Under The Knife

“I told you, I can’t! I’ve gone crazy trying to figure it out! We do dozens of EKGs every day at Mid Pac. It could have been a clerical error. A mislabeled tracing. Somehow, that page was filed in the wrong chart.”

“But you’ve written your initials on this page.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Is there some other K.C., M.D.?”

“Those are my initials. But I didn’t write them.”

“What are you saying? That this is a forgery?”

“It—it has to be. I mean, yes, I guess it is….” Suddenly confused, she shoved back a rebellious strand of hair off her face. His utterly calm expression rattled her. Why didn’t the man react, for God’s sake? Why did he just sit there, regarding her with that infuriatingly bland expression?

“Well,” he said at last.

“Well what?”

“How long have you had this little problem with people forging your name?”

“Don’t make me sound paranoid!”

“I don’t have to. You’re doing fine on your own.”

Now he was silently laughing at her; she could see it in his eyes. The worst part was that she couldn’t blame him. Her story did sound like a lunatic’s ravings.

“All right,” he relented. “Let’s assume for the moment you’re telling the truth.”

“Yes!” she snapped. “Please do!”

“I can think of only two explanations for why the EKG would be intentionally switched. Either someone’s trying to destroy your career—”

“That’s absurd. I don’t have any enemies.”

“Or someone’s trying to cover up a murder.”

At her stunned expression, he gave her a maddeningly superior smile. “Since the second explanation obviously strikes both of us as equally absurd, I have no choice but to conclude you’re lying.” He leaned forward and his voice was suddenly soft, almost intimate. The shark was getting chummy; that had to be dangerous. “Come on, Doctor,” he prodded. “Level with me. Tell me what really happened in the O.R. Was there a slip of the knife? A mistake in anesthesia?”

“There was nothing of the kind!”

“Too much laughing gas and not enough oxygen?”

“I told you, there were no mistakes!”

“Then why is Ellen O’Brien dead?”

She stared at him, stunned by the violence in his voice. And the blueness of his eyes. A spark seemed to fly between them, ignited by something entirely unexpected. With a shock, she realized he was an attractive man. Too attractive. And that her response to him was dangerous. She could already feel the blush creeping into her face, could feel a flood of heat rising inside her.

“No answer?” he challenged smoothly. He settled back, obviously enjoying the advantage he held over her. “Then why don’t I tell you what happened? On April 2, a Sunday night, Ellen O’Brien checked into Mid Pac Hospital for routine gallbladder surgery. As her anesthesiologist, you ordered routine pre-op tests, including an EKG, which you checked before leaving the hospital that night. Maybe you were rushed. Maybe you had a hot date waiting. Whatever the reason, you got careless and you made a fatal error. You missed those vital clues in the EKG: the elevated ST waves, the inverted T waves. You pronounced it normal and signed your initials. Then you left for the night—never realizing your patient had just had a heart attack.”

“She never had any symptoms! No chest pain—”

“But it says right here in the nurses’ notes—let me quote—” he flipped through the chart “—‘Patient complaining of abdominal discomfort.’”

“That was her gallstone—”

“Or was it her heart? Anyway, the next events are indisputable. You and Dr. Santini took Ms. O’Brien to surgery. A few whiffs of anesthesia and the stress was too much for her weakened heart. So it stopped. And you couldn’t restart it.” He paused dramatically, his eyes as hard as diamonds. “There, Dr. Chesne. You’ve just lost your patient.”

“That’s not how it happened! I remember that EKG. It was normal!”

“Maybe you’d better review your textbook on EKGs.”

“I don’t need a textbook. I know what’s normal!” She scarcely recognized her own voice, echoing shrilly through the vast room.

He looked unimpressed. Bored, even. “Really—” he sighed “—wouldn’t it be easier just to admit you made a mistake?”

“Easier for whom?”

“For everyone involved. Consider an out-of-court settlement. It’d be fast, easy and relatively painless.”

“A settlement? But that’s admitting a mistake I never made!”

What little patience he had left finally snapped. “You want to go to trial?” he shot back. “Fine. But let me tell you something about the way I work. When I try a case, I don’t do it halfway. If I have to tear you apart in court, I’ll do it. And when I’m finished, you’ll wish you’d never turned this into some ridiculous fight for your honor. Because let’s face it, Doctor. You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”

She wanted to grab him by those pinstriped lapels. She wanted to scream out that in all this talk about settlements and courtrooms, her own anguish over Ellen O’Brien’s death had been ignored. But suddenly all her rage, all her strength, seemed to drain away, leaving her exhausted. Wearily she slumped back in her chair. “I wish I could admit I made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I wish I could just say, ‘I know I’m guilty and I’ll pay for it.’ I wish to God I could say that. I’ve spent the last week wondering about my memory. Wondering how this could have happened. Ellen trusted me and I let her die. It makes me wish I’d never become a doctor, that I’d been a clerk or a waitress—anything else. I love my work. You have no idea how hard it’s been—how much I’ve given up—just to get to where I am. And now it looks as if I’ll lose my job….” She swallowed and her head drooped in defeat. “And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to work again….”

David regarded her bowed head in silence and fought to ignore the emotions stirring inside him. He’d always considered himself a good judge of character. He could usually look a man in the eyes and tell if he was lying. All during Kate Chesne’s little speech, he’d been watching her eyes, searching for some inconsistent blip, some betraying flicker that would tell him she was lying through her teeth.

But her eyes had been absolutely steady and forthright and as beautiful as a pair of emeralds.

The last thought startled him, popping out as it did, almost against his will. As much as he might try to suppress it, he was all at once aware that she was a beautiful woman. She was wearing a simple green dress, gathered loosely at the waist, and it took just one glance to see that there were feminine curves beneath that silky fabric. The face that went along with those very nice curves had its flaws. She had a prizefighter’s square jaw. Her shoulder-length mahogany hair was a riot of waves, obviously untamable. The curly bangs softened a forehead that was far too prominent. No, it wasn’t a classically beautiful face. But then he’d never been attracted to classically beautiful women.

Suddenly he was annoyed not only at himself but at her, at her effect on him. He wasn’t a dumb kid fresh out of law school. He was too old and too smart to be entertaining the peculiarly male thoughts now dancing in his head.

In a deliberately rude gesture, he looked down at his watch. Then, snapping his briefcase shut, he stood up. “I have a deposition to take and I’m already late. So if you’ll excuse me…”

He was halfway across the room when her voice called out to him softly: “Mr. Ransom?”

He glanced back at her in irritation. “What?”

“I know my story sounds crazy. And I guess there’s no reason on earth you should believe me. But I swear to you: it’s the truth.”

He sensed her desperate need for validation. She was searching for a sign that she’d gotten through to him; that she’d penetrated his hard shell of skepticism. The fact was, he didn’t know if he believed her, and it bothered the hell out of him that his usual instinct for the truth had gone haywire, and all because of a pair of emerald-green eyes.

“Whether I believe you or not is irrelevant,” he said. “So don’t waste your time on me, Doctor. Save it for the jury.” The words came out colder than he’d intended and he saw, from the quick flinch of her head, that she’d been stung.

“Then there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can say—”

“Not a thing.”

“I thought you’d listen. I thought somehow I could change your mind—”

“Then you’ve got a lot to learn about lawyers. Good-day, Dr. Chesne.” Turning, he headed briskly for the door. “I’ll see you in court.”

CHAPTER THREE

YOU DON’T HAVE a snowball’s chance in hell.

That was the phrase Kate kept hearing over and over as she sat alone at a table in the hospital cafeteria. And just how long did it take for a snowball to melt, anyway? Or would it simply disintegrate in the heat of the flames?

How much heat could she take before she fell apart on the witness stand?

She’d always been so adept at dealing with matters of life and death. When a medical crisis arose, she didn’t wring her hands over what needed to be done; she just did it, automatically. Inside the safe and sterile walls of the operating room, she was in control.

But a courtroom was a different world entirely. That was David Ransom’s territory. He’d be the one in control; she’d be as vulnerable as a patient on the operating table. How could she possibly fend off an attack by the very man who’d built his reputation on the scorched careers of doctors?

She’d never felt threatened by men before. After all, she’d trained with them, worked with them. David Ransom was the first man who’d ever intimidated her, and he’d done it effortlessly. If only he was short or fat or bald. If only she could think of him as human and therefore vulnerable. But just the thought of facing those cold blue eyes in court made her stomach do a panicky flip-flop.

“Looks like you could use some company,” said a familiar voice.

Glancing up, she saw Guy Santini, rumpled as always, peering down at her through those ridiculously thick glasses.

She gave him a listless nod. “Hi.”

Clucking, he pulled up a chair and sat down. “How’re you doing, Kate?”

“You mean except for being unemployed?” She managed a sour laugh. “Just terrific.”

“I heard the old man pulled you out of the O.R. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t really blame it on old Avery. He was just following orders.”

“Bettencourt’s?”

“Who else? He’s labeled me a financial liability.”

Guy snorted. “That’s what happens when the damned M.B.A.’s take over. All they can talk about is profits and losses! I swear, if George Bettencourt could make a buck selling the gold out of patients’ teeth, he’d be roaming the wards with pliers.”

“And then he’d send them a bill for oral surgery,” Kate added morosely.

Neither of them laughed. The joke was too close to the truth to be funny.

“If it makes you feel any better, Kate, you’ll have some company in the courtroom. I’ve been named, too.”

She looked up sharply. “Oh, Guy! I’m sorry….”

He shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I’ve been sued before. Believe me, it’s that first time that really hurts.”

“What happened?”

“Trauma case. Man came in with a ruptured spleen and I couldn’t save him.” He shook his head. “When I saw that letter from the attorney, I was so depressed I wanted to leap out the nearest window. Susan was ready to drag me off to the psych ward. But you know what? I survived. So will you, as long as you remember they’re not attacking you. They’re attacking the job you did.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“And that’s your problem, Kate. You haven’t learned to separate yourself from the job. We both know the hours you put in. Hell, sometimes I think you practically live here. I’m not saying dedication’s a character flaw. But you can overdo it.”

What really hurt was that she knew it was true. She did work long hours. Maybe she needed to; it kept her mind off the wasteland of her personal life.

“I’m not completely buried in my job,” she said. “I’ve started dating again.”

“It’s about time. Who’s the man?”

“Last week I went out with Elliot.”

“That guy from computer programming?” He sighed. Elliot was six-foot-two and one hundred and twenty pounds, and he bore a distinct resemblance to Pee-Wee Herman. “I bet that was a barrel of laughs.”

“Well it was sort of…fun. He asked me up to his apartment.”

“He did?”

“So I went.”

“You did?”

“He wanted to show me his latest electronic gear.”

Guy leaned forward eagerly. “What happened?”

“We listened to his new CDs. Played a few computer games.”

“And?”

She sighed. “After eight rounds of Zork I went home.”

Groaning, Guy sank back in his chair. “Elliot Lafferty, last of the red-hot lovers. Kate, what you need is one of these dating services. Hey, I’ll even write the ad for you. ‘Bright, attractive female seeks—’”

“Daddy!” The happy squeal cut straight through the cafeteria’s hubbub.

Guy turned as running feet pattered toward him. “There’s my Will!” Laughing, he rose to his feet and scooped up his son. It took only a sweep of his arms to send the spindly five-year-old boy flying into the air. Little Will was so light he seemed to float for a moment like a frail bird. He fell to a very soft, very safe landing in his father’s arms. “I’ve been waiting for you, kid,” Guy said. “What took you so long?”

“Mommy came home late.”

“Again?”

Will leaned forward and whispered confidentially. “Adele was really mad. Her boyfriend was s’posed to take her to the movies.”

“Uh-oh. We certainly don’t want Adele to be mad at us, do we?” Guy flashed an inquiring look at his wife Susan, who was threading her way toward them. “Hey, are we wearing out the nanny already?”

“I swear, it’s that full moon!” Susan laughed and shoved back a frizzy strand of red hair. “All my patients have gone absolutely loony. I couldn’t get them out of my office.”

Guy muttered grumpily to Kate, “And she swore it’d be a part-time practice. Ha! Guess who gets called to the E.R. practically every night?”

“Oh, you just miss having your shirts ironed!” Susan reached up and gave her husband an affectionate pat on the cheek. It was the sort of maternal gesture one expected of Susan Santini. “My mother hen,” Guy had once called his wife. He’d meant it as a term of endearment and it had fit. Susan’s beauty wasn’t in her face, which was plain and freckled, or in her figure, which was as stout as a farm wife’s. Her beauty lay in that serenely patient smile that she was now beaming at her son.

“Daddy!” William was prancing like an elf around Guy’s legs. “Make me fly again!”

“What am I, a launching pad?”

“Up! One more time!”

“Later, Will,” said Susan. “We have to pick up Daddy’s car before the garage closes.”

“Please!”

“Did you hear that?” Guy gasped. “He said the magic word.” With a lion’s roar, Guy pounced on the shrieking boy and threw him into the air.

Susan gave Kate a long-suffering look. “Two children. That’s what I have. And one of them weighs two hundred and forty pounds.”

“I heard that.” Guy reached over and slung a possessive arm around his wife. “Just for that, lady, you have to drive me home.”

“Big bully. Feel like McDonald’s?”

“Humph. I know someone who doesn’t want to cook tonight.”

Guy gave Kate a wave as he nudged his family toward the door. “So what’ll it be, kid?” Kate heard him say to William. “Cheeseburger?”

“Ice cream.”

“Ice cream. Now that’s an alternative I hadn’t thought of….”

Wistfully Kate watched the Santinis make their way across the cafeteria. She could picture how the rest of their evening would go. She imagined them sitting in McDonald’s, the two parents teasing, coaxing another bite of food into Will’s reluctant mouth. Then there’d be the drive home, the pajamas, the bedtime story. And finally, there’d be those skinny arms, curling around Daddy’s neck for a kiss.

What do I have to go home to? she thought.

Guy turned and gave her one last wave. Then he and his family vanished out the door. Kate sighed enviously. Lucky man.

* * *

AFTER HE LEFT his office that afternoon, David drove up Nuuanu Avenue and turned onto the dirt lane that wound through the old cemetery. He parked his car in the shade of a banyan tree and walked across the freshly mown lawn, past the marble headstones with their grotesque angels, past the final resting places of the Doles and the Binghams and the Cookes. He came to a section where there were only bronze plaques set flush in the ground, a sad concession to modern graveskeeping. Beneath a monkeypod tree, he stopped and gazed down at the marker by his feet.

Noah Ransom

Seven Years Old

It was a fine spot, gently sloping, with a view of the city. Here a breeze was always blowing, sometimes from the sea, sometimes from the valley. If he closed his eyes, he could tell where the wind was coming from, just by its smell.

David hadn’t chosen this spot. He couldn’t remember who had decided the grave should be here. Perhaps it had simply been a matter of which plot was available at the time. When your only child dies, who cares about views or breezes or monkeypod trees?

Bending down, he gently brushed the leaves that had fallen on the plaque. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet and stood in silence beside his son. He scarcely registered the rustle of the long skirt or the sound of the cane thumping across the grass.

“So here you are, David,” called a voice.

Turning, he saw the tall, silver-haired woman hobbling toward him. “You shouldn’t be out here, Mother. Not with that sprained foot.”

She pointed her cane at the white clapboard house sitting near the edge of the cemetery. “I saw you through my kitchen window. Thought I’d better come out and say hello. Can’t wait around forever for you to come visit me.”

He kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry. I’ve been busy. But I really was on my way to see you.”

“Oh, naturally.” Her blue eyes shifted and focused on the grave. It was one of the many things Jinx Ransom shared with her son, that peculiar shade of blue of her eyes. Even at sixty-eight, her gaze was piercing. “Some anniversaries are better left forgotten,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

“You know, David, Noah always wanted a brother. Maybe it’s time you gave him one.”

David smiled faintly. “What are you suggesting, Mother?”

“Only what comes naturally to us all.”

“Maybe I should get married first?”

“Oh, of course, of course.” She paused, then asked hopefully: “Anyone in mind?”

“Not a soul.”

Sighing, she laced her arm through his. “That’s what I thought. Well, come along. Since there’s no gorgeous female waiting for you, you might as well have a cup of coffee with your old mother.”

Together they crossed the lawn toward the house. The grass was uneven and Jinx moved slowly, stubbornly refusing to lean on her son’s shoulder. She wasn’t supposed to be on her feet at all, but she’d never been one to follow doctors’ orders. A woman who’d sprained her ankle in a savage game of tennis certainly wouldn’t sit around twiddling her thumbs.

They passed through a gap in the mock-orange hedge and climbed the steps to the kitchen porch. Gracie, Jinx’s middle-aged companion, met them at the screen door.

“There you are!” Gracie sighed. She turned her mouse-brown eyes to David. “I have absolutely no control over this woman. None at all.”

He shrugged. “Who does?”

Jinx and David settled down at the breakfast table. The kitchen was a dense jungle of hanging plants: asparagus fern and baby’s tears and wandering Jew. Valley breezes swept in from the porch, and through the large window, there was a view of the cemetery.

“What a shame they’ve trimmed back the monkeypod,” Jinx remarked, gazing out.

“They had to,” said Gracie as she poured coffee. “Grass can’t grow right in the shade.”

“But the view’s just not the same.”

David batted away a stray fern. “I never cared for that view anyway. I don’t see how you can look at a cemetery all day.”

“I like my view,” Jinx declared. “When I look out, I see my old friends. Mrs. Goto, buried there by the hedge. Mr. Carvalho, by the shower tree. And on the slope, there’s our Noah. I think of them all as sleeping.”

“Good Lord, Mother.”

“Your problem, David, is that you haven’t resolved your fear of death. Until you do, you’ll never come to terms with life.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Take another stab at immortality. Have another child.”

“I’m not getting married again, Mother. So let’s just drop the subject.”

Jinx responded as she always did when her son made a ridiculous request. She ignored it. “There was that young woman you met in Maui last year. Whatever happened to her?”

“She got married. To someone else.”

“What a shame.”

“Yeah, the poor guy.”

“Oh, David!” cried Jinx, exasperated. “When are you going to grow up?”

David smiled and took a sip of Gracie’s tar-black coffee, on which he promptly gagged. Another reason he avoided these visits to his mother. Not only did Jinx stir up a lot of bad memories, she also forced him to drink Gracie’s god-awful coffee.

“So how was your day, Mother?” he asked politely.

“Getting worse by the minute.”

“More coffee, David?” urged Gracie, tipping the pot threateningly toward his cup.

“No!” David gasped, clapping his hand protectively over the cup. The women stared at him in surprise. “I mean, er, no, thank you, Gracie.”

“So touchy,” observed Jinx. “Is something wrong? I mean, besides your sex life.”

“I’m just a little busier than usual. Hiro’s still laid up with that bad back.”

“Humph. Well, you don’t seem to like your work much anymore. I think you were much happier in the prosecutor’s office. Now you take the job so damned seriously.”

“It’s a serious business.”

“Suing doctors? Ha! It’s just another way to make a fast buck.”

“My doctor was sued once,” Gracie remarked. “I thought it was terrible, all those things they said about him. Such a saint…”

“Nobody’s a saint, Gracie,” David said darkly. “Least of all, doctors.” His gaze wandered out the window and he suddenly thought of the O’Brien case. It had been on his mind all afternoon. Or rather, she’d been on his mind, that green-eyed, perjuring Kate Chesne. He’d finally decided she was lying. This case was going to be even easier than he’d thought. She’d be a sitting duck on that witness stand and he knew just how he’d handle her in court. First the easy questions: name, education, postgraduate training. He had a habit of pacing in the courtroom, stalking circles around the defendant. The tougher the questions, the tighter the circles. By the time he came in for the kill, they’d be face-to-face. He felt an unexpected thump of dread in his chest, knowing what he’d have to do to finish it. Expose her. Destroy her. That was his job, and he’d always prided himself on a job well done.

He forced down a last sip of coffee and rose to his feet. “I have to be going,” he announced, ducking past a lethally placed hanging fern. “I’ll call you later, Mother.”

Jinx snorted. “When? Next year?”

He gave Gracie a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and muttered in her ear, “Good luck. Don’t let her drive you nuts.”

“I? Drive her nuts?” Jinx snorted. “Ha!”

Gracie followed him to the porch door where she stood and waved. “Goodbye, David!” she called sweetly.

* * *

FOR A MOMENT, Gracie paused in the doorway and watched David walk through the cemetery to his car. Then she turned sadly to Jinx.