Marion D. Ford lay on his back, knees and shoulders wedged grotesquely, blood coagulating on his windpipe, skin waxen as his body cooled, both eyes wide beneath crooked glasses, two blue voids reflecting light.
The man wasn’t breathing.
“Idiot, you gave him too much. He’s in respiratory arrest!”
Aleski snapped, “Kill him now, kill him later, what’s the fucking difference?” The insubordination was out of character, but Dasha didn’t stop to deal with it.
The woman’s medical training took over. She touched Ford’s neck, then wrist, checking for a pulse: None. Tilted the big man’s head back as she used her fingers to open his mouth, feeling chin stubble, the chill of his skin, as she checked for a clear airway.
Heard the soft percussion of a last warm breath leaving the man’s body.
A death rattle. Dasha had heard the sound enough to know.
He’s gone.
She yelled, “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll kill you. Idiot!,” as she gave Marion Ford five pounding chest compressions.
Dasha then leaned into the trunk, touched her lips to Ford’s, and blew air into his lungs, thinking that they had to get him to the plane.
There was oxygen, a full medical kit, on the DC-3…
31
At 8:37 P.M. Tomlinson surprised Dr. Mary Ann Shepherd, her assistant, a nurse anesthetist, and three physician observers by sitting up abruptly during his surgery, saying, “Marion Ford’s dead. My friend just died. I need a quick psychic patch, a chemical booster rocket. There’s not a second to waste.”
When no one reacted, he clapped his hands together twice. “This is serious. Work with me, people!”
His voice was energized with dread, he would say later. The nightmare variety.
The physician’s assistant tried to pull Tomlinson back onto the table, as the anesthetist looked at Dr. Shepherd, his expression saying, Don’t blame me.
“The patient requested sevoflurane gas. I wanted to do a spinal, but he insisted on sevoflurane. I’ve pumped nearly a liter into him, plus a full dose of Diprivan. That combination would put a normal person down until noon tomorrow. Hey-!” The anesthetist turned to Tomlinson, who’d yanked out his Diprivan IV. He was now sitting naked on the table, reaching for the yellow canister of liquid anesthetic labeled: C2HBrCIF3. “-Get your hands off that. Leave it alone!”
Tomlinson had the gas mask and was fitting it over his nose and mouth. “Only a liter? I don’t mean to be critical, but a liter of sevoflurane is barely recreational. Two liters? Happy hour at Cypress House, Key West, is a better buzz. But urethral surgery? Jesus Christ, next time just gag me with rum, and give me a bullet to bite.”
He’d shrugged off the assistant, then the nurse, and was inhaling deeply through the mask as his bony fingers opened the valve wide. Voice muffled, he said something indistinguishable.
Dr. Shepherd said, “What?,” thinking she should humor him until
… what? Call security? Give him a chance to anesthetize himself, sucking on that gas? “I didn’t understand what you said.”
Tomlinson removed the mask. She was surprised to see that his eyes weren’t crazed, as she expected. He was frightened, urgent, but focused.
Does sevoflurane cause violent hallucinations?-the doctor was scanning among rational explanations for why this was happening. She was also picturing the man’s face-Marion Ford-interested because he’d had an unusual physical presence. Attractive in an unconventional way. She’d even pulled the schoolgirl stunt of pumping his son for information. Unheard of.
The woman felt a chill when Tomlinson said it again, “My friend died. Just a few seconds ago. Shit.” He took several more deep whiffs of gas, inhaling rhythmically-he might have been smoking a joint-the entire medical team standing and watching, immobilized by the bizarre circumstances, and the man’s self-assurance.
It was impossible, but he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
“Personally, I’m not ready for a world without Doc Ford. There’s already too much chaos and darkness.” Tomlinson held the mask to his face, filled his lungs, then inhaled again. “Fortunately, I’m in the business of seeking light. I still have some pull in high places. A rendezvous-it’s worth a shot. Dr. Shepherd?”
The physician had settled into humor-him mode. “Give us the gas mask, Mr. Tomlinson. Then lay down on the table. As a personal favor, okay?”
Deep breath. “Are you done with the surgery?”
“Just finishing up.”
“Did the fish make it?” Deeper breath.
“I had to remove the parasite in sections. I’ll let you have a look-if you cooperate.”
“Damn, I was hoping to put it in an aquarium, watch it grow. Every year, my story would get better.” A huge gulp, chest inflating.
“Sorry. Mr. Tomlinson, please-no more gas.”
Three deep breaths in succession. “Put the pieces in a freezer. I live aboard a boat at a marina. I’ll either have it mounted, or give it to the guides for bait.”
As the anesthesiologist took a step toward him, saying, “You’re going to kill yourself if you take much more-” Tomlinson held up a warning palm. “That’s what I was about to tell you. For the next two or three minutes, ignore the heart monitor, the blood pressure gauge. Do not-repeat, do not-overreact and try anything crazy like open-chest heart massage. I have enough scars. Autopsy? Put the nix on that one, too. The electric paddles-save those for later. A little R and R, sure, good for a few yuks when we have some time. Otherwise, ignore all life support monitors.”
Dr. Shepherd was exchanging looks with the three other physicians.
Sure we will.
“Anyhing you want, Mr. Tomlinson. Lay back, give us the mask. Please.”
The room relaxed when the man settled himself on the table, hands folded over his abdomen, eyes closed, face showing a soft, sad smile as his lips moved, whispering something over and over. Garbled syllables that sounded like “Omni Padi Hum-m-m-m,” but then changed to something else.
Words formed but unheard, repeated as a mantra:
Come back, Doc.
Come back, Doc.
Come back, Doc.
… I fell toward the car’s open trunk, and into a dream. I was in a vast black sleep, afloat in a chilled and enormous space. A gathering of molecules, of watery salt, a loose cohesion of cells, my nucleus dissipating…
Fragments of thoughts flared briefly, sparks of electrical discharge.
Wind. Rock. Black morning sea.
Physics: sun-heavy liquid, gas constrained by stars, gravity below, nothing between. A man’s voice booming from waves: “Come back, Doc… Come back… Come back…”
Driftwood fire. A mangrove shore.
Smoke, lichens, scent of an autumn-shaded voice, a woman.
“I knew we’d arrive again on the same small island. My dear love. Finally, you are coming back to me…”
Black waves booming: “Come back, Doc. Come back. Doc, come back, Doc…”
Moon-haired girl, my beloved in a golden locket. Lighted portions of chin and cheek, strong nose creating shadow, perceptive heart indifferent to her own beauty. Small precise breasts, eyes not scarred by uncertainty.
The face of Dewey Nye appeared… faded.
Was not the face of my girl.
Heard Dewey’s long-ago voice saying, “It took me forever to admit but I’m in love with a woman. Always have been; always will…”
Dewey, with her deer stride, aside a dark-haired Romanian, their backs to me, walking among spring corn, tassel-haired child between.
Tropic rain. Banana leaves fauceting water. Village fire, a dog’s howls sparking starward.
Faces of men transected by a rifle’s crosshairs. Faces of men vaporized, a misting of red. Buoyancy of midnight water; words of a valued friend: “The only safe haven for guys like us, the only home we’ll ever know, is in the dead of night.”
Pencil on rice paper: In any conflict, the boundaries of behavior are defined by the party that values morality least…