Shedrow

SHEDROW

A NOVEL

D
EAN
M. D
ELUKE

Publisher of Fine Books
www.greyswanpress.com

Copyright © 2010 by Dean M. DeLuke. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Grey Swan Press
www.greyswanpress.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Grey Swan Press hardcover edition, August 2010

100% acid-free paper
Printed in the United States

__________________

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010927308

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PERMISSIONS

Tell Me On A Sunday

From SONG & DANCE

Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber

Lyrics by Don Black

© Copyright 1979 Andrew Lloyd Webber licensed to The Really Useful Group

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International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved.

Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

Story of My Life

Words and Music by Jon Bon Jovi and Billy Falcon

© Copyright 2005 Universal – Polygram International Publishing, Inc., Bon Jovi

Publishing, Warner – Tamerlane Publishing Corp. and Pretty Blue Songs

All Rights for Bon Jovi Publishing Controlled and Administered by Universal – PolyGram

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All Rights Resered. Used by Permission.

Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

Headline and news article reprinted with the permission of the
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,
copyright 2007. Permission does not imply endorsement.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9800377-6-0

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

At the first writers workshop that I attended, a three day course given by Michael Palmer and Tess Gerritsen on medical fiction writing, Michael Palmer said of the writing process, “It’s hard work.” He was right, and my work was made lighter by many mentors and assistants, including the above two masters of the medical thriller. Another master, Robert Dugoni, was invaluable as well. All three authors take part in the SEAK Writing Seminars, the creation of Steven Babitsky, Esq.

Jim Thayer and Amy Wallen are both accomplished writers and wonderful teachers, and they critiqued portions of my work at various stages of development. I thank them for their patience and apologize for any stubbornness.

My wife Theresa faithfully read the first draft of every chapter, providing important first blush commentary and continuing encouragement.

My daughter Deanna, a voracious reader and gifted writer, has great editing instincts. She is as adept at finding the dropped comma as she is at prescribing plot refinement. She made this a better story before it ever met the critical eye of an agent or editor.

Mary Jane Howell is the Public Relations Director for Dogwood Stable. She has been around thoroughbred horses all her life, and she knows the business inside out. She was my first pick for an insider review, and I’m grateful for her assistance.

Many other friends and associates were kind enough to read my story prior to publication, and each of them provided meaningful appraisal: Barry Roy, Paul, Nick and Joe Madelone, Dr. Bret Gelder
and Dr. Agnes Gelder, Deborah Douglas, Bernard Conners, Dr. Robert Liebers and Dr. Susan DeLuke.

Special thanks to Gloria and Jocelyn Kelley of Kelley and Hall Book Publicity and to Monica Driver of Equus Media.

My father, Dr. Dominick DeLuke, smuggled me into Green Mountain Park to see my first horse race at the tender age of eleven, with a wink and a nod from the gate attendant—you had to be eighteen in those days at that particular race track. He later employed me on our farm in Chestertown, NY, during my high school and college years, at a time when he was a preeminent force in the breeding and the racing scene in New York, and I was just a college kid enjoying the horses.

W. Cothran Campbell is the founder of Dogwood Stable and the patriarch of the thoroughbred racing partnership. He has written three books on thoroughbred racing, chronicling a lifetime of people and places. His business model has been copied endlessly, but Cot continues to have that special knack for selecting a good horse at a moderate price. I’ve had the privilege of partnering on some of them.

Finally, for the cover, Barbara Livingston allowed me to use and modify her photo of Walsh, a Seattle Slew allowance horse, taken at trainer Pete Vestal’s barn. Additionally, her photo of a morning workout in the mist at Saratoga was used for the title page. Barbara is an enormously talented equine photographer and a delightful person.

I have come to learn a great deal about the horses, the people, and the sport of thoroughbred racing over the years. It is a wonderful sport with a rich history, colorful characters, and at its epicenter, the magnificent thoroughbred racehorse.

“And of all the nonsensical things—I keep thinking about
the horse!”
–
Equus
, Peter Shaffer

The blindfold was torn off Dr. Gianni’s eyes, and he squinted at the light, trying to focus on the two men who had dragged him from his office at gunpoint, thrown him into the back seat of a car, and transported him to the small room where he now sat. There were no windows, the only light coming from a bare bulb in a ceiling fixture. The walls were all cinder block, except for a metal garage door that had been closed behind them. The room seemed like part of a warehouse, or one of those self-storage units. With the blindfold off, Gianni could see a hint of sunlight where the cinder blocks abutted a tin roof.

Gianni was seated at a metal table, his hands bound behind his back. At one end of the table stood Sal Catroni. Unlike the other man, he wore no disguise. His longish hair was slicked back neatly, white at the sides, darker on top. His brow was furrowed in a scowl, amplifying the deep frown lines between his black-looking eyes.

Catroni spoke first. “You know who I am?” he said.

Gianni shook his head.

“I’m Sal Catroni, of the Catroni family, and this here is Hector. Hector was a medic in the marines. He’s here to help you with some medical treatment.”

Hector stood at least six-two, all of it solid muscle. He wore a tight white dress shirt, its silk sleeves rolled neatly to the middle of his massive forearms. A ski mask, open at the forehead, concealed his face, and his closely cropped black hair stood mostly on end. It reminded Gianni of a 1960s style flat-top cut, only not as stiff.

“Hector has some tools for you, Doc,” Catroni said.

Hector opened a clean white linen cloth, the texture of a dishrag but with a starched white appearance. Inside were surgical instruments. Dr. Gianni instantly recognized them—there was a blade handle and several large #10 blades, the kind a surgeon would use to make a long incision. It was not a delicate blade, but one meant to cut hard and fast through a lot of tissue with a single swipe. Next to the blades was a bone cutting forceps, which Gianni knew to be a Rongeurs forceps. Then there was a large pile of neatly folded gauze pads.

“Recognize those tools?” Catroni asked.

Gianni nodded.

“Well, Hector here is prepared to do a little surgery today.”

Catroni released Gianni’s hands, placing his left hand on the table beside the white cloth, and the other hand behind Gianni’s back, re-binding it tightly to the chair with duct tape.

“Now Dr. Gianni, Hector here is going to start with the tip of your ring finger, on your left hand. You are right-handed, aren’t you?”

“What do you want from me?” Gianni said. He tried not to appear flustered. Years of surgical training and interminable hours on call had left him with a coolness under pressure, evident even now.

Catroni continued to talk. “It’ll just be the tip, so he won’t need that bone cutter, not right off anyway. And of course, we do have a
few questions to ask you along the way, and maybe a favor or two, as well.”

Hector struggled to put a pair of latex surgical gloves over his huge hands, then attached the blade to the handle with a dexterity that surprised Gianni, given the sheer size of his hands.

Hector said, “Hey, Sal, he’s got no ring on it, no wedding band. You and Janice still married, Doc? Hold still, now, so I only take the tip.”

Gianni thought the voice was vaguely familiar.

He used one hand to reinforce Catroni’s grip on Gianni’s left hand, isolating the finger and then slicing cleanly through the tip, taking less than an eighth of an inch with the blade cut. The cut was so fast that Gianni barely registered any pain, but he screamed, his sangfroid suddenly gone, when he saw Hector reach for the bone cutter.

“Relax,” Hector said, “I just want to clip the nail end, so it’s nice and neat. I want it to be nice and neat.” He clipped the nail end square and flush with the amputated finger stump. Blood poured out from the cut skin and Gianni winced as Hector grabbed a clump of gauze and squeezed it over the bloody digit.

Catroni then untied Gianni’s right hand, and Gianni instinctively clenched the blood drenched gauze in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

“Look,” Hector said. “The doctor knows what to do for the bleeding.”

Catroni spoke next. “Now you know that will heal just fine in no time. It was only a sliver, after all. And once it does, why, you’ll be just as good a surgeon as you ever were, so we have no problem…yet.
But the problems will begin when Hector has to do more. Because the next cut is on the next finger over, the middle finger, and just a little farther up. So this time Hector gets to use that bone cutter to clip a little bone, too. Then it’s on to the index finger, and a little higher up still. So by the time we get around to the thumb, the whole thing pretty much goes, Doc.”

New York, NY

Dr. Anthony Gianni entered OR Suite 5 with his hands raised up as if in prayer, scrubbed and ready for the towel.

“Music to my ears,” Dr. Larry Rosen said, stroking his salt and pepper goatee through his surgical mask.

“What’s that?” asked Dr. Gianni.

“Regular sinus rhythm,” Rosen said, looking up at the EKG machine. “It’s music to my ears.”

Rosen was not Gianni’s favorite anesthesiologist, especially on a difficult case, though he was a damn good one and probably had an IQ that placed him in the upper echelons of Mensa. Gianni was perfectly comfortable with Larry’s intelligence and clinical skills, it was just that the constant banter could wear on him after a while.

“You know what they say about anesthesia,” Rosen continued, “Hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror. I just love the boredom of that normal sinus rhythm: beep…beep…beep.”

“Me, too.” Over the years he had probably heard Larry profess
that cliché no less than fifty times. He had also heard far too much about Rosen’s computer whiz son, his shopaholic wife, and assorted gossip dealing with any of the OR staff who were fortunate enough to be in another room at that moment. Then, of course, there were countless jokes, mostly bad ones.

Gianni’s hands were now dry and he thrust them one at a time into the gloves held by the scrub nurse.

“Anthony, how are your horses doing?” Rosen asked.

“Not now, Larry,” Gianni said.

Rosen looked up at Gianni from his stool at the patient’s head, then continued his banter. “All right, so listen to this joke, then. You hear the one about the definition of fascinate?”

“Don’t think I have,” Gianni said. “Can we put a CD in, Brenda?”