A guttural, primal scream exploded from Nick’s throat as he crouched by the body. The odd little record room librarian had killed his one-time lover and then shot himself. That conclusion seemed obvious. But why? The two of them had held hands. They appeared to be doing wonderfully. He did not know Mollender well, but on the surface at least, the man hardly seemed capable of such violence.
It was then that Nick heard the click of the door closing behind him. Startled, he whirled around, rising to his feet. His leather bag, still slung over his shoulder, swung in an arc across the front of his body as he confronted a tall, well-built man, dressed head to toe in black. He was wearing latex surgical gloves. The heavy pistol held loosely in his right hand was pointed at the center of Nick’s chest.
Nick’s gaze traveled upward, until he met with the coldest pale blue eyes he had ever seen. Pure evil.
“What have you done?” Nick shrieked. “Why?”
“Pipe down, Doctor,” the killer said calmly. “What I’ve done is the non-kill that I do better than any other. Murder-suicide. I’m a master at it if I do say so myself. What do you think?”
He gestured to the grotesque pair of corpses.
This was the man. Nick knew immediately. This was the man who had sat by and watched Belle Coates die. He wasn’t the stocky killer in the OR, but he was probably responsible for some of the other deaths, if not all of them. Nick could barely keep from charging him. In fact, fueled by rage, he actually took a half step forward.
“Easy, Doc. This thing could get ugly for you quick. You brought the DVD?”
The man spoke with utter confidence, and his soulless eyes actually flickered with a hint of joy.
Suddenly, Nick was certain that he had Jillian.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“She?”
“Jillian Coates. Where is she? If anything happens to her, I swear I’ll kill you.”
“Relax, Doctor. Isn’t that what you tell your patients before you take your index finger and ream them? Just relax. From what I can see, you’re not really in a position to demand or threaten anything. Besides, as chance would have it, I stopped by Roger Pendleton’s place right after you left and retrieved one of the discs. It had this lovely woman’s business sticker on it. That’s what led me here. With a little prompting, she told me you probably had the second of the two discs she gave you. I had our friend Mollender over there summon you here. So, give me the DVD.”
“What DVD?”
“DON’T FUCK WITH ME!”
Nick recoiled from the ferocity of the killer’s outburst. As quickly as that explosion came, the emotion drained from the man’s face until he was once again a steely evil. In an unhurried voice he said, “You know what I’m talking about, Doc. That cute little nurse died rather than expose her sister to the pain I had in store for Jillian. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t do it to her now.”
Nick’s heart beat wildly. He could feel his blood pressure rising, releasing beads of sweat across his brow and down the back of his neck. Instead of reacting irrationally, though, he closed his eyes, willed his pulse to slow, and began taking charge of his emotions.
His only option, for himself and for Jillian, was to buy some time. To that end, he had two possible tools: the DVD, and the monster’s gigantic ego.
It might be too late for him, too late for Jillian, but he had to do what he could to take charge of the PTSD that had controlled his life for so long. He had to act intelligently, rationally, and with force.
“Why are you doing this?” he began, searching for an opening—any opening. “Who are you?”
“Hey, slow down. I have the big gun, so I get to ask the questions. Now where’s the disc? In your sack, there? In the glove compartment of your car? Don’t make me tie you up and torture you, my friend, because if I have to do that, after you’re bloody and dead, I’m going to settle up with that girl of yours. And I mean settle up in every sense of the words. Now, the disc.”
“Just tell me. Tell me how you managed to kill all those people from the OR without having anyone know.”
It looked as if the killer was about to answer him. But before he could, Nick heard the haunting first notes of AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” The man pulled a cell phone off of his belt clip, never for a second lowering his gun or averting his soulless eyes. For several seconds he held the phone to his ear and listened.
“No, he hasn’t given me the DVD,” he said. “I think I can convince him, but it may require more pain than he’s equipped to endure.”
He listened again, then took a step toward Nick, the pistol an accusatory finger now pointing steadily at Nick’s heart.
Then he grinned.
“It’s for you,” he said.
CHAPTER 45
“Who is this?” Nick shouted into the killer’s phone.
“Mr. Koller there intends to torture you, until you give us the disc, or you die,” a man’s gravelly voice said. “I don’t want you to die. I have great respect for you as a man and a patriot who has served his country with honor.”
The voice sounded familiar, Nick thought, but from where? It was unhurried and composed, with an edge of power and entitlement.
“Who are you?” Nick said. “Why are you having these people killed?”
“Dr. Garrity, I believe if you were in my position, you would do the same thing.”
Again Nick tried to connect with where he had heard that voice before.
“That’s insane,” he said. “You’re insane. It was you in the operating room, wasn’t it? You’re the one who killed Umberto.”
“You’d be better off letting me drive this conversation,” said the man. “So I suggest you listen and try to understand what this is all about.”
Nick’s eyes met Koller’s. The gun in his right hand was rock steady and pointed straight at his head. The self-confident smirk etched across the killer’s face had Nick envisioning kicking him full force in the teeth.
Easy, he told himself. It’s going to happen. Somehow it’s going to happen. Just be cool.
“At least tell me who you are,” he said, his composure now largely regained.
“All you need to know is that you have become involved in business that is of the utmost importance to our country’s national security. The danger we are facing is very real. We need you to act like the soldier that you are.”
Ramsland.
Nick caught his breath. He felt his chest tighten. The room seemed to be spinning.
The man’s ads had been all over the media. Alone and with moderate presidential candidate John Greenleigh.
Ramsland the patriot.
It was all starting to make sense. The ads portrayed the man as the consummate American, whose promise to protect every citizen against the threat of terrorism was resonating loudly with voters of both parties.
What in the hell had the man gotten himself into?
“The solider that I am, the doctor that I am would never take an innocent life. Why don’t you come over here and see what you’ve done. Look at the people you’ve murdered, Mr. Ramsland.”
For a time there was silence.
“The people who have died are heroes.”
“No, they’re victims. I’m going to bury you, Ramsland. Just like you buried them.”
Easy . . .
“An understandable reaction given the circumstances. But Doctor, before you go making any more threats, it’s best we have a little talk.”
“I mean it, Ramsland. I’ll find you, and when I do, you’ll wish our paths had never crossed.”
Easy does it, Nick warned himself again. You need to understand more of where he’s coming from.
“I didn’t want this to happen to these people, Nick. There was no choice. Do you think I’m against peace in this war-weary world?”
Nick hated that the man was now using his first name so casually.
“I think you’re a murderer,” Nick said. “Simple as that.”
; “No, sir. That is not any more true than saying that the men in your unit in Afghanistan were murderers. You see, what I am, Nick, is a patriot, just as they are, and you are. The people from that operating room, and lying there now in front of you, are casualties of war, just as were all those blown up in your hospital in FOB Savannah.”
Nick’s sense of the man and his motivations was coming more into focus. Whether it was guilt or zeal, Lionel Ramsland needed to have his actions justified. He was looking for understanding and even praise for the choices he had made and the lives he had taken. And Nick, a decorated soldier and a surgeon, as well as a friend of several of the casualties, was the perfect subject from which to earn such absolution. If Nick had agreed and cooperated by turning over the DVD, he might have been offered a position in Ramsland’s inner circle. But as things were, he was going to die.
“We’re nothing alike,” Nick said.
He turned his back to Koller, who continued blocking the only exit. Keeping the phone pressed tightly against his ear, he stepped farther into the room, trying unsuccessfully to avoid looking at Noreen’s lifeless body to his left, and Saul Mollender’s to his right. His insides quaked with rage as he wondered what their last horrible moments were like.
Patriots, indeed!
“You’re wrong there, Nick,” Ramsland was saying, “you and I are far more similar than you think.”
Nick was eight feet away from Noreen’s workbench now. Many of her impressive array of tools were resting on top in a tool bucket, and in the heavy work belt that surrounded it. Wary of drawing Koller’s attention to the setup, he quickly broke off his gaze.
Maybe, he was thinking, as a plan began to materialize, just maybe I have a chance.
But he also knew it would be one chance and only one. He needed to stall and to continue composing himself for a single, definitive move.
“Yeah?” he said. “You and your friend here kill people and I save them. How is that alike?”
Pacing in front of the workbench, Nick wanted his movements to appear random. It was doubtful Koller missed much, so he had to move carefully. Powerful jolts of adrenaline were coursing through him, bringing the sort of heightened awareness he often experienced during an intense triage or operation.
“You and I are both soldiers, Nick. A guy like you could have made a bundle in private practice. But no, you sacrificed that earning potential for something much more important. Your country.”
“I did what I felt was right.”
“My point exactly. Your devotion to finding your war buddy, Umberto, is in a soldier’s DNA. Never leave a man behind. Am I right?”
“I guess.”
“That’s loyalty.”
“Go on.”
“All I’m saying, Nick, is that you have a very rare opportunity to serve your country in a way few Americans can. You can make a difference.”
“How? Murder?”
“No, Nick. By saving lives.”
“Check again. I don’t see any lives being saved here.”
“Of course you don’t. That’s just my point. You think you know everything about what’s going on, but you haven’t the slightest clue what’s really happening.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you enlighten me?”
Nick glanced over at Koller. The killer stood just a few feet away, like a big cat, lean and sinewy, poised to launch himself at the slightest hint of trouble.
It isn’t time yet, Nick decided. But soon. Keep stalling.
“This wasn’t how we wanted things to play out,” Ramsland was saying. “Mohammad wanted out. He was weary. He had a price on his head, and one of his sons was killed while someone was trying to collect it. We wanted Mohammad to give us information—information that would save American lives. And he did. The Sears Tower in Chicago. The American Embassy in Paris. Grand Central station at rush hour. Thousands and thousands of lives. Attacks against innocent civilians, women and children, who might have been blown to bits.”
“I never heard a word about any of those attacks,” Nick said.
“You didn’t hear about them in the news because they never happened. The information we . . . extracted from Mohammad kept them from happening.”
“You didn’t extract information from him, Ramsland. He gave it to you. We didn’t capture him like the news said. He gave himself up. He gave the information to you in exchange for my friend’s life. You cut a deal with him. Public, high-profile death—the ultimate disappearing act.”
“You know as well as I do that the United States does not negotiate with terrorists. We capture them and learn what we can through due process of law, abiding by whatever protection the Geneva Convention grants these monsters.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Ramsland. You don’t play by anybody’s rules but your own. It was a trade—pure and simple. If you want me on your side, then at least tell the truth. That’s the best starting point.”
Again Nick made a cautious glance over at Koller. The killer appeared as though he were enjoying the banter, despite his hearing only half of the conversation. The pistol was no longer pointing at the center of his chest.
Good. Lower your guard just a fraction. That’s what I need.
“Rules are what keep men like me from making a real diff erence in the world. We’re all walking contradictions, Nick. In Afghanistan you patched up soldiers just so we could put them back in theater again. We don’t torture prisoners. All we do is use every means to make them give us information they don’t want to share. If promising them something they want will get that information out quicker and more completely, that’s a road worth considering. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
“Do you think we enjoy trading soldiers like your friend Umberto? Of course not. But men like us know our duty as patriots is to act. We do so to save lives, just as Truman traded one set of lives for another when he sent out the Enola Gay. That’s the nature of war, Nick, and you know that as well as I do.”
“I’m beginning to understand.”
“I hoped you would. You’ve suffered a great deal for the cause.”
Nick continued to shake on the inside. His stomach was churning. Still, with Koller watching his every step, gun at the ready, he managed to keep a calm demeanor.
Nick marched back and forth in front of the workbench, willing himself to look on occasion at Mollender’s and Noreen’s bodies, now using that emotion to help fuel his resolve.
Soon, he thought.
“What is it you want from me?”
“I want you to cooperate. Give the DVD to my associate. Forget about Umberto. Forget about your friends here. Focus on yourself for a change, Nick. How involved is Ms. Coates?”
Nick felt a new flash of anger rip through him.
“You leave her out of this!”
“Maybe we will. Maybe; it all depends on you. You see, I can trust you if you say you’ll do something. Know why?”
“No, tell me.”
“Because I know everything. I know what people think. I know what they say before they even say it. I know when they break with my program. You could have asked your friend Phillip MacCandliss.”
“MacCandliss? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Nothing, now. You see, he went against his country. That’s when we had Mr. Koller pay him a visit.”
“You’re a sick, sick man.”
“Don’t feel sorry for MacCandliss, Nick. You can thank him for bringing us Umberto. And true, your friend was the right profile for our mission, but I also knew how much MacCandliss despised you. Umberto was his pathetic little way of beating a man that he couldn’t beat on his own.”
Nick clenched the phone, wishing he had the strength to crush it into tiny pieces. He closed his eyes, counting backward to slow his pulse. Turning his back to Koller, he leaned up against the workbench. For his plan to succeed, he had to get the killer even closer to him. Keeping his hands out of the assassin’s line of sight, Nick hoped it would be eno
ugh of a lure to get him to move for a better angle. In seconds, Koller had changed position, crossing the room and moving diagonally toward the bench.
“I don’t believe MacCandliss had anything do to with Umberto’s death,” Nick said.
“And I don’t care,” Ramsland replied. “Believe what you want. Both are dead. But you still have a choice. Give us the DVD and your pledge to be a patriot, and we’ll see about letting you move along with your life. Ms. Coates, too.”
“By patriot, you mean silent.”
“Call it what you will. We’re soldiers, Nick. You and I. I felt I owed you a chance.”
Koller was in the best position possible, directly to Nick’s right. Nick had served Ramsland’s purpose by even considering going in with him. There was absolutely no chance he was going to be allowed to survive this day.
Now! Do it now! Nick thought.
His senses were heightened by another intense surge of adrenaline. The pungent, coppery stench of blood, noticeable before, was now overpowering. Koller’s empty left hand was the target. There was no way to get at his pistol.
Panic is not an option, Nick was thinking, remembering his days in the OR. Panic costs lives.
He silently repeated the mantra, while praying Koller had not noticed his hand inching closer toward the tool bucket.
With Ramsland still on the line, Nick set the phone down on the middle of the workbench. His pulse was hammering in his throat. Chances were he was about to die.
“He wants to talk to you,” he managed.
Koller kept his weapon level. As his left hand moved to pick up the phone, his eyes left Nick for perhaps a second. It was just enough time.
The nail gun’s bright orange handle stuck out of the tool bucket holster like an outlaw’s six-shooter. It was a cordless model, not the compressor type Nick had used in his early teens to help his father frame a modest addition on their house.
The Last Surgeon Page 28