As someone reasonably competent with computers and other electronic devices, Darko was quite sure Robert was telling the truth, so he was “happy,” although satisfied would have been a better description. He reached over in front of Robert and moved the laptop and smartphone to the side. Just as Darko did so, a scream came from upstairs, followed by a dull thud similar to the one Robert and Kate had heard before, when Leonid went to take care of the kids.
Robert’s eyes shot up as if he thought he could see through the ceiling. “What the hell?” he demanded as he started to get to his feet.
Darko didn’t answer but rather raised his pistol and pointed it at Robert’s face. The sound it made was more of a hiss than a bang. Robert’s head snapped back, and his body went limp in the chair, arms dangling to the side. A red dot the size of a marble appeared in the middle of his forehead, just between his eyes.
Quickly Darko went through the desk to find objects worth taking besides the laptop and the smartphone. It was important to make the event seem like a burglary. Leonid appeared a moment later, zipping up his jumpsuit.
“How was it?” Darko asked, reverting to Russian as he picked up the electronic gear to carry it out to the van.
“I like young Chechen girls better,” Leonid said. “More fight. Maybe you want to run up and take a turn. She’s still warm.”
“Fuck you,” Darko said. He flashed his partner a middle finger. “Did you remember to look for any jewelry?”
“Yes, and I found some. Not a lot, but I got what I could, including the lawyer’s wallet and his Rolex.”
“That should be enough. Let’s get the hell out of here!”
13
Tuesday, April 7, 5:45 A.M.
At first Michael tried to incorporate the thumping sound into a very enjoyable dream, but it didn’t work. Reluctantly he acknowledged that someone was intermittently knocking on his door. “Shit,” he said under his breath.
Assuming his tormentor was not going to go away, Michael swung his legs out from under the covers and glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even six, and the dermatology lecture wasn’t going to start until nine. “Shit,” he repeated, hoisting himself to his feet. He couldn’t imagine who could be disturbing him or why. Despite being clad only in skivvies, he threw the door wide open. To his surprise he was face-to-face with Lynn, who was sporting an exasperated expression that it had taken him so long to open the door. She was the last person Michael had expected to see.
The evening before, Michael had checked Lynn’s room on several occasions to see if she had returned. Her room was only three doors down the hall from his. When she hadn’t appeared by eleven P.M., he had thought about calling or texting to make sure she was okay. He was also eager to tell her about his serendipitous meeting up with Vladimir and getting into the Shapiro Institute. But by then he assumed she was going to spend the night at Carl’s and worried that she might already have been asleep or at the least needed some private time. After all, she had Michael’s mobile number if she had wanted contact.
“We need to talk!” Lynn said. She pushed past the surprised Michael and threw herself into Michael’s desk chair, turning on his desktop gaming computer. She was sporting a fresh white medical student’s coat.
“Why don’t you come on in and make yourself at home,” Michael said sarcastically.
“I want you to read an article, but first get your ass in the shower or whatever you do when you wake up. We need to check on Carl, and then go get some breakfast. I’m famished. I didn’t have anything to eat last night.”
“Nothing? Why not?”
“I was too busy. I learned a lot of shit that I want to throw at you. So get a move on!”
“Yes, sir!” Michael said, saluting. Michael’s father, of whom he only had the dimmest recollection, had been in the Marines, and was stationed at Parris Island, about five miles away from Beaufort, where Michael had grown up. He had only been four when his parents parted ways, but he still remembered his father saluting him on occasion as if he too were a Marine.
Michael quickly showered, shaved, and dealt with his hair, which didn’t need much attention. When he reemerged from the bathroom, Lynn was at the window, tapping her foot. It was apparent she was juiced and impatient and couldn’t have cared less that Michael was butt naked, save for his shower towel. He went to his bureau, got out clean drawers and socks, and then went to the closet for the rest of his threads and kicks. When he was finished, he informed Lynn, who seemed mesmerized by the view across the harbor to Mount Pleasant, as if she had never seen the same panorama from her own room for almost four years.
“The article I want you to read is on your screen. Read it quickly and then let’s jet over to the hospital.”
Michael could tell that Lynn was in no mood to argue, so he took his seat and started reading. He was aware that Lynn had come up behind him, looking over his shoulder.
The article had the Scientific American logo at the top, which lent it strong credibility. Michael was well aware that the main trouble with the Internet was often not knowing the sources of material and hence its veracity. This article, however, was most likely legit. The title of the relatively short piece was “How Many Die from Medical Mistakes in U.S. Hospitals?” He was finished in less than a minute, and he looked up at Lynn.
“Oh, come on,” Lynn said. “You can’t be finished already.”
“Slam dunk,” Michael responded.
“Okay, smart-ass! What’s the upper limit of estimated deaths for people going into U.S. hospitals each year and suffering a ‘preventable adverse event,’ a euphemism if ever I heard one? They should call it like they did in the title: a goddamn mistake!”
“Four hundred and forty thousand,” Michael said without hesitation.
“Geez!” Lynn complained. “How the hell do you read so fast and still remember everything? That’s discouraging for us mortals.”
“Like I told you, my mamma taught me.”
“Mammas don’t teach that kind of skill. But regardless. Don’t you find that statistic startling and embarrassing? Like the article says, that would make deaths from hospital errors the third leading cause of mortality in this country.”
“So let me guess. You are now convinced that Carl suffered a mistake, or more accurately, a major screwup. Is that what I’m reading between the lines?”
“Of course!” Lynn said. “A strapping, athletic, healthy twenty-nine-year-old male has a simple knee operation and ends up in a coma. Somebody fucked up big-time, and if Carl doesn’t wake up, he’s going to change the statistic you just quoted to four hundred and forty thousand and one this year, and that’s after a routine ACL repair!”
“Sweet Jesus, Lynn, you’re jumping to conclusions. It’s not even twenty-four hours, and Carl is sure as hell not dead. Maybe when we go back, he’ll be sitting up in bed, taking nourishment, wondering how the hell Monday disappeared.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Lynn said sarcastically. “The neurology resident thinks there was extensive brain necrosis. I hate to say this to burst your bubble, but Carl’s not going to be sitting up having breakfast this morning.”
“Medicine is an imperfect science. If we’ve learned anything over the last four years, it’s that. Everybody is unique according to their DNA. Maybe Carl reacted negatively in an unexpected way to the anesthesia and whatever else he was given. Maybe there was a mistake but maybe not. Maybe the anesthesia machine malfunctioned. Maybe a thousand things, but it wasn’t necessarily a medical error.”