Resuscitation
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright ©2011 D.M. Annechino
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN: 978-1-61218-071-7
This one’s for you, Mom.
In loving memory of Josephine DiMarco-Montinarelli.
CONTENTS
When Genevieve Foster awoke, she felt completely disoriented, like someone regaining consciousness after major surgery and a heavy dose of anesthesia. She lay on the bed, having no idea where she was or how she got there. When she tried to brush the hair out of her eyes, she found that her wrists were bound to a brass headboard with nylon straps. She lifted her throbbing head and could see that her ankles were also bound to the bed. She lay there spread-eagle. Next to the bed, she noticed the silhouette of an IV bag hanging from a metal pole. The line from the IV was inserted into the vein at the bend of her left elbow. Except for a thin sheet covering her from neck to toe, she was completely naked.
This
can’t
be happening
.
The only light in the room spilled in from passing cars, their headlights flashing across the floor-to-ceiling windows just long enough for Genevieve to get a glimpse of her surroundings. The room looked big, perhaps a loft, or maybe a small warehouse. By the volume of cars passing by, she guessed that she was in a populated area. Lying still, listening closely, she could hear what she believed was a refrigerator humming in the background. And somewhere on the other side of the room, she heard the steady rhythm of a clock.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
She felt as if the clock warned her of impending danger.
She closed her eyes and tried to piece together the hazy fragments of images floating around in her head. She looked to her left, then right, searching for something that might trigger her memory. But she saw no one and felt completely alone, isolated from the world. Strangely, she thought about the Tom Hanks movie,
Castaway
. Although she was not stranded on a deserted island like he had been, this dark, eerie prison seemed as lifeless.
Who would rescue
her?
Breathing deeply, sucking in short, quivering gulps of air, she evoked every ounce of willpower to stay awake. Falling asleep was the last thing she wanted. She guessed that the IV was more than saline because as terrified as she was, she seemed way too composed for the situation. Shouldn’t she be screaming her throat raw? Her body shivered uncontrollably, reminding her of a chilly November morning when her brother had double-dog-dared her to take a quick dip in the sixty-degree Pacific Ocean. Never one to back down from a challenge, a tomboy in every respect, Genevieve accepted the dare and not only went into the water, she swam to the end of Crystal Pier and back. Twice. So chilled was she that she couldn’t stop shaking for more than an hour. Right now, at this exact moment, she would gladly trade her situation for a long swim in icy water.
Lying quietly, trying to suppress her utter feeling of helplessness, she vaguely recalled a sandy beach, watching the sun set, a handsome face. But none of those things fit together. There were far too many voids in her memory. About to surrender to the effects of the potent drug flowing through the IV, she heard the familiar sound of a key unlocking a deadbolt. Her head snapped toward the door, eyes suddenly alert and probing. A rectangular block of light flooded the hardwood floors, but only for a moment.
Darkness fell again.
Then, Genevieve Foster heard the most terrifying sound of all: heavy footsteps moving toward her.
He sat at the bar sipping his second glass of Johnny Walker Blue, searching for the courage he needed to do the unthinkable.
Unthinkable
? Wasn’t there a word in the English language that would more accurately describe what he was about to do? He let the smooth Scotch reward his taste buds before taking a long, silky swallow. At two hundred dollars a bottle, it was worth every penny. Thinking about the events over the last several weeks, the life-changing letter he’d received from GAFF, the Global A-Fib Foundation, he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. But what choice did he have? They had driven him to this crossroad. Here he sat, sipping Scotch at Tony’s Bar & Grill as if it were happy hour on a Friday afternoon, when in reality, his intentions were far from lighthearted banter with his colleagues. Although he had worked with hundreds of volunteers, Julian’s research findings were still limited. He had explored every possible solution, but no other option could solve his problem. His only hope to complete the research was to work on live subjects with no limitations. The decision had not come easily. After all, he was a healer, an esteemed cardiologist, not a murderer. But drastic situations often call for drastic remedies.
When he received the certified letter, at first he thought that the board of directors at GAFF were satisfied with the data from his research and had approved the ten-million-dollar grant. The first two paragraphs brought him to his knees.
“
Our committee painstakingly reviewed your research data and the statistics associated with the controlled study to develop new surgical treatments for atrial fibrillation. Although groundbreaking in some respects, we found the data insufficient to approve your grant. To be specific, the test results you submitted that support modifications to the current catheter ablation and Maze III procedures are incomplete, and we do not agree with your findings that the use of amiodarone in doses less than 200 milligrams can be effective. In light of your impressive efforts, however, we are pleased to offer you a six-month extension to complete and resubmit additional findings, at which time we will reevaluate.
“
Enclosed please find a comprehensive summary of the data we require to reconsider your application.
”
Two years of long workdays, sleepless nights, neglecting his family, and setback after setback, and all he had to show for his efforts was a two-page letter that undermined his hard work.
After carefully reading the comments detailing the additional data they required, Julian concluded that he would need eight subjects to fulfill the GAFF request. At first, he had thought about using his own patients. After all, he archived every detail of their medical histories and could hand-select each of them based on specific parameters. But what would happen if his patients went missing, and the police investigated and connected the dots? He would be the common denominator. No, he did not have the luxury to select perfect specimens. Having no other choice, he had to rely on instincts and random selection in his search for ideal subjects. However, through the strategic use of medication and careful surgical procedures, he could produce just about any symptom or condition he needed to compile the data he sought.
Julian didn’t feel comfortable sitting in this bar. He was out of his element. But he thought of it as a means to an end. The popular hot spot in the Gaslamp District of downtown San Diego pulsed with a rowdy crowd and made it easier for him to remain inconspicuous—just a face in the crowd.
