Authors: John Locke
Bad Doctor (12 page)
THE BIGGEST SURPRISE is the Dayton cops buy our story, even the bogus part, with few questions asked.
A quick call to the Cincinnati police tells them what kind of person Bobby was.
They totally believe I tried to leave two thousand dollars at the Firefly Lounge for the girls in hopes of getting in their pants tonight, after getting lap dances last night, and totally believe Bobby caught me there, beat me up, tossed me in the trunk, and stole my car.
They believe Bobby’s friend, Mark Boner, met him at the club and drove his motorcycle home. Mark confirmed it, though he denied knowledge of my being in the trunk.
They believe Bobby bought heroin, cocaine, and Black Stone powder from Chuckie the dealer, who’s well-known to both police departments.
They believe Bobby drove to Cameron’s house and forced his way into Willow’s car, and expect that to be corroborated by neighborhood witnesses.
They believe Bobby forced Willow and Cameron to go to Maggie’s Farm with him, and have no problem with our story of how he shot Cameron when she tried to get away to avoid being raped.
They believe Bobby accidentally shot himself and tried to stop the bleeding by pressing nutmeg into his wounds.
And they believe after Bobby died, Willow opened the trunk of the Mercedes and let me out so I could save Cameron’s life. Side note: hospital surgery personnel tell police they’ve never seen such a remarkable surgery performed under field conditions at dusk, not even counting the fact my eyes were so swollen I could barely see.
After getting my broken nose set and bandaged and my cuts cleaned and stitched, I camp out in Cameron’s hospital room to ensure her safety. She’s groggy, mumbling incoherently. Thinks she’s going to die.
“You’ll be fine,” I say.
“Need to…change my life around,” she says.
“That’s probably true.”
“God’s punishing me…for what I did. Need to…confess…before I die.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Cameron. And you’re not going to die as long as you don’t eat anything here, and make sure everyone washes their hands before touching you.”
Dayton police take a quick trip with Willow to Maggie’s farm, recover Bobby’s gun, ask a few more questions, and shoot some photos, including two of the gun in the grass, two of Bobby’s face, four of his leg wound, and a hundred forty-seven photos of his penis. Then they bring Willow back to the hospital, where she spends the night with Cameron and me.
Cameron’s pissed because I won’t allow her to eat anything. She’s lucid enough to ask me to step out of the room so she and Willow can talk in private. I oblige them, but when I return I ask, “Did you eat anything?”
“You’re so paranoid!” Willow says.
“I work in a hospital, remember?”
“You’re a nut!” Cameron says.
“Just don’t eat anything.”
“Do I look like I eat much?”
No, she doesn’t.
By noon the next day the cops say we’re free from suspicion. The swelling around my eyes has reduced enough to permit limited vision, so I take the opportunity to drive Willow back to Ream’s Park in Cincinnati to get her car. When I try to hug her goodbye she slaps my face.
I don’t blame her. If I hadn’t come into her life Thursday night none of this would have happened.
I drive to the nearest phone store, buy a new cell phone, drop my rental car off at the airport, and fly back to New York City.
The next morning our hospital administrator, Bruce Luce, tells me what a joy it was to hear from the Dayton police that I paid for lap dances at a night club and attempted to solicit two strippers for prostitution.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” I ask
“Can you even operate with those eyes?” he says.
“It doesn’t matter. The kid’s a goner either way.”
“Have I told you lately how uplifting it is to talk to you?”
“Many times. Are we on for tomorrow?”
“Eight a.m., subject to Lilly being cleared for surgery.”
“What you mean is, subject to our doctors giving up all hope by midnight.”
“You’re an arrogant prick,” Bruce says. “And you want to know something? You’re not half as good as you think you are.”
“If that’s true, Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux can save a ton of money.”
“Why’s that?”
“Caskets are cheaper than hospital wings.”
“You’re a disgrace to your profession,” he says.
“Except when I’m saving the kids you gave up on.”
“Even then.”
“Thank you. May I go now?”
“After you meet the nurses who’ll assist you.”
“My regulars refused?”
“They not only refused, we had to pay them a settlement to keep them from suing you in open court.”
“They were bluffing.”
“Listen up, doctor. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else on earth, but one of the new nurses is a rare beauty.”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“You’re supposed to behave. We can’t afford a sexual harassment lawsuit.”
“Whatever you think of me, I’ve never touched a nurse in this hospital, and never will.”
“You can no longer speak to them the way you have in the past.”
“I’m trying to save lives here, not spare feelings.”
“You’re on the verge of losing your career.”
“Not if I keep winning.”
“Winning?” he says.
He gives me a long look. “You’re one dead patient away from losing your job.”
“What if it’s the nurses’ fault? I’ve never worked with them before. What if they suck?”
“That’s pretty much on you, isn’t it?”
“I’m telling you right now, I don’t trust a pretty nurse.”
“This nurse isn’t pretty, she’s drop-dead gorgeous, and has stronger credentials than anyone we’ve ever employed. You will
not
insult her.”
OLDER PEOPLE KNOW exactly where they were and what they were doing the moment they heard President Kennedy was shot. Younger ones remember the terrorist attacks of 9/11. And everyone remembers their first love.
I’m in the cafeteria, eating a cup of vanilla pudding, when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walks over to my table, sits down, and extends her hand.
“Hello, Dr. Box,” she says in a voice I’m certain will haunt me the rest of my life.
I take her hand, and a current of energy flows through my body.
“You’re my new assistant?” I ask.
“One of them,” she says.
“Your name?”
“Rose.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rose.”
“Thank you, Dr. Box.”
“Have the gods seen fit to give you a last name?”
“Stout.”
“Rose
Stout
?”
She nods.
“A misnomer if ever I heard one,” I say. “What’s that you’re holding?”
“Birch bark tea,” she says.
“Is it good?”
“It’s ghastly.”
I laugh. “Then why drink it?”
“It’s not for me, it’s for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not a tea drinker.”
She places the cup on the table in front of me. “Drink this now, while I watch. I’ll brew you some more every four hours. By morning you’ll feel like a new man.”
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Quite.”
“Three things,” I say. “First, I don’t believe in homeopathic remedies. Second, it concerns me greatly that a nurse I’m relying on
does
believe in something the entire scientific community has disproved time and again. And third, you won’t be brewing tea for me every four hours because I’m heading home soon and you have no idea where I live.”
She pats my hand, stands, and takes the empty cup away.
“See you soon, Dr. Box,” she says.
Empty cup?
ROSE AND MELBA are CVOR registered nurses, trained to assist surgeons, perfusionists, and anesthesiologists in a cardiovascular operating room.
“Rose,” I say.
“Yes sir?”
“Let’s hear your background.”
“Two years CVOR, first assist, two years CVICU.”
“Where?”
“Cleveland Clinic.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s on my resume.”
“Why would you switch from intensive care to operating room?”
“Better pay, better hours.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Apparently they’re having problems finding CVOR nurses to work with you.”
“You’re first assist?”
“I am.”
“You can’t possibly be more than thirty.”
“I can be as old as I like.”
That strikes me as an odd thing to say.
“Tell me more about your training.”
“I’m a three-category APRN with four years CNOR and CVOR experience.”
“Which three categories?”
“CNM, NP and CNS. As a nurse leader.”
“And you received your MSN from?”
“Johns Hopkins.”
What she’s saying, she’s an advanced practice registered nurse certified to assist in cardio-vascular operating rooms and intensive care units. She’s also a certified nurse midwife, a nurse practitioner, and a clinical nurse specialist, who happened to receive her master of science in nursing from Johns Hopkins, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Oh, and she did four years at the Cleveland Clinic, arguably the finest heart care facility on the planet earth. If her credentials are to be believed, she is, quite possibly, the most highly-trained nurse in the world.
Did I mention she’s breathtakingly beautiful?
I absorb all this without so much as raising an eyebrow, as if all my nurses share her credentials. Then say, “Do you happen to have any experience with children?”
“If it makes a difference, I’m also a PPCNP.”
“What’s that?”
“A pediatric primary care nurse practitioner.”
“Do tell.”
Melba says, “Did you have any questions for me, Dr. Box?”
“Yes, and please be candid.”
“I’m always candid, Dr. Box.”
“That’s refreshing to hear.”
“Your question, doctor?”
“Have you been warned about me?”
“In what way?”
“In any way.”
“I’ve been told you’re a genius, and that your manner is sometimes unorthodox.”
“Did they mention I’m likely to call you names and curse my patients?”
“The topic was broached.”
“Were you paid not to report any verbal abuse?”
She looks at Rose.
Rose says, “Melba and I signed statements saying we understand we’ll be subjected to intense verbal abuse in the OR including but not limited to coarse, vulgar language and verbal sexual harassment.”
“I’m not supposed to know that, am I?”
“No you’re not. But you asked. And we’re working with you, not Mr. Luce.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t believe in having secrets in the OR.”
“Melba?”
“Sir?”
“I assume you’ve been generously compensated?”
“I have no complaints.”
Rose says, “Melba and I are receiving top pay times two based on our qualifications. We work no holidays and no more than four 12-hour shifts per week. We’re not exclusive to you, but your surgeries trump all others. Unless we’re assisting you, our shifts are daytime only, and we receive three day weekends.”
After picking my jaw up from the floor, I ask, “Who the hell negotiated your contracts? Lucifer?”
“Me,” Rose says.
“And you’ve worked together before?”
“No. But Melba’s top notch.”
“How do you know that?”
“I personally recruited her.”
“What if one of you gets sick?”
“Do
you
get sick?” Rose says.
“No.”
“Neither do we.”
“Is it just the two of you?”
“You won’t need any additional nurses.”
“With all due respect, you’ve never assisted these types of patients.”
“With all due respect, you’ve never worked with us.”
“There’s no room for error.”
“We’ll hold you to the same standard,” she says, coolly.
God, she’s pretty!
I’M HOME BY two, and for some reason I’m incredibly drowsy. I’d take a nap, but don’t want to be up all night. Nevertheless, within fifteen minutes I find myself unable to fight it any longer. I set my clock for four p.m., and lie down.
When the alarm goes off, it’s five-fifteen a.m.
I’m positive I set it for four in the afternoon. But if my alarm clock is to be trusted, I’ve slept fifteen hours straight! I check my computer for the day and date.
I slept fifteen hours.
But there’s more. When I went to bed my eyes were swollen half shut. Now I can see clearly. And my ribs, while sore, feel ten times better than they did yesterday.
I check myself in the mirror and can’t believe the face staring back at me. Other than some slight bruising, I look perfectly normal.
My first thought is Rose’s birch bark tea. Could it have possibly worked?
No. I only drank one cup.
If I drank any at all.
Rose claimed I needed a cup every four hours, and clearly that didn’t happen.
A quick breakfast, shave, shower, and then I’m at the hospital telling Bruce Luce I refuse to meet Dublin and Austin Devereaux before or after the surgery.
“What sort of name is Dublin, anyway?” I say.
“God, I hate dealing with you,” Bruce says. “Why must we go through this every time? Their child’s life is in your hands. They need reassurance. They want to believe in the surgeon performing the operation. If you had a child you’d understand. Believe me, I wish they didn’t have to meet you. I’d love to help the hospital get an advanced radiation oncology wing.”
“You would?”
“Does it surprise you to hear some of us want this hospital to flourish?”
I stroll into the conference room with Security Joe, nod at Nurse Sally, and introduce myself to Austin and Dublin Devereaux.
Austin gets right to the point. “Dr. Box, I want you to know we treasure our daughter’s life more than anything in the world. I want her to have the best. Whatever she needs, okay?”
“Money’s no object, right?” I say, taking note of Nurse Sally’s clenched fists.
“That’s correct, doctor.”
Dublin Devereaux is different. Her attitude takes me by surprise.
“How long will this take?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Luce said it could take six to eight hours. I’d like to be here when she comes out of surgery.”
“You’re going somewhere?”
She looks at her husband.
“Well, there’s not much we can do here, is there?”
“There’s not much I can do here either. Where are you going? Bridge club? Lawn party? Wine tasting? Maybe I’ll come with you.”
“
Excuse
me?” Austin says.
“What Dr. Box means,” a voice behind me says, “your presence here isn’t necessary.”
I turn to see Rose Stout standing behind me. She looks radiant, full of life, and just as beautiful in scrubs as she was in street clothes yesterday.
Rose says, “It doesn’t matter where you folks are. What’s important is what’s happening in the OR. Dublin, you’re a new mother. You should take this opportunity to get some rest. Take your mind off the surgery. Leave the worrying to us. In four hours your baby will be the picture of health.”
“Glory hallelujah!” Nurse Sally says.
I look at Rose in disbelief. Did she just promise we’d save their child?
“You’re that certain she’ll pull through?” Austin says.
“You have my word,” Rose says. “Take it to the bank.”
Sally waves her hand above her like a celestial benchpress.
“Lord Jesus, come
take
me now
!” she wails.
“Am I missing something?” Austin says. “We’ve been told Lilly’s chances of surviving the operation were less than five percent.”
“Try zero,” I say.
“Oh, pooh!” Rose says.
“Pooh?”
“Dr. Box is the finest surgeon on earth. He’ll save your daughter, and when he does, you’ll donate funding for the new oncology wing, correct?”
“Well…”
Rose puts her hand on his wrist and says, “You’ll donate twenty million dollars to the hospital today.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Austin?” Dublin says.
“I need to call Ben Cooper,” Austin says.
“Who’s that?”
“Our banker, hon.”
