit, brilliant.

  “Come on,” Felix insisted. “What gives?”

  Overbridge decided to risk it. “Let's go over to the lounge.” He strode briskly down the corridor to the surgeons' lounge. Felix followed, and they sat on the ratty old sofa near the vending machines. They were alone.

  “I'm waiting,” Felix stated.

  Dr. Overbridge hesitated, then took a deep breath, and told Felix about the mesh interface, the lab in Queens, the amazing rehabilitation of Pierre LeMieux, the possibilities for thousands of other paraplegics and quadriplegics, the opportunity to change the world.

  Felix listened, then asked, “So, tell me about what you did today.”

  Overbridge explained about Martinez' industrial accident, the paralysis plus the blindness and deafness suffered by their patient, and how the whole-brain mesh would allow not only walking, but seeing and hearing.

  “So, who do you think this patient is?”

  “Luis Martinez.”

  “Wrong.” Felix was emphatic. “First, he is not blind. Totally normal pupillary reactions coming out of anesthesia, and the eyes tracked normally. Second, he is not deaf. Fujami had told me he was, but when I saw that the eyes were normal, I intentionally dropped a clipboard. He jumped. Third, he is not Luis Martinez. He is Juan Carlos Perez.”

  Overbridge reared back slightly as if he had been slapped. “No, I met Perez. This is his uncle. There is certainly some resemblance, but you are mistaken.”

  “I am not mistaken. Perez and his thugs have destroyed the whole section of Mexico where my people are from, and two of my cousins were killed by his men.” He pulled out his phone and did a Google search for pictures. Something Overbridge had not thought of doing. “Look!”

  Overbridge looked, and as Felix swiped through picture after picture, he saw the face of the man he knew as Luis Martinez.

  Overbridge got up and pulled the book on Perez he had read on Friday off a pile of worn paperbacks in the corner. “I had dinner with the Tuckers last week.”

  Felix interrupted. “YOU had dinner with the Tuckers last week?” He thought back to the day he had seen Jack in the OR a couple of weeks previously. “Oh, yeah, I heard you say something about that when he was here.”

  “Actually, that was in reference to a prior dinner engagement. We had a second engagement. Dr. Tucker had helped me with a personal issue. In any case, I was at this dinner, and Perez's name came up, not very favorably. So, I did some research and acquired this book. I didn’t know how much to credit this author, but I became concerned enough to arrange to do this surgery here, instead of in Mexico. Everything else I saw was extolling him as a successful bu
sinessman and humanitarian, and I chose to believe that this book was exaggerating.”

  Felix was annoyed and confused. “Okay, so you are an idiot. I suspected as much. But why would Perez choose to have this procedure, which is not only experimental, but very dangerous, even in your very competent hands. What is the point? If he wanted to walk, the small mesh you described earlier would have done the trick. Advancement of society, science, and humanity? Not this butcher. This is a man who has caused the deaths of dozens, maybe hundreds, of people who stood in his way, who cares no more for humanity than he does for a mosquito. Tell me about anything else you saw.”

  He thought back. He remembered Blaylock saying something about “fourteen terabytes of memory.” He also remembered that, while they were doing the programming work on Pierre, there had been some discussion about how the memories in the brain were diffusely held.

  Felix was shaking his head. “Could it be more obvious?”

  Overbridge looked at him blankly.

  “He means to transfer his consciousness to the machines. He wants to become immortal, omnipotent, omniscient. He means to become God.”

  “What do you mean, transfer his consciousness? I don't follow.”

  “It's an old idea. If you can create a computer or computer system which is analogous to the brain, and then embed all of a person's memories and thought patterns, the machine would BE the person thus transferred. The computer would in theory have all of the thought attributes of that person. The question would be whether the person's essence, his soul, would also follow the knowledge and memories, but for anyone on the outside, the computer would be the person. Immortality would be a strong impetus for a man like Perez. Not only that, but, resident in cyberspace, his ability to manipulate data would be extraordinary, and he could add additional speed and memory at will. Heck, he could export himself into the internet, and it would be impossible for anyone to stop him.”

  Dr. Overbridge was silent. He was trying to piece it all together in his mind. It certainly would explain some things. Such as the discussion about memory storage. And teaching Pierre to talk through the machine. And spending untold millions on a secret project – which could easily have been done legitimately, albeit more slowly. He considered what Felix, and Cathy, and Miguel, and that book had said about Perez. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. His eyes focused on Felix. “We cannot let that man's essence join with the machines,” he said softly. “That would create a dictator with no conscience.” He paused for a long moment. “People die after surgery all the time. Perhaps I need to simply kill him.”

  Felix had not responded, and had stared at him. Wow, he thought. Talk about cold-blooded. “Why not turn him over to the FBI or Homeland Security or something? Or maybe stop the upload in some way? You’re scaring me.”

  “Of course, you are right. I’ll think of something else. We should assume that I am almost certainly under surveillance, and I would recommend that you not be seen with me. Thank you for listening.”

  Felix was about to say more, but just at that moment Maxwell came in through the door. “Ah, Dr. Overbridge, I’m glad I found you. They are asking for you in recovery.” He turned to Felix. “You were the anesthesiologist, right? I did not catch your name.”

  “I am Felix,” Felix replied automatically, “and Felix means lucky.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he smiled, “I am Bill Martin, from the equipment company.” He motioned for Overbridge. “Please, doctor, they said it was urgent.”

  As they walked down the hall to Recovery, Overbridge was feeling a clarity that had been lacking in his mind for years. He had a mission. There were no ghosts, no voices telling him to count, just an overwhelming, all-consuming drive to find a solution.

  Everything was going well in Recovery, and Overbridge and Maxwell accompanied “Luis” to the Neuro ICU. By the time things were squared around, Overbridge was completely exhausted, and he was more than willing to accept a ride home from Maxwell. The man he now knew to be Perez would be in his ICU for several days, so he figured he had plenty of time to figure something out.

  ◆◆◆

  After dropping off Overbridge, Maxwell called Santiago and reported that everything was progressing according to plan. He gave instructions for the next steps, and hung up, a satisfied smile on his lips.

  He was well on his way to earning his bonus. Half a billion dollars. Billion. With a B.

  Chapter 36

  Monday, November 7

  New York

  Felix had not gone home after finishing his shift at Our Lady. He spent the evening drinking at one of his regular clubs, and when he passed out, the manager had him carried to the back office couch. It was not the first time. He awoke at four a.m. with a splitting headache, and a knot in his stomach that had nothing to do with his drinking. He headed uptown to his Westside apartment. As he approached the building, he was greeted by a scene of fire engines and other emergency vehicles. He paid the cabby and got out. There was someone from the Fox News affiliate standing around, and he asked what was going on.

  “Gas explosion. Took out a whole floor. Four apartments completely destroyed, they're just starting to figure out how many dead. At least a dozen. Everyone on the other floors got out. Looks like there was a leak in 703, the family was away on vacation, and it blew a couple of hours ago.”

  Felix immediately turned and walked over to Broadway, where he dove into the subway and took the first train to anywhere. That turned out to be downtown. He got out at Times Square, and went into an all-night diner, where he had breakfast, and thought. His apartment was 702. He did not believe in coincidences, and when your building blows up after you have just learned something you are not supposed to know about Juan Carlos Perez, you disappear.

  ◆◆◆

  Santiago had had a long night. Maxwell had been very clear about loose ends, and wanted to make sure to include anyone who could have seen anything important. Santiago had waited outside the hospital and followed the scrub tech into the subway, riding north into the Bronx. His neighborhood was dark and deserted, and Santiago’s thin knife dropped him without a sound. He took his wallet, phone, and watch, and hopped back downtown on the next train.

  He had then gone to the home of the circulating nurse in Queens. She lived on the top floor of a five-story walk-up. He waited patiently until first her lights and then the blue glow of the TV had been extinguished for an hour. He crept upstairs, quietly picked her lock, and smothered her with a pillow. He turned the window air conditioning unit to high, and closed the radiator valves. He was careful to lock her door on the way out. Blaylock had determined she lived alone, and social media did not show any evidence of a current relationship. It would likely be a week, maybe more, before there was enough of an odor to draw anyone’s attention.

  His final stop had been the anesthesiologist’s building. Everything had been dark and quiet there, and it was child’s play to set up the gasoline bomb in the apartment next door, right against the common wall with the bedroom. Blaylock had ascertained that the neighbors had conveniently put a vacation hold on their New York Times, and had also been able to open the electric door remotely by hacking the building’s system. Just for fun, he had emptied their bank accounts and opened a fire claim for the explosion barely fifteen minutes after it occurred.

  The other anesthesiologist was en route to Italy for a month-long vacation, which was good enough. In a month, everything would be complete.

  ◆◆◆

  Felix had been staring, glazed, at the TV in the diner when a story came on that caught his attention. Just a routine mugging-and-murder in the Bronx, the victim identified as “a surgical tech on his way home from Our Lady of Salubrious Penitence.” He was suddenly wide awake. He berated himself for not having thought of it earlier. He was not the only witness. He felt a chill. He pulled out his phone, then cursed his own stupidity and turned it to airplane mode. I'll be safer if they think I'm dead. He looked up Susie's number and dialed it from th
e pay phone by the kitchen, surprised to find one still in service. It rang until it went to voice mail. Of course, five in the morning, lots of people's phones were off. She’s probably fine. That thought lasted about a minute, and then he decided to go to her apartment. He remembered it well.

  After he had pounded on her door for several minutes, a bleary-eyed apartment manager shouted up the stairwell. “Hey, what’s going on!”

  “My friend Susie just broke up with her boyfriend, and when I got up this morning there was a text from her threatening to kill herself. I ran right over to check on her, but she doesn’t answer.”

  The manager looked worried, and ducked back into his apartment, coming back out with his pass key. He puffed up the stairs, gasping a little with the effort. When he got the door open, frigid air poured out, and Felix rushed in. Susie was very dead, and her skin was very cold.

  “Better call the police – do it from your phone, don’t touch anything here.”

  “Right,” he said, and rushed back down the stairs, glad to escape the scene.

  Felix waited until he disappeared into his apartment, then quietly hurried down the stairs and ran out into the street. He ducked into the subway, and was away.

  ◆◆◆

  At 5:30, Augustus Overbridge awoke as usual, and turned off his alarm. Cognizant of his probable watchers, he followed his usual morning routine, with the exception that his need to count was now non-existent. He was a man on a mission. No way is Perez leaving my hospital alive, he thought. He strode briskly up to OLSP.

  He went directly to the Neuro ICU. It was oddly quiet. Last night, in addition to Luis, there had been three other patients, and he had expected it to be a hive of activity. No one was there. He called the nursing supervisor.

  “Oh, the census was low, so they moved the patients to the regular surgical ICU to save money.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “About two. There was a call from Dr. Lyman.” Lyman was the hospital medical director.