Authors: Todd Borg
“I grew up in California. I had a good childhood. But when I was eight, my mother took her life. And with her life she took most of me. Ever since, I’ve felt as if I was only going through the motions. I’ve suffered the same darkness as she did. I would give my life to have her back for one day. Even in my veterinary practice, I was consumed with my loss. Every little dog or cat that I saved, I pretended it was my mother I was saving.
“I’ve never been to Europe, never been to the Basque country. But those Basque teenagers destroyed my life just as thoroughly as they destroyed my mother.
“Then along came Martin. Ironically, his mother was Basque. Our marriage didn’t last. But Martin made it worth it. Finally, I had some joy back in my life. And he was the embodiment of my mother. He looked like her. He talked like her. He moved like her. He smelled like her.
“Then he got cancer. This time, the darkness came for me worse than before. A bone marrow transplant was the only thing that could save him. But there was no match. We scoured the data banks. We hired a blood research lab to focus on our problem. The blood researchers told us that the best marrow donor would be type O negative, which is somewhat rare among most people but very common among the Basque.
“The researchers also identified several other specific components we had to match if Martin was to have the best chance of survival.
“So my genius was to talk Robert Whitehall into medical philanthropy. I told him about how Basque people had unusual blood and unusual DNA, different than all the people of the world. I told him that if researchers had more information about Basque people, it would hugely expand science and benefit all of mankind. I suggested that Whitehall fund medical services in communities where Basque lived. The stipulation to participating doctors was that they had to forward blood work information as part of the research project.
“When Whitehall agreed, I picked the communities where his foundation would offer his services. I even worked with his foundation’s secretary and helped him send out the proposals. We focused on several communities that had a good number of Basque people.
“Then, when we began to receive the blood work information on large numbers of people, I forwarded it on to the blood researchers we’d hired.
“Whitehall’s foundation performed an enormous service to the medical world. Not only did we find Paco, who is a perfect match for Martin, but we provided valuable information to the medical research community.
“I was able to strike up a relationship with Paco’s mother, become one of her customers, and learn more about her and the boy.
“Of course, hiring a research lab took a lot of money, but I figured out a great way to play the stock market by learning where Tahoe business people traveled and then researching what that might indicate about their companies. I had Cassie include information on Robert Whitehall’s movements. Of course, I already knew his travel plans, but it seemed a good way to keep me above suspicion. I made a lot of money playing the market with Cassie’s information, enough to pay for all of Martin’s medical care.
“It could have been so simple. After I’d developed a relationship with Cassie, I pretended to be one of the researchers and contacted her about further testing for Paco. She said that the research data that Dr. Mendoza forwarded to the foundation was supposed to be anonymous. So I explained that a person’s life was at stake. Even so, she evaded me. I knew the real reason why. She worried that Paco would be identified as an illegal alien and deported.
“That woman put immigration issues in the way of saving a man’s life!”
Garcia was panting. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly.
The room wavered. It looked like he would fall off his chair.
“So my choice was simple. After Franco killed so many Basque, the Basque took my grandparents’ lives and in the process destroyed my mother’s and mine. Now the Basque will give life back by saving Martin.
“At every step, people have gotten in the way, tried to keep me from having the most basic thing, life for my loved ones. Now I have taken control. I will do what I have to do.
“You should know that I offered Cassie a very large sum of money. All she had to do was let Paco be a donor. The operation would have been done by the best surgeons and taken place in the best hospital.
“But she said no. She didn’t trust me. She didn’t trust the immigration police. She didn’t trust our country.
“I didn’t want Cassie to die. But she left me no choice. So, using my travel/investment pseudonym of John Mitchell, I called her and set up a meeting. Then I had those men go to that meeting in place of me. They were to take care of her and bring me Paco. What a joke. I found out that the boy was more than a match for the men I hired. Good genes in that boy!” Garcia looked over at Paco who squirmed on the gurney. “But now I finally have him.”
I tried to speak, tried to say something that might slow him down, give me and Paco a little more time, but it came out as a long grunt with saliva sputtering off my buzzing lips.
“Martin is dying,” Garcia said as if in response to my gibberish. “There is no time left to wait and do yet more paperwork and get permissions and find an appropriate treatment facility. I’ve done bone marrow transplants on dogs. I’ve done kidney transplants. It is one of the simpler organ transplants. The internal organs of humans are quite similar to those of dogs.
“Unfortunately, Mr. McKenna, you have gotten in my way. But you will be gone, soon. The amount of ketamine in your system is fatal. And no one will find your body.
“I know a very nasty secret about a man who is the manager of a rendering plant. In exchange for my silence, he will arrange for you to join the cattle carcasses and other euthanized animals that are the supply line for his factory. They make a special meat and bone meal that is used in fuel for power plants. The efficiency achieved in burning this material is right up there with fossil fuels, yet it’s all recycled. It’s a really marvelous way to utilize a resource that is normally wasted. Your dried tissues and ground bones will eventually help run our electric lights and charge our smart phones.
“And, while I’m hoping that the boy survives this operation, the risk is substantial. If he doesn’t make it, he will join you, recycled for a better world.”
The computer printer made the sudden soft noise of pulling a sheet into the machinery. It began printing. Garcia picked up the sheet as it came out of the printer. He angled it toward the light to read it.
“Excellent,” he said. “The test results on Martin.” He looked at the paper. “Perfect. His cancer is gone, destroyed by the massive chemo treatment. Of course, that means his bone marrow is destroyed, too. This is the break point. From this point, Martin either lives and gets better, or he dies soon. No more purgatory. It is time to begin the process of saving his life.
“In the hospital, they begin the transfer of bone marrow as they are simultaneously doing the kidney transplant. However, I am just one doctor. So I’ll remove the boy’s bone marrow first, put it into Martin’s drip, and then remove the boy’s kidney.
“First, I’ll prepare the boy.”
Garcia rolled Paco’s gurney over near Martin’s. Paco strained at the straps holding him, his eyes frantic, his panicked cries barely coming through the tape over his mouth.
Garcia raised Paco’s gurney up several inches. He opened a drawer in a rolling cart and pulled out a 5 inch-long needle as thick as a 16-penny nail. It had a red plastic, pistol-grip handle. Garcia set it on a tray. Next to it he set a syringe without a needle attached.
He reached into another drawer, pulled out a bottle and checked the label. From the same drawer, he took a small syringe with needle attached. He inserted the needle into the bottle and drew out liquid.
This was the moment. I needed to rise beyond the constraints of the drug in my body. I couldn’t talk, and my eyes saw everything in two images that wouldn’t come together. But I thought I could roll off the cabinet and let my upper body fall to the floor.
Maybe I could make it a controlled fall. A fall with forward momentum. If I could will my legs to make one or two steps, I might make it to Paco. But I was so light-headed that I thought I’d faint.
I remembered from my cop days something a medical instructor said. She told us that if you are wounded and suffering from trauma, you can sometimes avoid passing out by simply bearing down and clenching your abdominal muscles as if you’re about to cough. The tension keeps your blood pressure up and helps maintain blood flow to your brain.
One other thought came through from a decade or more in the past. A fight instructor had spoken about the power of a roar. His example was lions and elephants who can immobilize most creatures with a simple thundering vocalization. Although I couldn’t speak, if I could make a loud noise while I made some kind of movement, maybe I could distract Garcia from his deed.
I shut my eyes and tried to contract my core muscles like I was doing abdominal crunches. Then I twisted my legs, rolled off the cabinet, and fell to the floor.
FIFTY-TWO
I landed with my left foot forward and my right foot back. My right knee smashed onto concrete. I spread my arms out and down, fingers splayed, hoping to catch myself if I fell sideways. Yet I had no clue whether I was listing sideways or not. My focus was on clenching my gut, keeping up the inner tension, trying to maintain consciousness.
With the focus that comes from outrage, I pulled my arms in and tightened my muscles as if to prepare for the most intense cough of my life. In an explosion of movement, I shot up with a roar.
Garcia jerked back, fear in his eyes. He raised his arms in defense. I slammed into him like a thrown hay bale. He was knocked back. The syringe and bottle flew out of his hands. He hit a counter, spun, and fell to the floor.
The impact bounced me toward Paco. I had no balance, no strength in my legs. My momentum pushed Paco’s gurney to the side, and I fell across him, my body draping his. I knew he couldn’t breathe with two hundred-plus pounds on his chest and belly. But I didn’t attempt to push up, didn’t even think I could push up. The most important thing was to unstrap Paco’s wrists.
I squinted, trying to see, rolling on Paco’s little ribs, crushing him, feeling for his arm.
My hands found Paco’s wrist. I couldn’t focus on the strap. Couldn’t see. My fingers were frantic blind crabs, grasping, groping, feeling for the catch. I got it unhooked, pulled the strap away.
Again I clenched my gut, trying to send blood pressure to my brain, trying to stay conscious. I shifted, reached toward Paco’s other wrist. Found the strap.
Other hands grabbed mine.
Garcia’s fingers were like steel claws digging into the backs of my hands. I worked the catch as Garcia raked my skin with his fingernails. The strap on Paco’s other wrist felt different than the first. It wouldn’t come free. I realized I was facing the other way. I was pulling it the wrong direction.
My vision went dark. I clenched and tensed and coughed out another bark, and it brought me back just a bit. My hands were dark red. Garcia was gouging me down to the bone.
The catch came free.
I summoned one last roar as I slid off Paco. My hands found Garcia’s clothes. I grabbed through slippery fabric, gripped the flesh of Garcia’s thigh as if to tear it from bone.
The darkness came back. I couldn’t see. But I could feel the pull of gravity as I slid off of Paco. I weighed a thousand pounds. I had no more strength to resist my fall. But I could still hang onto Garcia. I could take him down with me. Give Paco a moment to free himself from the other straps and the tape on his mouth...
I never felt the impact of the floor, but I became aware of it, cold and hard against my cheek. The salty taste of blood was on my tongue where I’d bit through it. The left sides of my lips were smashed.
My hands were empty. No fabric. No hard marathon runner’s muscles under my fingers.
I clenched my gut and coughed, tried to hang onto fleeting consciousness.
Soft sounds of struggle came from behind me. I managed to roll. The rushed slaps of small shoes on concrete made a staccato rhythm, mimicked by heavier footsteps. A door opened to the distant sounds of traffic out on Lake Tahoe Boulevard.
I turned and saw Paco pushing the latch on the heavy double door, his tiny weight barely able to budge it. Garcia was running toward him, syringe raised in the air. Paco turned sideways to slip through the narrow opening. As Garcia lunged toward Paco, his arm bumped the light switch. The room went black except for the dim glow coming in from the wet street.
I summoned a last, shouted, garbled exhalation.
“DODGE, PACO! DODGE!”
Paco got through the door.
Garcia reached it, pushed it open, and stabbed the needle into Paco’s back as Paco spun away. Garcia slipped and fell on the wet concrete. Paco bolted toward the street. Garcia pushed up with the spring of a much younger man and sprinted after him.
The footsteps receded. The door shut with a blast of cold air washing over me. The room went black, replaced by the vision of the old man sticking the syringe into the little boy as the boy got away. I tried to visualize, tried to remember if Garcia had been able to push the syringe’s plunger in or not. But my brain was shrouded in fog.