by Allen Wyler
In watching Wyse now, Wyse’s real motivation became clear to McCarthy: adoration. Yet McCarthy saw something different in the residents. Whereas Wyse interpreted the residents’ deference as respect for a magnificent teacher, McCarthy saw in them only fear. Fear of the sword Wyse held above their heads. When their six years of residency ended, whether or not they graduated depended solely on Wyse’s whim. He had the power to hold them as long as he wished without any recourse. Resident training was as close to a feudal system as anything in the free world.
Enough. Time to finish the job.
Wyse looked up, saw him approach, and without a hint of emotion, announced to the group, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an unexpected guest today. If you don’t already know him, let me introduce Dr. Tom McCarthy.” He locked eyes with McCarthy. “To what do we owe this honor?”
“It’s personal, Bert. Probably best to take it down the hall,” Tom said and nodded toward the double doors.
Wyse considered this a moment, probably weighing the risk of an embarrassing confrontation in front of his audience. “All right.” Then to the group: “If you’ll excuse me, this should only take a minute.” He glared at McCarthy as they walked to the ICU doors.
They moved in silence, McCarthy’s anger vibrating through his muscles. When ten feet from the exit he turned to Wyse, but his throat constricted, making it impossible to talk. He glanced around, confirming no one was in earshot, cleared his throat, but still couldn’t speak. They stood like this, Wyse’s eyes growing confident and defiant as McCarthy remained mute.
After a few beats, Wyse said, “I don’t have time to waste. What’s so important it necessitates interrupting teaching rounds?”
McCarthy said, “Did you actually believe you could use people as guinea pigs without their permission?”
Wyse’s expression turned from annoyance to impatience. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The memory transplants.”
Wyse took a half step back, looked McCarthy up and down, and said nothing.
“Oh, I get it.” McCarthy laughed. “Think I’m wired?”
“What is it you want?”
McCarthy laughed. “I’m not here to sucker you. It’s way beyond that. You know who Tony Cassera is?”
“If this is a threat, you can kiss my ass.”
“Threat? No.”
“Then, kiss my ass anyway. This conversation is finished.”
Wyse started to turn, but Tom grabbed his shoulder. “I’m not done.”
“The hell you aren’t.” Wyse glared. “Take your goddamn hand off me or I’ll have you thrown out of here.”
“No need, I’m leaving. Just so you know, I figured it out. The moment I started to work up Russell and Baker you began to worry I’d find out what you were doing. So you talked Cunningham into classifying your work.”
Wyse glared.
“And because you weren’t sure what I did or didn’t know you convinced him I discovered Cuckoo’s Nest and was going to blow the whistle. So he sent Sikes after me.”
Wyse glanced around again. “We’re done here, Tom. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Bert. Be sure you don’t miss Tony Cassera’s report on channel five’s six-o’clock news.” He checked his watch. “It airs a couple hours from now.”
Wyse studied McCarthy a moment. “This another threat?”
“Tonight’s report is the first of three installments and deals with the memory transplants and DARPA angle. The next one will explore the financial problems facing RegenBiologic. I’ll spare you the details of the third.”
Wyse’s face went purple as he leaned close to McCarthy. “Listen, you fucking fool, any DARPA work gets out, you’ll be spending the rest of your days in federal prison writing appeals. You have no idea of the world of hurt that’ll rain down on you.”
McCarthy mimed shock and surprise. “Really? You think Cunningham’s going to back you? Word is, he’s already circling the wagons, distancing himself with claims you falsified reports.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, in case nobody mentioned it, the FBI is removing all the hard disks from the Regen-Biologic computers as we speak. It seems they want to see if any records have been deleted or altered since last weekend.”
He grinned at Wyse. “Hey, go finish rounds. Enjoy every moment. It may be your last.” He turned and slapped the metal plate to open the automatic doors.
58
ONE WEEK LATER: QUEEN ANNE HILL
MCCARTHY HEARD THE bell ring and hurried to the front door of his townhouse. Sarah stood smiling at him, looking wonderfully fresh in white pants, sandals, a pale blue cotton shirt, and a blue cotton sweater over her shoulders. She held a bottle-shaped package wrapped in white tissue. He wanted to pull her inside, take her upstairs to the bedroom, and … Easy, take it easy, for now.
Instead, he kissed her cheek. “Have any problem finding a parking place?” He stepped aside for her to enter. Yesterday the weather hit a warm spell, teasing Seattleites with an Indian summer before dull overcast settled in for six months of drizzle and rain.
“No, I found a great one only a half mile away. Here,” she said, handing him what could only be a wine bottle.
He inspected the white wrapping paper with the gold Champion Cellars sticker binding it together. “Champion Cellars, huh?” A wine store on Denny across from where they shared a late night breakfast a little over a week ago. Seemed like months. He led her to the kitchen.
“You know it?”
“You bet. I go there when I want something special.”
They entered the kitchen, the French doors open to the deck, a soft breeze circulating. He said, “I’m throwing together a Caesar salad with some poached salmon. We can talk while I finish and then take our wine out to the deck. Does that meet with your approval?” He set her gift on the granite counter-top. She perched on one of the three black counter stools. He opened the fridge and brought out an opened bottle of wine.
“Would you like a glass of pinot gris to start? If not, I could open something else.”
“No, the pinot’s fine.”
He poured two glasses, handed her one. She asked, “Did you happen to catch Tony Cassera’s report?”
He crushed a garlic clove in a small stainless steel mixing bowl. “I did. I also talked with him on the phone today. He didn’t mention that they’ll be filing criminal charges Monday against Wyse.”
He squeezed anchovy paste in with the garlic and added a dollop of Dijon mustard. “Lange thinks it’s a given Wyse will end up in prison for at least five years. Maybe longer. Cunning-ham … well, I don’t think much is going to happen to him. Tony thinks he’ll be protected by some hand waving under the guise of national security. At least for now.”
“Too bad. And it’s too bad Wyse won’t do longer time.”
He added a splash of Worcestershire sauce and then poured in olive oil. “Which reminds me, how’s Bobbie doing?”
She took her first taste of the pinot gris. “Hmmm, nice. Oregon?”
“No, Washington.”
“She’s progressing well. Just knowing that there’s a reason for the memories has given her tremendous relief. She’s agreed to some intensive therapy. I plan to start next week.”
“What approach will you use?”
“Standard psychotherapy. She’s already showing benefits.”
He squeezed a lemon into the mixture. “There. Almost done. Then we can move to the deck and enjoy our wine and a nice evening. Good thing you brought a sweater, it’ll chill soon as the sun heads down.” He started to mix the dressing with a salad fork. “Already washed and dried the romaine. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I already poached the salmon to place on top. That’s why I selected the pinot.”
She nodded approval. “While we’re on it, one other question.”
He set the dressing aside and picked up his wine. “Yes?”
“We know what happened to Sikes and two of his men. Were there any more involved?”
; Glass in hand, he leaned his butt against the edge of the counter. “Lange said an FBI buddy looked into that. He thinks there probably were, but how many for sure we’ll never know. Cunningham’s never going to say, and there’s no chance the Department of Defense will disclose that.”
She seemed to think about that. “Again, I’m so sorry about Maria.”
He looked away. Her death was the one thing stemming from the events of those awful forty-eight hours he still found very painful. “This whole thing with Maria … It’s the hardest to deal with …” He couldn’t finish. After being released by the police he’d visited Maria’s aging mother. He needed the family to know how badly he felt and look them in the eye to assure them he wasn’t her killer. But he suspected they still blamed him.
She nodded and bit her lip. “I’m sorry; I know how hard that hit you.”
He swallowed. “Okay, let’s go to the deck.”
“You have to open my gift first.”
He picked up the bottle and carefully unwrapped the tissue. “Wow, Château Margaux.” He’d expected maybe a local chardonnay. But this? The last bottle he’d priced was north of $250. “Did someone make a mistake? Wrap the wrong bottle?”
A blush ascended her face. She looked down into her wine. “No. Think of it as a thank-you present.”
Stunned, he looked at her, trying to decide if this were a joke. “A thank-you present?”
“Yes. You helped me work through something very important. That means a lot to me. So, thank you.”
He carefully set the bottle back on the counter. “What was it I helped you work through?”
“Something that happened back in Chicago.”
A twinge of jealousy went through his heart. “The professor you got involved with?”
She met his stare. “Yes, but not in the way you think.”
A jab of jealousy struck again. “Want to tell me?”
She smiled wistfully. “No, Tom. I can’t and won’t. Some skeletons are better left alone. Maybe some time in the future. It involved Jeff, but not in any way you think.”
Her determined expression said her answer was nonnegotiable.
She smiled and added, “Maybe we can both enjoy that wine one night soon when I cook you dinner.”
He remembered the conversation he’d had with Caroline, telling her he’d become involved with someone else. At the time, he’d hoped that someone would be Sarah. Still did.
“Yes, that’d be nice. Look forward to it.” He took her in his arms and drew her to him.
About The Author
Allen Wyler is a renowned neurosurgeon who earned an international reputation for pioneering surgical techniques to record brain activity. He has served on the faculties of both the University of Washington and the University of Tennessee, and in 1992 was recruited by the prestigious Swedish Medical Center to develop a neuroscience institute.
Yuen Studio, Seattle
Leveraging a love for thrillers since the early 1970s, Wyler devoted himself to fiction writing in earnest, eventually serving as vice president of the International Thriller Writers organization for several years. After publishing his first two medical thrillers, Deadly Errors (2005) and Dead Head (2007), he officially retired from medicine to devote himself to writing full-time.
He and his wife, Lily, divide their time between Seattle and the San Juan Islands.
Acknowledgments
In no particular order, thanks to the following people who helped me prepare this story: Tom Norris, MD; Judy Stoudt, US Customs; Daniel O. Graney, PhD; Daryl Gardner; Mary Osterbrock; Marjorie Braman; Robert Astle; Tony Viardo.
Also by Allen Wyler
Also published by Astor + Blue Editions:
www.astorandblue.com
DEAD END DEAL
DEAD RINGER
DEADLY ERRORS
