Lynn ignored the nurse as she had out in the hallway. Any vestigial hope that the patient might be some other Michael Pender vanished the moment Lynn could see him. It was definitely her dearest friend. She was absolutely sure even though part of his face and his body was covered with surgical drapes. Michael was in a sitting position, with an endotracheal tube in place and his eyes taped shut. The breathing bag on the anesthesia machine was rhythmically expanding and contracting with his breathing. The cardiac monitor was beeping a steady signal. The surgeon had already turned a scalp flap and was preparing to drill a burr hole.
Without a second’s hesitation, Lynn stepped over to the anesthesia machine and bent down to look at its side. She wanted to see the number. As she feared, it was machine 37. She straightened up. The nurse who had run in after her again loudly ordered her out of the operating room, telling everyone that Lynn was apparently deranged.
Continuing to ignore the nurse, who was again trying to get ahold of Lynn’s arm, Lynn turned to the circulating nurse. “You have to get another anesthesia machine stat! This one’s trouble! People don’t wake up.”
“Please!” the first nurse said, resorting to begging. “You must leave!”
Benton recovered his shock and, after fumbling on the surface of the anesthesia machine, came up with a filled syringe. Without warning he came at Lynn like a bull in a china shop, causing another similar syringe perched on the anesthesia machine to fall to the floor. The nurse who had come in behind Lynn let go of Lynn’s arm and stepped back in fright.
Thanks to Lynn’s inherent and honed athleticism from her years playing lacrosse, she easily eluded Benton, effectively ducking under his arm and running around the operating table with the idea of keeping it between herself and the enraged anesthesiologist. When Benton started one way, Lynn went the other. While they were jockeying for position, Lynn again urged the circulating nurse to get another anesthesia machine. “If you do that, I will leave,” Lynn yelled. “Otherwise I’m going to stay in here until you do.” Her voice echoed off the tiled walls.
The circulating nurse was confused as to what to do and looked toward Benton for direction.
“I’m getting hospital security,” the first nurse declared. Without waiting for a response from the operating team, she disappeared out the door into the OR hallway.
Dr. Norman Phillips, who had been momentarily paralyzed by this unexpected spectacle during his case, quickly recovered. He handed off his craniotome, which he had been about to use, to the scrub nurse and stepped back from standing directly behind Michael. Obviously willing to break scrub—contaminate his gloves and gown—by holding his arms and gloved hands out in front of himself, he threatened to block Lynn from moving in his direction so that she couldn’t continue circling the operating table.
Lynn immediately took the neurosurgeon up on his offer to join the confrontation. She wanted to be as disruptive as possible, knowing that if the surgeon broke scrub he’d have to start all over again, wasting significant time in the process. Her hope was to maximize the delay in order to keep anything from happening to Michael until help, in the form of Markus Vandermeer, somehow got there. The problem was, she didn’t have any idea of how long that might be. What Lynn didn’t want was to have both Benton and Norman get ahold of her at the same time. She could well imagine what was probably in the syringe.
Pretending for the moment she was on a lacrosse field and that she was playing men’s lacrosse and not women’s, she body-checked Norman at full speed, hitting him with her shoulder and driving upward. She had seen Carl do it in old films he had from his college days. It worked superbly, catching the neurosurgeon completely off guard and knocking him off his feet to sprawl on the floor. She knew that was breaking scrub about as much as humanly possible.
Benton, rushing up behind Lynn, caught sight of this impressive display and skidded to a stop. Lynn took the opportunity to give a sharp chop with the edge of her hand to Benton’s outstretched forearm with the hand holding the syringe. The syringe flew from his grasp, and falling to the floor, it spun safely under the operating table.
Lynn ran back around to the other side of the room after leaping over Norman, who was struggling to catch his breath. Spinning around, she waited for the next attack. Benton went back to the anesthesia machine, pulled out a small drawer, and struggled to get a new syringe filled with a mammoth dose of midazolam. Norman picked himself up off the floor, checking to be sure he had no broken bones.
“A different anesthesia machine!” Lynn yelled yet again to the circulating nurse or anyone else who would listen. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll leave if you get it and use it.” She didn’t know if the planned surgery was indicated or not. Her guess was that it was not, but the surgery per se wasn’t her main concern. It was the number 37 anesthesia machine.
“Dr. Rhodes?” the circulating nurse said. “What should I do?”
“Nothing,” Benton sneered. He got the syringe filled and tossed aside the vial. Again prepared, he looked over at Norman, who’d now totally recovered. Both nodded and turned their full attention to Lynn. They then started around the OR table in opposite directions with the idea of trapping her.
Having been successful using the body check with Norman and still definitely reluctant to deal with both men at once, Lynn immediately launched a similar attack on Benton as she had done on Norman. Accelerating to near full speed, she ran at him. And once again, just before impact she crouched slightly so that when she hit him she could lunge upward with the point of her shoulder. At the last second before contact, Benton reared back defensively, having witnessed the effect on Norman. The ploy managed to cushion the collision significantly. But it also meant that both he and Lynn lost their footing with her momentum.
Lynn fell directly on top of Benton. She could hear the wind whoosh out of his lungs, and then she felt him struggling vainly to catch his breath even more than what Norman had experienced. Scrambling to her feet, she realized he had managed to stab her with the syringe, whether he meant to or not, when they when they met head-on. Buried almost to the hilt, it was still sticking out of her forearm.
But she didn’t have time to worry how much of the contents might have been injected or whether it had been enough to compromise her. There was a more pressing problem. Norman had come around the operating table and was rushing at her like she had done to him, and as close as he was at that moment, there was no chance for her to be offensive. Instead, like she had done hundreds of times while playing lacrosse, she stepped aside at the very last moment like a matador, and the man mostly missed her. Yet he was able to grab a handful of her scrub top as he sailed past, and because of it, managed to keep his feet.
With as much force as she could muster, Lynn tried to tear herself free from Norman’s clutches, but he held on and even managed to get a ahold of her left wrist with his other hand. Lynn reached up with her free hand and grabbed his face mask and gave it a fearsome yank, snapping his head forward before the elastic broke. But he didn’t let go of either her clothes or her wrist. She struggled madly to get away, but no matter what she did, Norman held on.
Having caught his breath, Benton came to Norman’s aid. After suffering a few significant slaps in the face, he was able to get Lynn’s still-free arm. But that still left her feet and legs free.
Lynn struggled as much as she could, kicking both of them in the legs at least once. She was aiming higher but unable to manage it.
When the men thought they had the wild woman under a semblance of control, as she seemed to be tiring, they started toward the OR door with the intention of getting her out in the hallway. But that was easier said than done. Lynn made it as difficult as possible, particularly by getting one foot or the other on the doorjamb on each attempt and lunging backward with as strong a kick as she could muster. From her kickboxing, her legs were powerful.
“Can you hold her while I get more Versed???
? Benton squeaked.
“To be honest, I don’t know,” Norman said hoarsely. “What a vixen. Who the hell is she?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Benton said.
“I’ll tell you who I am! I’m a fourth-year medical student. The patient is my friend. I want a different anesthesia machine!”
Without warning, Benton balled his fist and struck Lynn in the face, bringing blood from her already injured nose. The blow caught Norman by surprise and for a second he loosened his grip on Lynn’s arm. Lynn took advantage of this and snatched her right arm free. Mimicking Benton, she formed a fist and hit him with a blow surprisingly similar to his, bloodying his nose, as he had done to hers.
At that moment, directly in front of the three struggling people, the door to the hallway burst open. It was the original nurse. She rushed in. Following her and wearing surgical gowns pulled on like bathrobes over their hospital security uniforms were the same five men who had been chasing Lynn and Michael inside the Shapiro Institute. Lynn didn’t recognize their faces, just their uniforms, as they were slightly different from the normal uniforms worn by hospital security.
“No!” Lynn cried. “I don’t want to go with them.”
“I think you should have thought of that before you burst in here,” the nurse said triumphantly. She stepped aside so that the sizable men could rush in and take hold of Lynn. Still she struggled, but it was no use. In a moment they had her out in the hallway.
“Get her on a gurney!” Benton shouted to the security people. “I’ll be out in a second with some medication.” He exchanged a glance of incredulity and disgust with Norman. “You’re right! What a fucking vixen!” he said as he quickly went back to the anesthesia machine. He wanted to get yet another syringe and another vial of midazolam.
“This will go down as my most unique craniotomy,” Norman complained as he began peeling off his contaminated surgical gown and gloves. He looked back over at Michael, who had remained unconscious in the midst of the melee. “Is he all right through this?”
“He’s all right,” Benton said with a wave of his hand. He looked at the monitor. “The guy’s as healthy as an ox.”
Benton drew up the drug, purposefully going a bit overboard on the dosage. He didn’t want any more scenes. While Norman went to scrub again, Benton went out to the gurney in the hallway. The security guards had Lynn pressed down on its surface. All five men had ahold of her. Confident that the men had her adequately restrained, he decided to go the IV route, with enough of a dose that he was confident would keep her in never-never land for hours.
“I refuse any medication,” Lynn cried, trying to be authoritative.
“As if I care,” Benton sneered.
“Is this the woman we were searching for in the Shapiro?” one of the security guards asked. He had a mild but definite Russian accent.
“This is the one,” Benton said as he applied a tourniquet around Lynn’s upper arm and swabbed the crook of her elbow. “Now you realize why it would have been far better if you had nabbed her when you should have.”
From force of habit before making the injection and with the idea of eliminating any air, Benton held up the syringe in front of his face, the needle pointing toward the ceiling. As he did so he caught sight of the double doors at the very end of the hall bursting open and what looked like a line of people surging into the OR suite. Benton moved the syringe out of his line of sight and focused to get a better view. He was mystified. It was a lot of people, a lot more than should be coming into the OR at that time in the morning.
Transfixed and not a little confused, Benton watched as this long line of people approached at a run. He could see that they were mostly men, which was also perplexing because he knew that the majority of the OR staff was female. And stranger still, like the hospital security men who were beside him, holding Lynn down on the gurney, these newcomers were wearing hospital gowns pulled on backward, with the opening in the front, not the back.
As this new group neared, Benton’s confusion began to metamorphose to fear. With each running step he got a glimpse that they were wearing uniforms, again like the hospital security men next to him, but with a difference. Benton could see that the color wasn’t brown, like the color of the uniforms worn by hospital security, but gray like the South Carolina Highway Patrol. Worse still, most had their service revolvers clutched in their hands. . . .
EPILOGUE
Friday, May 22, 11:20 A.M.
Lynn Peirce tried to look on the bright side, as it was a bittersweet moment. A beautiful day had dawned, even though a week earlier the forecast had been for possible rain. If it had rained, it would have been a disappointment, since it would have forced Mason-Dixon University School of Medicine to hold its commencement ceremony indoors instead of in the glorious sunshine of the flower-filled medical center quadrangle. After four years of study, perseverance, and hard work, particularly in light of the horrific tribulations of the last month and a half, it seemed appropriate to be outside, in view of the hospital, the basic science building, the clinic building, and the Shapiro Institute just to be reminded that all these institutions were back to fulfilling their originally intended altruistic health care roles.
The investigation involving the mind-boggling malfeasance of Middleton Healthcare and their partner in crime, Sidereal Pharmaceuticals, was still ongoing, and the resultant indictments were continuing. So were the malpractice lawsuits, causing Middleton Healthcare to declare bankruptcy. As such, the scandalous affair continued to dominate Charleston’s Post and Courier newspaper and to be the talk of the town.
Lynn and Michael’s role in uncovering the shocking conspiracy had eventually leaked out. Ever since that fateful morning when she had been able to prevent the sham surgery on Michael, reporters had been trying to interview her, claiming she was a hero.
Lynn did not think of herself as a hero. She couldn’t, not in the face of the terrible personal losses that she had suffered and felt she had helped cause. If anything, she chided herself for not figuring out what was happening sooner than she did. In retrospect, she wished more than anything that she had not involved herself in Carl’s surgery, even though, had she not, the conspiracy would still be ongoing. She also wished she had been stronger and had not involved Michael, considering what happened to him because of her. Now, looking back, she wished she had not sought him out in a kind of Pavlovian reflex immediately after first seeing Carl comatose in the neuro ICU.
At that exact moment, 11:20 A.M., May 22, Lynn was standing at the foot of three steps leading up to the temporary stage that had been erected at the far end of the quadrangle lawn. It had a podium and three chairs, one of which was currently occupied by the commencement speaker. Standing behind the podium at the microphone was the dean of students. She was reading the names of the graduates, who had been organized alphabetically for the ceremony. Each time she read the name, the student mounted the steps and was given his or her diploma by the dean of the school. To expedite the process, the five students soon to be called were waiting at the steps so that they would be available instantly. Lynn was next, as Harold Parker, the classmate alphabetically ahead of her, was just being handed his certificate.
Lynn turned to look out over the audience. Hundreds of folding chairs had been placed in rows in front of the stage. All were filled. There were even people standing at the very rear. From where Lynn was standing, she could see her mother, two sisters, and all four grandparents in the row immediately behind the first two rows reserved for the graduates. When her mother saw her glance in her direction, she waved. Self-consciously, Lynn half waved back. She was pleased they had all come to Charleston to celebrate her achievement, but she knew it was going to be a strain after the ceremony because all the fanfare was magnifying her sense of personal loss. After all that had recently happened, she didn’t feel like celebrating.
“Miss Lynn Peirce,” the dean of students an
nounced. “Academically first in the class.”
Dutifully, Lynn climbed the few steps and approached the dean of the school. There was a smattering of applause and even a few whistles, even though the audience had been asked to hold applause until all students had been given their diplomas.
“Miss Peirce!” Dean English said sternly, far enough away from the microphone so that no one else could hear. Then her face brightened. “Congratulations!” She handed Lynn her diploma, but then held on to it, reminding Lynn of Siri Erikson, who currently was one of the people indicted as a key player in the conspiracy. It had been uncovered that she had been behind perfecting the method of creating human hybridomas with herself as a test subject and then using the technique on dozens upon dozens of Mason-Dixon inpatients and the entire population of the Shapiro Institute.
“There is a proverb,” the dean continued, “about curiosity killing the cat, which I personally have never supported. You have succeeded in justifying my position by totally debunking it. Myself, the school, the Medical Center, and the profession of medicine thank you for what your curiosity uncovered.”
“You’re welcome,” Lynn said, nonplussed. She had not expected the dean would say anything other than “Congratulations,” as she had done with the other students.
The dean continued to hold on to Lynn’s diploma, surprising Lynn further. “I’ve made some calls to colleagues up north on your behalf,” she went on. “Although we will be honored to have you as a resident here, I’ve been told that you might prefer Boston. If that is something you are interested in, please come and see me.” She then smiled and let go of the diploma.
“Thank you,” Lynn said simply, even more taken aback. She started off the stage as she heard the next student’s name called out over the loudspeakers. “Michael Pender. Number two academically and the other twin.”