The Patient

by Michael Palmer

  “Oh, it was necessary, and it was deserved,” Malloche replied. “I hope you can all see that your health, your pain, your very survival mean nothing to me. Nor do your precious egos. So keep quiet unless you are asked to speak, and do as we say, and you have every reason to expect that you will not end up either like our FBI friend over there, or even like our esteemed neurosurgical chief.” He stepped forward and looked down at Carl with disdain. “Dr. Gilbride, you are a hollow, fatuous ass of a man. It was you who was responsible for Rolf Hermann’s death, not any mechanical failure of your robot. That device functioned perfectly, but you didn’t. Your arrogance, greed, and surgical incompetence killed that man as surely as if you had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I want you to hear that. I want them to hear it.” He gestured to the group huddled on the floor and continued the sweep of his arm to include the rest of Surgical Seven.

  “Excuse me,” Jessie said calmly, “but could you please tell us exactly who Rolf Hermann was?”

  Malloche’s expression was smug.

  “He was a count, actually, although a rather penniless one. He was delivered to me by the neurologist—I should say the late neurologist—whom I went to see in consultation. I asked about patients whose tumors were similar to mine. Count Hermann was beginning to develop neurologic weakness. I still had no signs except for my seizures. Hermann was told by the man, as was I, that his tumor was virtually inoperable. If we did insist on surgery and could find a neurosurgeon who would attempt it, there was a very high, if not certain, risk of serious neurological impairment.”

  “So the Count was a stalking horse for you—a test case.”

  “I am nothing, dear Doctor, if not careful,” Malloche replied. “I assured Rolf that whatever happened here in America, his family would be well cared for. That was far more than his so-called doctors in Germany were able to offer. At worst, he knew his wife and children were provided for, and he would get the services of one of the finest neurosurgeons in America. At best, he would have a cure from his brain tumor, and financial security for the rest of his life. Not a bad deal, if I do say so. Not a bad deal for me either, considering the outcome of poor Rolf’s operation.”

  Ten minutes passed, then twenty. No one moved. The buzz of patient calls for assistance echoed down the hallway, but went unanswered. One by one, the three young killers returned, each whispering a report that clearly pleased Malloche. The five terrorists huddled, while Arlette continued to keep her weapon aimed at the group on the floor—specifically at Carl Gilbride. Finally, Malloche turned and spoke to the captives.

  “The doors onto Surgical Seven have been sealed and wired with enough explosives to blow the top off of this building.” He nodded toward the younger of the two men. “Armand, here, was personally trained by me, so I can assure you he has done an expert job. And Derrick, over there, has seen to it that only one of the elevators will stop at this floor, and then only when I wish it to.” The other man, broad shouldered and Aryan, with a blond crew cut, did a half-bow for the captives. “And finally, you should meet Grace, who left a girls’ finishing school right here in Boston to seek adventure in Europe, and found it with our merry band. She has disconnected all the phones, except the one here in the conference room. No one, but no one, will make contact with the outside unless I allow it. Is that clear? … Dr. Gilbride?”

  “C—Clear,” he managed.

  “Dr. Copeland?”

  “I want that poor woman’s body moved into the back room, where the patients can’t see it,” Jessie said.

  Malloche’s expression remained unchanged, except for his eyes, which narrowed as he studied her. She had no doubt he understood the significance of her demand. The battle of their wills had begun.

  “Derrick,” he said finally, in English, “would you please do as Dr. Copeland requests.”

  “Very well,” Derrick replied, his English heavily accented.

  “There,” Malloche said. “I’ve shown my good faith. Now, I think you and I must speak in private. The rest of you will be allowed one by one to get a chair to place right here. Armand will accompany you. From now on, no one will leave this spot unaccompanied whether it is to go to the bathroom or to see one of the patients. Dr. Copeland?”

  He motioned her toward the small conference room to the left of the nurses’ station.

  “Before we speak,” Jessie said, “I want to go in and talk to the child who has witnessed all this.”

  “Another demand. My, my. Very well, then. Grace?”

  Grace, her gun hanging at the ready from its shoulder strap, walked Jessie into Tamika Bing’s room and stood by the doorway, a respectful distance away. Jessie pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat.

  “Tamika, I’m sorry for what you have just seen. I know it was awful for you,” she whispered. Not surprisingly, the girl continued staring straight ahead. “Some very bad people have taken over up here. One of them needs an operation just like you had. After the operation is done, they’ll leave. Meanwhile, I don’t think anyone is going to be allowed up here, including your mother. Do you understand? … Tamika?” Jessie stood, then bent down and kissed the girl on the side of her forehead. “Hang in there,” she whispered.

  By the time Jessie emerged from Tamika’s room, each of the staff was seated on a chair in front of the counter, and one of the nurses had pulled a chair over for Carl and was helping him into it. Humiliated and physically beaten, his authority stripped away, he seemed to have aged twenty years in just an hour.

  “Carl,” Jessie said softly, “I’ll sew that cut up as soon as I can. Meanwhile just stay right here and keep pressure on it.”

  Gilbride nodded vacantly.

  “So,” Malloche said to her, “I have honored two of your requests. Now we should talk.”

  He unscrewed the silencer, slipped it into his pocket, and holstered his gun. Then he followed her into the conference room and motioned her to a seat across from him.

  “Sit, please, Doctor,” he said. “We have some business to discuss.”

  “Your tumor.”

  “I would like you to take it out as soon as possible.”

  “If I refuse?”

  Malloche gauged her resolve, then retrieved a phone, plugged it in, and dialed a local number.

  “Put her on,” he said.

  Malloche passed the receiver over.

  Jessie listened to a few seconds of silence, then a tentative “Hello?”

  Emily!

  “Em, it’s me. Oh, God, are you okay?”

  “He hasn’t hurt me, but he won’t tell me anything. What’s going on?”

  Malloche took the phone away before Jessie could reply.

  “She’s safe for the moment,” he said, setting the receiver down. “But I will not hesitate to order her killed if you fail to cooperate. I believe you are a very capable surgeon with a special piece of equipment. I want this tumor out of my head.”

  “ARTIE’s not ready for this.”

  “I believe it is. I want the surgery done by you, with MRI guidance and robotic assistance, tomorrow.”

  “I need time to check the system. We’ll have to get your lab work done, and you need to be examined by an internist and an anesthesiologist. I also need to speak to people about adjusting the schedule.… I’m not in charge of the OR.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “If there’re problems with the operation, do I end up like poor Sylvan Mays?”

  Malloche looked genuinely impressed.

  “I assume our FBI friend had you looking for me?”

  “She had me on the alert, yes. She didn’t want anyone else to know who she was.” Jessie forced herself to back up the lie with a steady gaze. “Later, when I thought Rolf Hermann was you, I tried to tell Carl, but he didn’t believe a word of what I said.”

  “Good old Carl.”

  “So, answer my question. Do I have any assurances you’ll let me live?”

  “If you do your job and do it well, you have nothing
to fear. You also have my promise of what will happen if you refuse to do this operation. As to what will happen if there are complications, I cannot say. My family is very devoted to me.”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Jessie said. “You’ll be seriously affecting your chances if we have to do this as a semiemergency.”

  Malloche weighed the demand.

  “You’re going to cause a large number of people great inconvenience,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Only if everything is ready. And one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want Emily DelGreco to assist me in the OR.”

  “I can’t allow that. Carl Gilbride will assist you.”

  “Please. Carl’s incompetent. You said so yourself. And right now, he’s a doddering wreck. Emily’s the very best I have ever worked with. Keep her away and you only hurt yourself.”

  Again, Malloche took time before replying.

  “You win again,” he said. “But I promise you, if there is a problem with any phase of this procedure—any problem at all—not one patient or staff member on Surgical Seven will leave this hospital alive. Is that clear?”

  Jessie took a deep breath.

  “Clear,” she said.

  She had gotten Emily back and had given Alex added time to act, once he discovered Hermann was not Malloche. That was the best she could do.

  “Could you tell me one thing?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “How are you going to keep an entire hospital floor sealed off without a massive response from the outside?”

  For the first time since their discussion began, Claude Malloche smiled.

  “It’s a bit like bridge,” he said. “As long as you play as if the cards most dangerous to you are in the hand of the opponent who is positioned to do you the most harm, you will generally be a step ahead.” He slid the phone across to her. “Call Richard Marcus and tell him it is essential that he meet us just outside the pathology office in ten minutes.”

  “But what if he—”

  “Just call him!”

  Jessie snatched up the phone and was patched through to the hospital CEO’s office immediately. Malloche watched and listened intently until she set the receiver down.

  “Ten minutes,” she said.

  CHAPTER 28

  RICHARD MARCUS, ROTUND, BALDING, AND NOT much taller than Jessie, had been the CEO of Eastern Mass Medical Center for six years. A physician with an MBA, he was a decent and intelligent man whom Jessie had always liked and respected. Under his guidance, the hospital had evolved from mediocrity to a place of rising prestige and public confidence. His main failing had always seemed to Jessie to be that he would rather listen to himself than to others. But unlike with Carl Gilbride, who suffered from the same malady, persistence usually succeeded in getting Marcus’s attention.

  Marcus was waiting outside the pathology office when the elevator doors opened and Jessie emerged with Malloche and Derrick. Both of her companions, she knew, carried weapons—Malloche’s concealed beneath his sports coat, and Derrick’s beneath a black windbreaker with an elastic waist. Marcus had met with Eastman Tolliver previously and recognized him immediately.

  “Mr. Tolliver,” he said heartily, “good to see you again.”

  Malloche simply grinned and took Marcus’s proffered hand. Marcus looked as if he expected an introduction to Derrick, but when none was forthcoming, he extended his hand and introduced himself. The terrorist held his grip as briefly as possible and said nothing. Nonplussed, Marcus turned to Jessie inquiringly.

  “Richard,” she said, “I think we should go down the hallway, to where we can talk.”

  Marcus scanned from one to another of the three and then did as she had requested.

  “So, what’s this all about?” he asked.

  Malloche nodded that Jessie could do the honors.

  “Well, Richard,” she said, “it’s all about that this man is not Eastman Tolliver.”

  “But—”

  “His name is Claude Malloche. Have you heard of him?”

  “No, I haven’t, but—”

  “Mr. Malloche kills people for a living, Richard. And right now he and his people are holding all the patients and staff on Surgical Seven hostage. The doors to the neurosurgical ward are closed off and wired with explosives. The elevators can’t be taken to the floor unless Mr. Malloche brings one there. The reason for all this is that Malloche has a brain tumor that he wants me to operate on. Apparently the FBI knew he was sick, and after all the publicity over Marci Sheprow, they thought he might be coming here. They had an agent on Surgical Seven working undercover as a volunteer. Malloche just shot her to death. Until he has recovered successfully from his surgery, he intends to keep everyone up there prisoner.”

  The color had drained from Richard Marcus’s face. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sheen of sweat that had materialized across his forehead and upper lip.

  “I … I don’t believe this,” he managed.

  “Believe it, Dr. Marcus,” Malloche said. “It is very important that you believe it. I had hoped to have my surgery and return to my home without incident. Fortunately, we were prepared for other possibilities. But we need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Would you please take us over to the microbiology laboratory.”

  Marcus hesitated.

  “Richard, please,” Jessie said. “They’re both armed. Just do as he says. Malloche, please don’t hurt anyone.”

  The killer looked at her placidly and gestured Marcus toward the lab. They stopped outside the door—heavy oak with a rubber seal around it. A pane of glass filled the upper half, with MICROBIOLOGY stenciled across it in gold. The room beyond the door was largely Corian counters, sophisticated glassware, stainless steel refrigeration units, and incubators. Two men and two women in lab coats were busily working with agar culture dishes, viral tissue culture bottles, and microscopes.

  Jessie knew one of the four, Rachel Sheridan, fairly well from a ski trip to New Hampshire and some other hospital-sponsored social activities. Rachel, divorced with a school-aged daughter, was athletic, fun-loving, and popular. Sound from the room was somewhat muffled by the door and seal, but Jessie could still make out that one of the men—she thought his name might be Ron—was asking for help identifying the microorganism beneath his scope. Music, maybe Mozart, was playing in the background.

  Viewed this way, Jessie almost felt as if she were watching the four technicians on television. Almost. A dreadful apprehension was building in her gut. Malloche looked chillingly calm, almost dreamy. His lips bowed in a half-smile, and he nodded to Derrick, who extracted a small transmitter from his jacket pocket and pulled up the antenna.

  “NO!”

  Before Jessie could even scream the word, Derrick depressed a button on the face of the transmitter. From inside the room, they heard a muffled pop and the sound of breaking glass. A small puff of grayish smoke billowed up from beneath a counter. The technicians spun toward the noise. Jessie cried out and lunged for the door, but Malloche grabbed her lab coat and scrub shirt firmly at the neck and pulled her back.

  “Opening that door at this moment would be a foolish mistake,” he said.

  “Oh, God,” Jessie murmured.

  Beyond the glass, a hideous dance of death had already begun. Rachel Sheridan, standing closest to the gas, lurched backward as if she’d been kicked in the chest by a mule. At almost the same instant, she began retching violently, setting the counter awash in vomit and splattering two of the others. Her head had twisted abnormally to one side. Her face, frighteningly contorted, had turned the color of gentian violet.

  Seconds later, two of the others were staggering about as well, vomiting uncontrollably with projectile force, and sending glasswork, incubators, and stacks of culture dishes crashing to the floor as they thrashed about. The grotesque discoloration of their faces and almost inhuman torsion of their necks mimicked Rachel�
�s. The three of them were collapsing to the floor when the fourth, perhaps having held her breath, began to twitch and clutch at her belly. As she stumbled to one side, she looked through the glass and saw the group standing there, transfixed. With overwhelming panic distorting her face, she stretched an unsteady, clawed hand in their direction.

  Help me! came her silent scream. Help me.

  Then she, too, began retching.

  In less than two nightmarish minutes it was over. The four technicians, grotesquely discolored, soaked in vomit, lay dead on the floor, limbs splayed, faces violet, necks twisted almost ninety degrees to one side.

  Richard Marcus turned away and braced himself against a wall. Jessie, who had been standing shoulder to shoulder with him, also looked away.

  “You monster,” she said, her back still to Malloche. “You fucking monster!”

  She whirled and threw a closed-fisted punch at his face. Malloche caught her fist as calmly as if it were a tennis ball she had lobbed to him, and squeezed it just hard enough to warn against any repeat.

  “Easy, now,” he said. “We don’t want anything happening to that hand of yours. Perhaps we’d better head back up to Surgical Seven before someone has the misfortune to come along and see us. With the ventilating hoods in that room, the gas should be dissipated in just a minute or two. Come along.”

  Jessie supported Richard Marcus, who was ghastly pale and perspiring heavily. Once in the elevator, she lowered him to the floor. Gradually, his color began to return. Derrick made a call on a two-way radio, and they headed upward. Somewhere between the third and fourth floors, Malloche threw the emergency switch, stopping the car.

  “I’m sorry if our little demonstration upset you both. But I need your complete cooperation as well as your confidence that my threats are not idle ones. Dr. Marcus, do you hear me?”

  “I … I hear you.”

  “Then look at me, please. You have a very important role to play in all of this, and you have precious little time to prepare.”

  Marcus struggled to his feet.