The Last Surgeon

A three-inch swollen welt materialized almost instantaneously on Spielma

“I wish I was a betting man,” Koller said, smiling down at her. “Because I would bet when you get to your refrigerator you won’t find your prescription allergy kit there. Then again, maybe you will.”

With her strength failing rapidly, Abigail Spielma

Koller watched unblinking, absorbing her every move. There were no glass jars to crash on the floor and disturb the neighbors. Koller had already removed them and would break a few in a plastic bag to scatter about the kitchen floor before leaving. The only items to spill out in her frantic search for the kit, were those he put within her reach; a head of lettuce, a plastic bottle of ketchup, and two sticks of butter.

Spielma

Nicely done.

“Any moment can be our last, dear doctor,” he said. “Sadly, this is yours.”

CHAPTER 26

Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson Collins arrived at the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center at precisely three. Earlier in the day, Daintry Calnan had called with the news that Dr. Paresh Singh had been called out of town for an emergency consultation. She tried to reschedule their appointment, but Jillian told her that for the time being, it would suffice if they were able to tour the facility.

“It will save us time when we do get to come in and schedule my surgery with Dr. Singh.”

The novelty of their plan had worn off and the reality was sinking in. Despite her theater background, Jillian had never had any talent for lying or deceit. Now, she used mental images of Belle and memories of their last conversation together to keep her focus under some modicum of control.

Nick was at least a seven on the SUD scale: Starting to freak out, on the edge of some definitely bad feelings. You can maintain control with difficulty. He had not shared the fact that he had suffered through another bad night. Restlessness, insomnia, nightmares, free-floating anxiety, even leg cramps-the works. Brain chemistry run amok. As usual, there was nothing transpiring in his personal life to correlate with the flare-up-nothing, of course, except the sudden arrival in it of Jillian Coates. As exciting as it was to feel himself falling for a woman, it was also as frightening as his PTSD episodes themselves. How could he ever even consider bringing someone into the bog that was his recurrent mental turmoil? Perhaps when-if-they caught up with Umberto. Perhaps then.

The receptionist, Daintry, was posted by the massive glass doors, watching their approach. She was a statuesque blonde in her early forties, although Jillian had trouble being certain about that fact due, she suspected, to the artistry of the woman’s employer. By the time they had exchanged handshakes, the receptionist had obviously sized them up and decided they were the stuff of which patients of the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center were made.

The combination lobby and reception area was even more imposing than the Web site had led them to expect. The vast space-nearly all marble-featured an eight-foot-high fountain in the center and huge, original artwork on three walls.

Seated behind a marble counter to one side of the lobby, wearing a dark suit tailored to show off his linebacker’s build, was a security guard with a square jaw and a plastic ID around his neck.

“That’s a Shelby Stone ID,” Jillian whispered to Nick. “I guess this place is directly affiliated with the hospital.”

Nick and Jillian were both wondering about Ma

Still, both Nick and Jillian had seen Ma

“So,” Daintry said, passing a price list across to Jillian, “I will check once you have given me your insurance, but it is doubtful they will provide coverage for any of our procedures.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Jillian said.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Daintry passed over a tastefully done brochure and encouraged the Collinses to visit any floors that were available by elevator. “I have a patient coming in for preadmission,” she said, “otherwise I would be glad to accompany you.”

“Can I please see one of the suites where I might be staying for my recuperation?” Jillian asked.

“The actual suites are locked or occupied, but I’ll unlock the sixth floor where some of them are located. Once you’re staying here, you’ll need a room key to access your floor. I can’t imagine you won’t be totally pleased with your suite. It will have all the amenities you could ask for, plus a spectacular view of the city. Some very famous Hollywood personalities have stayed there, and they have had nothing but praise for it.”

“I would like to see the operating room or rooms,” Nick said. “I once had a bad outcome with knee surgery, and I prefer to be as careful as possible around hospitals.”

“Our two operating rooms are not in use at this time, but the elevator will take you to the observation balcony one floor above them.”

There was something about the receptionist’s expression that made Nick uneasy-a look of mistrust, perhaps. Had they already said or done something wrong?

Jillian took his arm as they headed for the elevator. Her closeness did away with much of the anxiety he was feeling.

The two operating rooms were located underground-floor B-2. The button was at the bottom of a column that went down to B-2 and up through L to 6. A row of five keyholes across the base of the stainless-steel plate confirmed that some of the floors could be closed off or accessed only after being unlocked. The security measures were no surprise. Privacy was the watchword of the rich.

B-1 opened onto the observation balcony above the ORs themselves. Viewed through glass or Plexiglas from the overhead walkway, the rooms were gleaming spaces with state-of-the-art operating microscopes and monitoring equipment, along with screens most likely used to display projections of the befores and afters of noses, jawlines, chins, wattles, eyes, lips, and the like.