Under the Knife

by Tess Gerritsen

  She closed her eyes, surrendering to the lovely ripples of pleasure his mouth inspired. “I never dreamed you’d be like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “So…consuming.”

  “Just what did you expect?”

  “Ice.” She laughed. “Was I ever wrong!”

  He took a strand of her hair and watched it drift like a cloud of silk through his fingers. “I guess I can seem pretty icy. It runs in my family. My father’s side, anyway. Stern old New England stock. It must’ve been terrifying to face him in court.”

  “He was a lawyer, too?”

  “Circuit-court judge. He died four years ago. Keeled over on the bench, right in the middle of sentencing. Just the way he would’ve wanted to go.” He smiled. “Run-’em-in Ransom, they used to call him.”

  “Oh. The law-and-order type?”

  “Absolutely. Unlike my mother, who thrives on anarchy.”

  She giggled. “It must have been an explosive combination.”

  “Oh, it was.” He stroked his finger across her lips. “Almost as explosive as we are. I never did figure out their relationship. It didn’t make sense to me. But you could almost see the chemistry working between them. The sparks. That’s what I remember about my parents, all those sparks, flying around the house.”

  “So they were happy?”

  “Oh, yeah. Exhausted, maybe. Frustrated, a lot. But they were definitely happy.”

  Twilight glowed dimly through the window. In silent awe, he ran his hand along the peaks and valleys of her body, a slow and leisurely exploration that left her skin tingling. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “I never thought…”

  “What?”

  “That I’d end up in bed with a lawyer-hating doctor. Talk about strange bedfellows.”

  She laughed softly. “And I feel like a mouse cozying up to the cat.”

  “Does that mean you’re still afraid of me?”

  “A little. A lot.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t quite get over the feeling you’re the enemy.”

  “If I’m the enemy,” he said, his lips grazing her ear, “then I think one of us has just surrendered.”

  “Is this all you ever think about, counselor?”

  “Since I met you, it is.”

  “And before you met me?”

  “Life was very, very dull.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I’m not saying I’ve been celibate. But I’m a careful man. Maybe too careful. I find it hard to…get close to people.”

  “You seem to be doing a pretty good job tonight.”

  “I mean, emotionally close. It’s just the way I am. Too many things can go wrong and I’m not very good at dealing with them.”

  By the evening glow, she studied his face hovering just above hers. “What did go wrong with your marriage, David?”

  “Oh. My marriage.” He rolled over on his back and sighed. “Nothing, really. Nothing I can put my finger on. I guess that just goes to show you what an insensitive clod I am. Linda used to complain I was lousy at expressing my feelings. That I was cold, just like my father. I told her that was a lot of bull. Now I think she was right.”

  “And I think it’s just an act of yours. An icy mask you like to hide behind.” She rolled onto her side, to look at him. “People show affection in different ways.”

  “Since when did you go into psychiatry?”

  “Since I got involved with a very complex man.”

  Gently he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His gaze lingered on her cheek. “That bruise of yours is already fading. Every time I see it I get angry.”

  “You told me once it turned you on.”

  “What it really does is make me feel protective. Must be some ancient male instinct. From the days when we had to keep the other cavemen from roughing up our personal property.”

  “Oh, my. We’re talking that ancient, are we?”

  “As ancient as—” his hand slid possessively down the curve of her hip “—this.”

  “I’m not so sure ‘protective’ is what you’re feeling right now,” she murmured.

  “You’re right. It’s not.” He laughed and gave her an affectionate pat on the rump. “What I’m feeling is starved— for food. Why don’t we heat up some of Mrs. Feldman’s spaghetti sauce. Open a bottle of wine. And then…” He drew her toward him and his skin seemed to sear right into hers.

  “And then?” she whispered.

  “And then…” His lips lingered maddeningly close. “I’ll do to you what lawyers have been doing to doctors for decades.”

  “David!” she squealed.

  “Hey, just kidding!” He threw his arms up in self-defense as she swung at him. “But I think you get the general idea.” He pulled her out of bed and into his arms. “Come on. And stop looking so luscious, or we’ll never get out of the room. They’ll find us sprawled on the bed, starved to death.”

  She gave him a slow, naughty look. “Oh,” she murmured, “but what a way to go.”

  * * *

  IT WAS THE sound of the waves slapping the seawall that finally tugged Kate awake. Drowsily she reached out for David but her hand met only an empty pillow, warmed by the morning sun. She opened her eyes and felt a sharp sense of abandonment when she discovered that she was alone in the wide, rumpled bed.

  “David?” she called out. There was no answer. The house was achingly silent.

  She swung her legs around and sat up on the side of the bed. Naked and dazed, she peered slowly around the sunlit room and felt the color rise in her cheeks as the night’s events came back to her. The bottle of wine. The wicked whispers. The hopelessly twisted sheets. She noticed that the clothes they’d both tossed aside so recklessly had all been picked up from the floor. His pants were hanging on the closet door; her bra and underwear were now draped neatly across a chair. It made her flush even hotter to think of him gathering up all her intimate apparel. Giggling, she hugged the sheets and found they still bore his scent. But where was he?

  “David?”

  She rose and went into the bathroom; it was empty. A damp towel hung on the rack. Next she wandered out into the living room and marveled at the morning sun, slanting in gloriously through the windows. The empty wine bottle was still sitting on the coffee table, mute evidence of the night’s intoxication. She still felt intoxicated. She poked her head into the kitchen; he wasn’t there, either. Back in the living room, she paused in that brilliant flood of sunlight and called out his name. The whole house seemed to echo with loneliness.

  Her sense of desolation grew as she headed back up the hall, searching, opening doors, peeking into rooms. She had the strange feeling that she was exploring an abandoned house, that this wasn’t the home of a living, breathing human being, but a shell, a cave. An inexplicable impulse sent her to his closet where she stood and touched each one of those forbidding suits hanging inside. It brought him no closer to her. Back in the hallway, she opened the door to a book-lined office. The furniture was oak, the lamps brass, and everything was as neat as a pin. A room without a soul.

  Kate moved down the hall, to the very last room. She was prying, she knew it. But she missed him and she longed for some palpable clue to his personality. As she opened the door, stale air puffed out, carrying the smell of a space shut away too long from the rest of the world. She saw it was a bedroom. A child’s room.

  A mobile of prisms trembled near the window, scattering tiny rainbows around the room. She stood there, transfixed, watching the lights dance across the wallpaper with its blue Swedish horses, across the sadly gaping toy shelves, across the tiny bed with the flowered coverlet. Almost against her will, she felt herself moving forward, as though some small, invisible hand were tugging her inside. Then, just as suddenly, the hand was gone and she was alone, so alone, in a room that ached with emptiness.

  For a long time she stood there among the dancing rainbows, ashamed that she had disturbed the sanctity of thi
s room. At last she wandered over to the dresser where a stack of books lay awaiting their owner’s return. She opened one of the covers and stared at the name on the inside flap. Noah Ransom.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “I’m sorry….”

  She turned and fled the room, closing the door behind her.

  Back in the kitchen, she huddled over a cup of coffee and read and reread the terse note she’d finally discovered, along with a set of keys, on the white-tiled counter.

  Catching a ride with Glickman. The car’s yours today. See you tonight.

  Hardly a lover’s note, she thought. No little words of endearment, not even a signature. It was cold and matter-of-fact, just like this kitchen, just like everything else about this house. So that was David. Man of ice, master of a soulless house. They had just shared a night of passionate lovemaking. She’d been swept off her feet. He left impersonal little notes on the kitchen counter.

  She had to marvel at how he’d compartmentalized his life. He had walled off his emotions into nice, neat spaces, the way he’d walled off his son’s room. But she couldn’t do that. Already she missed him. Maybe she even loved him. It was crazy and illogical; and she wasn’t used to doing crazy, illogical things.

  Suddenly annoyed at herself, she stood up and furiously rinsed her coffee cup in the sink. Dammit, she had more important things to worry about. Her committee hearing was this afternoon; her career hung in the balance. It was a stupid time to be fretting over a man.

  She turned and picked up Jenny Brook’s hospital chart, which had been lying on the breakfast table. This sad, mysterious document. Slowly she flipped through it, wondering what could possibly be so dangerous about a few pages of medical notes. But something terrible had happened the night Jenny Brook gave birth—something that had reached like a claw through time to destroy every name mentioned on these pages. Mother and child. Doctors and nurses. They were all dead. Only Charlie Decker knew why. And he was a puzzle in himself, a puzzle with pieces that didn’t fit.

  A maniac, the police had called him. A monster who slashed throats.

  A harmless man, Kahanu had said. A lost soul with his insides kicked out.

  A man with two faces.

  She closed the chart and found herself staring at the back cover. A chart with two sides.

  A man with two faces.

  She sat up straight, suddenly comprehending. Of course.

  Jekyll and Hyde.

  * * *

  “THE MULTIPLE PERSONALITY IS a rare phenomenon. But it’s well described in psychiatric literature.” Susan Santini swiveled around and reached for a book from the shelf behind her. Turning back to her desk, she perused the index for the relevant pages. Her red hair, usually so unruly, was tied back in a neat little knot. On the wall behind her hung an impressive collection of medical and psychiatric degrees, testimony to the fact Susan Santini was more than just Guy’s wife; she was also a professional in her own right, and a well-respected one.

  “Here it is,” she said, leaning forward. “‘From Eve to Sybil. A collection of case histories.’ It’s really a fascinating topic.”

  “Have you had any cases in your practice?” asked Kate.

  “Wish I had. Oh, I thought I had one, when I was working with the courts. But that creep turned out to be just a great actor trying to beat a murder rap. I tell you, he could go from Caspar Milquetoast to Hulk Hogan in the blink of an eye. What a performance!”

  “It is possible, though? For a man to have two completely different personalities?”

  “The human psyche is made up of so many clashing parts. Call it id versus ego, impulse versus control. Look at violence, for example. Most of us manage to bury our savage tendencies. But some people can’t. Who knows why? Childhood abuse? Some abnormality in brain chemistry? Whatever the reason, these people are walking time bombs. Push them too far and they lose all control. The scary part is, they’re all around us. But we don’t recognize them until something inside them, some inner dam, bursts. And then the violent side shows itself.”

  “Do you think Charlie Decker could be one of these walking time bombs?”

  Susan leaned back in her leather chair and considered the possibility. “That’s a hard question, Kate. You say he came from a broken home. And he was arrested for assault and battery five years ago. But there’s no lifelong pattern of violence. And the one time he used a gun, he turned it on himself.” She looked doubtful. “I suppose, if he had some precipitating stress, some crisis…”

  “He did.”

  “You mean this?” Susan gestured to the copy of Jenny Brook’s medical chart.

  “The death of his fiancée. The police think it triggered some sort of homicidal rage. That he’s been killing the people he thought were responsible.”

  “It sounds weird, but the most compelling reason for violence does seem to be love. Think of all those crimes of passion. All those jealous spouses. Spurned lovers.”

  “Love and violence,” said Kate. “Two sides of the same coin.”

  “Exactly.” Susan handed the medical record back to Kate. “But I’m just speculating. I’d have to talk to this man Decker before I can pass judgment. Are the police getting close?”

  “I don’t know. They won’t tell me a thing. A lot of this information I had to dig up myself.”

  “You’re kidding. Isn’t it their job?”

  Kate sighed. “That’s the problem. For them it’s nothing but a job, another file to be closed.”

  The intercom buzzed. “Dr. Santini?” said the receptionist. “Your three-o’clock appointment’s waiting.”

  Kate glanced at her watch. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been keeping you from your patients.”

  “You know I’m always glad to help out.” Susan rose and walked with her to the door. There she touched Kate’s arm. “This place you’re staying—you’re absolutely sure it’s safe?”

  Kate turned and saw the worry in Susan’s eyes. “I think so. Why?”

  Susan hesitated. “I hate to frighten you, but I think you ought to know. If you’re correct, if Decker is a multiple personality, then you’re dealing with a very unstable mind. Someone totally unpredictable. In the blink of an eye, he could change from a man to a monster. So, please, be very, very careful.”

  Kate’s throat went dry. “You—you really think he’s that dangerous?”

  Susan nodded. “Extremely dangerous.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT LOOKED LIKE a firing squad and she was the one who’d been handed the blindfold.

  She was sitting before a long conference table. Arranged in a grim row in front of her were six men and a woman, all physicians, none of them smiling. Though he’d promised to attend, Dr. Clarence Avery, the chief of anesthesia, was not present. The one friendly face in the entire room was Guy Santini’s, but he’d been called only as a witness. He was sitting off to the side and he looked every bit as nervous as she felt.

  The committee members asked their questions politely but doggedly. They responded to her answers with impassive stares. Though the room was air-conditioned, her cheeks were on fire.

  “And you personally examined the EKG, Dr. Chesne?”

  “Yes, Dr. Newhouse.”

  “And then you filed it in the chart.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you show the tracing to any other physician?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not even to Dr. Santini?”

  She glanced at Guy, who was hunched down in his chair, staring off unhappily. “Screening the EKG was my responsibility, not Dr. Santini’s,” she said evenly. “He trusted my judgment.”

  How many times do I have to repeat this story? she asked herself wearily. How many times do I have to answer the same damn questions?

  “Dr. Santini? Any comment?”

  Guy looked up reluctantly. “What Dr. Chesne says is true. I trusted her judgment.” He paused, then added emphatically, “I still trust her judgment.”r />
  Thank you, Guy, she thought. Their eyes met and he gave her a faint smile.

  “Let’s return to the events during surgery, Dr. Chesne,” continued Dr. Newhouse. “You say you performed routine induction with IV Pentothal….”

  The nightmare was relived. Ellen O’Brien’s death was dissected as thoroughly as a cadaver on the autopsy table.

  When the questions were over, she was allowed a final statement. She delivered it in a quiet voice. “I know my story sounds bizarre. I also know I can’t prove any of it—at least, not yet. But I know this much: I gave Ellen O’Brien the very best care I could. The record shows I made a mistake, a terrible one. And my patient died. But did I kill her? I don’t think so. I really don’t think so….” Her voice trailed off. There was nothing else to say. So she simply murmured, “Thank you.” And then she left the room.

  It took them twenty minutes to reach a decision. She was called back to her chair. As her gaze moved along the table, she noticed with distinct uneasiness that two new faces had joined the group. George Bettencourt and the hospital attorney were sitting at one end of the table. Bettencourt looked coldly satisfied. She knew, before a word was even spoken, what the decision would be.

  Dr. Newhouse, the committee chairman, delivered the verdict. “We know your recall of the case is at odds with the record, Dr. Chesne. But I’m afraid the record is what we must go on. And the record shows, unquestionably, that your care of patient Ellen O’Brien was substandard.” Kate winced at the last word, as though the worst insult imaginable had just been hurled at her. Dr. Newhouse sighed and removed his glasses—a tired gesture that seemed to carry all the weight of the world. “You’re new to the staff, Dr. Chesne. You’ve been with us for less than a year. This sort of…mishap, after so short a time on the staff, concerns us very much. We regret this. We really do. But based on what we’ve heard, we’re forced to refer the case to the Disciplinary Committee. They’ll decide what action to take in regards to your position here at Mid Pac. Until then—” he glanced at Bettencourt “—we have no objection to the measures already taken by the hospital administration regarding your suspension.”