I caught a grip on my temper and bulled ahead. “Also, she’saddicted to running. Marathons. I hate to even think about what she’d do if you cut off her foot. Probably huntyou down and cut off your balls. Without anesthetic. She sounds totallycompetent to me. What’s the problem?”
Another glance at the clipboard. Another pause to bite backthe words he wanted to say.
“Dr. Patterson, Ms. Cash is not responding normally tomedication. She is still reacting to stimulus while under levels of anestheticat the recommended limits for her age and body mass. Reconstruction of her footwill require several hours of complex and delicate surgery. The surgeon refusesto operate on an uncooperative patient without full and effective generalanesthetic. The anesthesiologist refuses to administer higher levels, based on her professional knowledge. To put itbluntly, she thinks that necessary levels of anesthetic for that length of timemight kill the patient. Amputation would not be life-threatening.Reconstruction would be.”
Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
But. . . .
“Please describe her injuries again. This was a powerful bombplaced in her car, triggered when she approached. Tell me the known blastdamage, not the stuff you suspect.”
“A bomb?” He lookedlike, sounded like “bomb” had shaken him out of his detached clinical skin. Notwhat you wanted in an ER doctor. “Mister, I don’t understand the pattern of herwounds. No mention of body armor in the report. We see unlikely things in theER, but a bomb that removes half of one hand and leaves multiple fractures andpuncture wounds below the calf of one leg? No injuries in between? I find thathard to believe.”
Yeah, “unlikely” sort of covered it. Sometimes things connectup just fine, like that cartoon light bulb flashing on beside a character’shead. I could visualize what happened, even if the doctor couldn’t.
Cash had thrown a magical shield around herself,instinctively, without training. She hadn’t formed the shield to her bodyshape. She’d just thrown out a sphere from her “center”, that place behind thenavel that holds your balance in martial arts. And her right hand and left foothad extended outside that sphere. Hand closer to the bomb, probably reflex infront of her face, so it took more damage.
And that tied in with the anesthetic.
“Doctor, let me tell you what unit Sergeant Cash works in. Professional Regulation. Magic cops. I’ma member of the same unit. That PhD of mine, that’s in forensic magic. You don’twant to know the title of my thesis.”
No, he didn’t want to know. I could see it. He backed up astep, trying to keep the fear and disgust out of his face. Every now and then Iforget how most of the general public regards magic. At least he didn’t crosshimself or shoot the Horns of Asmodeus at me with his free hand, warding offthe evil eye.
So Cash was a latentwitch. More than latent, a hiddenwitch, a guerilla-warfare witch, genes selected through generations in theslave and ghetto days. Like I’ve told you, I’d suspected as much.
“Doctor, this is covered by medical privacy laws. Evenfrom those cops outside. If this gets out, I’ll use your medical license towipe my ass. But talk to your anesthesiologist about treating Nef as a witch.Choice of anesthetic, dosages, the whole bit. If she doesn’t know the drill,find someone who does.”
I paused and glared at him. “And save that damned foot. If NefCash can’t run, I believe she wouldrather die. Believe me, I’m not joking about what she’d do if she woke upwithout that foot. And she can shootleft-handed. I’ve seen her on the range.”
“You would risk her lifeto save her foot? That’s crazy!”
I sat for a moment, counting to ten. In Finnish. Trying to getcontrol of my temper and tongue. “Dammit, no!I’m letting her risk her own life tosave what she wants saved. This isn’twhat I want to do. She said it. It’s right there on yourclipboard. She’d rather die than lose that foot.”
“That’s just babbling. She didn’t understand what she wassaying. She was in shock. She wasn’t competent.”
Saving her foot, that was important to her. Her priority, not mine. I wanted a live Nef, not a dead one. Ididn’t care whether she had one foot or two or none or five. I felt likestrangling the doctor. Hell, I felt like strangling Nef, for putting me in thisbind.
“No. That’s herchoice. Her priorities. That’s whatshe told the ER doctor. It fits everything I know about Nef Cash. And that’swhy she put my name on that form. Her choice, not yours, not mine.”
“I’m questioning yourjudgment, Doctor Patterson. I don’tthink you understand the nature of crushing trauma.”
Yeah, he emphasized the title, a verbal sneer. He paused atthat point, probably searching for little bitty words that would fit into mylittle bitty brain. Then he glared at me.
“Crushing destroystissue. Bone, muscle, nerves, blood vessels, you name it. Even if it looksintact, there’s a good chance the patient’s foot is already dead. It just hasn’thad time to rot yet. If we give it that time, gangrene could take her entireleg or kill her. Kill her even if she survives the anesthesia.”
He stopped and took a deep breath, calming down. It didn’tlook like he was used to civilians arguing with him. “A lot of people run withprosthetics, doctor. In contrast to that, even with reconstructive surgery, you’re looking at better than afifty-fifty chance she’ll never run again. X-rays show at least a dozenfractures in her foot and three or four more in her ankle and lower leg. EMTreport says part of the car landed on her. At minimum, she’ll be in a cast formonths and facing a year or more of physical therapy before she can walkwithout crutches.”
“So that gives hertime to decide. She can have the damned thing amputated next year. Save thatfoot.”
The bastard flipped to another sheaf of papers on hisclipboard and frowned. “According to your ER report, you also are under sedation and may be impaired. I don’t think you arecapable of understanding your choice. In the absence of a rational decision, I’mgoing to act
