MAYA HOPE, a medical thriller - The Dr. Nicklaus Hart series 1

by Timothy Browne, MD

  The last few days had been a blur of bitter emotions as he realized he would never see his best friend again. The nurses at the hospital had sensed a change and cut a wide circle around the uncharacteristically edgy Dr. Hart.

  He stretched his shoulders back. He regretted he hadn’t seen John and Maggie for five years. They had invited him many times to join them in Guatemala, but with his busy schedule, it never seemed possible. But he knew that was not to blame.

  Why hadn’t I made it a priority?

  Trying to get away from a busy hospital was like trying to stop a boulder from rolling downhill—patients had to be rescheduled, surgeries cancelled, and call schedules rearranged.

  He was grateful his partners in the Trauma Service at the MED had been more than willing to pick up the slack that allowed him to attend the funeral.

  He sighed and headed down the long, busy corridor. Maggie had asked him if he would say a few words at the memorial service. Of course, he had accepted. But he wasn’t sure that he would make it through without breaking down. Besides, he hated public speaking. There was so much to say about his remarkable friend. His head was muddled, and he had so many questions about what had happened to John.

  His was grief so heavy it felt like somebody had kidney-punched him and he wondered if he was walking crooked.

  Poor Maggie. He didn’t even know what to say to her.

  He tried to remember exactly how many years that she and John had been married.

  Grieving as he was, he smiled to recall the first time he met Maggie. John had told him that he was headed into the Mission Mountains for a few days of camping. Nick was in Seattle in his third year of medical school, and he was hurt that he hadn’t been invited on the adventure.

  Then he got a brilliant idea. If he skipped physiology that Friday afternoon and drove most of the night, he could surprise John by late Saturday afternoon in time for dinner. John had told him he would be camping by Mollman Lake, one of their favorite spots. The lake was filled with huge trout, and they could catch a fabulous dinner.

  By the time Nick made his way up the steep trail to Mollman, the Missions were falling into dusk. Sneaking up to the tent, he couldn’t wait to scare the daylights out of John when he kicked over a pile of wood by the fire and growled like a grizzly bear. But the surprise was on Nick when a beautiful young woman wearing a tank top and pink panties jumped out of the tent with a .44-Magnum pistol pointed at his chest.

  She stood her ground, tossing her long, black hair. “What do you want?”

  He put up his hands and stuttered an apology. “I’m sorry. I must be in the wrong place. I’m looking for my friend’s camp. My friend John Russell,” he said nervously, looking at the large-bore end of the 44.

  She looked him over. “Are you John’s friend, Nick?”

  He nodded eagerly, wondering how she knew.

  She read his mind and lowered her weapon. “I know a lot about you. John told me not to be surprised if you showed up.”

  Nick lowered his arms. He was baffled. “What? Where’s John?”

  “John is fishing. He’ll be back soon. Come sit by the fire and have some cider. I’m Maggie.” She transferred the large revolver to her left hand and stuck out her right.

  As they shook hands it dawned on Nick. So, this is why John hadn’t asked me to come. John found himself a woman.

  And a good one she turned out to be—strong and beautiful with a real sense of identity Nick rarely saw in a woman. It was her Native American heritage that gave her both her looks and her strong spirit.

  Back in the airport, Nick sighed. I wonder how she’s surviving this?

  As he looked for the exit sign, memories of that camping trip continued to flood his mind.

  Nick joined Maggie beside the fire after she’d dressed, and it wasn’t long before they saw John walking along the lakeshore carrying a string of large trout and smiling. John was gangly with long, skinny legs and equally long arms. He carried an unmistakable bounce in his walk and a smile that seemed to penetrate all darkness. Nick had never met another man like John—smart, funny, caring, with an uncanny sense of life around him. Even with all his kindness, he was as strong-willed as they came and took no crap from anyone.

  When John saw them, he waved, and out of the corner of his eye, Nick caught the huge reciprocating smile from Maggie, and he knew right then that he had lost his best friend to another.

  * * *

  Nick didn’t expect Maggie to pick him up at the airport; after all, she had returned from Guatemala with John’s casket a few days ago. But when he looked up from the drab airport carpet near the exit, he saw her waiting. Nick sensed her sadness from a distance. She was accompanied by her older sister, lending support with a hand on her back. Nick quickened his pace. Maggie’s skin was paler than he had ever seen, but she still looked beautiful.

  “Maggie, you didn’t need to—”

  She silenced him by throwing her arms around his neck. They stood oblivious to everyone around them and wept.

  * * *

  As they pulled up to the house in Maggie’s Subaru, Nick felt another twinge of guilt that it had been so long since he last visited.

  Medicine is an unkind mistress, one that robbed me of my time.

  John and Maggie’s house in Ballard, a suburb of Seattle, was ridiculously small for a talented general surgeon, yet perfectly appropriate for the couple. Stepping from the car, Nick saw how beautifully kept it was. The old-fashioned wooden screen door on the front gave it a hint of Montana. As with many houses in Seattle, an abundance of colorful flowers filled the lush gardens encircling the house. Spring rains had painted the lawn an emerald green, crisp and sparkling in the cool, clear air. John’s eye for order was reflected in his exquisite landscaping, as it was in his surgical expertise. The house and the lot were perfect.

  “We don’t need anything bigger,” John had told him. “It’s just a waste of money. To the rest of the world, we live like kings anyway.”

  John and Maggie ran the Hope Center in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, and they were only home a few months out of the year.

  Their families sat in the crowded tiny living room and stood when Nick, Maggie and her sister entered the room.

  John’s dad was first to hug him. “Hey, Nick. We’re so glad you’re here.” It was an extra-long hug.

  “Hey, Pops,” he said, using his nickname for his second father. John’s dad was a bear of a man, generous with hugs and affection. John was a clear reflection of his parents: his mother’s thinness and strength and his father’s height and compassion.

  John’s mother, Joan, gasped with grief and hugged Nick even longer, as if to let him know how unimaginable it was to lose her son and only child.

  “I’m so sorry, Joan.” Nick hugged her.

  Not the natural order of life, when parents bury their children. He tried to keep his grief distant yet be there for her. He felt her legs almost give way and held her tight to support her tiny frame.

  “Oh, Nick, it’s just too much,” she cried into his chest. “I just don’t know who would do this to our John.”

  Pops put his hand on her back and gave her a tissue. She loosened her grip from Nick and blew her nose into the tissue.

  “I thought I had stopped crying,” she said, “but when you walked in…you were such good boys.” She patted Nick’s heart and turned to sit down.

  The handshakes, hugs, and kisses continued around the room as each family member greeted him. Maggie’s parents, Cliff and Mary, also hugged Nick, as did her two brothers.

  Nick had met Maggie’s brothers at John and Maggie’s wedding. Both were handsome, tall, muscular and dark-skinned, reflecting the family’s heritage from the Blackfeet tribe of eastern Montana. Maggie’s older brother was always serious, but the younger had a quick wit and immediately reminded Nick of the prank they had pulled on John and Maggie the night of their wedding. They had removed the bed from the honeymoon suite at the local hotel.

  Maggie
thumped her brother in the chest, hard enough to make him take a step backwards. “I’m still mad about that.”

  The story and the rebuke provoked laughter and relieved the sadness in the room.

  Nick blinked his eyes and looked around. The air was fragrant, and flowers were everywhere, like a florist shop with a holiday sale. Every shelf and counter space burst with beautiful blooms.

  Maggie watched him. “My folks have already shared bouquets with the neighbors. Everybody loved him.”

  Nick nodded and put his arm around Maggie, giving her a strong, sideways hug.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Maggie exhaled. “I’m just glad my family is here. That you’re here. I don’t know, Nick, without my faith in heaven and knowing I will be with him again…I don’t know…I’m just not sure about getting through tomorrow.” She stumbled over her words, thinking about the funeral. “It seems like it will be so final.”

  “I’m so sorry.” It was all Nick could think to say. “I’m so sorry.”

  Two of Maggie’s nieces scampered past them chasing a frightened little dachshund.

  Maggie pulled herself together. “Come on out to the back yard,” she said. “You’re probably starving after your trip. The rest of the family is out here cooking burgers and dogs.” She led him through the kitchen to the back door.

  Just like Maggie to think of everyone else when she’s in such pain.

  * * *

  Maggie was tough. Growing up in Browning, Montana, did that to a young woman. With an unemployment rate nearly matching the divorce rate of sixty percent, alcoholism the number one killer, and a poverty level that matched any inner city, Browning was tough. Sitting on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, it was the government seat of the Blackfeet Nation and at the heart of the reservation—a meager slice of what was once the vast Blackfeet Territory.

  Maggie’s family had seen their share of grief, but they were a remarkable family. Her parents, Cliff and Mary Black Elk, grew up in Browning and raised their four children on a small farm outside the city limits where sadness and grief often overtook families. Last winter, three middle school boys were found frozen in a field; they had skipped school, guzzled a fifth of vodka, and passed out in the subzero weather. A month later, Cliff’s brother was killed on an icy road. That was just last year.

  Cliff and Mary were the first to say it was only by God’s grace that all of their four children were alive and doing well. Their witty younger son had survived a stint in prison and a rehab program, but was now four years sober and helping on the farm. Three of their kids, including Maggie, finished college, something that Cliff was especially proud of.

  The Black Elks grew up in the Catholic faith, but when one of their own tribal members returned from a school of ministry in Pennsylvania with a message of hope and healing, they quickly became a part of the new church plant. The blending of their Indian culture and Christian faith made for rich worship and faith-filled children.

  Maggie received a full-ride scholarship to three schools—Stanford, Harvard and Brown. She claimed it was because of her Indian blood and the schools needed to fill their quotas, but everyone knew she was brilliant.

  She was younger than her sister by three years, and her brothers bookended them both. At five-foot-one, Maggie was dwarfed by her six-foot-two and six-foot-seven brothers and five-foot-eight sister. Her brothers teased her unmercifully, telling her she was an orphan baby they found in a shoebox on a long, empty road. Maggie’s mother laughed it off, but with the amount of teenage pregnancies in Browning, Maggie had to admit that the thought occasionally crossed her mind.

  What Maggie lacked in height, she made up for in determination. She excelled at everything she put her mind to, whether it was the winning lamb at 4-H competitions or her straight-A grades. But what made her stand out was her compassion for people in need.

  Her parents saw that compassion with the farm animals. Maggie was the one to sit up through the night nursing a sick lamb or a foundering colt.

  Maggie’s dad would laugh and say, “If it was up to Maggie, we would have the oldest living cattle in the world. None of them would make it to market.”

  They saw Maggie’s compassion for people when she brought wildflowers to the elders of the Tribe. Maggie always made time for her friends. One night she scared her parents to death when she didn’t come home. Later, when they found out she had sat up all night with a friend who was raped, it was hard to be angry at her.

  It was no wonder Stanford, Harvard and Brown wanted her. She chose Stanford because it was closest to home, but after a pretty rocky first year and a heavy dose of homesickness, she returned to Montana to finish her degree in social work at the University of Montana. That’s where she met John.

  * * *

  With John next to her, Maggie liked to tell people that there were four things that had impacted her life the most—“My faith in God, my parents, my college trip to Guatemala and—what was the other one? Oh yeah,” she’d grin at his worried eyes, “meeting John.” She loved to tease him, and he loved being teased.

  On a whim, a college friend had talked her into going on a mission trip to Guatemala between her junior and senior years. It was two weeks in a small village, San Pedro la Laguna in the Lake Atitlan basin, where they were to minister to the indigenous Maya Indians. The group was going to help rebuild and paint a small school that had been damaged in an earthquake.

  When the two weeks were over, most of the college kids were overjoyed to spend a few days relaxing in Antigua and loading up on souvenirs to bring back to family and friends. But Maggie was different; saying goodbye to the villagers was heart-breaking. She would have liked to say goodbye to her life back in the States and stay in Guatemala forever.

  “I’ve never met a group of people like the Indians of San Pedro,” Maggie explained. “Even though they lived in severe poverty and hardship, they were some of the most loving and kind people I have ever met. One family gave everyone in our twenty-member team a Coke as we stepped off the bus. We later found out that the father had saved for two months to be able to buy the Cokes and proudly carried the case on his back three miles up the steep trails to the village.”

  Maggie also loved it when the village women dressed her in the colorful Maya weave clothing that fit perfectly. With her long, straight black hair and dark complexion, she could have easily passed as a villager, something the women giggled about with great joy. Maggie pledged that one day she would be back. She would become a missionary.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  North Korea

  It had been an unusually bitter winter, and March was no different as Pak Song-ju peered through the frost out the side window of his Mercedes. The streets of Pyongyang, North Korea, were mostly clear of cars, except for his chauffeur-driven vehicle. It was still early in the morning and his faithful countrymen were lined up in a perfectly straight line at the bus stop, staring straight ahead. A light snow fell over them.

  Stupid people.

  He shook his head and let out a sigh. It was probably the reason he was on the outs with his father. Even in this regimented society, where one did not show emotion, it was hard to mask his disdain for this place. It was the reason he longed to travel. Ever since he was expelled from Greece, he was forbidden to leave North Korea. And unless he wanted to run with the dissidents into China, there was no way out. Even then, if he was caught, he would be shot on sight.

  After the disgrace of the expulsion, Father would delight in it.

  Other countrymen walked briskly to their menial jobs. Each was dressed alike in drab brown, looking like an army of United Parcel Service drivers. Pak smirked, reminded of the UPS drivers he’d seen in Greece. He watched his countrymen marching to work. No one spoke or even acknowledged one another. His country was based on uniformity and control. If anyone was cold or uncomfortable, no one dared complain. They were the lucky ones, the privileged who were allowed to live in Pyongyang in relative l
uxury, compared to the rest of the country. While people outside the city died of starvation, these people received a meager ration of rice. They occasionally had electricity. They were the chosen ones, picked for their intelligence or special skills. It was the ultimate in race selection. To live outside of Pyongyang meant an early death.

  “Turn up the heat,” Pak Song-ju ordered his driver.

  His acquaintances outside North Korea had heard reports from the World Health Organization (WHO) that millions had died from starvation. They assumed that all of North Korea was a slurry of slums or, at best, grass huts. But Pyongyang was beautiful with amazing architecture, museums, massive buildings that housed institutes of art, culture and sports. The city boasted of a multitude of monuments to the late Great Leader Kim Il-sung.

  Great leader, Pak Song-ju scoffed. Look at the mess we are in.

  His car was driven past the Ryugyong Hotel, a monstrosity of a building, a 105-story pyramid, the seventeenth tallest skyscraper in the world. It sat as a ghost, an empty shell, and a failed attempt of national pride. Construction began in 1987 and was halted in 1992 when the funding ran out.

  It’s a disgrace—it dwarfs the rest of the skyline.

  He wondered how long the people would believe the propaganda—that, as North Korea regained global domination, the city would be transformed into the world’s political center, and everyone would bow to the dead Great Leader, Kim Il-sung.

  Kim Il-sung’s son, Kim Jong-il, referred to as the Dear Leader, ruled for eighteen years and perpetuated the lie. Now dead, he had run the country further into the dark ages and closer to the brink of destruction.

  The kingdom was now in the hands of the third generation, Kim Jong-un.

  Pak shook his head. How could the leadership pass over the older two brothers and other great leaders in his country? Hereditary succession does not breed success.

  His thoughts were interrupted when a group of school children started to cross the street in front of his speeding car. His driver accelerated and leaned on the horn. The grade-schoolers leaped back or were yanked back by their teachers who bowed low in apology and disgrace. They had learned from an early age their place in the world.