He hung the bottle of dextrose with sodium chloride, and readied the IV tube and needle he would attach to it when the time came.
He set three vials of fentanyl on the instrument tray, which would keep his patient peacefully asleep for as long as necessary. The lack of an anesthesiologist would be a handicap, but only a minor one — when he operated, every one of his senses was heightened, and he’d be able to gauge the depth of the patient’s unconsciousness merely by the sound of her breath, and adjust the drugs accordingly.
From another cabinet, he took fresh sterile sheets and draped the table. He hadn’t readied an operating room like this since he was an intern; the nursing staff had done this for so many years now that he’d forgotten how relaxing the ritual could be.
Relaxing and enervating at the same time.
Or perhaps he was enervated by the extraordinary procedures he was about to perform. Not that it would be the first time he’d performed it; indeed, he’d performed it twice before, each time with results that were nothing short of perfect. There was, therefore, nothing to be worried about.
And yet the fluttering in his belly was more than the surge of anticipatory energy he felt before every surgical procedure.
Something still wasn’t quite right.
He moved to the other side of the table and double-checked the dressing materials he would need.
He added a second vial to the tray; it contained the special compound Danielle DeLorian made only for him.
The operating theater was ready.
When the patient was sedated on the table, he would turn on the overhead light, adjust the volume of the strains of Stravinsky, or perhaps Vivaldi, that would flow from the speakers hidden in the walls, and begin.
For now, though, everything was fresh and ready.
Waiting.
And yet that sense of something not quite right — something left undone — some tiny imperfection — still pervaded his spirit.
Then his eyes were caught by the lavender Healing Health Laboratories label on the vial he’d just added to the tray and he knew.
It was that small scratch on Danielle’s neck that he’d seen the day after she harvested Molly Roberts’s single perfect feature.
Conrad felt his blood pressure begin to build as he realized what that scratch must have meant.
Danielle had made a mistake.
And she’d failed to tell him about it.
She had put herself, and him, and
Almost as bad, his own subconscious had known about her mistake for days now but failed to warn him. Still, in all fairness, he’d realized what had happened in time to deal with the error.
Again he regarded the lavender label, and the answer to the problem came to him.
Returning to the laboratory, he went to the drug cabinet and quickly found what he was looking for. Filling a syringe from the vial, he carefully replaced the plastic cap on the needle and put the vial back in the cabinet.
From another cabinet, he took the small leather valise he had used in medical school, opened it, and set it on the countertop. Taking a cold pack from the freezer, he put it into the valise, then added a plastic emesis basin and a fresh scalpel.
And, finally, the loaded syringe.
He snapped the clasp on his medical bag, picked it up, and left the laboratory, turning out the lights before he closed and locked the door.
Already, the fluttering in his belly was beginning to ease.
RISA GAZED AT the last two bites of Maria’s perfectly seasoned Chicken Cordon Bleu, decided she could work the calories off with an hour in the gym tomorrow, but ignored the half glass of sauvignon blanc that stood to the right of her plate. The calories from the Cordon Bleu were bad enough — washing them down with the extra ones from the wine was further than she was willing to go, no matter how expensive the bottle had been. Besides, the dining room didn’t feel nearly as conducive to lingering over wine as it usually did, what with Conrad still at Le Chateau tending to patients, and Alison silently pushing lettuce around on her salad plate, leaving the chicken and saffron rice untouched.
“Honey?” she said, cocking her head worriedly. “Is something bothering you?”
Alison shrugged. “I’m just not hungry.” She set her fork down and folded her arms across her chest, then unfolded them as they came into contact with her breasts.
“Are they sore?” Now Risa’s brow was furrowed with worry, though both Conrad and Alison had assured her only this morning that the incisions under her arms from the operation were healing as they should and there was no sign of infection.
“No.” Alison sighed. “It’s not that.”
Risa eased her chair back a few inches. “You’ve been very quiet all day. Didn’t the party go well last night? It sure sounded like everyone had a good time.”
Alison finally looked up, and Risa saw tears pooling in her eyes. “I had a fight with Cindy. She left early.”
“You and Cindy Kearns?” Risa asked as she folded her napkin and laid it next to her plate. “What on earth would you two fight about?”
Alison pushed her plate aside. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” Risa said carefully. Cindy and Alison had been friends nearly all their lives, and she couldn’t remember them ever fighting before. Obviously, something serious had happened. Still, she couldn’t imagine them ending their friendship. “Friends have spats, sweetheart,” she finally went on. “I’m sure it will blow over.”
Alison shook her head, and when she finally spoke, she didn’t look at her. “She doesn’t like my Wilson friends. And she doesn’t like me anymore.”
Risa resisted the urge to leave her chair and put her arms around her daughter. Alison remained silent, quietly wiping at a tear with her fingertip. “Well, I think Cindy will come around. You two have been friends for too long to let anything come between you now.” Alison closed her eyes as if to shut the words out, and Risa stood up. “Come on, honey, let’s go curl up on the sofa and watch some television and you’ll feel a lot better in the morning.”
Alison sighed heavily once more and opened her eyes, but still didn’t look her mother in the eye. “I’ve got homework to do,” she said, her voice dull. “I sort of let everything slide before the party.”
She stood up, but Risa could tell by her posture how bad Alison was feeling about whatever had transpired between her and Cindy Kearns. Still, broken friendships were part of growing up. Risa remembered when her own best friend had begun dating her boyfriend before she’d even broken up with him, and afterward she never spoke to the girl again. Nor was there anything her mother or anyone else could have done to help her get through the pain — she’d had to take those days one at a time, and so, too, would Alison.
Nothing she could say would help. Not tonight.
“I’ll come up and tuck you in later,” Risa said, putting her arms around her daughter to give her a reassuring hug. “I’m going to watch Tina Wong’s special — your dad called a couple of hours ago and said it’s going to be quite something.”
“The special, or just Tina?” A flicker of Alison’s usual good humor had broken through the clouds hanging over her.
“Probably both,” Risa replied. “Sure you don’t want to watch with me?”
But Alison shook her head. “I hate the way she treats Dad, like he works for her instead the other way around, and I don’t think she cares how many people get killed as long as she gets more time on TV.” Giving her a peck on the cheek, Alison left the dining room.
Deciding it was worse to waste the last of the sauvignon blanc even if it meant an extra half hour on the treadmill, Risa picked up her wineglass and carried it into the media room, when she dropped onto the sofa and clicked on the television.
Tina Wong’s face appeared, along with a montage of half a dozen other faces, all of which, Risa knew,
