“Omigod!” she says, and jumps to her feet to run tell the manager.
“I guess that’s a no,” Miranda says. “Sorry, Donovan.”
“Story of my life,” I say.
My cell phone vibrates. I answer it.
“Yes?”
“We’re good to go,” Dr. P. says.
13
DR. P. MEETS us in the lobby and escorts us to Dr. Boreland’s office. Boreland is Chief Operating Officer of Jeff Memorial.
Dr. Boreland shakes my hand while looking at Miranda.
“And you are?”
“Miranda Rodriguez,” she says, extending a hand.
He says, “You’re quite young. How do you fit in?”
“I’m sixteen weeks away from obtaining my Master’s in Counseling Psychology. After graduating, I’ll work with Dr. Petrovsky at his clinic, counseling patients.”
He nods.
Dr. P. is stunned into silence, which reminds me I neglected to tell him Miranda’s cover story.
Dr. Boreland shows us close up photos of the victims and says, “Dr. Petrovsky claims he can do something with these hands and faces. Do you share his optimism?”
I look at Dr. P.
He nods.
I say, “Dr. Petrovsky is the most highly-skilled surgeon on the planet Earth.”
Dr. Boreland frowns. “You’ll pardon me for doubting the veracity of that claim.”
“Whoa,” I say. “You couldn’t have said that simpler?”
He frowns.
I say, “I can assure you Dr. P. is without peer.”
“Funny I’ve never heard of him.”
“Have you heard of Albert Schweitzer?”
“Yes.”
“Sigmund Freud?”
“Yes.”
“Phineas Flatulence?”
“Do I strike you as the sort of person who enjoys having his time wasted with childish humor?”
“Why do you ask?”
Dr. Boreland decides to move on, saying, “Dr. Petrovsky’s name fails to appear in any internet listing of doctors and surgeons.”
“And yet you’re showing us the photos,” I say.
He shows me a flat, annoyed smile. “I’ve been ordered to cooperate fully.”
“By?”
“Dr. Dame, president and Chief Executive Officer.”
“That should convince you.”
“It convinces me Dr. Petrovsky has a great deal of clout. But I strongly disapprove of him giving false hope to these patients.”
I look at Dr. P. “Show him the photo.”
Dr. P. opens his leather folio and removes two photographs of an incredibly handsome man who happens to have a prominent scar on his face.
Dr. Boreland studies the photos a full minute, then looks at me.
“So?”
“That’s me, less than four years ago.”
“That’s preposterous.”
I notice Miranda’s eyes are glued to the photos. She might be more stunned than Dr. Boreland. I exaggerated about being incredibly handsome just now. I was, at best, good looking. Now, thanks to Dr. P. and his team of government surgeons, I’m incredibly handsome.
For real.
Dr. Boreland opens his desk drawer and removes a pair of surgical magnifying loupes. He puts them on and walks around his desk.
“Do you mind?” he says.
“Not at all.”
He motions me to look up so the light catches my face. Then he leans over until our faces are less than a foot apart. He pinches my face in various places, holds the skin between his fingers, and inspects it.
“This is a joke,” he says.
“Thank you,” Dr. P. says.
Moments later the three of us exit Dr. Boreland’s office and take the elevator to the fourth floor.
All twenty-two Derby City Fair victims were brought to Jeff Memorial. The thirteen adults, six children and three infants were doubled up and grouped in adjoining rooms on the fourth floor so they could be treated and monitored consistently.
I approach the first woman, Mary Valentine.
“Hi Mary, I’m Donovan Creed. This is Miranda Rodriguez and Dr. Eamon Petrovsky.”
Mary is drugged to the max. Her hands are heavily bandaged, and she’s receiving fluids.
She tries to speak, but her words are slurred.
Miranda says, “We’ll check on her and let you know.”
I have no idea what that means. Miranda says, “She asked about her daughter.”
Dr. P. and I exchange a look that indicates he didn’t catch Mary’s question any better than I did.
I continue, “Dr. Petrovsky is the world’s greatest plastic surgeon. He believes he can significantly restore your hands, over time. Dr. P. and I own a surgery center and spa in Las Vegas, Nevada. When you’re able to travel, we’d like to donate our services to you and your daughter, free of charge.”
Mary’s eyes well up. She mumbles something completely incoherent. Dr. P. and I look at Miranda, who says, “Mary is very grateful, but wants to know how long it will take.”
Dr. P. says, “Best case, five years, twenty surgeries.”
Mary mumbles something else. Miranda translates, “What about her baby?”
Dr. P. says, “Don’t expect a miracle.”
More mumbling. Miranda says, “She wants to know if it will hurt.”
“It will be excruciating,” Dr. P. says. “I’m sorry, I wish I had better news.”
Mary would never imagine the total cost of her surgical procedures, medicine, physical and occupational therapy will cost more than three million dollars. Nor would she care, I suspect. Right now she’s in a state of shock. Her attack was so sudden, her situation so horrific. One moment she’s pushing her baby in a stroller at the fair, the next moment her hands are burned practically to the bone. Not to mention her baby’s beautiful face has been ruined forever.
All this happened because she decided to use the free hand sanitizer dispenser at the fair.
As we go from one patient to the next, Dr. P. offers hope, Miranda offers encouragement, and I offer revenge.
Whoever did this is going to pay.
14
Maybe Taylor.
“WHAT DO YOU mean she broke your nose?”
“She smashed my face with her head.”
“How did she manage to get that close to you?”
“I was trying to hold her down on the bed. She became hysterical and started thrashing about. Wait. That didn’t translate properly.”
“No shit it didn’t! So what’s the bottom line, no divorce?”
“The divorce is a certainty. She was upset about something else.”
Maybe knows Sam sucks when it comes to explaining situations where he’s completely innocent. She decides to move the conversation along.
“Are you coming to Vegas or not?”
“My plane lands at two-forty.”
“I’ll call you at three to see where you’re staying.”
“I’ve booked a suite at the Vega Rouge. Just come when you can, call me from the lobby.”
“You feel up to making the trip?”
“No. But I feel up to seeing you.”
15
Donovan Creed.
AFTER LEAVING THE hospital Miranda and I cross the street and enter the hotel quietly. I feel her staring at me.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“I’m good.”
She nods.
We walk down the hall in silence, enter the room, sit on the bed.
She says, “Can we talk about this?”
“Are you sure it’s ethical?” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
She ignores my comment and says, “I know you, Donovan.”
She thinks she knows me. In truth, she knows very little about me.
“This has affected you deeply.”
She’s right about that.
“Look at me,” she says.
I know what she’s going to say. She’s going to tell me I need to clear my head of evil thoughts. She’ll say that giving total strangers more than fifty million dollars worth of free treatment is stunningly generous, and I should reflect on how their lives will be improved because of me. She’ll tell me not to dwell on the bad. She’ll say I need to forgive the person who did these terrible things, and move on with my life.