Invasive Procedures (25 page)

“What do you mean?”

“What makes you so certain? How did you know this virus was as effective as the Healers claimed it would be?”

Turner looked down at the table.

Hernandez pressed on. “You’re clearly a man who loves his daughter, Mr. Turner. You wouldn’t do anything that you thought might hurt her, so I believe you when you say you knew it would work. What I don’t know and would like to know is what made you so sure? How did the Healers convince you?”

“I want to talk to my lawyer,” said Turner, not lifting his head.

“These Healers downloaded your daughter’s medical records from Children’s Hospital. In other words, they acquired those records illegally. Were you aware of that?”

Turner said nothing.

“I’m sure you want to cooperate, Mr. Turner. I’m sure you want what’s best for Kimberly. But unless you start talking, I’ll be forced to call Social Services.”

Turner’s head snapped up. “Social Services?”

“Considering the threat your daughter was under, we can easily make a case with the state that you’re an unfit parent.”

For the first time, Turner looked afraid. “You wouldn’t do that. I love my daughter. I’d do anything for her.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mr. Turner. But I’m not sure the state would agree, considering the seriousness of the situation.”

Turner was silent a long moment. He closed his eyes and his shoulders sagged, all the fire inside him extinguished. “What do you want to know?” he said softly.

Later that afternoon Agent Hernandez stood at attention inside Director Irving’s office. Irving sat behind his desk, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum and popping it in his mouth, watching her.

“You don’t have to stand there like a tin soldier, Agent Hernandez,” he said. “This isn’t the Marines.” He waved a hand. “Or wherever it was you served before coming here.”

Hernandez positioned her body into a parade-rest stance, her eyes straight ahead. “Navy, sir.”

Irving nodded. “Yes, yes, the Navy. Jaunty white hats and ships ahoy.”

Hernandez allowed her gaze to lower for the first time and looked at the man.

Director Irving smiled. “No offense, Agent Hernandez. I have nothing but respect for our boys in green . . . or in your case, women in white.” He cocked his head to the side, considering. “The Navy
do
wear white, am I right?”

The slightest hint of annoyance flickered across Hernandez’s face. “Sometimes, sir.”

“I thought so.” Director Irving tossed the gum wrapper into the garbage can and came around to the front of his desk. “So you had a nice visit with Mr. Roland Turner, did you?”

“Yes, sir. He was most cooperative. With your permission, I’d like to see to it that the charges against him are dropped.”

Irving held up a hand and chuckled. “Now, let’s not get too hasty, Agent Hernandez. This Turner fellow is a criminal as much as these Healers are, in my opinion. To release him back into society is to put society at risk. Who’s to say this isn’t the beginning of a life of crime for this man?”

Hernandez remained silent, her eyes staring ahead, not looking at him.

“Then again,” said Irving, “I do value your judgment. If you think the man should be released, I’ll give that recommendation serious consideration.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, in so many words, what did he say?”

“Healers approached him several weeks ago, sir. And they were forthcoming in how they acquired Kimberly’s medical records.”

“Kimberly is the little girl in question?” Yes, sir. Go on.

“So they told Mr. Turner that they had downloaded her records from the hospital.”

“And he didn’t throw them out of his house straightaway? Tsk, tsk. I’m losing confidence in this recommendation of yours, Agent Hernandez. Mr. Turner sounds like a most unsound individual.”

“If I could continue, sir.”

Irving sat in his desk and grinned. “By all means.”

“Mr. Turner also explained that Healers brought a former patient to his home. A young boy whom the Healers had already cured of sickle-cell anemia.”

“Or so they said,” Irving said.

“Sir?”

“Healers
said
they had cured this boy of sickle-cell anemia. Who’s to say they actually did? He could have been an actor.”

“To hear Mr. Turner tell it,” said Hernandez, “it was a most convincing presentation.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” said Irving. “Let me guess.” He put a hand to his chin, thinking. “The Healers probably showed Mr. Turner the boy’s medical records as evidence that at one time he did indeed have sickle-cell anemia. Then they showed Turner recent test results proving that the boy no longer had the disease. Then they let the boy speak, and perhaps his parents as well, giving heartfelt teary-eyed testimony that the Healers were a godsend and if not for them, poor little Timmy here would still be crippled with the disease.”

Hernandez looked at him, surprised. “As a matter of fact, sir, that’s precisely what happened. In a nutshell, I mean.”

Director Irving stood up and shrugged. “These people are all alike, Agent Hernandez. I’ve seen this countless times before. They all use the same con, bait and switch. It was a sham, and gullible Mr. Turner, who, bless his heart, only wanted what was best for his daughter, was suckered in.”

Agent Hernandez looked confused. “Is it not also possible, sir, that the former patient who visited him was, in fact, legitimate?”

Irving waved a hand and laughed. “Please, Agent Hernandez. These Healers are petty con men, circus performers. What they probably intended to do was return to Turner’s home after, quote unquote,
treating
his daughter and politely ask for a sizable donation to their, quote unquote,
cause
, which Mr. Turner, being a naive little man, would probably have given.”

“There’s no evidence to substantiate that claim, sir.”

“Of course not,” Irving said, amused. “We caught the bastard before the Healers had a chance to sink their teeth into his wallet. He should be thanking us. Now, I want you to write a full report of your interview and
give me the sole copy. Then I want Mr. Turner placed in confinement. I want him to speak to no one.”

Hernandez raised an eyebrow. “Confinement?”

“Did I mispronounce the word? Confinement.”

“Can we do that, sir?”

Irving stood up to his full stature and raised a finger. “You forget that I am a presidential appointee, Agent Hernandez. I have the support and protection of the president of this great nation, our commander in chief. He has given me a responsibility, and until this Healer mess is swept under the carpet, this Mr. Roland Turner, whom I consider a flight risk, will remain in our custody. Do I make myself clear?”

Hernandez looked frightened.

Director Irving felt some sense of satisfaction at this. To fill a person with fear, particularly a beautiful woman such as Agent Hernandez, was most arousing.

“Sir?” said Agent Hernandez. “Are you all right?”

Irving blinked. “What?”

“Your hands and face . . . they’re trembling.”

Irving stepped away from her, pocketing his hands and going to the watercooler across the room. “I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s stress. These Healers, they’ve got me all in a fluster. You understand.”

He filled a cup with water and tried to bring it to his lips. His hands were shaking so badly, he spilled much of the water in the process. “That will be all, Agent Hernandez.”

She stood there, brow wrinkled, watching him.

“I said that will be
all
, Agent Hernandez.”

She left.

He downed the rest of the cold water in a single swig, splashing much of it on his face in the process. He threw the paper cup to the floor and looked at his trembling hands. It was happening again. The shakes. And this time someone had noticed.

He went to his desk and opened the top drawer. The vial of Galen’s saliva was exactly where he had left it. He took it out and tried to unscrew the cap. It slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. Hs hands were trembling too much to hold it. He cursed aloud, then got down on all fours to retrieve it.

He had waited too long, he knew. It had been a stupid thing to do. Too much time had passed since his last treatment.

He took the vial in one hand and willed his mind to hold it steady long enough for him to get the cap off. Drops of precious saliva sloshed out and onto the floor before he was able to pour some of it into the palm of his hand.

He set the vial down, careful not to tip it over and lose the rest of its contents, closed his eyes, and pressed his wet palm to his forehead, imagining the master giving him the saliva himself.

Frank awoke coughing a deep phlegm-filled cough that squeezed his lungs so tightly and pained him so gready that he was sure for a moment that he was dying. A gentle hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear made him think otherwise.

“Cough into this,” the voice said, and Frank felt a bowl at his lips.

He coughed again, a long chest-compressing cough that made his eyes water and left him gasping for breath. When it passed, he sunk back into the mattress, utterly wasted, the blood flowing back to his face.

“I know it hurts,” said Monica, “but coughing expands your lungs and helps prevent infection.”

Frank tried sitting up, but Monica stopped him with a delicate hand. “You need to rest. You’re healing remarkably and it’s probably safe to move around, but give the medication a moment to wake you thoroughly. You’ll be a little unsteady on your feet if you get up too fast.”

He lay back and looked up at the ceiling, planks of polished hardwood upon which danced the flicker of firelight. “Where am I?”

“Safe for now.”

His mind was clearing. The operating room. The Healers. The restraints. Panicked, he lifted his arms and saw that leather straps no longer held him. He was free, but an IV tube was attached to one wrist.

“Lie still,” said Monica. “Relax. Try not to excite yourself.”

“Where am I?” he repeated, trying to get up again. A sharp pain in his chest hit him like a javelin and he fell back onto the bed.

“Please,” she said. “You shouldn’t make any sudden movements. I think the staples are nearly ready to come out, but you don’t want to risk reopening the wound.”

“Wound?” he said absently.

“I’ll be back shortly. Do you think you can be still for a few minutes?”

He was hardly hearing her. “What? Yes. I’ll be still.”

“I’ve given you something for the pain, although if you’re anything like the others, the pain should go away soon.”

“Yes,” he said blankly, staring up at the ceiling.

Dr. Monica Owens left him, and it was quiet for a few minutes. Frank stared up at the ceiling as his thoughts began to organize themselves. In a moment, the fog of anesthesia lifted, and he felt awake.

He turned his head to one side and saw the source of the light. A fire crackled softly in a large stone hearth nearby. The chimney above it rose a good fifteen feet before disappearing into the ceiling. The furniture around the hearth was rustic and inviting: a leather sofa, a Native American rug, an end table that appeared to be made entirely of deer antlers, a large stuffed chair with a matching ottoman. Throw blankets. Throw pillows.

It was a cabin.

Frank felt the urge to urinate and threw back the blanket that covered him. He wore a hospital gown tied loosely in the back. A catheter tube snaked out from under his gown and into a bag at his bedside. Wincing, he pulled out the catheter and slowly sat up on the side of the bed, his bare feet just touching the cool hardwood floor.

He didn’t stand just yet. He still felt a little woozy.

Beside him, several medical diagnostic machines beeped and hummed, monitoring his vitals.

Looking behind him, Frank saw that he was not alone. There were four other beds in the room, each occupied with one of the persons he had seen in the operating room alseep on the gurneys. They were asleep now as well, and Frank wondered if they had remained in that state since he’d seen them last.

A night-light shining in an adjacent bathroom caught his eye.

Being careful to maintain his balance, Frank got to his feet. He took a
step toward the bathroom and felt a tug at his wrist. He looked down and remembered the IV. He ripped away the medical tape and gingerly pulled the tube out of his vein. Once free of it, he dropped the tube to the floor and shuffled to the bathroom.

By the time he reached it, he was feeling steady on his feet again. His hand found the light switch, and he squinted at the sudden brightness. He moved to the toilet, urinated, then went to the sink to wash up.

The image of himself in the mirror startled him. His face was pale and thin, his eyes sunken. He hadn’t shaved in days. He moved a hand over his chin, feeling the stubble. He pulled down the collar of his hospital johnny and saw that there were bandages on his chest. He pulled the gown off over his head and looked at himself again in the mirror. The bandages covered his entire torso, beginning just below the armpit and winding their way down his chest to his navel. The skin immediately above and below the bandages had been shaven, suggesting that the entire area under the bandages had been shaved recently.

He clawed at the bandage until he found the end of it, then began unraveling it.

Yards of bandage fell to his feet. And the more he unwound, the more panicked he became, ripping it, pulling it away violently. When the last strip came free, Frank stood there naked, staring at himself.

A heavily stapled surgical wound ran down the middle of his chest, beginning at the top of his rib cage and extending to the bottom of his breastbone.

Slowly Frank raised a finger and touched the red, mostly healed scar. It was real.

He reached behind his head and felt the prickly stitches of the surgical wound on the back of his neck.

He bent down, grabbed the gown, slid it back over his head, and left the bathroom.

Across the room a large wooden door with ornate carvings around its edges stood shut. He pulled it open. The hallway was dark and empty. Frank padded down it, moving cautiously, eyes shifting.