THE
LAST
SURGEON
ALSO BY MICHAEL PALMER
The Second Opinion
The First Patient
The Fifth Vial
The Society
Fatal
The Patient
Miracle Cure
Critical Judgment
Silent Treatment
Natural Causes
Extreme Measures
Flashback
Side Effects
The Sisterhood
MICHAEL PALMER
THE
LAST
SURGEON
ST. MARTIN’S PRESS NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE LAST SURGEON. Copyright © 2010 by Michael Palmer. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Palmer, Michael, 1942–
The last surgeon / Michael Palmer.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-58749-9
1. Physicians—Fiction. 2. Psychopaths—Fiction. 3. Surgeons—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Serial murders—Fiction. 5. Baltimore (Md.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.A539L37 2010
813'.54—dc22
2009039234
First Edition: February 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Sophie Love Palmer:
Such a short time in the world,
and you have already made so
many people so happy.
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.
THE
LAST
SURGEON
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.
A dozen or so sets in the drawer.
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 fiancé 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 between her teeth and into her mouth. The killer remained absolutely calm during the insertion.
“That was stupid, Ms. Coates. Do anything stupid again, and you will be responsible for causing both yourself and your sister a great deal of pain.”
Belle stared up at him, wide-eyed. The mention of her sister was a dagger. Hyperventilating through her nose, she still could not seem to get in enough air.
“That’s right,” the man said. “I know a
ll about Jillian. Just like I know all about you. Now, refuse to do exactly as I say, try anything stupid again, and I promise, both you and Jillian will die prolonged and painful deaths. Understand? I said, do you understand?” Belle nodded vigorously. “I’m still not certain you do. Now listen, Ms. Coates, and for your sister’s sake, believe me, I have no contract to kill Jillian—only you. With very rare exceptions, those I am not paid to kill, I don’t kill.”
He took out his cell phone, made a gentle tap on the screen’s touch display, and held it up for Belle to see.
“I assume you recognize your sister’s condo in Virginia—Arlington, to be exact, 489 Bristol Court to be even more exact. Nod if you agree that is the case. Good. I know how close you two are. You see, I read your journal, or diary, including entries from the trip to Nassau that Jillian took you on after you learned about Doug’s . . . how shall I say . . . dalliance with your friend Margo. Surgeons. They are just so full of themselves, aren’t they? I see you are having a little trouble breathing. Okay, here’s the deal: I’ll remove that ball if I get your assurance you will stay quiet and still.”
Belle grunted her agreement and again nodded. The man pulled the ball out, keeping his fingers clear of her teeth, and dropped it into his pocket.
“Now,” he said, “what you are about to watch is a live video feed—live as in it’s happening at 489 Bristol Court right this very instant.”
Belle stared in disbelief at the full-color projection. The footage was unquestionably taken from her sister’s tastefully and lovingly decorated condominium. She was certain that the woman sleeping alone in the queen-size bed was Jillian, also a nurse, and one of the main reasons Belle herself had chosen the profession. Following the automobile-accident deaths of their parents, Jillian had stepped in to raise her fourteen-year-old sister, often making major sacrifices in her personal life. Belle considered her to be the kindest, brightest, most centered person she had ever known. The camera had been placed above the valance in the bedroom. At the sight of Jillian, rolling languidly from her left side to her back, Belle began to hyperventilate again.
“Easy,” the man warned. “Slow down. That’s it. . . . That’s it.”
“Please. Please don’t hurt her.”
The apparition holding the phone leaned forward. Belle cringed as his empty eyes came level with her own. His pale white skin was tinted blue, a ghoulish illusion cast by her ecologically friendly halogen lights.
“You must calm down your breathing and listen, Ms. Coates. To save your sister’s life, and yourself from a great deal of pain, it is essential that you believe I will do as I say.”
“I believe. I believe. Turn it off. Turn that camera off and leave her alone.”
“I’m going to make you a promise, Ms. Coates,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. “I promise that if you fail to follow my instructions, Jillian will die, and die quite horribly. Do as I say and she lives. Want proof? Look here.”
He held the phone at eye level.
“Enough,” Belle pleaded. “Don’t hurt her.”
“I’ve placed small canisters of a potent nerve gas above the door frame inside the closet. Action almost instant. From this phone, I can control how much of the gas is released simply by tapping my finger. Incredible, yes? I am a virtuoso operating this setup. I put another camera in Jillian’s bathroom because I want you to see what happens when just a smidge of this gas is inhaled.”
“No, please. Please stop this. I believe you.”
The intruder paid no attention. It was as if he had planned this demonstration all along. Belle’s brain was spinning. How could she believe him? How could she not? What choice did she have? Would he really spare Jillian as he promised? Why would he? Why wouldn’t he? The unanswerable questions roiled on and on.
“If I wanted to,” he said as if reading her thoughts, “I could kill your sister—I could kill anyone—anytime, anyplace, and in any way I wish. But the point is I don’t have to. I don’t even want to. She seems like a nice woman. And as I said, there is nothing in her death for me.”
He made two gentle taps on the phone’s display, and Jillian’s quaint bathroom came into focus, illuminated by a night-light beside the sink and a small diamond-shaped window above the tub.
“There are four levels of gas I can administer. The first three will cause increasing pain and the symptoms you are about to see. The fourth will kill . . . slowly. This is level one.”
Within seconds, Jillian, wearing flannel pajamas Belle had bought for her, burst into the frame, fell onto her knees, and began retching violently into the toilet. Between bouts, she lay clenched in a fetal position on the tiled floor, shivering uncontrollably.
“Can you believe that’s only level one?” the man asked. “I think I should patent this delivery system.”
“Stop it! Stop doing this to her,” Belle cried.
“Keep it down or I’ll cut your larynx out and set it on the table. I’m sensing you need a bit more motivation, Ms. Coates. Allow me to oblige by upping Jillian’s misery to level two. I’ll keep it on level two until you start copying this note. Audio is really a must to get the full effect.”
He tapped his phone’s display again and now Belle could hear Jillian’s grunting, labored breathing, interrupted by fits of gut-wrenching vomiting and sobs of pain.
“Please . . . stop . . . I believe you. I believe you.”
He loosened her left hand and pushed the note she was to copy in front of her.
“Start writing your farewell letter, Ms. Coates. When you do, I’ll stop killing your sister,” he said.
Belle’s face contorted in agony at the sound of Jillian’s unrelenting anguish.
“Please . . .”
“Do you need more volume? Write the damn note!” the monster barked, pounding the table with each word. “You’re dead regardless. But you can still save your sister’s life—that is if you have the courage to do the right thing.”
The man shut off the gas as soon as Belle began to write. In just a minute, Jillian’s moaning stopped. Belle managed to pen the first four words before she began to sob.
“Finish,” he said, “or I’ll fire it up again.”
“Why me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t even know you. Why do you want me to die?”
“Not my call. Somebody in this great big world of ours has decided you have to go. And that somebody is paying me to make it happen. I can do it to you alone or to both of you.”
“This is insane,” she said, as much to herself as to the man who was about to murder her. “This is absolutely insane.”
“I guess you enjoy listening to your sister scream. Allow me to show you level three.”
The tormented retching Belle heard could scarcely be described as human. On the tiny video display, Jillian’s body convulsed more violently than before. As soon as Belle lifted up the pen again, the man pressed a button on his phone and her sister’s screaming stopped. Belle found the strength to finish copying the note.
“I’m a man of my word, Ms. Coates. I’m also very good with handwriting and I have a large sample of yours from your journal. Mess with this and I’ll dismember you joint by joint with that ball stuck back in your mouth. You’ll still be alive to watch when I finally jack up the gas in Jillian’s pad to level four.”
“I did as you asked. Let her go.”
“Sign it.” The man studied the note with great care. “Okay, now the pills.”
He shook the pills onto the table, motioning for her to take one.
“Please,” Belle begged, still trying to make inroads into the utter helplessness she was feeling. “Who’s paying you? Why do they want to kill me?”
“I’m running out of time and patience.”
The man pressed a button on his phone like a puppet master pulling on invisible strings. Jillian’s body again twitched with violent spasms.
“No! You promised!” Belle cried.
“You have the power to make this easier on
Jillian. Think of all your sister has done for you. You owe it to her, don’t you? Make me stop. I want you to stop me, Ms. Coates.”
She could not listen to her sister’s cries anymore. Her only thought was of the man’s chilling proclamation.
You’re dead regardless.
As though in a trance, her hand reached out shakily. Jillian’s moaning abated as soon as Belle swallowed the first pill.
“Please . . . don’t. No more.”
“Keep swallowing and that’s the last time you have to hear that nasty sound, Ms. Coates.”
Belle tightened her jaw and nodded that she understood.
“Promise?” Her voice sounded like a child’s. “I said, do you promise?”
“Ms. Coates, I might be a killer, but I’m a professional. You have my word. But I’m going to resume torturing your beloved sister unless all these pills are down the hatch.”
It was too much to take. Belle raced to swallow the pills.
What else can I do? her mind kept asking. What else can I do? . . . What else can I do?
The action, in a way, was liberating. Her heart rate slowed and her tears stopped. In minutes, she no longer felt agitated or even frightened. The man’s eyes, once haunting, now made her feel nothing at all.
“Good girl. You are simply going to close your eyes and go to sleep.”
Her tongue already felt heavy. “You promised,” Belle managed.
“You have my word.”
After a while, he filled the tub, then undid her restraints.
“Clothes,” he said.
Feeling the wooziness from the drug take further hold, Belle stepped out of her scrubs and dropped her bra and panties onto the floor.
Then she stepped into the tub.
“I love you, Jillian,” she murmured. “I love you.”
CHAPTER 1
“Nick, Nick, throw it here! Come on, let it go!”
Nick Garrity cocked his right arm and lofted a perfect spiral to the gangly youth waiting across the yard. The boy, who would have been happy to keep playing until midnight, gathered in the pass effortlessly and immediately threw it back.
The Last Surgeon Page 1
