The Last Surgeon

sirens rapidly closing, strobes appeared across the field. Many strobes.

“They found us!” Jillian exclaimed.

“Looks like an invasion from outer space.”

Nick picked up the cell phone and talked for a few seconds. Then he looked at Jillian curiously.

“The dispatcher lady says she’s sorry they haven’t been able to find us. They’re still trying to track us.”

Several police cars and an ambulance pulled up at the barn door.

“I think it’s safe to say there’s a surprise or two waiting in here for them,” Jillian said.

The first to enter the barn was Don Reese, followed by the paramedics, who immediately set about performing their magic, praising Jillian and Nick as they worked.

“Reese!” Nick called out.

The detective hurried to Nick’s side and stared about in uncharacteristic disbelief.

“The police report on this scene should make for some interesting reading,” Reese said. “Who got torched? I sure hope he’s a bad guy.”

“The worst,” Nick said. “How the heck did you get here? Nine-one-one said they couldn’t find us.”

“Remember after you, um, helped me out, I gave you that magnetic GPS logger for your RV?”

“Of course.”

“Well, twenty messages of distress from you freaked me out, Doc. I always thought you were a pretty cool customer. When I couldn’t reach you, well, let’s just say I chose action. I made a quick call to the company and we tracked your position here.”

“Nice going. Now I guess we can call us even,” Nick said as the paramedics gave him a thumbs-up.

“I don’t think so,” Reese responded.

“Oh, come on, Don,” Jillian said, taking his arm. “If I can settle the score I just settled, you guys can settle yours.”

Junie was up on a stretcher. Nick and Jillian kissed her on the forehead as she was rolled past them to the waiting ambulance.

“Do you want to ride in the ambulance with her, Nick?” Jillian asked.

“If they’ll let me.”

“Looks like you’ll need some medical attention too,” Reese said. “We’ll meet you at the hospital. They’ll be taking you to County General. It’s a good place and only five miles from here.”

Jillian and Reese supported Nick and helped him to the ambulance. The rain had stopped. Overhead the clouds had parted, revealing a bright crescent moon.

CHAPTER 50

The white stretch limousine eased its way down Constitution Avenue toward the Hart Senate Office Building. It was the twelfth day of September, a sparkling clear Wednesday, and it would be no understatement to say that there was more interest in the hearing scheduled to resume in half an hour than in any Senate inquiry since Watergate.

“Answer me true,” Reggie said from the center of the backseat, “are we going to get us one of these limos or not?”

“I wouldn’t bet on you not getting one of your own someday,” Junie said, pausing to cough and take a breath, “but only if you do your homework.”

“Hey, Dr. Nick Fury here told me that when I move in with him and Nurse Jillian, I won’t have to do any homework.”

“You wish,” Jillian said. “You haven’t seen the nasty side of either of us yet. Junie, you okay?”

The older woman cleared her throat and nodded. She hadn’t done that well following the removal of the upper lobe of her left lung, and seemed to have aged considerably over her months of recovery. Still, it was no surprise to anyone who knew her that she had managed to parlay her growing celebrity into massive donations to Helping Hands, as well as the promise from Winnebago of a new, deluxe, fully equipped RV.

“Have you looked outside?” Don Reese asked. “We still have a ways to go and it’s already wall-to-wall photographers and reporters.”

“Let’s hop out,” Reggie said. “I want some more pictures of me in the papers. There’s this girl at school I want to impress and-”

“Enough!” Junie said. “I’ve spoken to your civics teacher, and she’s expecting at least a five-page paper on these hearings. That should be more than enough to impress any girl that’s worth impressing. Nick, honey, the humidity’s getting to me a little. Could we please have the driver take us right up to the door?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“There are a few stairs,” Reese said. “But there’s a ramp. Do you need a wheelchair?”

“I can handle it,” Junie said.

Reese had not only been a lifesaver during the drama in the CIA-owned barn, but afterward as well. It was he who first began to put the pressure on William Conklin, the director of the CIA, whom he knew personally, to do what he could to restore public trust in the agency. Given Ramsland’s stature and power, Conklin had for years turned a blind eye to the activities of the Jericho vigilantes. Now, Conklin’s job was on the line. The nasty publicity the agency was garnering around the globe was unlike anything since the Senator Frank Church hearings in the midseventies, which focused on CIA political assassinations and other excesses.

This afternoon, Reese’s work with the CIA chief was hopefully going to come to fruition.

Following a morning of testimony from Paresh Singh, officials and surgeons from Shelby Stone Memorial Hospital, and relatives of the seven victims from operating room ten, Lionel Ramsland had begun what to Nick and the others was an utterly frustrating denial of any direct wrongdoing.

Soon, after the man completed the remainder of his testimony, it would be Conklin’s turn. The final testimony, although it would be only hearsay, would be from Nick.

“Don’t expect to be called if they run out of time,” Nick’s attorney told him. “They may reconvene tomorrow or they may delete you because your story is unsubstantiated with objective evidence.”

The reporters crowding the curb and spilling over into the street seemed to have been tipped off about the occupants of the approaching limo. There had been lengthy articles on Nick, Jillian, and the others in the Times, the Washington papers, and People, as well as on all the networks and CNN. The Ten Little Indians OR Murders, People had headlined their cover story.

David Bagdasarian, the group’s attorney, and one of the legal team representing Nick and Jillian before the boards of medicine and nursing, had arranged for the transportation. Now, he met them at the curb, opened the door for them, and led the group into the modern Hart Senate Building. Nick’s and Jillian’s licenses to practice had been suspended, but then the suspensions were stayed pending further investigation.

“Ramsland’s real good,” Bagdasarian said as they passed through the nine-story atrium and by the massive Alexander Calder metal mobile, Mountains and Clouds, and ascended to Room 216. Today, the legendary hearing room was the home of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. “He admitted to being the tenth man in the operating room video the senators saw, but he denied doing anything illegal. And of course, even with the plastic surgeon’s testimony, no one can figure out definitively who was on the operating table that day three years ago, or what happened to the body. Supposedly, an autopsy was performed, but no one has produced the results. God bless ’em all.”

“Hey, don’t press that panic button just yet,” Reese said as they took their seats in the third row behind the witness table. “As Yogi Berra said, the opera ain’t over until the fat lady sings.”

Reese had admitted to Nick and Jillian that, for weeks, he had been working with William Conklin at the CIA, but he had shared few details until this morning.

The six of them were all seated except for Nick. Thanks to his flight from Franz Koller, his shoulders and knees still balked at being kept in one position for very long. Physical therapy had helped, but his joints continued to feel a decade or two older than the rest of him. His PTSD was another story altogether. His ultimate triumph over the killer, his continued EMDR therapy, and his new life with Jillian and Reggie were working wonders with his