MAYA HOPE, a medical thriller - The Dr. Nicklaus Hart series 1

by Timothy Browne, MD

The electronic doors shut between them. Through the glass, he could see her mouth still moving.

  I have to go.

  * * *

  Nick leaned against his locker in the quiet of the changing room, stabbing his fingers into his chest hoping the Tums would kick in. He felt like Roe would be the death of him, if he didn’t strangle her first. He wondered how people like her got into the medical system. The old nuns who use to run hospitals would be turning over in their graves.

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Three-forty-five. The crew should be bringing Jeremiah down from the floor any minute. He noticed that the dressing room smelled rank and saw an overflowing basket of sweat- and blood-stained scrubs and nasty OR shoes lined up at the door, thanks to another cost-savings move by Roe that cut back on housekeeping.

  He needed a break from this place. But the thought of visiting a tropical resort alone depressed him. Of course he could head to Montana to see his folks, but he wasn’t sure he could handle his mother doting on him. The only place he knew to go was Guatemala to see Maggie.

  Geez. Mom. He remembered. I promised Dad I’d call her. That was ages ago.

  He looked at his phone and decided there was no better time. Maybe they would be at one of their many doctor’s appointments, and he could leave a message.

  His mother picked up on the first ring as if she had been sitting by the phone waiting for his call.

  “Nicklaus.”

  He heard the concern in her voice and regretted making the call. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Let me get your Dad on the line. We have been so worried about you.”

  “Mom—” but it was too late. He could hear her calling in the background for his father. He sighed and waited for them to come on the line.

  “Hi, son,” his father said.

  “We have been so worried,” his mother said again. “Where are you? Are you back in Memphis? How was John’s service? How is Maggie doing? How are you doing?”

  Nick held the phone away from his ear, but he could still hear her firing off questions, hardly taking a breath.

  “Nancy, let the boy speak.” His father chastised his mother. “Son, we are so sorry we missed John’s funeral. Your mom was not up for travelling.”

  There was a long pause before Nick took his turn to speak. “Uh, yeah, sorry I haven’t called until now, but Dad, you know how it goes. The hospital keeps me busy. I had to get right back after the service. I think Maggie is doing as well as expected.” He paused, trying to remember the questions his mother had fired at him. “Look, I’m in the OR waiting for my next case, and I just wanted to call and say hi.” He tried to end the call.

  “And how are YOU doing?” his mother persisted.

  “I’m thinking about taking some time off.” Nick cringed and waited for his father to tell him what a bad idea that was, that he should keep his nose to the grindstone.

  “Like a sabbatical?” his mother said with concern.

  “No,” Nick laughed. “I’m thinking about going to Guatemala to see Maggie.”

  That statement even surprised himself, it sounded so certain.

  There was another long pause.

  “Son, I think that sounds like a wonderful idea,” his father finally said.

  Nick looked at his phone in shock.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  The Trinity

  “Ah buh ji, Ah buh ji! Daddy, Daddy!” the two young girls shouted and bounced up and down when their father walked through the apartment door in northern Pyongyang.

  Mr. Pak slipped off his shoes as the girls hugged his legs. “Ddal, Ddal, please be patient,” he told his daughters.

  He felt the warmth of the heated floor, and the aroma of Kimchi-chigae, spicy cabbage soup, wafted from the kitchen. He knew his wife was working hard to please him.

  Even though they lived in a cramped apartment with two rooms, a living space and a kitchen, he lived like a king, compared to the rest of the country. He traveled throughout the country with his work. Most of his countrymen lived in abject poverty with little to eat, barely surviving in shacks with no electricity or running water. Many ate only boiled tree bark and grains of oats they stole from the fields they worked for the government.

  Pak’s family had both water and power—at least when the government turned it on. It surprised him that the State still had the hot water turned on. It had been a bitterly cold winter and spring. Of course the luxury of the hot water would not last; a few more nights above freezing, and the central city hot water would be terminated. They would have to suffer with cold houses and colder showers until the weather warmed. In this country where individuals have zero control, Pak learned to appreciate the slightest amount of comfort.

  “Father, is that something for us?” Pak’s younger daughter asked, eyeing the sack he carried.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he teased them, holding the sack above his head. His oldest daughter was eight, and her sister was six. They would be his only children, and while he was disappointed they were girls, he loved them deeply.

  “Father, pleeeease show us,” the older girl begged.

  “Okay. I’ll show you at dinner. Go sit at the table.”

  The girls leaped and jumped with joy; at the same time, they were quick to obey and took their places at the table in the middle of the sparse room. There were bright-colored, embroidered cushions on the floor in front of the table. Unlike most of the furnishings, the cushions added color to the room. The faded walls had been painted a pale yellow. Pictures of the Great Leader and the Dear Leader hung on one wall with a photo of Pak’s parents on one side and his wife’s parents on the other. A small hutch sat against another wall with bedrolls neatly folded on each side. The only view was the cinderblock wall of the apartment complex next door.

  Pak set the sack in the middle of the table and watched the girls stare at it, trying to will it open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife pause at the kitchen door with a stone bowl in her hands. She knelt gracefully at the threshold, set the bowl in front of her and bowed deeply. Without a word, she rose with the bowl, walked quickly to the table, and set the bowl on top of a hotplate. She turned up the temperature and backed out of the room, paused to drop to her knees, bowed again, and left the room. She would eat in the kitchen.

  Pak’s wife meant nothing to him. She had served her purpose and given him two precious daughters. She had become more of an annoyance than anything. He’d contemplated sending her away to a labor camp, but thought that might be too hard on his daughters.

  But maybe the loss would make them stronger.

  “Father?” The younger girl tried to interrupt his thoughts.

  He took off his suit jacket, laid it next to his cushion, and sat down at the head of the table. The kimchi soup simmered with a pungent aroma. There would be no rice again tonight. The drought last year had depleted the food supply. Even though it was not his wife’s fault, Pak boiled with anger at her.

  If I could just leave this place.

  “Father,” his daughter interrupted again. “May I thank the Great Leader tonight?”

  He looked sternly at her. She lowered her face and looked at her crossed legs. No god was worshiped in North Korea, only Kim Il-sung, Kim Jong-il, and Kim Jong-un. The trinity. It was Kim Il-sung’s spirit that provided for them and was their source of strength. No one quite knew what to do with the new young dictator, except maybe to fear him. Even at four years of age, Pak’s daughter was indoctrinated to believe in the Kim dynasty.

  If I could take you away, you would know the truth.

  Pak softened his expression. “Yes, my dear daughter, you may thank the Great Leader.”

  After she recited a well-scripted eulogy that she learned at pre-school, Pak slowly reached into the paper bag. The girls could hardly hold their excitement. He pulled an object out of the bag and set it gently in the middle of the table. As soon as the girls saw the beautiful present, they clapped and giggled. It was someth
ing they hadn’t seen in six months.

  “Now, if you eat your dinner, we will have this for dessert.”

  The precious object was the apple he had taken from the maternity clinic hours before.

  * * *

  Pak answered the vintage black phone on the second ring. The antiquated phone, a museum piece in the States, was the only kind of telephone available in North Korea. Most homes didn’t have a phone, but as the Minister of the Cabinet General Intelligence Bureau (GIB), Pak’s home did.

  “Ye seon-saeng-nim,” he used the formal affirmative to the Vice-Marshal of the National Defense Commission. It was out of respect for his father, since the Vice Marshal worked directly under his father.

  Pak cupped his hand over his mouth and spoke softly into the phone so as to not disturb his daughters’ sleep.

  “Ye, ye.”

  “Yes, I will be at the airport in the morning to meet the plane.”

  “Six players and twelve staff.”

  “Skiing. No, I was not told about that.”

  “Ye, ye.”

  “Give me the report in the morning.”

  * * *

  Pak’s wife lay motionless on the bedroll with her back to her husband. She listened to Pak speak into the phone, but it made no sense because she couldn’t hear what the caller said. She heard her husband set the receiver in its cradle.

  She heard him move across the room, stop, continue through the kitchen into the bathroom, and close the door. Moments later, he returned to the floor bedroll. She thought he smelt strange, like a burnt match. His nocturnal movements and his smell were odd, and she decided she would report them to her handler.

  She wondered if the master of the North Korean spy world knew he was being spied upon. She decided he must know because everyone in the country was watched and monitored. It was a matter of checks and balances.

  * * *

  As Pak sat down, he glanced at his wife’s back for any movement. No. Just deep, rhythmic breathing. He lay on his back and wondered if she would ever betray him. He thought she was too afraid, but he couldn’t be sure. No one in this country was to be trusted.

  But how else will this revolution happen?

  There could only be one of two outcomes, death or an overthrow, the most likely being death. Pak almost welcomed death as a relief from the stress. In this country where everyone spied on each other, not reporting illicit activity was punishable by death or life in a reeducation camp if not done with full diligence. The chance of keeping his secrets would be minuscule, but he had to try or lose his sanity altogether.

  The phone call worried him; it concerned his job, but it was the note slipped under the door after the phone call that captured his thoughts. He knew even his phone line was monitored and the phone call, which had been listened to, would be reported as a typical call from a superior. He hoped that only a select few would know anything about the note under the door. It read “Charles Hall.” Pak had burned the note in the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  Culture Shock

  Miraculously, it took Nick only a few days to make the arrangements to Guatemala. His partners were happy to cover his call and practice for the two weeks he planned to be away. His patients were in good hands, including Jeremiah. His colleagues promised to continue the boy’s rehab and begin the process of procuring temporary prosthetic legs.

  He didn’t even speak to Cruella de Vil. He wondered if she’d fire him, but he believed her bark was much worse than her bite. He knew it was a challenge to find a trauma surgeon who would put up with the conditions of the MED and the long hours of call required.

  Nick looked out the window of the plane as it bumped through the clouds toward Guatemala City. He could not believe how close the mountains were as the plane made its descent. The landscape was emerald green. Suddenly, the plane shuddered, and he gripped the armrests. It seemed like an unusually steep descent. He felt and heard the landing gear snap into place. Buildings appeared on both sides of the plane.

  I hope these guys know where they are going.

  It looked like the plane was landing in the middle of downtown. Nick glanced around to see if anyone else was alarmed, but most of the passengers read calmly or snoozed.

  The plane leveled off and almost simultaneously its wheels touched down. High-rise buildings practically lined the runway, as the plane reversed thrusters. Reflexively, Nick put his hand against the seat in front as the plane quickly slowed to its taxi speed.

  He sighed with relief and wiped his brow. He didn’t realize he was sweating. He didn’t like to fly, and this was the reason why. Geeez. He knew that he, like most surgeons, was too much of a control freak.

  What have I gotten myself into? Maggie didn’t warn me about flying into Guatemala City.

  Then he smiled, recalling Maggie’s response to his call.

  “I’ve decided to come see you in Guatemala,” he had said. When the phone went silent, he thought they had a bad connection.

  “Maggie, are you there?” He checked his phone to see if he was still connected. “Maggie?” In frustration, he was about to hang up when he heard a shout of glee from his phone.

  “I’m sorry, Nick, did you say something?”

  He didn’t realize she was teasing him. “Yes.” He put the phone close to his mouth and spoke louder, carefully enunciating each word. “I am coming to Guatemala.”

  “Yes, everything is fine in Guatemala.” Still teasing, she mimicked his voice.

  “No, I am coming to Guatemala.”

  “Yes, I’m already in Guatemala,” she played him.

  Nick was becoming exacerbated and considered calling back for a better connection, until Maggie giggled, and he got it. “You are so bad,” he said.

  There was a long pause before she responded without jest. “Nicklaus, I am so happy. Thank you so much. John would be so happy.” Her voice was breaking with grief and joy.

  * * *

  Nick stood by the baggage carousel, his shirt already soaked through in the humid air. He had entered a different world. The smells of damp earth, body odor, and barbecue drifting from a nearby café mixed in a brackish stew.

  Nick was one of the few gringos to arrive that day. The baggage area was filled with a carnival atmosphere with laughter and chatter as people pulled off their bags and boxes, some wrapped with twine and others newly packaged containing TVs and small appliances. He could feel the excitement, even though he couldn’t understand the words. He wished he had studied Spanish instead of German in high school.

  Then he noticed large cockroaches scurrying across the ceiling, or what was left of the ceiling. Many of the acoustic ceiling tiles were either gone or dissolving from what looked like water damage. There were hundreds of the bugs. One of them took flight, and Nick ducked as it dive-bombed him.

  “I guess I’m not in Kansas anymore,” he said to no one.

  Nick glanced to his right to see a small man in a large cowboy hat canvassing his six-foot-two frame. Nick smiled, and the weathered-faced man said something in Spanish. Seeing that Nick didn’t understand, he buzzed his lips, waved his hand like a flying bug, and laughed.

  Nick laughed with him, keeping a wary eye out for other kamikaze bugs.

  “Cucaracha.” The man repeated.

  “Cucaracha,” Nick said, recognizing the word from the song.

  Great, my first new Spanish word. Yes, definitely not in Kansas anymore.

  Nick walked to the customs counter and set down his passport. “Welcome to Guatemala, Dr. Hart,” declared the uniformed officer as he stamped Nick’s passport.

  Nick pulled his bag behind him through an automatic door into chaos. A throng of humanity lined the waiting area, shouting at friends and relatives as they exited. Hugs and kisses were liberally exchanged, as shouts of joy mixed with traffic sounds and taxi horns.

  Two boys ran up to Nick and pulled at his bags.

  “Sir, sir, let me help yo
u,” one said.

  “Where are you going?” the other asked eagerly. “I know English very well. Do you need a translator?”

  “A guide?” the other added. “What is your name?”

  “Where are you from?”

  Nick felt like the ball in a ping-pong game, batted between the players.

  He saw an unkempt, unclean, urchin girl no more than six years old, standing on the walkway. She bit her lip, shyly held out her hand to him and said something.

  Nick barely heard her over the ruckus. She had no shoes and wore an ill-fitting, dirty dress. Tangled black hair covered her delicately featured, dark-skinned face.

  “Please,” she pleaded, raising her voice.

  One of his would-be escorts spoke sharply to the girl, and while possessively holding onto Nick’s arm, he used his other hand to move her out of their way.

  Nick was about to rebuke him when he saw a man lying on the ground behind the girl as she stepped back. The man lay on a piece of cardboard. His leg was grotesquely disfigured with a large, draining, open sore above his shin. Flies gorged on the wound. His other leg was altogether missing.

  People stepped over the man’s outstretched leg, oblivious to his plight.

  Nick’s would-be escorts continued to pull at him to keep his attention.

  Nick wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the chaos, but he was suddenly dizzy and short of breath. Then he felt a hand touch his back. He turned, not knowing what to expect.

  “Hey, stranger. Need a lift?”

  “Maggie!” He had never been so happy to see anyone, especially her.

  She looked radiant with her long black hair flowing down her back. She wore a beautiful red blouse with brightly embroidered flowers around the collar. She gave him a long, stout hug with both arms around his neck.

  “Nicklaus, it is so good to have you here. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

  Nick could not explain it, but he felt that all darkness that he was feeling had lifted. There was no explanation, but felt like he was home.