The Last Surgeon

impressed I am with you and your accomplishments, Doctor.”

Abigail stammered, “I… I don’t understand…”

“You’ve pioneered techniques for robotic surgery that I am certain will be a lasting legacy. You’re going to be well remembered, Dr. Spielmann. I do hope you know that.”

The bee floated off her arm and danced erratically above her head before coming to a rest on the comforter. Spielmann traced the insect’s path with frightened eyes as it slowly crawled up her shoulder, inching across her neck then onto her face before taking flight again.

“Please… stop…”

“See, we have a lot in common, you and I,” Koller continued. “Our life is our work. Neither of us has any children. We’ve never bothered with marriage. No, our passion has been our careers and you’ve done a marvelous job with yours.”

“I’ll pay you to leave,” Abigail sobbed. Her tears rolled unabated down her cheeks.

“Our work, I guess, is our children. Our labor of love. Isn’t it, Doctor? But have you ever stopped to truly appreciate each moment of your day? I mean, when you’re cutting out those nasty cardiac tumors with that robot of yours, have you ever asked yourself if this could be the last surgery you’ll perform? If you knew it was to be the last, would you treat that procedure any different from the others? Savor each cut and stitch in a way you never had before?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Her voice was weak and shaky. The bee was airborne again. This time it landed on Koller, who didn’t even flinch.

“You see, I think about these things,” Koller continued. “I constantly ask myself, is this the last time I’ll ever do this again? Most parents can’t remember the last night they carried their tired little munchkin off to beddy-bye, but sure as sunrise and sunset, that night does come. It’s a shame when such a monumental moment passes without proper acknowledgment. I won’t let that happen to me.”

Koller slipped the ball back into her mouth. Using the thread, he guided the bee onto Spielmann’s arm, then pinned the insect onto her flesh with his thumb and index finger. Despite trying to be gentle, he used too much force and crushed the bee before it could sting.

“Dang,” Koller said, wiping up the small mess with a tissue. “Good thing I have some backups with me.”

Koller retrieved a second bee from the mason jar, marveling a moment at the artful way the thread traced the bee’s erratic flight path.

“I mean, I have killed surgeons before-a couple of times, in fact. But I don’t know if I’m ever going to be hired to kill another surgeon again,” Koller continued. “Think about it, that would mean you would be the last surgeon I ever kill.” The assassin paused a moment, clearly deep in thought. “I have to really, really embrace this moment. You can’t record these feelings, the smell of your apartment, your fear. But if you believe it might be the very last time you do something, it’s best to approach it with deserved reverence. You might not be the last surgeon, but then again, you might.”

Koller pulled the string tied around the honeybee until the insect came to a rest on the fleshy anterior triangle of Spielmann’s neck. She tried frantically to flick it away by tilting her head and flexing the muscles of her neck, but Koller held the bee in place. He agitated it. The wings were a blur of motion. Its legs marched helplessly as it tried to free itself.

Then, probably fearing for its life, the honeybee stung.

To escape, it tore away part of its abdomen, leaving behind its stinger and deadly venom sac, where the medical examiner would certainly find it. Koller knew the muscles of the sting apparatus continued to pulsate, injecting more venom deeper into Spielmann’s skin.

A three-inch swollen welt materialized almost instantaneously on Spielmann’s neck. Her eyes were the size of silver dollars. Within seconds, more hivelike bumps started popping up all over her face, arms, and legs. It was what Koller expected would occur in a systemic allergic reaction. Her lips and eyelids began to swell too and it was clear to Koller that the ball in her mouth wasn’t helping her breathing any. He waited a few minutes before taking it out. By then her airway had swollen closed, enough to make screaming impossible. Next, he undid her restraints. Then he watched as she rolled off the bed and landed hard on the Oriental rug. She was crawling on her hands and knees in a desperate attempt to get to the stairs leading to her kitchen.

“I wish I was a betting man,” Koller said, smiling down at her. “Because I would bet when you get to your refrigerator you won’t find your prescription allergy kit there. Then again, maybe you will.”

With her strength failing rapidly, Abigail Spielmann reached the head of the stairs. Then she fell, tumbling over and over before coming to rest twenty feet from her gourmet kitchen. Incredibly, she still managed to get to her hands and knees again. Inch by inch, as her body continued to swell and redden, she made it to her refrigerator. Pulling open the door required a Herculean effort. Her eyes were swollen shut now. Her breaths came in sporadic, wheezing fits.

Koller watched unblinking, absorbing her every move. There were no glass jars to crash on the floor and disturb the neighbors. Koller had already removed them and would break a few in a plastic bag to scatter about the kitchen floor before leaving. The only items to spill out in her frantic search for the kit, were those he put within her reach; a head of lettuce, a plastic bottle of ketchup, and two sticks of butter.

Spielmann collapsed face-first onto the cold tile floor, the cool air from the open refrigerator bathing her now lifeless body. Koller placed the prescription allergy kit a foot away.

Nicely done.

“Any moment can be our last, dear doctor,” he said. “Sadly, this is yours.”

CHAPTER 26

Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson Collins arrived at the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center at precisely three. Earlier in the day, Daintry Calnan had called with the news that Dr. Paresh Singh had been called out of town for an emergency consultation. She tried to reschedule their appointment, but Jillian told her that for the time being, it would suffice if they were able to tour the facility.

“It will save us time when we do get to come in and schedule my surgery with Dr. Singh.”

The novelty of their plan had worn off and the reality was sinking in. Despite her theater background, Jillian had never had any talent for lying or deceit. Now, she used mental images of Belle and memories of their last conversation together to keep her focus under some modicum of control.

Nick was at least a seven on the SUD scale: Starting to freak out, on the edge of some definitely bad feelings. You can maintain control with difficulty. He had not shared the fact that he had suffered through another bad night. Restlessness, insomnia, nightmares, free-floating anxiety, even leg cramps-the works. Brain chemistry run amok. As usual, there was nothing transpiring in his personal life to correlate with the flare- up-nothing, of course, except the sudden arrival in it of Jillian Coates. As exciting as it was to feel himself falling for a woman, it was also as frightening as his PTSD episodes themselves. How could he ever even consider bringing someone into the bog that was his recurrent mental turmoil? Perhaps when-if- they caught up with Umberto. Perhaps then.

The receptionist, Daintry, was posted by the massive glass doors, watching their approach. She was a statuesque blonde in her early forties, although Jillian had trouble being certain about that fact due, she suspected, to the artistry of the woman’s employer. By the time they had exchanged handshakes, the receptionist had obviously sized them up and decided they were the stuff of which patients of the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center were made.

The combination lobby and reception area was even more imposing than the Web site had led them to expect. The vast space-nearly all marble-featured an eight-foot-high fountain in the center and huge, original artwork on three walls.

Seated behind a marble counter to one side of the lobby, wearing a dark suit tailored to show off his linebacker’s build, was a security guard with a square jaw and a plastic ID around his neck.

“That’s a Shelby Stone ID,” Jillian whispered to Nick. “I guess this place is directly affiliated with the hospital.”

Nick and Jillian were both wondering about Manny and Umberto. At this point, the connection between the two