Marker

"You certainly picked a good time to show up," Jack said and grunted.

"Apparently, I just missed you outside the CCU," Lou said. "Then I just missed you on the sixth floor. It was a good thing the clerk told me to look for a black Hummer."

In the better light, it was apparent that the stains on the man's shirt were blood, and people were now willing to help. By the time they got across the bridge, two male nurses had pitched in. One was at the head with Jack, while the other had a leg with Lou.

"The ER is on the floor below," one of the nurses said between breaths. "Should we wait for an elevator or try the stairs?"

"The elevator," Jack answered. He was aware the man was no longer breathing. "But we're going up, not down. He needs a thoracic surgeon, and he needs him now."

The two nurses looked at each other in consternation but didn't say anything. Rather than put the man down, Jack backed up against the wall and hit the elevator button with his free hand. Luckily, a car arrived almost immediately. Unfortunately, it was full.

"Coming in!" Jack yelled. He was not to be deterred, and he backed right into people who momentarily had not moved. Recognizing the degree of the emergency, a number of people got off, creating the necessary space. The door closed.

The four people holding the injured man looked at one another while the people in the elevator stared at the wounded individual. No one said anything as the elevator rose up a floor.

When the doors opened on the third floor, they carried the man out and then pushed through the double doors. As they passed the arched opening into the surgical lounge, Jack cried out that they had a man who had been shot in the chest three times. By the time they got to the doors leading into the OR itself, a number of surgeons who had been waiting for their cases to start were walking alongside. Several of them were thoracic surgeons, and they started to assess the man's condition, as evidenced by the position of the entrance wounds. Although there was some disagreement about the nature of the injuries, all thought that the only chance the patient had for survival was to be put on cardiopulmonary bypass immediately.

As the group came abreast of the OR desk, several of the nurses were aghast that people had entered their sterile domain in street clothes. Their indignation was shortlived when they realized that a patient with a mortal wound was being rushed in.

"Room 8 is being set up for open-heart surgery," one of the nurses behind the desk yelled.

The group hustled down to room 8 where they put the man directly onto the operating table. The surgeons wasted no time. They cut off the man's clothes. An anesthesiologist appeared and yelled that the man was no longer breathing and had no pulse. He quickly intubated the patient and started respiring him with one hundred percent oxygen. Another anesthesiologist started several large-bore IVs and began ru

Jack and Lou stepped back as the surgeons crowded around. One of the thoracic surgeons barked for a scalpel, and one was quickly slapped into his waiting palm. With no hesitation and without even bothering to glove, the surgeon cut through the man's chest with a decisive swipe. Then, using his bare hands, he cracked open the ribs only, to be faced with an enormous amount of blood. At that point, Lou decided he'd wait out in the surgical lounge.

"Suction," the surgeon yelled.

Jack tried to see as best he could from the head of the table. It was a spectacle the likes of which he had never seen. None of the surgeons had on gloves, masks, or gowns, and they had blood up to their elbows. It had all happened so quickly that no one had had a chance to follow the normal presurgical protocol. Jack listened intently to the banter, which only underlined something that he had already known: namely, that surgeons were a breed unto themselves. Despite the unorthodox nature of the event and the gore, they were enjoying themselves. It was as if the episode served to conveniently validate their enormous curative powers.

It was quickly determined that the man had suffered what would have been a mortal wound, except for the fact that it had happened at a major hospital. Two of the bullets had gone through the lungs. For the surgeons, that was a pedestrian problem. It was the third bullet that presented the challenge. It had, among other things, pierced the great vessels.

Quickly, the damaged vessels were clamped off, and the patient was put on the heart-lung machine. At that point, some of the surgeons left to start their own scheduled cases while the two thoracic surgeons stopped long enough to scrub and don the usual operating-room apparel. Jack moved over to chat with the anesthesiologist about what she thought the chances were the man would survive, but the nursing supervisor tapped him on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry," the supervisor said, "but we're trying to reclaim sterility here. You'll have to leave and put on scrubs if you want to observe." She handed him a pair of booties to cover his street shoes.

"Okay," Jack said agreeably. He'd been amazed that he hadn't been kicked out earlier.

As Jack walked back down the long operating-room corridor, the events of the long night began to take their toll. He was exhausted to the point that his legs and feet felt as if he had weights strapped to them. As he passed the operating-room desk he shivered through a bout of discomfort akin to nausea. He found Lou sitting in the crowded surgical lounge, talking on his cell phone. In front of him on the coffee table were a wallet and a driver's license.

Jack sat down heavily in a chair facing Lou. Lou pointed to the driver's license without interrupting his conversation. Jack leaned forward and picked up the license. The name was David Rosenkrantz. Holding the card closer, Jack studied the laminated picture. The individual appeared like an all-American football player with a thick neck and a broad, toothy smile. He was a handsome man.

After flipping his phone shut, Lou looked over at Jack. Then he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "At the moment, I don't want a long explanation how this all happened," he said in a tired voice. "But I'd just like to know why. The last thing you promised me was that you were going to sit outside the CCU."

"I meant to," Jack said. "Then I realized the shift was changing, and I was suddenly worried the Rakoczi woman would disappear. I just wanted to make sure she hung around until you got here."

Lou rubbed his face briskly with both hands and groaned. When he took his hands away, his eyes were red. He looked almost as bad as Jack. "Amateurs! I hate them," he remarked rhetorically.

"It never dawned on me she'd have a gun," Jack said.

"What about the other two recent gunshot-wound deaths over here? Didn't they at least go through your pea brain?"

"No," Jack admitted. "I was really worried we wouldn't see her again. I thought I'd just ask her to stay. I wasn't going to accuse her of anything."

"Bad decision," Lou said. "That's the way people like you get killed."

Jack shrugged. In retrospect, he knew Lou was right.

"Did you look at the license of the man you shot?"

Jack nodded. He didn't like to think he'd actually shot somebody.

"Well, who is David Rosenkrantz?"

Jack shook his head. "I haven't the slightest idea. I've never seen him before nor heard his name."

"Is he going to live?"

"I don't know. I was about to ask the anesthesiologist's opinion, but I was told to leave. I think the surgeons are pretty optimistic, the way they have been talking. If he does make it, it proves that if you are going to get shot, make sure you get shot in a decent hospital."

"Very fu