Peril (13 page)

How did he get out of bed?

The patient's head was shaved, a half-moon-shaped incision down the left side of his skull. A row of staples gave it a railroad appearance. One nurse was on the floor, Brad's head cradled on her lap, as another held him up on his side and provided oxygen through a mask held inches from his face.

“What happened?” Tyler asked. He kneeled down onto the floor next to the battered crew.

Grace shook her bob of two-toned hair. “I don't know. He was seeing things I couldn't see. He complained about not being able to use his left arm. When I came closer to the bed, he jumped out and lunged at me. Then he started to seize.”

Tyler placed two fingers on Brad's wrist. It was difficult to find his pulse under the movements of his uncontrolled muscle contractions. “Let's give a dose of Ativan for the seizure.”

Seizures weren't uncommon among neurology patients. During his
pediatric residency, epilepsy was a common condition he dealt with. What concerned Tyler was new onset seizure in a patient who just had a neural brain graft—one a high-priced security firm was paying for.

An additional nurse popped open a yellow tackle box. They kept this emergency kit for just such situations. After a quick tap of the syringe to push out the extra air bubbles, she grabbed the young man's hand and pushed the med through his IV line. She followed it with a quick flush of saline. A few additional moments and the tonic-clonic movements abated.

Tyler gathered Brad Winters in his arms and hoisted him back onto the bed. The nursing staff reattached his bedside monitor. The patient's vital signs looked stable. His oxygen level held despite the respiratory depression that the antiseizure medication could have caused. A quick check of his pupils confirmed they were equal and reactive to light.

“We're going to need to CT his head,” Tyler said. “See if he's developed a postsurgical bleed.” He turned to the nurse. “You think he was hallucinating, Grace?”

She shrugged. There was so much important information for a nurse to gather at the same time she provided emergency treatment for a patient. What body part did the seizure affect first? Was there any type of aura? If the seizure started in one part of the body, did it extend anywhere else? How long did the seizure last? Did the patient stop breathing? Change color?

Tyler knew the skill developed after years of providing care, and Grace was one of their younger additions. He clamped his mouth shut and waited.
Just allow her mind to mull through the events as they happened. My screaming at her will do little to help me gather the information I need
. Meanwhile, his mind reeled at the implication of what this seizure could mean for Brad.

“I don't know how to make sense of what happened. He's been fine all morning.” She pulled herself off of the floor.

“Take your time.”

“We were having a normal conversation about his family. It was like something came over him. This change washed over his face. He began to complain about his left arm. About how he couldn't move it anymore.” Her eyes glistened under the harsh lights. “Then gibberish came out of his mouth. He looked horrified when he heard himself talk. I thought for sure he was having a stroke. I came closer to the bed and that's when he
just came after me, like he wanted to hurt me. Then he started to seize and fell to the floor.”

She rubbed her hand over his bald head, and Brad reached up with his left hand to shove it away.

“He seems to be using it now,” Tyler noted.

“I'm not sure if he had use of it just before the seizure or not. I never got a chance to do an assessment.”

“Let's get him in the scanner. See if we can determine a cause for the seizure.”

“You know he's not the first patient to exhibit these symptoms.” It was the nurse who'd drawn up the Ativan. She hovered at the door.

Kennedy. The charge nurse. Older. Wise. Seasoned.

“I know,” Tyler said.

She pressed her pink frosted lips together. “Maybe it has something to do with the graft.”

Tyler narrowed his eyes. He knew not everyone on staff agreed with the protocol. He wondered why some of them stayed, but in light of the bad economy, even nursing jobs were scarce.

“What are you saying exactly?”

Kennedy tucked her gray hair behind her ear. “I'm not saying anything. I'm making an observation. Other patients have had these types of symptoms. Complaints about not being able to use an extremity. Seizures. Hallucinations.”

Tyler's nerves tingled. “Before we jump to conclusions about the protocol, let's see if it's a common postsurgical complication like bleeding. Can we do that?” Tyler hated to be dismissive, but he wasn't in the mood for an argument.

Kennedy pushed away from the wall. “I'll call radiology.”

It was unusual for Tyler to let any clinical situation get his ire up. Perhaps it was concern for Seth that caused his laid-back demeanor to take the stance of a pit bull.

Or was it his own growing concern over the protocol itself?

He marched down the hall back to his workstation and entered the order for the scan. With this current patient's symptoms on his mind, he continued to read through the nurses' notes on several of the other protocol patients. Something was going on. Something he didn't understand.

Nightmares. Symptoms that mirrored post-traumatic stress.

He wouldn't find these symptoms unusual in a recruit who had served an active combat mission. Problem was, some of the men experiencing these symptoms hadn't ever been shot at, some hadn't even left the US to serve on the front lines. Dr. Tyler Adams let his clinical mind take over, sorting through all the unhappy possibilities.

It wasn't long before Lt. Colonel Markel crossed the desk in front of Tyler. His icy blue stare held Tyler's shocked gaze as he marched toward Dr. Reeves's office. It was hard to resist the urge to duck for cover. He neared Reeves's door and entered without knocking.

Surely Markel's not here because my patient suffered a seizure?

Though the words were muffled, the rise in voices behind Reeves's office door evidenced a heated exchange. Why would the highly decorated officer be angry? Particularly when the military wasn't directly involved in the protocol anymore? They'd been working through an intermediary, giving the government plausible deniability.

Another bang as the door flew inward against the wall. The colonel shot past, barely a look in Tyler's direction.

“Adams!”

Tyler rose from his chair and entered the luxurious space of Reeves's office. Lucrative security contracts could reap plenty of benefits, though Reeves had been a man of wealth before he'd hit the big time with the Department of Defense.

“Sir?”

“The next group. When will they be ready for training?”

“Three just had their surgeries. The other three aren't scheduled until next week.”

“We need to think about moving up the next group's OR dates.”

Tyler's heartbeat kicked up another notch. “Sir, I don't think that's a good idea. The graft recipients are having complications.”

“Such as?”

“I'm not sure it's anything to worry about yet, but one seized this morning. A nurse mentioned that others have been having nightmares, nonuse of limbs—”

“You're going to let a bunch of nurses concern you?”

“Sir, their observations are relevant. They spend the most time with these patients. We don't want to send unstable men into the field.”

“Who says we've done that?”

Tyler shook his head. “I've heard rumors that one of your first participants to get the matched graft killed a young girl.”

Reeves tossed a hand in front of his face. “First off, his name never got out—not even to you. Second, he was kicked out of the military. Third, who says his actions, if verified, can be traced back to the graft?”

“I'm not saying they are, but it doesn't shed any positive light on what we're doing here. If any of these individuals are tied to criminal acts, it won't be long before the media starts to snoop and figures out what we've got going on here.”

“The media and everyone else will cave when they realize what I've created. People will be standing in line and paying untold sums of money for this technology. They'll be fascinated by it. These patients will be heroes—real life superheroes.”

“Do you think they'll want to be sick and famous?”

“Fame surpasses everything.”

Tyler rubbed his palm hard over his chin.

His most difficult climb was overcoming Reeves's ego.

Chapter 14

Noon, Thursday, August 9

S
ALLY
M
EYER STRAIGHTENED
her clothes before she knocked on Thomas Reeves's door.

It had been just over twenty-eight years since they'd talked. Their brief, tumultuous affair had given her such a gift in Morgan, yet so much heartache.

In some aspects, she felt free and weightless. The burden of suspicion about Morgan's conception that she'd carried—hoped against—had been lifted in the most awful way. Once they'd learned her husband wasn't a match for Morgan, the possibility that there was another donor for her ailing daughter consumed her thoughts. Late one night, it was as if providence had spoken to her through a news report about home DNA test kits. She couldn't get past those thoughts, and it spurred her into acting to find out the truth.

Now she had to face the man. She had to see if he'd be willing to save her daughter's life.

Our daughter's life.

The clinic's receptionist had pointed her the right way. She knocked on the door to his office and waited for a response, hoping her son-in-law didn't breeze around the corner before she was allowed in. In the wake of her confession, Sally couldn't be sure Morgan had disclosed to Tyler the secret she had shared.

The door flung open, and the initial annoyed look melted into skeptical searching, followed by soft recognition.

“Sally?”

Not knowing the correct protocol for dropping in on a previous lover, Sally held out her hand. “Thomas, it's good to see you.”

He took her hand, pulling her inside.

They both fumbled through the first introductory words of pleasantry.
He motioned her to a chair, and she kneaded her thumbs as she waited for him to seat himself.

“Sally, to say the least, it's a shock to see you here.”

“Thomas, it really is amazing to see how far you've come. They say you've practically found a cure for post-traumatic stress disorder. All those lives you've helped.”

He brushed his palms over his desk. “Well, I don't know that I would go so far as to say a cure. But an adequate treatment plan can go a long way to ease suffering. I didn't know you were following my research.”

She settled her hands over the arms of the chair, trying not to grip them. “It's hard not to notice some of the media attention you've gotten for your success.”

He brushed her comment off. “Been years since the news people cared to talk about me. And actually, I prefer it that way nowadays.” There was an awkward silence. “It means a lot to me that you would stop by to give me your well wishes.”

In his eyes, Sally could see there was something more he wanted to say, but he began to tap his teeth together instead. Something he always did when he wanted to avoid a conversation. Old mannerisms died hard.

“I don't know any easy way to say this, so I'm just going to put it out there. You have a daughter.”

He seemed to melt with relief. “Of course. Lilly. Do you know her?”

Sally released the arms of the chair and brought her hands to her lap. “No, I should have said
we
have a daughter.”

His eyes narrowed and he didn't speak for several long seconds.

“Why are you telling me this now? Are you here for money? I mean, it's been almost, what . . . thirty years? You can't honestly expect me to give you anything for an adult child.”