The Last Surgeon

The alarm clock was Nick’s savior. He sat bolt upright, staring out his bedroom window at the gray dawn. Guilt. That was how his therapist had explained the recurring nightmares. Guilt for Sarah’s death. Guilt for the skill he had used to save so many other lives. Guilt that he had helped Zmarai earn a trusted status on the base. Guilt that Umberto, who had saved his life that morning, had surrendered his own life to the bottle, and then vanished.

The recurrent horrors were his punishment for not having done more.

Before this latest variation, it had usually been Sarah who died in his nightmares and Nick the one who drove the truck that killed her. Now Jillian was his victim too. It didn’t take a Freudian scholar to work out the significance of that change. He simply wasn’t ready to take a woman hostage in a relationship-probably never would be-even a woman as genuine and special as this one.

He was carrying too much baggage. True, Jillian was toting baggage of her own. No adult could make it this far in life without a goodly load. Perhaps having her entering his nightmare meant they were closing in on some truth. He just needed to find a way to relax and let things happen between them if they were to happen. The Freudian wouldn’t have worked up much of a sweat over that one either.

On his feet, Nick shook off the last vestiges of this latest trip to hell, stretched, and headed to the bathroom, reminding himself of Junie’s most constant teaching: Time is nature’s way of keeping everything from happening at once.

The plan for the day was to meet Jillian at Shelby Stone and to try the Mole one more time. Thanks to Don Reese, the stakes were increasing. They had Paresh Singh dead to rights in terms of his counterfeit records, although given the illegality of the way Nick and Jillian had obtained the information, dead to wrongs was probably a more appropriate term.

But they needed more-specifically, the connection between Singh’s surgical satellite and the mother hospital. Somehow, Saul Mollender had to be convinced to try to search for medical records pertaining to Umberto, specifically any from four years ago. Jillian had attempted a search of her own, but was electronically denied access. Without the Mole’s help, they were at another dead end.

Nick hooked Second Chance to a short leash and headed to the park. He followed the mile walk with a half hour of intense EMDR work that helped get him from a SUD score of seven down to six. Then he showered and headed into the city.

Jillian met him in the Shelby Stone lobby, dressed in a pair of dark slacks cinched with a broad leather belt below a simple beige silk blouse. He kissed her gently on the cheek when they embraced and held her close a few seconds longer than might have been appropriate given their surroundings.

“Somebody missed me,” Jillian whispered in his ear. “I like that.”

“I like that you like it.”

For the briefest moment, he flashed on the dream and her face, afire in the headlights of the truck.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said dismissively. “I’m fine.”

It was then that Nick noticed the package tucked under her arm, wrapped in brown paper with a small white card taped to it.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” he said.

“I didn’t. At least not for you.” Jillian’s smile was enigmatic. “Call it a little Mole softener. I thought I’d try bribing our friend into helping us rather than beating us out of his office with a broom.”

“What could possibly accomplish that?”

“You’ll see,” she answered.

“It seems to me it would help to have a sense of what makes the man tick before we barge in and ask him to stick his neck on the line for us,” Nick said in the elevator ride to subbasement level two. “You’re the shrink nurse. Any ideas?”

“Well, maybe it’s obvious, but my guess is he feels left behind, abandoned, and disrespected after the hospital administration stripped him of his power and influence when the electronic medical records project was completed. He seems bright enough, but his sour personality couldn’t have helped him when they made the final decision on the position.”

“Sort of a chicken-egg thing,” Nick said.

“Exactly. Did he get bypassed because he’s miserable or has he become what he is because of what they did?”

“Probably a little of each. Is there anything we can do about it?”

“Dunno. Empathy and trust are usually good places to start when trying to get through to anyone.”

“With a pinch of bribery thrown in.”

“Who said surgeons have zero insight?”

“Hey, that’s my specialty you’re talking about!”

They proceeded down the dimly lit corridor to Saul Mollender’s mausoleum: MEDICAL RECORDS.

“I hope you got him new window stencils,” Nick said, pointing to the eroded lettering.

“Be brave.”

Jillian winked at him and then opened the door. Though their lives had changed dramatically since the last visit here, time stood still in the Mole’s world. The man was seated as before, at his neatly kept desk, behind a tall, carefully maintained stack of records. He groaned when he glanced up and saw the visitors.

“Oh goodness,” he sighed. “I must remind myself to be even less hospitable next time. What on earth inspired you two to come back here again?”

Nick saw Jillian’s cheeks redden, and remembered her warning him about her hair-trigger temper. Just a few seconds in the man’s gloomy office and trust and empathy appeared to have been cast into the industrial shredder beside his desk. Without the Mole noticing, Nick gently wiggled the package Jillian carried. Trust and empathy…

“Yes,” she said, quickly regaining her composure. “Well, since we took up your time and you were so gracious to consider helping us, I wanted to give you a little something in return.”

Jillian set the wrapped package down on the desk. The Mole stared at it with a perplexed scowl, as though a bomb squad might now be needed.

Begrudgingly, he unwrapped the package, tearing the paper thoughtlessly and ignoring the card taped to the outside. It was a framed saying, which he lifted up to study.

“Thank you, but I already have one of these,” he said, gesturing to the wall behind them.

He turned the frame around and Nick saw for the first time what Jillian had done. Printed in marvelous calligraphy was the mantra of Mollender’s bleak operation, DISTRACTIONS ARE DEADLY, done on parchment, matted in black, and tastefully framed. Nick wondered how much of the job Jillian had done herself-most or all, he suspected. Now, it was his turn to fume.

“You know what, Mollender?” he said. “You might not appreciate what Jillian did for you, but you could at least, for a moment, pretend to care and, God forbid, to act civil.”

The Mole lowered his oval glasses to the bridge of his nose and peered at Nick-perhaps the record keeper equivalent of rolling up his sleeves for a fight.

“Why should I?” he asked defiantly. “It’s obvious she did it only because you want something. If you believed a framed aphorism would make me your friend, then I’m sorry to say you were sadly mistaken.”

Mollender set the gift on the corner of his desk, glass side down, and went back to studying a file.

“We need your help, Saul,” Nick said.

The record keeper hesitated, leaned back in his chair, and looked thoughtfully at his visitors.

“What is it you need?”

It was working! The Mole sounded less hostile, even vaguely interested.

“We need to know if a friend of mine was a patient here four years ago,” Nick explained. “That simple.”

“Oh, is that all? Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

“Then you’ll help us?” Jillian asked.

“No, of course not. Obviously, you tried and were denied access because that’s how the system works. Now you come down here wanting me to violate a rule of my department-hell, of the U.S. government! Listen, Ms. Coates, why don’t you take this work of art and hang it where you work so you can remind yourself not to bother me again. Now, good day, ma’am.”