Foreign Body (4 page)

Veena did not speak as she stepped out of her uniform. Nor did she take her eyes from Cal's as she undid her bra and set her shapely breasts free. In contrast, Cal let his eyes drop to take in the full glory of Veena's nakedness. Cal had known she had a knockout body from seeing her in a modest bikini when they'd brought the nurses to California for their month of computer and cultural training, but this was infinitely more captivating.

Still, Veena did not speak, nor did she slow down. The second she was out of her clothes, she advanced on Cal, straddled him, and directed him inside. She then proceeded to put her hands on his shoulders and to rock rhythmically.

Cal raised his eyes to hers. She was still glaring at him with the same determined expression. If it hadn't been so pleasurable, he would have thought she was punishing him for her experience that night at the hospital. Without any letup on Veena's part, Cal lost voluntary control and climaxed. When Veena still didn't stop, Cal had to urge her to do so. "You have to give me a rest," he managed.

Veena responded immediately by climbing off, and without even a moment's hesitation began dressing. Her facial expression still had not changed.

In a postcoital fog of physical pleasure, Cal watched her and progressively became even more confused. He sat up straight. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting dressed, obviously," she said, speaking for the first time since she'd launched her aggressive lovemaking. Her tone was challenging, as if she thought Cal's question idiotic.

"Are you leaving?"

"I am," Veena said, while hooking her bra.

Cal watched her pick up her dress. "Did you enjoy this experience?" he questioned. It was obvious she'd not had an orgasm. It had been so mechanical on her part that Cal likened her behavior to that of a motorized mannequin.

"Why, am I supposed to?"

"Well, yes, of course," Cal said, a little hurt but also perplexed. "Why don't you stay. I need to file the story about Mrs. Hernandez, but then we can talk about your experience tonight at the hospital. I sense you need to talk about it."

"How would we talk about it?"

"Well, discuss the details."

"The details were that she woke up, thanked me, and she didn't go quietly."

"I'm sure there's more than that."

"I've got to go," Veena said with emphasis. She glanced around to make sure she had everything and started for the door.

"Wait! Why did you make love to me tonight, and why did you do it the way you did?"

"How did I do it?"

"Well, aggressively. That's the best way to describe it."

"I wanted once in my life to prove my father wrong."

"What can you possibly mean?" Cal questioned, with a short, cynical laugh. He was beginning to feel totally used, not that it had been unpleasant physically.

"My father always told me that no man would want me if he knew my secret. You knew my secret, and you still were willing to make love. My father was wrong."

Oh, for crissake, Cal thought irritably but didn't utter. He said with a fake smile,

"Wonderful, now you know. See you around the mansion." He got up and began dressing. He was aware Veena was watching him, but he avoided her eyes. A moment later she was gone.

Cal let out a slew of expletives under his breath as he pulled on the rest of his clothes. At age thirty-two, he had no intention of getting serious romantically, and experiences like he'd just had made him wonder if he'd ever feel like getting serious. Women truly were mysterious and even crazy as far as he was concerned.

With the USB device in hand he left the library and sought out Santana Ramos, who was their psychologist-in-residence and also their media guru. Although Cal had had significant media experience running SuperiorCare Hospital Corporation's PR

department, where he worked prior to Nurses International, along with Petra Danderoff, he didn't have inside network connections, but Santana did. She'd worked at CNN for almost five years. He found Santana in her room reading one of her beloved psychology journals, and without the gory details Veena had related, he told her that the first patient had been taken care of. He handed over the USB device for the patient's history. He didn't mention a word about the aggressive lovemaking.

"Call your friends at CNN," Cal said. "It's about ten a.m. there. Get the story to them, puff it up as a big inside scoop, saying the Indian government is trying to keep such stories under wraps. Tell them there will be more because there are now moles in place, and encourage them to get it on the air ASAP."

"Perfect," Santana said, hefting the USB device. "I think this is going to really work,"

she added, as she stood.

"I do too," Cal said. "Get right on it."

"Consider it done."

Confident she would be true to her word, Cal gave Santana an encouraging couple of taps on the shoulder. Leaving her room, he headed in the direction of the formal living room with full intention of getting back to the NFL game he'd been watching with Durell. But while he walked, his mind went back to his disturbing episode with Veena.

Despite her being their best employee, he wondered if he should bring up with the others her obvious emotional instability. What gave him pause was that he knew Petra, who was against any dalliance between Cal or Durell and any of the nurses, would end up gloating and torture him with her invariable "I told you so" routine. On top of that, it was also downright embarrassing to have been used so flagrantly. Suddenly, Cal stopped. His mind had replayed Veena's last comment that she "wanted once in her life to prove her father wrong."

Why once? Cal questioned. He raised a knuckle to his mouth and absently chewed on it.

"Oh my God!" he voiced suddenly. Turning from the direction of the formal living room, he raced toward the guest wing, where the nurses were housed. Arriving at Veena and Samira's room, he pounded on the door as he yelled Veena's name. When she didn't answer immediately, he tried the door, all the while hoping that his fears would prove groundless. Unfortunately, they didn't. He found Veena peacefully sprawled on her bed, her eyes closed. In her hand she clutched an empty plastic container of Ambien.

Grabbing Veena's shoulders, Cal rudely sat her up. Her head lolled, but her eyes opened with heavy lids.

"God, Veena!" Cal shouted. "Why? Why did you do this?" He knew that if she died, the whole enterprise he had so carefully set up would be over.

"It's appropriate," Veena murmured. "A life for a life."

Veena tried to lean back, and Cal let her flop back onto the bed. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Durell. When Durell answered, complaining about being interrupted while watching the game, Cal blurted out for him to get an ambulance ASAP

as Veena had just ODed and would need to be pumped out.

Tossing the phone aside on the bed, Cal dragged Veena's limp body to the edge, allowing her head to hang down, he used his index finger to get her to vomit. It wasn't pretty. The good part was that more than a dozen intact Ambien tablets as well as a few broken ones appeared on the doomed carpet. The bad part was that he ended up puking himself.

Chapter 1

OCTOBER 15, 2007

MONDAY, 7:35 A.M.

LOS ANGELES, USA

(SIMULTANEOUS WITH VEENA'S BEING FORCED TO VOMIT)

It was a glorious day in Los Angeles. The heat, smog, and smoke from the inevitable wildfires of late summer and early fall had finally been blown inland to be replaced by the first clear air in months. Not only had Jennifer Hernandez been able to see the nearby Santa Monica Mountains on her way to the UCLA Medical Center, but she'd even caught a glimpse of the more distant San Gabriel range, beautifully backlit by the rising sun.

Jennifer was excited on this crisp morning, and not just because of the weather. It was the first day of a new rotation in general surgery. Jennifer was a fourth-year medical student at UCLA who'd enjoyed the third-year program in surgery enough to consider it as a specialty, but she felt she'd not been exposed to enough surgery to make the decision. Although more women were studying surgery than did in the past, they were still a minority. It was not an easy decision. General surgery was particularly demanding time-wise, particularly for a woman with goals of having both a career and a family, and Jennifer thought she wanted a family. Needing more experience so she could make an intelligent decision, she'd selected general surgery as one of her fourth-and-final-year electives. On the plus side, she was confident she was decisive of mind and good with her hands, both qualities needed for surgery, and from her experience during her third-year course, she knew that surgery was both challenging and exciting.

The plan for the first day was for the assigned medical students to change into scrubs and meet their respective preceptors in the surgical lounge at eight in the morning.

Jennifer was early, as was her habit. Consequently, although it was only seven-thirty-five, she'd already changed and was sitting in the surgical lounge, mindlessly flipping through an outdated Time magazine. At the same time she was keeping an ear to CNN

on the TV while watching the comings and goings of the doctors, nurses, and other staff.

The surgical day was definitely already in full swing. She'd been told Mondays were always busy, and she could tell from the whiteboard that every one of the twenty-three operating rooms was currently occupied.

Jennifer sipped her coffee. The anxiety about being late was now comfortably fading, and she began to wonder if she'd be accepted in the excellent UCLA surgery program if she decided on it as her specialty of choice. The exciting thing was that in the upcoming year, the whole hospital was moving into the new Ronald Reagan facility across the street, where the ORs were to be the latest and the best. As one of the hardest-working students, Jennifer was one of the top students in her class, and as such, she was confident she had a good chance to be asked to stay on if she applied. But in actuality, staying in L.A. wouldn't be her first choice. Jennifer wasn't from Los Angeles; she wasn't even from the West Coast like the vast majority of her fellow students. Jennifer was from New York and had come west to take advantage of a four-year scholarship that had been established by a grateful and wealthy Mexican whose cancer had been cured at the UCLA Medical Center. The scholarship was for a needy Hispanic woman. Being all three, Jennifer had applied and won, and so began her unexpected foray to California.

But now that her medical schooling was winding down, she wanted to go back east. She loved the Big Apple and considered herself a New Yorker. That's where she'd been born, and as hard as it had been, that's where she'd grown up.

Jennifer took another sip of her coffee, and switched her full attention to the TV. The two CNN talking heads had said something that caught her interest. They had said that medical tourism seemed to be threatening to become a growth industry in the developing world, particularly in South Asian countries like India and Thailand, and it wasn't just for cosmetic or quack procedures, such as untested cancer cures, as it had been in days of yore. It was for full-blown twenty-first-century procedures, such as open-heart surgery and bone-marrow transplants.

Leaning forward, Jennifer listened with growing interest. She'd never even heard the term medical tourism. In her mind it seemed like an oxymoron of sorts. Jennifer had certainly never been to India, and with scant knowledge she envisioned it to be an appallingly poor country whose majority population was skinny and malnourished, dressed in rags, and lived in a hot, humid monsoon for half the year, and a hot, dry, dusty desert for the other half. Although she was smart enough to know such a stereotype was not necessarily true, she thought it most likely had an element of truth, or it wouldn't be the stereotype. What she was certain of was that such a stereotype hardly suggested the appropriate destination for someone to go to for the latest surgical skills, modern and expensive technology, and twenty-first-century techniques.

To Jennifer it was apparent the newscasters shared her disbelief. "It's shocking," the man said. "In 2005, more than seventy-five thousand Americans traveled to India for major surgery, and since then, according to the Indian government, it's been growing more than twenty percent per year. They expect by the end of the decade, it will be a two-point-two-billion-dollar source of foreign exchange."

"I'm amazed, totally amazed!" the woman newscaster said. "Why are people going there? Does anyone have an idea?"

"Lack of insurance here in the States is the main reason, and cost is the second," the man said. "An operation that would cost eighty thousand here in Atlanta might cost twenty thousand there; plus, they get a vacation at a five-star Indian resort to boot."

"Wow!" the woman commented. "But is it safe?"

"That would be my concern as well," the man agreed, "which is why this story that's just come in is so interesting. The Indian government, which has been supportive of this medical tourism with economic incentives, has claimed over the last number of years that the results are as good as or better than anywhere in the West. They say the reason is that the surgeons are all board-certified, and the equipment and hospitals, some of which are accredited by the International Joint Commission, are state-of-the-art and brand-new.

However, there've never really been much data and statistics in any of the medical journals to back up such claims. Just a few moments ago CNN learned from a known, reliable source that a generally healthy sixty-four-year-old American woman from Queens, New York, named Maria Hernandez, who'd had an uncomplicated hip replacement some twelve hours earlier, suddenly died at seven-fifty-four Monday night, India time, at the Queen Victoria Hospital in New Delhi, India. Of particular interest, the source said she was certain that this tragic passing of a healthy sixty-four-year-old was merely the tip of the iceberg."

"Very interesting," the woman said. "I trust we'll be hearing more."