Michael Palmer
The Last Surgeon
© 2010
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From concept to completion to publication, Jennifer Enderlin has been the shepherd of this book.
Meg Ruley, Jane Berkey, Peggy Gordijn, and the rest of the gang at the Jane Rotrosen Agency have each left a mark.
The Palmer guys-Daniel, Matthew, and Luke-have lent me their brilliance and creativity again and again.
John Roach taught me the politics of veterans’ benefits and lack thereof.
Chef Bill Collins knows greyhounds and pad thai.
Chief Rick Towne, Hollis (NH) Fire Department, and Lonnie L. Larson CFI taught me about arson.
Dr. Joel Solomon helped my SUD score drop with his wisdom about EMDR therapy and treatments for PTSD.
Jeff Strobel and Peter Karlson know computer technology.
David Fulton knows kayaking.
Brilliant professor Katherine Ramsland is an expert in what makes killers kill.
Dr. David Grass is the doctor’s doctor for all things neurological, just as Dr. Danica Palmer is for all things psychiatric.
Susan Reese and Susan Palmer Terry made me an almost expert in ICD and electronic medical records/billing systems.
Andrea Leers, as always, is my architect-on-call.
From Saudi Arabia and San Francisco, Dr. Abdel-Rahman Rabie and Ellen Rosenthal shared their friendship and knowledge of languages.
Sara Goodman, Jessica Bladd, Robin Broady, Ben Palmer, and my thirty-year pals Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith were always there when the ship needed righting.
PROLOGUE
“I know you can’t believe this is happening, Ms. Coates, but I assure you it is. I have been paid, and paid very well, to kill you.”
Belle Coates looked up at the intruder through a glaze of tears. “Please. Just tell me what you want,” she said. “Just tell me what you want and you can have it. Anything. Anything at all.”
The man sighed.
“You’re not paying attention, Ms. Coates,” he said with the accentuated patience of a third-grade teacher. “I am not here to bargain. I told you that. I’m here because this is what I get paid to do.”
“But why? Why me?”
Belle made yet another futile attempt to stand. Her wrists and ankles were lashed to her kitchen chair by the sort of Velcro restraints she and other hospital nurses used so often on difficult patients.
“Those restraints look amazingly simple,” the intruder said, “but I tell you they are a marvel of engineering and ergonomics. No pain, no marks. None at all. That’s why I have a dozen or so sets of them in the drawer at home.”
The man, six feet tall and wiry, had been hiding inside Belle’s apartment, probably behind the couch in the living room, when she arrived home at nearly midnight. Her nursing shift-3 to 11 P.M. in the cardiac surgery ICU at the Central Charlotte Medical Center-had been a tough one, and she had relished every stair of the trudge that brought her closer to her apartment, a cup of tea, and a steamy shower.
She was just choosing a tea when he appeared in the doorway of her kitchen, an apparition in sky blue surgical hair and feet covers, latex gloves, black jeans, and a black long-sleeved tee. She was so fixated on his appearance that it was several seconds before she noticed the huge, gleaming knife dangling at his side. Her hesitation was more than enough. In two quick strides he was beside her, seizing a handful of her hair, snapping her head back, and pressing the blade against her throat. With just enough restraint to keep from drawing blood, he forced her down onto one of the oak chairs she had recently refinished, and in moments the restraints were on her. It had happened that fast.
The statement was as terrifying as the knife.
Was he a serial rapist? A psychotic killer? Desperately searching for even the smallest inroad to understanding the intruder, Belle tried to remain calm and remember if she had read about such a man in the papers, or heard about him on the news.
“What do you want?” she said. “My fiance will be home any minute.”
He fixed her with pale, translucent blue eyes that were devoid of even the slightest spark of humanity.
“I don’t think so. We both know about your failed engagement. ‘Celebrate Belle and Doug’s love.’ I’m very sorry about that.”
Belle froze at the words, quoted from her wedding invitation.
“Who are you?” she managed again. “What do you want from me?”
“Now we’re getting someplace.” The man produced a vial from his pocket and set it on the table. “I want you to swallow these sleeping pills I found in your medicine cabinet the last time I was here. I have augmented what was there with some that I brought with me tonight, so there will be more than enough to achieve our goal. But before you take these pills, I want you to copy and sign a brief note I have composed explaining your despondency and your desire not to live anymore. And finally, I want you to undress, step into your tub, and go to sleep. See? Simple and absolutely painless.”
Belle felt her breathing stop. This couldn’t be happening. She wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be able to pry her jaws apart with a crowbar. She began to hyperventilate and shake, grabbing and releasing the arms of her chair.
“I won’t do it.”
“You will.”
“I won’t!” she began screaming. “I won’t! I won’t! Help! Someone help m-”
Her words were cut off by exquisite pressure around her throat. A hard rubber ball was forced expertly
