by R Arundel
“I was down at the lab this morning; there is nothing out of place. There is nothing to suggest any of what you have just told me,” says Liam.
“Like I said, the cleanup crew was professional. I remember the one woman. Tall, very curvy, but all muscle.”
“The one with the full lips—you seem to remember her real well. Just remember if she had spotted you, I’m sure she would have had no problem taking that gun out of her back and putting a few bullets into you.”
“I know.”
Liam, “Did you recognize whose face it was? Did you recognize the man who you were going to transplant?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Think.”
“No.”
Liam says, “We need to call Quentin Taylor.”
“Did it occur to you that Quentin could have been behind last night?” asks Matthew.
“I never liked him. Quentin Taylor most likely authorized this.” Liam pauses. “The cleanup crew was definitely Special Ops. They may as well have had name tags, but you need to speak to the Secretary of Defense. If he is behind last night, you’ll get some indication when you talk to him.”
“Tell him about last night?”
“Don’t mention last night, just listen. If it looks like he might know something, then hint that an item was left behind. The cleanup crew can’t be sure they got everything. Hint that the item left behind points to the government.”
“Then what?”
“See if you can draw him out.”
“Who would do this?”
“I don’t know for sure who is behind this. It could also be a rogue group of senior military personnel or one lone wolf after a big payday. There are many possibilities.”
Matthew asks, “Who has the reach to do this on our soil? A foreign power?”
“Only the biggest players could even dream about doing something like what you described. It was well planned and executed. A foreign power does that on our soil? That’s an act of war.”
“Us?” says Matthew.
Liam says, “We don’t kill our own.”
“Don’t we?”
“I can’t see why they would kill Tom,” says Liam.
“He must have been involved in harvesting the face they were going to use to change the identity of the patient. The canister with the face in it was one of the Transplant Working Group containers, a Palo Alto container, I’m positive. They may have done what they did to me; after he harvested the face, they killed him.”
Liam, “I agree—that much is obvious, but why kill him?”
“No idea.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Think about it. If you had done the transplant, you and your team would have been killed. That would mean killing two transplant surgeons on the same day. No one would have believed that was coincidence.”
“No, I think they would have made us disappear. No bodies. Then it would be an open question. What happened to the New York transplant team?”
“Still, that’s pretty bold.”
“I’ll visit Quentin and see what he knows, if anything.”
Liam says, “All roads lead to the Secretary of Defense. Use the death of Tom as an opener. I was told it was garden variety heart attack, not uncommon at his age.”
“He did love his cigars. I remember I got him some Cubans for his fiftieth birthday.”
“He had a little fun with me in the lab one time. This was the old days; you were a little thing. It was when we were all at Stanford. Me, Liam, Mike Coulson. Your mom was Tom’s graduate student. I remember Tom in the lab puffing away one night. I said to him, ‘How can you do that? You’re a doctor.’ He smoked those big fat ones.”
“Same as now: the big fat ones with the dark black wrapper.”
Liam smiled. “Precisely. So I asked him how a surgeon can indulge in such a bad habit. I remember he looked at me, took the cigar out of his mouth, and looked at it. Then he took a long puff, savored it, and blew smoke in my face. It smelled like a hit of rich dark chocolate. And then he said, ‘Liam, never trust a man without a vice.’”
Matthew laughed “That’s something he would have said.”
“A fine man has passed, no doubt.”
Matthew nods. “No doubt.”
***
Liam walks down the hall slowly, his head bowed. The hospital is full of patients on stretchers moving along the hallway.
Liam almost walks right past Sarah. “Sarah. Sorry I didn’t see you.”
“I have to talk to you.”
“No problem. “
“Somewhere quiet.”
Liam takes her arm and leads her into an empty operating room. He sits on a stool. Sarah sits on the operating table across from him.
Liam says, “I know what kind of night you had. Matthew told me. I’m still trying to piece it together myself.”
“It’s like a film in my mind. Something that happened to someone else and I’m watching. The someone else just looks like me.”
“Don’t worry, I think whoever was involved is now more scared than you. You’re fine.”
“I’m not sure what to make of last night, but it definitely complicates my situation.”
“Potentially, it complicates things for everyone. I think we need to push the pause button on this. At least until we get some clarity.”
“You recruited me to come out here.”
“I remember. You plan to spend six months with us and then travel the world. I had no idea something like this could happen; I couldn’t have foreseen it.”
Sarah says, “I’m not blaming you. I was happy to accept your offer.”
“Good.”
“I’ve come to a decision.”
“That sounds final.”
Sarah hands Liam an envelope. “I’d like to hand in my resignation. I’m going to leave the hospital effective immediately. The letter is my formal resignation.”
“Sarah.”
Sarah says, “I wanted to get a little extra money, doing the anesthesia here, before my trip. With things as they are, I feel I should leave now. They’ll never be able to find me. They won’t be bothered to look.”
“You probably haven’t heard yet, but Tom Grabowski, he headed the face transplant team out of Palo Alto, died yesterday. I was told a heart attack. He collapsed while running. But Matthew’s convinced the failed transplant you did and Tom’s death are related. The more I think about it, the more I think he is right.”
Sarah says, “A transplant surgeon dies last night and we’re forced to do a transplant the same night. That’s no coincidence.”
Liam returns the envelope to Sarah.
Liam says, “Why the attempted transplant and the killing of Tom, I have no idea. They happened at opposite ends of the country. Bottom line is: this is no amateur show. Whoever did this will want no loose ends. If you leave this place . . . They are going to leave no loose ends.”
“So you’re saying if I try to leave now, I’m as good as dead?”
“I suggest we all just lie low. Go about our business as if nothing happened. Stick together, and take precautions to be safe. In a few months if it all goes away, then you leave.”
“This is not how I was planning this conversation would go.”
“You know I’m right. Wait a few months. Finish your contract. You have your whole life ahead of you to travel.”
“That’s just it. I don’t.”
Liam asks, “What do you mean?”
“ALS.”
Liam is silent for a long while. Then he nods. “When were you diagnosed?”
“Twelve months ago.”
“The occasional facial twitches you have, it all makes sense.”
“I have less than twenty-four months.”
“ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease. I just can’t believe it. Look at you. Beautiful, strong . . . I can’t believe it.”
Sarah, “I don’t look like a person with a progressive neuro-muscular disease.”
“Exactly.”
&nb
sp; “I don’t feel like one either, not at this point.”
Liam finally speaks. “So your plan to travel the world is in jeopardy with this new wrinkle added to your life.”
“And time is short.”
Liam repeats, “Time is short.”
“I’m not going to end up on a ventilator. I’m going to travel. At least I was.”
Liam gets up and gives her a hug.
“How long do I wait around to see what happens? I need to go on my world tour.”
“I’m not sure what to make of them but the events of last night are connected. It’s not safe for you to leave, not yet. You’re going to have to wait to see what happens. But I promise you this, I will do anything I can to make sure that your plans don’t get crushed.”
Sarah puts the envelope back in her white lab coat. “I just had to tell someone. “
“Thanks for sharing.”
Chapter Six
The quiet rap on his door forces Quentin Taylor to swallow a piece of grilled chicken breast much too fast. Quentin coughs. “Come in.”
There is a large gray sofa and two chairs in front of the massive desk of the Secretary of Defense. Matthew takes his usual spot in the corner of the sofa.
Matthew says, “Sorry to interrupt your lunch.”
“It’s the only time I could squeeze you in. You want some? It’s a Cobb salad. I got it at The Purple Tomato.”
“The Purple Tomato?”
“It’s a new restaurant. Read the fantastic reviews online. I just had to try it.”
Quentin munches away as Matthew watches.
Matthew says, “Looks like it gets two thumbs up.”
“This is the way a Cobb salad should be made. You can’t have a Cobb salad without watercress and Roquefort cheese. Both are fresh.”
“Bacon bits?”
Quentin says, “Yeah, real bacon. These guys know what they’re doing.”
“Maybe now you won’t complain about all the shuffling back and forth you do between New York and Washington.”
Quentin’s mouth is stuffed with salad. “My grandfather introduced me to the Cobb salad. He spent some time in Hollywood. That’s where the salad was invented.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“My grandfather took me to the John Langston Estate to have lunch once a month. I was only nine years old when he started. We’d both order Cobb.”
“Sounds like a great tradition.”
“It was. We carried it on until I left town to go to college in Boston. My grandfather would say the same thing every time we lunched. ‘Quentin, only men of breeding order a Cobb salad. This is a real Cobb salad. Never accept a substitute.’”
Quentin eats the last bits of Cobb salad. “That old man was something. We’d go for a Cobb later, when I was working, but not nearly enough. He was sharp as a tack until he died at ninety-one.”
Matthew watches Quentin.
“So you heard the news?” says Quentin.
“I did, but I wanted to hear it from you,” says Matthew.
“I know you were close. It’s true, Dr. Tom Grabowski, one of the best research surgeons of his era, has died of a heart attack.”
“Where?”
“Cypress Hill—a witness saw him running, and then all of a sudden, he collapsed. Paramedics were called, couldn’t revive him.”
Quentin takes a piece of lettuce and rubs it around the bit of salad dressing that remains. “Delicious.”
Matthew asks, “Patricia is fine?”
“She’s devastated.”
Matthew frowns.
“I understand he was like a father to you; you have my sincerest sympathies.”
Matthew looks at the photo on the wall above the massive desk. It is a large framed photo of Quentin Taylor, about age fourteen, with the future President of the United States of America, Carter Middleton. They are arm in arm, holding up a canoe between them. The young men are dwarfed by the large trees in the background.
“Nothing related to what we do?” says Matthew.
“Not on first blush. I’m having the body brought here for an autopsy at George Washington. I’m sending out Jason Cooper.”
Matthew, “Jason Cooper?”
“Just to do some routine leg work, but it seems pretty straightforward.”
***
The top is down. Jason Cooper is being massaged by the wind.
“Slow down, big fella. We want to get there in one piece.”
Celerie puts her hand on his thigh and squeezes. She smiles and a row of perfect white teeth are bracketed by bright lipstick.
“Sure.” Jason accelerates, and the car takes the sharp turn hard. He is exhilarated. Sitting beside him is his fiancée and he has a new assignment.
Celerie says, “Hey, cut it out.” She is pushed back in her seat as they take the next turn. Her thick black hair is tussled by the wind.
“Okay.”
Jason laughs and eases off the gas. Celerie is stunning. Sounds like celery and good enough to eat. Jason had made this play on words a little too often. Celerie doesn’t like it, so he keeps silent. Jason looks down at his thigh where her hand lies. Her bare legs almost brush his.
“Don’t get any ideas,” says Celerie.
“Now what ideas would I be getting?”
“I’m already late.”
“The wind protector’s pretty good. We’re ripping along and there’s no cabin noise. We can talk in a normal voice.” Jason finally applies the brakes. “I’m glad I got it.”
Celerie says, “Yeah, you’re right.”
“It was well worth it.”
“For what you paid for this car, it should fly.”
Jason gets just a hint of her perfume and stiffens. “You smell good.”
“Thanks, it’s hard to believe in another two months we’ll be husband and wife.”
“I can’t wait.” Jason swallows hard. Her dress clings to her chest.
“How’s the assignment?” says Celerie.
“Although it seems cut and dry, it may not be.”
“You’re just confirming a heart attack, dear.”
“It may seem obvious, confirm a heart attack in a relatively old man, but you never know.” “Dr. Tom Grabowski was no ordinary old man.” Jason looks at his speedometer.
Celerie says, “You two fought all the time.”
“No denying he was an arrogant old prick. He never liked the fact that the military was supervising his research. He let me know it every time I got an update, but he sure had no problem taking all the extra money for the research.”
The car glides to a stop at the hotel entrance. Celerie is attending a show for fashion week.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Celerie says, exiting the car, “I’ll be home very late.”
Jason sees a passerby looking at Celerie’s legs. He pulls Celerie close and kisses her. “Call when you get home.”
The traffic in Manhattan is crazy. Jason has to hurry to get to the private airport, he doesn’t want to be late for his meeting with Quentin, so he hits the accelerator.
***
It is early afternoon when Matthew returns from Washington. He takes a taxi directly to the hospital. Matthew is stopped by Dr. Spencer Lambert in the hallway.
“Matthew, did you check on your flap?”
“I did a while ago, looked the same.”
“I just stopped by, and I suggest you look again. I can’t talk. I’m late for a meeting with the university president.”
“I’ll go right now.”
Matthew knows the flap is dead. Spencer is a good doctor; he is in the running with Liam to be the next university president. The smart money is on Liam. Matthew hopes the smart money is right. As Matthew walks to Ryan’s room, the question is what to now do with the flap? The flap had been the best option to get Ryan back to his life as quickly as possible. The physiotherapy was coming along well and Ryan would be walking normally soon. But without a face to present to the world, the psychological eff
ects will be devastating.
Aly Smith is sitting in a chair beside her husband. Ryan is telling a joke and she is laughing raucously. The kids run around the room.
Matthew enters. “Hi Aly.”
Aly says, “Hi, Dr. MacAulay.”
Matthew asks, “Can I get in on the joke?”
Ryan says, “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
“On second thought, maybe I’ll pass. How are things going, Aly? You look great.”
Aly wears faded jeans and a worn out T-shirt.
“I know everyone’s saying I’ve lost weight. I haven’t really been trying. We’re getting by,” says Aly.
Ryan says, “I’ll be out of here soon and things will get back on track.”
Matthew says, “I can see the kids seem healthy.”
The four kids continue running around the room.
Aly says, “These kids are just too much. Their energy is amazing.”
“You’re doing a great job. Having four kids all under age eight is a real chore.”
Aly jokes, “I think we should have canceled date night after the second.”
Ryan says, “Now, now, Aly.”
“I’m just joking.”
“Aly, we’re gonna get this great big lug home soon to give you some help.”
“I sure need it.”
Matthew goes over to Ryan and removes the bandages. Matthew keeps his body between Ryan’s face and Aly so she cannot see the wound. The central portion of his face had been completely blown away by the injury. The forehead flap is not dead. That is the good news. However, the color is not pink; it is a bluish color. The blood supply is not enough for the flap to have a healthy color. It is not sure if it wants to live or die. The puckered, scarred tissue around it is becoming infected. Matthew searches Ryan’s face intently. There is no other skin that would work to repair the large hole in the middle of his face. If this doesn’t work, he will put Ryan into the facial transplant program. Matthew already has donor tissue ready. Ryan would need a partial face transplant.
Matthew says, “Unfortunately, the flap does not know what it wants to be, rock star or bum.”
“I kind of figured that. It’s starting to hurt.”
“It is not what I had hoped. I’m not sure it will survive. I’ll start antibiotics.”