Harvest

you.'

'I'm just the one who landed on her butt in front of everyone.'

'He shoved you. That's something you can use. Leverage against any more of those nutty lawsuits.'

'You mean I charge him with assault?'

'Something like that.'

She shook her head. 'I don't want to think about Victor Voss. I don't want to have anything to do with him.'

'There were half a dozen witnesses. They saw him push you.'

'Mark, let's forget the whole thing.' She picked up the muffin, took an unenthusiastic bite, and put it back down again. She sat staring at it, desperately wanting to change the subject.

Finally she said, 'Did Aaron agree about starting antibiotics?' '! haven't seen Aaron all day.'

She looked up, frowning. 'I thought he was here.'

'I beeped him but he never answered.'

'Did you call his home?'

'! got the housekeeper. Elaine left for the weekend, visiting their kid at Dartmouth.' Mark shrugged. 'It's Saturday. This isn't Aaron's weekend to make rounds anyway. He probably decided to take a vacation from all of us.'

'A vacation,' Abby sighed and rubbed her face. 'God, that's what I want. A beach and a few palm trees and a pifia colada.'

'Sounds good to me, too.' Reaching across the table, he took her hand. 'Mind if! join you?'

'You don't even like pifia coladas.'

'But I like beaches and palm trees. And you.' He gave her hand a squeeze. That was just what she needed at that moment. His touch. It felt as solid and dependable as the man himself.

He leaned across the table. Right there, in the cafeteria, he kissed her. 'Look at us. Creating another public spectacle,' he whispered. 'You'd better go home, before we get everyone's attention.'

She glanced at her watch. It was twelve o'clock, and a Saturday. The weekend, at last, had begun.

He walked her out of the cafeteria and across the hospital lobby. As they pushed through the front doors he said, 'I almost forgot to tell you. Archer called Wilcox Memorial and spoke to some thoracic surgeon named Tim Nicholls. Turns out Nicholls assisted on the harvest. He confirmed the patient was theirs. And that Dr. Mapes did the excision.'

'Then why isn't Mapes listed on the Wilcox staff?.'

'Because Mapes was flown in by private jet from Houston. We knew nothing about it. Apparently, Mr Voss didn't trust just any Yankee surgeon to do the job. So he had a specialist flown in.'

'All the way from Texas?'

'With his money, Voss could've flown in the whole Baylor team.'

'So the harvest was done at Wilcox Memorial.'

'Nicholls says he was there. Whatever nurse you spoke to last night must've been looking at the wrong log sheet. If you'd like me to call and confirm it again-'

'No, just forget it. It all seems so stupid now. I don't know what I was thinking.' She sighed and looked across at her car, parked in its usual spot at the far end of the lot. Outer Siberia, the residents called their assigned parking area. Then again, slave labour was lucky to get assigned parking at all. 'I'll see you at home,' she said. 'If I'm still awake.'

He put his arms around her, tipped her head back, and kissed her, one tired body clinging to another. 'Careful driving home,' he whispered. 'I love you.'

She walked across the lot, dazed by fatigue and by the sound of those three words still echoing in her head.

I love you.

She stopped and looked back to wave at him, but he had already vanished through the lobby doors.

'I love you too,' she said, and smiled.

She turned to her car, her keys already out of her purse. Only then did she notice that the lock button was up. Jesus, what an idiot. She'd left the car unlocked all night.

She opened the door.

At the first foul whiff of air, she backed away, gagging on the stench. And repulsed by the sight of what lay on the front seat.

Loops of rotting intestine were coiled around the gear shift and one end hung like a grotesque streamer from the bottom of the steering wheel. A hacked-up mass of unidentifiable tissue was smeared across the passenger seat. And on the driver's side, propped up against the cushion, was a single bloody organ. A heart.

The address was in Dorchester, a rundown neighbourhood in southeast Boston. He parked across the street and eyed the boxy house, the weedy lawn. There was a kid of about twelve bouncing a basketball in the driveway, every so often flinging it at a hoop over the garage, and missing every time. No athletic scholarship for that one. Judging by the junker of a car parked in the garage, and the general shabbiness of the home, a scholarship would certainly come in handy.

He got out of his car and crossed the street. As he walked up the driveway, the boy suddenly fell still. Hugging the ball to his chest, he eyed the visitor with obvious suspicion. 'I'm looking for the Flynt residence.'

'Yeah,' said the boy. 'This is it.'

'Are your parents at home?'

'My dad is. Why?'

'Maybe you could let him know he has a visitor.'

'Who are you?'

He handed the boy his business card. The boy read it with only vague interest, then tried to hand it back. 'No, keep it. Show it to your father.'

'You mean right now?'

'If he's not busy.'

'Yeah. OK.'The boy went into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

A moment later a man came to the door, big-bellied, unsmiling. 'You looking for me?'

'Mr Flynt, my name is Stewart Sussman. I'm with the law firm of Hawkes, Craig, and Sussman.'

'Yeah?'

'I understand you were a patient at Bayside Medical Centre six months ago.'

'! was in an accident. Other guy's fault.'

'You had your spleen removed. Is that correct?'

'How do you know all this?'

'I'm here in your best interests, Mr Flynt.You had major surgery, did you not?'

'They said I coulda died. I guess that makes it major.'

'Was one of your doctors a woman resident named Abigail DiMatteo?'

'Yeah. She saw me every day. Real nice lady.'

'Did she or any of the other doctors tell you the consequences of having your spleen removed?'

'They said I could have bad infections if I'm not careful.'

'Fatal infections. Did they say that?'

'Uh… maybe.'

'Did they mention anything about an accidental nick during surgery?'

'What?'

'A scalpel slipping, cutting the spleen. Causing a lot of bleeding.'

'No.' The man was leaning towards him now, with a look of intense worry. 'Did something like that happen to me?'

'We'd like to confirm the facts. All we need is your consent to obtain your medical record.'

'Why?'

'It would be in your interest, Mr Flynt, to know if the loss of your spleen was, in fact, due to surgical error. If a mistake was made, then you've suffered unnecessary damage. And you should be compensated.'

Mr Flynt said nothing. He looked at the boy, who was listening to the conversation. Probably understanding