The Fifth Profession (29 page)

“We
thought
they did,” Akira said.

“Thought?
Traumas that extensive wouldn't leave you in doubt. Your suffering would have been
enormous.”

“It was,” Savage said.

He trembled. Rachel gripped his arm.

“How
could
you have suffered?” the doctor asked. “If the injuries didn't occur?”

“That's a damned good question. Believe me, I intend to find out.”

“Well, while you're at it, find out something else,” the doctor said. “I don't like coincidence. Both of you claim identical injuries, though they never occurred. But both of you
do
have signs of surgery”—he gestured with his pencil toward two X-ray films—“which weren't the result of broken bones.”

“Yes, each of us had our spleen and appendix removed,” Akira said.

“You showed me those scars,” the doctor said. “They're exactly as they should look if those organs were in fact removed. Your X rays aren't detailed enough to verify my conclusion, of course. Only further surgery would prove it. But that's not my point The surgery I'm referring to wasn't on your chests and your lower torsos.
It was on your skulls.”

“What?” Savage said.

“Of course. Because of the fractures,” Akira said.

“No.”
The doctor kept gesturing toward separate X-ray films. “These tiny circles? One above each left ear? They're unmistakable evidence.”

“Of?”

“Intrusions into the left temporal lobe of each brain.” The doctor pivoted toward Savage, then Akira. “And neither of you is aware of the surgery?”

Savage hesitated.

“I asked you a question.”

“No,” Savage said, “we weren't aware.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“It wouldn't be if you'd been with us for the past few days. Please.” Savage swallowed bile. “Help us.”

“How? I've done what I could.”

“No, where do we go? Who do we ask from here?”

“All I can tell you”—the doctor turned to the films—“is the surgeon was a genius. I'm merely a Pennsylvania general practitioner about to retire. But I haven't ignored the latest medical texts. And I know of nothing this sophisticated. The juncture between detached skull segments and each skull itself is almost perfectly disguised. The procedure was magnificent. Where do you go from here? Where money buys superstars. The best neurosurgeons at the biggest institutions.”

JAMAIS VU

1

The neurosurgeon's name was Anthony Santizo. He had thick dark hair, swarthy skin, and extremely intelligent eyes. His handsome features were somewhat haggard—the consequence of fatigue, Savage guessed, since the doctor had just completed seven hours of surgery. In contrast, his body was trim—the consequence of addiction to racquetball games, one of which Santizo had explained he was scheduled to play in an hour.

“I know you're busy,” Savage said. “We're grateful you made time for us.”

Santizo raised his shoulders. “I normally wouldn't have. But the neurosurgeon your physician spoke to in Harrisburg happens to know a former classmate of mine, a good friend from Harvard Medical School. Harrisburg has excellent physicians, of course, but the way your problem was described to me, I think my friend was right to send you here.”

Here was Philadelphia, the hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. A hundred miles east of Harrisburg, it was quicker to get to than Pennsylvania's other major university hospital, twice as far to the west, in Pittsburgh.

“I'm intrigued by mysteries,” Santizo said. “Sherlock Holmes. Agatha Christie. The wonderful clues. The delicious riddles. But the brain is the
greatest
mystery. The key to the door to the secret of what makes us human. That's why I chose my specialty.”

A secretary entered the immaculate office, bringing in cups and a pot on a tray.

“Excellent,” Santizo said. “On time. My herbal tea. Would you care for … ?”

“Yes,” Akira said. “I'd like some.”

“I'm afraid it's less strong than you're used to in Japan.”

Akira bowed. “I'm sure it's refreshing.”

Santizo bowed in return. “I went to Harvard with one of your countrymen. I'll never forget what he said to me. We were both just starting our internships. The long, brutal hours wore me down. I didn't think I'd survive. Your countryman said, ‘When you're not on duty, you must find an exercise you enjoy.’ I told him I didn't understand. ‘If I'm already tired, why would I want to exercise?’ You know what his answer was? ‘Your fatigue is caused by your mind. You must combat that fatigue by
physical
fatigue. The latter will cancel your former.’ That made no sense to me. I told him so. He responded with one word.”

“Wa,”
Akira said.

Santizo laughed. “Yes! By God, you remind me of your countryman!”

“ ‘Wa’?”
Rachel asked, assessed the word, and frowned. As everyone looked at her, she reached self-consciously for a cup.

“It means ‘balance,’” Akira said. “Mental fatigue is neutralized by …”

“Exercise,” Santizo said. “How right your countryman was. It's tough to find time, and after the days and nights I put in, I'm usually so exhausted I hate to do it. But I
have
to do it. Because racquetball makes me a
better
neurosurgeon.” Preoccupied, he glanced at his watch. “And in fifty minutes, I'm due at the court. So show me these supposedly baffling X rays.”

He took the oversize folder. “Hey, don't look depressed. Remember
‘wa.’
Racquetball and neurosurgery. Sherlock Holmes.”

2

“Mmmmm.”

Santizo stood in a corner of his office, glancing back and forth at two X-ray films of skull profiles that he'd clipped onto a fluorescent screen.

He'd been studying the films for several minutes, his arms crossed, listening to Savage's explanation of the events that had brought them here.

“Executive protectors?” Santizo continued to assess the films. “It sounds like the two of you have a fascinating profession. Even so …”

He turned toward Savage and Akira, took a penlight from his shirt pocket, and examined the left side of each man's head.

“Mmmmm.”

He sat behind his desk, sipped his herbal tea, and thought a moment.

“The surgeon did an excellent job. State of the art, Mind you, I'm referring only to the cosmetic aspects of the procedure. The skillful concealment of the fact of the surgery. The minimal calcification around the portion of each skull that was taken out and then replaced. You see, the standard method is to drill holes in the skull, at the corners of the area to be removed. These holes are carefully calculated so the drill doesn't enter the brain. A thin, very strong, very sharp wire is then inserted into one of the holes and guided along the edge of the brain until the wire comes out another hole. The surgeon grips each end of the wire and pulls, sawing outward through the skull. He repeats the process from one pair of holes to another until the segment of skull can be removed. The wire is thin, as I explained, but nonetheless not thin enough to prevent the demarcation between the skull and the segment that's been removed and later replaced from developing obvious calcification. Even without that calcification, the holes in the skull would be impossible to miss on an X ray. In this case”—Santizo rubbed his chin—“there
aren't
any holes, only this small circle as if a plug of bone had been removed and then replaced. The demarcation between the plug and the skull is so fine that calcification is negligible. I'm surprised the general practitioner you went to detected the evidence. Someone not prepared to look for it might not have seen it.”

“But if a standard technique wasn't used, what
was”
Savage asked.

“Now that's the question, isn't it?” Santizo said. “The surgeon could have used a drill with a five millimeter bit to make a hole the same size as this plug. But he wanted a technique that wouldn't leave obvious signs. The only solution that occurs to me is …The plug was removed from the skull by a laser beam. Lasers are already being used in such delicate procedures as repairing arteries and retinas. It's only a matter of time before they become common procedure in other types of surgery. I've experimented with them myself. That's what I meant—this was state of the art. There's no doubt—in terms of getting in and out, whoever did this was impressively skilled and knowledgeable. Not uniquely so, I should add. Among the top neurosurgeons, I know at least a dozen, including myself, who could have concealed the evidence of the procedure equally well. But that's a superficial test of excellence. The ultimate criterion is whether the surgeon accomplished his purpose, and because we're not aware of why the surgery was required, I can't fully judge the quality of the work.”

“But”—Akira hesitated—“could the surgery explain … ?”

“Your dilemma? Perhaps,” Santizo said. “And then again maybe not. What was the term you used? The opposite of
déjà
vu?”

“Jamais vu,”
Savage said.

“Yes. Something you
think
you've seen, but you've
never
seen. I'm not familiar with the concept. But I enjoy being educated. I'll remember the phrase. You realize”—Santizo set down his teacup—“that if it weren't for these X rays, I'd dismiss you as cranks.”

“I admit what I told you sounds bizarre,” Savage said. “But we had to take the risk that you wouldn't believe us. Like you, we're pragmatists. It's our business to deal with facts.
Physical
problems. How to get our principal safely to his or her destination. How to anticipate an assassin's bullet. How to avoid an intercepting car. But suddenly the physical facts don't match reality. Or our perception of it. We're so confused, we're not just nervous—and it's normal for us to be nervous. We're scared.”

“That's obvious,” Santizo said. “I see it in your eyes. So let me be honest. My schedule's so crowded the only reason I agreed to see you was that my former classmate asked me. He thought I'd be intrigued. He was right. I am.”

Santizo glanced at his watch. “A half hour till I'm due for my racquetball game. After that, I need to make rounds. Meet me back here in”—he calculated—“two and a half hours. I'll try to arrange for a colleague to join us. Meanwhile, I want you to go to Radiology.” He picked up his phone.

“More X rays? To make sure the first sets are accurate?” Savage asked.

“No. I'm ordering magnetic resonance images.”

3

A frail-looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard, wearing a sportcoat slightly too large for him, was sitting across from Santizo when they returned. “This is Dr. Weinberg,” Santizo said.

They all shook hands.

“Dr. Weinberg is a psychiatrist,” Santizo said.

“Oh?” Savage's back became rigid against his chair.

“Does that trouble you?” Weinberg asked pleasantly.

“No, of course not,” Akira said. “We have a problem. We're eager to solve it.”

“By whatever means necessary,” Savage said.

“Excellent.” Weinberg pulled a notebook and a pen from his sportcoat. “You don't mind?”

Savage felt ill at ease. He tried never to have his conversations documented but was forced to say, “Make all the notes you want.”

“Good.” Weinberg scrawled several words. From Savage's perspective, they looked like the time and date.

“Your MRI scans are being sent up to me,” Santizo said. “I thought, while we wait, Dr. Weinberg could ask you some questions.”

Savage gestured for Weinberg to start.

“Jamais vu.
The term is your invention, I'm told.”

“That's right. It was all I could think of to describe my confusion.”

“Please elaborate.”

Savage did. On occasion, Akira added a detail. Rachel listened intently.

Weinberg scribbled. “So to summarize. You both thought you saw each other die? You failed to find the hotel where the deaths supposedly occurred? And you can't find the hospital where you were treated or the physician in charge of your case?”

“Correct,” Savage said.

“And the original traumatizing events took place six months ago.”

“Yes,” Akira said.

Weinberg sighed. “For the moment …” He set down his pen. “I'm treating your dilemma as hypothetical.”

“Treat it any way you want,” Savage said.

“My statement was not antagonistic.”

“I didn't say it was.”

“I'll explain.” Weinberg leaned back in his chair. “As a rule, my patients are referred to me. I'm given corroborating documents. Case histories. If necessary, I can interview their families, their employers. But in this instance, I really know nothing about you. I have only your word about your unusual—to put it mildly—background. No way to confirm what you claim. No reason to believe you. For all I'm aware, you're pathological liars desperate for attention or even reporters testing the gullibility of what the public calls ‘shrinks.’ “

Santizo's eyes glinted. “Max, I told you their story—and their
X rays
—intrigue me. Give us a theory.”

“As an exercise in logic,” Weinberg said. “Purely for the sake of discussion.”

“Hey, what else?” Santizo said.

Weinberg sighed again, then spread his hands. “The most likely explanation is that you both experienced, you're suffering from, a mutual delusion caused by the nearly fatal beatings you received.”

“How?
The X rays show we weren't beaten,” Savage said.

“I disagree. What the X rays show is that your arms, legs, and ribs weren't broken, that your skulls weren't fractured as you believed. That doesn't mean you weren't beaten. I'll reconstruct what conceivably happened. You both were assigned to protect a man.”

“Yes.”

“He went to a conference at a rural hotel. And while he was there, he was killed. In a graphically brutal manner. With a sword that severed his torso.”

Akira nodded.

“In the process of defending him, the two of you were beaten to the point of unconsciousness,” Weinberg said. “On the verge of passing out, you each were tricked by your failing vision into thinking mistakenly that the other was killed. Inasmuch as neither of you died,
something
caused the hallucination, and the combination of pain and disorientation is a logical explanation.”