Doing Harm (25 page)

Besides, although I’m relatively well rested this morning, my mind sharper than it has been in weeks after nearly twelve hours of unbroken sleep, I also feel like someone has driven a large metal spike through the center of my skull—a painful calling card from yesterday’s beer binge.

I call Luis early, tell him I’m not going to meet with them this morning, and instruct him to just handle everything himself this morning for the patients. He grunts his acknowledgment and hangs up.

Luis.
Alone in the OR changing room, brooding, I shake my head as I pop a couple of Advil, deposit my street clothes into my locker, and change into scrubs.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have just told him everything like that on a drunken whim? What did I possibly hope to accomplish? He must think I’m hopelessly delusional.

And why not? It’s a perfectly reasonable assumption. If our positions were reversed, and he confided to me that a star medical student was actually a ruthless murderer of patients trying to advance her career, I’d think he was, medically speaking, out of his
fucking
mind. Or maybe making some kind of sick joke.

I slam the locker door closed.

I feel like a complete ass. The only question now is what Luis will do with the information. Will he tell everyone I’ve gone off the deep end? Or report it to Dr. Collier as some kind of weird paranoid behavior? I honestly wouldn’t blame him if he did. In fact, going to Dr. Collier might work out nicely for him. Earnestly confiding to the boss that he’s really worried about my mental health might help absolve him of his role in the potassium incident. Unfortunately, it would also erase any shred of credibility I have left and send my career into a complete tailspin.

Or would he tell GG?

That last thought gives me pause.

I’ve never really stopped to consider their relationship. GG and Luis have worked together a lot, undoubtedly sharing meals and long hours in the hospital the way she and I did. Has she played Luis the way she’s played me, I wonder?

And what did GG say to me on Saturday?

Asking for help will earn you a penalty.

What the hell did she mean by that? I suppress a shudder and decide not to dwell on it, at least for now. What’s done is done. I’ll just have to see how things develop and make it up as I go along.

Later that morning, as Jason predicted, the Safety Committee issues its final report on Mr. Bernard’s death. Quietly, of course. There aren’t any public announcements, only a stern lecture from Dr. Collier, who, waving a copy of the report in front of my face as I’m sitting on his couch that afternoon between surgeries, informs me that, effective immediately, I’ll be “standing down” from the operating room for the next several weeks. I’m forbidden from operating on patients in University Hospital. I’ll also be temporarily removed from my position as Luis’s boss and won’t be routinely rounding on our patients.

In place of my usual duties, Dr. Collier tells me, I’ll be temporarily reassigned to the outpatient clinic (replacing Luis, in fact) while I take the Safety Committee–mandated remedial coursework through an online system directed by University Medical School. Perversely, it’ll be like a vacation—because the Safety Committee is restricting my activity, and clinic is only one day per week, and the course work will only be a few hours per day, I’m going to have a lot of time on my hands. The most I’ve had in years.

Dr. Collier makes it absolutely clear that any reluctance on my part to participate in any part of this plan will result in the immediate termination of my employment at University—a black mark beyond black marks. My surgical career would be over.

What else can I do but bend over, grab my ankles, and take it? Some illogical part of me, a hopelessly optimistic ember, burning God knows where deep in my consciousness, thinks I can still ride this whole thing out if I play my cards right. The trouble is, I really don’t have any cards right now. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to play them.

After my meeting with Dr. Collier, I trudge listlessly upstairs to my locker to change out of my scrubs. I spin the combination, tug the lock open, and open the door.

A folded piece of paper drops out of the locker and floats to the floor.

Curious, I pick it up and read the four, neat, hand-printed lines.

The Old Crow.

Financial District.

7 PM tonight.

Tell no one.

What the hell?

I look around the locker room, but it’s empty except for me.

*   *   *

I pause just inside the threshold of the Old Crow and survey the dimly lit room, squinting into the semidarkness. The bar is small, with an upscale-pub kind of vibe, and is pretty packed—a white-collar, postwork crowd by the looks of it, intermixed with some college kids. A Red Sox game is playing on several flat-screen TVs.

After several minutes, I finally spot him sitting on a barstool next to a high table in a far-flung corner of the room opposite the entrance. His back is to a wall, and he’s facing me. A Red Sox baseball cap partly obscures his face. I note that half the guys in the place are wearing Red Sox caps; and, for some odd reason, even though he didn’t wave or otherwise overtly acknowledge my presence, I get the impression that the only reason why I’m able to pick him out from the crowd is because he allowed me to.

I weave my way through the throngs of tightly clustered twenty- and thirtysomethings and approach the table, on which sits a half-eaten plate of french fries and a glass of soda.

“Hi.”

Luis inclines his chin incrementally. “You’re late.”

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

His gaze remains fixed on the door through which I just walked. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t.” I had stared at that piece of paper for maybe thirty minutes, reading and rereading it, before finally making my decision. “I wanted to hear what you had to say.” I pull a barstool up to the table.

“Did you tell anyone where you were going tonight?”

“No.”

“Even your wife?”

“Nobody knows I’m here. Except you.”

“Have you told anyone else about GG and the potassium and Mr. Bernard?”

“No.”

“Were you followed?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know, Luis,” I snap. “Look. I got the message in my locker. So I’m here. Aren’t you being a little paranoid about this whole thing?”

He snorts and diverts his attention away from the front door just long enough to shoot me a disdainful look.

“GG murdered a patient right under our noses at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the world,” he growls. “
Our
hospital. She’s got you by the balls and, from what you told me, seems to be loving every minute of it. Personally, I don’t think I’m being paranoid enough.”

I flush and consider the underlying significance of this statement as he eats a french fry and takes a sip of the soda. “So … you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Really. Why?”

He pushes a sleek, silver-colored metallic object the size and shape of a man’s wallet across the table toward me. “I found this duct-taped to the underside of your car this afternoon. In the hospital parking lot.”

“How do you know what my car looks like? Or where it was parked?”

“Do you know what it is?”

“No.” I pick the silver thing up.

“A GPS tracking device. The nicer ones retail for about $175 on the Internet.”

My throat suddenly feels as if it’s been grabbed by a meaty pair of hands, and I struggle to draw a thin, reedy breath, as if trying to sip air through a straw. “What?”

“A GPS tracker. Did you put it there?”

“No.”

“Did your wife?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Well, someone’s interested in following you. My bet is GG.”

I stare at the device in my hand.

Son of a
bitch.

“You know, Steve,” Luis says matter-of-factly, reaching over and gently taking the tracker from me before placing it in his pocket. “I have to admit that yesterday I was a little … uh, doubtful when you first told me. I mean, a med student, a really good one, who’s actually a psychopath murdering patients to advance her own career? On the face of it, most people would say you’re either lying or need to be institutionalized.” He shrugs and chews on a fry. “But truth can be stranger than fiction. I’ve seen some pretty weird shit. And the sheer audacity of it makes it all the more credible—because, who would ever suspect her of being capable of such a thing? Of anyone’s being capable?”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “But the facts all fit. She was there when you gave me your ERIN password that morning in the cafeteria. She watched me write it down. I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time, your giving me your password—I mean, what the hell, we all do it. She was also there when you gave the order for the potassium. And she was the first one in the room when Mr. Bernard coded. Even before the code team.”

He pops another fry in his mouth, wipes his hand on the napkin, and drops it on the table in front of him. “I watched her today. Carefully. There’s no doubt in my mind she did it. Back in the day, when I was still in the Corps, I would have spotted her sooner.”

“What do you mean?”

He purses his lips. “Let’s just say that studying people was part of my job. I ran across quite a few characters like GG in my time. All over the world. Psychopaths. Murderers. People that I hoped to Christ I would never see the likes of again.”

I think again of the encrypted folder marked “Confidential” in his University Hospital personnel file. The more I get to know Luis, the more I wonder what’s in there. “People like who?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m not allowed to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it.” He shoves the plate of fries away. “What matters is that she’s given you a little under two weeks, and two weeks isn’t a hell of a lot of time to act. We have to jump on this now if we’re going to catch her.”

“Catch her? What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

He leans toward me, his voice low and barely audible over the wash of conversation, splashes of laughter, and intermittent cheers and groans around us as people take in the game. His eyes dart from me to the front door and back again. “I mean I want to help you. What do you think? Was she serious? Is she really going to kill someone else the way she said she would?”

I dare you to try to stop me, Steve.

I remember the look in her eyes: the cold, calculating, remorseless resolve.

Let’s make things more interesting.

Mr. Bernard was way too easy. I need a challenge.

“Yes. I think she was completely serious. I think she’s going to kill again. I think she wants me to try to stop her just for the sport of it and that she’s going to play by that bizarre set of rules she laid down.”

“In that case, she’s presented us with a golden opportunity.”

“To do what?”

“Beat her at her own game. Between the two of us, I’m convinced that we can outsmart her. Not only prevent her from murdering her next victim but gather the evidence we need to trap her. Catch her in the act, basically. But we need to work together. I propose a … partnership.”

“What kind of partnership?”

“She won’t suspect me. So I’ll follow her. Study her routines. Figure out what she’s been up to. Get to know her patterns. Meanwhile, you pretend to play her game. Get inside her head. Try to anticipate her next move. Identify her future victim.” He leans back. “What do you think?”

“How do we keep her from getting suspicious?”

Deep lines etch themselves across his brow. “She probably thinks you’re broken. Because you’ve had your balls served to you on a silver platter.” He glances at me thoughtfully. “Are you? Broken?”

“No.” I sound a lot more confident than I feel.

“Good. We can use that to our advantage. If she thinks you’re well and truly beaten, she might let her guard down. There’s a good chance her ego might blind her.” He pulls the baseball cap down a little more tightly over his face and looks up briefly at one of the TVs as jeers ring throughout the bar, presumably over some injustice visited upon the Sox. “Dr. Collier told me that he’s pulled you out of the OR for the next few weeks.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds sympathetic. “I really am, Steve. That sucks. I’m supposed to temporarily take over running the hospital service.”

“Yeah. And I’m supposed to run your Tuesday outpatient clinic.”

Luis looks pensive. “With GG.”

“What?”

“She goes to clinic on Tuesday mornings. Remember? We talked about it in the cafeteria, during her first day of the rotation. She’s been there every Tuesday this month, helping me out. Doing a hell of a job. Not surprisingly.”

Crap.
I’d completely forgotten about that. I sigh, squeeze my eyes shut, and rub my eyelids with my fingers. Just me and GG, working for hours together. Awkward, to say the least. The thought makes me queasy. Not from fear. I’m beyond fear, at this point. I mean, what the hell else can she do to me?

When I open my eyes, Luis is staring at me. “A prime opportunity for you to collect some intel.”

“What?”

“Intel. Intelligence. Information on her.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.” I scratch at a mark on the table.

He folds his arms and looks at me appraisingly for several long seconds. “So. What do you say? Are we working together on this?”

I wring my hands together and squirm in my seat. “I’m not so sure, Luis. I—I need some time to think.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You don’t have any time. If you didn’t want me to help you, then why did you bother to tell me about her in the first place?”

Because I was drunk and stupid.

“I—maybe I was just looking to confide in someone who I thought would understand.”

He scowls. “Bullshit. I’m not your priest, Steve. She’s going to kill again. And she’s going to do it soon. With or without you, I’m going to stop her.” He reaches for his wallet and begins to rise from the stool.