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Death of a Healer

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The conditions necessary for the Surgeon are four: First, he should be learned; Second, he should be expert; Third, he must be ingenious; and Fourth, he should be able to adapt himself.

It is required for the First that the Surgeon should know not only the principles of surgery, but also those of medicine in theory and practice; for the Second, that he should have seen others operate; for the Third, that he should be ingenious, of good judgment and memory to recognize condition; and for the Fourth, that he be adaptable and able to accommodate himself to circumstances.

Let the Surgeon be bold in all sure things, and fearful in dangerous things; let him avoid all faulty treatments and practices. He ought to be gracious to the sick, considerate to his associates, cautious in his prognostications. Let him be modest, dignified, gentle, pitiful, and merciful; not covetous nor an extortionist of money; but rather let his reward be according to his work, to the means of the patient, to the quality of the issue, and to his own dignity. Guy de Chauliac (1300-1370)

Father of Surgery

For three generations, Martha Rae's family had nurtured a few hundred humble acres surrounded by a barbed-wire fence just outside Mascoutah--a sparse town in rural Southern Illinois. Her subdued, but unmistakable, country accent and enchanting facial-expressions complemented an ironclad and amicable smile--that was usually concealed behind a surgical-mask. Shepherding clasped hands ahead of her petite frame, she kicked open the wildly-flinging operating-room doors, as the last few drops of soapy water ran up her forearms and trickled from her elbows onto the floor. On that particular forenoon, as always, her demeanor was embodied with an assuring sense of absolute confidence--that everything important in life was steadfastly in order. Manifestly, Martha had wandered far from her bucolic upbringing to establish herself as the Head O.R. Nurse for Neurosurgery at the renowned University of Minneapolis Medical-Center.

Adeptly slipping herself into a wrinkled, but sterile, green gown and size-6, brown rubber-gloves, she found it simple to dismiss all thoughts of Howard from her mind. As CEO of Expercare-USA, a giant healthcare-conglomerate, Howard W. Crane had courted her with the great American dream of a life ordained with economic security and social status. After eight years of marriage, though, Martha scorned her husband's repeated charge.

"You know.. you really don't have to work! Why can't you simply stay at home.. and be happy just being my wife!"

For Martha, country-club chums and Howard's business concerns had quickly become hollow interests; so professionally, she pursued a calling fulfilled daily with human-life concerns and death-defying dramas.

"Mornin' Martha!.. How's it goin' today?"

"Good morning, Dr. Gibson!"

Martha's reply reeked of compulsory politeness.

"I'm just fine.. and everything's in place and ready to go!"

An air of poignant professionalism was her major defense against a communal acknowledgment of unfeigned feelings; for a multitude of reasons, Martha found that operator irresistibly attractive. At 38, Jason Paul Gibson M.D. was notably handsome, with a cuddly, dimpled baby-face that embraced distinctly alluring, deep-blue eyes, brown curly locks, and hardy, Spartan features. Martha stood in awe of the way Jake Gibson routinely handled life-and-death situations--with an intense sense of overwhelming confidence, uniquely blended with sincere concern. For the last several years, she had been passionately, but stealthily, captivated by his every sanguine deed.

That morning, however, Martha sensed an unusual degree of apprehension and anxiety in Dr. Gibson's mien. She glanced up from her work of arranging the surgical-instruments and noticed the nervous pacing and fiddling, as he positioned, quite deliberately, the soon-to-be-arriving patient's x-rays on a view-box in a corner of the room. Drawn to his side, she soberly inquired what his impression and scheme might be as regards the case at-hand.

Through years of working with top-notch surgeons, Martha had come to appreciate just how essential unwavering confidence was to someone about to undertake a journey inside the human body. She knew perfectly well that her mastery of sophisticated equipment and intricate techniques played only a minor part in her role as head of the surgical-team. She keenly understood just how valuable her emotional support was for that surgeon particularly, providing a clandestine outlet for him to dispel repressed anxiety, especially prior to commencing a difficult and dangerous operative-procedure.

"This is going to be a particularly tough case to do! Look here.. there are a couple of huge.. really frightening berry aneurysms!..."

Jake pointed with an outstretched and wavering index-finger at a pair of prominent, nearly spherical, white blobs displayed on the films.

"I'm not absolutely positive as to which one has bled. We better find it though.. and fix it!.. You know.. if we don't do this whole thing just right.. one very unfortunate guy will likely not survive!"

With each cautioning word, the surgeon somehow seemed to gather greater assurance, and posthaste Martha sensed a return of the customary stilted gall in his voice. As he motioned for the medical-student and housestaff observers in the room to position themselves at the lighted view-box for a similar explanation, Martha quietly slipped back into her work.

She demanded a great deal of herself and the hand-picked nurses on her team. As a surgical-unit, it was crucial for them to work with gargantuan efficiency and skill. For that particular case, it was imperative that hundreds of delicatesurgical instruments be available, each within a few split-seconds. A single broken or misplaced instrument could prove fatal to a patient. That degree of precision, perfection, and performance demanded profound team-concentration. Inadvertent noise, inappropriate conversation, and sloppiness were, in Martha's eyes, simply avoidable deficiencies, and therefore, they were absolutely intolerable. As a result, Martha's scolding glare was well respected by each-and-every surgical-squad member.

The neuro-anesthesiologist had initiated his preparations necessary to put the patient to sleep for the forthcoming operation. While filling and labeling a series of syringes with paralyzing and heart-regulating drugs, the predominately grey, Full Professor and Department-Chairman busily cradled a nearby wall-phone against his ear.

"Uh-huh... Really!... Yes, I understand... So, why don't you go ahead and trade both of them?!... No, I wasn't aware of that... Well, I heard through the grapevine that Expercare is contemplating a split... I agree with you, but I still like the way it looks in my portfolio!... Sure, there's always that chance... Ok... Yeah! I heard they're negotiating with the University Hospital!... Listen, I think we ought to acquire another ten thousand shares, right away!"

Visibly annoyed, Martha's eyebrows captiously straightened as she repositioned sets of aneurysm-clips in more precise rows on her neatly arranged instrument-table. Only a fraction the size of a hairpin, but with many times its clamping force, one of those small contraptions would be used to occlude the opening of each treacherous aneurysm to prevent it from leaking, like sealing the neck of a miniature, pressurized balloon with a teeny shackle.

Seemingly undistracted by his ongoing pecuniary conversation, the anesthesiologist, surrounded by housestaff and the phone still propped upon his shoulder, began to casually inject several brightly-colored anesthetizing-agents, in sequence, into lengthy clear-plastic tubing; all the while, the attached patient stared sacrificially upward from his ostensibly compromised position atop the altar-like OR-table. Martha pondered that perhaps the ill-fated chap's latent apprehension would be eased by a sympathetic and comforting gleam; forthwith, the self-appointed beacon-of-hope smiled reassuringly as she encountered his darkening eyes just before they were abruptly closed by a rush of curare.

Mitchell M. Massitor, attorney-at-law, had worked overtime to become the most notorious medical-malpractice lawyer in probably the entire country. For more than a decade, he had posted annual incomes of well over five million dollars. His firm's television commercials and his presidency of NAPILA (North American Personal-Injury Lawyers Association) underscored his high-profile reputation and slick-talking personality. His specialty was to round-up litigation against hospitals and associated physicians and then to manipulate each fingered defendant into unwittingly criticizing the care delivered by the other. He had been rushed to the emergency-room after collapsing in the courtroom while arguing a case against a St. Paul ER-physician and his affiliated hospital, for an alleged failure to properly diagnose and treat a patient who had suffered a massive, disabling stroke, ironically from a brain hemorrhage.

Associates in the courtroom reported to the paramedics that Mr. Massitor had been vociferously squabbling with one of the defendant's expert-witnesses on the stand, when he suddenly complained of a severe headache, vomited forcefully, and collapsed into a state of unconsciousness. Jake was merely walking through the ER-corridor that late afternoon, on his way home a bit earlier than usual, when the just-arriving patient was rushed through the entrance. Setting his briefcase off to the side, he stopped to help the scrambling nurses-on-duty cut off the obviously well-to-do patient's tailored, pinstripe suit-pants and starched, entrepreneurial dress-shirt--both smudged with malodorous gastric-contents. Recognizing on-the-spot who that was laying recumbent and gravely ill on a commonplace ER-stretcher, Jake's mind had wandered for a brief moment, surmising that perhaps the louse deserved what was happening to him.

Perfunctorily rolling up his sleeves, donning unisize plastic-gloves, and anchoring a favorite plaid tie inside his buttoned shirt, he rapidly started several large-bore Ivs along the patient's forearms, then placed a urinary catheter through his penis into the bladder and a nasogastric tube through his nose into the stomach. As he guardedly swallowed to repress the repugnant fragrance of a partially digested lunch, Jake mused as to the whereabouts of Dr. Hudley, his junior-attending, whose on-call responsibility it was to be available for such an experience. Throughout those maneuvers, the well-built and deeply-tanned, but unclothed, attorney responded wretchedly, with repetitive, rigid, uncontrolled spasms of his arms and legs in reaction to the discomfort involved. The wife of the desperately ailing patient arrived, and an admitting-clerk ushered her into a quiet-room adjacent to the emergency corridor. In her untimely 50's, Bethany Massitor--trim and robust, blond-haired, and expensively dressed--griped hostilely and demandingly from the start about her husband's predicament, in the direction of anyone who would listen.

"Doctor.. I absolutely insist that my husband receive the best of everything!"

Engulfed with genuine compassion, Jake caught even himself off-guard, as his spontaneous response was replete with almost eerie sanguineness.

"Ma'am.. Everything possible is being done.. so that your husband will survive this. Straight off, our first step will be to perform a cat-scan of the brain in order to find out exactly what has happened. If he's suffered a hemorrhage around the brain surface.. like I think he probably has.. we'll then, right away, do a complete blood-vessel study.. called an angiogram.. to uncover the source of the bleeding.. I'll get things moving immediately!.. Don't worry! We're all doing our very best.. and with any luck, we'll find a way to pull him through!"

"Okay.. Well then.. Thank you very much doctor!.. In all honesty, I do feel reassured.. Still.. Please be certain your best is good enough!"

The inflection of Mrs. Massitor's response flashed the intended inference, whereupon she extended, quite melodramatically, a gold and diamond-laden paw to her business-suit clad step-daughter, all at once standing passively alongside.

"Dr. Gibson!.. Dr. Jason Gibson please!!"

Jake sighed in relief to be summoned by an overhead page to report back to ER-Critical Care: Room-Numero Uno. The staff needed an extra hand to help transport the still deteriorating patient to the radiology-suite.

"Where in the hell is Hudley??..."

Jake queried those around the moving stretcher as he glanced at the disparaging hands on his watch, noting that the staff-cafeteria had just closed.

"Go ahead and push 50 gms. of Mannitol, 20 mgs. of Dexamethasone, and 500 mgs. of Phenytoin."

Jake spelled out several other commands, hoping to find something in his medical bag-of-tricks to make a difference. Pragmatically, though, he surmised that the situation was rapidly becoming hopeless.

Thirty minutes later, on a large row of view-boxes just outside the angiography-suite, Jake ruminated over an unenhanced, brain computed-axial-tomography scan, which clearly showed a widespread, extra-axial hemorrhage, most probably arising from a ruptured aneurysm. Then, following another hour and a half, as angiogram films sequentially dropped from the fetid cloaca of an x-ray developer, Jake focused all of his attention on a thorough inspection of the still warm pictures, spurning for a few moments any distraction by the belatedly arriving David Hudley. Finally, without diminishing his concentration or permitting a response, he addressed his understudy through the corner of his mouth.

"Where you been David??.. We should have heard from you before now!.. Look here, there are a couple of berry aneurysms.. a giant basilar bifurcation and an 8 mm. left P-Comm.. Any idea which one bled?"

"Guess it could be either one.. nobody beeped me!.. I don’t see how it makes any difference, any how!..."

The pudgy and perspiring Hudley volunteered his brand of wisdom with a dissonant, hyperventilating timbre, as he indifferently inspected the images from beyond Jake's shoulder.

"You know, I've been running all the damned day!.. A guy should at least have the right to finish his dinner without being constantly interrupted and harassed!!"

Annoyed but not in the mood to trade gripes, Jake sternly pressed the radiological issue.

"Yes David.. of course, it could be either one.. but based on what you see, which is more likely?"

Jake had coached the flimsy career of David G. Hudley M.D. for seven long years, ever since the jackal's first rotation on the neurosurgery-service as a raw intern. Unfortunately, from the onset Dr. Hudley had proven to be only a marginally dedicated physician, who for the most part could never quite get his act together, either academically or technically, and who wontedly behaved like a vagabond, taking great pride in only brushing his hair just before he rolled into the sack.

At the insistent urging of the department-chairman, Jake had patiently endured Hudley's mediocrity for some time. With intensifying frustration, he reviewed the angiogram and other studies in great detail with the bespeckled, murky-eyed physician, and labored, once more, in a doubtful but requisite attempt to kindle at least some spark of curiosity or concern. Still, Hudley responded with only a pretense of interest.

"This should be a damned medical-student's case!.. You can certainly write this dirt-ball off.. he's got no chance at all!.. I can't see any reason for me to waste my time!.. Besides, don't you realize who this total piece-of-trash is?!!"

Momentarily closing his eyes and massaging his throbbing temples, Jake again struggled to ignore the pressing urge to publicly ring the guy's neck. "Alright, David.. Please!.. Let's just get him up to the ICU.. OK!.. And we'll hope there's at least some improvement overnight in his brain function.. Is that alright with you?!.. Oh.. by the way.. I already gave him a pretty good dose of steroids, so let's not order anymore tonight."

"Whatever!!..."

As he glared at a couple of junior-students standing at attention across the room, Hudley continued to rudely mutter, just loud enough for everyone around to hear.

"What a fu..ing inconvenience.. all this fu..ing effort for nothing.. wasted on a soon-to-be-dead, fu..ing piece of sh..!!"

Disregarding his underling's repugnant attitude one final time, Jake strolled huffily away to invest his rapidly exhausting forbearance in a return to the family's side, for a lengthy discussion about the prognosis and planned treatment.

By the next morning, utterly unforeseen, Mitch Massitor had made momentous improvement. Quite dramatically, he had begun to wake up from his critical coma and respond to those around him by opening his eyes and following simple commands--such as holding up fingers and nodding his head. He was even able to squeeze the critical-care fellow's hand upon request and actually spoke a few words to his wife and pleasantly astonished daughter.

Still studying the nursing flow-chart, Jake wandered into his patient's room. As he banged the metal chart-holder closed and glanced up, he was absolutely amazed to find the usually insolent David Hudley sitting at the bedside alongside Beth Massitor, who was gently stroking her husband's unnatural unwrinkled forehead.

"Wow!.. I guess it's pretty obvious to everyone.. clearly a great deal of improvement.. just overnight!..."

Annoyed by Hudley's odd pose, Jake's allocution loomed uncharacteristically callous and straightforward.

"You should all be very pleased with the direction things are heading.. utterly amazing!.. Well, we ought to go ahead and follow the game-plan we discussed last evening.. to proceed immediately with an operation to try and fix both of the weak spots!"

As he surveyed the activity in the room, Jake caught Martha's fathomless, ocean-blue eyes and was at once reassured that everything was in order. As commander-in-chief, it was his ultimate responsibility to oversee each and every aspect of the operation. Like a pilot being certain that a fully loaded air-ship was flight-worthy prior to take-off, Jake was reassuring himself that all the essential components of his integral craft were in place and ready for an expeditious departure.

After gaining permission to start from the seated and temporarily mute, but attentively smirking anesthesiologist, Jake commenced the placement of the attorney's lifeless head into a vice-like holder that would prevent unwanted movement during the procedure. Even though completely asleep and breathing only with the aid of a machine, his cranium could still move tenuously with respirations or muscle twitching--actions that would make the very precise manipulations essential during the delicate operation hazardous, if not impossible.

Martha nodded for one of the team-members to hand the eagerly waiting surgeon an electric-shaver. Within a few seconds, a portion of the attorney's distinguished silver and gray hair and prominent sideburns were placed in a plain-old,Ziplock sandwich-bag and taped to the front of his chart. Martha thought back to her maiden experience in the neurosurgery operating-room as a nursing-student, when she had questioned Dr. Gibson as to why patients' hair is routinely preserved in that manner. Like so many times before, she tried to gulp away an uncomfortable lump in her throat as she exactly repeated to herself each word of his fatalistic answer.

"It will turn out to be very helpful for the mortician.. if during the planned procedure.. things don't work out quite the way we had hoped."

Just enough hair was removed to safely perform the surgery, yet not so much as to make the lawyer appear unsightly or freakish during his contemplated convalescence. In everything he did, Jake was constantly guided by his perception of the way he would want a particular procedure done on himself or someone in his family. Bemusedly, Martha doubted that the attorney's family or associates would appreciate the special care Dr. Gibson was taking to preserve his foe's appearance.

With that, Jake motioned for the prep-nurse to cleanse and prepare with antiseptic the closely shaved area of the head, as he strolled to a stainless-steel sink just outside the room to do the same with his hands and forearms. The ritual of hand-washing was one final opportunity for the surgeon to collect his thoughts and re-envision in detail each and every step of the upcoming procedure. Even though he had successfully performed that operation hundreds of times before, Jake continued to rehearse in his mind every possible problem that might occur, and how he would respond to each, until his staunch concentration was abruptly interrupted.

"Dr. Gibson.. My name is Timothy Knoxmann, sir.. I'm a fourth-year student and I've been assigned to this case by Dr. Hudley.. I have never been involved in a brain-operation before, so I'm really looking forward to this.. You know, my great aunt died from a blown aneurysm and my grandfather.. Well he..."

"Tim!.. This is going to be a very.. difficult procedure!..."

Jake's cacophonous intercession was a desperate attempt to regain some quiet time; so as not to dampen a fledgling med-student's covetable enthusiasm, he felt obliged to add a positive thought.

"Hopefully though.. if we all do our very best.. everything will work out okay today."

By the inflection of the professor's words, T. J. Knoxmann MS-IV appreciated right off the gravity of what was going on and promptly rehuddled with the assemblage of silent observers.

It was routine for the junior-attending to perform the initial opening. With gnawing reluctance, Jake handed Hudley an immaculately whetted, stainless-steel scalpel and assumed the role of first-assistant, as the layers of the scalp were sequentially breached. Bright-red blood squirted from the cut tissue edges and streamed from the wound, trickling into a giant-sized, black, Hefty trash-bag attached to the sterile-drapes beneath the attorney's head, just to collect such overflow. As was customarily the case, Jake was annoyed by Hudley's sloppiness and poor technique; nonetheless, though clearly irked, he simply sighed deeply and shuffled his feet, but said nothing about it.

"Okay, let's have the drill!"

The surgeon's somber command was activated by Martha, who plunged the power-perforator, bludgeon-like, into Dr. Hudley's hand. As Jake exactly mapped the placement of the opening, a quartet of nickel-sized holes were bored through the attorney's calvarium, in the region of his left forehead and temple. For some reason, as Hudley commenced to connect the openings with an air-driven craniotome, the chilling sound of the skull being sawed brought to Jake's memory the frightening chink generated by a long-bone as it was forcefully twisted, until it suddenly snapped.

As a teen, he liked very much to spend time with his elderly, paternal-grandmother, Olive, visiting her on a regular basis. During the summer and on Saturdays, the eldest grandson would often drop in around noon for a quick sandwich; at other times, like on school days, he would meander by after class for a brief, impromptu visit. Not infrequently he would peddle his orange and black, ten-speed bike across town to her four family flat--located just within the city limits a half-dozen or so miles from his ranch-style family home in Lower Affton, a contemporary L.A.-like suburb of St. Paul.

One lazy day in late July, the eminent high-school senior had sportingly set out with his youngest, most impressionable brother to walk to her place. Taking in several creek-bed shortcuts along the way, the older sibling figured the easygoing journey would occupy them for a breezy couple of hours. Under an atypical, bright and cloudless high-sky in the city of lakes, though, the hand-in-hand pedestrians had begun to swelter in an afternoon temperature that reached into the humid, mid 90's. Ergo, as the boys were turning up Wilmington Avenue, lined with huge Oaks, only a few blocks from their destination, Michael spotted an alluring drinking-fountain in a snug, shady playground directly across the street from them and, without thinking, impulsively bolted across the blistery boulevard--right into the path of a rapidly oncoming, two-ton automobile.

Not anticipating what was transpiring, Mikie's brother was startled by the squeal of skidding tires and screeching brakes. He glanced in the direction of the terrifying noise and immediately fixated on the shiny chrome-bumper of an approaching vehicle, not more than a few feet from his kid brother's laggardly reacting body. Instinctively, the blond-haired six year-old lunged forward for the safety of the curb, but the rotary action of the advancing wheels caught up with his right leg and foot, and his frail torso was forcefully spun into the air. Tumultuously, the runt landed in the gutter in a twisted heap.

He was stunned at the gross appearance of the exposed weight-bearing bones of his baby-brother's foreleg as they jetted out through a neat slice in his bare skin. An intense stinging and burning twinge put a gasp on the kindergartner's frightened and abraded face, as ruby liquid dripped from his blood-stained sock, forming multiple discreet droplets and a spotty puddle on the scalding black-asphalt.

The offending car abruptly stopped; almost immediately, an annoyed old-geezer jumped from his unscathed vehicle, ran over to the two youngsters huddled at the side of the road, and without even asking if the recumbent and obviously injured sapling was alright, began to angrily scold the liable adolescent.

"Ya' damned fool!!.. How could anyone be so careless and stupid!!!"

Perched over his helpless and terrified little brother, who stoicly tried to maintain his composure despite a profound, throbbing pain that swiftly enveloped his entire lower-extremity, the eldest of ten detested being obliged to feel foolish and irresponsible.

Jake's attention was abruptly directed back to the operating-field as Dr. Hudley had handily loosened, pried up, and en-bloc lifted away a portion of the attorney's frontal-temporal skull bone--about the size of a sand-dollar--but then clumsily let it slip from his blood-besmirched grasp. As the spiraling piece of bone was tumbling towards a contaminated collision with the deck, Jake instinctively stretched out an open hand and coolly caught it, just before it could impact on scruffy terrazzo. He frowned at Martha and shook his head, before he sighed again as he personally placed it into her delicate care.

While Hudley was censuring a med-student assistant for the blunder, Martha guided the cumbersome operating-microscope into place. Interrupting the unmerited condemnation, Jake triumphantly assumed the captain's chair and controls and motioned for the inept journeyman standing lamely alongside to occupy the bench along with the covey of observers. The overhead lights in the room were dimmed slightly and the video-monitors illuminated and positioned, so that everyone present could easily watch. As Martha situated herself at Jake's right-hand, the tedious and very hazardous journey into a man's control-center was set to begin.

For the next two hours, Jake worked through less than a one-inch gap beneath the antero-lateral aspect of the attorney's brain, somewhat like a precision watchmaker attempting to defuse a precarious explosive hidden deep inside a priceless piece of porcelain pottery, employing long and awkward forceps while working through the very narrow opening atop.

"I need a couple of temporary clips!..."

Without pivoting his head, Jake motioned in Martha's direction.

"I don't think this is the one that bled, but we'll go ahead and clip it now anyway."

Martha knew that meant temporarily blocking the main artery that supplied nearly half of the attorney's brain. She reassuringly placed two gold-embossed clips, one at a time, into Jake's open right hand; and he exactly positioned them, one on each end, along the pulsating blood-vessel that gave origin to the first of the problematic pimples. Concurrently, Martha motioned for a circulating-assistant to yank-the-string on an electric-timer prominently mounted on the wall.

Jake had 30-minutes by the hour-glass before those tourniquet-like clamps must be removed; otherwise the barrister would likely suffer a disabling stroke, devastating the language-center of his brain due to a prolonged absence of oxygenated blood-circulation. Jake could feel and hear his own heart pumping more forcefully as he hastily worked to free the ballooned nidus-of-attention. With each precise, chopstick-like movement, he seemed to gain greater speed and confidence; hence, within a mere 12-minutes, he had applied a permanent titanium-clip precisely around the first aneurysm's neck.

In a race against time, the temporary clamps were released from the blockaded parent-artery, thereby restoring blood-flow to the left portion of the lawyer's cerebrum. Still tensely focused on the berry-like balloon, all in the room sighed-in-relief as Jake punctured the wall of the blood-engorged sac with a tiny needle, and it immediately collapsed with only a feeble spurt of blood.

Nervously yawning, Jake slowly arose from the commander's seat; while anxiously stretching his shoulders and neck, he took a few steps away from the operating-field. His upper-back muscles felt dreadfully tense and tight as he tried to restore some measure of circulation into his dysesthetic buttocks and feet. A few of the masked observers capriciously arose and flexed their torsi as well.

"Okay.. let's get after the real culprit!"

Jake's remark adverted to the fact that the second aneurysm would surely be lots more formidable, as clearly, it was the one that had previously ruptured and seeped blood. The bleeding point would be sealed over with only a thin, fragile blood-clot, which if prematurely disturbed would issue in a massive, probably fatal, hemorrhage. Notwithstanding, as he toiled Jake dispatched a message to Massitor's wife and daughter that all was proceeding well. As he overheard a circulating-nurse summon into the waiting-room, his thoughts were drawn to a bygone and nearly forgotten, yet very similar, phone-call--one made on his behalf to the family of another person entrusted to his care.

As a teenager his driving reputation was not the best; nonetheless, he usually paid only cursory attention to that favorite of his mother's chants.

"Jason, you are always in too much of a hurry behind the wheel!.. You'd better slow down before you get involved in an accident!"

He had arranged with one of his best buddies, Theodore, to double-date for the upcoming senior-prom. For weeks on end, he had beseeched his oldest brother for a night's loan of his really cool car. Robert had fussily restored that groovy, "souped-up" Plymouth-Duster, an endeavor that largely monopolized his early high-school years. Prior to departing that evening, he had promised Bob and his keeper, as well as his girlfriend's mother, that he would drive especially conscientiously, and that "nothing could possibly happen."

Following the boisterous revelry of the prom, he and Debra, along with Teddy and his date, spent time parked in the nifty red buggy along a secluded road that overlooked the Twin-Cities Municipal Airport--a popular nocturnal gathering place for high-schoolers to hang out, listen to music, and gaze at the triumphant landings of those monstrous and magnificently lighted pterodactyls of the 20th century.

Driving home shortly past midnight, he was alarmed by the initial sight of those dual lights moving slowly toward them; an approaching vehicle appeared to be recklessly weaving on the wrong side of the divided-highway. Spotting a seemingly secure position along the parking-lane, he pulled over close to a maple-lined curb and instinctively stopped, expecting to avoid the wayward intruder. Laughing and giggling, his friends beside and behind him in the car remained completely unaware that anything was amiss.

The twin-beams, though, continued to enlarge and steadily advance; and then, to his utter dismay, the ominous headlights abruptly picked up speed and unexpectantly swerved towards them, impacting the revered Plymouth head-on and smashing it viciously backwards and into the air. After taking out several lamp-posts, the car ended up dangling over a concrete-median nearly a hundred-feet back up the boulevard.

Upon regaining consciousness, he found it difficult to breathe. The steering-column had been thrust violently backward and was compressing his sternum. As he gaped towards Debbie, he could perceive that she was unconscious, with her tinted banana-curls and seductive upper-torso motionless and draped upon a crumpled dashboard and shattered windshield. Her face was severely slashed in several places, and bright-red blood was oozing profusely down the front of her pink-lacy formal.

He gasped for air and felt very faint; he struggled to move but couldn't budge or squirm from his entanglement. Ghastly silent in the back-seat, Ted and Cindy, he sensed, must have also been unconscious. Animated by a series of loud knocks on his window, he made a final, though frail, attempt to force open his door.

"Hang on buddy!.. We'll get you out!"

A passerby's shouts were muffled as a waggling flashlight beamed through the cracked window, and someone endeavored to pry open his door with a tire-iron. He drifted in and out of awareness while being ruggedly hoisted atop a gurney and whisked into an waiting ambulance. Notwithstanding, he made a muddled attempt to interrogate a police-officer standing nearby as to what had happened.

"Several passersby witnessed the accident..."

He struggled to comprehend what he was hearing.

"They had been following this wrong-way driver for quite a few miles.. trying to get his attention.. He's totally intoxicated.. He struck you guys head-on!"

The sirens seemed dampened as he was carted by a pair of bouncy ambulance-attendants into a brightly lighted, hospital emergency-room. All the while, he retained a disjointed but frightful image of Deb and her injuries, as he blenched from the warm stickiness of freshly-clotted blood that cohered through his tux to the hairy skin of his chest and upper abdomen.

A short while later, his hands trembled uncontrollably as he tried to dial her number.

"MMrs. Whitehurst.. thththis is JJJason. I'mmm calling ffffrrom St. JJJohn's MMMercy HHHospital.. Ththere was an accccident.. I'm ssso sorry.. but DDDebbie.. Well shshshe's..."

Though he tried desperately to continue, his voice quivered as he sobbed relentlessly; he had made a sincere and solemn promise to each of them. A veracious nurse standing nearby was forced to take the phone and complete the conversation.

Suddenly, the ominous, red, pulsating blister appeared in full-view.

"Oh my God!!!..."

Jake's hollow expression indicated that he had not fully anticipated the dreadfulness of that moment.

"I don't know if it's possible to fix this one!.. It's so damn big!!"

Beads of perspiration developed upon and promptly transcended the horizontal creases crisscrossing his forehead, as once again the timeless burden of a man's self-enslaved infallibility was reinforced by a teenager's resurrected culpability.

Throughout the next multitude of minutes, all perception of time was forfeited by the fretful crowd in the room surveying each and every movement, as the surgeon feverishly tried to isolate the inflated sack that was direly threatening to burst at any moment. The aneurysm was so large and its walls so tenuous and translucent that startling streams of hemeflowing inside the flimsy balloon were conspicuously visible to all watching; it appeared ready to explode at any second.

Jake and those around him had entered another dimension of human existence. Each engagement by those fine instruments was hinged on ultra-exorbitant concentration; profound skill and immoderate confidence reared in years of repetitive practice and training were required to sustain each meticulously precise engagement. A few fractions of a millimeter of manipulation, one way or the other, would foreordain whether a human-being lived a full and normal life or died almost instantly. A sudden spurt of blood would be the baleful signal that the sanguine-engorged saccule had, in that vital tug-of-war, erupted into a fatal outcome.

"Okay!..."

Jake mustered a decisive comment.

"I think we're about ready for a clip!"

He gulped and awkwardly swallowed a few times as Martha fastidiously placed a clip into his hand. Like a micro-cowboy attempting to precisely lasso and immediately subdue a wild stallion, Jake painstakingly positioned the fine metallic-clamp with an exact snap of his wrist, thereby closing it's lifesaving blades gently, but firmly, around the neck of the explosiveaneurysm.

Schwooshshshshsh.....

The peculiar sound of sucking blood and lots of it echoed around the room.

"Oh shit!!!!!"

Jake yelled as he experienced a sudden, terrifying, pounding, and tormenting rush throughout his body.

Gushing blood immediately filled the entire wound opening and began to pour from the head, running off in several directions; it quickly saturated the drapes and then pooled onto the previously tidy floor. Jake's cardiac rhythm jumped mercilessly, and his suddenly sweaty hands quivered noticeably.

"More suction!.. I need more suction!!..."

Jake pleaded loudly.

"It's ruptured!!!"

Jake squealed as though those watching were unaware.

Everyone in the room grabbled with similar degrees of emotional distress, as they watched a man's life rapidly slipping away. In the span of just a few seconds, Jake instinctively considered his options.

As an energetic, recent high-school graduate working over the summer for an outdoor painting-company, he was tediously trimming a weathered attic-window on an aged, three-story colonial mansion, while standing atop a gabled section of roof; suddenly, he disturbed an unnoticed, but quite active, hornet's nest. Startled and befuddled, he lost his bucket of white paint and his footing, as both began to slide from their perch along the slippery slate vertex; he found himself uncontrollably skiing down a sharply angled roof. Desperately, he lunged and grasped for something to clinch onto, but found nothing at arm's length to help retard his accelerating dissent.

Just as he was about to morbidly topple over the eave, a slender arm suddenly appeared, extended from a close-at-hand dormer; thereupon, a firmly-attached but gentle hand calmly grabbed hold of his open-paw, pulling him to safety. Though it was years ago and he had come into contact with that petite, junior high-schooler for a mere few seconds, he could still envision the placid look on her pretty face and her name. Momentarily, he reflected on how raptly Jennifer's impulsive but nonchalant deed had stuck in his mind--perhaps to the extent that her extraordinary intestinal fortitude under pressure had swayed him to wind up a surgeon.

Jake surmised that his only chance was to immediately establish the exact site at which the aneurysm had ruptured and swiftly stop it from leaking. Smothering his emotional distress in cerebellar activity, he speedily worked to suction away the spouting blood, so that he could identify the fountain-head. An unexpectedly forceful spurt of red stuff struck the left side of his face and mask, smarting as it gravitated from his forehead onto the corner of his eyeball. Rigorously maintaining his arms and hands in position, Jake's head and thoughts momentarily pivoted towards a stout male-circulator, for a quick wipe of a blinking eyelid.

Shortly after taking off from his painting-job that same summer's day, he was fecklessly sitting on the open tailgate of a friend's high mileage Chevy-wagon, playfully allowing a pair of well-worn and mostly paint-spattered tennis-shoes to drag along rough pavement, as the vehicle was slowly moving forward. As was custom, the guys were busy making fun of Albert, the portly and pimpled neighborhood whipping-boy who was seated alongside, trying his best to disregard the incessant teasing barbs coming from those seated inside the smoke-filled car.

Suddenly, the joy-riding auto stopped, sprang up, and unexpectedly propelled backwards; as it did, the tailgater's cohesive sneakers caught a crevice in the road surface, and he was tumultuously yanked right-off his unrestrained perch. Even as his buddy was still falling, "Big Al" lunged over the tailgate and grabbed his upper-arm; then, just as the oversized carriage was seemingly about to mortally pass over his friendly catch, with his free hand he snared onto its rusty and corroded, chrome-plated bumper for support. Suffocating exhaust-fumes flatulated in the toppled fool's terrified face, clouding his eyesight; moreover, he shrieked as the tailpipe singed a shoulder. While yelling for the driver to halt, Bert held on with laboring energy as the torso in his clutch was, for a few protracted seconds, tugged over ragged concrete.

Reseated moments later, scatheless and belted in, the future doctor winced while road-dust was wiped from his flinching eye, before he volunteered a speckled smile to privately acknowledge another heroic deed on his behalf and a second consequent miraculous resurrection--both in the same afternoon.

Blinking to hastily re-converge his sight, Jake positioned a suction-device against a cottonoid precisely over the leaking-point in an attempt to suppress the bleeding, as if holding a finger on a squirting water-pipe to tamponade a leak, in order to visualize the size of the break so as to figure out how best to fix it.

"I have a feeling that this darned clip may be a bit too short!..."

Jake's desperate gasp underscored the urgency of his plead for help from Martha.

"Alright, give me the next longer one!"

Without hesitation, Martha placed an empty applicator-instrument squarely into his hand. Jake first slowly released and then completely removed the initial clip; the bleeding dramatically increased. He began to once again forfeit sight of theaneurysm.

"Blood pressure is falling!!..."

The vigilant anesthesiologist was suddenly eager to sound the alert.

"60 systolic!.. I'm going to have to start a unit-of-blood."

"Hang on!!. Don't give him any hemoglobin, just yet!..."

Jake's mandate went unchallenged as Martha plopped a proper-sized clip into his open palm, and he speedily but carefully sneaked it into position.

"Come on baby..."

He was audibly pleading to himself.

"Almost!.. Okay!.. Don't you dare!.. Nowww, just a little bit furtherrr!.. Come on! Cooperate!.. Gooood!.. Alright!!. Yes!!!..."

He slowly let close the spring-loaded blades to re-embrace the neck of the aneurysm.

"Thank you, Lord!!!"

Jake rolled his eyes upward as the released clip-blades closed tightly and securely, and the dastardly percolation immediately caused.

In concert, Martha provided body-temperature, salt water irrigation to squirt around the origin of the aneurysm, in order to remove the pasty clotted-blood that had encased the area. Jake carefully inspected the persistently blood-filled balloon, especially around its base, to be visually certain that none of the vitally important, surrounding arteries or nerves had been inadvertently damaged. Finally, after looking closely at both sides of the clip, he proclaimed his findings with an almighty sigh-of-relief.

"Ok!.. Everything looks good!!..."

He took a few additional deep-breaths; his pulse tempo was just beginning to reside.

"The parent-artery is intact.. and there are no branches trapped in the clip!.. We did it!!..."

For the first time in hours, Jake glanced at the clock to survey the true length of the undertaking.

"Well.. Alright then!.. Shall we puncture the aneurysmal sac?.. or just let well enough alone??..."

Jake quizzed himself aloud but answered solely to himself.

"No!.. There must be absolutely no doubt that the 'raging tempest' has been 'unequivocally subdued!"

In sync with his thoughts, Martha was already placing a tiny needle into his hand.

Jake punctured the aneurysm at its dome; like a violated liquid-filled balloon, it immediately collapsed beneath a gentle leak of its contents.

Spontaneously, the atmosphere in the room changed from that of profound tension and smothering apprehension to one of joviality and happy anticipation. Like little kids after school, the members of the operating-team began to discuss their spouses, children, hobbies,

Death of a Hsaler

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

All my life I've tried to make science and research the basis of our national endeavor, but I have always known full well that there are values higher than science. The only values that offer healing for the ills of humanity are the supreme values of justice and righteousness, peace and love.

Chaim Weizmann (1874-1952)

As he assertively skirted round second-base, Jake gasped at the swampy heaviness of the mid-August, river city humidity, still ungodly elevated even as evening commenced. He had just laced a beautiful line-drive between the outfields, a sure triple on any other evening. Proudly perched on the middle-bag with his hands on his knees, he took a few deep-breaths to unleash the tension and anxiety still lingering from the day's work.

The eldest in a large, Catholic family, Jake maintained an undeniably hectic, yet invigorating lifestyle. The siblings and chums, Wednesday-night, summer-league softball-team was representative of the entire clan's wholesome and fun-loving approach to and admiration for life. For a few hours each week, he was able to escape into an endeavor in which a slip-up, mistake, or misplay was easily shrugged off, and even a major error at worst garnered only a teammate's dry snicker or feigned grimace.

On that playing-field, wealth, notoriety, and position went completely unheralded. None of the opposing team-members had any idea that they were being pitched to by a world-class brain-surgeon; what's more, none cared. To participate in the bailiwick, one required only a leather-glove, a T-shirt with an inscribed team-logo, and a sincere desire to compete. Jake often contemplated as to why many other aspects of modern-day life could not be as simple, open, and candid. All told, he savored the prodigious taste of freedom endemic to that pressure-free milieu.

Knocking some of the infield from his cleated shoes and readjusting his jaded baseball-cap, Jake scowled as he caught notice of his beeper echoing across the diamond. He motioned for his best-friend, Ben, a teammate keeping score on the bench, to locate it within a side-pocket of his athletic-bag and disarm it. As he took a few additional full inhalations, he pothered that perhaps one of his critical patients--possibly even Massitor--had developed a serious problem; on the other hand, maybe it was just a mundane call from some champion of workman's compensation requesting another refill on routine backache-medication; or then again, was it a beep from Jeanne? Instinctively, his torso straightened, and he began to sprint towards third-base, as the resounding ping--generated by an aluminum-bat striking a softball--suddenly captured his attention.

Jake scored easily and jogged directly to his favorite spot on the end of the weathered wooden-bench. Hurriedly he sat and, while wiping his sweaty forehead with a communal towel, began to dial the hospital's number on a cellular-phone retrieved from the depths of his nap-sack. As always the case when responding to an emergency-page, his mood turned pensive, due to his silent bargaining that nothing was amiss with any of his patients.

While the phone rang, his thoughts reverberated around a tacit desire to be able to complain to his buddies about another ridiculous and/or frivolous beep; the archetypal physician's peace-of-mind was perpetually immolated by a desperate and incessant fear of failure.

Bent over to refasten a shoestring while waiting on hold, he could not escape the unforgettable stench permeating histurbinates from his well-seasoned ankle-socks and feisty rubber-soled spikes, as he reflected on nearly identically timed calls that had interrupted the last couple of games in succession. Exactly two weeks past, after rushing to the ER in response to aSTAT-page, he had been forced to tug a pair of steel-toed cowboy-boots over similarly squalid, sticky, and sweaty socks, as the owner lay recumbent and unresponsive on an emergency-room stretcher and obstreperously snored through the after-effects of his latest alcoholic binge. The patient, a Harley-Davidson freak--local Twin Cities chapter--had just been wheeled in, having fractured his neck after falling off a new ride.

Walter Raleigh had required a cumbersome traction-device to hold his neck in proper position, so the severely fractured and subluxed cervical vertebrae could be properly realigned. Despite the anesthetic effects of his acute intoxication and the added, liberal injection of a local pain-killer, the hostile, uncooperative, and in the end altogether whimpish patient had demanded several strong male-nurses to forcibly hold him down, while four razor-sharp, stainless-steel pins were firmly fastened into the outer-table of his skull, to essentially rivet the Halo-contraption into place.

The neurosurgical-staff had spun great tales about a "Hell's Angels" decal that Sir Walt, while still in a hospital gown and wheelchair, had conspicuously plastered on the front-panel of his padded-vest, to commemorate his mindless and enduring infatuation with powerful two-wheeled vehicles.

As his wait on the line continued, Jake recounted as well the emergency summons that had likewise halted the prior week's game. It had taken him a while to figure out the nature of that unusual, ship-to-shore STAT call from a Coast-Guard rescue-craft, responding to a life-and-death situation at a nearby lake; after all, the heavily bearded wild-man had just been discharged "THAT" very morning. Mind boggling as it was, it turned out that after getting home good-olde Walter had immediately decided to go out partying with his gang-buddies; and incredibly, the imbecile had ended up water-skiing in the frangible halo-vest. Quite understandably he had fallen, in the process completely dismantling the shoulder-mounted traction-device. He was being painstakingly supported in the water against the side of a speed-boat by several of his dimwitted companions, while a frantic Coast-Guard captain sought urgent consultation as to what to do next.

Jake chuckled at the thought of Sir Walter's exigent return to the University Hospital and the reattachment of the crumpled traction-device, that time without any added anesthesia.

"If he's trashed that halo again, I'm just gonna adhere to my own little version of the 'catch-and-release' program, and we'll see how well he swims!.. Or better yet... maybe it would be fun to have them snare him again.. and this time we'll put locking-bolts on the inside of the skull to hold the damn thing in place!.. That moron's got nothing in there anyway except empty wasted space!"

Jake facetiously mused over the entire episode until his ongoing wait on the line finally came to an end. To his dismay, Midge picked up the phone sounding uncommonly restive.

"Dr. Gibson, I'm concerned about Mr. Massitor!.. He seems to be much less alert and responsive."

"What are his vital-signs?"

Instinctively, Jake asked the anticipated questions.

"They're fine..."

Midge promptly recounted the expected answers.

"but somehow he just doesn't seem right.. He's a lot sleepier than he was when he first arrived here from the recovery-room.. I have a gut-feeling that something bad is in the works!"

Jake covered his ears to the commotion of a teammate's long home-run and the drone of late-summer insects at dusk, as he momentarily pondered what to do. Was he up against a false-alarm by an overzealous observer?; or was something really up?; perhaps an impending, disastrous decompensation that required urgent evaluation and rapid correction.

In her flamboyant late 20's, Midge Stone was an exceptionally attractive gal, with shoulder-length blond-hair--toned stylishly and turned up--and stunning, Scandinavian features--including just the perfect number of freckles. Her polished white-teeth and enameled ruby-nails were always dazzling and flawless; as a result, her smile and demeanor flaunted dignity and grace. She had toiled in the neuro-ICU for some time and in the process had acquired a special interest in stroke afflicted patients.

Over the years, she had dated and been propositioned by most of the eligible, and a few of the ineligible physicians around the hospital but had never found one totally to her liking. Consistently she treated doctors, especially housestaff, as cocky, demeaning, and emotionally unreliable subordinates. In Jake though, Midge perceived someone who invariably inspired the best in those around him, including herself. Clandestinely, she sheltered a great admiration for his kind-hearted personality and soft-spoken temperament, and dreamed to someday cultivate in him the deep-seated reciprocal attraction that she so coveted. Appreciating his resolute dedication to medicine though, she stood by a pragmatic decision made long ago, not to allow herself any display of feelings for that particular guy, without the invulnerable advantage of an initial proffer from him.

Knowing Midge as well as he did, Jake's contemplation was brief.

"Okay Midge.. Give him a dose of Mannitol.. and let's order a heat CT.. STAT!..."

He was plotting to provide emergency-treatment and reach a swift diagnosis, accomplishing both in the time it would take him to scramble back to the hospital.

"I should be there in about 10-minutes.. or less."

As he awkwardly rambled across a gravel parking-lot heading to his car in his stocking-feet, Jake knew that Ben and his comrades would play on, appearing to not even notice that he had been snatched away. Leaving behind the festive mood of the ballpark, Jake savored the notion, as he hurried away, that as a result of his teammates' buttressing faith in him, he was not alone, no matter how serious the present problem might be.

Jake's wearied, black Cherokee seemed less out of place than usual as he parked on the doctors' lot and scurried across the mostly vacant spaces. Removing and concealing his softball-cap in his back-pocket, he made additional attempts to brush some of the dust from his pants, before he conceded it just wasn't possible to suitably disguise the fact that he had just come from a ball-game.

He entered the hospital-building through a secluded rear-door and took to a seldom used, back stair-well, bounding a series of eroded concrete-steps two or three times as he hot-footed for the ICU.

As he purposefully bounced his way upward, his attention was unexpectedly distracted towards a set of stairway-windows that directly overlooked the flat, expansive roof of the hospital-cafeteria. In the distance the terminal rim of the sun was brilliantly resigning squarely above the horizon, just as it had been on another memorable occasion.

Mrs. Kathleen Kincaid, office-manager for a local plastic-surgeon, had been brought to the emergency-room following a minor traffic-accident. Apparently she had lost control of her automobile, crossed the center-line of the highway, and side-swiped an oncoming vehicle. The pale, pulchritudinous, thirty-ish year-old with fingernails bitten down to the core was admitted with, fortunately, only a mild concussion, a whiplash, and a few minor scrapes and bruises.

She was pleasant and congenial, but exceptionally talkative when he first examined her in the emergency-room; in addition, though, she appeared a bit too unconcerned about what had happened. Her overall demeanor was peculiar and quite conspicuous, as he laughed heartily in her explanation that, for some unknown reason, she simply could not recall what had caused the nearly-fatal accident.

Her physician began to inquire that perhaps the car had been intentionally swerved, but she proclaimed to be happily married, with ample wallet-photos of a gorgeous six-week-old newborn and two older toddlers. Still, the paramedics reported from a reliable witness at the accident scene that Mrs. Kincaid's black BMW had seemed to swerve erratically into oncoming traffic. When her doctor suggested to the family that the collision may not have been an accident, her husband--a prominent St. Paul mortician--became immediately indignant and totally denied that scenario was possible.

Nonetheless, as the physician in-charge, he had requested that the psychiatric attending on-call come by and evaluate her as soon as possible. Late the next afternoon, when he finally got around to it, the shrink recorded, quite illegibly in the chart, that the patient was a bit anxious and perhaps even somewhat depressed, but clearly all of that was merely a secondary-reaction to the traumatic event. The veteran psychoanalyst concluded there was absolutely "NO" evidence that particular patient was in any way overtly suicidal.

Unfortunately, less than an hour after the detailed psychiatric evaluation, he received that unforgettable emergency-beep. His recollection of the setting was very exact, even though it had happened years ago; he was attending one of the department's annual, gourmet dinner-parties.

"Right in the middle of the second course.. What great vichyssoise!"

His amygdala would also never forget the frightening sight that evening as his patient had first come into view. She lay totally motionless, face down on the bedrock-laden roof of the cafeteria, her yellow, satiny, hospital gown blowing peacefully in a gentle twilight breeze. He had been forced to kick through that very window as he rushed in an all-out panic to get to her. In fact, as he paused there, he made note that the glazing surrounding the replacement glass remained as yet unpainted.

Shortly after her consultation with the psychiatrist, she had apparently thrown a sturdy waiting-room chair through a full-length, plate-glass window on the eighth-floor; and jumped. He revoked the dreadful scene of brushing coarse roofing-gravel from her bleeding nose and mouth, in order to begin mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Notwithstanding, it was obvious from the first attempted breath and inspection of her pupils that she was gone.

Of course, it had taken her husband a mere two weeks to file a huge, personal-injury lawsuit naming the University Hospital and miscellaneous staff as co-defendants in her wrongful death--i.e. the attending-neurosurgeon, in particular, had abandoned his patient in not doing more to prevent a second suicide attempt.

"Your actions in this matter sanctioned an innocent woman's death!.. Incompetence of this degree clearly falls wellbelow the recognized professional standard-of-medical-care."

Jake simpered as he remembered the censorious works of her attorney, Mitchell M. Massitor; his grin quickly dissipated, however, as he recalled the 4.19 million dollar jury-award--something that still provoked astonishment and occult consternation in his cognition.

Just inside Mr. Massitor's room, Midge was nervously fidgeting while awaiting Jake's arrival; the chart containing all updated laboratory-data was in her hands. Without even glancing at the numbers, Jake hastily positioned himself at his patient's starboard-side. The attorney appeared to be calmly sleeping, but Jake summoned his instant return to consciousness with a brute pinch across the top of his shoulder, followed by loud command to stick out his tongue.

Early in his neurosurgical career, Jake had come to understand the importance of that seemingly primitive task. He had ascertained that an individual's ability to coordinately protrude and deflect the tongue upon command depended upon proper functioning of disparate regions throughout the brain, all the way from the lower parts of the conscious-regulatingbrainstem to the highest levels of the thought-commanding cerebral cortex. As a result, Jake promoted to his students and residents proper tongue agility as a quick-and-easy bedside-test of intact whole brain function.

"Mr. Massitor made a feeble attempt to open his mouth as though he desperately wanted to speak, but was altogether unable to protrude his tongue.

"Is his wife still around?!"

The urgent tone of Jake's request underscored his solicitude.

"No.. I don't believe so."

The gentility of Midge's negation was purposefully supportive.

"Alright.. See if you can locate her for me, will ya'?.. I'm gonna run down to x-ray to check out the CT-scan."

Jake rapidly glanced over the lab-data and vital-sign information presented to him by Midge, who had already departed the room to promptly follow his instructions. Finding nothing remiss, he gruffly snapped the chart closed and tempestuously returned it to the table-top rack, before he earnestly rushed his way past the nurses-station.

Jake's scoot downstairs to the x-ray suite was more cardiovascularly demanding than his earlier run around the bases.

"He's got a huge parietal-lobe hematoma.. with a lot of shift!"

The radiologist's announcement as he dismissively slapped the films upon a row of automatically lighting view-boxes was decidedly discomforting to the surgeon's ears.

"I don't understand?!..."

Jake's puzzled look and befuddled assessment well-characterized his uncertainty and trepidation.

"Where did this come from??.. I don't see any way a blood-clot like this could have resulted from surgery!.. How can this be??.. It doesn't make any sense at all!..."

Jake was veritably abashed as he dialed his favored scrub-nurse's number.

"I don't get it!.. How in the hell could something like this have happened?!..."

He continued to query himself into the phone as he paced nervously.

"Martha!.. We've got a big problem with the patient from today!.. I don't know how or why.. but he's developed a monstrous intracerebral-clot.. parietal lobe event!.. I just can't figure what..."

Martha instantly interrupted.

"Dr. Gibson, I knew it!.. I should have informed you.. I'm very sorry!.. I know exactly what happened!!.. Dr. Hudley caught a stitch on the cortex when he was closing the dura. It caused a spurt of bleeding. I was concerned and wanted you to be called, but I really wasn't sure.. and then he insisted everything was okay.. It's totally my fault!.. I should have brought it to your attention!"

Martha was unaccustomed to searching for some measure of reassurance from Jake.

"Okay.. Well then.. Yes, that certainly explains it."

Jake was momentarily relieved that he fully understood the etiology of the problem; but his easement rapidly turned to irate disgust.

"God almighty!!.. I should have known better!.. Damn it anyway!!.. I never should have allowed that incompetent fool to close the case!!!..."

Shaking his head, he went on.

"I should have stayed and supervised the whole thing. After all these years, I should know better!.. Listen Martha, it's not at all your fault.. Damnation!!.. Alright.. Well.. Anyway.. We need to re-operate on him right away. I could sure use your help. Can you make it in?.. We really need to get this taken care of as soon as possible!"

"Of course!.. I'll be right there."

Martha promptly replaced the receiver. Untying and removing her favorite country-apron, she ceased her chores of drying by-hand the dinner dishes. Hastily she brushed her hair and teeth to get herself enough together to return to the hospital.

In his ornately finished study, seated sedately in a preferred, black leather-chair that backed up to the entry-foyer, Howard was officiously surveying the business-section of the evening newspaper, while magniloquently puffing and fondling an imported cigar. He scowled at his wife's frenzied departure but said nothing. At the same time, Martha made no attempt to soften her husband's annoyance, as she rushed mutely past his aromatic shadow on her way out the door.

"Operator, get me Dr. David Hudley!.. STAT!!"

The demanding intonation of his voice hinted to the operator that Dr. Gibson was quite uncharacteristically upset, almost to the unprecedented point of being outright vocal.

As he waited on the line, Jake contemplated that he had tolerated Hudley's lurid ineptness for way too long. Suddenly, he was facing an innocent patient's, iatrogenic complication; and of course, it had to have happened to "THAT" particular patient. He wasn't sure if he was more upset with himself for permitting things to go on as long as he had or more acrimonious at Hudley for such brazen fecklessness.

The longer he was left on the telephone waiting, the more unnerved he could feel himself becoming.

"Dr. Gibson.. I can't seem to locate Dr. Hudley, anywhere..."

The operator reported back inanely.

"I have tried his beeper repeatedly.. and there's no answer up in the call-room."

"Okay, damn it!.. Keep trying!"

Jake's indignant response immediately ushered his wrath towards ambivalent restlessness, as he quickly realized that the present giant mess wasn't at all the operator's fault.

Just as he was disgustingly but acquiescently hanging up the phone, Jake caught sight of Bethany Massitor rushing hurriedly up a long hallway, heading in his direction, obviously already alerted that something was wrong.

"Mrs. Massitor.. your husband has regressed over the last hour or so due to a hematoma that is collecting inside the brain.. I'm not absolutely certain why this blood-clot has developed, but we need to re-operate on him immediately!"

Jake's approach, for that moment, avoided any connotation at all of a slip-up.

"Dr. Gibson.. I don't understand?!..."

Beth Massitor's blunt inquiry, as she scrutinized Jake's outfit with a puzzled, uncertain look, was hostily accentuated. Caught off-guard by the tone of her voice, Jake awkwardly apologized for his curious dress.

"My husband's going to die isn't he?!.. You're going to lose him now, aren't you?!.. Why can't you guys ever just say it like it is?!.. This is all so ridiculous!!.. My God, he's already as good as gone, isn't he??!"

"Ma'am..."

Jake broke in hoping to allay her fears.

"We don't know exactly what to expect from this clot. Certainly after I take a look.. and get it out.. I'll be in a better position to predict what kind of outcome is likely. But no.. I don't think your husband is going to die!.. Be aware though.. this is a serious problem which needs to be dealt with immediately."

"Well, Dr. Gibson.. I'm really very upset by all this!!.. You told me earlier today that my husband would be okay.. and now you want permission to do a second dangerous operation?!.. I think he's much too weak!.. In my opinion, we should wait!"

"Mrs. Massitor!.. Please listen to me!..."

Jake continued to plead his case.

"This blood-clot will continue to grow and pressure the brain around it. In a few hours.. maybe even less.. your husband is going to slip into a coma. It would be wise for us to remove the clot before that happens, in order to give him the best chance to recover completely!"

The attorney's wife was still not reassured; she continued to virulently object.

"Dr. Gibson, I'm going to have to think about this!.. I'm very disturbed by what's happened!.. Before giving my consent, I think I'd like to get a second-opinion!"

Jake frowned and again reiterated the urgency of immediate action, but she would hear nothing of it. At first, he was dumbfounded by her confrontational attitude; but then, he surmised that she was indeed married to an attorney. Prior to the current dilemma, she had been terribly demanding and difficult to deal with; presently, she absolutely refused to listen to any sort of reason; of course, it all made perfectly good sense!

Jake shook his head in disagreement, but in the end he had no choice except to reluctantly agree that she could call in a consultant of her choosing for an immediate second-opinion. He then retreated, posthaste, to the doctors' locker-room, where he encountered his scrub-nurse who was just arriving at the operating-suite.

"Go ahead and get everything ready!..."

Jake shouted out a brief list of directions as he brushed past Martha, who remained standing in the dressing-room entry-way forcing a bulky metal-door open against her backside. Forsaking her customary exalting greeting, Martha beamed as she watched her preferred surgeon spontaneously begin to remove his curious recreational attire and don operating-room greens; clearly though, his mood was not anywhere close to being coltish.

"Can you believe it!.. We have to wait for a second-opinion!!.. God-dammit!!!.. I'm sure whoever they get will agree with immediately going ahead.. but it'll probably take an hour for somebody to arrive here and make that decision. This whole thing really sucks!!!..."

As he worried out loud, Jake's unusually stern face suddenly developed a subtle hint of a more characteristic, coy smirk; the surgeon had just realized that he was standing in his colored briefs right in front of the head-nurse.

"Alright.. Well.. Perhaps this hold-up won't turn out to be such a big deal, anyway..."

Jake's jaws vented another optimistic thought in an attempt to relax a bit, but just then, a loudspeaker, positioned like a sentinel between the rows of lockers, sounded out, fetching him quickly back to reality.

"Dr. Gibson!.. Call the Neuro-ICU!.. STAT!!"

Even before the directive ceased echoing about the room, Jake snatched the phone and was dialing the number. Martha continued her pointed observation from the open door-way.

"Dr. Gibson!.. Come quick!!.. He's just dilated his pupil and his blood-pressure is falling!"

Martha's fearful stare underscored her presumption of the alarming message.

Jake completely lost his composure in the startling realization that a worst-case scenario was unfolding.

"Shit!!!"

Slamming the phone down hard and without uttering another word, he hurried past Martha through the open-door and began lumbering down the corridor, even before his pants were securely tied around his waist or his white operating-room clogs were properly positioned on his feet. Instinctively, Martha rushed away in the opposite direction to change her clothes and quickly prepare the OR.

Arriving back in the ICU, Jake was startled to see just how unfavorable the situation had become. The head of the Massitor clan had slipped into a deep coma and was on the verge of herniation, meaning irreversible pressure was being exerted on the deeper parts of the brain--those that control vital breathing and heart-rate functions. Jake fully comprehended that he must act immediately, or the effects of the intracranial strain would be irreversible, and very likely fatal.

"Tell the OR, we are coming down at once!"

"But Dr. Gibson!..."

Midge's reluctant intercession stemmed from her responsibility as ICU charge-nurse.

"We don't yet have permission from his wife documented in the chart!"

"I realize that!!..."

Jake's response was emphatic and convincingly persuasive.

"I'll take care of it!.. Just start moving him to the OR!.. I'm going to speak to her again, right now!"

As he scurried toward the waiting-room, Jake's accelerating train of thought was suddenly bearing down on his mom.

It must have been during lunch hour that peculiar day in late February, that he had promised a bunch of his school buddies he would meet them early that evening to go sledding on infamous Art Hill. It had been snowing heavy all morning, and as a result, both the public and private-highs had been dismissed early. By 3 o'clock in the afternoon, 18-inches of fresh powder were already on the ground; and the weather-forecasters were predicting another 8 to 10 that night.

He had just turned 16; his few weeks old drivers-license couldn't have been more supercilious. As he was hurriedly finishing up the supper-dishes, he incidentally informed his mother that he had plans to join his friend Tino and a few of the other guys for some sledding; to his consternation, she earnestly demanded that he cancel his foolish tryst and stay home.

"It's a treacherous night.. and I don't want you out!.. It's far too dangerous for someone your age to be on the road!.. Call your friends and tell them the weather is just too bad, and you can't make it!"

Unwilling to respond, he had the irascible notion that his reputation,

perhaps his whole destiny was on the line; after all, he had made a firm commitment to his sophomore pals. How could someone his age possibly go back to his cohorts and tell them he couldn't show up, just because his mother had said no at the last minute?; what's more, did she think she was talking to a mere child??

Glaring at the sinewy visage in the frosted kitchen-window, he confirmed the portrait of a bonafide man; so, there was really no alternative; he had no choice but to stand up to his mom and make his demands known; it was time to demonstrate that he was mature enough to decide for himself.

Over her continued objections, he dressed himself as if undertaking an arctic-expedition, and left on foot for the journey to the park, tugging an ancient, wooden snow-vehicle behind. Traveling along with snow-plows, cinder-trucks, and other emergency-vehicles through a total white-out, it would take him nearly an hour-and-a-half to finally reach the agreed-upon sledding-site. Still, as he trudged slowly along, with freezing-snow whipping unmercifully against his exposed face, each elevated step somehow seemed to purposefully reinforce his manhood. He was proving that he could do it no matter what; indeed, he was totally in-command and was completely capable of making the right decision.

Arriving at the rendezvous right on time, he was a bit surprised to find that no one else was there. The guiding wind was beginning to pick up again; it seemed to be getting colder by the minute.

"I'm sure Tino or one of the other guys will be able to give me a ride back home..."

Added words of consolation further fueled his ardent sense of purpose, as he worked his way to the top of the steep hill with sled-in-tow, in preparation for a preemptive solo-ride down.

"I know they'll all be coming along pretty soon."

That was the final foolhardy thought as he pushed off on a venturesome fun-trip down the precipitous hillside. As the sleek steel-runners of the unharnessed sleigh hit a solidly-packed path, forged into ice by thousands of daylight sledders, his ride rapidly picked up speed. He never even saw, hidden in fresh snow, the treacherous jump that had been constructed to propel those willing into thrilling, airborne acrobatics; it flipped him into an unintended somersault.

When he awoke, he was shivering ferociously. He glanced around with a dazed expression; he had completely lost his bearings. Why was there a blanket around him?; and who was that saintly looking lady kneeling at his side and rubbing his face?

"Whaaaat happppened?..."

He wondered aloud as he focused on his mother's distraught but prickly face, with a timid and frightened expression of his own.

"You know.. I begged you not to go out!..."

Catherine Ann's allocution was gentle and subdued, while nonetheless straightforwardly compromising.

"I had a gut-feeling something bad was going to happen. After Tino and a couple of your friends called to say they couldn't make it, I decided to follow you over here. I almost passed out from the wind and cold a couple of times.. Eventually, I flagged down a police-officer who gave me a ride. As we pulled up, some wild-man was flying down the hill!.. You flipped and hit your head."

As he teetered between the shot-gunning eyes of the two uniformed cops and those of his trepidatious mother, all fervidly bearing-down at him, he could well imagine their impressions of him.

"Only a complete idiot would venture out on a night like this!"

As an adolescent boy and his mom were being driven back home that evening, one rebellious lad began to appreciate the real-life significance of the coinage "WISDOM;" years later, a certain grown-man would conscientiously doubt that he possessed the wherewithal to acquire a sufficient amount, ever in his life-time.

Jake found the better-half of the Massitors in one of the far corners of the waiting-room, cozily lounging, sipping hot coffee, chain-puffing, and informally conversing with none other than Dr. Hudley.

"David!!.. I have been looking for you everywhere!"

Jake tried not to appear flustered or choleric in front of his patient's wife as he proceeded to address her with a sense of urgency.

"Mrs. Massitor.. Things are deteriorating very rapidly!.. Your husband has just slipped into a coma.. and we need to take him to surgery right away. This simply cannot wait another minute!"

Without adding a single word to the conversation, Hudley surreptitiously and gracelessly slithered from the room. Jake followed his retreat with slick saccades, while continuing to devote the focus of his attention in the direction of Madam Massitor, all the while anticipating a supportive response.

"No, Dr. Gibson.. I've already told you!.. I will not grant you my consent for another operation until we have a second-opinion!!.. If you persist in trying to force me to agree with what you want to do, I am prepared to have you removed from the case!.. I've spoken with Dr. Hudley about this.. and he is in full agreement!"

Jake's eyes widened and his nares flared; he was absolutely dumbfounded.

"What in-the-hell is going on here??!!..."

His unspoken deliberations were stifled by his peremptory audience.

"and what in-God's-name am I supposed to do now??"

While pausing a moment to further contemplate his options, Jake stared intensely at his patient's-keeper. Finally, with a stern and passionate antiphon, he resolved the dilemma.

"Mrs. Massitor!.. In my opinion, we simply cannot wait.. I feel I have no choice but to operate on your husband immediately!.. I'm absolutely convinced that this must be done in order to save his life!"

Jake hesitated for a moment hoping for some sort of supportive response; when none was forthcoming, he turned decisively and dashed from the room, hoping to still collar Hudley somewhere along the corridor.

As he hustled towards the operating-room, frustration, indignation, and bewilderment were threatening to undermine the frontal-lobe resolve. With his emotions intensifying behind each anxious and impatient step, he found he could no longer conceal an uncontrollable limbic-system outburst, gathering strength and whirling in the direction of David Hudley.

Jake exploded thru the doors and into the operating-room; his critically-ill patient had also just arrived.

"Okay everybody!.. Let's get going!!.. We need to do this right-away!"

Suddenly with a harried burst of activity, everyone in the room appeared to be simultaneously executing a succession of different activities. Martha was opening sterile instrument-packs as quickly as she could, while at the same time directing less familiar members of the part-time, evening OR-crew as to which storage-cabinet contained what piece of needed equipment. Someone from the prep-team was in the process of removing the patient's head-dressing and reprepping the freshly stitched wound with an antiseptic. At the same time, a befuddled, on-call anesthetist was inserting an endo-tube into the patient's airway for breathing with one hand, as she administered intravenous anesthetic-drugs into an IV with the other. All the while, a late-shift orderly and Frank, the neurosurgical P.A., were in the process of securing the patient onto the operating-room table with several broad, leather-straps, before removing his bulky ICU-bed from the room.

Jake sprinted to the scrub-sink and cleansed his hands for an abbreviated couple of minutes, all the while pacing intolerantly in front of the stainless-steel basin, with frothy iodinized-water spewing profoundly down the front of his primOR shirt and pants. Rabid-like he retraced his steps back to the OR-table. Martha had already assumed her usual table-top position, and though obviously not nearly prepared to begin a major operation, she reassured Jake that everything was ready to go.

In the midst of those bustling activities, the telephone rang.

"If that's Hudley.. tell him he'd better get his butt down here!.. Right now!!..."

Jake's yowl was interrupted by the visibly grumpy anesthetist; in her early 50's and never married, the feisty cannonball was disagreeably waving the phone around in the air.

"Dr. Gibson, it's Mr. Brickle.. the hospital-administrator!..."

Jake glared in the general direction of the anesthesia-screen; while shaking his head in amazement, he continued to mutely drape the sterile-field.

"He wants you to stop what you're doing.. immediately!!..."

Very uncomfortable in continuing to deliver an unwelcome directive of such gravity, the vinegary spinster was expressedly fain to rid herself of the phone.

"You better get over here and talk to him!"

"No way!.. Tell him, I'm just a little busy!!..."

Jake's irate howl had magnified to a squall.

"Martha, give me the damned knife and let's get going here!"

Still, the dogged gas-passer refused to back down.

"No, Dr. Gibson!.. Take the phone and talk to this man, right now!"

"Son of a bitch!!!"

The utter infuriation in Jake's wail was obvious to all in the room by the unusual expletive. Though sterile, he angrily grabbed the receiver from the onerous old-maid's grasp.

"Listen Chad!.. This guy is dying, and I need to operate on him this instant!.. What in the hell do you want!!"

Chad Brickle, for decades the University Hospital Administrator and Chief Spokesperson, was fully prepared to emphatically present his agenda.

"Dr. Gibson.. I just received a STAT-call from your patient's daughter. I believe you have been introduced to her.. Ms. Shannon Massitor?.. You are aware that she's an attorney in her father's firm??.. She tells me the family has refused to grant permission for this operation. You do, of course, appreciate who this patient is?!.. and just what all of this means?!!"

Jake's bellicose demeanor was completely unfazed by Brickle's tidings.

"Chad, unless you get off this goddamn phone right now.. this patient is going to die!.. Do you appreciate what that means!!"

"Jason.. Calm down!.. I'm on your side, remember!.. I just don't think you fully understand what you're getting yourself into by operating on that particular patient.. without full permission from his family!..."

The hospital-administrator refused to hang up until he had fully shed his wad of legal jeopardy.

"Jason.. Consider yourself warned!!.. You are putting yourself and the hospital in immense danger!"

"Chad.. my only concern at this moment is finding a way to keep my patient alive!"

Jake was ready to end the conversation.

"If you can't understand that.. it's too goddamn bad!! I'm going to do this right now!!!"

With that Jake startled everyone by smashing the phone down with such force that the wall-mount pulled loose from its attachment to the plaster.

Forthwith, the entire room was ghoulishly silent. None of that evening's participants had ever been embroiled in a situation even remotely similar. Martha and the other members of the operating-team glanced incredulously at each other. The ordinarily verbose and vindictive anesthetist merely glared at Jake for a brief moment, before settling back into her well-cushioned chair, to begin precisely recording the vital black-box data--related to an almost certain to-be-contested undertaking.

"Alright! Let's get on with this!.. Give me the damned knife!!"

As Jake held his right hand out to Martha, he realized that he was guiding a foundering ship into uncharted waters. Notwithstanding, he had a reasonably good idea what the outcome would likely be; most definitely it was a no-win situation. Even if his patient survived and made a good recovery, he would be harshly criticized, perhaps even reprimanded, by the university-administration for such an ill-advised action; and if Massitor were to die or worse become severely disabled, at the very least, he would be malevolently hauled into court and sued for malpractice, with hefty punitive damages likely.

Jake was absolutely convinced, however, that to do nothing would almost certainly result in a man's death. As he cut and removed the sutures that had been placed only a few hours earlier, he exhibited no hesitation, grasping that his decision had been made long ago.

During a year of post-grad training in Europe, he had developed an intent interest in the territorial history of World-War II and it environs. As a consequence, he invested quite a bit of time and effort into research on the lives of its leaders--in particular, Adolph Hitler. He discovered that prior to the initiation of the war, the hated Nazi-dictator had built a lovely, countryside, personal residence in Southern Germany, not far from Salzburg--a home that was destroyed following the Axis defeat by the post-war German government.

He was enormously intrigued by the notion of a thought-provoking visit to the remains of Hitler's house and became determined to uncover its site. Prior to a planned weekend-trip to Obersalzburg, he acquired several detailed maps of the region--all of which, naturally, failed to pinpoint the exact location of the fuhrer's adobe. Upon arrival in the vicinity, he paused at a congested nearby kiosk, in search of additional information; but none of the locals standing around seemed to know anything about it.

"Héllo.. My name is Thomas Schvartz.. You are lost?"

He looked over his shoulder in the direction of a deep, crackling voice with a heavy German accent.

"Hi.. Yes.. I'm an American.. I've been looking for the site of Adolph Hitler's country-house.. Can you help me!"

A stubby, nearly bald old man, likely well into his 70's, displayed a deeply grooved, battle-worn face.

"Yah!.. I may well be of some assistánce, for you..."

Hesitating for a moment, he wasn't certain whether he had stumbled upon a genuine offer to provide much needed directions, or an underhanded attempt by a shrewd local to relieve a foreigner of some currency.

"For de hundred Deutch Marks, I vill take you to de place of de house.. und show you ver de foundation is still derestanding..."

His enthusiasm and interest intensified with the aged man's continuing proposition.

"I vill come along vith you.. Ver is your auto parked?"

"My car is just out-front.. Right this way."

He made no further effort to resist the unfathomed temptation to see the adventure through, as unchallenged intrigue drove him passionately onward.

"Turn vight dere..."

After a short drive past several abandoned buildings, the apparently Jewish-elder pointed to a barely visible dirt-road, nearly over-run by wild grass and shoulder-height weeds.

"Now, vee must tvy to park."

The youthful tourist's sense of direction was aroused that way was not correct, but without hesitation he followed his hoary tour-guide's instructions.

"Now, vee must valk just a little more vay into de voods."

Again, without a second thought, he followed Herr Schwartz for several hundred meters along a narrow path, with densely overgrown brush and vines impeding their every step; then suddenly, just ahead, a vista came into sight, and there appeared the remains of what at one time must have been quite a colossal dwelling. Only a few partially standing brick-walls were still erect amidst the rubble of dismantled masonry, crumbled wooden-supports, and shattered glass.

"Dis once vas a part of de garage..."

As the informative oldster pointed out the general layout of the ruins, the sightseer paged through a reference-book he had retrieved from his back-pocket--one that contained diagrams and illustrations of Hitler's previous living-space. Sure enough, in the scattered artifacts he could clearly follow the floor-plan of the almost completely destroyed structure, and identify exactly where the handful of remaining partially erect brick and mortar walls and sections of concrete foundation fit in.

"In dis direction dere vas a vunderful look back to de willage.. but it is not allowed to cut any of de trees now.. und wery few people can find dis place."

The ancient bellwether motioned towards the west, in the direction of a majestic grove of towering pine trees.

Further studying the pictures of his folio, the amazed newcomer figured that he was, at that moment, standing in what used to be Hitler's personal-study. He posed and reflected at the exact site that one of the most influential demons in all of history had occupied while plotting the destruction of millions of people.

"How could anyone become so misguided in such a beautiful place?"

His notions were quickly intercepted by his escort.

"You are to vunder, how he could do vat he did?.. How any man could care so wery little for his people, dat he made many of dem to be humiliated.. stripped of all dare things.. put into de prisons.. starved.. tortured.. und den killed?!..."

As he listened, once again he began to wonder who the old-timer really was. Were those the callous words of a hardened veteran of a horrendous world-war?; or the meaningful perspectives of a uniquely positioned historian? Happily for him, the unleashed chronicler wanted to talk on.

"I come to dis place often.. just to dink.. und tvy to find some.. some.. someding, I don't know?!.. You see, I vas at one time de doctor like my pa

Death of a Healer

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

I have had three personal ideals. One, to do the day's work well... The second ideal has been to act the golden rule... towards my professional brethren and towards the patients committed to my care. And the third has been to cultivate such a measure of equanimity as would enable me to bear success with humility, the affection of my friends without pride, and to be ready when the day of sorrow and grief came, to meet it with the courage befitting a man... and if the fight is for principle and justice, even when failure seems certain, where many have failed before, cling to your ideal...

William Osler. (1849-1919)

At first light, the polestar appeared shockingly tense and ungodly angry. Right off, everyone present in the room grasped the alarming implication--less than a fifty-fifty chance that the unfortunate proprietor would ever wake up to a rousing aurora again.

"My God!!..."

The maiden gas-pusher carped a hushed, but caustic whine in the direction of several scarified medical-students--who were eagle-eyeing from athwart the room.

"That squashhhh is mushhhh!"

Jake's aplomb shivered beneath those despicable, orotund sounds.

He had been initially introduced to her at the fall freshman-mixer. From the very moment he first laid eyes on her, standing off alone at the far-side of the dance-floor, shyly rocking from one lanky leg to the other, he was inexplicably drawn to her. At first, he weighed whether her strained countenance and labored fervor were manifestations of authentic homesickness, or simply of a frat-party that had turned too lewd and way too alcoholic. They chatted for hours that evening, first in their own-little corner of the ear-splitting ballroom, and then later, over less-than-tasteful bean-burritoes at a Taco-Bell just-off campus.

The oldest daughter of a Protestant minister, she had immigrated from the immurement of a small-town in Northern Missouri, to attend St. Paul University on a full-academic ride. From the beginning, her fragility summoned his aegis; a storybook damsel-in-distress wrapped in faded, purplish jeans, a snug, azure turtleneck, and a weathered, brown-suede vest. Teeny, heart-shaped, gold earrings augmented her delicate, but measureless expressions brought to life by fathomable blue eyes and zealously precise, yet unretouched ruddy lips. As she philosophized, he delighted in all they had in common: both bred and reared in the pragmatic Midwest, both Christian, both from large families, both idealistic independents, both pre-med, and both solo.

For the subsequent several months, he and Kara Jane Lawler were inseparable at both academic as well as social functions. Identical first semester, perfect 4.5-GPAs were manifest evidence of their joint sublimity.

Over Christmas break, K.J. reluctantly returned home to spend the holidays with her family. Hankering to phone theshow-me-stater long-distance nearly every day, he became keenly aware that his constant companion had become more than just a close-friend. Not surprisingly, after she returned to school in mid-January for the spring-term, their relationship fully blossomed. Each inspirited by the other's infatuation, the primal heart-throbs rosily pledged to utopia that the wondrous and necromantic bond between them would never be broken.

That April, as the final traces of a particularly rugged Twin-Cities winter were elided by vividly-colored tulips, the steadies began to contemplate shared dreams about the future. Perhaps they would both become family-practitioners and settle in a quiet and friendly midwestern town--a place compatible with a life-style of shared obligations to profession and family. Lost in delightful nirvana, the beau's sole uncertainty was how he could ever be devoted to anything as much as the wondrous touch of that loving woman; so where would that leave his proposed dedication to Asclepius?

Till mid-August that summer, she stayed in St. Paul, working as a lifeguard and swim-team coach at a Bloomington public-pool to earn much-needed, extra spending-money. A couple of weeks before the beginning of sophomore year, at her parent's urging, she invited her flame to drive home with her to meet the family. Unfortunately, a summer-long anatomical-research job in his father's lab precluded his going; so fatefully as it turned out, she was forced to travel alone.

It was to be a gala, welcome-back party; he had invited all of his family and most of their friends from school; but everyone was really getting worried. She was already over two-and-a-half hours late for the surprise, though she had departed her hometown just north of Kirksville with plenty of time to spare for the 300-or-so mile drive. Fretfully, he paced the familiar, recycled-brick patio at the rear of his parent's suburban home. Repeatedly exiting the yard through a creaky side gate to check the road in front, he scanned the succession of advancing headlights; despite passing by in an orderly fashion, each somehow seemed to threaten the innate assurance of his boyhood street.

Expectably, her parents were notified first; in hysterics her father broke the news to him over the telephone. She had nearly made it safely back to St. Paul, but on Interstate 35, only a few miles outside of town, a drunken-driver had recklessly slammed into the rear of her faded, powder-blue Beetle, at a very high rate-of-speed. She had been taken by helicopter to the University Hospital in Minneapolis.

At first sight that night, he was immediately overcome by a giant sigh-of-relief; glancing heavenward over dribbling adages of thanks, he praised God-Almighty. Someone had made a huge mistake--no way was the ghastly person lying motionless in that bed his beloved Kara--that unfortunate individual's facial-features were far too prominent and coarse; it just couldn't be her.

For a few suffocating moments, as he blinked into the infernal glow of a miraculous apocalypse, he stood motionless, uncertain as to what to think or how to react; but then, to his heart-stopping dismay, he happened to glance at the patient's spiritless hand and laid eyes upon a distinctive, and ghastly familiar, turquoise-ring--very much like the one he had recently given his inamorata on April Fool's eve, for her 19th birthday.

Perfunctorily taking hold of a tepid, puffy, and purply hand, he shivered noticeably, as a profoundly penetrating chill gripped the full-length of his spinal-column. Those beauteous eyelids were grotesquely discolored and completely swollen shut; that sprightly forehead was enwrapped in a lengthy, encircling white-bandage--like a follower of Islam, only gruesome with sanguinous staining. Formidable plastic-tubes were protruding from and taped across that delicate mouth and nose; and annoying beeping-sounds bellowed repeatedly from a tandem of imposing machines positioned alongside.

He was affixed to her bedside for days, unable to eat, sleep, or weep. Defiantly, against all odds, he refused to relinquish hope for his soul-mate's recovery. He abhorred the callous doctors' repetitive proclamations and prognostications, and was furious at anyone in a white-coat who intimated that her folks should consent to give up. At the end, he retained her sweet but lifeless hand in his, as the respirator bellowed one last bit of animation into her, and then ceased. When K.J.'s touch had finally turned cold, he apprehended that the quintessential joy-of-his-life had come to an eternal end.

Mindlessly fixated on the glistening brain-surface beneath his palpating index-finger, Jake surmised that unknowingly, yet quite possibly solely to the remembrance of his college-flame, he had altogether committed almost twenty years of tireless effort. At that moment, he finally came to grasp the essence of the driving inspiration behind each and every success he'd achieved in his career--for all those years, every wakeful and may sleepless hours had been hallowed in a dire pursuit of the indefectable neurosurgical-phoenix.

For the very first time since his college-sweetheart's death, Jake's eyes were choked with moisture, as at long last he began to liberate from his elan-vital the guilt surrounding the loss of an adolescent betrothed; likewise, all of a sudden his irresistible desire to have a certain forbidden woman in his life didn't seem quite so irrational. It had taken a belated acknowledgement of a teen-aged lover's loss to bring into focus the blinding, insatiable need--so steadfastly detained inside for the sum-total of those years--to possess the love of a profoundly nurturing, but already attached, woman--who could have only been called by God. Behind his mask, Jake privately basked in a long-overdue exhilaration of his rightfully deep-feelings for the one and only Jeanne Anne Brooks.

Just as he was about to exactly slice open, with an 11-blade, the swollen and bulging brain-surface overlying the blood-clot, the double-barrelled OR-doors were loudly thrown open. Immediately, Jake's captive thoughts were interrupted, and his capped head popped upward as he irately glanced toward the unwelcome noise. His riled eyes coldly met those of Everett Salig.

Reverting his attention forthwith back to the operating-field, with exquisite care he sharply incised the brain's rarefied, superficial-pial layer; and then, without looking up or making a specific request, robot-like he returned the honed knife to Martha. In anticipation of the next needed instrument, his right palm remained outstretched.

"What the hell is he doing here???"

In his mind Jake passed back-and-forth between several conjectures, as he was handed a straight micro-scissors. Expeditiously, he commenced to fastidiously slit the nerve-cell charged, grey-matter layer of the friable cortex. Within a few seconds, he penetrated into the underlying white-matter, and with long, fine forceps acting as a protraction of his palpating fingers, proceeded to rummage among the cascading fiber-tracts for access into the shrouded, bloody mess.

"Well! Well! Dr. Gibson!.. What have we gotten ourselves into today??..."

The vulture was directly abaft, staring across the surgeon's right shoulder, while sarcastically whispering into his dominant ear. Clenching and shrugging, while still continuing to focus the brunt of his concentration on his operating, Jake struggled to ignore him; but as he proceeded with his delicate work, he found it increasingly difficult, and soon impossible, not to engage that most unappreciated intruder. Finally, without even pivoting his head, he rudely announced to the room.

"Everyone.. meet the legendary Everett Salig.. self-anointed, world-expert!.. I fully suspect that this.. gentleman.. is here as our second-opinion!"

With that, Jake gruffly grabbed and lurched the unwieldy microscope into position, forcing Dr. Salig to hastily abandon his sultry position, to take an observation-seat with the others in-attendance on the ungarnished wooden-bench along the wall.

As he sucked thick, reddish liquid and dark-brown clumps of coagulum from the language-center of the attorney's brain, Jake recalled another time that Salig had waltzed into a critical operating-room setting, as though he was completely unaffected by the weighty tension in the room.

Professor Kordesch's head had jerked up serpent-like from his operating-field as he sternly goggled toward the intruder.

"Well!.. Everett!.. It's you!.. Nice to see you!"

The sudden respectfulness of the professor's greeting suggested to his subordinates that the new arrival must be somebody really important, perhaps an international medical-authority or world-acclaimed educator, certainly at least a well-written surgical giant.

"Hi!.. Yul.. Ah.. Gosh!.. So sorry to interrupt!"

Dr. Salig volunteered his trademark fluent-regrets, as he awkwardly sidestepped the anesthesiologist's paraphernalia and secured a seat on the uncushioned bench, along with the apprentice from Minnesota and several other observers. The husky-framed visitor was quite the unforgettable character--precociously middle-aged, wire-rim bespeckled, and sporting an over-sized, balding head. A finely-manicured, blondish moustache underscored his boyish, almost apologetic manner.

All attention was commanded back to the video-screen displaying the operation underway. Professor Kordesch was at his best working within the fluid-spaces that surround the brain, on that occasion to non-invasively encircle a tennis ball-sized tumor.

"This nice lady from Milan.. first developed some trouble three weeks ago..."

The professor recounted to the group watching, for the prime benefit of the recent arrival.

"Notice how the tumor has already invaded the coverings of the brain.. and observe the inherent tenacity of the mass itself."

Touting the video-image, the engrossed bystanders couldn't but be absolutely astonished at the professor's seemingly limitless ability and knowledge. The facility and confidence with which the master moiled evoked an image of absolute perfection--the way surgery should always be done. As he watched, the green-gopher was profoundly inspired by that beau-ideal to crave the attainment of perfection as an essential part of each and every future endeavor.

Without so much as an inkling of wasted effort, the margins of the tumor were identified and dissected free from the surrounding brain and nerve tissue. The tumor in its entirety was then carefully lifted out, and at that instant, the patient completely cured.

The professor facetiously reminded those watching.

"It is absolutely incredible that there are only a handful of conditions in modern-day medicine that are totally cured as easily as this.. by an engagement that encompasses only a few diminutive manipulations of the fingers.. and demands only a few minutes of time..."

The artiste continued with a wide grin.

"As surgeons.. we must carefully safeguard this secret.. otherwise everyone will want to do it!"

Expediently and with the infamous Swiss punctually, Professor Kordesch closed the brain-coverings and then gestured for a junior-assistant to complete the wound-repair. As the virtuoso departed the operating-room, Sir Everett curtly arose from his seat and excused himself as well.

It was customary for the assemblage of observers to remain respectfully seated for a few moments after the professor's departure, before stirring. Ergo, all present were quite surprised when the professor specifically invited, and then graciously motioned for, the American fellow to also egress with him. In fact, he had hesitated for an instant, as he had been studying in Professor Kordesch's prestigious department for nearly six months and had doubted, until just then, that the professor even knew his name.

Trailing the professor to his office, he speculated as to whether he was about to be chastised for some unrecognized lapse or congratulated for his superb work.

"Come in Dr. Gibson.. Sir!.. Won't you!.. I'd like a moment to speak to you."

"Yes!.. Professor!.. Of course!"

He rejoined succinctly, while striving like-crazy to sound coefficient.

"I have been approached to put together a new book.. on brain tumors..."

The apprentice canvassed the strange visitor already seated in a far corner of the office, near the professor's desk.

"Would you like to help?"

His eyelids flashed, astounded that the professor would actually request his assistance with anything; an overpowering solicitation like that was completely unexpected. The trainee responded eagerly, without so much as a second-thought.

"Well.. Of course!.. Yes sir!.. I certainly would!.. I'd be more than happy to do anything I can to help!"

"All right then.. Let's get started.. Meet Dr. Everett Salig."

As the professor pointed in the direction of the arcane alien still seated motionless with his back toward their conversation, the anxious student moseyed over toward the newcomer; he offered his hand and then took up residence alongside, in an identical, hefty ebony chair.

Peeking around the chairman's private-place as they conversed, he found Professor Kordesch's office to be very plain, by American standards, but nonetheless quite distinguished. His desk was a simple, but spacious, glossy-black wooden-table, and with the master posing behind it, one easily had the notion that it fit his unadorned, but illustrious style perfectly. Many of the office-walls were shielded with hanging tapestries--personal treasures from his Persian homeland that the professor often fondly described in detail during lengthy operations. According to Turkish legends, each cabalistic rug subsumed a unique piece of history, encoded in great detail by those who had spent most of their lives weaving it.

Interacting with Yul Kordesch in his office charged the youthful surgeon with the notion that he was being granted a taste of medical folklore--that he was validly linking with perhaps the greatest surgeon in history; for certainly in the eyes of many, Professor M. Yul Kordesch had progressed the art and science of surgery as far as it could ever possibly go.

He moved his weighty seat closer to the professor's work-station, as the mysterious outsider curtly tossed a stapled document onto the desk-top in front of him. Then, just as he began to earnestly canvass the pages, their meeting precipitously ended.

"Listen.. I'm in a bit of a hurry to get going!.. I'm headed up to Zermatt for a few days of skiing.. Have a go at this and give me a call next week. We will discuss it then!"

With a stern roll of his eyes, Salig pointedly flipped a business-card onto the underling's lap, before the laconic charlatan abruptly jumped from his seat and high-stepped it from the office--without even so much as the simple courtesy, towards the professor, of a cordial farewell. Flabbergasted by such a disrespectful style, the impressionable pupil looked for a fitting response from his learned instructor--who had already imperturbably occupied himself with other matters on his desk. The tenderfoot quickly realized that their meeting was over and lumberingly excused himself.

Late that afternoon, along a picturesque alpine-highway lined by fields filled with huge cylinders of hay set in precise rows, as he commuted to a diminutive rental on the outskirts of Berne, the arduous recruit enjoyed a strange rush of incitation, not previously savored during his fellowship experience. After arriving home, with the enthusiasm of a Don Juan inking the pages of a cherished note to an inamorata, he began in earnest to prepare a manuscript based on Salig's scabrous outline. Though he found the erratic guy's ideas to be wholly disorganized, wantingly incomplete, and largely outdated--essentially the entire game-plan that had been handed him was worthless--he would find a way to make it right.

Somehow his home-cooked dinner that evening of broiled bratwurst, seasoned boiled-potatoes, fresh garden-vegetables, and just-baked bread seemed even more delectable than usual. He would labor that night, and many others, often until the wee hours of the morning, to thoroughly organize and thoughtfully inscribe the professor's imbibed ideas on the proper treatment of nervous-system neoplasms. He viewed it as both an opportunity and a challenge; he would compose a masterpiece worthy of the eminent prof's approval, no matter what.

Early one afternoon, while practicing a small-artery repair in the rodent laboratory, he mentioned to one of the salaried research-assistants that Professor Kordesch had enlisted his help with a new text.

"A book.. with the professor.. and whom??"

"Dr. Everett Salig."

Hans Emenhoff had snickered.

Bothered by such a degrading chuckle, his retort was hesitant, whereupon the snobbish Swiss doctor's laugh gained magnitude.

"I can't believe you're working with that maniac?!.. You realize, of course, that he has a certain reputation.. of stealing peoples' ideas!.. even their finished work!!.. I don't think that butt-head has contributed a single piece of original work in his entire career.. nevertheless he's ascended to the level of chairman and full-professor.. Figure it out for yourself!!...

In my opinion, he's a very dangerous individual.. What I'd call a blood-thirsty vulture.. who repeatedly feeds on rotting carcasses.. An out-of-control, frenetic vampire who's absolutely desperate for power and prestige.. I'd be awful careful about working with him if I were you!"

Within minutes, Jake had completely extirpated the contentious hematoma; nonetheless, the brain appeared gravely insulted - swollen, purple, and immobile. He applied repeated, brief spurts of electric-current through insulated forceps to arrest several actively bleeding trouble-spots. Without mentioning it to anyone, not even Martha, Jake identified the nidus of the blood-clot just beneath the suture-line that his understudy had sewn, incompetently it seemed, in the brain-coverings.

In preparation for reclosure of the skull and overlying skin, Jake withdrew the microscope from the vicinity of the wound, and in so doing, noticed that Salig had surreptitiously bolted from the room.

For the first time since reopening the wound, Jake's eyes encountered Martha's, as she began to pass him sutures.

"It's all out.. Everything is going to be okay..."

He nodded affirmatively in an attempt to reassure her.

"I think we got to it in time."

Jake accompanied his patient's bed back to the ICU, detouring along the way for a stop at the OR waiting-room, in an unsuccessful attempt to locate the wife; to his chagrin, she was nowhere to be found. After reaching the ICU, he slumped wearily into a cozy recliner situated right next to his patient's bed.

As the chief-resident of neurosurgery, he was enjoying one of the few weekends that permitted him time away from the hospital. An impromptu weekend camping-trip at nearby Terre-du-lac with his brother Rick's tribe was a great break from the routine of being on emergency-call, every night for months on-end. It was nice to be called something other than Dr. Gibson for a change; right-off-the-bat, "Uncle Jake," "sandals," and "swimming-trunks" had acquired certain breezy appeals to them.

A sporty, red metallic recreational three-wheeler, with a plethora of sparkling decals plastered across the hood, had been made available for the entire weekend. The adults and older youngsters took turns in-succession for safe-paced rides along the desolate black-top roads that surrounded their lake-cottage retreat. By late Saturday afternoon, it was impossible to ascertain whether it was the full-grown kids or the certifiable school-age children who enjoyed climbing aboard it more.

At early sunrise the next morning, none of those present had as yet even given a thought about getting up; so the tantalizing recreating-vehicle was completely deserted. Ergo, Libby, the six year-old, early-onset adolescent of the group, crawled prematurely out of bed to be first-in-line; with those big, irresistible, hazel eyes of hers, she pleaded with her favorite uncle to take her for a ride and to go "real-fast" that time.

Reassuring her still recumbent mother, he dismissed any possibility of recklessness.

"I'm a brain-surgeon for God's sake!.. If anybody knows how to be careful, it's me!"

The two of them were just about to come to the end of a lengthy straight-away. Before backing off the throttle, he fancied to his helmetless lap-passenger that he had gotten all the way up to the thrilling speed of 40-mph. Then, conscientiously, or so it seemed, he began to apply the hand-brake in preparation for a sharp curve just ahead and rapidly approaching; but to his utter consternation, it wouldn't work; somehow, its spring-mechanism had become completely nonoperational.

With only a second or two to react, he barely had time to loop a protective arm around the waist of his still giggling niece, before he ran out of pavement and careened down a small embankment into a thick section of woods. Turning the front-wheels sharply, he struggled desperately to avoid ramming headfirst into a cluster of fallen pines. As the vehicle's inside tires soared precariously from the ground, he outstretched his centripetal leg while still continuing to maintain a desperate clutch of his precious cargo; in the process, exposed epidermis below his Bermuda shorts was excoriated by mother nature's jagged surface.

In concert, the solitary rear-wheel that somehow remained attached to the ground rolled up and over his dragging foot, violently ramming his already denuded knee and shin even deeper into the forest-turf, across hidden rocks and partially-rotten stumps. After an immeasurable distance, the tipsy vehicle came to rest against the slender trunk of an oak-sapling, spilling its occupants over the front-end and into a startling but gentle somersault.

As he laid prostrate in thick ground-cover, minus his plume but with an unharmed child hugging his chest, he had glanced towards heaven with a thankful psalmody.

"Dr. Gibson!.. Jake!.. Wake up!!..."

Midge was rocking his crossed knee which had fallen somewhat painfully to sleep.

"I think you may want to see this!.. Come on! Wake up!"

Dismayed that he had drifted off, Jake looked up at Midge while sheepishly rubbing his eyes, before he glanced across at the fidgety patient residing nearby.

"My God!!.. He's awake!..."

Suddenly alert, Jake gasped cheerily.

"He's going to be okay!.. Oh my Lord! Thank-you!!"

His sanctified applause drew a quick, grateful peek heavenward.

"Has anyone been able to locate the family?"

Jake was anxious to make an attempt to simmer down a presumably hot Bethany Massitor.

"No..."

Midge responded with an inculpable shrug.

"No one has seen nor heard from her.. or the daughter.. and there's been no answer at their home."

"How about Dr. Hudley?.. Anybody seen him?"

Jake expanded his query, but Midge's antiphon, as her head pivoted around a confounded stare, was once again negative.

Yawning repeatedly, Jake positioned himself anew upon the comfortable, bedside resting-place; laying his head all-the-way back, he tried to piece together the long day's events.

Another free Saturday, near the termination of his year of advanced studies in Europe, he had traveled back to Bavaria to check-out a secret Gestapo hideout. Known as the Eagle's-Nest and stashed high atop a mountain, it was so secure that it was accessible only by a hidden elevator. A popular tourist-attraction following the war, it afforded breathtaking views of majestic, snow-covered, alpine summits.

On that particular afternoon, the landscape of surrounding mountain-peaks was partially obscured by rapidly-passing clouds; as such the winds on top were dangerously gusty. Visitors were warned as they ascended via the lift to take particular care not to allow their kinder to wander off unattended; the visitors' trail across the mountain-top was alarmingly narrow and winding as it passed between and over scattered piles of volcanic rock--mixed with loose, sandy soil. Inexplicably, while snapping a series of pictures of her family with the spectacular scenery as a back-drop, a thick-set, middle-aged woman lost her footage on the trail, and alarmingly, began sliding and tumbling down the side of the steep mountain. In a heartbeat, the lone American standing nearby released his hold of a treasured Pentax and promptly raced over the horizon to the poor woman's aid. In hot-pursuit of her rambling descent, he hurdled several leapable boulders and scrambled through a maze ofFiat-sized rock-piles; uncontrollably, the startled frau continued to slide sideways and roll, raising in the process a sizeable cloud of dust in the loose gravel.

Just a few meters before she would have violently plunged into a monstrous crevice, he dove headfirst, barely nabbing within his grasp the free-end of her loose-fitting skirt. As he lay recumbent in a whirlwind of silt, safely securing his catch from further descent with arms around and face between a pair of hairy and bloody legs, the tourist could only surmise that it simply wasn't in the cards on that particular day for either of them to be critically harmed.

After they were assisted back to the summit by several tardy, German-speaking rescuers, a gathering assemblage of tourists had stared on curiously as he assisted in providing first-aid to the still alarmed and bleeding madam. From the vantage point of those around, it appeared that he and the frau in trouble had morbidly vanished, falling to their deaths over the side of the mountain. As a consequence, when they miraculously reappeared a few moments later, the crowd's arrant shock and fear had rapidly dissipated into reticent reverence and awe.

Shortly thereafter, forced to stand off-to-the-side, mute and somewhat embarrassed by his overall incompetence in their language, he self-consciously had dirt wiped from several abrasions on his forearms and elbows, before he retrieved his abandoned camera from its rocky resting-place and nonchalantly resumed his tour, as though nothing inordinate had happened.

Once again Jake was gingerly awakened by Midge reporting that it was change-of-shift, and she was heading home.

"You did a really great job tonight, Dr. Gibson..."

Her remarks were genuinely complimentary.

"You know.. it's almost unbelievable that he's going to be okay. I don't know anyone who would have taken the risk that you took. He certainly owes his life to you!"

"Midge..."

Jake's interjection was accompanied by a brittle shrug of his shoulders.

"In our profession, we are required to do what we have been trained to do. In a life-and-death situation, it isn't possible to spend a lot of time thinking about what's right.. or wrong.. I just did what experience told me I had to do..."

Jake was fighting off yet another, wide yawn.

"You know my favorite saying?!"

"Yes..."

Midge smiled affectionately as she repeated his persistent charge.

"Irregardless of level of expertise.. in any aspect of life.. when a question arises as regards what to do.. simply do what's right!"

Somehow that particular doctor always seemed to make the answers to difficult and complicated problems or issues appear straightforward and obvious; in fact, his naive simplicity was one of the qualities that Midge found so attractive in him. She struggled with the nearly irresistible impulse to wrap her paws around him and just hug; quite certain as to his response though, she merely smiled dotingly, before turning her back and retiring from the room.

Jake checked Mr. Massitor one final time, inscribed a few additional orders, and promptly left the hospital, without even taking time to change back into his softball wardrobe.

Sporting only his perspiration-ringed scrubs, he slowly and deliberately ascended the few steps leading up to the front-door of his condo. Kicking aside the better part of a week's collection of newspapers that somewhat obstructed the entryway, he blindly jiggled the key into the lock. As was often the case, the focus of his attention was not on the world around him.

He had just nestled into a very relaxing pose in a sunken, deck-top hot-tub when steamy thoughts of his paramour were pestered by a rackety pounding back at the main-entrance.

"What now!"

Quickly he slipped back into the crumpled scrub-pants lying close-at-hand in a heap, and with towel-in-hand waltzed through the town-house, tip-toeing as he passed through the pristine kitchen and along the main hallway to the foyer, so as not to drip much water on the lustered hardwood-floor. As he pushed opened a creaky front-door, he was astonished to find his scrub-nurse, standing there, newspapers in hand.

"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour Jake, but.. may I come in?"

Jake was totally flabbergasted, not just by the late hour of her visit, but by the strange sound of his first-name on her lips. Not once, in all the years of working together, had he encountered Martha outside of the sterile hospital-environment, and never before had she referred to him, even in private, as anything except Dr. G. By the amicable expression on her face, he was all at once impressed that away from the OR, the reputable stone-face somehow seemed much less rugged and imposing, perhaps even a bit fragile.

"I was just beginning to find a bit of relaxation in the whirlpool..."

Shivering in the early morning breeze, Jake ushered her in and speedily closed the door.

"Hope you don't mind if I jump right back in?"

"No.. Not at all.. Go right ahead!"

Martha brashly continued.

"Hey, do you have any beer?"

Already chilled and further caught off-guard by an even more uncharacteristic request, Jake stuttered incommodiously.

"Yeah.. I thththink there are a ffffew in the ffffrig."

Posthaste slipping into a pair of never worn swim-trunks, with the tag still on, he settled cozily back into the swirling jet-streams, as his unexpected visitor laid her purse on the counter in the kitchen. While clandestinely taking note of the modesty of the doctor's place, she grabbed a couple of cans of Bud-Lite from the bottom shelf of the nearly-empty refrigerator. Jake popped open one of the moist and chilled tins and handed it to Martha.

"I didn't realize you even knew where I lived.. Hey.. Listen.. Massitor looked pretty good after the operation. I think he's going to be okay.. There's certainly no need for you to worry about what happened."

"But Dr. Gib.. I mean Jake.. I feel totally responsible for what happened!.. I had a gut-feeling something wasn't right. I should have let you know. I am so very sorry!"

"Martha.. it's okay! Everything is going to work out fine!"

As Jake was speaking, a teary-eyed and trembling head-nurse lost her composure. Instinctively, Jake reached out his arm to comfort her.

"Hey.. Martha.. What's going on?.. Something else bothering you??"

Martha smiled sheepishly as she doused discrete droplets of water streaking down her rosy cheeks with several gentle swipes of her hand.

"You don't happen to have an extra suit around this place?.. something to fit me?"

"No.. Ah.. I'm afraid not..."

Jake was noticeably embarrassed by the boldness of her request.

"but come on in anyway.. You can just sit on the side and just put your feet in."

Martha and Jake relaxed together in the innervating sauna for some time, reminiscing about past experiences in the operating-room.

"Remember Peggy Coleman?"

With a proud and happy grin, Martha mentioned a name from the past.

"Of course.. the mother-to-be.. with the big bleed!"

Jake's response was immediate.

It had taken nearly 14 hours, but the two of them, along with many other members of the microsurgical-team, had successfully removed a deep-seated, frontal-lobe AVM, that had ruptured suddenly while the newlywed was seven-months pregnant. After the emergency brain-surgery, against all odds, she had completely recovered; subsequently she had given birth to a beautiful, perfectly-healthy, baby-boy, whom she later named Jason Gibson Coleman.

"You know.. she still sends me a note with a photo of him every so often."

As he spoke, Jake shook his head slowly and gently smiled.

"I'll tell you another patient that I'll never forget..."

Recounting another luminary, Martha diagramed the shape and dimensions of a watermelon with an index-finger, while gritting her teeth.

"Wesley.. Ah.. What was his last name?"

"O'Shea.. Wesley O'Shea."

Jake resounded with a larger-than-life raking sweep of his head.

"Were you around back then?"

Martha prodded her head into a nodding motion.

"Yes.. as a matter of fact, I think it was my very first week at the university. As I recall.. that was one of the cases that got me initially interested in neurosurgery."

Jake could picture the case as though it had taken place only yesterday. He had just returned that spring from his fellowship-training in Switzerland, accepting a full-time faculty position at the university as an assistant-professor. During the first week of June, as one of his earliest referrals, Wesley had been sent to him from the pediatric-clinic down the hall, where he had been taken by his mother.

"Remember that little red-wagon?..."

Jake began to blurt out further details as Martha continued to beam in agreement, with both sneaking sips of beer in between.

Wesley had been born with congenital hydrocephalus, and like many newborns with that condition, his doctors had pretty much given up on him at birth. His mother, who was unmarried, had been told that he would not survive more than a few weeks; but then, Wes had proved everybody wrong; he had survived, indeed. At the age of four, he had developed a head so large that he couldn't even turn it, much less lift it up. For the proceeding several years, his mother had been forced to cart him around like an over-sized pumpkin, as his cranium was simply too enormous for her to pick him up, much less carry him around.

"I remember the first time I saw him in the hospital.. He called me Doctor 'Pitcher-Man'.. because he thought I was related to Bob Gibson.. You know, the St. Louis Cardinal baseball player?.. the hall-of-famer?.. the world-series strike-out king??.. Anyway, he really idolized him."

"I was amazed at how smart he was."

Martha interjected a few of her own observations.

"His IQ was way above normal. It's still hard for me to believe that someone with that much water inside his head could have been so bright."

Jake sighed as he reminisced about the hours spent trying to figure out what to do for the unfortunate kid. The challenge was to drastically reduce the size of a living, volumetric object--somewhat like taking an incubated ostrich-egg and shrinking it to the size of a hen's, without disrupting any of its vital, semi-liquid, internal contents.

"You were the first.. ever.. to try anything like that, weren't you?"

Martha already knew, only to well, the answer to her pointed interrogation.

Jake resumed his affirmative nodding, as he recalled the effort it had taken to convince his senior associates at the university that an operation of that magnitude not only could be, but should be, undertaken.

"Exactly how many separate procedures did it take?"

Martha was really quizzing herself as she tried to recall the precise course of what had actually transpired.

"Five."

Jake answered quickly, as he vividly recalled each and every operative excursion, including intimate details.

Expediently, he had assembled an experienced team of well-written sub-specialists--none of whom, however, had previously tackled anything nearly so ambitious. The cracker-jack team of surgeons ultimately decided to create, sequentially, multiple cracks in Wesley's calvarium, and then to carefully reshape and refit the puzzle-like pieces of skull-bone back together, to allow his over-sized cranium to progressively collapse. At the same time, fluid was slowly removed from inside the brain, thereby promoting the inflated cerebrum to shrink in size, corresponding to step-wise reductions in the dimensions of the overlying skull.

As he emptied his can-of-suds with a final salvo of quick-and-easy gulps, Jake re-envisioned the day that all of Wesley's wounds had finally healed, and he was permitted to get out of bed for the first time. It had taken many weeks for him just to learn how to lift and hold his head up in order to sit unaided, and then months to accomplish standing; at long last, he was ready to take a few initial steps on his own.

His proud surgeon was positioned only a couple of paces in front of him, warily keeping an eye on things as a physical-therapist aided Wes to his feet and stood nearby, ready as needed to provide assistance. He took one very hesitant and clumsy step and abruptly stopped; then, with the broadest grin Jake could ever imagine on the face of anyone, he reached into a back-pocket of his baggy pants, pulled out a bright orange rubber-ball, and tossed it powerfully to Jake.

"Dr. Pitcher-man.. You helped me to be able to walk... Now I'm going to teach you how to smoke it right-in-there!!"

"Do you still hear from him too?"

Martha's beaming query coincided with the consumption of the last of her 12-ounces as well. Jake resounded with an ear-to-ear grin of his own.

"Yeah!.. I get a nice letter from his mother every so often.. She eventually married and the family moved to California. Wesley's in high-school now.. A straight-A student!.. And you won't believe this, but evidently he wants to go on to law-school!"

Martha and Jake together shared a chuckle at the prospect of someone with an overly big head aspiring to become an attorney.

The doctor and nurse exchanged warmhearted and similarly fond memories and amusing antidotes about a number of other patients.

After a time, Martha's mood turned more earnest. Purposefully, she shifted her position on the side of the hot-tub, such that the bottom of one of her submerged and slick feet accidently abutted one of Jake's calloused soles.

"By the way.. what's up with that strange character who crashed the operation last night?"

"EV..ER..ETT...SAL..IG!!"

Jake pronounced the acerbic name very slowly and with an afflictive grimace and a prolonged moan.

"I know I've heard that name somewhere before?"

Martha searched her mind with a puzzled look.

"I'm sure you have!. He's a real case-study!"

Jake hesitated between hypercritical thoughts, searching for a palatable description.

"Many years ago.. during my fellowship in Berne.. I was asked by Professor Kordesch to assist in the writing of a book.. one on brain tumors. At the time, it was a tremendous honor for me. Even back then, he was widely recognized as one of the most.. if not the most.. accomplished surgeons anywhere in the world!...

The guy was totally amazing!.. Almost on a daily basis his operating-theater was occupied by a prime-minister or secretary-of-state.. a CEO or some sort of corporate-giant.. a Hollywood entertainer.. a sports personality.. some kind of celebrated professional.. or just a plain-old rich-and-famous person. It seemed as though the well-to-do from all corners of the globe sought out the professor to operate on them or members of their family.. Often, he was the only surgeon in the world who would agree to tackle a particular, extremely high-risk procedure. The most difficult and dangerous lesions were his bread-and-butter.. and you know only once, in all the time I was there, did I see him have an unfavorable result."

"Sort of like you.. at present!"

Martha underlined her laudation with an excusable, but emphatic, brush of the top of her foot across the side of Jake's thigh. With an emasculate roll of his eyes, head, and heart, Jake murmured an answer.

"Nope!.. No way!.. He's the one I have tried to model my life after. I idolized him for what he meant, even back then, to the development of our discipline.. and for his unyielding insistence that there was only one proper way to do anything.. the right way! He refused to permit less than absolute perfection in himself.. his staff.. his equipment.. his techniques.. and those around him.. including I suppose.. me. He pushed his own surgical ability to the outright limit and never backed down from any challenge.. no matter how monumental!"

From years of experience, Martha detected a great deal of bottled-up strain and unchanneled distress in Jake's forced expression and locution. Gingerly, she extended her legs in unison so that the soft and cushiony soles of her feet brushed snugly against his bony shins. Seemingly unaware of her attempted consolation, though, Jake continued.

"It took almost a year of hard work.. just about every day and night.. to compose what I hoped would become a renowned text. It was based on the professor's vast experience in operating on brain-tumors.. But I also reviewed and analyzed every piece of information ever written on the subject.. I wanted it to be an authoritative treatise.. And I suppose it was.. because out of it came our present grading-system."

"That's it!.. the 'Salig' International Classification of Brain Tumors!.. That's where I recognize the name!.. That was your work??"

Martha was putting words to a gnawing secret that had galled Jake for nearly a decade.

Spurned by ill-defined but undeniably deep-rooted emotions, Jake whirled from his comfortable, lounging position to come face-to-face with Martha, his kneecaps resting tenuously on the slippery bottom of the tub.

"You know it's funny.. As I think about it, the professor was like a second-father to me. He defied me not to succeed.. I've strived for years to live up to his unattainable expectations.. but up until just recently.. never really thought I could!..."

Martha was only too happy to buoy Jake's perceptions of his accomplishments by a few additional resounding and unfeigned acclamations; with yet

Death of a Healer

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Life is short, and the Art long; the occasion fleeting; experience fallacious, and judgment difficult.

Hippocrates. (Fifth Century B.C.)

Jake showered, straight-edged, and appareled less hastily than normal; even on a Thursday, his sole emancipation each week from surgery, he was habitually enroute to the hospital by then. For an extra hour or so on that particular morning, though, he'd lingered in bed, staring at the unaccustomed crumpled-pillow next to his, as he struggled to appraise an exhilarating, yet all but forgotten, visceral sensation. He had not been confronted with breathless sentiments like those for quite a long time.

As he reluctantly tucked an heirloom, quilted bedspread into place, in the process fluffing away a cherished fossil, Jake's pith was enraptured by that lingering fragrance--a perdurable memento of an exhilarative lover's abiding touch. His chronic, absolute, and uncompromising dedication to perfection in the extraordinary skills required for the practice of brain-surgery occupied, for a few moments, an all-too-unfamiliar back-seat.

Still, while putting the final touches on a few other simple chores, his massetors tensed as he gritted his teeth in an all-too-characteristic struggle to muffle that craving marrow. Those grandiose notions of romance were once again being steadily consumed by a dreadful, self-censuring uneasiness, as to how the unforeseen events of late and the spectrum of eventualities might impact those around him. As his enduring relationship with Jeanne had steadfastly demonstrated, moral sentiments would refuse to sanction any action that might provoke unneeded strife, no matter what self-indulgent emotional necessities might intimate. As always, the final decision on what to do conformed to that compulsive rule of his--"self-denial for simplicity's sake."

As the morning sun was finally shoving off the tops of neighboring buildings, Jake gathered in the furled Globe from the sidewalk to check the previous night's Twins score. He smiled in amusement, having noticed in the process that last evening's caller had retrieved the previous day's mail from the box at the street and positioned it in a tidy stack, just inside the door. As he sat down with the morning-news, a handful of postal-junk, a hefty glass of Florida citrus, and a Big-Apple bagel spread thick with cream-cheese, unthinkingly he tapped the ICU's number into the phone, looking to get an off-the-cuff update on one patient.

"There's no one available who can talk to you right now, Dr. Gibson..."

An obviously ruffled, recently graduated, charge-nurse responded impetuously.

"That patient's nurse is occupied with change-of-shift duties.. and everyone else is away on morning-break."

"You mean there's no one there, who can simply tell me how he's doing?"

Jake's attention had been mustered; he began to rap a nearly- empty glass-vessel disturbingly on the formica.

"Not right now doctor!.. No!! Can't you just call back in a few minutes?!"

"I don't believe this!..."

Jake was ruminating as he disposed of the last bite of pumpernickel.

"A high-tech, university intensive-care-unit.. and no one's available to talk to an attending surgeon, and simply explain what's going on with one of his patients.. Absolutely unbelievable!"

Still, as with nearly all peeving frustrations in life, Jake's manner was not to assertively vociferate; instead, he merely clenched his jaws and tightened his neck, to put the matter off for perhaps tacit pursuit at another time.

A few minutes later as he veered to enter the hospital parking-lot, he was again annoyed; for some inexplicable reason, his automatic-card wouldn't work to elevate the entrance-barrier. Impulsively hot-footing it, he sped wrong-way through the exit-lane, as its wooden-gate was positioned in the elevated position, apparently stuck.

"We've got a really great security-system around here!"

Jake's conjuration was far more nettled than usual by such a trivial issue.

Pulling up to his reserved place, he stopped and irritatedly glared; a yellow Corvette--one closely resembling David Hudley's--had blatantly seized his spot. After indignantly, but scrupulously, locating an unreserved place along an outer-boundary of the lot, he hurried directly to the ICU to check on Mr. Massitor.

"Good morning Mitch!..."

Jake gleamed as he extended his hand to the wide-eyed patient, sitting gallantly up in bed and having breakfast.

"You look pretty darned good today!..."

An obsessive surgeon was happily discarding a good chunk of his habitual postoperative anxiety.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay.. but I'm trying to remember exactly how I got here.. and what the hell happened!"

The patient glanced austerely up at Jake, while sipping a meager-sized plastic-cup of apple-juice.

"And you are?"

"I'm sorry.. My name is Jason Gibson.. Yesterday we spent most of the day and part of the night together. Tuesday afternoon.. in fact, inside the courtroom.. you suffered bleeding around the surface of the brain, as a result of a burst aneurysm.. Yesterday morning, we operated to fix.. actually a couple of dangerous weak spots.. one of which had bled.. Unfortunately, a few hours after surgery, you developed a very serious complication.. a blood-clot.. that had to be take care of last night.. Fortunately, it looks like you came through all of that just fine."

As Jake proceeded to insert a few additional details in response to Massitor's queries, the indifferent manner of their discourse intimated to him that his patient obviously did not recall their previous, less than cordial, professional interaction.

A few months prior to the date the Kincaid case was scheduled to go to trial, he had been subpoenaed to give a discovery deposition regarding the circumstances surrounding his patient's terribly traumatic death--his first-ever confrontation with the legal-system. He vividly recalled the sleek, glass conference-table in the posh, downtown, penthouse offices of the plaintiff's attorney and associates. One of the first to arrive, he was congenially greeting a diminutive court-reporter, while assisting to settle her cumbersome case of stenography equipment, when a brash herd of opulently-dressed litigants burst into the room and loftily introduced themselves. He could still picture the overt haughtiness of the leader-of-the-pack, as though the dreadful scene had just occurred yesterday.

For the next several hours, he had done his best to respond to each and every question as honestly and thoroughly as he could, guilelessly believing it fundamental to the genteel execution of the judicial-system. He quickly discovered, however, that none of the people professing expertise in legal representation yielded any real regard for the honest-to-God truth. Even the hospital's reputable attorney suggested "CORRECT" adumbrations, i.e., responses that sustained the "RIGHT" side of disputed issues, irrespective of their veracity.

No portion of his personality or reputation was sacred from the viscous counselor's vicious assassination that day. He was dumbfounded by straightforward accusations that he was quite possibly a drug-addict or alcoholic, very likely a disgruntled and malevolent university-associate, and obviously an incompetent, bumbling idiot. His avid accuser even insinuated that the mal-practitioner had deliberately allowed his plaintiff client to die, and that there were ample facts to verify such to whomever would listen, despite all the while being fully aware that there was not even an inkling of truth to support such wild promulgations.

His admiration for the judicial-process plunged during that prolonged and disheartening afternoon, but as quintessential for him, he totally retained his cool. He responded with integrity, compassion, and straightforwardness to each and every question, steadfastly refusing in any way to compromise the absolute truth, in order to meliorate the position of the hospital, psychiatrist, nursing-staff defendants, or even himself.

Jake surmised that no way, with certainly a myriad of suits since then, would his adversary remember that long-ago confrontation; but the lawyer's cognitive level emerged intact as he fingered the strange head-bandage and past rival.

"I'm really quite surprised to run into you again, Dr. Gibson.. especially under these circumstances.. You must have done a decent job on me though.. because I don't have all that much pain. In fact.. I feel pretty good! You know.. I'm currently working on a very important case.. When do you think I might...?"

"Not for several weeks, at least!..."

Jake hastily interrupted in a brazen attempt to regain the upper-hand on his home-turf.

"You've been through two, very serious, operations. In fact, last night you almost died.. It will probably take at least a month for you to recover to the degree that you can resume any intense or stressful work.

"I can't wait that long!..."

The attorney's indignant intercession coincided with him tugging unfittingly at the IV infiltrating into his arm.

"I'm representing a client in a very lucrative case, that's at trial.. right now.. In fact, it was supposed to go to the jury tomorrow.. You can't expect me to be gone for a whole month!"

"Well Mitch.. I think your life is a lot more important than any case.. In my opinion, it is totally against the best interest of your health for you to do too much, too soon."

Even before he had finished speaking, Jake predicated another discordant response.

"Gee whiz, Dr. Gibson.. I do appreciate your sincere concern for my health.. And I certainly want to commend you for everything you've done.. From the way it appears, you worked a miracle on me last night. But now, I think I best know how I feel.. and I'll be the one to determine the importance of my work!"

Purposely distracted, Jake picked up the bedside flow-chart and scrutinized the recorded stats and plotted graphs. As paradigmatic for him, his frame-of-mind declined to argue the point any further.

"Has your wife been by this morning?"

All at once Massitor was more interested in consuming the remains of his full-liquid breakfast; in response, he merely shrugged his hospital gown-clad shoulders, not even offering another look up at Jake.

Jake positioned himself at a nearby nurse's-station to indite a progress-note in the patient's chart and initiate a few new orders. As he glanced about, he caught notice that the nurse and resident-staff had precipitously congregated towards the opposite end of the circuitous counter and appeared to be furtively peeking over at him and whispering.

Eyeballing his watch, he discovered that it was already nearly 8-o'clock. Intending to catch Martha before she scrubbed the first case of the day, he adeptly punched the OR's extension into a nearby phone, in the process making raking attempts to rehearse in his mind the reproachable words he planned to utter.

"I'm sorry Dr. Gibson.. Martha called in sick today.. She won't be coming in."

Jake gulped and inspired insistently, as he quivered against a cascading stream of uneasiness, bubbling beneath his mediastinum. He couldn't recall Martha ever before having been absent because she was ill.

"Had she made it home okay that morning?.. Perhaps she was angry or upset at what had happened?.. Or was she really just not feeling well?.. And then, what about her husband!?..."

Shyly Jake retreated down the stairs to his private-office, pondering aloud each and every step along the way.

"I can't very well call her at home..."

Sitting at his desk, he continued to torment himself.

"I wonder if she said something to her husband?.. I can't imagine what must be going through her mind!.. And how am I ever going to be able to explain what happened last night to Jeanne??"

Distracted by the incessant ticking of an inscribed pewter-clock sitting stately atop his desk, a gift of appreciation from last year's graduating residents, Jake surmised that weekly grand-rounds would commence upstairs in only a few minutes. Certainly there would be some frank discussion about the Massitor case, and more pressing, Hudley could be cornered there.

Reluctantly, Jake redirected his disquietude as he impatiently paced in the passageway, while waiting the customary aeon for an elevator to the 5th-floor.

Snappily rambling down the hallway towards the conference-room, again Jake perceived that he was being scrutinized; several members of a rounding group of medical-residents were peeking at him suspiciously and then promptly looking away. Occultly examining his essential trouser fasteners, he briefly contemplated a swift eschewal to the fruition of a lover's comforting clasp.

The surgical conference-room was unusually crammed with attendings, while most of the surgical house-staff and students were still arriving after their morning-rounds. Jake scanned the corners of the room searching for Hudley, but once again perceived that he was the one being eye-balled. As he took his customary seat in the first-row, center, Dr. Wilson entered accompanied by Dr. Hudley. Jake leaped to his feet pressing to address Hudley, but his chairman interceded.

"Jason.. could I speak to you for a moment.. in private!"

The boss sovereignly motioned for him to follow into the hallway. Jake frowned in dismay as he traipsed out, rebutting the frisking stares of all in the room.

"Jason.. what you did last night was irresponsible and unconscionable! What in the hell were you thinking?!!"

Jake listened intently, not absolutely certain by the howl in his voice which event had caught the chairman's attention.

"You nearly cost a man his life!.. And you really pissed off the hospital-administrator. He wants me to immediately suspend your privileges.. If not, he wants a letter-of-resignation.. mine!.. on his desk, first thing tomorrow!"

The skin-creases visible around Jake's eyes spontaneously deepened. Furiously rattled by what he was hearing, he stared directly into his boss's bifocals and closely observed the movements of his mouth and tongue as though he was farrowing.

"How could you get the department involved in such a thing?!"

"Vince.. the patient is doing fine! I did what I had to do under the circumstances..."

Jake's response was loaded with unusual indignation.

"What I really don't understand about all of this.. is why.. if it's created such a big problem.. has no one bothered to discuss the circumstances of the case directly with me?!.. It's not that I haven't been available.. nearly all morning!"

A wiry but consummate, large-quantity gourmet with a fiery, libertarian disposition, the oft ill-tempered Vincent Wilson was used to getting his way. His mind already made up for the moment, he would hear nothing of a plea-bargain.

"Dr. Hudley has kindly filled me on all the details. I don't see that there is really anything more to discuss.. especially here and now..."

Utterly infuriated, but afraid to certify a violent, uncontrolled public-explosion, Jake stood speechless.

"The hospital executive-committee is investigating this matter and will make its recommendations. Until then, why don't you take some time off?.. You're leaving for Washington this afternoon, aren't you?.. And you're planning to be back on Sunday?.. Well, why don't you lay low next week.. Go somewhere.. God knows you deserve a vacation!"

With an inimical glare, the chief then turned his back and irately rambled back into the packed conference-room.

Jake was paralyzed to follow or even respond as he tilted back against a wall, trying to gain some control of a belching, psychic volcano. For a few moments, he lingered statue-like in the deserted hallway, overhearing through the open doorway the initial case-presentation, as he stood passively by and watched his profession go up-in-smoke.

He had caddied at the elite Sunset-Hills C.C. all summer long; it was a special honor to be asked to carry clubs in the open qualification tournament for his father's best-friend, a notable founding-member. At age 48, Oscar Sawyer was hoping to realize a life-long dream to participate as an amateur in the U.S. Open, scheduled to be held later that summer in St. Louis.

Though only 13, the kid was quite tall for his age and pretty well-developed. While not much of a player himself, he was nonetheless anxious to demonstrate that he could master that job. In fact, he had proven the best of the bunch in an instruction course on the rules and responsibilities of a caddie at a national tournament and had survived, without incident, the practice and preliminary rounds.

He stood solemnly, under a shriveling mid-afternoon sun, with his outstretched right-hand gripping the flag-stick. It was the 18th hole of the final-round, and though not the leader, Mr. Sawyer was competing for the runner-up spot. By sinking that tricky, 10-foot birdie-putt, the agog Sawyer would end up in second-place, good enough to qualify.

His third-shot from 220-yards had landed on the fringe and rolled just onto the edge of the green; the intense traveling-salesman was going to attempt to hole-out with his favorite putter. Mr. Sawyer addressed his ball with a smooth follow-through, and the dimpled orb seemed to have eyes for the hole. The slightly nervous caddy was careful to avoid a distracting shadow or any unnecessary motion as he cradled the flag-stick with an extended, slightly tremulous arm, to exactly mark the perfectly round opening.

Once the shot was underway, he prepared to masterfully lift the flag-stick from the hole; but, unbelievably, it wouldn't budge. Somehow the flanged-base of the aluminum-pole had become tightly wedged within the recessed notch inside the cup. Panicking as he watched the gap between the advancing ball and the cup diminishing, he promptly reached over with his other hand, ignoring all customary etiquette; yet, it remained unyieldingly stuck. Gritting his teeth in a last-ditch effort, he grunted audibly in a final, all-out attempt to rip the stick from its mooring; still, it wouldn't cooperate.

At that moment, the "all-my-life I-dreamed-about that" shot careened off the base of the flag-stick, just as it finally flung loose from its entanglement; the rejected Top-Flite signature XL bounced back, coming to rest several inches short of the cup.

Instantaneously incensed and crazed, Mr. Sawyer's temper went supersonic ballistic. He dashed into his callow caddie's face, swinging his putter over his head and yelling something unintelligible, though positively terrifying. The alarmed bag-toter retained his position, still unwillingly waving the freed flag-stick in the air, as he looked around at the rows of spectators--suddenly glued to the drama unfolding before them. Bombarded with demeaning criticism and raging slogans for what seemed like an eternity, he continued to stand absolutely motionless. Mr. Sawyer ended his barrage by flinging his beloved putter furiously into a nearby pond. As this was unfolding, the son encountered the confounded look of his father, standing off to the side of the gallery.

Thrusting past Jake with a critical look, Dr. Wilson pushed the door to his office open and entered. Jake determinedly followed him in and closed the door.

"Vince.. I really need to speak to you about this!"

Reclining behind his desk in a tall, black leather chair and avoiding eye-contact as he searched for the desired words, Dr. Wilson reluctantly motioned for Jake to take a seat in front of him.

A lanky but robust, grey-haired and wrinkled professional, Vincent R. Wilson had been Professor-and-Chairman of Neurosurgery at the University Hospital for nearly 25-years. One of the few people around who drove a car with his initials on his hubcaps, V.W. had trained Jake--the sole resident under his tutelage to ever return to his department as a full-time faculty-member.

"Jason, I can't believe what you did!!"

Irritated at the ongoing condemnation that he deemed unjustifiable, Jake forcibly reviewed the prior days events in some detail, taking care, though, not to interject Martha's personal observations of Hudley's misadventure. His jaw and cervical spasm relaxed a bit as the boss asked a few pointed questions and seemed to gain a better understanding of what had actually happened. Notwithstanding, his concluding response was cantankerous.

"You know.. Dr. Hudley warned me that you would try to find a way to blame it all on him!"

His fluster further exacerbated by that comment, Jake was finally in the mood to add Martha's observation, but in advance of his reply, there was a resounding knock on the office portal. Jake rose to answer it, but before he could make contact with the knob, the door bounded open; and there standing face-to-face with him was Howard Crane.

Dressed handsomely and professionally in a tailored business-suit, the rugged-looking icon blared angrily at Jake as he stomped over to the chairman's desk.

"Dr. Wilson!.. There's something I want you to know.. about a certain member of your department!.."

"Mr. Crane..."

Jake tried to diffuse the ticking bomb-shell as he winced from the anticipated, upcoming explosion.

"Shut up, you lousy son of a bitch!!!..."

Crane continued to bellow at Jake.

"Just shut your damn mouth!!..."

Frowning at what he was observing, Dr. Wilson gazed austerely at Jake, as Howard Crane continued.

"My wife got home at 6 a.m., this morning.. after spending the night with this asshole!..."

He was loudly screaming and emphatically pointing an angry fist towards Jake.

"Now she's decided to leave me.. She says she wants a divorce!"

Jake had already buried his censurable face in his mischievous hands. He especially abhorred that "D" word; everything about that utterance impled a loss, and he really hated for anyone to have to loose. He especially loathed to be held personally accountable for someone else's devastating deprivation.

Jake peeked through his hands as he attempted to devise an emergency game-plan. Sheepishly, he glanced back and forth between the duel mugs bearing down on him; at that moment, he couldn't bring to words any of the presumptions clamoring within. With a glum and sullen look, he slowly rose, awkwardly advanced a few steps towards them, and respectfully nodded, before turning and directly leaving the room.

Jake resolutely backed his way thru the collective office vestibule, retreating towards his personal billet, and slumped into his favorite chair. Lying his head all-the-way back and staring mindlessly out the blindless, full-length windows that fronted his desk, his thought processes were mesmerized by a tolling hub of activity across the street. To his current mind-set, there was something soothing about watching construction-workers as they did their thing on a cloudy and windy day; perhaps it was their humble opposition to disorder that produced a settling sensation in a restless observer; then again, maybe it was the fact that a certain plebeian spectator had never been one to rest unchallenged on his laurels.

Throughout his entire career at the university, he had attempted to be not only a dynamic innovator and man-of-science, but also a legitimate practicing surgeon. He was most gratified by the fact that he had been able to engineer a number of radically new, life-saving operative-procedures, and he had also taken the time to implement hands-on, educational programs that instructed other surgeons--as well as allied-professionals from around the country--on them; as such, it had been possible for his novel techniques to be readily applied, everywhere. As a direct result of his reputation as a open-handed teacher, over the years he had been offered positions at numerous private institutions around the country; out of loyalty to his mentor, though, he had declined the lucrative offerings, for reasons he suddenly found difficult to comprehend.

After a while his attention was captured by a hazy reflection in the tempered-glass of the numerous diplomas and awards, prominently hanging behind him on his office back-wall: the special bronze-plaque presented by the local chapter of the American Medical Association to its "PHYSICIAN-EDUCATOR OF THE DECADE," the unique silver-etching given by the American College of Surgeons in recognition of the "MOST-ACCLAIMED SURGICAL DISCIPLINARIAN IN THE COUNTRY," and the unusual cut-glass citation awarded by the International Congress of Neurosurgeons to the "PREMIER ACADEMIC NEUROLOGICAL-SURGEON--UNDER 40--IN THE WORLD." Though prestigiously displayed, all of a sudden each seemed to cast a grossly distorted image, not merely reversed, but blotted considerably by the last few discolored hours.

Turning about and gazing at the framed pictures of family members positioned atop his desk, as he continued to contrast his world-wide recognition to his present humbling predicament, Jake forced a smile and even fleetingly giggled. Momentarily, he wondered if he should have chosen a simpler occupation, perhaps blue-collar security work like unheralded Henry Hofmeister, his fun-loving and down-to-earth maternal granddad; despite his less than lofty station, he had still been highly influential in so many people's lives.

Fingering the top of a stack of letters on his desk, he scanned the unique, stylized invitation, imprinted with the famed presidential-seal:

Dear Dr. Gibson,

As a member of the President's Select Commission on the State of American Medicine, you are to be commended for meritorious service to the people of the United States. It is with great anticipation that I inform you of the commission's presentation date before a Joint-Session of Congress.

It is to be my special honor to personally welcome you and your spouse (guest) to the White House for a special recognition dinner to be held the evening prior.

Donald Maurer

President of the United States of America

"I wonder if I'm still invited?"

Jake's confounded concerns were halted by an interruption from his phone.

"Dr. Gibson.. this is Martha."

He was tremendously relieved to hear her voice, though it took him a moment to return to reality.

"Martha?.. Oh, Martha!.. Are you okay?.. Where are you?? I'm so glad you called. I wanted to..."

Obviously distraught, Martha verbalized very slowly.

"Jake.. I can't talk to you right now.. I've decided to go back home.. for a little while... I just wanted to say.. goodbye.. and thanks."

"Martha, hang on a..."

He stopped in mid-sentence, as she had already hung up the phone. He brooded for a few seconds, lulled momentarily by the poetic cadence of a squadron of emergency-vehicles rushing by the front of the hospital, and the tolling phone still perched against his ear.

More desperate and determined than ever, he made an additional attempt to locate Dr. Hudley, once again to no avail. Finally, a good portion of his acute anxiousness was relieved as he dialed Jeanne's number, and she answered.

"Hello!"

"Hey lady!. How are ya'?"

"Hiiii!!"

No sound in his adult life had ever had a more calming influence on him than that issued by that wondrous voice.

"How ya' feelin' today?"

"I'm okay.. Yesterday was a pretty good day."

"Yeah.. you sound better then you did the other day.. Oh, listen.. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to call you back yesterday. What did the ultrasound show?"

"They think it's a girl.. but I don't know. This one sure feels a lot different than the first."

"Well.. I wouldn't put any of those boy names on hold, just yet!"

"It really doesn't matter, as long as it's healthy."

"Yeah.. that's for sure."

"Are you okay?.. You sound worried about something."

"No.. I'm fine.. I just had a pretty tough day yesterday."

"Why?.. What happened??"

"Well.. Yesterday morning, I operated on a patient.. Happened to be an attorney.. with a ruptured aneurysm.. Then last night, I had to operate on him again.. for a blood-clot."

"Yeah.. Ben said you got called away from the softball-game. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah.. he's doing fine today."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"No, he really is recovering okay. Actually, I think he came through the surgery a lot better than I did."

"What do you mean?"

"Well.. There have been quite a few questions raised around here about the second operation.. He was dying and.. well.. I went ahead with the surgery, without the family's permission."

"So?.. You did what you had to do.. right?"

"Yes.. Unfortunately, a few other people don't quite see it that way."

"Why?.. What are they saying?"

"There's probably going to be an inquiry.. and I wouldn't be surprised if I was reprimanded."

"That's crazy!! You're the best surgeon down there!"

"Thanks.. but..."

"No, don't thank me! I'm sure they'll figure the whole thing out.. And if they don't.. I'll come down there and knock a few of them over the head!"

"Now that I'd like to see."

"Hey.. When are you leaving for Washington?"

"My plane takes off in a couple hours. I'm just getting ready to leave here to drop by my place. I have an errand to do on the way to the airport."

"I'm gonna miss you while your gone."

"I'll miss you too."

"Please be careful!"

"Hey.. you'd better tell that to the airline-pilots and the taxi-cab drivers!"

"Well.. Washington D.C. is a pretty dangerous place. Just be sure and take care of yourself."

"I will."

"You know.. I don't want to lose my best-friend."

"I'll be careful."

"Luv'-ya' lots.. Call me if you can."

"Okay kiddo.. Take care of yourself too.. and that little one.. Luv'-ya' too."

After securing Martha's home-address from an OR-secretary, Jake grabbed his briefcase containing airline-ticket, hotel-reservation, and lecture notes, hurried expeditiously through the hospital-corridor, and left by way of a side-entrance. While walking briskly across the parking-lot, his attention was drawn to a sparkling-silver Rolls-Royce, presently taking a turn to conspicuously exploit his suddenly popular parking-space.

A fully-outfitted maid cordially greeted Jake at the massive entrance to Martha's adobe and directed him to wait in the foyer, just inside the doorway. While the lady-of-the-house was summoned, he ogled in awe at the polished-marble floor under his feet and the enormous size of the place, more fittingly called a mansion. For the first time, he appreciated just how successful and powerful Martha's husband, Howard, really was. His facial expression blanched at how different her life away from the hospital was, compared to the mundane existence he shared with her in the OR.

Fidgeting and awkwardly out of place inside the Crane residence, Jake gathered that he should leave; just then, Martha emerged at the top of a towering staircase. From his vantage point, decked out in a casual but classy, loose-fitting, silken jumpsuit, she appeared entirely at home in that colossal place. She had obviously been blubbering, though, and made little attempt to conceal her emotional upset.

"You shouldn't have come here!"

"Martha.. We need to talk!"

Quickly descending the stairs, she nabbed his arm and hustled him noisily across the entry-foyer, into the privacy of her husband's spacious study.

"I have something I need to say to you!.. What happened last night was totally my responsibility! I am so sorry.. I was the one who..."

"Don't!!..."

She positioned her hand aloft to stop him.

"Don't say another word!!.. I have been in love with you for a very long time!.. What happened last night was something I have wanted to happen, for as long as I can remember!.. You have done nothing to apologize for!.. It was a night I'll treasure for the rest of my life."

Once again that day, Jake's intended pose had been rudely intercepted. Impulsively approaching her side, he was drawn into the impelling tincture of her eyes, as he gently brushed aside a singular teardrop teetering from atop her cheek. From that moment on, his ultimate surrender, finally and fully, to the previously unreachable, but presently irresistible, macrocosm of life with a mate at his side was foreordained; Jake desperately craved the incomparable experience of a journey into boundless affection, complete with all of its rightful offerings.

He had worked side-by-side with that woman for years, often resting his arm or hand gently upon hers, their hearts and souls usually not more than a foot, frequently only inches apart, for hours at a time. Totally engrossed in his work, he had never taken the time to realize what was propounding within; unbelievably, in just a few brief hours, everything was cast so different. Softly palpating the side of her forehead and temple, he ineptly swallowed several times, as evermore intimately consumed by those cherished peepers of recent, he essayed to find the perfect utterance.

"I think maybe I'm falling in love with you.. too!"

Tears swelled in the near corners of Jake's eyes, as he positioned his arms around her waist. Embracing her firmly, he was rapidly losing face to the captivating magic of an impractical amour, accidently unearthed in a long-time professional acquaintance.

After a few moments though, his expressions of fondness began to stammer and tremble, gnawed by a hidden concern.

"Martha.. I need to ask you something.. What about.. what about your.. I find it so very difficult to come between you and your.. between you and..."

"No!"

Martha immediately interceded.

"I've been thinking about this for some time. I haven't been in love with my husband for several years.. As I told you on the phone, I'm leaving Howard."

Martha paused momentarily to reclaim the upper-hand and the assumption of responsibility; from experience, she knew that she had to exonerate her esteemed doctor's gravid onus.

"I've already decided.. I'm going to go home to my parents.. I need to be away from here for a while.. Once I am gone, I'm sure things will settle back down for you, and you'll be able to get your life back to normal."

"I doubt it..."

Jake refused to let her or his self-obloquies disappear that easy.

"I think I've been suspended."

"What?!.. Why??.. Over what happened last night?"

Martha's frown was wieldy.

"I thought Massitor was doing fine!"

"He is."

"Then I'm confused.. Why have you been suspended?"

"I'm not sure.. Apparently Chad Brickle wants a piece of my ass.

"Wait a minute!.. We both know that the boss would never give in that easy to administration!!"

"I agree with you.. but from what I can gather, he got a major dose of crap about what happened yesterday from good-olde David Hudley.. I have a notion something snide is going on behind the scenes, but I haven't been able to get to Hudley to find out what-in-the-hell he's up to."

Martha sensuously brushed Jake's hair, in support.

"You don't have anything to worry about.. You're one of the finest neurosurgeons in the world, and I'm sure everything will work out in the end. Everyone at the university is aware of your special skills.. and everybody respects your dedication."

Jake wasn't about to be appeased by Martha's commendations, as his vigor had taken firm root inside her heart.

"I don't want you to leave!"

He squeezed her even more tenaciously; but resisting, she immediately pushed him away.

"Jake, I don't expect you to return what I'm feeling. I know how much of a caring person you are. You see me right now as someone who needs to be loved. You don't have to do this!.. I'll always respect you and cherish our time together.. no matter what!"

With a final, embellished plea, Martha was adamant to get the full-extent of her feelings across.

"Your career is awful important to lots of people. Think of all the individuals you have helped over the years.. and all of the tremendous things you are capable of doing in the future. You have a very special gift.. and we must do whatever it takes to protect that."

Needing to avoid further chummy eye-contact, Martha receded further from Jake's side.

"I'll be okay.. I'll write you when I get back home and let you know how things are going."

Standing mute and apart from her as his solid fix on their relationship was suddenly being sundered, Jake began to second-guess himself; perhaps some of what he was hearing was right on-target. With a pensive gaze into space, his mind rushed through her words, desperate to uncover a flaw.

"Okay, up to that point in his life, he had, indeed, invested most of his emotive energy into the practice of medicine; what's more, in the process he really had gotten very good at putting his feelings at the end of the line--so much so, in fact, that the only real satisfaction he had come to expect from life was that inherently coupled to caring for the needs of others. And yes, nearly all of the noteworthy accomplishments in his life had somehow been connected with a betterment of the fate of others--quite a remarkable accomplishment; hence, maybe her thoughts did make perfect sense."

Slowly but progressively turning his back on Martha as his thoughts processes zoomed down familiar paths, Jake'scingulum again fell victim to that peculiar, masochistic. reverberating response of his to any dilemma.

"So, she was right about him after all; in the end, it wasn't a bad idea for both of them to give the whole sordid affair some added thought. Obviously, that unparalleled ability of theirs to tenaciously control underlying feelings had permitted him to become a highly acclaimed surgeon and her a successful OR nurse; in addition, maybe what she was really intending to get across was that 'SHE' needed more time to figure things out. Okay then, in the final analysis it was really a very easy decision--he would quietly back away, and do it all for 'HER!'"

Still facing his insightful nurse's back-side and not chancing another sentimental exchange between them, Jake turned, somewhat indecisively, and quickly retraced his steps back to the plush entry-foyer. Having been challenged by her comments, his almighty-will had resolved, quite properly, that a clean retreat was what that pure and kind-hearted woman, and the world around expected of him. Notwithstanding, as he pushed the weighty front-door open and prepared to extend a weak-kneed leg through it, abruptly he hesitated, halted by his longstanding, untamed feelings for one very special person.

His oldest and closest friend, along with that fiance of his, had come to Switzerland to enjoy a brief holiday sojourn, while their host was finishing up his post-graduate studies. Working his way through night-school, Ben, only a couple of months his junior, had just completed his graduate-training with a doctorate in Biomedical-Engineering. Growing up in the same neighborhood, they had gone to the same schools and played on many of the same teams as kids; ergo, from that time on the two of them had maintained an especially-tight comradery.

She was Ben's childhood sweetheart, and kindred were wholeheartedly thrilled at their recent promise to marry; even remote acquaintances could envision for Ben and his bride a life filled with great happiness and joy. Wholly possessed by a lengthy residency program and the smothering memory of a bereft college sweetheart, the almost fully-trained neurosurgeon had, over the years, forsaken nearly every opportunity to really get to know anyone of the opposite sex. Hence, in no way had he expected to be drawn so magnetically to that betrothed--especially since she was engaged to his life-long best-friend.

Under starry skies that weekend, as they repeatedly chatted into the wee hours of the night, the sails of two gently-swaying ships were thrust into unchartered waters by the immeasurable tenderness of a perfect intermingling of deep-rooted interests, unspoken wonders, and heartfelt concerns. To his consternation, he soon found himself incurably charmed by Ben's gal, whom he found to be playful and outgoing but mysterically private, wondrously happy-go-lucky yet ultimately decisive, and attractively petite in stature while powerfully persuasive in nature. Even through the bedraggled telescope of an obdurate land-lover, she provided him a glimpse of divine sensual paradise--that undeniable place of unending, arousing enchantment.

During the epoch of their visit, it had become very clear to him that kind and gentle Ben, his fondest acquaintance, was the one rightfully betrothed to her; ideally suited for each other, the two of them openly enjoyed many common interests and tender moments. Hence, his rectitude had permitted only one possible solution for him to commit to--he immediately anointed himself a trustworthy ally to his soon-to-be espoused best-friends--and Jeanne responded with amorously warmhearted but delineated feelings; through the years, they had faithfully abided as mutually-admired confidants.

Lagging at Martha's doorstep, Jake winched with heart-wrenching anxiety and distress--tantamount to that he had ensconced so often apart from his bosom-buddy. The timeless quagmire that had for years restrained the essential craving of his human-existence--that he somehow find a pinnacle grand enough to allow his emotions to be stimulated and his appreciation for living thrilled as much as it was when he was with Jeanne--was rapidly desiccating. A gentle breeze--like that felt drifting across the foothills of western Switzerland that late spring so long ago--all at once denied him permission to seek continued refuge in medicine from rousing passion. An intense need to have affection in his life--each and every day--had suddenly been promulgated by the obliged but cruel limits of a lifelong amour with his best-friend's wife.

Straight off, Jake ceased his withdrawal, turned back around sharply, and marched briskly across the solemn marble-floor. As he re-entered the walnut bookcase-clad chamber, Martha concurrently whirled, and towards each other they advanced with ever-more raking steps.

"Martha!! I need your love in my life!"

"Oh Jake!!"

They embraced and Jake smacked the lips that he had shared for so many years with an impermeable mask.

"Finish packing!"

Jake spoke assuredly, as his ego had been granted permission to scheme a solo-journey into the unparalleled demesne of a man seeking love.

"How 'bout I drive you to the airport!"

As a hailed brain-surgeon and a top-notch operating-room nurse waltzed hand-in-arm through a crowded and noisy terminal, they stopped ever so often along the busy concourse to envisage the glamorous destinations sported by a succession of departing-gates. Laughing heartily and escaping into the souls of each other while strolling along, the two earthly travelers, along with their newfangled happiness and joy, mesmerized passerbyers--who were drawn to the bubbling enthusiasm and simmering passion so obvious in their every interaction. Under the guise of distinct rationalizations, but still in unison, Jake and Martha dreamed to visit, even if just for a short while, an altogether romantic place--one that was emancipated and unadulterated. Though neither of them could thoroughly reject the hollowness of their desires, for the moment both refused, no matter cost of the perilous journey ahead, to be denied the other's company.

Death of a Healer

Chapter 5

! CHAPTER FIVE

I have weighed in a nice and scrupulous balance whether it be better to serve men or to be praised by them, and I'd prefer the former.

Thomas Sydenham. (1624-89)

As he reminisced about the stately residence that he'd toured as a wide-eyed grade-schooler, Jake exchanged broad smiles and friendly salutations with idealized medical-giants, many of whom over the years he had successfully emulated, much to the university hierarchy's satisfaction. The formal dining-hall at the White House was packed with two dozen of the top surgeons from around the country and guests. Despite the wealth of ostensibly-merited attention cast his way, Jake remained genuine and utilitarian, shrugging with each prejudicial byword not to be herded very far from his well-grounded element. Between repeated courteous handshakes, he magnetically redirected integral attention towards the pretty buttress on his left. Fluffing a formal, black bow-tie, he surmised that somehow that bewitching presence at his side made even a stiff tuxedo a whole lot more comfortable.

In cahoots with the clamor of presidential china, bearing cherry-cheesecake smothered in dark chocolate, the Commander-in-Chief arose from his pedestal position at the head-of-the-table, as the chatter in the room spontaneously dissipated into a respectful hush.

"Ladies and gentlemen.. It is my special privilege this evening.. to welcome each and everyone of you to the White House. It is certainly an honor for me to be in the presence of what may very well be the finest group of surgeons ever assembled.. Your accomplishments occupy sundry volumes. Let me personally express to each of you, my deepest appreciation for your willingness to take the time.. and to put forth the extra-effort.. to help assure a salubrious future for the medical-profession in the United States!"

All eyes in the room were fixated upon the most powerful man-on-earth as he spoke.

"I know your consensual report is based on many hours of meetings and deliberations. Let me assure all of you that your ideas will go a long way towards assisting this administration.. as an innovative reformation-plan for the entire healthcare-profession is developed.. After reviewing your list of key-recommendations, I was impressed most by the compassion so evident in your willingness to support.. on behalf of your profession.. all of the dramatic pecuniary sacrifices proposed by this administration.. in order to preserve the profession's time-honored and privileged status.. Please accept my heartfelt thanks and profound tribute for all of your efforts!"

Jake hoped his nervous fidgeting was unnoticed by those around him.

"Over the past several months I have had.. and over the next few months I look forward to.. the opportunity to meet privately with many of our era's healthcare-leaders and innovators.. including, I hope most of you present this evening! Totally committed as I am to a better healthcare-system in this country, I especially look forward to your presentations tomorrow morning, before the special congressional-committee!"

As he listened to the President's embellishing acclaim, Jake trifled with his silverware, quite uncomfortable with all the transparent notoriety, as he saw it, being tactically handed-out. Sensing his uneasiness, Martha reached beneath the table, firmly clasped his hand, and smiled reassuringly. As he gazed at his umbrage hovering inside those sorcerous irides, Jake realized just how soothing it was to have someone supportive at his side. Leaning her way, he bestowed a private plaudit.

"You know.. as I sit here tonight, I can't help but think that you.. and many others who flourish behind the scenes.. deserve a large part of the credit for the timeless capacity of medicine in this country to bestow such unequalled commiseration upon its partakers.. and at the same time such unparallel gratification upon its very fortunate practitioners..."

Jake ceased his discourse beneath an uncontrollable chuckle.

"Wow!.. Where did that come from?!.. It must be contagious!.. I'm beginning to sound like a real-life politician!!..."

Martha shared his spontaneous giggle.

"Anyway.. Without the help and support of dedicated nurses like yourself.. most of what we physicians have accomplished over the years would never have been possible.. I think those who are formulating plans for the healthcare-system of the future would do well to listen, very carefully, to what you and many of your colleagues have to say!..."

Much more at ease passing out praise, Jake sweetly pecked her cheek.

"Thanks for being one of the pillars that has sustained my success for so many years!"

"Ladies and gentlemen.. I would also like to add..."

The presidential pledges continued.

"I know of no generation of American physicians who have contributed more to medical science worldwide.. than the present day. To recognize dedication of this degree, I recently sent Congress a bill to establish a special annual-award.. complete with stipend.. for excellence in health-professions technology.. Perhaps our first recipient is present with us this evening!"

Jake rolled his eyes at the farcical notion of a politician's accolade for singular excellence in medical-research; he could even picture a few of the high-powered nerds at the N.I.H. knocking each other down to be first in line for an elegant Presidential Medallion, complete with engraved caduceus--scaly reptile and all. Jostling his chair away from the table a bit to tiresomely stretch-out his legs, he shared another grin with Martha over the "Air Jordan" insignia on the sides of his preferred footwear.

He was his classmates' idol at Jesuit University High. Possessing all-american looks and an all-universe body, the four-year starter on undefeated football, basketball, and baseball teams always seemed to have a gorgeous babe at his side; and with nothing but straight-A's, the senior-class president appeared to hold the world in the palms of his hands. What a great hero he was to those schoolmates who were too scrawny to make any of the teams and/or too resigned for leadership, and who were forced, as a result, to live out their dreams as mere spectators.

The ovations and chants were nearly deafening in the venerable, painted brick gymnasium. The Junior-Bilikens were playing the hated Statesmen from Webster Groves High for the sectional-championship and the right to go to yet another final-four; a "W" and the "Bills" were, once again, on the road to State. His partisans hadn't missed a game all season; and that night was the culmination of all their efforts. As always, they imaginatively embroidered their super-hero's every move, gasping and grunting with his near-misses and high-fiving his successes. Strikingly hoarse by the end of the fourth-quarter, it was amazing to the players on the floor that their supporters still scream so loudly.

The scoreboard had vacillated back-and-forth throughout the game, neither team trailing by more than a couple of buckets at any point. The tension level in the stands had been snowballing as each quarter, each minute, and then each second passed-away on the clock. The centigrades of excitement inside the gym could not have been more of a contrast to the icy stillness of the two feet of pure-white crystals, being deposited outside that late February evening.

With a scant 30-seconds to play, the tally was even; thankfully the home-team was holding the ball for one last shot.

Staring maliciously at the defense from the head of the key, a skinny point-guard repetitively pounded the leather-sphere; it hit the hardwood and returned to his hand in one slick-and-easy motion. At the same time, cautious defenders were gracefully squatting off the balls of their feet, prepared to spring up in a split-second, in response to the first flinch of the flashy floor-leader.

As the sound of the dribble repetitively echoed off the time-worn rafters and the overhead time-piece ticked down to ten-seconds, the play-maker raised his unoccupied mit, and with two outstretched fingers, signaled a play. Almost immediately behind that message, a tandem of players sporting home-team jerseys dashed from inside the paint to the three-point line; the echo of the bouncing ball faded beneath the loud-screeching of Nike Air's against polished hardwood. At the same instant, the all-time leading-scorer on that court boldly seized control of "his" post. Vigorously he shoved against his hefty defender, forcing him to hug his backside; most every muscle strained in his massive, exposed upper-torso as shiny sweat-droplets appeared between macho veins.

At that moment the ball-handler's secret request for a double-pick became apparent; his surprised defender, out of position and panicking, screamed for help. In concert, the ace's defender slid gallantly across the paint to close the open-lane; in response, the driving point-guard passed the object of attention into the fully-outstretched and widely-open hands of the impatiently awaiting all-star.

As the oversized rim-destroyer clamped onto the ball, he spun aggressively towards the goal, his tensed facial-muscles casting the impression that they would permanently scarify any mortal in his way. His rubber foot-grips actually seemed to blast-off from the court, enabling his lighter-than-air body to thrust upward and propel a long, extended arm well-above the rim; the lusty vault was designed for his faithful following--to anoint that terminal dunk with an emphatic, windmill-like motion. As hand and attached-ball swept ever nearer the brim, all watching were gripped by an anticipation of sure victory.

Observing that distasteful endeavor, however, but displaced across the key, his stout but mobile defender quickly detected a clearing to the basket and immediately leaped in a bold and open-handed attempt to stop the unsavory deed. Unbelievable as it was to those watching, the agile defender's nifty move somehow swiped the ball from their high-flier's grasp; and like the sudden stillness that dramatically follows a sonic-boom, at that moment, the entire gym was silenced.

But then, without delay, the loud shrill of a referee's blow and the incriminating elevation of his wing restored the noise to a critical level; the MVP was to shoot a pair of free-throws.

With zeroes showing on the clock, the kingpin was led to the stripe; with the court vacated, he was presented the burnished orb. As he prepared for one more dramatic winning-shot, the reverberating roar in the old-barn progressively diminished to a deafening silence. As they stood on the seats of the wooden-bleachers with fists clenched, the spectators were afraid to watch, but too anxious not to behold. As the team-captain spun the projectile from his cupped and out-stretched right-hand, anticipation reached the level of explosiveness; everyone knew that the top-gun "NEVER" missed a free-throw.

The loud clunk of the ball off the front of the rim induced contagious heart-flutter in the audience, and sent an icy-chill up, and then down, the star's cocky spine. All present were terrified at what it must be like to be standing in those shoes at that moment; the weight of the whole world was hanging on his every movement.

The big-dog retreated a few steps from the line to collect his thoughts. Uncharacteristically tentative, he surveyed the assemblage, as though he could somehow energize his final shot by the enthusiasm in the auditorium; and out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Pattie Robert's heart-stopping glow. Her right leg amputated in a soon-to-be fatal fight against bone-cancer, from her courtside wheelchair that bald class-mate had boldly joined the chorus of cheers. He wanted to jump into the air with fist held high to acknowledge her courage, but it wasn't quite his time; still and all, as he winked at his glitzy, grade-school crush, that indiscernible dread was gone; he knew that final shot would be his best.

Confidently, he squared himself as the leather-sphere was tendered. Three steady bounces and spins in his hands and it was off; rotation and trajectory were flawless. The over-anticipated swish set off a tumultuous ovation and joyous celebration that touched the hearts of all those present.

To those seated in front, the spontaneous and overwhelming applause was intimidating. Almost apologetically, Jake rose from his seat with the others to acknowledge the President's remarks.

As the Commander-in-Chief handed out a smattering of personal comments to those around him, Jake's rubbernecking eyes met Martha's, and he grinned with a bedeviled glow that reflected his sorcerous strategy--the occasion that evening was destined to be one of those rare, spontaneous moments in life when a true visionary is christened. To his way of thinking, it really didn't matter that those in the room were among the most educated in the world; to a man they too needed a renewed sense of purpose, and desperately. As he had canvased the room, the poorly concealed pessimism so evident in the eyes of his cohorts had decidedly influenced him to pursue an assumed heroic legacy--adamantly and regardless of practical obstacles.

In junior-high, he had aspired to be selected chief of the crossing-patrol; instead a much-less responsible schoolmate was hand-picked for the job. One cold and dreary Monday morning in January, a primary-grader was struck and slightly injured while crossing the highway in front of school; it turned out that the patrol-guard scheduled for duty that morning had, once again, been tardy. As a result of that untoward occurrence, in addition to other prevarications, the chief of the patrol was summarily dismissed; and the budding leader who had originally craved the job was finally appointed by the waxy principal, Sr. David Ann, to assume those duties.

The self-envisioned mugwump welcomed the responsibility with open arms, recognizing that under prior leadership his classmates had come to regard the previously esteemed crossing-patrol as nothing but a big joke. Undaunted, he wholeheartedly took it upon himself to evince integrity and reliability; and for those in his charge, he unwaveringly insisted that at every cross-walk an assigned crossing-guard be present each morning and afternoon, on time.

Over just a few short months, under his leadership, an amazing transformation occurred. An urgent sense of duty, responsibility, and pride was imparted to all those participating, such that before too long, membership in the crossing-patrol was again regarded as a distinct honor and privilege.

Suddenly arresting the colloquy, Jake blurted in the direction of the President.

"Mr. President, as a member of your Select-Commission, I salute those in policy-making positions.. like yourself.. who truly support fundamental change in the health-professions.. the kind of change rooted not just in the present, politically favorable push towards fiscal control.. but in the less popular notion that each and every American has a vital right to access excellent quality health-care. I want to assure you that I for one will continue to speak out against those who preach to us from their own special-interest pulpits. I would personally like to thank you.. and the rest of you administration.. for your present and future active support in this!"

Nodding politely to those around him to absolve his impulsive and incommodious outburst, Jake sheepishly returned to his seat. Momentarily he dithered with his head down-cast; but then, he happened to eye-ball his place-setting. On cue, his face returned erect with a puzzled look at the rapturous abbreviation his companion had clandestinely inscribed on a white-linen napkin.

"I×A×E×J×L×Y."

Martha's winnowing in his ear dispersed any waning disquietude.

"I Always Especially Just Love You!"

Jake beamed and took her hand into his. He bent over and very close to her pearled auricle, whispered so that only she could hear.

"I really do love you too!"

Surprising even himself with his revived aplomb, Jake rose from his chair again, strode to the head of the table, and firmly and assuredly shook the right-hand of the President of the United States. Martha's eyes moistened as she shared in her escort's outspoken sentiments. As she basked in that moment, everything in her life suddenly seemed so clear; right-next to her was what she had wanted in her life for such a long time, but had refused herself the privilege of even considering. Martha's conclusion was swift and unalterable--her life would never be complete and fulfilled with all that a woman could possibly want, without that particular guy beside her, always. If she was forever to be happy, then "THAT" man must be an intimate part of her everyday life.

In transit to their hotel in Georgetown that evening, Jake propositioned a Jamaican-accented limousine driver to follow the scenic-route, along the banks of the Potomac River. The reflections of a full-moon upon George Washington's favorite sluice confounded by a faint evening-breeze ushered in from Chesapeake Bay--together conspired to produce an aura of resounding tranquility and sublimity.

With a desperate wing around his newfound surety, Jake took a few shallow-breaths to combat a gripping uncertainty--such a wonderfully divine moment--so profound and intimating--how could it possibly be shared with someone other than Jeanne???

Totally in love with that feeling of attachment, he put his arm even tighter around the woman at his side as his heart spoke.

"I can't believe what's happening to me.. I think I could get easily attached to this."

Jake's spunk was wide-open and pouring forth.

"It's so amazing.. I've been searching for something.. nearly my entire life.. Yet, until 24 hours ago, I never realized how close it was all the time!.. And now that I've found it, I don't think I can let it go. If someone would have asked me only a few days ago, who I was.. I would have responded 'just an ordinary brain-surgeon.. nothing more.. nothing less'.. Now, literally overnight, everything's different.. I have changed so very much.. Incredibly, I have become the one man on the face of the earth, who is fortunate enough to be loved.. by a truly wonderful woman!"

Martha beamed in a way that Jake had never imagined possible. She embraced him, and they kissed under a twinklingD.C. skyline, unabridged by a multitude of shooting-stars.

At that moment, Martha abandoned all concern about the tenuousness of a journey with a genuine ideologue--a guy who was willing and ready to commit to any number of life's challenging endeavors that might come calling. Dismissing any lingering notion that a conjunct walk with that captivating, but hopelessly committed, caretaker might not be possible, she exposed, for the man at her side to behold, the exhilaration and ultimate joy of a woman who had finally reached the pinnacle of her life.

Upon arrival at their hotel, as he punched the elevator-button for his escort's floor, Jake intellectualized that he should safeguard the sanctity and privacy of her bed. Still pondering, he attempted, ineptly, to slip her card-key with one hand into its slot on the door-handle to her room; after several awkward attempts, the door finally clicked-open.

Taking his newfound beloved into his arms, Jake once again embraced her with the passion and intimacy that he had previously permitted himself to display only for his profession. Her warm and gentle touch and the supernatural glow in her eyes quickly softened any lingering resistance in his dogged conscience. After a few moments, he pushed the door to her room wide-open with his elbow, and with his arms still entwined around her, adeptly slipped the two of them inside.

While kissing lasciviously, clutching lustfully, and entangling ruttishly, Jake unzipped Martha's tight-fitting, full-length black dress, as she concurrently yanked his tuxedo-coat, fancy vest, and formal cummerbund from his willing torso. Her restrained breasts against his frenzied chest incensed him to the majesty and immeasurable beauty of a witting consort.

Withdrawing from her embrace, momentarily, and retreating a step, he peered intently at her, as he unbuttoned and removed his shirt and trousers, flinging them aside like needless obstacles. Hastily and without wasted motion, he returned to her side, and after lifting her mightily into his arms, whisked her full-tilt into bed.

They made love repeatedly, dismissing all sense of time between unending orgasms. Dispersed among excitations and images of Jeanne, he held her close to him, massaging virtually every section of her body. In the end, she slumbered her head on his thorax, listening to the forceful thumping of his libidinous heart.

Awakening to the cognizance of a bedside-clock, Jake was amazed that it was already nearly 5:00 a.m. He recalled so often glancing past his scrub-nurse at the clock in the operating-room after a difficult case and wondering where the hours had gone. He had no desire to shorten his senses that night, though; it had been an evening to live over-and-over-again in his dreams. Jason Paul Gibson M.D. happily continued his long-awaited journey in a state of exhilaration, satisfaction, and near absolute fulfillment, as he slowly drifted towards his chimera.

It was the bottom of the ninth; there were already two outs. The Twins were in an unusual September pennant-drive and desperately needed to string together a few more victories, to stay on top of the American-League Central-Division. Boston was up by two, but Kirby had just doubled and Gaeti walked, putting men on every base. By then well into his mid-thirties, the Doc played only home-games due to a very demanding schedule--one that included not only his surgical-practice, but also his job as special, health-professions consultant to Congress and the President.

The announcer's syllables echoed throughout the stadium.

"Now batting for the Twins... Doooc Giiiibson!"

As he strolled to the plate, the place spontaneously erupted into tumultuous applause. All present in the stands impulsively rose to their feet in a massive, communal display of lusty anticipation and monumental excitement. Expectations were high, and why not; up till then, he had always delivered.

Too slow afoot to play the field, he was used exclusively as a pinch-hitter, mostly in the late evenings. He had been to bat in that situation many times before, and nearly every time he'd found a way to get a key hit. He was the only player in the history of baseball who had never made the final out in a game, not once. In fact, the first 50 times he'd come to bat that season, he had gotten a hit; as a consequence, if they could, the opposing pitchers mostly walked him every time they faced him.

With the same confidence and assurance he displayed in clipping aneurysms and taking out deep-rooted tumors, he strode to the plate, carnally fondling the big stick in his hands. As he glanced around at the fifty-thousand plus, screaming-fans, filling the upper-decks, the first Metrodome pennant in nearly 30-years seemed almost too-good-to-be-true. Without so much as a flinch, he positioned himself into the batter's-box and prepared to do battle. He figured he wouldn't get anything close to a strike to hit; so he would have to pick-out one that was in the vicinity of the plate and sting it.

The first three pitches intentionally bounced in the dirt, way outside the strike-zone. Clearly the visitors were going to give up a run in place of taking the chance that one swing would beat them. Snarling at the mound, he really didn't care for another walk; so purposefully, he took wild whacks at the next two wide dirt-balls, to make it a full-count. As he waited for the final delivery, he debated with himself whether the Bean-Towners would send another one low and outside, or would they try to sneak a fast-one by him on the inside-corner?

Defiantly, he spat a huge wad onto home-plate; then, boldly he pointed in the direction of Homer's Landing, and with a snarl, threateningly tightened his grasp of the signature Louisville Slugger. The ultimate parochial challenge had been issued. Could any respectable New-Englander give a free pass to a scrubby midwest outlander taunting him from 90-feet with a piece of polished Adirondack lumber in his hands?

Not surprisingly, the next pitch was a 100 mile-per-hour plus, hard-slider, that started over the middle of the plate and then whirled rapidly towards his fists, hanging just over the inside portion of the plate. His initial left knee and hip movements were balanced to keep his head-straight and his hands-back. Promptly, his shoulders dictated an arc to his arms and wrists, which led the bat-head to fling in an accelerating-vector towards the rapidly advancing leather-sphere. His eyes focused intently, he perceived every rotation of "Mr. Rawlings," whom he jarringly addressed just before his arrival at the platter. The resounding crack of the ball on the bat implied to all that the missile would fly long and far; but would it stay fair?

After completing his swing and follow-through, he followed the trajectory of the white-laced sphere, a slowly rising rocket-blast line-drive. As the other runners advanced, he momentarily stalled behind homeplate. Zeroing-in on the ball, wildly flinging his arms, and leaning in towards fair-territory, he did everything he could to alter its flight-plan. Then, just as the clobbered ball clanged off the foul-pole, he raised his arms jubilantly and began a hero's leisurely trek around the bases.

Incredibly, as he was about to stomp triumphantly on homeplate, his beeper alerted him to the next challenge. ThePrime-Minister of Great Britain was calling; the Queen had a seemingly inoperable-tumor that had invaded and was compressing the upper-portion of her brain-stem.

As he glanced at the complicated series of films, in preparation for the perilous procedure, he calculated that he would have just enough time after finishing the surgery to jet back to Washington, in order to meet with the President that evening, as scheduled. Apparently, there was an important issue relating to international arms and human-resources that the President desperately wanted to discuss with him; AirForce One had even been dispatched and was standing by, in wait for him.

The delicate operation was being televised via satellite to medical-centers around the world. Without even breaking a sweat, he was able to completely remove the infiltrating lesion; miraculously, the Head-of-State was already discharged and on her way back to Buckingham Palace within the hour.

As he relaxed in the bowels of AirForce-One, he spoke via video-phone with a group of neurosurgeons from Japan, who were trying to figure out what to do for a renowned sumo-wrestler with a broken neck and severed spinal-cord. He instructed them on his techniques for proper repair, and guided them via interactive video-display as to how to accomplish this.

His proposal to form an international governing-body that would regulate worldwide food-production, arms capabilities, the availability of healthcare, and the distribution of other vital global-resources was in the final-stages of United-Nations implementation. Within a few months, nearly all threats of famine, war, and disease would, for all practical purposes, be eliminated from the face-of-the-Earth. The President had some last minute concerns about how the plan could best be politicized.

"I'd like you to do an interhemispheric broadcast and personally lay out the substance of your ideas to all the leaders of the world."

"For what time has this been planned?"

Fingering inside his jacket for that omnipresent electronic-gadget, he felt obliged to check his schedule, to exclude any other conflicting commitment. Suddenly though, the dark-grey, pocket-sized device began to emit a very annoying, beeping sound.

"The presentation is planned for 9 a.m.-sharp.. tomorrow. It's vital that you be present on time!"

Blindly he struggled to palpate the off-button on the darned thing as he tried to devote full attention to his conversation with the Prez; all the while, that persistent, mesmerizing noise embarrassed and frustrated him. Eventually, he was forced to align his eyes squarely on the source of the repetitive shrill.

"Oh my God!!.. It's nearly 8:30!"

Jake completely startled Martha as he leaped from beneath their cozy sheets, scampered to collect his dispersed duds, and scurried for the door. Awakened at once by the turmoil, Martha bent over to disarm the thrumming alarm-clock; then, wrapping herself in the displaced bedspread, she trailed her excited bed-partner to the open-door, all the while beaming indomitably.

Wearing only his unfastened trousers, Jake had already bolted into the hallway and was speedily galloping down the empty corridor toward the elevator, all the while yelling back at his newfound sweetheart.

"We're gonna be late!.. I'm supposed to be in the House chamber by 9 o'clock! We need to be on the road in 5minutes!!.. By the way.. it was really wonderful to spend the night with you!!"

As he rampaged through a thrown-open suitcase to retrieve appropriate items of adornment, Jake's attention was momentarily captured by an admonishing, yellow message-light, repeatedly flashing on his room-telephone. Feeling more than a little concerned that the registered-guest in that room had, unexplainably, been unavailable for the entire night, and that perhaps a certain pregnant friend had called with exciting news, he could only frown on himself, as he hurriedly completed his toiletries and dashed back in the direction of Martha's room. Just as he turned the corner, she appeared at her portal, composed and looking as though she had devoted hours to dressing and pruning.

Grabbing her hand, Jake hoped to entice a transfusion of at least an inkling of necessitous relaxation.

"You always look so darned good!.. How do you do it?"

Martha only beamed and reached over to leave a lipstick smudge on his cheek.

They arrived by speeding-taxi at the Capitol building with only a minute or two to spare and were scurried into the stately House-Committee chamber, where the chairman was about to pound the formal-session into order. As he glanced around, somewhat sheepishly, at the crowd gathered, Jake was astounded by the nerve-wracking number of reporters, microphones, and television-cameras in place.

"Mr. Gibson.. the professor will see you now."

Nervously bouncing a knee as he waited for his interview, the chemistry-major had serious doubts that he really belonged at Harvard Medical School. Professor Vallee Doisy, world-renowned philosopher and cardio-physiologist, was almost always, according to perspective students, notoriously volatile in his student interviews. He repositioned his plaid tie and primped in the office-door glass, peppered with frog and bat decals, before he knocked.

"Please come in.. Sit down, Mr. Gibson..."

He shook the Nobel-prize winner's hand respectfully, as he timidly glanced at the scientific-giant seated in front of him. Repetitiously swallowing to calm the undulating bag-of-worms in his gut, the kid from Minnesota fought furiously to relax and to somehow sound knowledgeable and confident.

For the next hour and three-quarters, he danced his way through a barrage of questions covering the spectrum of science, all the way from the molecular formulae for certain common organic substances to the basic physics of sound. Throughout the interview, Dr. Doisy gave no indication as to his interpretation of the interviewee's responses.

For some reason, though, as they finished, the pre-med student was absolutely certain that he had aced the important interaction. In fact, he made arrangements to sublet a convenient Cambridge apartment, and even prepared a letter-of-refusal for several somewhat less-acclaimed midwestern schools to which he had already been accepted. Boy-oh-boy, was he caught off guard a few months later when he received a letter of rejection from Harvard, accompanied by a captious personal-note from Professor Doisy.

Jake followed Martha with his eyes as she was escorted to a hinder-section of the gallery; he then proceeded up-front to assume a position at a lengthy table in the lime-light, along with the rest of the delegation. Placing his leather briefcase atop the mahogany, he snapped the latches, popped the top, and glanced inside, anxious to retrieve his notes. Rummaging through numerous file-folders, he momentarily panicked, suspecting--quite accurately as it turned out--that all of his needed papers were parked, absent-mindedly, on a nightstand in his hotel-room. As he continued to search hopelessly but energetically, he was reminded of the delinquent homework excuses that a certain forgetful student had, not infrequently, employed for Father Hagan in secondary-school.

"My dumb old collie ate my paper!.. I left my assignment in the back-pocket of my blue-jeans, and my mom accidently washed them!.. My little sister had the stomach-flu last night and threw-up all over my report!.. I had my notes all laid out on the nightstand next to my bed so I could review them, but forgot them this morning because I was banging the bed-posts all night and I overslept!"

The chairman of the house-subcommittee, a well-known minority representative from Jake's home-state, opened the session.

"Members of the committee and invited guests. It is my special privilege to introduce the members of the special Health-Care Commission.. who are here today as guests of the President, to present their views on the state of American medicine..."

He proceeded in turn to introduce each of the commission-members, denoting highlights of their respective careers.

"Most of you are probably familiar with the career of Dr. Jason P. Gibson. He is the author of over 20 books and almost 200 professional papers. He has taught at nearly every major medical-center..."

"Except Harvard!"

Jake mused to himself.

"and operated on hundreds of prominent heads-of-state, political-leaders, entertainers, sports-celebrities, corporate leaders, and professional people.. from all around the world. I would like to add.. from a personal note.. he is a hero and a friend."

Jake rose from his seat to acknowledge the accolade.

At the conclusion of the introductory remarks, the floor was bequeathed to individual commission-members; Martha was not surprised when her escort, though still seated, jumped to the forefront.

"Mr. Chairman.. Like the other members of this commission, I am most appreciative of the very kind recognition that we have been afforded here this morning. Although quite honored, it is with a keen sense of urgency that I present to you my concerns about the future of our great discipline!..."

Jake was a bit surprised at how cursively the words came together, despite the uneasy atmosphere of nationwide surveillance. Even the irking absence of his notes seemed superfluous; great thoughts were gushing from his frontal-lobe grey-matter and flowing directly into the table-top microphone in front of him. "Ladies and gentleman.. We abide in an era in which the fundamental principles that sustain the profession of medicine are being severely threatened. At its inception, the practice of medicine was founded on the axiom that the provision of care for someone-in-need is among the most elementary of human instincts.. and an individual in-need's capability to be cared for, the most cardinal of human-rights!..."

As she listened, Martha sat in total awe.

"From the ancient time of Asclepius, those we call physicians have been afforded the privilege to safeguard this most wondrous of human undertakings. As most of us are aware, the last several decades have witnessed an unprecedented explosion in healthcare-related technology.. A product revolution that has dramatically improved and expanded our ability as health-professionals to elevate the standard-of-care. We can only marvel at the number of lives that have been saved by this myriad of miraculous advances.

At the same time, though, who among us can refute that these devices and fancy gadgets have altered.. or as some might even say.. mutated.. the current professional oath-of-medicine.. such that it currently reads 'dedicated to providing care for a price.' The capitalistic idiosyncrasies of modern technology have somehow been interposed into the very fabric of medical-care.. seemingly to irreversibly transform the acquisition of care from a right to a privilege.. and the delivery of care from a privilege to a right.. It seems today, more often than not, we hear 'How are you going to pay for this?'.. rather than 'How can I be of help?...'"

As Jake's words resounded throughout the baroque paneled room, Martha wondered what her husband would say if he were present.

"We must ask ourselves.. who is ultimately responsible for this blue-chip metamorphosis in medical-care??.. Are the instrument and equipment manufacturers whose huge profit-margins propel them each year to a higher spot on the list of the most profitable corporations in this country at fault?.. Or, how about the mammoth, unregulated, health-insurance industry and the closely-allied Health-Maintenance-Organizations, that invest far more time and effort into bottom-line subsistence than quality-assurance?.. As we are all aware, present coverage for many catastrophic but treatable conditions is frequently denied by these HMOs.. irrespective of a particular provider's experience or expertise in those situations to render high-quality care.. more often than not with proven results!

Then of course, let's not forget the profit-at-all-cost hospitals, the big national chains, and their newfangled alliances, that almost overnight have transformed themselves into monopolizing power-brokers, who ring up large cash surpluses in the buying and selling of patient-care?.. And what about our dutifully-elected public-officials and their government agencies, that respond for more readily to lobbyists and their own special-interests, than the plain-and-simple welfare of their constituents?.. Finally, last but certainly not least.. we must look hard-and-fast at healthcare-providers themselves.. particularly physicians.. who with a clear conscience, allow the practice of a career and the acquisition of a fortune to become one and the same.. Certainly in the game of medical-economics, many physicians have become not just willing participants, but leading proponents!..."

Martha couldn't help but take notice of a sudden whirlwind of raspy grumbling ascending from the commission-members' table.

"What's the most important issue facing American medicine today?.. I believe it's profitability!.. Imagine that starting tomorrow we were somehow able to discount the cost of providing medical-care by.. let's say 20-percent.. And let's just stipulate that this abatement was accomplished solely by a reduction in physician reimbursements.. Do you think for a moment that would lead to a corresponding overnight rebate in healthcare premiums?.. Do you really believe those savings would ever be passed on to consumers?.. Or looking at it another way, can you foresee any way that those dollars might be applied to the 20-percent or so of present-day under-privileged Americans who can't afford proper coverage?.. as a kind-hearted way of welcoming them into the same quality programs as everyone else?

I sincerely doubt that either of these would occur!.. I think everyone present in this room today is only too acutely aware of who invariably benefits from any kind of reduction in healthcare spending.. Prehensile bureaucracies have long been recognized by their insatiable appetites!!..."

Sensing that his duly-elected listeners towering up-front were doing quite a bit of shuffling about in their cushioned seats, with added emphasis Jake spread the wrath even further.

"Ladies and gentlemen.. Don't get me wrong!.. I am by no means passing-the-buck!.. The problem's not just with the bureaucracy and its administrators.. As I have previously stated, it is my firm belief that a great many providers themselves within our delivery-system.. irrespective of position.. have also adopted this sophistic viewpoint of medical economics.. They have taken the position that whatever their contributions be to the rendering of care.. they demand proportionate re-payment.. And by all rights are fully-deserving per the principles of supply and demand of whatever compensation possible.. even if it seems totally exorbitant..."

As Jake continued to deliver his needling message, Martha frowned over an unsettling notion that perhaps he was taking on too big a challenge. She knew only to well that many of the individuals and groups being singled out had, over the past several years, reaped monstrous financial-rewards, and as a result of their huge windfalls, had racked up formidable economic and political clout. From not-infrequent, lively discussions with Howard, she understood very keenly that most health-care capitalists accepted, without reservation, the premise that not only were they entitled to what they had already reaped, but they had every right to fight tooth-and-nail for even greater financial gains, regardless of any economic-crunch that might be heaped upon consumers, insurers, or even the delivery-system as a whole. Martha surmised that surely many individuals and corporations would be absolutely infuriated by Jake's very candid comments.

Seemingly unfazed, he continued.

"As a member of the President's Select-Commission on the State of Medical-Care, I am convinced that the future of medicine demands that we somehow restore its foundation of altruism.. and stop its economic erosion.. We must find a way to patch the deep cracks caused by misplaced numismatic concerns. To reach these goals, I have devised a short list of recommendations that I believe mandatory!

First.. Consumers must retain in-perpetuity the right to obtain the highest quality medical-care, regardless of ability to pay;

Second.. Practitioners must hold dear the special privilege of their professional calling.. As such, their compensation should be derived, exclusively, from the direct rendering of patient-care.. and at the same time, be quantitatively appropriate to the Oath of Hippocrates.

Third.. Those corporate entities involved in the business of providing health-services.. insurance, equipment, supplies, pharmaceuticals, man-power.. whatever.. They should be not-for-profit companies!.. We cannot permit the future of U.S. Healthcare to be bartered away on Wall-Street and sold to the highest bidder!"

As Jake concluded his remarks, Martha once again surveyed the room. She was not surprised to see that ,quite clearly, he had gained something-less than a consensus among his colleagues; continued murmuring among the members of the House Subcommittee seemed to underline their skepticism, as well, over his proposals. Fortunately, by their unsolicited plaudits, a few spectators in-attendance did appear to be drawn into the intended spirit of his comments.

As he yielded the floor to another commission-member, Jake was passed hand-written messages from Davon Claggett, the chairman of the House Subcommittee, and from the President himself.

As part of a med-school, senior-service project, he had organized an educational program for less-than-privileged, public education students. The program incorporated a handful of intelligent, but underachieving high-schoolers, who were to plan, prepare, and present a series of science-related lectures to groups of students of grade-school age. A skinny tenth-grader had been forced by his teacher to participate in the project as a result of failing grades; he was assigned the responsibility of visiting the local city-zoo and taking pictures of a variety of animals, later to be presented as slides to the primary-graders.

"Hey there smart old doctor duds!.. Never once before, in all them years of school'n has this here cool man been able to get hisself taken to a jive'n place like this!.. I kinda' like this here fun teachin' stuff!"

He could still picture the kid's reaction, as the two of them surveyed many of the zoo's inhabitants, his larger-than-life eyes gaping wide-open with particular excitement at the enormous size of the elephants and giraffes. For the several months of the program, the inner-city youngster was nearly inseparable from his side, even following him around on weekends at family get-togethers. For the first time in his young life, a previously unmotivated student was bestirred to challenge himself and discover his hidden potential. For his part in the program, the kid was awarded his first

Death of a Healer

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

I swear by God the Immortal... that I have never in my medical practice departed from what was handed down and inviolate credence to posterity; that I have never practiced deception, I have never overstated or made changes for the sake of embellishment... Loftiness of station has never, even in the slightest, attracted me and I have exercised the same diligence to the poor as to those of exalted rank. I have never caused disease. In prognosticating, I have always told what I felt to be truth... I have given no one a fatal draught, to no woman have I caused an abortion by my action... In short, nothing has been done by me which might be considered unbecoming an honorable and distinguished physician, having always held Hippocrates and Galen, the fathers of the medical art... The many students which I have had to this day, I have always considered as my sons. I've guided them most candidly and urged them to strive to measure up to good men. I've published my books on medical matters with no spirit of ambition, but I had regard for the one thing, that I might in some measure provide for the health of men. Whether I had succeeded in this I leave to the judgement of others...

The Oath of Amatus Lusitanus

Given at Thessalonica in the year 1539.

Even following a hectic, out-of-town weekend, Jake customarily had little difficulty rolling out of the sack early enough that he could show up at the hospital no later than 6:30 for early morning rounds, before heading to the OR. Out of character on that rainy Monday, however, he soughed affectionately at the special someone still asleep beside him, and settled that a few additional minutes between the sheets really wouldn't matter. Indeed, even the well-versed, Judeo-Christian rationalization of his could not interrupt a long-overdue snuggle with a mate.

Notwithstanding, his phantasm was breached, disharmoniously, about a half-hour later by an insidiously loud pounding at the front-door. Glancing at the bedside clock and scuttling to slip on some clothes, Jake blinked over a sonorous yawn.

"Gee.. whiz!.. It's only 7 a.m.!.. Who in the world can that be?!"

Sporting a wrinkled, Vikings'-logo shirt and worn baseball cut-offs, Jake cautiously opened the door to a dank daybreak.

"Are you.. Dr. Jason Gibson?"

An unsorted intruder's inquiry smacked of impudence. Assuming the occasion was a neighborhood emergency that demanded his assistance, Jake's reply was automatic and affirmative.

"Dr. Gibson.. I have been retained to deliver this personally to you!"

Stone-faced and unshaven, the marauder thrust a snugly-folded document into his face. Not fully-comprehending the gist of what was transpiring, Jake stretched out a mannerly hand and accepted the largess, whereupon the benighted bounty-hunter abruptly pivoted and returned apace to his vehicle, double-parked on the street with the engine-running.

Closing the door with deliberation, Jake drifted disguisedly in the direction of his sleeping-quarters, scowling to discover what-in-tarnation was going on, as he unraveled the frank but prim missive. Halfway up the stairs leading to the bedroom, he encountered his paramour, shrouded solely in one of his favorite dress-shirts.

"What's goin' on babe?"

Martha was rubbing soporific baby-blues.

"Looks like some kind of subpoena..."

Jake was still trying to register the first few lines of legal jargon.

"It seems.. Massitor is suing me."

Beaming widely, Jake unleashed the offal openhandedly over the bannister and clutching Martha, marched her hand-in-hand back between the king-sized, satin sheets.

Jake finally arrived at the hospital around 8:30 and after a quick, but unsuccessful, call to Jeanne, proceeded straight-off to the ICU to check on Mitch Massitor.

"Dr. Hudley transferred him to the floor yesterday."

Midge's information was tinged with sarcasm.

"How's he been doing?"

Jake's presumptions remained beleaguered by that unthinkable complication.

"He's perfect, Jake!.. He has absolutely no deficit!"

Midge was well-schooled in the art of redirected culpability.

"He was driving all of us in the ICU totally crazy, though!.. He's constantly either talking on the phone or just being plain-olde obnoxious!"

"Well, what did you expect!"

Jake's dimpled outlook always intrigued Martha.

"I heard you spent a.. how should I put it?.. a very exciting weekend in Washington?"

Jake played along with another paradigmatic Midge inquisition.

"Yup, it was quite an.. interesting time..."

He was not about to furnish ammunition for lavatory gossip; nonetheless, he wasn't duped by what eventually would be going around, regardless.

"I came away with a whole-new appreciation of the vital role that will be taken on by the nursing-profession in future healthcare-delivery systems. In fact.. I'd like to pick your brain on a couple of things. If you get a few minutes sometime.. maybe we could throw around a handful of ideas I have.. perhaps over a cup of coffee?"

Feeling as though he had, perchance, successfully sidestepped the issue of Martha's weekend-whereabouts, Jake set-out for the neurosurgery-ward to find his patient. Unable to locate the needed hospital-chart within the rotary-rack or anywhere amongst the clutter on the counter-top, he questioned an unfamiliar, apparently recently-hired, ward-secretary as to its whereabouts.

"Oh.. Dr. Hudley, the physician-in-charge, placed that chart under strict, limited access. I'm not supposed to allow anyone to have it!"

Checking names on her list of doctors with approved privileges and finding Dr. J. Gibson scratched-out, the less-than-assertive green eyes of the unseasoned novice converged on Jake. Refusing to display his umbrage, with the notable exception of an intent glare in the clerical-worker's direction, Jake stood bronze-like, with his dominant hand extended expectedly. Hesitating for only a moment, the dragooned clerk promptly produced the chart in-question and heedfully situated it into his grasp.

Soft-pedaling along the neurosurgery corridor, slowly heading towards his patient's room, Jake carefully fingered his way through the record to bring himself up-to-date; everything appeared in order. Massitor had already been up-and-about, without a single problem noted; his brain-swelling and anti-convulsant medications were progressively being weaned; and hiscraniotomy wound was healing quite well. Overall, the nursing-staff appeared to be voicing far more complaints than was the patient.

A large handwritten sign was invidiously posted on his door.

"NO VISITORS."

Without hesitation, Jake purposefully knocked and then assertively stepped inside. He was not a bit surprised to find his patient enthroned next to his bed in an oversized-leather recliner, conversing on the phone, while putting the finishing touches on a gourmet breakfast. He was waylaid, however, to discover David Hudley seated nearby, on the side of the hospital-bed, addressing his attention to a burdensome stack of unbound papers positioned about his lap.

Direly coveting a confrontation, but not in front of a patient, Jake could only scornfully rubberneck his apprentice. After a few, awkward, taciturn moments, Massitor concluded his tele-conversation and with a dismissive glance at his visitor, replaced the phone on its stand. Rudely, he redirected the gist of his efforts to a half-empty cup of murky coffee, forcing his guest to be the one to broach the dead silence.

"Good morning Mitch.. Looks like things are coming along great!"

"Yes, they are!.. Dr. Hudley here has been taking very good care of me!..."

Jake glowered slightly, and before he could get another word in, the pushy attorney-patient grabbed the floor.

"I've been able to get up and walk in the hallway.. and I've also been resuming a few client activities over the phone. With the good Dr. Hudley's permission, I'm going home today.. and plan to be back in the office later this week!"

During the parley, Hudley proceeded to add further notations to some sort of hand-written document, purposefully avoiding eye contact with Jake.

"As I mentioned the other day, Mr. Massitor, it is important that we go slowly with that.. You..."

"Dr. Gibson!..."

The snippety patient interrupted with a snappy flash of a prominently-ringed right hand.

"I don't think you're in any position to render me further advice!!"

Jake's intention was to defer anything about the subpoena until later, but clearly the entire situation had gotten way out-of-hand. Turning to Hudley, he lunged into it.

"David.. what in the hell is going on here!!"

Again, his tempestuous patient broke in.

"My-Oh-My!.. Dr. Gibson!!.. This whole thing is really very simple!.. Through a certain brain-surgeon's negligence and carelessness, a life-threatening complication.. one that could have easily been avoided.. occurred in an innocent patient.. necessitating a second.. very dangerous I might add.. surgical-procedure.. one that, for some inexplicable reason, was performed against a very distressed family's wishes!.. It's pretty clear that the involved physician is guilty of gross malpractice!.. And that the unfortunate patient and his next of kin are in-line to receive adequate compensation!!"

"I can't believe what I'm hearing here!.. You know perfectly well, I did nothing wrong!"

Jake's id had suddenly been provoked.

"Well Dr. Gibson.. these claims are fully-supported by the testimony of several expert-witnesses!"

Massitor peeped in the direction of Hudley, who finally interrupted his writing to look up at Jake with an obstreperous and serpentine gloat. Jake turned his head in the path of a confrontation with Hudley, but once again, his attempt to express hidden-feelings turned impotent and was posthaste halted.

"Dr. Gibson.. Dr. Wilson just called at the nurse's station looking for you. He wants you down in his office!.. STAT!"

The arctic atmosphere in the room wasn't even slightly dechilled by the headlong entrance of Massitor's nurse; cradling her address to Hudley, she added a much more affable directive.

"Oh, Dr. Hudley.. There's a call holding for you. It's from some doctor who's calling from someplace in Washington State.. I believe he's returning your call. He says it's very important that he speak with you now!"

Welcoming the distraction, Jake yielded directly for the boss's office, determined to see the habitual--and recently dramatically escalating--discord with Hudley finished, once and for all.

"Jason.. Come in and sit down..."

The tone of the boss's greeting, and the way he secured the door behind them, suggested to Jake that it was not likely to be a harmonious meeting; his prestigious trip to Capital-Hill was probably not on the top of the agenda.

"Jason.. you and I have been associates.. and friends.. for a long time.. I consider myself to be one of the people who had a significant role in making you the physician and surgeon you are today.. and there's little doubt you're one of the best around.. maybe even the best!.. I want you to know, firsthand, that I am totally on your side. You have my full support.. and in the future I'll always be available to help you in absolutely any way I can..."

Jake had a notion as to the direction their conversation was heading, but thought it best, at that moment, to simply listen and say nothing.

"By the way.. I tried to reach you several times in Washington.. even left a message for you at the hotel.. Guess you didn't get it!?"

Jake gulped and winced but still didn't respond.

"Anyway.. Jason.. What I'm about to do is, without question, the most difficult thing I've had to do in my entire career.. A civil law-suit was filed late Friday afternoon, against the medical-center, on behalf of your patient Mitch Massitor.. claiming negligence in its condonation of your role in his surgeries. The impression of the university's legal-experts is that this action is probably not defensible. As a result.. I have been instructed by the Dean to suspend your hospital-privileges.. indefinitely!..."

Abjuring in total disbelief, Jake entombed his nearly overwhelming frustration and indignation beneath a dishearted mow, clenched teeth, and an absorbing sigh.

"I'm sorry, Jake.. I really am.. but I simply have no other alternative."

As Dr. Wilson finished, he was obliged to answer the phone on his desk, permitting Jake a few moments to compose himself and tranquilize a response.

"Vince.. this whole thing is absolutely preposterous!.. You must be aware that Massitor is making an excellent recovery?!.. Under the circumstances, what I did was right.. and you of all people should know that!"

Suppressing the galling urge to detonate his combustible feelings, Jake calmly and serially reviewed an all-out litany of Hudley actions, finally omitting no detail.

"So it's your belief that one of our very own staff-physicians purposefully caused this man's blood-clot?!"

His boss's interrogatory suggested to Jake that he had already taken sides.

"I never said that!!..."

Jake's response was seething.

"All I know is that ever since Mitch Massitor arrived at this hospital door, David Hudley has behaved very strangely. I have the sneaking suspicion that something shoddy is going on behind the scenes."

"I'm sure every detail regarding this whole, sordid episode will be examined in excruciatingly great-detail by the medical-staff committees.. For the moment, there is nothing else I can do."

Jake settled that he'd gotten as far with his chairman as he could at that moment, and it made little sense to press the issue any further. He considered relaying his epic, once-in-a-lifetime experience in Washington, but that didn't seem quite appropriate either.

"Oh.. by the way Jason.. Several of the local television-stations called the office early this morning, wanting to interview you."

Jake's puzzled expression demanded an explanation.

"No.. not concerning this mess.. regarding your appearance before the Congressional-Subcommittee.. But based on all that's been going on around here, I told them you were too busy to give them any time today.. I was certain you'd agree."

Before Jake could raise any contention, the office-door flew widely open, and deja-vu, in strutted none other than Howard Crane.

"Sorry to barge in like this again Professor..."

Unlike his earlier visit, Howard's opening phrase was affable and restrained.

"but I just needed to drop something off."

Crustily, Howard turned towards Jake and thrust in his direction, a crisply-folded document.

"Gibson.. I wanted to deliver this to you.. personally..."

As Jake unfolded the document in his hands and recognized its nature, abruptly the cavalier-courier's message became vindicative.

"I'm suing you for every last penny you have!.. you son of a bitch!!.. I'm going to f...ing destroy you!!"

Closing his eyes, Jake fell victim, once again, to the two men blatantly staring down upon him.

Along with a couple of grade-school friends, Jim and Garry McMahon, he had buried, two weeks before, in a crevice of a mammoth boulder down by the creek, three-dozen raw-eggs. It was part of the neighborhood-kid's plan for revenge. The old geyser who lived at the corner--the one who avidly cursed every puss that happened to walk too close to his impeccable lawn--he would soon be getting his just due.

At long last, the night to get even with the antediluvian grouch had arrived. The three youthful teenagers had plotted to camp-out that evening in the McMahon's grassy, chain-link fenced backyard, so they could sneak-out easily. At the stroke of midnight, the wicked conspirators silently crept-away to retrieve their smelly projectiles. Per game-plan, each of them took up a discrete position, girding the frontal perimeter of their target. Then, with the waggle of an arm, thirty-six decomposed hen-embryos in their natural containers were launched, blatantly smashing across plate-glass windows, aluminum awnings, metal storm-doors, and concrete-steps.

The three-musketeers had tactically planned their retreat, to meet up again at the campsite behind Jim and Garry's place. As the aggressors turned to disperse in opposite directions, however, the tallest among them was startled by the unforeseen appearance of an approaching car's headlights, blocking his intended path. Instinctively, he dove for cover behind a bulky forsythia bush, still in bloom. Kneeling with his hands over his tightly-closed eyes, he was too afraid to move or even breathe, for fear that any noise would point to his detection.

He was spellbound by the sound of a car advancing and stopping, just alongside his shrubby refuge. With a distinct clink and clank, a car-door opened and closed; approaching footsteps became louder and louder. Suspended for what seemed like aeons in a crouched position, he eventually panicked and haphazardly backed-out from beneath his confinement. As he speedily turned to rise-up and make good his escape, he came eye-to-eye with the grumpy, aged homeowner and his dad--both staring resolutely down at him.

"Howard, an awful lot has happened over the last 72-hours, I..."

Halting Jake's plea-bargain, Howard swept a rigid, open hand out in front of him, as though he was delivering a mortal karate-chop. Then without issuing another word, he turned and blew out of the office as rapidly as he had entered, forcefully thwacking the door shut behind him.

Surreptitiously, Jake slipped the folded document into an inside coat-pocket, as he examined the confounded look on the face of his mentor. Incapable of exposing his relationship to Martha in that setting, he precipitously dismissed himself and slipped back to his office.

Jake's personal secretary, Rona, followed him in as he entered his berth. Teary-eyed and obviously distressed, she spelled-out to him her reassignment by Dr. Wilson, to another doctor in the department, effective tomorrow.

"Wait one damned minute! What in the hell is happening around here!!..."

Jake immediately realized that he was shouting at the wrong person, something he had never done to one of his office-workers before. After an apology, he continued much-less forcefully.

"I don't know where any of this is headed.. but you're right.. Proper arrangements need to be made for the office-schedule of patients.. and of course for the upcoming surgeries?"

With her flickery, auburn hair flowing over her shoulders at each upsetting word, Rona did her best to soften the blow, yet still set the record straight.

"Your office-appointments and operations have already all been cancelled, and your patients reassigned to other surgeons.. Oh.. by the way.. Your buddy, Ben Brooks, called for you earlier.. The play-off game tonight has been cancelled."

The volume of Jake's cynical response was just barely audible.

"Perfect!.. That's just great!!"

Dolefully Jake flopped back into his reclining-chair and reflected over those parts of his job description that he would miss most. For the past decade, he and his father--the renowned Professor and Chairman of the Anatomy Department at the Medical-School--had been granted the distinct privilege of addressing the freshman medical-students on their first day of class. His heavy heartedness compounded as he thought about standing at his old man's right hand during their annual opening-words.

"Future physicians and compeers.. You are about to embark on a journey that is unequaled in the chronicles of the medical-profession! From this day forward, each of you will be accorded the opportunity to care for fellow members of the human-race with the most sophisticated technology ever available at your unlimited disposal. No healer in history has ever been afforded the privileges that are to be yours each and every day of your lives! You must cherish and respect this invaluable perquisite, and at the same time, do everything in your power to protect and defend the inalterable rights of your patients! Generations of Asclepians have composed our great profession's enduring responsibility!"

As he strained to blink away an unexpected surge of fluid fogging his eyes, Jake suddenly realized that Rona had stilly slipped-away from the office, and he hadn't even noticed. His mind kept coming back to that stodgy vagary called responsibility; for him, it had sure been a lengthy intermission between tear-jerkers.

About to graduate from medical-school and convinced it was high-time for a sheltered boy from the midwest to experience what west-coast esprit was all about, he had gotten his heart set on a rotating-internship at UCLA. His interview trip to Southern California had, in his estimation, gone well, and his medical-school recommendations were glowing, but after that Harvard experience, he wasn't at all ready to concede that his first-choice was in the bag.

Match-day had finally arrived; as he opened the unassuming white-envelope, containing the ultimate map of his future, he had already settled on his second, perhaps even third choice. Few events in his career would rival the wonderful feeling of accomplishment and the tears-of-joy, as he read and reread the staggering letter.

"Congratulations on acceptance by your first-choice!. You have matched with UCLA-Harbor General Hospital, Los Angeles."

In lots of ways, that post-graduate-I year amounted to one of the most influential experiences of his life. He was away from his ultra-conservative hometown, and life in Redondo Beach was unbelievable: the beautiful surf, the great climate, the invigorating outdoor-lifestyle, and especially the refreshing verve of southern Californians. Altogether, that locale seemed to extenuate the magnanimous facets of his personality, particularly his playful yet considerate temperament and exceptional willingness to always help somebody else out. On his own for the first time, he wholeheartedly embraced the crusader paradigm that hard work and a favorable attitude undoubtedly assure a sense of real accomplishment and deep fulfillment.

As the year of post-graduate studies went along, however, a series of laughable predicaments confounded that happy-go-lucky approach to life. One evening, a decrepit elderly-man was brought to the Emergency-Department, because he could no longer care for himself at home. During an initial examination by the resident-in-charge, it was uncovered that one of the oldster's major difficulties in getting around was that he was thrown off-balance by toenails so long that his metatarsals were kept from touching the ground when he walked. In fact, they were so humongous that the hapless sap was unable to wear shoes of any kind, his grotesque feet fitting into open-toed sandals, only.

While harshly poking fun of the old gomer's predicament, the hardened chief-resident had thrown the task of dumping him squarely onto the shoulders of the low-man on the totem-pole. After thinking the situation over for a bit, the lowly P.G.-1asked a nurse to seclude the cantankerous senior-citizen in a private storage-area at the rear of the emergency-room. He realized, of course, that none of the scissors, clippers, or other cutting-instruments available in the emergency-room stock would be durable enough to successfully accomplish the unusual task he had in mind.

A short while later, the emergency-room personnel had became intrigued by a strange grinding noise, arising from hinder. As the storeroom-door was turned-out, the house-staff could only snicker and shake their heads in disdain, as the entire room was filled with a dense, dusty condensation. It seemed the harebrained rotating-intern was busy-at-work, using a high-speed drill that he'd borrowed from the dental-clinic down the hall, to dramatically burr away the old man's, nasty, greenish claws.

Following that episode and for the remainder of his tour-of-duty in the ER, the conscientious mid-westerner was facetiously nicknamed the "dumpster," such that every patient with a hideous or gruesome problem was mockingly passed along to his personal attention. As a result of being boorishly singled out on repeated occasions, for simply doing what he considered his job, the young intern gradually grew unsettled with the way of life in California--the all-around lack of family stability, the inordinately possessive mindset, and the shallow soap-opera mentality, notwithstanding the prevailing "anything goes" attitude. By the end of his time there, it had become especially difficult for him to overlook the seemingly preponderant lack of fundamental social-responsibility and basic human-compassion, so-well camouflaged by the wraith of Hollywood andBeverly Hills.

He was assigned to spend the final segment of his internship on the gynecology service. The OB-GYN training-program at Harbor was one of the top-ranked in the country, so he had reasoned that one final-fling with female medicine before starting a lengthy surgical-residency might be enlightening, and perhaps even fun.

On the first morning of the month-long rotation, he was requested to state a preference as regards his participation intherapeutic abortions. As a county-supported public-hospital, Harbor General was very active in providing first, and even second, trimester abortions for those women who couldn't afford to pay the customary fees of a private-clinic. Introduced to the appalling technical details of the grim procedure by the senior-resident, he had concluded, without hesitation, that it was something he could not in good conscience assist-with, under any circumstances.

It was late in the evening of his very last call-night; in fact, the next morning at 8 a.m. he was scheduled to begin a month of vacation, before climbing a step up-the-ladder to tackle the very demanding, neurosurgery training-program atUCLA. Actually, he had been putting the final-touches on plans for the first-leg of a cross-country trip back home, when his tour-books, travel-brochures, and trip-tic were abruptly thrust aside by a loud rapping on the call-room door.

"Dr. Gibson.. We need you down the hall!.. STAT!! Mrs. Hernandez is threatening to abort!"

Puzzled, he attempted to call-to-mind an earlier admission under his charge who could be threatening a spontaneous-miscarriage. It wasn't until he arrived at her room that he realized who that particular patient was; she had been an early afternoon admit on the ill-fated therapeutic-abortion service.

"I don't cover those patients!"

His antiphon was very adamant.

"Yes.. I'm aware of that Dr. Gibson. But Dr. Sheehan.. the on-call resident responsible for this woman's care.. is caught downstairs with an emergency.. and there's no one else around!"

With no other choice, he loathly accepted her chart and hesitantly perused its notations. The patient was a 16-year-old, recently immigrated, Mexican-American sophomore at Torrance High; apparently, she had been impregnated during a white gang-rape on Hermosa Beach. The adolescent had been too afraid to report the incident to anyone, until it had become undeniably obvious at five-and-a-half months.

As he came upon her, Tricia Hernandez lay in bed, sobbing, with severe, periodic, abdominal cramps. Earlier that afternoon, she had been injected by the OB-GYN attending with a hormonally-active drug, whose pharmacologic effects to stimulate the womb to thoroughly expel its contents were irreversible. Conspicuously alone and terrified, she howled a cursing and tormenting shrill with each lively contraction of her abdomen and immured uterus.

He assumed a succorer's stance by the frightened teenager's side, and attempted to comfort her by taking one of her clammy hands into his. With the smattering of Spanish that he knew, he struggled to reassure her that everything would be okay. For over an hour, he stuck close by, supplanting cold-compresses on her forehead and devoting his shoulder as a sobbing-blanket, between choleric contractions.

Patricia was a beautiful young woman with delicate features and a distinct, swarthy complexion that underscored an ineffable innocence. He catechized the nurse as to the location of her family.

An impoverished sigh was his only possible reaction, as an unbelievable, but accurate, answer came back.

"No one has been around all day!.. I don't think they want to see her.. I was told her father just dropped her off at the front-door."

Eventually, Tricia shrieked el-espanol, that it felt like something was coming out. Quickly, he donned a pair of flimsy plastic-gloves, while shouting at the nurse in exasperation to check on the whereabouts of the resident, who was supposed to be back by then. Duteously withdrawing the sheets and glancing at her perineum, he observed what appeared to be a tiny foot, still encased within a pinkish but pellucid membrane, being extruded from her vagina. With the assistance of the nurse, he positioned her legs apart and witnessed the spontaneous live-birth of a ten-inch fetus, still contained within its limp but fluid-filled amniotic-sac. He was immediately handed a blue-plastic sanitary-bowl for the purpose of collecting and disposing of the unwanted product of pregnancy and its trailing tissue and bloody debris.

Suddenly, the totality of his sensorium and awareness was captured by the minion's innate activity--that mimicked a struggling living-creature being forcibly held under water. His delivery was flailing its arms and legs about in desperation, while forcibly moving its chest and mouth in a fierce attempt to breath. Instinctively, he tore at the translucent covering with his fingers, rupturing it, and spilling its contents all-over the unspoiled bed-linens. Lifting the still-stirring bundle of soft bones and warm feminine flesh into his arms and gently cradling her, he attempted to clear her airway.

"What the hell are you doing!!..."

The resident-on-call had returned from his pre-occupation.

"Don't let the patient see this thing!"

He was severely chastised by his gruff superior, who knocked his hands away, forcing him to drop the struggling infant, with a thump, onto the heap of bloody-fluid. Hastily grasping the still connected umbilical-cord, the perturbed resident began to apply a slight amount of tension, in a brutish attempt to retrieve, without delay, the as-yet undelivered placenta and afterbirth.

The bushwhacked intern took a couple of passive steps backward against an uncompromising wall and watched, as the abortionist, paying no attention to the still gurgling and chirping human-being in the bowl, tried to hurriedly complete his bestial work. A sanitized, white blanket was positioned under the patient's bare buttocks, and the nurse began to wipe some of the stain from her upper thighs and pelvic area. All the while, Tricia laid there with her hands folded over her eyes, faintly weeping, with no one devoting any attention to the magnitude of her loss.

Holding his hands, still covered by bloodied sterile-gloves, out in-front of him, away from his stainless white-pants, the stunned intern stood statue-like, paralyzed to react or even breath, until his attention was distracted by another nurse who breezed into the room with an over-sized, glass specimen-jar. As she unscrewed its black plastic lid, the insolent resident uplifted the blue tub into which he had deposited his catch, and prepared to dump its touching contents into the bleak container--earmarked for the pathology laboratory.

At that instant, a suddenly-crazed intern lost all control of actions and emotions. Grabbing a firm but delicate hold of the plastic-tub, he shoved the dumbfounded resident out of his way, knocking him against the patient's nightstand, in the process, dispelling its contents about the room. Gently retrieving the tiring child, he carefully positioned her on the clean and soft bed-linen, as he scrupulously wiped blood-tinged mucous and sero-sanguinous liquid from around her face and mouth. Pushing its caretaker's fingers away with powerful throes of arms and legs, the bantling manifested a great deal of inner-strength; he imagined for a moment that she may even have a chance to make it.

At the same time, the nurses were assisting the beleaguered resident to his feet; he proceeded to brush floor-smudge from his prissy white-trousers, as he bellowed at the out-of-line intern.

"You asshole! What in the f... do you think you're doing!.. You have no right to interfere in this!!"

Rolling up his sleeves, the very-angry resident advanced a few steps towards the target of his wrath and admonished.

"I'm gonna kick your damned..."

In response, the underling turned-back erect from his crouched position and came face-to-face with his latest adversary, all the while glaring disgustedly and with a degree of certitude of duty that he had never imagined he could muster. No further words were exchanged, as the spoilt resident halted his overture, chanted another expletive, and promptly retreated from the room.

In a zone, the naive intern returned his attention to the miraculous contents of the linen; Tricia had uncoiled her arms and drawn the newborn close to her side. With a warm and gentle mother's touch, she soothingly rubbed the side of the babe's head, awing at the touch of her cottony hair. The doctor presently-in-charge requested a straight-clamp and promptly severed the umbilical-cord.

Displacing the patient's blanket, he completely enveloped the exposed child and placed both within the new mother's arms. Gradually, the neonate's efforts to move and even breath became less noticeable. He contemplated for a moment that perhaps an attempt should rightly be made to rush the child down to the neonatal-unit, but he knew only too-well the repercussing prohibitions of that well-intentioned action.

All life disappeared from Patricia's baby-girl after a few minutes in her mother's arms. Placing a hand on mom's shoulder for support, the intern motioned that it was time for him to take the child; surprisingly, her sobbing had completely ceased. With a bent index-finger, he tenderly squeegeed away the tears that had collected on her cheeks. He opened his hands to accept the lifeless child and motioned for the remaining nurse in the room to accompany him. Once outside the door, he properly disposed of Tricia's little girl.

The next morning, while packing, he received word that the Chief of the Neurosurgery Department at UCLA was looking for him. It seemed his residency position had, at the last minute, been given to someone else; no further explanation was provided; but everyone knew the reason. Word had gotten around that the unruly intern from Minneapolis was a rebel-rouser, an insurgent--who, at his own discretion, would buck the system. There was no room in a decidedly conservative profession like Neurological Surgery for someone who didn't constantly conform to the expectations of the hierarchy.

If it hadn't been for Vince Wilson, who at the last minute offered him another residency position, he would have been left completely out in the cold. Wiping his eyes as he reflected on the recent series of events, Jake wondered if perhaps the individuals in-charge in California hadn't been right about him after all.

Jake's self-impeaching deliberation was disturbed by a repetitive rap on the other side of his office-door. It was Adam Von Hecklinghausen, a nearly deaf and partially-paretic, middle-aged man, who had worked in the hospital receiving-department as a clerk for years. Jake had operated on him and three of his brothers, all of whom suffered from a rare hereditary-disease--one that produced recurring tumors on the nerves that run along the base of the brain. While still a resident, he had recognized the hereditary nature of the previously unrecognized disorder, known thereafter in the medical-literature as "Von Hecklinghausen's Disease."

"How the brothers doin'?"

The hue of Jake's smile immediately brightened as he resolved that his irksome, personal woes were far less significant than those defied on a daily basis by that courageous man and his family.

"They're all doing great.. thanks to you!..."

He stood and conversed at Jake's desk for some time.

"By the way.. Rona asked me to gather these for you."

He pointed at several empty cardboard-boxes, stationed just beyond the office-door. Though certainly unaware of what was transpiring, Jake's former patient connoted a farewell in his insistent handshake.

"Please pass along my best to each of your brothers, too."

Wistfully, Jake secured the door to his office, and putting the empty boxes to their intended use, began to gather up a few of his personal belongings. Before too long, though, his evaporated zeal lead to a cessation of busy work. Reclining once again in malaise and staring passively out the unobstructed window of his office at an unrelenting stream of passing cars and pedestrians, Jake's physical inactivity was representative of his emotional and intellectual paralysis over the day's events. He made several attempts to telephone Jeanne, but there was no answer at her house or in her car; he also failed to reach Martha at his place.

All at once, his sense of enmeshment in the day's occurrences heightened even more, as Midge Stone unexpectedly pried open the office-door, tip-toed in, assertively but cautiously closed and locked the door, and with an apprehensive grin, sat down in-front of him. With a chafed arm motion, he glanced at his watch, hoping to cast the impression to his infringing visitor that he had somewhere else to be and/or something important to do.

"Doctor, we need to talk!..."

Midge was unusually determined to get Jake's full attention.

"I have some very interesting things to tell you.. but not around this screwy place.. Let's bolt from here for a few minutes.. Come with me!.. I'll drive!"

Not having the strong-arm to resist, Jake penitently followed Midge to her fairly-new, bright-red, Spider convertible and solemnly strapped himself in the passenger-seat. In virtual silence, Midge took off in the direction of a nearby park.

The repetitive thumping of a flat-tire followed perfectly the spiraling sequence of events for the day. After shaking his head at his chauffeur and tucking his tie into its usual place, Jake hardly missed a beat as he rotated each of the lug-nuts off with a well-coordinated helical motion, thrust the nail-embedded flat against the curb with a thud, carefully positioned an anorexic-appearing spare onto the hub, and reattached the hand-full of flanged steel-fasteners. After he had deposited the grimy, limp Goodyear into the trunk, he rubbed his grubby-black palms round a pure-white handkerchief, while tentatively holding them far-away from his spotless shirt. What with the direction that day was headed, there wasn't any sort of positive contemplation behind his prolonged snarl, as Midge speedily, and to his way of thinking, unassuredly, got them back on their way.

Side-by-side, they moseyed along a Spruce and Birch-lined sidewalk and past a lily-pad laden pond, complete with tiered fountain, as Midge proceeded to scatter her observations and ideas before Jake.

"You've been canned, simply for pissing too many people off..."

As Midge saw it, Jake's popularity with patients and staff had threatened the departmental and university hierarchy, and even a number of local-practitioners, who together had taken full-advantage of an opportunity to get rid of him.

Jake listened intently and conscientiously, trying to make some sense in his mind of what she was saying; but his naive persuasion prohibited glowering. Despite his present, out-of-character aura of pessimism, he was just not capable of grasping the logic that the truculent and egomaniacal side of human-nature was behind what had happened.

In an attempt to provide convincing evidence, Midge reminded him of the Stroke-Hotline. After months of preliminary work on their parts, a 24-hour telephone-number had been established in the ICU at the University Hospital--one that anyone in the general-community could call to speak directly with an experienced neuroscience-nurse, for information, help, or answers regarding stroke-related symptoms. Following weeks of touting via advertisements in local newspapers and on television and radio, the no-charge call-in service was receiving nearly 100 inquires a day; more importantly, it had clearly resulted in an increased awareness in the general population of the typical signs and symptoms of stroke, so important for better prevention.

Even though the tremendous community-service had become a resounding overnight-success, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, late one Friday-afternoon, the plug was pulled, and it was abruptly cancelled by the hospital-administration. Apparently, on the spur of the moment, the hierarchy in-power had decided, on the basis of nothing more than a poll among the general medical-staff, that attempts like that to educate the public would ultimately keep paying patients out of physicians' offices, an utterly intolerable consequence.

Jake only raised an eyebrow to Midge's bitter suggestion.

She also brought up the inexplicable inability of local neurosurgeons to cooperate or come to a mutual-agreement on anything. For years in the Minneapolis/St. Paul metropolitan region, there had existed, side-by-side, several groups of brain-cutters, each practicing very much exclusive of their peers; inconceivable as it was, virtually no interchange occurred between the individual groups. Each distinct bunch seemed to believe that the others had little or nothing to offer, and as a consequence, none of them were at all interested in any type of exchange of ideas, or any reciprocal effort that might lend a hand to the competition. Not surprisingly, a succession of solo-efforts by Jake to organize joint-conferences and other communal meetings had been rebuked and ultimately went completely by the wayside, labelled as just another attempt by that notoriety-seeking surgeon in town to gain greater local-acclaim.

"Not a single surgeon in this town would lose even one night's sleep if you were forced out!.. When are you going to wake-up and see what is really important to these guys?!.. Every decision that's made by the boys in private-practice these days revolves around one of two things: power.. or money!.. Your so-called colleagues would gladly lend a hand to help lift your scalp, if they thought by doing so they could get you out of the picture for good!"

Once again, Jake's casual response to Midge's scabrous comments included a chipper grin, that underscored the ease with which he dismissed the validity of her criticisms.

As Midge tried to spell-out a number of additional events and details, she soon came to the inevitable conclusion that, despite his extensively-lettered stature, the laid-back doctor next to her was simply incapable of comprehending that his colleagues could have conspired against him. Conversely, the more she talked his associates down, the more she genuinely apprehended the bitter injustice inherent in the myriad of rumors and wholesome gossip that, over the years, she'd spread around about him, particularly relating to his sexual preference. Through those resentful endeavors, she had schemed to blemish his charm in the eyes of those presumed to be rivals for his attention; all of a sudden, she was struck by the wickedness and reprehensibility of her actions. "Midge.. Listen!.. I appreciate your concern for me.. I really do!.. And thanks for taking my best interests to heart.. You really are a good friend."

Jake touched his hand cordially to her shoulder and gave her a friendly hug.

Strolling with that dismayingly eleemosynary, but most gullible man, Midge both loved and hated him, more than she had at any moment over the past ten years; perpetually composed, she was suddenly toppled. Impulsively throwing her arms around him, she kissed him passionately upon the lips. Though caught utterly by surprise by her actions, Jake retained his cool, casually reflecting her libidinous advances into little more than a friendly exchange.

Abased and abashed by Jake's phlegmatic response and with her emotions needing to immediately abjure, Midge set out to hurriedly retrace her steps back to the car. In a rattled vein, she offered her unflappable companion a ride back to the hospital, but looking forward to the looming freedom of a few minutes of absolute detachment from everyone, Jake politely thanked her for her consideration, surrendering to an occult desire on such an improbable and overcast Monday afternoon, to find his own way back.

Driving home in drizzling rain an hour or so later, Jake's thoughts again verged on Jeanne, and how she might react to the unimaginable events of the last few days. He also rehearsed as to how he would break

Death of a Healer

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

I have in the corner of my heart a plant called Reverence which I find needs watering at least once a week.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

(1809-94)

As summer's verdure moldered into fall's litter, Jake was out-and-out banished by his former associates and quondam confidants alike. For years, he had been the recipient of diurnal correspondence for consultation and advisement from physicians and surgeons around the globe; suddenly, almost overnight, he couldn't get even his thickest professional acquaintances to respond to his repeated calls. From the viewpoint of the medical main-stream, Jason P. Gibson, M.D., brain-surgeon extraordinare, had for all practical purposes, evanesced from the face of the earth. To his inarticulated chagrin, the only people that retained any semblance of ongoing belief in him were a few friends, the members of his immediate family, a smattering of former patients, and of course, Ben and Jeanne.

As he stood alone on her front-porch and cast an eagle-eye at the neighboring subdivision homes along the cul-de-sac, for some reason he was struck by the notion that he was conspicuously out of place; nonetheless, without hesitation he rapped on the door and anxiously waited for the lady-of-the-house to answer.

For a mid-afternoon in early October, it was breezy but uncommonly mild--the kind of bestirring weather that, he imagined, would make a snug-picnic in a deserted-park with a secret-lover so very appealing. As he watched a womanly figure meander towards him through an opaque stained-window in the door, Jake found it impossible to control the whimpering tremble in his heart or his outstretched hand.

Though an impromptu visit by her incommunicado-of-late close-friend was the farthest thing from her mind, straight-off Jeanne's athletically-contoured frame, boisterously-waving brown hair, and sparkling azure eyes assumed unbelievable radiance; the irresistible magnetism and unbounded sensuousness omnipresent in her every interaction with the guy standing-at-her-door, once again, had taken immediate charge. Without uttering a single word, she beckoned his entrance through the open portal and energetically closed the swinging barrier, then latched its deadbolt.

Spontaneously and sentimentally they embraced, with the reckless passion of reunited paramours, sharing a treasured moment of unimaginable joy and peacefulness. Circling her with his wide-open arms and resting his lax but weary eye-lids atop her shoulder, Jake was ready, as never before, to sacrifice all that he had, and all that he was, just to be able to remain for more than a few moments within the tender embrace of the woman he had adored for such a long time. The incensing lure of her agrarian fragrance, the bolstering strength of that hold--reinforced by the sensualistic stroke of those domesticated fingernails against his upper-back and shoulders, the untamed giddiness of that magnanimously-protuberant abdomen--with its wonderfully-animated contents, and the immeasurable and unwavering faith her whole personage perpetually expressed in him had true-to-form whisked him away to the most sanguine place imaginable--one that at that moment especially, he irresistibly coveted for all of eternity.

Side-by-side on the couch, they sat and talked for several hours that afternoon, what with little Caitlin gone to a neighbor's house to play with friends. As always the case, no hidden secrets, improbable expectations, or promises unfulfilled kept the hearts and souls of the two celestial travelers apart. Cozily slouching with Jeanne beneath a mesmerizing ceiling-fan revolving ever so slowly, her head securely snugging his chest, Jake found it effortless to soar over the tops of the majestic, old Sycamore trees lining Ben's back-yard, to reach unaccustomed heights of relaxation, satisfaction, and gratification.

"I don't know how you do it!. You always make me feel so good! You are the only person who really understands who I am.. and the only one who cares how I feel!"

"That's what I'm supposed to do silly.. Don't forget, I'm your best-friend.. and I really do care an awful-lot about you!"

Jake winced at her choice of words, sensing that his magic-carpet ride was rapidly coming back to earth; as always though, just when he needed it most, his primary pilaster uplifted his stock-in-life all the more.

"Jake.. you know how I feel about you.. and always will. You are the most important thing in my life! I would do anything for you!"

Jeanne was searching for the perfect inspirational phrase to resurrect her smitten friend, whose far away look denoted that he wasn't quite ready to return to reality.

"You know what I wish?.. Someday, I'm going to come marching down this street on a big white horse.. to just grab you up.. and carry you off into the sunset!..."

Jake's wandering heart had almost taken complete control.

"Then, we'll fly off somewhere.. to a place far, far away!"

"How 'bout Tahiti?"

"Yeah.. That's perfect!.. I wish I could pick up right now.. and never come back!..."

Jeanne only offered a faint smirk, as her notably out-of-character buddy continued to paint out his fantasies in full-living-color.

"I know I shouldn't be saying these things.. but it's how I really feel!.. Something happened.. recently.. that made me more acutely aware than ever before.. I am totally in love with you.. and I have been for an awful long time.. and I doubt that'll change.. not ever.. not for the rest of my life!.. Actually, it just seems to get harder and harder to go through each passing day.. knowing that I can't spend it with you."

"But you know you have me, Jake!.. I'll always be there for you!.. And besides, you know how jealous and protective I can get...!"

Jake managed a manifest grin, but he was really frowning.

"Hey, what brought all this up anyway!"

"Jeanne, sometimes.. being able to talk to you.. perhaps even having the chance to put my arms around you and hug you.. Well, it just isn't enough!.. There are times that I want more.. I need more!"

Jake and Jeanne's conversation came to an abrupt halt, as the two intimates stared deeply into each other's yearning eyes, neither one willing to interrupt the magnetism of that special moment. Finally, Jeanne expressed exactly what her friend direly needed her to say.

"Jake.. I'm ready to do anything you want.. all you have to do is ask!.. Just say the word, and I'll be sitting on the back of that horse.. or in the rear of that plane!"

With her hands once again clenched tightly around the nape of his neck, Jeanne firmly pulled Jake's face closer and closer to hers, until their unspoken, instrumental expression finally met in concert.

After making contact with those supple lips for only a brief moment, Jake began to sob uncontrollably, the result of his aggregate vital-forces threatening to spring apart; the super-strength, super-ego adhesive that had kept his passion on the straight-and-narrow for so many years had spontaneously, and irrepressibly, begun to disintegrate and loosen. All he wanted was that woman in his arms forever; at that moment nothing else in life mattered as much; reason was powerless to stop him. There was simply no intestinal-fortitude left inside to retrieve his lips from hers.

His shaking and blubbering disciplined, Jake again succumbed to his true affections. The mutually irresistible kiss had barely been re-initiated, though, when it was suddenly, and quite melodramatically, arrested by a second panicky-flinch from Jake. In sharp contrast, Jeanne's response to the inopportune ringing of the phone was easygoing, and complete with a wink of reassurance for her somewhat embarrassed friend as she looked to the receiver without hesitation.

"Hello.. Hey.. What's goin' on?...

Caitlin's down the street.. and I was just thinking about.. taking a nap.. What time do you think you'll be home?...

Okay...

Well, be careful on the highway.. See you when you get here...

Yeah.. me too."

In tandem, Jake and Jeanne exchanged astonished beams at the remarkable timing of that call.

"I think I should probably be going.. I'm sure you have a few things to do."

A matching pair of inexorable morals were rigidly back in charge.

"Jake.. I'm so sorry.. I..."

After a halting gesture with his hand and a pensive gleam, Jake spent a few, final minutes inside that fondest of all grasps, desperately hoping to somehow sooth a myriad of looming fears; and in turn, castigate at least some of his unnerving despair into salient hope for the future. As he bid his heart-felt friend a final, misty-eyed goodbye and proceeded to walk back to his car, his pace and the length of his steps were noticeably uncertain and empty of vigor; once again, the millstone of his conscience had orchestrated his rapture.

Continuing to second-guess himself as he gloomily drove away, Jake disgustedly surmised that the reasons behind his predicament were, in all likelihood, ridiculously plain-and-simple. Maybe he just hadn't spent enough quality-time chatting with his fickle colleagues in the doctors' private-lunchroom; or perhaps, it was that disinclination of his to participate in routine, hospital-administrative committee-work, preferring instead to dedicate effort to what he considered more productive academic endeavors; then again, perchance it was his out-spoken, anti-social refusal to join a sectarian country-club and gain favor with professional associates while exchanging wagers on one of the plush greens or in a secluded clubhouse. Whatever it was, the aftermath had become painfully clear--a conscientious mainliner had been black-balled and turned into a complete and utter outcast.

Boldly proceeding in the passing-lane along the interstate, while closely observing the posted, 40-mph minimum speed-limit, he continued to let-out-steam.

"Well.. if that's the way it has to be.. so be it!. But, if any of them think for one moment that I'm gonna come crawling back.. Well.. they can all just go to....!"

Jake's ill-tempered reconciliation to himself was based on a long-held disgust for professional nabobs: those who shrouded themselves behind the special considerations afforded their privileged standing; those who engaged in spurious, extra-curricular activities under the guise of dedicated hard-work and long hours; those who used yet-another "emergency" to explain-away repeated tardiness--really due to a fundamental lack of discipline; and those who actively exploited immoral, or even illegal acts, under the supposition that professional accomplishments always justified whatever means.

"God-damn it to hell!!.. I am so frig'gen tired of putting up with all those two-faced, lying jack-asses!!"

Behind an ongoing litany of vehement vociferations, Jake finally arrived back at his place. He was quite surprised, but nonetheless delighted, to find, crammed in the mailbox, an oversized manila-envelope stuffed-full of recent correspondence; apparently, it had been forwarded from the Neurosurgery-Department by Rona. Dumping the contents onto the couch beside him, he noticed, first off, a batch of eye-catching, colorful envelopes--each with enclosed greeting card.

For quite some time, he had solicited past operative-patients to keep in touch, by sending along a status update each year on their birthdays. He had made a hard-and-fast point to read each and every personal note and frequent accompanying greeting-card; moreover, he had oft responded. Not surprisingly, as he wallowed in the notion that he had completely lost touch with his profession and the individuals who practiced it, those bittersweet reminders of a cherished era mattered all the more to him. While still entrenched in thoughts of times gone by, he tore open, mechanically and without hesitation, an oddly-constructed envelope, with a familiar name and out-of-state return-address.

As a junior-student, one of his favorite rotations was the two whole months he spent at the busy Obstetrics-Clinic at City Hospital. Unfortunately, his initial few weeks on the service had been unusually slow; so much so, that by the completion of the first lunar-cycle, he still hadn't had an opportunity to handle a delivery on his own. Accordingly, he really felt the adrenalin flowing as he helped cart a crowning, 18 year-old, gravida 2 - para 1 into the delivery-room.

Sharon Parker was in the final-stages of a lengthy, 10-hour labor; to make certain that the case was his, the solicitousM.S.-III had stayed around well past midnight, though he wasn't even supposed to be on-call that night.

"This is an antiseptic.. it's very cold!"

As he warned the petrified and reflexly pushing high-school senior, with a two-year-old toddler already at home, he smartly dabbed Betadine throughout her cleanly-shaven perineum. She shivered with each swipe and tried to relaxingly pant to the coaxing of her mom and dad--who had been steady-fixtures at her side for the past many hours. A sterile-field was positioned, leaving clean access to the birth-canal for nature's fain assistant.

After hastily rinsing his hands, he adeptly slipped into a disposable paper-gown and sterile-gloves. It was time to assume that distinctly private, but inordinately necessary, position--between the patient's widely-spread thighs. Business-like, he inserted two fingers between her swollen labia, confronting the bony vertex of an infant's head, at that point just barely inside.

"Okay Ms. Parker.. it's time to push.. Your baby is almost here."

With that, the teenage-mother painfully gritted her teeth, vigorously clenched the padded railings along each side of her specially-designed bed, sharply arched her back, and aggressively bore-down, as if the future of the whole world depended on her effort. For a full, uninterrupted 70-seconds, she continued that most rigorous anaerobic-exercise, until each and every vein had made an appearance on her neck and shoulders, and her face was dripping-wet with sweat.

Three repetitions of the same and the rostrum of the child's head was visible, its curly, black locks plastered in a cheesy-white liquid. Gently escorting the face-down infant through its difficult journey, initially he coerced the moldedcranium towards its path-of-least-resistance; spontaneously, the neck and shoulders followed one-by-one, then rapidly, the chest and abdomen; finally, in one foul swoop, the balance of the body was passed into daylight.

Performing like an experienced veteran with years of seasoning under-his-belt, the third-year med-student, who had previously witnessed that event only once, gleamed in excitement over the bustling newborn, triumphantly cradled within his protective arms. After carefully positioning a pair of hemostatic-clamps, he severed the dangling cord between them, and a progressively-pinkish full-term fetus was pronounced a healthy baby-boy.

Caught up in the whirlwind of wondrous excitement and afflatus that always seems to surround a successful natural-birth, the lighter-than-air doctor-to-be impulsively turned and leaned forward with his precious catch, in an effort to place the loudly-screaming, but cherished newborn appropriately into his mother's arms. Displaying his raw inexperience, though, he began, all at once, to lose his rubber-glove grip of the slippery-wet infant; struggling to regain control, he ended up cracking the mushy, egg-shell skull of a 60-second old neonate, against a heavy, metal bedpost.

Jake forced a subtle grin over the comical notion that the gauche and clumsy episode had provoked yet another annual-card from Sharon, mother of five but never married, on the occasion of her hard-headed, eldest son's 16th-birthday.

With his emotional entropy somewhat ballasted, Jake impatiently sorted deeper into the spewed-about pile of letters, until he came upon several thank-you notes from local philanthropic organizations. Over the past couple of months, charitable endeavors had provided an invaluable outlet for him to deal with the heap of liberated reflection-time on his hands. Actually, for years he had complained to those who would listen that he could only squeeze an hour or two, here and there, into his hectic and demanding daily-schedule to donate his talent and effort; so, the unemployed healer doubly welcomed the chance to immerse his hands in an assortment of volunteer activities.

Fussily, he scrutinized a nice letter of appreciation from perhaps his most enduring community-interest--one in which he was responsible for hands-on demonstrations for groups of grade and high-school age kids, in sundry areas of science and medicine. The "oohs" at the initial sight of the convoluted surface of a real human-brain, and the "ahs" at first glance of a brawny, fist-sized, adult heart were for him the primordial sounds of true learning. Based on a staunch belief that higher-education bound students would be in a better position to weigh ultimate career-choices if introduced to a broad-spectrum of disciplines at an early stage, those novel endeavors had, over the years, become tremendously popular in the Twin Cities, and were actually the prototype for similar programs that were starting up in other parts of the state. Especially under the circumstances of his forced exile, Jake relished those simple interactions with formative-age students, always coming away with a refurbished notion of what true erudition should be all about.

He also came across a short note of gratitude from another very worthwhile beneficiary--one that he had aided since its inception. For over a decade, Community Health Services, under his brother Jim's leadership, had provided free, or very low-cost, health-maintenance for children unable, for whatever reason, to afford standard healthcare-insurance. Joining a long list of multi-specialty volunteers from the private-sector, he had cherished the wonderfully fulfilling opportunity to provide primary-care for innocent, less fortunate, munchkins. Indeed, another redemption to his present, tormenting predicament was the freedom to spend a number of entire days, instead of only a few short hours each month, at one or another of the Pediatric Community-Centers, scattered throughout the Greater Minneapolis-St. Paul Metropolitan-Area.

As always, the bulk of his office-mail was stuffed with a wide assortment of generic solicitations. While flipping through the stack, Jake briefly reflected on the financial needs of each, churning over in his gut the inescapable conclusion that despite his present hardship, the addressee was incapable of saying no; a capacity to turn-away someone in need simply was not a part of his self-protective armamentarium. In spite of mounting, personal financial woes due to the loss of his entire income, he found himself inept at turning his back-side to anyone--whether it be an overburdened nurse-friend at the hospital needing money to help finance horse-back riding-lessons for one of her kids, a neighbor hard-up for a few bucks to get an appliance or automobile repaired prior to next month's paycheck, or a local panhandler trying to survive on the street.

Since childhood, perhaps even earlier, he had been consigned to the notion that it was especially important for those blessed with affluence to be generous; indeed, to be considered truly open-handed, his lineage firmly believed that the opulent were necessarily required to sacrifice a great-deal more than those less dowered, and to do it completely incognito. Ergo, though unjustly stripped of his salary and his standing, Jake had continued to overextend himself in favor of those in need, even to the degree that his brother Steven, the family's personal money-manager and a renowned financial wizard in his own right, had recently foreseen the need for a second-mortgage on the condominium, perhaps even before the end of the year.

As he finally reached the end of the bundle, Jake was overcome by an alienating uncertainty; based on his tedious financial situation, how could he possibly continue to help everybody as he had always counted on himself to do before? Sinking deeper into the couch, he came upon, laying at the very bottom of the stack, a touching personal-plea, dispatched by a group of religious-leaders at a neighboring parish. They had written to express their appreciation for his past financial assistance and to request additional support for a new undertaking--the construction of a modern gymnasium for their grade-school; it was to be named after a former pastor--a man Jake would never forget.

Monsignor Joseph McMurphy had been transferred to the University Hospital, literally from the sacristy of St. Anthony's Catholic Church; just after saying 9 a.m. Mass that Sunday morning, he had suffered a sudden myocardial-infarction. Upon arrival in the CCU, he had required repeated defibrillation to stabilize an irregular cardiac-rhythm. After an emergent cardiac-cath, he was scheduled as an urgent add-on, to undergo open-heart surgery first thing the next morning, including a quadruple bypass and resection of a large akinetic segment of his left ventricular wall.

As a first-year surgical-resident, his initial rotation was a workaholic month in the very formidable, Cardiovascular Department. During that very first evening on-call, he was handed the responsibility to perform a routine history and physical-examination on the archdiocesan priest, in preparation for transfer to the open-heart service, first thing in the morning.

Though only 48, the holy-man appeared much older, with a fully whitened and partially recessed hair-line, uncontrollable eyebrows, and a rubric, pitted complexion to his forehead, nose, and cheeks. He hesitated repeatedly as he spoke, and he gestured with a fine tremor.

"Son.. I have a gut-feeling.. things aren't going to go too well tomorrow."

Right off the tee, the green resident attempted to mollify the reverend's fears.

"Sir!.. Your surgeon.. Dr. Barner.. is the one of the finest heart-surgeons in the entire country!.. I'm sure everything will go fine. I really don't think there's anything to worry about!"

The good padre, though largely attracted to the young doctor's compassionate personality and soft-spoken style, was not about to be pacified by his breezy reassurances.

"Son!.. Please don't try to just sweep my feelings under the damn carpet!.. I truly don't believe I'm going to survive the operation tomorrow.. and I have some things on my mind that I really need to get off my chest! Are you willing to spare a few minutes of your precious time?!"

An industrious and conscientious member of the surgical house-staff, the young resident had always taken special pride in devoting whatever time necessary to fully address his patients' concerns; characteristically, though, he hesitated when it came to dealing with issues that undercut his rock-solid, power-of-positive-thinking approach to most every aspect of life. Without any sustainable option on that particular occasion, however, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled, indicating to his patient a willingness to listen.

"I haven't lived the life of a model priest.. though each day of my calling, I tried like hell to do mostly the right things.. Still, I turned out to be far from perfect..."

Right from the very start, the captive listener was quite uncomfortable in the role as priestly confidant.

"Father.. maybe it would be better for me to call the hospital clergyman. He could..."

"Son.. if I wanted the damn chaplain, I would have summoned him myself!.. I want to speak to you.. man-to-man! See if you can forget all that hogwash that you've been taught, about the importance of knowledge.. skill.. expertise.. all that crap that's supposed to be the essential crux of what you do!.. Just step out of your stiff, white, prissy uniform for a moment, and simply listen to a weak and scared human-being.. who desperately needs to spill his guts about his life to someone who cares!"

Very much taken back by the priest's emotive pleas, the eager-to-please, ivory pants toting, resident-in-training set aside the chart, history-pad, and ball-point pen stationed on his lap and gingerly stood to remove his weighty house-staff jacket, complete with over-stuffed pockets. Then, after unfastening a suddenly uncomfortable tie, he pulled his chair closer to the good padre's bedside.

"As I see it.. the main reason I ended up in this situation is that I never really learned how to properly channel my feelings.. especially my ineptness.. For years, my parishioners begged for my under-standing.. my support.. my assistance.. to help ease the pain and distress brought-on by sickness and death.. by separation and divorce.. by shame, ignorance, hatred, and greed.. by loss of self-esteem or livelihood.. by so many miserable happenings. In all those things, they desperately needed someone to save them.. and as a trusted representative of the Lord, I always felt very privileged to be called to help..."

The priest's words exposed the side of being a physician that the eager, but inexperienced, house-staffer had not been sufficiently well-acquainted with before. His silence and a litany of uncomfortable grimaces hinted that his lengthy, and seemingly comprehensive, formal education in the art-and-science of medicine had not really prepared him to deal with such a vital, emotional tug-of-war--suddenly being waged over his idiosyncratic convictions and that optimistic, but unnatural, rationalization of his regarding human-vice and behavior.

"I started with booze my very first year out of the seminary. Initially, it was just extra chalices of wine before and after mass.. but as my affection for my parishioners intensified.. so too did my fondness for alcohol. Before long, I was into beer and then hard liquor.. For the past several years, I've been drinking a quart or more of vodka, every single day..."

As he listened on, the attentive resident eye-balled the spider-nevi on the dorsum of his patient's hands and the malar surfaces of his face; together with his previous observations of abnormal skin-turgor and blush, he concluded that the archdiocesan man-of-the-cloth, indeed, had many of the classical-signs attributable to chronic alcoholism.

"No one ever suspected that I was drinking that much.. not even my long-time housekeeper. But a few days ago after my first heart-attack, I went into DTs.. Oh boy!.. You should have seen the look on my poor mother's face when she found out what was going on!..."

The clergyman gleamed with a half-hearted chuckle.

"For a long time, none of my associates could even look me squarely in the eyes.. When they visited me, which wasn't that often, every one of them wanted to pretend that all of it had never really happened.. But the truth is.. Huh!.. Well, let's just say, it never really stopped!.. I think you guys refer to that as denial.. a refusal to accept or acknowledge something very hurtful.. That's a psychological defense mechanism that's pretty much been par-for-the-course in my profession!"

The PG-2 was inclined to shield his mounting uneasiness and unspoken lack-of-certainty about what he was hearing--in fact, about almost every melancholic sentiment in life--behind his trademark outfit; but as yet, he couldn't find a way to break the momentum of that interaction.

"I, especially.. am supposed to turn my cheek to the wrath of mankind.. but how do you look the other way, after you've heard the confession of a twelve year-old?.. whose father has been sexually abusing her, since she was six!.. and she's confessing to you that it's all her fault!.. How do you pass out communion every Sunday to her father?.. And how should you react?.. what do you say to yourself?.. when the innocent child ends up committing suicide in the eighth grade?!..."

The novice doctor sat deadpan staring into the eyes of the cassock, grasping that those questions were not meant to be answered.

"Her mom found her one weekend in the back of the family's travel-camper.. parked in the driveway behind their house. She had just been at church to receive the Sacrament of Penance.. as she frequently did on Saturday afternoon.. When she got home.. she climbed inside, locked the doors, and took an overdose of sleeping-pills.. To this day, I don't think her mother has any idea what was going on.. and there are several other children in the family!"

Father McMurphy's eyes filled with tears, which began to puddle on the tops of his puffy cheeks.

"I tried to speak to the father.. maybe to get him into consoling.. but, naturally, he vehemently denied everything.. and soon thereafter, he stopped coming to church altogether..."

Suddenly, the cleric's cynical tone turned much more weighty and direct.

"I've got lots of other stories just like that!..."

After a pause, he continued.

"Well, it must sound like I'm full of excuses!.. I suppose the reality of it all is that I'm nothing but a worthless, three-quarters empty, self-abusive, middle-aged drunk.. who has never been able to figure out a proper answer to anything!"

"Father, don't you think your being just a bit hard on yourself?!..."

He hadn't intended to jump right-in, but an impulse within compelled the future neuro-doc to speak his mind.

"I don't see that you've done anything to be ashamed of!.. Don't you think you did the best you could under the circumstances?"

"You bet!.. Yeah!.. Right!.. You know, you guys are sure great at pacification!"

The priest was gloating at him to alter his approach.

"I'm not trying to placate you Father!.. I just think you've obviously been faced with some very difficult issues.. ones that have no easy solutions!.. You can't always fault yourself for man-kind's, sometimes evil nature!.. Under the circumstances, it seems to me that you did everything possible to counsel and console.. I would compare it in my profession to caring for someone with a terminal-illness. As a caregiver, I certainly can't base my approach to proper treatment on an expectation that there's always going to be a way to overturn the aphorism of mortal man!.. Unfortunately, as we all know, a lot of the time human-nature is going to demand its own course.. For the most part, all we can hope to do in an individual situation is to fight.. insistently.. and to the best of our ability.. on behalf of those entrusted to our care.. and to hope to be able to promote credence and probity!"

"Probity?"

Father McMurphy's stern gloat turned to a partial grin.

"You know.. Right..eous..ness!"

Jake extenuated the syllables.

"Well, Dr. Gibson.. there does appear to be one thing.. after all.. that we can totally agree on.. Hope is not eternal!!.. Very often, Mother Nature does, indeed, demand her own way!!.. You know, I wish I had a handy little pint tucked away under my bed.. Maybe then I could deal with the realization of this terminal-illness of mine a little better!"

The fired-up resident remained resistant to the notion that his patient's disease was so assuredly terminal.

"Father, once again!.. There's no way in the world that you're going to die tomorrow!.. Trust me!!.. You'll come through the operation with flying colors.. and in a month or so, you'll be back in the pulpit.. ready to face those same challenges all over again."

"Alright, now!.. Perhaps we're finally getting to the gist of the matter!!.. Maybe I can't.. No, maybe I don't want to.. face those same issues any more!.. Isn't it possible that booze has been my lowly way of saying to the world.. 'I just can't do it anymore... I really don't have the energy to go on.'"

The listener had reached the point in the conversation, whereupon he refused to be further deterred from airing his beliefs.

"Father, I don't really think anyone repeatedly reaches out to other people without some of those penned-up feelings.. But personally, I also don't believe we'd be having this conversation, if you didn't have a deep-seated urge to go on.. I was always taught that each and every human-being is given the requisite strength.. the necessary tools.. to overcome whatever obstacles might lie in front of him or her.. if we just open our hearts and souls up to the Almighty.. As Catholics, don't we call that faith in God!.. Isn't it possible that after everything you've been through in your life.. the terrible heartaches.. the disappointment and pain.. the gut-wrenching agony of not being able to do more.. the unbelievable grief.. that all of this has led you to the present point in your life??..."

Father Joe peered placidly ahead in the direction of his young confidant as he pondered his words.

"Padre.. obviously I haven't been through all that you have.. But as I sit listening to you tonight, I know that no matter the problems or difficulties that confront me in life, I can only attempt to do my best.. just as you have!.. In many ways, I think we're the same.. you and I.. We're both survivors!!.. A long time ago, I imagine you placed your ultimate fate in the Almighty's hands.. And I personally believe that if I am to accomplish anything at all in my career.. in my life even.. it will only come about because of the Lord's help and support!.. So, we're really both in the same situation!.. And on those days that we happen to fall completely flat on our faces.. all we can do is pick ourselves up, pray to learn something from what happened, and try to work even harder the next time..."

Suddenly the prelate was doing all of the listening.

"I know in my heart that you are absolutely going to survive tomorrow's operation!.. And in the future, there are going to be many other challenges in your life that you'll be better equipped to handle because of this experience.. Even though I just met you a few moments ago, I can honestly say.. I truly believe in what you stand for!"

With that, the glib resident and his persistently sullen patient exchanged comrade's handshakes and bid each other a good evening.

He was standing at Father Joe's side the next morning as the anesthesiologist injected a series of coma-rendering drugs to initiate the anesthesia for his commencing open-heart bypass surgery.

"Hey!.. about last night.. Thanks for your ear!.. And even more important.. I appreciate your understanding!.. That's something I never got from any of my associates or confessors.. I respect your sincerity.. I honestly feel like my will to go on has in some way been rekindled!.. Thank-you!.. Now I can truly place my faith and trust in the Lord Almighty.. I don't want to die.. but I no longer fear death so.. I know all I can do is place my life in your hands!"

The priest's final words and receptive wink hadn't finished inciting Jake's prefrontal synapses, when the firm grasp of his hand was abruptly relaxed.

The surgery was extremely protracted and extraordinarily difficult, lasting over 14 hours, and well into the evening. Still, all appeared to be going well, or at least it seemed, until efforts were initiated to withdraw the heart-bypass machine and restart his myocardium. In spite of repeated and exhaustive attempts, the ventricular smooth-muscle would simply not resume its functional-pumping activity, responding instead with only irregular, worm-like contractions that were totally inadequate for the effective ejection of blood. Despite the application of every known technological advancement and the assistance of several other full-professors from the transplant-team, the priest's heart just could not be successfully restarted. Finally, after several additional, trying hours, further attempts were abandoned, and Monsignor Joseph Patrick McMurphy was pronounced dead on the operating-table.

With just over $5,000 left to his name, Jake inked out a personal-check for exactly that amount to St. Anthony of Padua Capital-Fund Drive, in loving memory of its former pastor.

Depositions for both of the pending litigations were set for the same day, October 31. A week prior to that date, an attorney assigned by the university's malpractice insurance-carrier solicited Jake to set aside an entire day to review his testimony. As he entered the Law Firm's office, through an ostentatious bronze and glass double-door, and approached a receptionist, Jake contemplated the purposeful exposure, on his part, of a contentious attitude; he was well aware that a level playing-field with certain concomitants would necessitate spiteful, misleading, and egomaniacal personality traits and rude behavior.

"A good-morning??.. No, I really don't think so!.. But then again, I suppose it might be for a few people around this place!.. Yeah.. Right?!.. Anyway, my name is Gibson.. I'm here for a scheduled meeting.. I imagine there are those who might even describe my being here as somehow important!.. I'm supposed to see a guy named Callahan.. I sure hope he's here.. and not off traipsing around his country-club somewhere."

The last phrase snickered beneath his breath.

Thoroughly uncomfortable being cast in such a snide role, Jake was quickly forced to re-acknowledge that such callous pretentiousness was not in his nature. Still, the lubristic plushness of the fixtures and furnishings in that setting reinforced in his mind the obvious welching nature of the devotees to such a flimflam mindset.

Before too long an extremely well-dressed and groomed moppet appeared, exploiting a penciled-in mustache to high-light his cachet.

"Dr. Gibson, I'm Trevor Callahan.. Please follow me."

As Jake trailed the apparent novitiate, for some unknown reason his mind was focused on the purchase of a brand-new car.

With slick, greased-down, jet-black hair and a plethora of ballpoint-pens, exactly positioned in a pocket-organizer, the man-in-charge steered him to a cluttered communal-office. Right-of-the-bat, he was interrogated as to exactly how much he wanted to spend. About to start college and working only a part-time job, the kid wasn't certain he could afford monthly-payments of nearly $100.

"Okay, son.. I like you.. I really do!.. So you know what!.. I'm going to take good care of you!. I'll tell you what I'm willing to do.. You know, I'm really doing you a huge favor!.. I'm gonna go way out on a limb.. But remember!.. I'm only doing this because I really do like you!"

He listened intently as an irrefutably munificent offer was handed to him in-exchange for the keys to an alluring, spanking-new, sports car. His teenage impetuosity was a whole lot stronger than his sapience, and without hesitating, even for a moment, he repeatedly inked his signature above the denoted dotted-lines.

A few hours later, when he informed his family that he had, on his own, purchased a brand-new Cougar XKE, his dad attempted to convince him that was an awfully-big burden for someone his age to undertake, with only limited resources. The bull-headed youngster, however, had already bought into the entire irresistible package; no dubiety lingered in his mind--or so it was until the monthly-payments began to add-up. Only then, did he finally resolve that the smooth-talking salesman had presented to him exactly what he "WANTED" to hear, and not what he really "NEEDED" to hear. As he was repeatedly forced to borrow dough from his father to meet his obligation, he quickly came to grasp the real-life significance of the adage "INTEGRITY," especially to someone hustling to consummate a profitable sale.

"As I imagine you know, Dr. Gibson.. I have been.. ahhh.. appointed by your.. ummm.. malpractice-carrier.. Lets see.. that's ummm.. the ahhh... MoMedico Mutual Insurance Company.. to represent you in ummm.. ahhh... an upcoming malpractice litigation..."

As his legal-advisor repeatedly stammered and shuffled about in his seat, Jake was not feeling anymore comfortable.

"My first responsibility is to inform you that ummm.. the aggregate limit of your coverage is ahhh.. only $2,000,000! In this suit, the claimant.. ahhh.. let's see... Yeah.. ah.. that would be one Mitchell Massitor.. has listed damages in excess of.. ummm.. 10,000,000 dollars!.. By the way, does not include potential punitive awards!.. So be aware that.. ummm.. if a settlement is handed down that exceeds your.. ahhh.. coverage limits.. you will be the one held responsible for any excess!"

Jake canvassed his pin-striped suit and shiny alligator shoes and projected how far away from that room the clodhopper would be at that very moment, if he weren't being handsomely compensated for every minute, perhaps every second, of his time.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

Jake's pointed interruption caught the youngster attorney somewhat off-guard.

"Well.. ahhh.. I suppose.. Ummm.. Ok!.. As long as it's not.. ahhh.. anything too personal."

"What kind of automobile do you drive?"

"What kind of car?"

Callahan's half-hearted smile became immediately earnest.

As a primordial symbol of his success, he was only too happy to describe for Jake, in great detail, his black Porsche 911-convertible. As he listened, postured across from the widely-beaming attorney with his elbows resting on his knees and his head cupped in his hands, Jake mused that the present nonsensical interaction was quite likely the only completely-upfront exchange possible between them. Quite obviously, the guy didn't possess a single ounce of genuine concern about him; undoubtedly, his alliance was solely with the insurance-company that handsomely supported his bountiful lifestyle.

For the ensuing many hours, Jake reviewed every minute detail, either present within the medical-records or hidden inside his own recollection, as regarded the hospital-care and treatment of Mitch Massitor. At every opportunity, his legal-representative presented, quite innocently of course, plausible explanations for what had transpired. Although never really asking his client to distort the truth or frankly lie, Callahan, nonetheless, travailed quite forcefully to merchandise the notion that a particular specious narration of the factual events would hold more water with a possible jury.

Finally, the key element in the entire affair came up; the plaintiff had been operated upon, not only without the family's consent, but totally against the next-of-kin's clearly-stated wishes. Undaunted, Callahan surmised from the record that the patient himself had actually granted verbal-permission; just prior to his second surgery, he had nodded his head in response to a request from Jake--clearly an affirmative authorization for his physician to undertake the procedure at issue.

"Mr. Callahan, it didn't happen that way!.. I never sought informed-consent from the patient himself. He was far too sick to understand what was happening.. I merely requested him to protrude his tongue as part of an examination.. That's what he was responding to.. In fact by the time I finally made the decision to proceed with the second operation.. as an emergency.. he had already slipped into a deep coma."

"My point exactly, Dr. Gibson!.. In his sworn-deposition, Mr. Massitor, himself, admitted that he didn't have any recollection of what occurred that night. In fact, no one from the Massitor family was present when you spoke with him.. were they?.. Now, I've spoken to several of the ICU-nurses attending to him that night.. and at least one of them is willing to corroborate our account."

"Listen Callahan!!..."

Jake was rapidly getting ruffled.

"I only asked him to stick out his tongue.. like this!..."

With no reluctance, Jake lurched his wet and slimy glossus at Callahan and goggled.

"But he couldn't do it!.. All he could muster was a clumsy movement of his mouth as he tried to speak!"

"Well Jason, its crucial that you understand!.. In legal-terms, what is important is that which can be proven. If we can support with an eyewitness that an event happened in a certain way, then as far as the court is concerned, that's the truth!"

After glaring at the chameleon for what seemed like an aeon, Jake abruptly closed the files on the table in front of him and began to indignantly gather his belongings.

"And I'm telling you for the last time!.. That's not how it happened!!.. It's not the truth!.. And I won't lie for you or anybody else!!"

The bedeviled harrier persisted.

"Dr. Gibson.. my friend.. You had better wake up and realize something!.. You are in a very indefensible predicament!!"

"No Callahan!.. It's you who needs to understand something!..."

The unyielding conviction of Jake's feelings was apparent by the intonation of his voice.

"I will not testify to anything except the truth! No matter what it may mean to you.. for me honesty is a very simple concept!. it's recounting only what really happened!..."

Jake had raised his voice to a degree that discreet veins across his forehead were suddenly standing up.

"When I'm asked by you!.. by another attorney!.. by the judge!.. by my worst enemy!.. or by one of the bullies down the street!.. what happened.. I will

Death of a Healer

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ethics is the activity of man directed to secure the inner perfection of his own personality.

Albert Schweitzer

(1875-1965)

Even a murky, nearly blanketing drizzle, saturating mounds of crumbling leaves scattered logistically across the sloshy ground, found it impossible to dim Jake's renewed, empyrean outlook on life; what with a caring concubine finally at his beck-and-call, no obstacle could possibly be insurmountable. As his requisite companion toasted to a new month and a fresh beginning--over soothing cups of warm apple-cider--he coltishly rocked on the creaky, rear legs of a wooden kitchen-chair, his bare-feet propped comfortably upon her lap. Playfully she tickled his callous soles and squirming toes with her distal phalanges and manicured nails, as they giggled and chortled, as if between them there was nary a care in the world. Despite his manifest disquietude over recent events, on the surface Jake appeared to Martha to have adapted amazingly well--especially for someone so intimately involved for most of his life in a wholly consuming profession.

The postman arrived with a seemingly important, registered letter for Jake, who waggishly offered the rain-coated, but nonetheless deluged mail-carrier a handful of leftover halloween-treats, still partially filling a bowl near the front-door. Mindlessly anticipating that surely he was about to receive good news for a change, Jake tore at the over-sized, official-looking, white envelope, like a frisky child opening a belated birthday-card from a wealthy and benevolent great-uncle.

Surreptitiously, Martha crept-in behind him, as several times-over, he re-read, unmistakably, the enclosed letter; sneaking beneath his loose-fitting t-shirt, she affixed her raspberry lips and tongue to the center of his back. Demonstrating no gesture to the tingling sensation, Jake passed the baffle behind, automaton-like, before he emphatically turned and vitally encircled his security-blanket with both arms for affective cushioning, as she in-turn closely inspected the twin paragraphs.

Dear Dr. Gibson:

By unanimous decision, the Regents of the University of Minnesota Medical Center hereby permanently suspend and revoke your privileges as faculty-member and staff-surgeon in the Department of Neurosurgery. This action is permanent and irreversible, effective immediately.

Forthwith, David G. Hudley, M.D. is promoted to Assistant-Professor of Neurosurgery. He will assume all of your clinical, research, and teaching responsibilities. Be advised that to ensure a harmonious transition, the Twin-City Sheriff Authority is prepared to supervise your re-acquisition of all personal-effects from university premises.

He had been in a tremendous hurry that Sunday morning, to get to the hospital, finish rounds, and still have time to catch 10 a.m. church-services. Just as he thought about slowing down in preparation for an exit from the interstate thoroughfare, he had caught sight of that calculatingly concealed police-car and attentive, uniformed, ordinance enforcer, with threatening black sleuth attached to the side-window. As he sped by, he was not at all surprised to see bright red and amber lights hastily come on, as yet another careless offender was about to be reeled in.

"Damn..."

He complained beneath his breath to the flasher in the rearview-mirror, as the noisy predator snuck-in behind and cradled his rear-end.

"Sheriff.. I'm very sorry.. I'm a physician on my way to the hospital to make rounds."

He was hoping to encounter an officer who had not been assigned a strict-quota for that shift and who was working on a good night's rest, or one who had just been notified that he had inherited a substantial sum of money from a wealthy, distant relative.

"Sir, get your butt back in your vehicle and shut your mouth!"

The copper's flagrant response startled him.

"Nasty divorce and behind in alimony payments?.. Just found out his best-friend has been stepping-out with his ex-wife?.. Grippingly constipated from too many chocolate donuts?..."

He verbally hypothesized a number of ridiculous, but plausible, scenarios as he sat helplessly by in his car, every so often glancing in the driver's-side mirror. The dutiful traffic-cop appeared to confirm the validity of his driver's-license, as he reported another bad-deed to central-command.

He had difficulty recalling his last driving-citation; it would have had to have been almost 20 years. Without twisting his head, he perused the oncoming traffic out of the corner of his eye, hoping that no one who knew him would happen by and witness such an embarrassing predicament.

"Thank God it's Sunday morning!"

After what seemed like an overly-lengthy interval, the badge finally returned to his open window.

"Sir.. please step out of the car and place your hands on the hood."

Hesitant and uncertain as to what was going on, he quickly opened the door, but his legs mustered no immediate response; whereupon, the back of his collar and its contents were forcibly yanked from the car and pushed forward, tight against the windshield.

"Officer, I don't understand!.. What!..."

"Keep your hands where they are!.. You're under-arrest!"

His composure was caught totally off-guard, as a resentful knee against his backside pinned him against the car, while his hands were forcibly twisted around his coccyx and his wrists were snugly snapped into cuffs. As he made an instinctive attempt to revolve his head and eyes towards his aggressor, the lawman jabbed an elbow just beneath his rib-cage, knocking away his breathe and leaving him no option but to resume a recumbent position, draped over the hood of his car.

As he coughed and gasped for air, he was again informed that he was under-arrest. At the same moment, two additional speeding patrol-cars skidded up to the scene, and their armed occupants hurriedly egressed with pistols drawn.

To regain some measure of equanimity, he tried to make light of the unsettling and frightening situation.

"If this is somebody's idea of a joke, I'm not really too amused."

Any lingering notion that the scene was a hoax disappeared, as he was secured into the barred rear-seat of one of the police-cruisers and speedily whisked-away to a neighboring police-station. Escorted like a violent criminal through a secluded side-door, he reflected that, over the years, he had passed by that particular building on the way back-and-forth to the hospital thousands of times, but had never before gotten a chance to inspect it from the inside.

He was introduced to a solitary holding-cell and securely locked inside. The naked, concrete cubicle, seasoned by decades of ground-in dirt, sported an earth-tone floor, smoothed by the paths of a multitude of previous inhabitants and complete with its own native herd of cockroaches. Dismayed by the archaic crudeness and lack of cleanliness still inherent in that type of accommodation, he silently empathized with anyone forced to undergo a similar experience, even those who were indeed guilty of felonious activity.

Thoroughly repelled by a raucous odor rising from a filthy porcelain-potty in the corner, he assumed a less than casual pose on a creaky, wooden-bench, no longer intrigued by the inner-workings of the local Sheriff's-Office. A few minutes later, a bulky deputy constable entered the bars to begin his interrogation about an outstanding arrest-warrant for innumerable unpaid fines. "Our computer-records show that you have collected nearly 250 outstanding parking-tickets over the last several years. You are under-arrest for failure to pay those fines."

"Officer, I haven't gotten a ticket in many.. many years..."

His scowl spelled disbelief.

"There must be some kind of mistake."

"Listen buddy.. You are Jason Paul Gibson?"

"Yes, but I..."

"Your address is 7843 Navajoe Lane?"

"Yes, that's correct but..."

"Well then, there's no mistake!"

"But I never received any notice about a warrant."

"Uh.. huh!"

"Look.. I'm a physician and..."

His head had shaken in disgust, as he came to the obvious conclusion that unqualified declarations weren't going to add credence to his account.

"Okay.. So where do we go from here?.. What do I have to do?"

"First, you have to make arrangements to post bond."

He felt for his back-pocket, but realized his wallet and the few dollars of currency contained within had been confiscated. Stopping him with a waving open-hand, the officer's smirk said it all.

"You can't post bond for yourself, pal! You're going to have to call somebody.. Need a quarter?"

He was not the least enthused with the prospect of soliciting someone to come down and bail-him-out-of-jail. After several unsuccessful attempts to reach a sibling, he finally got through to his parents' number. As he bided time behind bars, waiting for his father to arrive, he imagined the look that would appear on his old's man face when he first laid eyes on his eldest, in the slammer, posed behind bars.

His sire could hardly control himself with laughter.

"Just sign the damned promissory-note, so I can get the hell out of here!"

Once again, he had in the back of his mind that the present, ridiculous escapade might end up being one of those infamous, fund-raising facades, proscribed upon intended benefactors by their benevolent practical-joking friends, associates, or family-members. Still, he resisted the inclination to throw a few barbs at the genealogy of the arresting-officer, as he sauntered by him on his way-out.

Arriving back at his vehicle, left deserted along the highway, he retrieved, purposefully-tucked beneath the windshield-wiper, a small, rectangular, carbon-copy notice, citing him for illegal-parking.

When he presented himself a few weeks later for his court-date, he was absolutely determined to see the whole thing through.

"How do you plead?"

"Innocent your honor!.. with an explanation!"

"Go ahead."

"Your honor, none of these tickets are mine. I haven't had any kind of ticket since I was a teenager. There has to be a mistake of some sort.. maybe a glitch somewhere in the computer-system?"

"Is this your proper name?"

"Yes sir."

"Is your birthday correct?"

"Yes."

"Same address?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, I don't see that there's mistake!.. Perhaps you simply have forgotten getting that many tickets!"

"Your Honor, it's not a matter of remembering how many tickets I'd gotten.. it's a matter of knowing with absolute certainty, that I have not received a single ticket for quite a few years!"

"What about this ticket?"

"The parking-citation from a few weeks earlier was waved in his face.

"Your Honor.. Ok.. Listen.. I forgot about that one.. It was placed on my car while I was being detained for speeding."

He grasped that things weren't going to well.

"What's your occupation, sir?"

"I'm a brain-surgeon."

The municipal-judge cringed in amusement, as though he believed he was being further put on.

"Oh really!.. Where do you work?"

"At the University Hospital."

The magistrate continued to look down in disbelief at the personage before him, who in response felt required to retrieve from his wallet an identification-card, issued by the local Medical-Society.

"Ok, so you are a physician."

All of sudden, the justice appeared to be more willing to listen to him.

"You know.. in my experience doctors are the absolute, worst offenders. They are always rushing around here and there, and they seem to accumulate these sort of things in a hurry."

Standing stark-naked before the bench, he kowtowed in exasperation, concluding that it would have been easier and wiser to simply pay the stupid fine.

"Well Dr. Gibson.. here's the deal.. You have the right to plead not-guilty to the charges.. which will entail a scheduled court-date.. Or, if you'd like to reconsider and change your plea to guilty, the fine including court-costs is $690."

He hesitated for a brief moment, still wondering if the investment of time and emotional energy were worth the pursuit of his innocence; but something called "principle" was involved. Certain only of a strong conviction, his response was terse.

"I'm not guilty!.. I'll take that court-date!"

In anticipation of his appearance in court a month later, he assembled a number of affidavits from friends and associates, attesting to his excellent driving-record. He even prepared a short videotape to demonstrate his reserved parking-space at the university and the private lot adjacent to his condominium; no need to use metered-spots on the street. He also requested a copy of the computer-file of the individual tickets, to reveal the loci where they had been obtained.

Late in the afternoon, the day before his scheduled court-date, an extensive, computer print-out finally arrived. He was flabbergasted to discover that the vast majority of the tickets had been obtained on street-meters that fronted one of the university's outlying hospitals--one with notoriously poor parking facilities. Suddenly, his alibi was down the drain; he had no plausible explanation as to how those violations could not have been repeatedly credited to his auto-tag.

As a result, after presenting his side of the story in court, he concurred with the judge's decision that there was no alternative but a verdict of guilty. As he dispensed hard-currency in payment for the fines, including an additional $150charge for standard-costs connected with his brief stay in court, he couldn't have felt more cheated by and angry with the system.

As he contended with yet-another, disappointing, carbon-copied missive, Jake lifted his head away from Martha and began to open his eyes to that previous confounding dilemma. He recalled that David Hudley had bragged for years to the surgical-residents, especially after his attending's widely-reported fracas with the law, that he always parked on the streets surrounding that particular suburban hospital-complex and never bothered to put anything into the meters. In addition, he could suddenly picture having seen, quite a few times over the years, Hudley's distinctive yellow sports-car illegally parked there, with a citation plastered against the windshield. Like everyone, he had assumed at the time that Hudley's wife, a clerk in charge of the Traffic Bureau for the city, was responsible for getting her husband's many parking tickets fixed.

"I'll be darned!.. Could she have?!!.. She always did look at me with a certain shit-eating grin on her face!.. And I never even wondered what was going on!.. Oh my God!.. I'll be damned!.. Unbelievable!.. Boy, am I a real sucker!!"

Jake's sudden, incredulous revelation had become a spontaneous self-proclamation of innate gullibility. Turning to muzzle her man, Martha placed a pair of warm and gentle hands around his disgusted and downcast head and uplifted his face to meet hers. Raising his eyebrows while searching the far-corners of his mind for answers, Jake stood motionless for a few moments; then, he affably disembarrassed himself from her grasp and retreated, with intent, to a nearby study.

From an orderly pile on the corner of his desk, he retrieved an abandoned stack of recent solicitations from professional headhunters. Flipping through the descriptive letters, he hesitated at one advertising a multi-specialty clinic in the Cascades, a place that was actively searching for a neurosurgeon. Speechless, but with the gloat of an underling that had just gained insight into a grand-master's perplexing riddle, Jake observed as Martha scanned the page of interest; he then pointed, submissively, to an enclosed photo. As her eyes effortlessly swerved from his to the enchanting picture-postcard of mountainous central Washington State, and then back again, they quickly lit-up at what he was propounding. She was holding in her hands a wiling opportunity for them to abandon all of the unflinching turmoil that had embellished them in Minneapolis, for a place called of all things, Mt. Pleasant.

"Please call Dr. George Black.. at 644-7111."

Jake was a bit surprised at the unexpected message handed to him as he and Martha were checking into a rustic, but quaint bed-and-breakfast in the heart of the Cascades. From their suite he dialed the local number on an antique rotary-phone, as he tried to recall as many details about a guy named Black as he could.

Twenty years earlier, as a Senior-Resident in Neurosurgery at the University of Las Vegas, George Black had described an exciting, and quite innovative, approach to brain-tumors that occasionally occurred along the base of the skull. He had been the first to show that it was possible to safely remove those growths by operating exclusively through the roof of the mouth. Following that initial description, his technique had quickly become a standard practice around the world. As a result, at that time, Dr. Black had actually become quite famous; he had even been written up in TIME Magazine as one of the "future leaders" in U.S. medicine. Jake bemused that, unfortunately, since that time the guy had contributed very little else.

He was also reminded by Martha of a presentation a few years before by Dr. Black and his son, then a senior medical-student, at an International Brain-Tumor Conference that was held in Minneapolis, at the university. They shared a chuckle at the image of the spurious, balding neurosurgeon and his son awkwardly parading a couple of elderly hemiplegics from his early surgical-excursions in front of the attendees at the conference, as though he was hoping to pass-on to his pedigree some measure of his previous luster.

Jake was placed on-hold by George Black's secretary who, after several unsuccessful attempts, finally located her boss having lunch in the doctor's private-lounge at a hospital in Red Bluff, a small, neighboring town.

"Dr. Black, this is Jason Gibson calling.. I'm answering your message. I don't know that we've ever actually met.. I did have the opportunity to attend your presentation at the I.B.T. Meeting in Minneapolis, a few years ago.. when you presented some of the early results with transoral-surgery.. and even had a few of your initial patients show up."

"Yes Jake, I certainly remember.. I don't think very many of the attendees appreciated the significance of that presentation."

"I wonder how he knew we were coming here?"

Jake whispered, with his hand over the phone, as he shrugged his shoulders at Martha, advertently seated on the bed beside him. They had purposefully not told anyone back-home that they were looking into a private-practice opportunity, out-of-state.

"I received a call yesterday from the chief-of-surgery at the clinic, who was asking about you..."

Dr. Black's appraisal was straightforward.

"I have an extremely busy practice here that includes much of central Washington State. My partner and I have been covering this area for the last seven or eight years. Is it true you are looking to leave Minneapolis?"

To a degree, Jake was taken-back that word appeared to be spreading so quickly. As he vacillated in his response, he also wondered if his chance to apply for a position would be quenched by the controversy still erupting back-home.

"I've spoken to my partner, Jim Wright.. We both agree that your credentials are absolutely outstanding! Mt. Pleasant would be very fortunate to get you!..."

Jake was pleased that George Black supported him and nodded towards Martha with a thumb pointing skyward.

"If you could spare the time, tomorrow morning, I would like to arrange a visit with you. Your hotel is only 20-minutes or so, from my ranch.. I'd love to show you around.. It is really quite a charming and beautiful place.. What's your schedule look like?"

Without hesitating, Jake had a response.

"That sounds wonderful!.. My fiancée is here with me.. We'll look forward to a tour."

Before he had even finished speaking, Jake shrieked at the assumption underlying his verbalization of that espoused word; a formal proposal-of-marriage had not yet been decided upon, nor rendered. In addition, perhaps he was being too pushy and presumptuous. Timidly bouncing the hoary receiver on his ear, he reasoned that he should figure out a more appropriate way to introduce their relationship socially. As he peeked over at Martha, he wondered if either of them were prepared, regardless of terminology, for the knotty questions that would naturally follow.

At least a portion of his uneasiness was promptly laid to rest, as Martha responded to his choice of vocabulary with a swoop of her index-finger across her painted lips and onto his, before she lovingly positioned her head upon his shoulder.

"Okay then..."

Dr. Black sounded satisfied.

"I will see both of you tomorrow."

As he hung up the phone, Jake's mind was racing at the possible undertones of such an unplanned meeting. Perhaps he was rushing into things too head-first; but there was something about his unexpected, initial contact with George Black that intrigued him. In addition, the opportunity to court a job in Mt. Pleasant had, in some way, become irresistibly alluring.

Jake and Martha toured the center of town on their own that afternoon and were awe-struck by the absolute beauty of the surroundings. Many of the buildings in the hamlet were designed in a Swiss-architecture motive, with gabled-roofs, decoratively hand-painted stucco exteriors, and fresh-flowers filling boxes on the window-sills. As he and Martha tarried around the area that first day, the heavy aroma of pine in the overcast air created a spicy, alluring freshness, that jaded their hopes for a wonderful new beginning together.

They met briefly with the clinic-administrators, medical-staff, and local-leaders involved in the search for a Board-Certified Neurological-Surgeon; everyone they spoke to was very enthusiastic about the prospects of a move from Minneapolis to Mt. Pleasant.

Still, the visitors had significant misgivings; Mt. Pleasant itself was alarmingly small, with a population of only 25,000or so; Jake had serious doubts that it could really support a full-time neurosurgeon. Late in the day, they took the opportunity to tour the local hospital, very modern and functionally-designed, but nonetheless, remarkably puny as compared to what they were accustomed to; certainly too small-time, they both imagined, to support world-class neurosurgical procedures.

Nonetheless, as Jake and Martha finished an informal look around, gradually but notably, a relaxing peacefulness emanated from the laid-back ambience of that place. Wandering about the main shopping district hand-in-hand, they avowed by mutual acknowledgement that a bantam niche might indeed be for them. Before returning to their room, in a tiny gift-shop just off main-street, Jake came upon a cutesy, flake-filled, plastic model of the Cascade Mountains, that when shaken simulated falling-snow; later that evening, after a quiet, candle-lite dinner, he presented it to Martha as a symbol of the wonderful tranquility inherent in that place.

The next morning, almost an hour tardy, George Black arrived at their hotel with a loud honk of his horn. He was behind the wheel of an ancient, dusty-black, Lincoln-Continental--a vehicle that appeared definitely out of place.

Dr. Black motioned for Jake and Martha to jump into the back-seat, as he quickly shuffled scattered x-ray folders and displaced office-charts to clear a spot for them; in fact, the entire interior of the automobile was haphazardly strewn with articles of clothing and other personal-effects. As they slipped themselves onto worn and split-open, black vinyl, Jake gagged a bit at a urine-like odor that had permeated a lot more than just the upholstery.

It was to be the course to end all courses; ten of the world's finest surgeons had been invited to strut their stuff, i.e. to demonstrate their skill and expertise, for the first time ever on live, big-screen 3-D, rather than via the usual blurred slides and busy graphs. Extensive arrangements had even been made to assemble enough surgical-equipment to allow each of the participants to practice the just-witnessed techniques on freshly-acquired, cadaver head specimens. Additionally, as a special treat for those attending, a large number of experimental berry-aneurysms had been created in rats for mock clipping-practice. The only problem with the overall strategic plan was that some 250 live-rats and 25 or so dry-iced human-heads needed to be transported from an anatomy-microsurgery laboratory in St. Louis, to the site of the course in San Francisco, some 2,500 miles away.

To keep the rats safe from any danger of climatic shock, their metal-cages had been carefully positioned inside the passenger-compartment of a small, unpressurized aircraft. The solo human-passenger had also taken a berth towards the rear of the twin-engine Cessna, to be seated close-enough to the rodent commuters to be able to monitor them throughout the long journey. The protracted flight would consume some 12-hours, with proposed refueling stops in the adventurous states of Colorado and Nevada.

The first segment of the trip was quite uneventful, with the side-by-side riders managing to get some greatly needed sleep over the wide-open plains of Kansas and eastern Colorado. In fact, during the first planned stop in Gunnison for fuel, the pilot and rodent chaperon ate a hearty breakfast (lamentably, one that turned out to be raw eggs and green ham!) in the old-fashioned hanger-cafe of a small private-airstrip, lying at the footsteps of the majestic Rocky Mountains.

Unfortunately, the next segment of the flight was not quite so routine. While passing over the southern Rockies and proceeding through cavernous northern Arizona, the human travelers were so exalted by the wondrous display of mother-nature that for a time they had no nascent warning as to just how poorly the to-and-fro, up-and-down swaying of the jet-stream was being tolerated by their visceral-systems. Suddenly though, the nausea deep-within was permeated by the increasingly pungent odor and sound of muddy white-rodents nibbling around their fecal and urine-contaminated environment.

Sicker as each moment progressed, the rat-sitter in the rear was the first to abandon any hint of sobriety and to desperately mug a portable-potty, repeatedly retching while woefully pleading with his almighty-creator for pity. Succumbing as well to the alimentary-effects of a greasy, partially-digested meal, to the ongoing stench of a herd of confined but abominable rodents, and to the sound and fumes of exhaustive, backseat gastric-emptying, Ray, the pilot, was also soon thrown over-the-edge. Activating the plane-controls to auto-pilot, he joined, uncontrollably, in the time-honored portrait of a man hugging-the-porcelain.

Seemingly in concert with each emetic groan, the plane's contents were violently thrown about, as turbulence was significantly mounting over the Grand Canyon; in the process several of the sawdust-laden coops were vehemently tossed onto their sides, and to the human-inhabitant's consternation, the cabin-floor was suddenly swarming with several dozen, squealing and scampering, long-tailed domestications, happily emancipated from their metal constraints.

With the aircraft continuing to pitch-and-roll ever more violently, Ray had no choice but to quickly grab the manual-controls to restore stability. At the same time, while covering his mouth to retard incessant retching, the ashen cabin-attendant made repeated attempts with a blindly-pawing hand to grab the squirming, furry creatures, in a futile attempt to restore order to the tossed-about pens. All the while, despite the pilot's direct commands, the plane continued its turbulent posture, further dispersing its unusual contents, including the two dozen, icy-chilled heads--each individually packed within its own vapory, freezer-bag.

After what seemed like an eternity, but probably encompassed only a few short minutes, Ray finally attained control of the turboprop and began a quickened descent towards Las Vegas. Meanwhile, with ice cold-sweat pouring down the sides of his greenish-orange face, his 1st-mate continued to desperately search out the AWOL passengers.

The painted horizon over the palm trees was brilliant as they landed, rapidly taxied to a hanger, and promptly vacated the aircraft. For an hour at least, the enfeebled rocketeers remained segregated in identical stalls, each engaged in a dire attempt to restore some measure of control to his distempered bodily-function. It took several additional hours for them to reinstate any sense of vitality to their airship, before they were finally able to resume the terminal segment of the journey. By all counts, the cadaver-heads on the whole stayed put, while a quartet of rats went unaccounted for.

Jake had often wondered if perhaps part of the sacrificial cargo had abandoned ship, to take their chances in the desert, somehow sensing the final destination of their pestilential trip.

"This isn't quite what I expected."

Jake's apologetic peep to Martha was fleeting, as he stretched over the seat to shake Dr. Black's hand.

"Please excuse the mess. I use this car around the ranch.. and it's obviously in quite a state of disarray."

"That's okay..."

Jake's response was absurd but considerate.

"You should see mine."

George Black was a distinguished appearing gentleman, with a preposterously plump and round face, expensive-looking, wire-rimmed glasses, and a rapidly thinning, middle-aged hairline. His upper-lip supported a fine, wiry mustache that appeared almost hand-drawn--one Jake thought strikingly resembled that sported by Everett Salig.

They drove laggardly through Mt. Pleasant on that brisk November afternoon; the previous day's haze had dissipated, and the visitors from the land-of-the-Mississippi-River-headwaters were steadily seduced by the pine-trees covered with powdered sugar, majestically dressing the mountains off in the distance. For a multitude of apparent, and possibly a few inexplicable reasons, an overriding aura of peace and harmony seemed to evanesce from those bewitched surroundings.

As the day wore on, Dr. Black methodically reviewed the numerous benefits of a neurosurgery-practice in the area for them, expounding with emphasis, and in particular detail, on the doubtless financial-windfall to be expected. Jake was especially confounded when his host estimated that an earnest neurosurgeon in that paltry town could probably reap three-quarters-of-a-million dollars, his very first year. Without a request and certainly to his guests' embarrassment, Dr. Black even pulled out and proudly displayed a copy of his personal, IRS form-1040 from the previous year, listing his net earnings in excess of $2,000,000.

Only a few months earlier, Jake and Martha would never would have given a place like that even a first glance. Privately, they questioned George's motivation in recruiting them to Mt. Pleasant; they tossed around between themselves that there definitely was more going on there than met the eye. On the surface, the man appeared to be a straightforward and candid personage; nonetheless, there certainly were aspects about him that provoked nagging suspicion.

Notwithstanding, as far as Jake was concerned, the notion that somebody thought highly enough of him as a physician to still want him, rendered the opportunity quite appealing. Despite a hesitant and caution, primordial intuition on Martha's part, he simply couldn't deny that he was deeply intrigued by that place; as a consequence, he convinced her that further exploration was warranted.

As he was dropping them off at the airport that evening, George was advised by Jake that he was definitely interested in the position, but would like a chance to cerebrate on it, perhaps returning in the not so distant future for a second-look.

Over the following weeks, Jake looked into a number of similar private-practice openings around the country; each time he mentioned his name, though, suddenly the position was no longer available. Without other recourse, he soon came to an inescapable conclusion: nobody and no place, except George Black and Mt. Pleasant, were interested in providing a certain unemployed surgeon any sort of opportunity.

The impetus to reach a decision and move-on was heightened just after Thanksgiving, on a nippy Friday evening. As Jake and Martha snuggled in front of a comfy-cozy fire and the evening news, they were literally knocked, very much unexpectedly, from their seat by a vexatious public-exposition. According to the soap-opera expose, a university-surgeon of some repute had attempted to murder a well-known, local attorney, as a result of the barrister's involvement in a prior malpractice-suit against him and the teaching-hospital. As gory details about the prime-suspect were splashed over the airways, the phone began to buzz repeatedly, with atrocious dastards screaming obscenities and then hanging up, always anonymously of course. That night, Martha actually had to resort to unplugging the telephone-connection, so they could get at least a few hours of sleep.

Quite predictably, the newspaper the next morning was splashed with a sensational, front-page story, leaked by a reliable, but naturally unnamed, source to an upright reporter--who stood tall to his fundamental belief that, even prior to due process, unfounded accusations should rightfully be common knowledge to all his paying readers. Later that day, as Martha returned home from a quick trip to the local grocery-store, she was unceremoniously confronted at the front concrete walk by a clamorous throng of reporters and camera-men, protecting the public's right to hear and read about the private thoughts of an accused and his family.

For a time, Jake and Martha both remained determined to come and go as usual, pretending to be undaunted by the constant intrusive attention. The final-straw, though, came on St. Nicholas day, when a call from Jake's parents let it slip that several members of the immediate family were being regularly harassed by malevolent thrill-seekers. In fact, one of Jake's godchildren, Katie, had been driven to tears when confronted by a schoolmate's abrasive mother, right on the steps of her pre-school. Shortly thereafter, Jake favored a repeat visit to Washington State for another look.

In sharp contrast to her initial visitation, immediately upon their return to Mt. Pleasant, Martha sensed that something about George and his Afro-American associate was most definitely amiss; afraid to dampen Jake's growing enthusiasm, though, initially she mentioned nothing. Her feelings erupted, however, on the eve of their final decision, at their hosts' favorite local steakhouse. Over dinner, Drs. Black and Wright and their spouses were swapping humorous but sinister stories; between courses, she nudged Jake.

"I've had a horrible premonition inside, ever since we came back here. I can't put my finger on it, but I'm deathly afraid of what might happen if we move here.. I have a terrible gut-feeling that..."

Jake really disliked "TEMPERAMENTAL INTESTINAL INTUITIONS."

It was yet another quaque alius die or QAD all-nighter, stuck in the busy emergency-room at Minnesota Children's Hospital. An unseasoned resident, it was his condign responsibility to provide coverage for a full 36-hour period, as the in-hospital, oncall-person for the neurosurgery-service.

Quite astoundingly, around dinner-time a chummy acquaintance of his had paged him; waiting at the front-entrance, she had come down to the hospital on the spur of the moment to have dinner with him. In fact, Vicki had even stopped on the way at a popular, neighborhood rib-place to fetch his favorite barbecue carryout.

A stunning, pellucid-faced blond, she occupied, along with her husband and infant daughter, the apartment directly above his. "Clare-bear," as he called his favorite peewee, was like another godchild to him. As he walked briskly toward the lobby to meet them, he calculated that with his present hectic schedule being what it was, he had been able, during waking hours, to interact with the ever-smiling toddler, already nearly two years-old, on only two or three occasions over the past several months; so, a special-treat it was, for sure, to get to see her.

Unceremoniously, he had suspected for a long stretch that his vociferous neighbors were not what one might call "happy-campers" in their seven year-old marriage. Vicki's hubby, Pete--a tough, undercover narcotics-cop--worked a very demanding schedule, one often even more slavish and uncompromising that his. Still, on that particular evening, the anguish and distress in his friend's wife's expressions of discontent were, to his way of thinking, especially disconcerting and disheartening.

As he listened to, and sympathized with, her legitimate bemoaning, he began to agonize over a genuine disillusionment at the blinding responsibility commonly associated with indemnified, male preoccupations--including his particular selection. As a couple of hours elapsed, that evening, with Clare playing on his lap, Vicki's tragic need for support utterly conquered his heart; so much so, that he actually began to consider the real possibility of abandoning his own career choice, and switching from neurosurgery to a less time-consuming and emotionally-draining specialty, perhaps dermatology, pathology, radiology, or even god-forbid, health-administration.

"I bet I could find just as much satisfaction in something a whole-lot-less demanding. The way it is now.. and probably always will be.. there's just so little time for anything else. I think I'll have a talk with Pete.. Maybe the two of us can..."

As he kissed his cuddly panda goodbye and helped buckle her into a toddler-restraint, he hoped his sincere conjecture and earnest affirmations of more quality-time in the near future had provided her mom's acute anxiousness at least some measure of sobering.

It was later that evening, about 10:30 or so, that the initial STAT-call came through the switchboard. He was lounging in a hidden-away, on-call room, rampaging through a comprehensive directory of medical-specialties, as he contemplated the mind-boggling freedom that would be afforded by the luxury of lots of time-off.

As he hurriedly thumped between the emergency-room doors, he was at once gripped by a foreshadow of gut-wrenching uneasiness and trepidation, not usually noted in the seasoned eyes of ER personnel. Perspicuously subdued nurses were scurrying about the room, avoiding frank eye-contact with one another, while lachrymose x-ray and respiratory-technologists toiled in ghastly silence; the remorseful scene altogether resembled a wake.

Jamie Wood, a feisty and fun-loving, typical 13 year-old, had been playing with some friends out-front of his grandmother's house, when for no apparent reason, he suddenly grabbed his entwined head and collapsed to the ground in a heap. A neighbor up the street later reported to the paramedics that he had been mowing his lawn, when he had accidently struck a sharp but concealed metal-object; at supersonic speed, it had been instantaneously propelled by the rotary-blades into the air. A few doors down the block an innocent seventh-grader was struck in the head.

Upon cursory examination, he beheld that the totally still youngster had suffered an alarming, penetrating-type injury to the skull and brain. As he cautiously lifted-up a blood-permeated bandage to inspect the bleeding-site, he detected several loose chunks of pinkish cerebral-tissue on the gauze, with other pieces still oozing under pressure from the open-wound. With Jamie's mother positioned solemnly at the bedside, gently rubbing her youngest son's chilly hand, the neurosurgery votary, without conversing, continued his examination.

He reflected an ordinary flashlight into both pupils and winced imperceptibly at an alarming lack of response. Harshly but surreptitiously, he next pinched an area of loose skin around a nipple, looking for some kind of appropriate response; but the only movement on the table was an another excursion of the boy's puny chest, induced by the nearby respirator. Beginning to gasp at the gravity of the situation, but still clinging to the slim hope that he would find at least some sign of life, he conclusively rotated the juvenile's head from side-to-side, and followed that with ice-water irrigation of his ear-canals. The observation in both globes of absent doll's eye-like movements to these maneuvers forced a fatal resignation.

"Mister doctor sir.. Ya' all goin' a make my little 'um be alright.. Ya' hear!"

Enamored by his white-coat, Jamie's mama desperately looked-up to the tall, fearless, almost god-like figure confidently standing, like a real-life crusader, at her injured son's side. His forlorn look encountered the others in the room. Searching for the right words and the emotions to accompany them, he walked around the stretcher to affront the child's mother; then, gently uplifting her hand, he placed it softly upon her boy's reposing forehead.

"Mrs. Wood, your son is at peace. His heart is still pumping.. but your little boy is gone. His brain has totally ceased to function.. I'm so sorry.. but there's absolutely no way that he will ever recover."

Shaking more uncontrollably with each additional word, and rapidly succumbing to a predisposed collapse of tears, Ma Wood flung a set of quivering arms around her son, pressing her consummate despair onto his beating-chest. Battling the summation of his own emotive desperation with frequent blinks of his centurion eyelids, the brain-doc stood silently, but supportively beside her.

At that moment, the hospital-chaplain led other members of the family into the room. Several elder sisters hopped over to their little brother's side, expecting some kind of life-like, playful response. Assertively feigning composure, their mother opened her arms to them; implicitly, the two adolescents quickly came to grips with the fact that their baby sibling was gravely ill.

As he passively watched the clutching and embracing of the children upon their mother and she upon her son, the besieged resident allowed a grim, gum-bitten smile, as he marveled at the fullness and richness of that welfare-dependent family; though certainly not enjoying a large chunk of the fruits of modern society, their loving perseverance in the face of the youngest family-member's imminent death was, nonetheless, notably eloquent and truly debonair.

At that instant, his reflections were hastily enjoined to an adjoining room, as a second emergency-victim had just arrived. He picked up his pace as the apple-colored crash-cart crammed with supplies rushed by, being rustled into the room by a sextet of high-stepping, panic-faced nightingales.

An ashen-appearing, pre-pubescent, female patient was being administered full-CPR. A pediatric-resident was attempting to place an endotracheal-tube between repetitive chest thrusts and compressions.

"Son-of-a-bitch!.. I still can't visualize her cords!"

The frantic second-year's scream was bonafide.

"Let's continue to bag her!"

An oxygen-mask attached to a sky-blue Ambu-bag was placed over the patient's mouth, as all-out attempts at resuscitation continued.

He positioned himself at the head of the stretcher and offered his assistance to the peds-doctor, who at that point seemed to be swimming in water just a little bit too deep. Without further hesitation, the neuro-resident inserted a stainless-steel, straight-bladed laryngoscope into the rear of the child's pharynx, and adeptly positioned a soft-cuffed breathing-tube, beneath the waving uvula.

"I can't find a vein!"

An unnerved medical-student fussed as he continued to rapidly prod and probe the teenage-kid's forearms. Quickly grabbing and opening a cutdown-tray, the poised neurosurgery housestaff-officer, without any added commotion or assistance, readily made a small incision just atop an ankle vein and inserted a large-bore, 14-gauge angiocath.

"She's in ventricular fibrillation!"

Someone's frantic shout forced all involved to scrutinize the EKG being prominently displayed on an overhead-monitor, for answers. After dedicating a proper interval for the pediatric PG-2 to initiate a command-sequence, Vince Wilson's resident directed the ensample.

"Give her 100 mg. of Lidocaine and an amp of Bicarb."

At the same time, he motioned for the nurse manning the crash cart to activate the defibrillation paddles. A few seconds after the drugs had been administered through the wide-open IV, he instructed the chest-compression to stop, placed a paddle on the top of the thorax and one along the left side, and prepared to shock.

"Ok everybody! A

Death of a Healer

Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

You should never forget that to most persons a fit of sickness is an important event, the physician is associated with all its recollections, and you will best secure the confidence and regard of the patient and his friends, by having aided in beguiling its wearisomeness, diminishing its discomforts, relieving its anxieties, dispelling its fears, and raising its hopes. Your duty to your profession brethren, not to the least part of what is worthy of your deep consideration, may be summed up in the words of the Golden Rule: "May your manhood be irreproachable and your character unimpeachable."

Aaron Hart David, M.D.

(1812-82)

A daft few in Mt. Pleasant embellished the area as medicine's veritable nostrum; scrupulous others, both inside and out, referred to it as the profession's worst nightmare. As the geography and climate were so favorable, the region was overrun by far too many physicians, especially specialists, many of whom had overspent on luxurious, professional office-suites and unwieldy, private, real-estate ventures. That combination possessed all the necessary ingredients to produce a volatile mixture of ravenous caretakers, who were only too eager to stab one another in the back. By local standards, success meant an office--and preferably operating-room--that was filled to capacity with remunerating patients; the competition to succeed was insatiably fierce, vowed idiosyncracies were readily abridged by cross-referrals, and battle-lines were secretly drawn on the backs of assistant-surgeon billing-statements and recycled affiliation pronouncements.

Many practices mired the ophthalmology-group in town, which had financed and built a futuristic, multi-million dollar office-plaza of their own, complete with fully-equipped operating-rooms, state-of-the-art diagnostic areas, and amazingly, even an on-site, optics-production facility. The eye-cartel was specially equipped with a fleet of silk-screened mini-vans, designed to transport elderly cataract patients at no-cost, back and forth from the facility for outpatient treatments. The whole system was set up so that referring physicians were remunerated a clandestine "fee" by the eye-center, for making the necessary "arrangements" for their private patients to come for treatment--a lucrative way of doing business and one that was doubly beneficial for the practice. Patient referrals were usually seen only once by the busy ophthalmological-surgeons, with all routine pre- and postoperative care provided by the more-than-satisfied, referring family-practitioners.

Regardless of specialty, the ultimate-prized patients in the largely agricultural region were those covered under workman's-compensation insurance. By the more-often-than-not, sloth-like nature of their motivation to recover, the injured-on-the-job workers demanded protracted treatments or complex surgical-interventions; at the same time, their lucrative benefits provided for full-payment of services rendered, regardless of how inflated the charges might be. As a result, those most desirable patients were, in the same breath, despised and catered to by droves of pathetic, healthcare professionals, eager to feast on their profitable business.

As a consequence of, and grossly adding to, the loathsome and chaotic state-of-affairs, the blessed attorneys in town were, at every turn, vigilantly surveying the battlefield from some lofty position, ever ready to swoop down.

"It's our responsibility to police the medical-profession.. to keep some of those untoward doctors in-line."

Slogans like that were chanted by the wretched birds-of-prey to whomever would listen, as justification for their repulsive, bone-picking existence.

"And don't forget.. a great deal of our work is done "gratis," for those who can't afford to pay."

One could only snicker at the very thought.

With such a polarized backdrop, Jake's giant leap into private-practice with Black and Wright never really had a chance to get off on the right-foot; actually, his enthusiasm began to deteriorate at an initial business-meeting set up to discuss office-arrangements, practice responsibilities, and weekend-coverage. Right-off-the-bat, the new boy in the fraternity was hazed with a handful of outdated bills--his apparent "dues" to join the practice. The thousands-of-dollars in oppressive tariffs included retroactive redecorating costs for his new partners' office-building, waiting-room furniture, equipment and supplies, and a host of other business expenditures--all accrued well in advance of George's initial telephone-contact.

To compound the disenchantment of his initial impression, in early interactions with other Mt. Pleasant physicians, Jake uncovered disturbing news about his new associates. He came to learn that many professionals in town saw his senior-partner as a seriously disturbed, pathological individual, with a long-term history of sociopathic-behavior. He was depicted as the kind of person who would advertise himself as a friendly, concerned, and supportive associate, when all the while, he was plotting to behave in exactly the opposite manner. From those tabloid descriptions, George had the knack, during an engaging conversation, of committing himself, in a very convincing manner, to a particular stance, but then for no apparent reason, he would turn an antipodal face a moment later and swear-out the exact opposite assurance to someone else. Even more worrisome, according to those who professed unprejudicial versions, George would, when pushed to the limit, exercise any backstabbing option to get what he wanted, even if it meant lying, cheating, stealing, conniving, defaming, or the like; to clear a path to his concealed objective, the maniac, as he was aptly nick-named, would annihilate anyone standing in his way, without even a second thought.

Amazed at the casual nature of their descriptions about such rancid behavior, Jake sensed that even George's worst critics had, over the years, grown accustomed to his new partner's need for absolute dominance. In a biblical sense, the old scratch's wrath appeared to be so mired in wheedling that his victims were gulled to willingly accept their bitter-fate, without the slightest bit of resistance. Still, based upon an indestructible sense of purpose that, years before, had been firmly implanted in his mind--his righteousness could never be tarnished by the wicked actions of any mortal man--Jake set out to practice his chosen profession, with a god-given set of blinders firmly in place.

In celebration of a new associate, on the first sunny, Sunday afternoon since his arrival in town, George invited the recent recruit and wife to his sprawling ranch for a real Western-style cook-out. As he gazed out to a nearby horse-filled corral, with hundreds of acres of snow-glazed meadows intermixed by pine-covered, rambling hills in the background, the midwesterner was immediately enthralled by the baronial awe of that fresh environ.

"How'd you like to sneak-away for a first-hand look?.. I can get a couple of 'em saddled up for us in a jiffy!"

George's off-the-cuff proffer seemed innocent enough.

"I'd love to.. but I've only been on horseback a couple of times in my life."

Jake was hoping for an offer of some other, perhaps safer, form of transportation.

"Not a problem.. I've got a nice old mare.. that's really calm and gentle. Even the rowdy grandkids can ride her.. Anyway, with all the snow recently, the ground's real soft!"

The proverbial challenge, of course, had been blatantly posted, way up atop the side of the old barn.

Still, as he ineptly slipped his penny-loafers into the maximally lengthened stirrups, Jake wasn't completely settled, as far as his well-being was concerned, that he was engaging in the smartest thing to do. Over the years, he had personally taken care of plenty of expert equestrians who had been "accidently" tossed from their rides, in the process suffering concussions, broken-necks, fractured-skulls, and worse; in line with his recent luck, it seemed that a similar occurrence was indeed a serious consideration.

George, accompanied by a couple of his good-olde boys, lead the green-horn out of the stable on what was advertised as a quick-and-easy saddle-back tour of the acreage. After crossing a number of snow-packed and inspiringly scented rolling-fields, Jake found himself trailing the others by some distance; soon, they were completely out of sight. In an attempt to catch up, he hurriedly descended a rather steep, tree-rimmed hillside, facing due south and covered by slippery, melting-snow. In the process, his attention was directed towards a high-pitched whistle, coming from amidst a cluster of Aspen, several-hundred yards ahead.

As he glanced in that direction, almost on cue, his sedate old-mare suddenly kicked-up her heels and bucked high into the air; completely losing her footing--together with her skiddish mount--she began to slide down the slush-greased, sharp incline. Fortunately, as the massive animal rolled onto her back, her rider was, almost immediately, propelled from his leathery perch, initially landing flat on his butt, before he tumbled head-over-heels, all the way down the sloppy slope.

All Jake could envision, as he finally reached the bottom, was the two-ton heap of horse-hide rapidly furling in his direction; somehow though, the riderless but still fully-tacked animal missed rolling over him. Upon reaching the bottom of the hill, the frightened, dusky-grey gal immediately gathered her feet and galloped-off, in the direction of a familiar sound. While brushing unblemished white-snow and contrasting dark-mud from his clothes as he carefully checked for missing parts, Jake high-stepped after his ride, like an urban cowboy awkwardly trailing inside hoofsteps. Eventually coming upon his missing tour-guides, who were sharing a satanic laugh as they held the reins of his ride, Jake was a bit vocally embarrassed; at the same time, he was even more mutely pissed as the group gawked at his disheveled appearance and addressed his horse.

"Dusty, you poor thing!.. I guess nobody needs to ask what happened to you!"

George's mischievous smirk and vile comment didn't mean much at the time, but it would only be a brief further journey alongside before Jake would learn to recognize the danger signs of a demonic man's characteristic behavior.

Jake's inaugural patient in Mt. Pleasant was a calamitous young outdoorsman, who had accidentally jounced a snowmobile while drag-racing in the fog on a nearby frozen-lake. In so doing, he suffered a broken and dislocated neck, with resulting near-total paralysis of his arms and legs. After a few days of close observation, Jake operated on him, removing a horribly crushed cervical-vertebra and replacing it with a bone-graft from his hip--a procedure that had never been attempted in a Mt. Pleasant hospital setting before.

A few hours after the surgery, Jake was on the receiving-end of a call from George, regarding, he thought, the technical-details of the operation. Jake's critique of himself comprised the substance of his side of the conversation.

"The procedure went very well.. but upon initial exploration I found so much pressure on the spinal-cord that, in retrospect.. I probably should have operated on him sooner. Perhaps then, he would have a better chance to at least regain some partial measure of cord function. As it is now, he's still awfully weak in his hands and legs."

George, however, had a totally different type of interchange in mind.

"Well, regardless of that.. be sure you bill him for both the removal of the vertebrae and for the fusion.. In fact, I would double the normal charges.. He'll certainly end-up as a legal-case.. and you know.. they tend to pay very well.. As we all know.. in this day and age, every little bit helps!"

Mute from his inability to forge a sound response, Jake was all-at-once tormented by his partner's surreal suggestions; his professional psyche was simply incapable of commingling critical, patient-care issues and petty, pecuniary concerns. Throughout the bulk of his professional activities at the Medical Center in Minneapolis, he had devoted absolutely no concern and little, if any, attention towards billing and reimbursement considerations. Mired almost overnight in private-practice, as a first order of business he was being aggressively coerced by a seemingly propitious senior-associate, into the impossible predicament of placing major emphasis on something other than taking the best possible care of his patients.

Following that episode, over the course of his first few weeks within the new purlieus, a multitude of similarly perplexing occurrences forced Jake to further question the caliber of his professional animus. In ways that he had never before imagined possible, even in his worst nightmares, his associates quickly proclaimed themselves to be truly one-of-a-kind.

From the get-go, George was repeatedly late for office-appointments, sometimes forcing patients and families to wait even five or six hours for him to finally appear. In addition, he expressed the firm desire that his unversed associate make himself available to assist in the OR, but he was always tardy for surgeries as well, often strolling in two or three hours after the scheduled start-time. To make matters worse, after arriving at the office or the operating-room hours late, he would usually gab on the phone for an additional 30 to 45 minutes with friends or family-members, without any concern for his patient's or colleague's needless inconvenience. Of course, in every instance he had a very congenial and plausible explanation. In Jake's eyes, it didn't take long for such exaggerated tardiness to reach the level of being absolutely inexcusable.

Late one Friday afternoon, George requested an off-the-cuff consultation of his new partner on a new referral--a middle-aged engineer with an intrinsic brain-mass--one thought to represent a benign tumor. The unfortunate gentleman had suffered several generalized epileptic-convulsions in his sleep, whereupon a CT-scan was obtained; he had brought it along to his scheduled office appointment with George.

George queried Jake with a clearly distraught patient standing alongside.

"What do you think this is?"

"Well, it looks like either a calcified-tumor, perhaps an oligo.. or a cavernous-angioma."

Confidently, Jake pointed out the high density of the lesion. Before he could describe his treatment preferences, though, George was eager to operate.

"I certainly think it should come out!.. don't you? Let's set it up.. you do it and I'll assist!"

Glancing at the apprehensive man in front of him, Jake sensed that an averse patient was being earnestly coerced to agree to surgery; nonetheless, his nod was automatic and concurring so as not to introduce additional trepidation or uncertainty into an already anxious mind. Disturbed by that cozening exchange, though, at a later visit he spent over an hour with the vacillating patient and his outspoken wife, attempting to explain, in frank detail, all of the possible treatment-options. One attractive course of action was careful observation of the lesion for a period of time, to note its growth behavior. It was immediately apparent, however, that the patient's wife had already settled that surgery for her husband was absolutely ineluctable, as professionally hustled by the shrewd Dr. Black.

A few days later, Jake effortlessly removed a niggling mass of thrombosed blood-vessels from just within the patient'scerebral-cortex. The operation was so uneventful and snappy that George, who had wished to be present, showed up too late to have his name listed on the operative-ledger. In the recovery-room, in front of several nurses and staff, he complained bitterly to Jake.

"Do you always have to work so rapidly! Now I won't even be able to bill him as a surgical-assistant.. In private-practice.. as a junior-associate.. you had better wise-up!.. and quickly!!"

As in numerous antecedent dealings with roguish skimmers, Jake cringed and glared, but said absolutely nothing.

The father-of-five awoke quickly from the surgery without deficits or other difficulty, and that evening his status was completely normal in every way. The next morning, he consumed a wholesome breakfast and was actually up to the bathroom for a shower, without assistance. Ergo, Jake transferred him from the intensive-care unit to a regular-room, and discussed plans for mobilization and probable discharge over the next few days with the nursing-staff.

Quite unexpectantly, however, around about 9 p.m. that evening, George paid the patient a surprise visit; shortly thereafter, the previously intact gentleman was discovered in his bed, completely unresponsive. His assigned nurse reiterated her panic on the phone.

"I have no idea what happened, Dr. Gibson!.. He was fine a few minutes ago.. He was sitting up in the chair and talking to his wife when Dr. Black came by."

Rushing back to the hospital to see for himself, Jake was dumbfounded by the nonsensical peculiarity of the overall situation. Upon thorough examination, the unarousable patient appeared to have suffered a severe brain-insult and was clearly in dire straits; yet a stat CT-scan of the brain showed nothing-absolutely no abnormality. The region of the brain in which the surgery had been performed appeared completely intact, without swelling, bleeding, or any other sign of a complication.

To Jake's dun, the patient remained in a deep, seemingly irreversible coma for weeks, without any evident explanation. Then slowly, again without reason, he began to wake up and improve neurologically, and over a couple of months he made a nearly complete recovery. Despite exhaustive evaluations, by diverse specialists, no etiology for his near-death event was ever uncovered.

Near the end of the ordeal, Jake caught wind that some sort of bizarre relationship existed between the patient's wife and his curious, new associate. While leaving a get-acquainted social hosted by several of their new neighbors at a popular luncheon restaurant, Martha witnessed the two of them exiting the parking-lot of an adjoining motel. In addition, a few of the nurses on the case remarked beneath their breaths that the wife never really seemed awfully concerned about her husband's somber, life-threatening situation; actually, she appeared more distressed by his progressive recovery.

Almost immediately following her husband's delayed discharge-home from the hospital, the patient's wife sent an openly threatening letter to Jake, demanding payment of $250,000 in lieu of being whacked with a malpractice-litigation. She pointed-out in her hand-written note that she had been advised by a "renowned neurosurgical-expert," who supported the claim that her husband had been operated upon, "quite inappropriately," when conservative observation should have been the recommended course of action. In her view, the situation constituted "gross negligence," and a clear case of "medical-malpractice" therefore existed.

When confronted, George totally denied any involvement in the planned legal-action or with his bullying wife. To make a point, he acknowledged disdain for such a reprehensible action by a feverish bout of loud cursing, before he whole-heartedly pledged his associate full and complete support. Soon thereafter, though, Jake discovered that on the day of discharge George had billed the patient's health-insurance company for $24,000, consisting of 60 hospital visits, at $400each. In addition, on the very same day, his signature had been notarized to an affirmation document, fully supporting the contention that medical-malpractice had been committed by his partner in that case.

Around the same time, perhaps an even more disturbing episode with the other partner in the group further severely traumatized Jake's acclimation to his new affiliation. A 12-year-old, "A" student was struck by a public-bus late one Monday afternoon, while delivering evening-newspapers on his new bicycle. The child suffered a devastating head-injury, and upon arrival at the hospital emergency-room, was already in a deeply comatose state. His CT-head scan showed a cluster of angry bruises at the poles of the dominant hemisphere, with a great deal of associated diffuse, brain swelling.

Jake determined that if surgery was performed, the little-leaguer would likely be left in an aphasic-disconnected state for the rest of his life; thus, he made the calculated decision, after lengthy discussions with the child's parents, to undertake rigorous medical-management as the best chance for a full-functional recovery.

The crucial first few days were quite precarious and rocky. Despite continuous, intensive, bedside monitoring, the boy's intracranial-pressure was barely controllable, even utilizing drug-induced paralysis, blood-gas manipulations, high-dose intravenous steroids, forced hypothermia, and around-the-clock osmotic-diuretics. Remarkably though, on the fourth day following his injury, the lad began to improve with that regimen, to the point of almost waking up.

Then, for no obvious reason, late that same Friday afternoon, barely an hour after check-out rounds, Jim Wright, who was on weekend call for the group, waltzed in and promptly operated upon the boy. The astonishing Dr. Wright, who up till that moment had not been involved at all in the child's care, removed a large chunk of his skull and most of his left temporal, frontal, and occipital lobes, leaving him virtually no chance to ever recover.

Jake arrived at the hospital early on Monday morning to find his patient's head wrapped with kerlex and a kling.

"Why in God's name did you operate on this kid?!.. What were you thinking??!.. Why didn't you call me?? After all.. he is my patient!!"

Jake was devastated to know his reasons.

"Well, to my way of looking at things, he just didn't seem to be getting any better.. So, I felt it was time to just bite-the-bullet.. and get it over with."

Wright's glib answer struck Jake like a dagger.

"What are you talking about!?.. That makes absolutely no sense!.. None at all!.. The kid was clearly making progress. His ICP was way down. He was even beginning to wake up for god's sake!"

"Hey!.. listen!.. I've never understood all that stuff!.. Why so much valuable time is wasted, watching all those damn numbers!.. The way I look at it, our job is to cut.. As surgeons, we're supposed to get things like this over with quickly!.. You had better get with it!!"

Unable to formulate any sort of coherent response, as he sentiently listened, Jake was forced to swallow the harsh and dreadful realization that he had willingly placed a patient into the hands of a totally-incompetent surgeon.

The vegetative youngster remained permanently brain-damaged and never regained consciousness. He was hospitalized for months and required extensive, long-term supportive-care, just to stay alive. Dr. Wright's prompt bill to the family for a two-and-one-half-hour surgery was $12,800; sadly, he never once made an ounce of effort to visit the ravaged child or speak to his scourged parents, subsequent to the ill-fated operation.

In a little less than a month, it had become painfully clear to Jake that he had acquired two dissimilated partners, neither of whom had genuine concern for any patient's well-being. Professionally, the blackguards were singularly interested in a maximal degree of income generation, with a minimal expenditure of time and effort. His lofty expectations for a genuine opportunity to practice his chosen profession had already been grounded by an insurmountable discrepancy between his views regarding appropriate medical-care and that routinely practiced by Drs. Black and Wright.

Completely out of character, Jake began to fret to himself that his fickle colleagues back in Minneapolis had strong-armed him into just the sort of predicament they wanted. Unbeknownst to him, though, in the devil's back-yard, nocuous situations had a way of presenting themselves, without the need for anybody's help.

For years, Lucifer's mate had been responsible for flagrant run-ins with authority figures at all levels, those whose job it was to safeguard established rules and regulations. In fact, several years earlier George's state medical-license had been suspended for a period of six months, and just prior to Jake's arrival, many of his hospital privileges had been canned for the umpteenth-time by the local medical-staff for flagrant, ongoing, professional deficiencies, including inadequate record-keeping, inappropriate patient-care, and frankly-malicious antagonism in his dealings with other physicians and staff.

Despite an unending stream of bitter confrontations, though, George invariably had the upper-hand in his dealings with those in authority; he always seemed to have some sort of a covert, manipulative game-plan in place. He perceived physicians, as a group, to be heavily inclined in their dealings with cohorts to lend a compassionate and sympathetic ear; he also made the most of the near-universal fact that a business-oriented mind-set and rigid, administrative capabilities were seldom instilled by training into a doctor's "WINDOWS-98" program. Ergo, he had concluded, long ago and quite correctly, that a great majority of his colleagues made particularly imprudent merchants and notably inefficient managers; and he had frequently taken those facts to heart. Repeatedly, he used to his advantage the penitential dictum that a contrite caregiver could always find a way to bend the rules, for when pushed to the limit, fellow physicians would, time and time again, go the extra-mile to grant one their own yet another chance.

In addition, just to be sure the scale was tipped in his direction, over the years George had enticed a series of gullible associates to join his practice, each of whom he would gleefully use as an added pawn on the local chess-board. With Jake's arrival, once again, he had the necessary ammunition for, yet another, counter-attack to regain all of his prerogatives, under the auspices of a talented and prestigious, but unsuspecting, advocate. Therefore, as a prime order-of-business following his newest partner's inception and undiscerned settling into the mainstream of Mt. Pleasant hospital politics, the egotistical maniac began to play his latest joker-in-the-hole.

The deliberations, debates, and discussions at the formal-hearings during that go-around were unusually long, and, to those in town who had been around awhile, perhaps even more hotly contested than usual; but in the end, as always, George was able to convince the hospital-board that he had turned-over a brand-new leaf, and would never again revert to his abominable old-ways; and just to be sure, his premier, de-novo recruit, Dr. Jason Gibson, was there to back him up. To no one's surprise, the ink had hardly dried on the rapscallion's reborn credentials, though, when he once again began, without hesitation, to beguile the system that he had just sworn so conscientiously to solemnly support.

Though he had practiced in Mt. Pleasant for a mere six weeks, Jake found his professional oath choking-to-death over the crud that was being forced down his throat on a daily basis by his so-called associates; unfortunately, he was too pertinacious to allow anyone, especially Martha, to administer the heimlich-maneuver. Finding it impossible to any longer constrain his smiting disgust for what he had repeatedly witnessed in the character of his associates, late one afternoon Jake stepped into George's office, unannounced, and resolutely closed the door. Despite it being Valentine's day, untamed indignation put a fierce scowl on his face and a determined bite in his words.

"George, it's imperative that I speak to you for a moment!..."

George looked up from his desk with a particularly cunning ogle.

"I've become very disturbed and disenchanted by a lot of the things I see going on around here! I think I made a huge mistake in coming here!"

The piercing glare of George's eyes was so apocalyptic that it forced Jake to momentarily hesitate before he could continue.

"I don't think.. there's anyway in the world.. that I can continue in this practice!."

George's response was swift and direct.

"Oh!.. Is that right!!.. Well, it doesn't seem to me as if you have much of a choice!.. It's not like you've got a whole lot of other offers out there!.. Now do you?!..."

Jake was fully prepared to simply resign on the spot and walk away, but George's hidden-agenda in his choice of words enticed him to wait until his senior-associate had spoken his full-piece.

"Anyway, I don't think you know me very well!"

With that, George rose from his chair, cooly walked around the side of his desk, and positioned himself commandingly over Jake's chair.

"You better wake-up fast, my friend!! There isn't a single place in the whole country that's open for you.. There's not another job around that you can run to.. I'm the only real advocate you have, pal!.. Face it!.. I'm all you got!.. Nobody else wants you!!..."

More irate with each word, Jake listened without even turning his head, as he prepared his final salvo.

"Even your own chairman has given up on you!!"

Astounded by the gall, even for George, behind such a blatant lie, Jake turned pugnaciously to face his disdainful accuser. In retort, George treaded a couple of steps to a close-at-hand file-cabinet and retrieved a labelled file-folder. He isolated an official-looking letter, returned to Jake's side, and with a snippety beam handed it to him.

As he skimmed the lines, the curt creases around Jake's eyes deepened and the blustering fire beneath his breath was quickly contained.

December 8

Mr. Marty Sorrentino

Administrator - Mt. Pleasant Hospital

Dear Sir:

I'm writing in response to your request for a recommendation regarding Jason P. Gibson, M.D., former Professor of Neurosurgery in my department. Unfortunately, I find it virtually impossible to provide a favorable impression of this colleague. In fact, I have recently withdrawn my support for his continued membership in the Cushing Society and for his renewed credentials before the American Board of Neurosurgery.

Sincerely,

Vincent R. Wilson, M.D.

Soberly Jake handed the letter back to George and left his office straight-faced, without offering an additional word.

Sitting staidly behind his desk, the far-off look on Jake's face reflected what he imagined it felt like to have finally struck rock-bottom. He would soon discover, however, that a particular bottomless-pit in the great Northwest was a whole lot deeper than he could ever have envisioned.

A week or so later, Andy, age 10, was trying out his brand-new, black and gold roller-blades following early dismissal from school one afternoon, when inadvertently the front-wheels got stuck in a metal-grate that covered a storm-sewer; he was thrown into an uncontrolled somersault and directly onto his helmetless head. His mother, who witnessed the scary accident on the street in front of their home, later reported to Jake in the ER that her son seemed to lose consciousness for a few seconds, but then quickly was able to get to his feet. Complaining of some headache, he was alert enough to untie and slip-off his prized-possessions, broken wheels and all, and drag them back to the top of the driveway, leaving them underfoot, as always, with the rest of his things.

Once inside the house, while having abrasions on his elbows and knees cleaned with an antiseptic, he complained of an increasing headache, and shortly thereafter became drowsy; at that point, his mother called 911. By the time an ambulance arrived, some nine or ten minutes later, the kid had become very sleepy and was barely arousable. It was quickly noted by the paramedics on-the-scene that his left pupil was larger and less reactive than his right. Upon arrival in the emergency-room, after another ten minutes or so, he was nearly comatose, with rapid but irregular breathing.

With his left mydriasis and right hemiparesis, Jake suspected, at once, an acute, left-sided, epidural-hematoma; i.e. a blood-clot was forming between the dural covering and the skull, with resultant brain compression and progressiveherniation.

Preparations by the surgical, on-call, trauma team for an emergency craniotomy had hardly begun when Andy arrived into the operating-room on an ER-stretcher. With Jake pushing at full gallop and two nurses hoofing alongside attempting to keep up, air-exchange by all-in-attendance was rapidly becoming more and more labored, as the enlarging clot was causing additional compression of the child's vital, brainstem, respiratory control-centers.

"Let's get this started! We need to get in there, pronto!"

Jake's exclamation to the waiting attendants, just inside the sterile zone of the OR-corridor, was an urgent call-to-arms. The stretcher exchanged hands without even stopping, before Jake dashed madly into the doctor's locker-room, and the rapidly deteriorating child was whisked into an idle operating-room, where he was met by a charged-up anesthesiologist. By the time Jake had changed his clothes and entered Emergency OR-1, Drew had already been intubated and positioned on anOR-table, in preparation for the hastily arranged procedure.

Pointing with an index-finger to map-out the area of interest on the skull, Jake directed the shaving, prepping, and sterilization procedure, while he quickly scrubbed his hands. Surveying the frenzied activity in the room and its anarchial inhabitants as he dried his hands with a badly wrinkled, green sterile-towel, the absolute perfectionist ran headfirst into the notion that he was an awfully long way from his comfort-zone at home in Minneapolis.

"Okay everybody.. what are we thinking here?.. Have we gotten ourselves enough together to do this??.. Are we prepared to get started?.. Is everybody on the same page?.. Can we get this thing going or not?!?"

To Jake's way of thinking, the blank and utterly confused looks on most of the faces in the room, the frenetic scurrying and fumbling about, the bangs of sanitized trays and the clangs of dropped metal--as delicate instruments crashed to the floor--and the sense that a precariously balanced ship was taking on large amounts of water before it had even left port, all pointed to the fact that the scrub-team was totally unprepared for such a rapid initiation.

After shaking his head and moaning to himself for a harried couple of minutes, Jake impatiently snatched a #21scalpel-blade and empty-handle from the scrub-nurse's disheveled table, assembled the two, and with one foul swoop through all layers of the scalp, made a lengthy, curved cut, that extended like a question-mark from just above the sapling's left ear, across the side of his head, to end on his forehead, just behind his hairline. Bright-red blood spurted from the tissue margins as a fumbling, inexperienced surgical-assistant scurried to locate curved hemostat-clamps for the perturbed surgeon to place along the cut edges.

Still and all, despite the wealth of butterfingers in and around the wound, the scalp was fully opened, and its layers retracted to expose a large enough portion of the underlying skull-bone, after a mere five minutes had elapsed.

"Okay, lets have the power-drill!"

Jake held his opened-hand out impatiently, in anticipation of being able to promptly place the simple drill-holes that would be lifesaving in that circumstance.

"Sorry doctor.. it's not in the room.. I think it's still in the sterilizer."

"Alright, hand me a Del Rico Perforator!"

Jake was well prepared to use an archaic, but commonly available, alternative tool.

"Sorry doctor, our hand-drill isn't available."

Flabbergasted, Jake glared around at the acquiescent masked attendants, his empty hand still avidly outstretched.

"Listen!!.. This kid is dying by the minute!.. I need to get a hole in his head, right this damned second!!"

"Sorry doctor... It will be at least 15 minutes before the power-drill is sterile.. It's still being flashed."

Struggling with the full-weight of the world on his shoulders and not willing to give in, Jake snapped back.

"God-damn it to hell!! I want something right now that I can use to make an opening in this kid's skull!.. Where in God's name is your trephine?!"

After a brief but distinctive lull, the nurse-in-charge responded.

"We don't know doctor.. No one can seem to locate it."

Nervously responding to the shrugging of each other's shoulders, the doltish nurses and techs in the room eye-balling one another, searching mindlessly for some kind of alternative, yet sufficing, device. Jake pondered a moment and then responded exigently.

"Alright!.. Get me a small bone-chisel and a mallet!"

A dozen seconds later, a set of crude, carpenter's implements were unwrapped and handed to the surgeon, who quickly began to chisel away a small opening in the side of the child's skull. After a few repetitive, precise, penetrating chops, dark-red blood spurted through an irregular, moth-eaten hole in the bone.

"Walter Dandy would be very proud!.. Now, do you think you can find me a simple duckbill rongeur?"

Jake's facetious statement to himself turned into an audible and derisory command.

Feverishly working the ancient, bone-biting instrument, Jake enlarged the initial, lop-sided, nickel-sized aperture to that of a commensurate silver-dollar. Then, using a large bore suction-device, he began to withdraw thickly-clotted blood from just beneath the circular opening.

"Keep a watch on his blood-pressure.. The severe compression of the brain up here is just about relieved."

The operator's strategic command and subsequent comment to the anesthesiologist seated at the patient's head were suddenly a great deal more lax; though still focused, Jake respired a lot easier as he secured hemostasis around the still slightly-oozing edges of the wound. As he casually buzzed a group of tagged subcutaneous-bleeders with an ancient Bovieelectro-cautery, a subtle but distinct cloud of smoke ascended in the room, hanging over the somber youngster like the cool mist that at sunrise drifts in wavy layers above a harmonious babbling brook; only it was nauseous and choking.

After a few additional minutes, the belated, steamy-hot, gas-powered perforator arrived, ready for action; the surgeon's less-than-appreciative expression was clearly obvious to all.

With cautious manipulations, Jake was able to completely remove the tenaciously clotted-blood and identify a tiny, actively bleeding, meningeal artery on the surface of the dura. As he repeatedly applied the bipolar, he schemed that the passage of electrical-current through Sigmund Freund's essential substrate could stop psychic blood-letting as readily. Still, in concert with his typical style, he harnessed the needed enthusiasm to fervently instruct those watching.

"This is certainly the source of the brain-clot.. See how the skull-fracture tore this conterminous blood-vessel.. allowing it to bleed and eventually form a clot, just underneath the skull.

The fifth-grade, honor-student was already beginning to wake-up in the recovery-room, as Jake sneaked into the waiting-room to reassure his frantic parents that everything was going to be okay.

"Wait a minute!.. We.. we don't understand!.. A×a×a×another doctor was just here.. o×o×only a short time ago... He told us that m×m×m×my boy.. ou×ou×our son.. that h×h×h×he.. had almost n×n×n×no chance to make it..."

The child's mother was shaking so hysterically that his father was forced to continue.

"The doctor explained to us that due to technical-problems that occurred during the operation.. you weren't able to get the clot out, quickly enough."

That night, well into the wee hours of the morning, Jake hung onto the peaceful refuge of a deserted office-building, banishing his quantum upset into a bunch of paper-work and a handful of dictations that had been left over from the day's office-visits. It was one of those terribly blurry nights made famous by the great northwest, towards the tail-end of an excessively wet month; the ground was so over-saturated that, to avoid drowning, common earth-worms were franticly squirming out of their holes and finding their way into very unsettling places.

To keep from getting totally drenched as he scooted to the back-entrance, his arms loaded with folders, he had pulled as close as possible to the building. Unbeknownst to him at the time, in so doing he had overdriven the end of the parking-lot pavement; almost at once, the front-end of his late-model Honda Accord had become irretrievably embedded in very spongy turf.

Repeated, condescending, white streaks shimmered through the darkened outer-office, producing a thoroughly eerie environment, as Jake sat placidly behind his desk rummaging through patient-files, as well as distracting images left-over from the day's activities. Around 2 a.m., as he finally lumbered from his rump to leave, several preponderant bright-flashes, emanating from just outside the window, caught the corner of his eye as they reflected off a shiny, silvery object, strangely positioned on the edge of his desk, only partially visible beneath a stack of medical-journals.

Elevating the pile of recently published papers, he was aghast to discover the A.W.O.L., stainless-steel, skull perforator, with a hand-written note attached:

Hey, Big-Wheel Brain Surgeon!

Caught-wind somebody was looking for this! Some things are never around when you need them, are they?! Sort of underscores the value of keeping your mouth shut! Doesn't it!!

The Phantom of the OR

Straight away trenchant, Jake was visibly tormented by a series of terribly jolting vibrations, arising from rapidly sequential thunderblasts that reverberated on the panes of glass in his office-windows; heretofore, what little that remained of his private space was cruelly violated. Fearfully scurrying along the darkened hallway and past the demon's locked office-door, he abruptly stopped, panic-stricken in his tracks; he thought he had just heard a muffled cry-for-help calling from within. Engulfed in total darkness between ghastly electrical bursts, while standing stature-like and terrorized in front of what he imagined to be a cataclysmic portal, he came to a breakneck decision; for his sanity's sake, he needed to get himself out of there, and pronto.

Hastily securing the outside lock, he pounced into his car, shaking in his boots at his present state of emotive impuissance; his clearly evident distress, however, continued to escalate, as he found himself foundering in a sopping-wet bucket-seat. Momentarily, he was dismayed as to how he could have been so utterly preoccupied to have left a window open on such a torrential night; but then, he surmised a more plausible explanation--an intruder must have breached his easily accessible automobile in a futile attempt to steal from it--likely, a hired-hand sent by Old Gooseberry to further harass him.

Rabid-like, he made a cursory attempt to back away from his parking-spot, but found his vehicle immobile. Getting out for a better look, he discovered, to his appall, that the front-wheel drive had sunk, very deeply, into the mushy soil and yielding turf; and despite repetitive, rigorous, rocking attempts to extricate himself, both well-treaded front-tires remained irretrievably stuck.

Two o'clock in the morning and mired in mud, he promptly abandoned his immovable vehicle and unwarily took-off for home, on foot. He would walk the four or five miles in the pouring rain, so as not to encumber his unscathed wife to venture out on such a dreary night; compounding his present predicament in that debasing manner, he reasoned, would be the final straw.

As he treaded along a barely visible road in a monsoon-like downpour, his shirt, trousers, and fruit-of-the-looms quickly became permeated to the core in cold, penetrating wetness. With stentorian sallies of thunder and shrieking cracks of lightening repeatedly altering his pace, Jake splashed his way home through huge puddles, while shivering under the dynamic forces of undulating rain-gusts that repeatedly slapped against his face.

Suddenly, just as he made a final turn towards home, a behemoth, overhead treetop erupted into a fiery blaze, split crackling down the middle, and, uproariously, began to topple and drop; aghast at what was happening immediately aloft, Jake scampered just out of harm's way. As he laid disheveled in the gutter, shaking uncontrollably in a rivulet of icy-cool water streaming over, under, and around his torso, the sound and reverberation of the massive tru

Death of a Healer

Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

The physician who promises to cure disease with certainty takes a serious responsibility upon himself...

Suffer not thy mouth to condemn when something happens to a physician, for everyone has his evil day.

Too large of a practice confuses the judgment of the physician and causes him to give mistaken directions.

Make it thy special concern to visit and treat poor and needy patients, for in no way canst thou find more meritorious service.

And accustom thyself to examine the drugs one day every week... And do not apply an article thou dost not thoroughly understand.

Isaac Israeli

(9th to 10th Century)

Nearly a full gestation had transpired since his clamorous, face-to-face encounter with the grim-reaper; remarkably, Mitch Massitor's brazenness appeared, to the mortal eye, to have scarcely skipped a beat. Poised behind a lengthy, glossed mahogany-table retained for the plaintiff's brain-trust, his robust, austere mannerisms attracted a wealth of attention. For his part, Jake took special note of his colorful silk-tie and recalled the removal, in a much different setting, of one very similar.

Seated alongside, to a degree occupied with stacks of file-folders, were his daughter and another partner in the firm, the notorious M. L. Albair. Nearly identical in height, weight, and guise as his associate, but balding and cast in the type of tan only acquired by investing extended periods of time basking in Southern hemisphere sand, Marvin Lee--complete with trademark, red velvet-lined suits and raptly polished crocodile boots--well complemented that most distinctive team.

As he strolled, somewhat apprehensively, down the center aisle of the courtroom, Jake was keenly mindful that the visitors' gallery was steadily becoming more clattery. As he had solicited, a vacant seat remained on reservation in the first row, immediately behind the defendant's cramped, ebony table. As he situated Martha in that singular spot, he caught wind of David Hudley, Feikal Fassad, and Everett Salig stationed in a similar position just behind the dream-team.

"A full-house backfield!"

As he lipped that jocose cliche, Jake also acknowledged the presence of a number of other University Hospital personnel scattered around the room, most notably Vincent Wilson and Midge Stone; respectively, one glowered coyly while the other winked amicably as he assumed a desolate chair just to the left of his ill-descript attorney. Further scanning the room, Jake sighed a giant feeling of relief that Jeanne had stayed away; apparently, so too had Ben.

The trial had gained enormous local interest and even some national scrutiny as evidenced by the vast number of cameras and plethora of reporters, all focused on the long-awaited activity up-front. Jake marveled at the number of soap-opera aficionados around the country, who would be tuned into America's civil-justice system on cable, hoping to be entertained by a nice juicy crucifixion.

At precisely 9:00 a.m., an esteemed member of the judiciary appeared to a bailiff's salutation. Like kids spontaneously responding to the arrival of an authority figure, the attorneys' gum-chomping noise, slouched positions, and boisterous interactions abruptly vanished, just as a chamber-door opened and the luminary assumed her desk. Jake found it humorous how the demeanor of each barrister further transposed to cast an image of intense professionalism and deep respect for the law, at the exact moment the judge pounded the gavel.

Approaching 60, Judge Abigail Tillman was rapidly closing in on her retirement pension. A floor-length black robe bestowed upon the scant of stature--perhaps reaching 64 inches--Southern Baptist the risible appearance of a choir-girl. Still and all, together with primly stowed silver-grey hair and pompous mannerisms, her deep, stridulous voice assumed immediate command over the proceedings.

Jake's doodles throughout a lengthy procedural tutelage helped to pass the time and provided a discreet avenue for him to ventilate his presentiments. As he listened distantly to the ground-rules being explained, he fantasied as to which side would win "hands."

In sandlot baseball, the elementary-school cronies had often used "hands" as a simple method to determine sides. By the rules, a Louisville slugger was tossed in a vertical plane from the captain of one team to the best player of the other; after a one-handed catch of the bat somewhere along its shaft, the receiver was required to maintain a firm grasp with an outstretched arm. The player who had performed the initial toss then closed his hand around the shaft just above his opponent's mit, and alternating, the two team-leaders traveled up the entire length of the club, each in-turn abutting a hand atop the other, until the space remaining at the end of the handle failed to permit a full hand-grip.

At that point, the next in turn in turn was obliged to grasp the bat-hub as tightly as possible, employing only as much of his fingertips as the remaining space permitted. Finally, while his opponent was clenching the bat in that fashion, the other captain was allowed a single, violent kick anywhere along the bat-head--in an all-out attempt to dislodge it from the other's grasp. If the player holding the bat was able to retain his grip, he would get first choice of teammates and first bat. If, on the other hand, the bat was successfully dislodged from his grasp, the one kicking had the option to choose and bat first.

Jake beamed at his meaningless squiggles; he envisioned the slick attorneys on-stage in front of him employing that juvenile gambit to decide who would get first choice from the list of potential players in the jury pool and first chance to crack the bat against his opponent's head.

The list of potential jurors was subject to bipartisan interrogation. A middle-aged secretary who had once worked for a podiatrist and a retired optometrist were automatically dismissed, compelling Jake to lean back in his chair and whisper sarcastically into Martha's ear.

"There goes any chance I had with this group!.. Lots of corns and calloused feet.. and nobody who can possibly see what's really going on!"

Martha's capacious grin, as she gently stroked her abdomen, underscored her response.

"Don't worry babe!.. You won't lose!. Everyone of those people setting over there will see just how much you mean to the three of us.. We all love you very much!"

Jake blushed as his faint simper greeted a warm rush of fatherly pride; surreptitiously, Martha was alluding to her suspicion, soon to be confirmed, that she was pregnant, according to ouiji-board folklore, with twins.

Jake watched in awe as the well-schooled attorneys took turns conscientiously working the jurors, each side hoping to cast the more impressionable image--one of infallible wisdom and compassion, colored by affable humor. The inhabitants of each opposing table wanted it to appear as though they and their clients, solely, were the bonafide, all-American boys, fighting to protect life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, while the vicious guys across the way were nothing more than despiteful, deceitful, and despicable villains.

Rapping Callahan across the shoulder, Jake's snide remark was taken as such.

"Is there a special-credit course in Law-School that you guys take on dramatic impression!"

During opening-remarks, Jake surveyed the facial expressions of his former associates as their sworn incriminations of his actions were summarized. His thoughts automatically returned to the "good-old-days"--those many years during which all of them had been vested as diehard members of the neurosurgical team. Each in turn responsible for taking care of emergency admissions, making lengthy rounds, teaching house-staff and students, operating well into the night, and so on; on a daily basis, they had shared sacrifice and despair, and together rejoiced in each and every success.

As his attorney recited a few lines, Jake reflected that perhaps he had strangled his defense too stringently by refusing to alter his stance--under absolutely no circumstances would he permit Martha to become involved, in anyway. His unqualified decision to stand-alone, without solicited advocates or paid experts, and to simply tell his side of the story as truthfully and completely as possible, underscored his persistent faith in the ultimate righteousness, still inherent somewhere within the legal-system. By repeated perturbed glances in his direction, though, Callahan passed the message that, clearly, he did not share that naive belief. Quite openly and contentiously, the trouper manifested the opinion that he had been forced, reluctantly, into a gun-fight at Judge Tillman's Corral, with only blanks in his six-shooter.

As the judge abruptly announced a two-hour recess for lunch, Jake tickled Martha's facetious side.

"The legal-system sure runs on tight punctuality!.. Well, at least as far as proper nutrition is concerned!.. How often do we totally skip lunch.. and even if we are able to eat.. we end up grabbing something on the run.. munching between cases on left-overs from treats provided by drug or instrument-company reps!.. Maybe we should encourage our kids to consider this line-of-work?.. Ya' think??.... Naw!!"

Returning his playful gleam in response and taking his elbow in-hand, Martha turned with her husband to breeze out of the courtroom; whereupon, seated in the last row, a well-dressed gentleman with a hateful look on his face rose to his feet and glared at her from a distance. After gallivanting up the aisle and stepping expeditiously past the grim on-looker, then cautiously allowing a weighty courtroom door to close noiselessly behind them, Jake's waylaid query was the same as his wife's.

"What in God's name is he doing here?!"

Put off by Howard's irksome public-behavior, each of them could manage only a comparable shoulder shrug and head roll, in response.

Upon their return to the courthouse, following a long-distance call and a postluncheon stroll invited by a joyous affirmation from the OB's office in Mt. Pleasant and warm afternoon sunshine, Jake and Martha were confronted just inside by Callahan, who had obviously been waiting for them, expectedly.

Once aside, they were informed that a settlement offer had been proposed and was under serious consideration. Mitch Massitor had agreed to dismiss the case, without prejudice, for a half-million dollars, and the insurance-company was fully prepared to accept. A second clause in the settlement, though, demanded that the defendant surrender his medical-license, and agree to never again practice medicine in the state of Minnesota.

Buffing his forehead and forcing a strained grin to conceal his baffled feelings, Jake peeped at Martha, closely abiding beside him. Quickly returning to the conversation with his irascible barrister, he charged that there was no way he could ever agree to that.

"Alright Jake.. but now you must understand!..."

Callahan's admonishment was straightforward to the point. "Legally.. from this point on.. your insurance-company is responsible for only the first half-million in damages. If we go through this trial, and you lose big-time.. everything in excess of $500,000 is totally your responsibility!"

"Wait just a second!"

Jake's sudden ire demanded a blaring voice.

"You mean my multi-million dollar umbrella coverage, all of a sudden, is only worth $500,000!.. That's absolutely ridiculous!.. What's the use of having insurance at all!!"

Jake's dominant hand was trembling as he tensed to restore some control.

Turning away contumeliously, he ushered his better-half to a quiet, secluded corner; then, placing an arm around her waist and a hand upon her treasured abdomen, he contemplated what it would mean to his gravid family if his decision meant a loss of everything.

Maybe the most prudent course of action was to simply accept the offer, get the hell out of Minnesota, and permanently settle down somewhere else; neither of them needed the hassles anymore. Things certainly hadn't worked out very well in Mt. Pleasant, but that wasn't the only opportunistic place in the universe; surely there was a quiet little town somewhere that needed the services of a competent neurosurgeon. If he could just remain patient, everything would eventually die down, and another opportunity would certainly come up, somewhere.

Jake's attorney had shadowed them from a distance and stood close-at-hand, waiting for some sort of definitive response.

To that end, Jake forged a brief response.

"I'm sorry, Callahan.. there's no way I can agree to this!"

His stubborn persistence reiterated that he couldn't live with an agreement that was not right, and that settlement proposal was far from that. Retaking Martha's hand, he marched his growing family back into the courtroom, determined; assuming previous positions, they would await their fate.

A curt Sharon Massitor arose to begin the initial presentation of her father's side of the story. With only a slight cosmetic accentuation of her natural blush, and arrayed in a cultivated tan skirt and jacket besetting a creamy-white lacy blouse, the plaintiff's daughter presented a charming but proficient incantation to the jury.

As he listened, Jake wondered why Mitch would have engineered such a settlement: Was the heel out to destroy his livelihood just for spite?; Could it be, as Midge had suggested, that the university hierarchy wanted to force him out of Minneapolis?; Or perhaps, was Howard somehow behind it?

It didn't take long before David Hudley's testimony, with the verbose Mr. Albair at the helm, began to provide him a rude awakening.

"Dr. Hudley.. would you please review for this court, the events following the arrival of the plaintiff, Mitch Massitor, onto the Neurosurgery-Service at the University Hospital.

"Yes sir.. Shortly after the patient was..."

"Excuse me.. By patient, you mean Mr. Massitor?"

"Yes.. after Mr. Massitor was admitted to the hospital by Dr. Gibson, he and I discussed how we should proceed with treatment. The patient.. I mean Mr. Massitor.. at the time was gravely ill.. and Dr. Gibson instructed me not to do anything..."

"You mean not to treat him?"

"No.. Yes.. Well sort of.. I mean.. he told me not to use aggressive measures, like administering steroids, or applying full resuscitative measures."

"You mean Dr. Gibson gave you an order to give up?!"

"Yeah, I think that was the gist of it."

"Did you have the feeling that Dr. Gibson expected Mr. Massitor to die?"

"Yes, I believe he did!"

"Do you think he wanted him to die?"

"Objection your honor! This is calling for pure conjecture!" Callahan's spatter of words fell on deaf ears.

"You may answer."

"I had that feeling, yes!"

"How did you come by that feeling?.. Was it something he said?"

"No, it was his attitude!.. You see.. Dr. Gibson always pushed absolutely every button.. He was always on a mission.. a crusade of some kind.. Even in hopeless cases, he never.. ever.. gave up. But in this situation, he didn't do that.. It wasn't his usual all-out attempt to hit upon a miracle.. Consequently, I knew immediately that something was different."

"Dr. Hudley.. were you aware that the defendant had come to know Mr. Massitor before he was brought to the hospital?"

"Yes, everyone knew that!.. Mr. Massitor handled a big malpractice-suit against Dr. Gibson and the hospital several years ago.. I believe.. for his negligence in the care of a lady who committed suicide.. The scuttlebutt around the hospital was that it was one of the largest malpractice awards ever. We heard he got hit for over $5 million!"

"Your honor!"

A smattering of "oohs" and "ahs" scooted around the court-room.

"I withdraw the question."

Jake was relieved that Callahan had finally scored a point.

"So you are convinced that prior suit had something to do with Dr. Gibson's attitude about taking on Mr. Massitor as a patient?"

"Objection!"

Mr. Callahan again interjected, leading to an annoyed frown around Jake's brows; he really wanted to hear the answer to that question.

"Okay, I'll restate the question."

Albair gaped at Callahan, wrathfully.

"Dr. Hudley, in your opinion, based on your experience of working with Dr. Gibson for many years.. and based on what you told us about the events of that day, surrounding the treatment of Mr. Massitor.. did Dr. Gibson willfully withhold proper treatment of this patient?"

"Yes, he certainly did!"

Dr. Hudley's answer skirted abysmal glares from Jake and Martha.

Jake leaned back in his comfortable chair and passed a finger through his ruffled hair as he relived the years during which he had time and again tolerated Hudley's antics. The litany of covering-up those aggravating, everyday mistakes, concealing the frequent absences, and enduring that unruly and abrasive behavior ricocheted, back-and-forth, off the inner-table of his thick skull. He had even bailed the floater out of jail on a couple of occasions for lewd behavior in public, following bouts of happy-hour intoxication.

"Okay.. Now Dr. Hudley.. tell the jury about Dr. Gibson's reaction the next morning, when he discovered that Mr. Massitor had improved."

"Well.. he seemed absolutely shocked!"

"Could you give us more details?"

"Yes.. a.. indeed.. I was there that morning with the patient.. I mean Mr. Massitor.. and his wife.. when Dr. Gibson arrived. I think he expected him to be dead or at least close to it. Instead he was awake and talking."

"What exactly did Dr. Gibson say?"

"Something like, 'I can't believe this!'"

"And what did he do then?"

"He decided to immediately go ahead with surgery."

"Is that standard practice?"

"No, not exactly."

"What do you mean not exactly?"

"Well.. most surgeons would wait for a patient, who had suffered severe bleeding around the brain like Mr. Massitor, to further recover.. before proceeding with a difficult and dangerous operation."

"Is that what you would have done?"

"Certainly!.. I would have waited at least a week or two.. as I said.. until he had completely recovered."

"Do you think Dr. Gibson's rush into surgery was an attempt to harm Mr. Massitor?"

"Your honor, I must object!"

Callahan's interjection was responded to posthaste.

"Objection sustained!"

"Alright, Dr. Hudley.. from a medical standpoint, based on a reasonable degree of medical certainty, did Dr. Gibson's action jeopardize the life of Mr. Massitor?"

"Yes.. absolutely!.. it certainly did!!"

"And as you sit here today, Dr. Hudley.. do you think that Dr. Gibson knowingly.. willingly.. and deliberately.. performed the surgery in order to jeopardize Mitch Massitor's life?"

"Yes, I do!"

Hudley answered the question before Callahan could object.

Even Jake's supreme, emotional control couldn't keep his pulse from widening and his scalp from singeing. As he glared in earnest at David, who audaciously smirked back, Jake tried to conceive what had triggered such a vicious lie. Surely, his associates in the courtroom, with whom he had shared so much for all those years, would also be stirred by those flagitious words--that so distorted the truth. Yet, the earlier receptive goggles of friends seated in back had converted to contemptuous glances and indifferent stares, cast in his direction.

"Now Dr. Hudley.. let's turn our attention to the events surrounding the operations.. Let's begin with the first surgery.. I assume you were there?"

"Yes, I assisted Dr. Gibson with the procedure."

"Did everything proceed normally during the surgery?"

"Yes, well.. that is.. until one of the aneurysms ruptured and bled."

"How did this occur?"

"As Dr. Gibson was placing a clip around the larger aneurysm's neck, it suddenly blew out."

"Any notion as to what caused it to blow?"

"The clip was too short!"

"He used a clip that was too short?!!"

Jake found himself looking down the barrel of Albair's pointed index-finger.

"The use of a clip that's not right.. Is that something an experienced surgeon, such as Dr. Gibson, might commonly do?"

"No, I don't believe so.. A surgeon of Dr. Gibson's calibre should know just how long a clip should be in any individual situation."

Pointedly ceasing his questioning for a moment, Marvin Lee retreated to the plaintiff's table, and opening an ordinary paper lunch-bag, dramatically withdrew a borrowed aneurysm-clip applier; then, iconographically handling the delicate, life-saving instrument like a dagger, he continued.

"Did this rupture and bleeding caused by the improper clip endanger Mr. Massitor's life?"

"Well, yes.. it certainly did!.. We all thought that he would likely die, right-there in front of our eyes!"

"What did Dr. Gibson do when the aneurysm started to bleed?"

Albair twirled the titanium instrument in the air for emphasis.

"He got real nervous!

"This was obvious to those watching?"

"Yes!.. Yes it was!"

"Can you tell us anything more?"

"Well, it looked to me like Dr. Gibson had suddenly realized that everyone in the room could see what he was trying to do.. It was as though he had second thoughts about what he was doing, and so he wanted to go back and try and correct things."

"So it's your testimony, Dr. Hudley, that Dr. Gibson behaved as he had been caught red-handed?"

"Objection, your honor!.. This is preposterous!"

Callahan thought for sure he'd won another point.

"Overruled!"

"Dr. Hudley, I will restate the question.. In your opinion, did Dr. Gibson's actions in the OR that day, indicate to you, that he purposely placed a clip that was too short along the base of the second aneurysm, causing it to bleed uncontrollably.. and then realizing what he had done, in full view of everyone in the room, did he try to conceal his action, by replacing the clip with a properly-sized one?"

"I think that is exactly what happened!"

Hudley's response was forceful and overweening, as he peeped into the jolted eyes of the jurors.

As he surveyed the disgusted looks on the faces of the twelve, Jake sensed that a majority of them conceived veraciousness in every nasty word Hudley was throwing-out. Purposefully breathing deeply, he envisioned that the truth was slowly slipping away; to his eye, actuality and fiction were clearly indiscernible to those sitting in judgement. The real facts in the case had become mere characters in a dramatic tragedy, and the jury was enjoined to present an Academy Award. For perhaps the first time in his life, his fundamental faith in the intimate relationship between "peace of mind" and "doing what's right" was languishing; his straight forward, objective thought-processes were muddling and his rigid ideals were becoming uncharacteristically rattled.

At that moment, Martha placed an enduring palm on his shoulder and secretly whispered into his ear.

"Don't worry babe!.. I believe in you!.. Together we'll see our way through this!"

His nearly instantaneous smile was an indication that his credence in probity hadn't yet totally faded.

"Dr. Hudley.. Dr. Gibson operated on Mr. Massitor a second time later that evening.. Can you tell the jury, in your own words, what happened that night.. and what led Dr. Gibson to perform another procedure?"

"Yes. Well.. I wasn't really involved in the second operation itself.. Dr. Gibson accomplished that all by himself!.. We were all concerned, though, about with the way he was behaving that evening.. I believe he had been at a ball-game.. and may have been drinking!..."

Jake frowned at what he was hearing, an expression noted by the jurors.

"He seemed to be distracted.. and in a big hurry to operate. I was worried about him.. I didn't think he was capable of making decisions that evening, so I suggested to Mr. Massitor's wife that perhaps a second-opinion was a good idea."

Hudley's answers were following an obvious route.

"But Dr. Gibson didn't wait for that second-opinion, did he?"

"No he did not!"

"Dr. Gibson rushed Mr. Massitor back to surgery, against the objections of his wife and family!"

"Yes, he did!"

"And against your advice as well."

"Yes sir, he did."

As the onerous litany of the plaintiff's main-witness drug on, the defendant vividly relived the only homerun he'd ever hit in the little-leagues.

Throughout his years in grade school at St. Dominic Savio, he was a skinny runt, uncoordinated, and with very limited natural ability when it came to sports. Ergo, on the baseball team, he spent most of his time at the end of the bench; when he did get an opportunity to bat, it was usually at the very end of the game, and he almost always struck-out.

On that particular night, though, several of his team-mates were ill or on vacation; the squad was down to only nine players in uniform, so he was forced to start in right-field. As fate would have it, they were up against the most skilled bunch in the league. St. Gabriel's hadn't lost to anyone all year; what's more, for that game they were throwing the best pitcher in the city--he'd already thrown five no-hitters that season; blazing rockets were to be heaved across the plate all night long.

Miraculously, the good-guys were only down by three runs; but it was last inning--the bottom half of the 7th. As was often the case when his team was behind at the end, you-know-who was the team's final batter. He'd already whiffed three times that night; everybody watching from the bleachers expected another strike-out and the game to be over.

As he swung and missed the first two offerings by a mile, his ego had already resigned itself to the usual humiliation it would face, as an inept loser once again pitifully shuffled through the dust from homeplate back to the dugout, after yet another shameful fanning. As he was assuming that characteristic, defensive stance in the batter's-box for one final wiff, though, he thought he heard, arising behind the backstop, a faint chant--one that seemed very uncharacteristic, yet quite familiar; it sounded very much like his dad's voice.

Even though the oldest of his sons didn't get to play very much, Professor Gibson always attended the games; but never before had he yelled anything.

"Come on son!.. You can do it!"

The son glanced back at his father who was standing with his open palms against the chain-link back-stop; to his astonishment, there was a whole-heartedly proud grin on the old man's face. As he turned to face the pitcher's next lightening delivery, he couldn't come to grips with a very unaccustomed feeling; yet insatiably, deep inside his animus, something was different. For what seemed like the first time in his life, his persuasion towards an athletic endeavor was charged by an inkling of confidence in himself--a firm sense that, indeed, it could be accomplished. Uncertain as to how to respond, though, he allowed the next pitch to go by, just outside.

"You can do it!.. I believe in you!!"

Taking a half-step backwards, out of the batter's-box, and knocking loose dirt from his cleats, he glanced around again at his pop, who was still positioned there, smiling. With heightening assertiveness, he repeated the mandate to himself several times.

"I can do this!.. I know I can do this!!"

With eyes firmly focused on it, he never imagined a pitched ball could be that large. With a lunge of his shoulders and a flip of his wrists, he swung the 28-ounce stick towards the oncoming projectile as mightily as he could, all the while riveted on its swirling movement towards him. He caught up with it just before it was about to enter the catcher's mitt. Behind a loud, startling crack, the ball shot-off the hard lumber and zoomed over the first baseman's head, before it careened down the first-base line, disappearing in the uncut grass deep in right-field.

Stunned, for a few moments he stood at homeplate, motionless, before he realized what had happened, only then taking off in a made dash towards first base; the waving arm of the first-base coach was a wonderfully new experience. As he headed round the bases, he could see that the three flabbergasted teammates on base in front of him were going to touch homebase easily. Running as fast as he could, he crossed second and headed for third. The green-light there meant the impossible; he had actually hit a game-winning, grand-slam homerun!

The stroll down the third-base chalk, as he headed towards the plate, was the most jubilant of his life. The territory surrounding homeplate was crowded with teammates and coaches, jumping up and down with high-fives and screaming in celebration of his miraculous deed. As he neared his final destination, his body was forcefully shoved to the ground by a stampede of joyous green shirts.

Following the congratulations, he got to his feet, dusted himself off, and prepared a triumphant return to the dugout. Raising his fist in the air, he peeked over at his dad, still in his stance behind the backstop, and still wearing the most jubilant smile anyone could ever envision. Just then, though, his attention was redirected back towards the plate, as his third-base coach was yelling a set of new instructions. He bent over to pick-up his abandoned timber and discarded cap, thinking that's what he had heard. In so doing, he was tagged on the shoulder by the opposing catcher, who suddenly was standing alongside, victoriously celebrating. At that moment, with a meretricious thrust of a downward thumb, the ump signaled.

"Yourrr oooouuuutttt!!!"

He was paralyzed and confused as his manager and coaches raced from their designated positions and angrily surrounded the umpire. Following a protracted and heated argument, everyone packed up and left the ball-field, and the lights were turned out. The underdogs had forfeited the game, because somebody had neglected to step on homeplate.

Instinctively, Jake pivoted and combed the courtroom, craving to descry his father's face. He spotted him stationed near the rear, and after a wide, mutual beam, felt a whole lot more capable.

For the balance of the afternoon, Callahan cross-examined Hudley. As he strayed from listening to the repetitive questions and answers, Jake again canvassed the jurors' faces, imagining the lurid impressions turning-over in their minds about physicians, overall, and the reliability of their health-care delivery system.

Just as Judge Tillman was ordering a recess for the day, Jake was handed an emergency-message by the bailiff. He was to respond to the ICU at Mt. Pleasant Hospital, STAT.

Jake asked to speak to Carol McTegg--Head-Nurse of the Intensive-Care-Unit.

"Dr. Gibson.. Mrs. Chiodini is very sick!.. All day, I've had increasing trouble waking her up, and over the last 15-20minutes I can't get her to respond at all appropriately.. She won't move for me except to clench her fists and bend her arms up when I squeeze her toes. In addition, one of her pupils has become larger than the other.. I'm scared she's beginning to herniate!"

With each alarming word, Jake's cardiovascular-status was becoming more galvanized. An accelerating emotional uproar put teeth-marks in his scream.

"Did you call Dr. Vierling?.. I asked him to cover while I'm away!.. He's probably over in Eureka today!"

"I tried, but it seems his mother fell ill and he had to fly home to Missouri, unexpectantly.. Dr. Black is supposed to be covering for him.. And I did speak with him.. twice!!"

Nurse McTegg's tentative response shunned pacification.

"But all he did was tell me not to worry about it!.. He said I should just ignore what's going on.. that in all likelihood, she'd be okay!"

"You mean he didn't even come by and see her?!!"

Jake's loud query was even more piqued.

"No!.. Both times I called, he told me to just call him back if anything changed.. I'm sorry to bother you there, but I didn't know what else to do."

Jake's skyrocketing desperation and gaseous unrest had quickly yielded over to venomous rage, well over and above any antecedent level; visibly trembling, he absolutely couldn't fathom what was happening. Haltingly swallowing and struggling to regain some composure, he garbled a barely intelligible response.

"Okay.. Now.. Carol.. Let's see.. Let's try and relax here!.. I'll..a..a... talk to him myself.. and call you right back!"

As he dialed that infamous number, Jake tried to settle upon appropriate, collected words.

"George.. what in the world is going on with Mrs. Chiodini?! I just spoke with her nurse, who called me here in a panic.. She's apparently lost consciousness and doesn't respond.. Have you seen her?"

"No.. not yet."

George's response was disturbingly matter-of-fact.

"I may get over there a little later to check on somebody else.. If necessary, I can look in on her then."

Jake's sense of urgency wasn't content with or even the least bit placated by that response.

"George.. Please!.. I beg you!.. Can't we put our differences aside for a moment?!.. Please, get over there as soon as you can!.. and see what's going on. This situation is a real emergency!!.. She needs to be seen STAT!.. I think the lady's in grave trouble!!"

Though sounding a bit harassed by the implied obligation, George nonetheless agreed, albeit aversely, to check her out forthwith.

Two weeks earlier, Jake had operated on the sweet, elderly lady, for a relatively small surface meningioma that was responsible for frequent, focal seizures. The tumor had been simple to remove, and if it weren't for her pre-existing diabetes,she would have been home a couple of days after surgery. Unfortunately, the day before he had left to return to Minneapolis for the trial, she had developed a blood-clot in her leg which was being managed by her internist. Dr. Vierling, a respectable neurosurgeon in solo-practice at a neighboring town had been asked to cover her for anything that might come up while her surgeon was away from town.

Still arrogating an isolated phone in the, then empty, corridor just outside of the courtroom, Jake swiftly began to decipher his options: Should he try and find someone else more reliable, to check things out?; Possibly, he could locate a doc in Eureka?; Or maybe in another neighboring town?; Would one of the neurologists in town would be agreeable to help out?; Then again, as a hands-on solution, perhaps he should try to catch the next flight back to Mt. Pleasant."

He telephoned Carol McTegg back, ordered a few blood-tests and additional medications, and also requested an immediate head CT-scan.

"Dr. Gibson, our CT is down for repairs.. It was supposed to be fixed by this afternoon.. but apparently one of the replacement parts was defective. They tell us it probably won't be up-and-running until tomorrow morning!"

Jake had already collapsed onto a nearby bench, as though the walls around him were crumbling. He scourged himself.

"Oh my Lord!.. Why me?!.. Now there's no way to find out what's really going on.. Oh God!!.. Please help me!"

Somehow collecting himself, in rapid sequence he relayed his thoughts to Nurse McTegg.

"Carol, see if you can get in touch with Dr. Wright, or one of the neurologists.. STAT!! I just spoke with Black, who promised he would get over there, sometime, to see her.. but you know how reliable he is!.. Also, get her ready for an emergency craniotomy! Call me back as soon as things are ready to go."

For Martha, it was a 30-minute, dead-silent ride to Jake's parents' home where they were staying. After arriving, posthaste he contacted the ICU again; his patient was continuing to deteriorate.

"She's beginning to straighten her arms and legs in response to stimulation.

"Jesus, she's posturing!!"

Jake howled like a wounded animal; his convictions were that she was dying.

"Dr. Black hasn't been there yet!!"

"Nope.. haven't seen him."

McTegg's answer let the rest of the circulating blood run out of his facial capillaries.

"Christ in heaven!! Call somebody else STAT! He promised me he would be there by now!.. Get whomever you can reach to come and check on her right now!!.. Tell them that this is a life-and-death emergency and let me know as soon as somebody arrives!!"

Uncharacteristically, and quite indecorously, Jake slammed the phone down and pounded a clenched fist against the kitchen wall, startling his parents and wife who were chatting, informally, around the dinner-table. Panic-stricken, he rapidly dialed George's numbers again; but no one answered. He also reached Jim Wright's riverside estate and left an emergency message for him, though his housekeeper thought he had taken his plane away from town for the week.

As he paced by the phone, cagingly, like an expectant father, waiting minute-by-minute for a return call, Jake further agonized over the distempered spot he was in. He had associated himself with a couple of incompetent, dead-beat caregivers, whose major concerns and efforts revolved solely around economics and domination; in the process, he had totally apostatized his staunch convictions regarding the essential virtues in medicine. Penitent-like, he scowled over the fact that neither of his former associates cared an inkling about taking care of people or doing what was right--character traits that had been painfully obvious to him for an awful long time before he finally got out. Fretting at the depth of the hole he had dug for himself, as he anxiously moved to and fro, and ignoring her bedeviled looks, Jake again recalled, with a stiff upper-lip, his wife's prior stated warnings that such a catastrophic event might happen.

After what seemed like donkey's years, Jake called the ICU on the case!. again to the nullifying news that George Black had finally arrived.

"Jake, I've evaluated the situation, and I don't see where there's really anything to worry about!"

Jake pressed the phone closer against his ear, aghast to believe what he was hearing.

"What do you mean there's nothing to worry about!.. The lady's slipped in a coma.. and she's dying!!.. Since we can't get a CT-scan tonight, she needs an immediate re-exploration.. She probably has an enlarging hematoma in the tumor-bed.. coming from the anticoagulants being used to treat her leg clot. Even an incompetent fool can see that there's a great deal of pressure on her brain!.. and it's going to kill her if nothing is done!!"

Jake's threatening tone sounded, astonishingly, like a provocation, even to him.

"Well, I don't happen to see it that way, pal!.. I'm here and I've evaluated the situation.. I don't think she needs an emergency procedure!.. We can't do a CT-scan until tomorrow.. so I say we just sit tight tonight and just see what happens!"

Jake persisted for some minutes to plead with Lucifer's double-agent to open his ears to common-sense reasoning, of course to no avail. At the conclusion of their conversation, in utter disgust and total frustration, he returned the handset to its holder even more furiously.

Like a shackled and wounded wild-animal, Jake found himself, professionally-speaking, in a totally compromised position, unlike any that he had previously encountered in his life. There was no doubt in his mind that one of his patients required immediate surgery, but he was absolutely powerless to ensure it be done. Throughout the remainder of the evening and night, his loved ones did their best to provide solace, but as the stars ran their course, overwhelming fury and dismay kept him anxiously stalking the phone. None of the other Mt. Pleasant area physicians would intercede, and there were no available flights out there; so he was stuck, hour-by-hour, to ruefully observe while his entrusted patient progressively herniated and died.

At 6 o'clock in the morning, a final call from nurse McTegg informed him that Mrs. Chiodini had been pronounced brain-dead, and her respirator was being turned off.

As he rode with Martha to the courthouse that morning, Jake declared his irrevocable disillusionment towards the whole practice of medicine.

"You were so right from the very beginning.. You hit the nail squarely on the head!.. Your suspicions about those guys have repeatedly proven absolutely correct!.. They're both freaking crazies!!.. I can't do this any more!.. There's no way in the world I'll ever work out there again.. In fact, maybe I shouldn't practice at all!.. I'm beginning to think I need to do something else with my life!."

Despite a nascent uneasiness, in many ways Martha had come to enjoy her life in Mt. Pleasant: the climate and geography were absolutely delightful; their new home was very comfortable and peaceful; and by not working, she had made several close new friendships. Nonetheless, she responded right off to her husband's concerns; she would do whatever he wanted, even if it meant upraising immediately and moving again.

Right off the bat that day, a number of other individuals embroiled in Massitor's care and treatment were subpoenaed to the stand to collaborate points in Hudley's testimony. Jake regarded all of them as loyal friends and trusted associates. As each, in turn, responded hesitantly but honestly to the same incriminating questions, he consigned to them a faint smile--complete with patented, dimple-laden grin--his way of letting them know that no ill feelings were harbored.

Late in the morning, the first of the plaintiff's expert-witnesses was called to the stand--Dr. Feikal Fassad. Jake shuddered at the memory of Feikal's dismal track-record at the university; among his frequent operative misadventures, one particular patient came quickly to mind.

Roger Ingoldsby, a heavy smoking, middle-aged, terribly over-weight truck-driver had presented himself to the University Hospital one evening, just after returning home following an interstate delivery. On his return trip, he had noted increasingly severe headaches and several episodes of double-vision. Dr. Fassad was covering the emergency-room that evening, and as the patient's fate would have it, became the assigned surgeon.

Despite a normal neurological examination, his STAT CT-scan that night showed several vague lesions in the brain, suspicious for metastatic tumors. Without discussing the case with anyone, Dr. Fassad scheduled surgery for first thing the next morning, and for some unknown reason, attempted to excise one of the deeper, more difficult lesions, rather than approaching one of the more superficial, easily accessible tumors. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, the patient suffered a horrid operative experience and was left in a greatly compromised, barely responsive state, with paralysis of his arms and legs, skew deviation of his eyes, and no speech. To compound the dilemma, in addition to rendering his patient into a moribund state, Feikal failed to locate or identify the actual tumor, such that no firm diagnosis could be reached.

Needless to say, the patient's family was devastated by the catastrophic turn of events. His wife, a frail appearing menopausal housewife with a recently emptied nest, had never before been placed in the position of being forced to fend for herself; as such, she was totally incapable of coming to grips with the probability that her husband would never recover. During his stormy and for the most part downhill course, time-and-again she felt the need to consult Fassad's associates for reassurance--to rationally explain all that had happened and somehow come up with an optimistic solution.

Jake relived the anguish of the double-edged sword that had been thrust in his side by that case, and many others; he despised having to account for another surgeon's avoidable poor outcome and justify a gone-awry therapeutic procedure, especially one that made absolutely no sense in the first place.

Pitifully, that patient was hospitalized in a devastated condition for months, before he finally succumbed to some sort of mitotic process--one that even at the end was never properly diagnosed. Unable to tolerate incompetence at any level, Jake was eventually compelled to confront Fassad.

"I don't understand how one surgeon can have so many poor results and repeated complications!"

With bushy brows and a remarkably elongated beak, Feikal had his own distinctive views.

"I don't think these are bad outcomes at all!.. If you read the literature, you'll find that I'm doing quite well compared to many others.. In fact, I've reviewed my results with notable experts around the country, and they have all agreed that I do nothing except first quality work!"

As with most incapable wizards, Feikal's Achilles's heel was his inability to bluff scrupulous scientific wisdom; so Jake was hardly convinced.

"Feikal, I really don't appreciate the bullshit!.. Do you think I'm that stupid!.. By this point in your career, you should have learned that the most distinguishable mark of an unfit surgeon is a

Death of a Healer

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The physician shall not be loquacious.

He shall admit his error, if he errored.

He shall admit but few patients in order not to error through their multitude.

He shall stand firm against the opposition of the populace.

He shall consider the most dangerous of signs and to this he shall direct his treatment.

Jacob Zahalon

(1630-1693)

The Gibson household's requisite repose was prematurely halted early the next morning by a rudely awakening call from none other than counselor Callahan. He had received yet another settlement proffer from Massitor, and the man himself wanted a private parlay with the defendant to discuss it prior to the closing arguments on the docket for later that day. Without weighty debate or needless hesitation, Jake openly consented, but with the insistence that his mate also be present.

As they sipped recycled black-coffee in a bantam conference-room just down the hall from the courtroom, while tarrying for Massitor to appear, Jake and Martha firmly resolved to Callahan that they were fully prepared to pursue the suit thru till the bitter end, regardless.

When he arrived, a conspicuous half-hour late, Mitch evinced more than the usual amount of unwavering arrogance.

"Jason my boy..."

The chat began overweeningly.

"This lawsuit is to go before the jury today.. and I think it's pretty obvious what the verdict will almost certainly be.. Still.. I wanted to speak with you beforehand to see if through one final effort, we could resolve this..."

Jake posed inarticulate as he pondered the most suitable timing for his intended rejection of the forthcoming proposal, whatever it be.

"I'm sure you're wondering why.. after all the effort and work that has gone into this trial.. I would even consider a settlement.. especially at this stage when I'm almost assured of a very substantial verdict!..."

Jake exchanged waylaid expressions with Martha as Callahan silently brooded, shooting finical darts at his distinguished opponent.

"You know lad, first of all..."

Massitor's indoctrinating manners were barely sufferable.

"I truly do feel sorry for you.. For someone with such brilliance.. to have so foolishly overestimated the puissance of truth in our society.. You know, I've litigated against professionals almost my entire career.. and I don't believe I've ever encountered anyone, so.. totally.. hardheaded, bullheaded.. and pigheaded!.. as you!..."

Jake smirked at the vague hint of admiration in his adversary's salient choice of words; perhaps there was a reasonably sensible side to the supreme fault-finder after all.

"You know.. in some ways you take all the fun out of winning... By going through all of this as you have, I deem that you look at it all as some kind of a positive experience.. And I'm quite sure, in order to persevere.. you've probably already worked out an honorable escape route. In fact, my bet is that no matter how harsh the award handed out by this court.. you'll simply swallow it.. and go on doing what you've always done..."

Jake glared at Callahan, who had just interrupted his opponent's train of thought by a demand that he get to the point. Nevertheless undaunted, Mitch continued.

"Believe me.. in this day and age.. individuals with beliefs like yours, and the gumption to back them up, are a dying, nearly extinct, breed..."

Jake's grin acknowledged another staggering accolade.

"What I am about to say is completely off the record!.. Is that agreeable with you Mr. Callahan?"

"Well, I don't know.. I'm not sure if..."

Jake snarled at Callahan to desist his confrontational efforts and to take a passive seat to what was transpiring.

"You probably will find this hard to believe, but I've been following your career for years.. way before our paths crossed on the Kincaid case.. In fact, I think I called you once or twice while you were still a resident.. to consider giving a deposition as an expert-witness for one or another of my clients..."

Jake combed his memory but didn't recall those specific requests among the literally hundreds that he had indifferently refuted over his career.

"Your reputation for steadfast integrity has earned a great deal of notice.. I know many people who really respect you.. At the same time, though, plenty of others feel very differently.. For reasons I don't want to get into now.. a lot of your cohorts are very much embittered by you.. In fact, some of your closest associates are so afraid of you that they wouldn't bat an eye if you were to get wrung up!..."

Jake's puzzled flinch and look of disbelief displayed his persistent, but certainly wavering, doubt at what was being portrayed.

"As you sit there today, it's obvious to me that you still don't get it!.. My dear Jason!.. when are you finally going to wake up and see what is really going on around you?!.. For the right price..."

Mitch stalled for a moment as he wanted different words.

"Well.. Let's just put it this way.. Money drives our society including.. no especially.. your profession!.. That choirboy doctor image of yours.. one-hundred percent dedicated to the concerns of others.. it's completely outside the modern mainstream!.. You represent an archaic exception to the rule.. a totally out-of-date oddity!..."

Even though there was nary a cloud in the sky that morning, Jake's constitutional warmth remained concealed behind a guise of thunder-boomers that threatened to let loose at any moment.

"Utopian do-gooders, like yourself, can almost always find a way to turn failure into success.. especially for a while.. Our shallow society spawns your type of visionary hero.. in order to have someone to admire and believe in.. You make great headlines!.. People in the mainstream flock to that deeply-touching perspective you so nobly represent!.. But be assured!.. Power-brokers.. especially those that have been bought and paid for.. in the same breath, admire and despise that inveigling simplicity that you exhibit!..."

Beneath the condescending nature of his adversary's words, Jake's attention began to wander.

"Mark my words!.. One day soon.. you'll be totally ripped apart by a common everyday miscreant!.. Someone you know well.. Someone you have faith in!.. Your final downfall will start inconspicuously.. Perhaps, in order to stave off being humiliated, unthinkingly you'll sacrifice a seemingly insignificant morsel of that juvenile idealism you serve up so proficiently.. You'll do it innocently, of course.. without even a second thought.. Be aware though!.. Not long after that, you'll be publicly defrocked by those in authority positions, who outwardly presume to be your allies.. In our society, everybody can be gotten for a price.. even those we trust the most!!"

It was one of those terribly overbearing exam-schedules with finals in world history, calculus, and organic chemistry, all back-to-back; naturally, traffic that morning was backed up for blocks. Altogether primed and pumped, he had been cramming for weeks, with the memory of K.J. still fresh on his mind, to finish off the semester with nothing but A's; pursuing that implacable goal so vigorously, he had just been in too darned big a hurry.

He spotted a momentary clear-passage in the curb-lane, one that would enable him to whip around the multitude of frustrated commuters caught standing still. His anxiousness not to be late for the upcoming tests demanded the gas-pedal to the metal; no reason to wonder why everyone else was stopped ahead; no time to slow down and ask questions.

The smashing crush of dense skull-bone against a rigid chrome-bumper startled him back to the distasteful reality of his ways; the incontrovertible importance of that mission could never bring the blameless animal, bleeding in the gutter, back to life. Still, as he bent over the wasted collie and looked up into the accusing eyes of several other drivers who had stopped in horror, he resolved, instantly and without a second thought--there was just no time for that.

Anxiously glancing at his timepiece, he calculated that if he spent even one more minute there, he would be late for the first exam. Before he could make even the slightest backward move in the direction of his car, though, to his astonishment, the injured animal began again to breath; damned if it wasn't still alive. At that moment he was gripped by the notion that it was his sole responsibility to rescue the injured canine into the arms of proper veterinarian care; so with a deep and anxious sigh, he glanced, back-and-forth, between the tumultuous faces of the premorbid dog and his ticking watch.

Before he could settle on an action, his feckless hesitation in proceeding was interpreted by one of the passerbys as indifference; whereupon, an elderly, frail-appearing woman gruffly hoisted the wounded family pet into her arms and taxingly struggled back to her car, before she plopped the comatose four-legged creature onto her rear seat. Following a decadent glance in his direction, she quickly drove off, as if on mission.

Despite a troubled comfort zone, he completed the more formidable than expected battery of exams and hurried back to the site of the bestial slaughter, at that point marked only by a few dried drops of blood spattered on the pavement. Feeling ever more reprehensible, he promptly paid a visit to a veterinary hospital nearby, which lamentably had no knowledge of the animal in question; even after placing numerous calls to other neighborhood vets, he continued to come up empty.

His inability to find out anything about what ultimately happened to the animal had left him emotionally stranded for a long time; never knowing whether the pitiful mutt died, survived, or suffered something in between had buffaloed him for years. No matter the sum-total or significance of great accomplishments to follow, each was tangibly tarnished by the assumed loss of life that he had, on that morning, so carelessly inflicted upon one of God's living creatures.

Still fatigued from the exhausting ordeals of the last 36 hours, Jake yawned and tried to rub some feeling back into his scratchy, reddened eyes and aching, wrinkled forehead, as he strove to understand the point of it all. In stark contrast, the characteristic lines in Massitor's face, at that moment, became less cantankerous and more unpretentious than he could have ever imagined possible.

"Last summer you saved my life.. In many people's opinions, including mine.. you're a damn fool for doing what you did!.. Still, I'd be a liar to say I don't appreciate your integrity. By all rights, if you adhered in your life to any of the egoistic bias that most of your stone-hearted cohorts tote around, I'd be dead.. or at the very least, totally gorked out in a crummy nursing-home somewhere!"

Jake chuckled a bit as he began to take renewed stock in the dim, but nonetheless smoldering hope that his former patient might possibly be hinting around at dropping the case. His thoughts revolved around the essential relationship in his mind between "doing what's right" and ending up with something called "luck" on your side.

He couldn't recall being in any particular major rush that other memorable morning on his way into the university, consumed as he was by thoughts about an upcoming year in Europe, pursuing his dream to learn from the master. More likely, he just hadn't been adequately attentive, in the light drizzle, to his driving--imagine that of a senior neurosurgery-resident who spent a great deal of his time retrieving blood-clots and shattered skull-fragments from within the brains of people who just hadn't been paying enough attention.

A grand-old studebaker it was--a one-of-a-kind, silver and black two-tone, complete with plenty of corrosion on the bumpers, rust along the fenders, and 150,000+ miles on the odometer. The antique had been bequeathed to him by great Uncle Fred, who hadn't put a nickel into its bare tires and lax shocks for years. Still, its beneficiary had reasoned that the classic junker would, at least, provide basic transportation for a few months, until he had a chance to save up enough of his paltry resident's salary to afford something a little better, or he finished his training and moved on, whichever came first.

The banked interstate exchange-ramp hadn't seemed any more tortuous than usual, but on that particular day, the feisty stud possessed a mind of its own. As the vintage motorcar initiated the obtuse turn, its bald rubber seemed to lose its grip, and its clumsy, box-like carriage began to fade out of the turn, in the process, uncontrollably shimmying back-and-forth. The unsuspecting driver was literally launched sideways from behind the wheel, his torso repeatedly bouncing up-and-down upon an overly springy front-seat.

After a series of violent thrusts and shakes from side-to-side, he briefly marveled at the strange sensation of weightlessness, before being overcome by an unpleasant anticipation of impending, forcefully blunt impaction. In perfect adherence to the laws of gravity, loose change in the ashtray scattered, then bounced around on the floor inside. The grinding sound of sheet-metal against concrete was the only missing ingredient as a full revolution seemed to have been rapidly completed.

At that moment, with unexplained centripetal assistance, the deposed operator was forcefully propelled upward from his slumped position--back up to the normal seated-position of a driver-in-control. Though overcome by a spank of bewilderment, he managed to guide the decelerating, wayward chariot through the rest of its turn; then, with no other appropriate recourse, he nonchalantly replaced his right foot on the gas-pedal, to merely continue a something-less-than routine, early morning journey to the hospital.

Finally arriving at his humble parking-spot on campus, the black-bag courier was convinced that he had momentarily fallen asleep at the wheel and consequently dreamt the entire escapade; the absence of anything detached from its usual spot on his person did nothing to dissuade that thought. It wasn't until he was walking up to the hospital entrance and turned to precipitously glance at the old buggy that he grasped the startling presence of big dents and deep scratches across the painted roof-top. An agreeable wink at the towering tailfins had reflected his moral qualifications--"there was simply no substitute in life for God's good fortune."

"Well hell!.. Enough of that!.. Here's my final offer!.. I want a signed declaration that you'll refrain from the practice of medicine in the state of Minnesota, for the next ten years!.. That's it!"

A dumbfounded Callahan was ecstatic by the offer.

"That's all?!.. No monetary stipulation?"

Jake, who hadn't been listening all that earnestly, spontaneously looked to Martha at his side, as Massitor gyrated his head to Callahan's inquiry. It was her wisdom and strength that had gotten him through so many formidable crises over the years; his response was fittingly hesitant.

"We need a few minutes to talk it over."

"I'll see you in court counselor."

Massitor shrugged off Callahan with a flip retort as he rose from his chair; still, graciously he extended a hand to both Jake and Martha.

Callahan turned his immediate attention to his client, reminding him that if he declined the offer, he could be held responsible to pay a settlement of several million dollars. Jake inquired as to the long-term legal ramifications if he accepted.

"When will I ever be able to return to practice in this state again?.. Or any other, for that matter?.. Once they find out I voluntarily surrendered my license!"

"That's really not an issue!"

The attorney's madcap reassurance left his client feeling otiose.

"This is all no big deal, really!.. The agreement he's proposing has nothing to do with your formal license to practice medicine. This document certainly won't be promulgated by the State Medical-Board Quality Assurance Organization or the National Registry. Your pledge to Massitor constitutes a mere legal formality.. an unenforceable written promise.. Given time.. I'm sure the heated emotion of the moment will be forgotten, and you'll be able to get on with all of your professional activities here.. or anywhere else you want."

"We'd like to discuss it a bit."

Jake was rapidly wondering off into Martha's comfort zone.

"Well, I don't see that there's anything to..."

Taking the hint offered by his clients' beleaguered inattention, Callahan excused himself to see them inside the courtroom in a few minutes.

Sitting stiffly in a straight-backed wooden chair and staring downtroddenly ahead, Jake was consumed by the thought of letting everybody down, again. His sentiments were drawn to numerous other times in his professional life that he had, lamentably in his eyes, failed as miserably, often even more so.

Hank Foster, a kindly-faced, elderly brewery-worker, had come into the hospital for an evaluation of stroke-like symptoms. As the first-year resident, it was his assigned responsibility to perform a four-vessel cerebral arteriogram. The puncture of the femoral artery was accomplished on the first try, cinching the most demanding part of the procedure. Carefully maneuvering a guide-wire and then catheter up through the aorta and past the heart, he joked with the master-brewer to help put him at ease. The fit-looking grandfather had casually mentioned that he was about to note his seventieth birthday, and his wife had been planning a retirement trip to Florida to celebrate not only those special events, but their fiftieth wedding-anniversary as well. They were to depart in just a couple of weeks.

"Okay Mr. Foster, it looks like the catheter-tube is in perfect position!..."

He again reassured his patient as the technician prepared to take a series of pictures of the blood-vessels in his upper chest, neck, and brain following the injection of a massive amount of contrast.

"You'll feel quite a bit of burning in your head and face for a few seconds.. but try to hold still!"

His warning ended just as the power-injector and rapid film-sequencers were armed and set into motion. As fate would have it, he marveled for one last time at how readily patients were able to tolerate such an obviously invasive test, with so few adverse side effects.

Before the thought had completely cleared his mind, though, Mr. Foster winced strangely, and then grotesquely raised his forearms to his face. Despite his inexperience, the resident knew immediately that something horrible had occurred; nonetheless, he was still ambushed when his patient quickly lost consciousness and suffered an immediate respiratory arrest that demanded urgent ventilatory assistance. Rapidly he drifted into a deeply comatose state; what's more, over the subsequent few hours, the elderly man continued to regress, having suffered an irreparable stroke extending throughout the entire brainstem.

He cringed at the memory of standing behind Dr. Wilson as the patient's wife was informed that the angiogram injection had likely dislodged a piece of plaque from one of her husband's main brain arteries, causing a sudden arterial blockage, and a massive, irreversible stroke.

So too, smallish Billy Moore--blond, blue-eyed, and only seven years-old--had suffered since birth from terribly severe and progressive cystic fibrosis; one evening he stopped breathing just outside the emergency-room entrance. Occupied with a less seriously-ill patient in a nearby room, the 2nd year neurosurgery assistant-resident was called STAT to help out by the pulmonary resident in-attendance; despite repeated attempts, he was unable to properly place a breathing-tube in the child's trachea to assist with his air-exchange; the youngster was in full cardiopulmonary-arrest.

Further attempts at intubation were extremely difficult, but after several tries, the brain-doc in training was confidant that he had inserted an adequately-sized cannula into the proper passageway. The future lung-doc carefully listened with astethoscope to verify the tube's true position, and it was confirmed that air could indeed be detected passing squarely through each of the child's congested lungs. Despite prolonged effects, though, the kid could not be revived; after 45 minutes of continuous chest compression and appropriate resuscitative medication, the first-grader was pronounced dead.

Just before the deceased youngster was carted off to the morgue, he had snuck back into the deserted ER room to take a final, cogent look at the rear of the boy's throat--one final check of the accuracy of tube placement. He was aghast to discover that the vital oxygen conduit had clearly been placed incorrectly; catastrophically, by his hand, it was fatally lodged within the esophagus.

Then, of course, there was unforgettable Willee McVay. Late one Friday night, the intoxicated, cantankerous, and unemployed pariah had repeatedly beaten-up on his wife in front of his children, forcing the intercession of his own siblings to restrain further abuse. Struggling to release himself from his brothers' grasp, the trouble-maker had toppled backwards, down a full flight-of-stairs. Following that misadventure, he was helped to his feet and placed on a couch to sleep off his drunken state.

The next morning, the habitual spousal-perpetrator sought the consolation of another family-member for considerable neck discomfort and painful tingling in his hands, whereupon he was dropped off at a nearby Med-First Center. Plain x-rays of the cervical-spine were obtained and a diagnosis of neck fracture arrived at. Confrontational and still refusing to follow anyone's instructions, the scoundrel walked away prior to a confirmation of the diagnosis. While on his way home, he re-visited a local drinking-establishment to seek relief of his considerable pain, accompanied by a girlfriend. Informed by telephone later that day of his diagnosis, the Vietnam veteran was advised to seek immediate attention at a rural clinic, whereupon he was quickly transferred to the Veteran's Administration for further care.

Still very antagonistic and uncooperative, the challenging patient was promptly placed in a traction-device that permitted stabilization and immediate realignment of the fractured segments. Over several days, repeated attempts to contact his family were unsuccessful, so the 3rd year neuro-resident at the VA had no choice but to confer directly with the patient himself. A well-informed, joint decision was subsequently made that surgical intervention--a neck fusion--would be in his best short and long-term interest.

Following the application of special monitoring equipment to assess and insure an intact spinal-cord post-op, the rambunctious patient was anesthetized and cautiously rotated onto his chest and abdomen by the operating team, with thecervical traction-device still in place. Initially, a piece of his pelvic bone was harvested to be affixed to the fracturedvertebrae in order to affect the eventual fusion. After the muscle and ligamentous attachments surrounding and attached to the spines and laminae of the bony column were carefully separated, the posterior bony elements were readied for the placement of wires. Then, eight-inch lengths of stainless-steel wire were exactly looped over the dorsal arches of the involved vertebrae and tediously inserted into the spinal-canal and around intervening pieces of the hip bone, to provide immediate stabilization and promote subsequent fusion.

Throughout those excursions, no indication of any abnormality in the patient's spinal-cord electrical functioning or other vital-signs was observed. Notwithstanding, the patient awoke from the operation with complete quadriplegia--total inability to feel or move anything from his shoulders on-down. Despite a thorough and exhaustive search for a cause, nothing out of the ordinary turned up; nonetheless, the calamitous individual never regained any strength or sensation in either his arms or legs. He was eventually placed by his family in a long-term, federal, chronic-care facility, where monstrous bedsores eventually took his life.

Still again, the wonderful Florence Manderson--grandma and just graduated mother of ten--suffered unrelentingly severe pain from a large, recurrent disc-herniation. She required only a simple laminectomy. While in the recovery-room, shortly after what appeared to have been an uneventful operation, she rapidly lost her blood-pressure and arrested; with her belly tense, it was clear that massive intra-abdominal bleeding had occurred. Despite exhaustive measures, including an immediate explorative laparotomy, she never left the operating-room. The aorta and vena cava had both been ruptured, pierced by a sharp fragment of disc inadvertently pushed forward by the 4th-year assistant on the covered service at the private hospital, during what was listed as a routine lumbar discectomy.

Also, sixteen year-old Larry Schweizer, with wild curly hair and an ear-to-ear grin, was out for a good time with his friends one Saturday night; he was busy giving a lawn-job to an old girlfriend's dad when he felt a sudden, sharp twinge of pain in the back of his head. As it turned out, the ex-flame's father had been waiting for him with a 22-caliber rifle and sent a bullet into the rear windshield--right through the back of his skull.

Upon arrival at the University Hospital, the teenager was awake and alert with only a small, pimple-like entrance-wound in the center of his occiput; amazingly, x-rays showed that a small caliber foreign-body had lodged near the center of his brain.

After consultation with his attending, the senior resident decided to watch the patient for a few days with only routine antibiotic coverage; and the youngster remained completely asymptomatic--or so it was up until the night before a planned discharge from the hospital. For no apparent reason, as he was literally getting onto the elevator to go down to the cafeteria with family members, the kid suffered a sudden cardiorespiratory arrest and could not be resuscitated. Upon autopsy, the midget missile was found to have lodged within the ventricular system of the brain; somehow it had migrated into thecerebral aqueduct causing an acute blockage of CSF circulation and sudden death.

Likewise, the renowned Gregory Walker--well-known managing-editor for the daily newspaper--was found by his internist on routine, auscultative examination to have a loud, high pitched sound in his neck. Further testing revealed the origin of the noise to be a tight blockage of the major feeding blood-vessel to the left side of his brain, the carotid artery. Though the patient was completely asymptomatic, the consulting neurosurgery-attending decided to recommend preventive, reconstructive vascular-surgery.

The carotid endarterectomy procedure itself was uneventfully performed with the assistance of the chief-resident; and the patient was neurologically completely normal upon awakening in the recovery-room. A short while later, however, his arterial pressure suddenly and uncontrollably shot up to 300/130; and instantly, he became unresponsive. An immediate CT-scan demonstrated a massive hemorrhage inside the deep white-substance of the brain in the same area fed by the previously blocked artery. The combination of a re-established circulation and sudden, dramatically sky-rocketing blood-pressure was too much for the smaller capacitance vessels inside the brain, several of which had ruptured. The famous writer and publicist lived for about 18-hours on a respirator before he was pronounced brain-dead.

Finally, the wild-man, Bryan Smythe's hang-gliding career had been a brief one; on his very first flight, the perennial college drop-out, with a busy ponytail and peace symbol tattooed to the back of his shoulder, had impacted on the rocks off San Pedro point. He was confined to the county-hospital for over four months recovering from reconstructive surgery forspinal-stabilization and massive, intra-abdominal trauma. Unfortunately, due to the severity of his injuries, he ended up losing almost ten feet of his small intestine; as a result, he was to be forever totally subservient to continuous intravenousnutrition.

In his early twenties, the freckled youngster had that reckless adolescent attitude that he was somehow invulnerable and that life was only as valuable as its current investment of spontaneous energy. After months of pain and unfulfilled expectations, one Sunday morning he put out a frustrated call to his buddy, the chief-resident in neurosurgery who had participated in his spinal operation, to discuss his ongoing care.

"Doc, I don't know how much more of this 'be patient!' jive I can put up with.. I've been stuck in this rat-hole for months!. I'm really feelin' it.. I need to get myself out of this frigin' place!"

"Well Bryan, from the neuro standpoint, you could probably leave the hospital any time.. Your vertebrae have healed and you've recovered most of your leg strength. Your walking is progressing very well in therapy.. Quite frankly, if it weren't for the ongoing nutritional problems.. you'd probably have been out of here long ago!"

"Doc.. they tell me I'm gonna be hooked up to these funky tubes for the rest of my life. They said my insides were so messed up that they had to yank most of 'em out.. I'm not a downer, but.. I don't think I can hang on like this much longer!"

Choked up with emotion, the kid momentarily arrested his plea; his doctor friend attempted to reassure.

"Brye.. What you're feeling is normal for somebody who's been in the hospital this long. Remember.. it's really important that we keep your nutrition up, so that things will continue to heel. You know, there's a chance..."

"Doc.. I've been listening to all of that hope and pray stuff for months, and I've been trying to work with everybody.. I really have!.. I just need some time away from this place. Can't you.. somehow.. get me a little R and R.. like maybe a pass.. for just a couple of hours?.. I really have to get out a' here for a little while.. Like maybe even this afternoon?!"

"Bryan.. now you know it's not up to me! We've talked about this before!.. As far as I am concerned, you could be discharged today and never have to come here again!.. But the other services are very concerned about you and the overall situation.. Bottom line.. I think they're afraid that if you leave here.. for even an hour.. you'll never come back!"

"Oh man!.. And I thought you were my friend!.. Why can't anybody around this joint be on my side?!.. I am freaking out in this place!.. Doc, please, just listen.. I promise you.. man-to-man.. If you want, I'll even swear on a stack of holy bibles!.. All I need is to feel the sun on my face for a few minutes.. Maybe take a little walk in a green park someplace.. Anywhere.. just to be away from all of this crazy stuff for a little while!"

The experienced house-staffer found himself letting insatiable compassion for his patient win out rational decision-making. He had a very good idea just how irresponsible and impulse-driven the kid was, but he could also identify with the irresistible allure of a blue sky on a Sunday afternoon and the adolescent's mounting pessimism over his present predicament.

"Alright Bryan.. I hear what you're saying!.. I really am on your side.. Okay!.. I know I probably shouldn't be doing this.. but I'll go ahead and write an order for you to be permitted to go out on a pass for a few hours this afternoon.. Now, I want the nurses to know who you're going with.. and exactly where you're going!.. You know, I'm really putting my butt on the chopping-block over this!!"

"No problem!.. That's cool!.. I'll do exactly whatever you say!... Hey doc, you're a totally rad dude!.. Thanks-a-lot man!"

Bryan's entire personality immediately glowed and sizzled, like the fuse on a time-bomb.

After the nurses unplugged the sterile tubing from his arm and covered the heparin-locked IV with a transparent dressing, the beaming parolee quickly gathered a few things, in anticipation of the impending arrival of a friend to take him to San Pedro Park for a few hours.

What bright and beautiful Sunday early afternoon in mid-May it was; in fact, the brain-doc had plans of his own on his mind for a few hours in the sun as he speedily exited the hospital parking-lot. Still, following a hunch, he headed in the direction of the well-known park along the bluffs, to personally check-up on his patient.

As he approached, he immediately caught sight of Bryan and his distinctive locks, standing near a group of departing hang-gliders, obviously deeply entrenched in the anticipation of their moment. Watching from a distance, the empathetic doc was momentarily pleased that he had permitted the unfortunate young dreamer to relive, if only for a few minutes, a measure of his previous glory.

Satisfied that everything was okay, he was about to return to his car to leave, when he was suddenly grasped by panic and horror. To his alarm, he could do nothing but stand back and watch as the reckless kid covertly strapped himself into the pilot's seat of an unattended glider, rapidly rambled for the edge of the cliff, and promptly soared over its steep bluff.

The hapless puss was airborne for over an hour, passing onto the cheering spectators below his impassioned love for the irresistible freedom of wind and air against his face, and the incurable delight of weightlessness upon his mangled torso. Then, with a final salute to his doctor and friends below, he turned his winged glider directly towards the granite face, and put his battered body into the white rocks, head-first.

Deep inside the empty cavities of his heart, Jake Gibson had for years concealed each and every gruesome failure and grave complication that had occurred under his watch; taken together, those untoward experiences forged his unique, individual perspective of the art of medicine--one that molded him into the altogether careful and concerned surgeon that he was. As he had many times before, the healer reflected that for the duration of his professional life, he had never, even for a moment, been able to put those lamentable episodes out of his mind; each and every day of his life was influenced in a significant way by the lasting memory of those innocent people.

Cumulatively added to those individuals whom, in his eyes, he had altogether failed in his attempts to help, Jake also kept close to his mind other innumerable patients, many of whom had traveled great distances to see the renowned professor of neurosurgery--their disorders beyond his capacity to amend. Among them were the children with rapidly-growing and inoperable brain-tumors, irreparable congenital-anomalies, or irreversible brain injuries; and the adults with aphasic strokes, cerebral-hemorrhages, invasive brain-cancer, or progressively dementing insults. He winced as he contemplated how each of those inculpable individuals, many of whom continued to suffer each and every day of their lives, would likely feel about their trusted healer's unfortunate predicament.

He was certain as to the advice he would get from 32-year-old Cybil, mother of eight, blind and lately unable to care for even herself as a result of a recurrent and unresectable craniopharyngioma; or baby Jessica, an infant paraplegic--meningomyelocele with Arnold-Chiari Malformation, confined to a shunt device and a wheelchair for life; or Claudia, part-time travel-agent, with total loss of bowel and bladder function and spastic quadraparesis from disseminated multiple sclerosis; or Todd, the 18-year-old olympic-class diver, who had broken his neck in a trampoline accident and was permanently paralyzed from the shoulders down; after making the decision to forgo respiratory assistance, he had struggled for hours for every last breath before finally suffocating to death in his beautiful fiancee's arms.

As he sat staring silently off into space, Martha put an arm around her husband's abject shoulder and began to lovingly pat his upper back.

At that moment, more than at anytime in his life, Jake longed to disappear to a far-away place, one where absolutely nobody--except maybe Jeanne--could find him. Oft, on those cold, blistery winter nights alone on call, he had fantasized about climbing aboard a high-powered snowmobile, to travel alone into the mountains along some winding, old, abandoned mining-road, until he reached a place high-up--one where living creatures were confronted with only the bright and magnificent, sparkling lights overhead. Standing alone in the pitch black, he imagined that his inamorata would quickly sneak up behind him and put her arms around him; whereupon, the sky would explode in an bewitching overabundance of beams--some twinkling, some hazy, some refulgent, some off in the distance, but all utterly seducing. Way up there closer to God, he had fantasized, an honest perspective of life would be a whole lot easier.

As Martha moved a steady hand up the back of his retracted neck and attempted to massage ever so ardently, the personage of the man she loved remained vacated to a far-away destination of cosmic peace--a place that demanded of a visitor that he move only his eyes to follow a shooting star, exercise his dreams, or grasp an imaginative configuration in a constellation overhead. Following the tangential path of his eyes, she quickly grasped that her champion was desperate to rediscover a measure of hope; perhaps, when faced only with the millennium of time roaring along overhead would his soul again be at perfect ease to put into perspective the myriad of insignificant tribulations of life. More than ever before, she also savored that sort of candid humiliation--one that would bring all aspects of their life together into proper alignment.

After a few silent minutes, Martha consented that nothing else she could add at that moment would make a difference, so she promptly excused herself to the lady's room, to leave her far off-beat husband to his private thoughts for awhile longer.

Lost in his idealistic thoughts of Jeanne and the mystique inherent in the perfect silhouette of a fallen angel in the snow, Jake remained detached from his present environment. His fundamental approach to life was overwhelmed by the prospects of giving in; still, he knew he had no other choice.

The scrambler, Fran Tarkenton, had been knocked out of the game on the previous possession by a crushing blow from one of the Bears' mammoth, defensive lineman. Up by only a field-goal, the hated animals from the Windy City were trying to let the clock run out; the undefeated Vikes wouldn't get the ball back until only a few seconds remained, and it was deep inside their own territory.

Somebody had slipped a pair of borrowed shoulder-pads and an old helmet on him, and quickly ran him onto the field during the final time-out. As the team-physician, he oft exchanged throws with the quarterbacks and wide-outs after practice; ergo, his prowess behind the ball was well known to the coaching-staff.

"Hut.. 64.. 48.. hut. hut!"

For a few unchallenged moments, the ball snatcher felt secure in the pocket; but then, rapidly, the wall of protective giants began to come apart. Instinctively, he scrambled to his right, side-stepping and forearming a would-be tackler to the ground; calmly searching down-field, he caught a glimpse of speedy number-88 scampering for the corner of the end-zone. Planting a foot to set himself, he lofted the ball with everything he could muster in his right shoulder and arm, letting loose a perfectly arched spiral that would traverse nearly 70 yards and land in the outstretched arms of his receiver.

Just after releasing the ball, he was barrelled over by a herd of oncoming linebackers; his helmet and face were turfed. With the side of his mouth bleeding and despite a terrible thumping in the back of his head, he slowly lifted himself to his feet; silently, he compromised that a victory for the team was well worth the painful price. There was a stunned look on his proud face, though, as he swooped loose pieces of sod from inside his dinged helmet; the huge crowd in attendance had not erupted into the expected tumultuous applause. Focusing down-field, he was aghast to find the pigskin being spiked, unceremoniously, by a jovial defensive-back. For the first time in his professional career, he had been intercepted; and as a result of his horrendous miscue, the hometown guys had been forced to swallow a bitter defeat.

Jake's chain-of-thought was momentarily directed to the repetitive sounds of thunder echoing from building to building, as a sudden thunderstorm was passing over the area.

He had come to glitzy Las Vegas as an invited house-staff guest of the Cushing Society to attend his very first national neurosurgical meeting. Despite its reputation as a great convention city, he found it a bit difficult to concentrate on the serious business at hand, what with the continuous clanging noise arising from just outside the conference-rooms. The honored-guest that year was the eminent Professor Jack McCulloch; despite a multitude of early morning hours in front of the one-armed bandits, he somehow still found the energy to present his keynote-address.

One evening towards the end of his week long stay, the eager-to-learn resident was sitting alone in the clamorous lobby of mammoth Caesar's Palace, reviewing an interesting abstract on Drake's approach to giant basilar aneurysms; a stranger dressed all in tight-black came up and precipitously sat down beside him. She seemed nice enough as he engaged her in casual conversation; she even introduced herself as Madonna--naturally, a singer in an up-and-coming local band.

Initially, she appeared to be simply biding time while waiting for acquaintances; as a result, her had no clue what was meant by her solicitation to go somewhere and "party;" even her generous offer to reduce the "customary" fee didn't enlighten him as to what was really going on. It was only after she had disgustedly gotten up and seductively strolled away that he noticed the smirks on the faces of a group of fellow residents standing at a nearby bar; finally realizing exactly what was being bartered, he had felt like such a pathetic, sauntering fool.

Jake's eyes were still covered as Martha anxiously returned a few minutes later; she had been gone longer than she intended. On her return from the ladies-room, she had been intercepted by her ex-husband in the hallway; Howard had an important issue on his mind that he wanted to discuss with her, privately. Upon her reappearance though, she mentioned nothing about her encounter to Jake.

In dense silence, they remained secluded for a few additional moments before finally venturing into the courtroom; shortly after that, the attorneys left together to seal the agreement.

On the lengthy airplane ride back to Mt. Pleasant that night, from his window seat Jake listlessly followed the path of an electrical storm off in the distance as he thought about Jeanne and his life up till that point.

A Man's Final Fate

An erie deafening in the nighttime air plots a path,

By way of ghastly sound and the rath of a thousand horses.

Knight-like beams assembled along the way stand guard before an unknown foe,

Holding weary positions for an eternity, then falling blind like a woe.

Vague reflections in a deep-blue sea--wild dreams of remorse?

All the while swats of red, of course, still intoxicate.

Uncommonly naive, but too grumpy of late,

Splayed lines and troughs--the grooves of fate?

An abandoned friend passed along the shoulder,

How mighty can any boulder really be?

A heartfelt fossil left behind for all to see!

Approaching reflections forever blaring,

While sparing one to raise the flock,

Until the very moment that he must save nature's clock.

Scattered stars are meant to guide the way,

Nobody dares challenge what they just had to say.

Does it really lie beneath the dimpled bridge we cross? Or is love just not so very simple.

Left with no little choice but to find a way to stick with a practice of some sort in Mt. Pleasant, Jake did his best to establish his own niche; he soon discovered, however, that a divorce from Black and Wright was far more bitter than any marital tug-of-war could ever be. Though he thought the serpent's behavior to be intolerable in the past, George's satanic warpath gave new meaning to the title--mentally and morally deranged.

Jake subleased a tight, four-room upstairs office, on the grounds of a small-time, Catholic hospital in Red Bluff--a lower-case neighboring town characterized by abundant by-the-hour motels; the one place that for years had steadfastly refused to grant

Death of a Healer

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

I do not ask for your views, nor what is your religion but only what is your suffering.

Louis Pasteur (1812-1895)

Just a few blocks from her childhood home, in a flower-laden, church-yard cemetery, surrounded by a grassy knoll and a white-washed picket-fence, Martha was quietly laid to rest. Altogether incapable of opening up to anyone, especially Jeanne--or Ben--Jake promptly returned to Mt. Pleasant, totally abandoning friends and kindred. He was entrapped in a desperate state of reverberating frustration, his animus wondering about day-to-day, aimlessly--like a penniless child inside a Fifth-Avenue candy-store. As an outlet, he completely immersed himself into medicine; by devoting inordinate amounts of time and effort to routine outpatient visits and ordinary clinical evaluations, he was able to aggrandize normal 40-hour work weeks into 100-hour marathons, thereby preserving sufficient moments for insensate reflection only.

For weeks on end that fall, prototypical, northwest weather-fronts made propitious use of umbrellas and galoshes, defrosters and windshield-wipers, not to mention sump-pumps and storm-sewers. Finally, one Saturday afternoon, the sun radiated its influence brilliantly at the same time that Jake turned up at home with a little too much time on his hands. He did his best to interest himself in a bestseller--non-fiction--but instead found himself dozing off in another direction.

The lovers had secret plans to quietly sneak away to the Bay Area for a solitary weekend getaway in that romantic place--one where absolutely no one would dare to bother them. Meandering hand-in-hand along a busy, shop-lined boulevard, she was even more beautiful than he had ever imagined, her hair so shiny and ambient that it reflected the unending promise of the enticing, late-morning, California sun. As they came up to and passed along the wharf with its magnificent fishing-fleet, she held his arm so tightly that any awareness of people around straight-off disappeared; her smattering of kisses carried him up-and-away, joining forces with the sea-gulls swooping far above the heights of Alcatraz. Waltzing from entowering Coit to enticing Lombard, and from the dramatic end of the cable-line to the majestic Golden-Gate,their hearts were filled with such splendorous excitement and enchantment--for lovers, something almost any place on Earth can offer.

A speedy ferry-ride across the churning and gelid brine was followed by a candle-light dinner, Saucelito style. They finished off a vintage Napa Valley Chardonnay while witnessing the lighting of the city across the bay, for a time partially concealed in chilly evening mist. It was only a brief drive to a bayside cottage in a distinctive town up the coast entitled by a giant rock in the tide, before making love, again-and-again--that night seven times in all; grasping each other, they tried so nobly to force the nocturne from ever coming to an end.

As always, though, another tormenting day was born, albeit with a private continental-breakfast in bed importing the morning surf through an open bay-window. Later, under a more imposing sun, they walked side-by-side along the beach, to the chant of unlimited hopes and dreams for the future, and all that would be accomplished together. After an untimely gourmet-lunch at pool-side and a lusty freshwater swim, a scorching afternoon rendezvous forever denied its partakers permission to covet anyone else, ever. The remarkably cleansing sounds of the waves greeting the sand and retreating again reinforced the closeness of two naked figures, each bursting with unending cataclysms of desire for the other.

During a giddy bike-ride at dusk along a well-trodden beach, one wildly chased the other, tires sinking ever so deeply into where the surf had just been present; with the warmth of the sun having rapidly faded, he nearly fell, recovering just in time it seemed, to be rescued into the safety of a lover's grasp; but then, beneath the serenity of imponderable stars, too numerous to count, her abiding touch was suddenly gone. He would sacrifice anything for one final day at her side.

Unable to rest, he struggled, ferociously, to again grab hold of that planned eternity of sharing all with her, notions and ideas, feelings and emotions, and hopes for the future; still refusing to compromise, though, Zeus's bright afternoon rays augured yet another cosmic command to return to reality.

Mindlessly energized by the fretful awakening from his impromptu nap, Jake retrieved a smoke-singed stepladder from the back of the charred garage to investigate the cause of a recently overflowing galvanized-gutter that lined the front of the house. Blindly reaching a hand inside, he discovered and retrieved the annoying article of obstruction--a bright orange rubber-ball stuck tightly at the downspout.

Surmising that it likely belonged to one of the neighbor kids, he treaded next door and matter-of-factly rapped on the front-door; perhaps a personal return of the lost object would constitute a tacit suggestion to his neighbors that it not find a way onto his roof again.

Clad in ordinary house-cleaning attire--an old paint-spattered flannel shirt, gapping jeans, and bare-feet--the lady-of-the-house answered the door.

"Jason!"

Out blurted her surprise to find that hermetic, next-door neighbor, standing at her door-step. Embarrassed by her scrubby appearance, she made several half-hearted attempts to primp her hair into place, before abandoning her efforts with a silly titter.

Laura had become a good friend to Martha over the several months prior to the crash; the two unemployed housewives had spent considerable time together. All at once at her door reluctantly, Jake could recall conversing with his next-door neighbor on only a couple of prior occasions; to his dismay, he realized that since Martha's death he'd, in fact, gone way out of his way to avoid her.

"I'm sorry to intrude.. Laura isn't it?"

Jake recorded his regrets, sheepishly, as he hadn't noticed before just how closely her attractively fit figure resembled Jeanne's.

"I found this on the roof and just thought I'd drop it by."

Slowly shaking her shoulder-length curls, Laura responded with an apologetic smile.

"You know how kids are!"

As soon as the adage had left her mouth, she cringed at her choice of words.

"I'm so sorry. I ..."

"It's okay..."

Jake returned a remittent smile.

"I'm the oldest of ten."

For the next few minutes, the two distant neighbors stood alone, just outside the door, congenially exchanging pleasantries.

"Jason, I feel like I should apologize.. I really should have called.. stopped by.. or something.. but I just didn't know what to say.. I'm so sorry about Martha."

Biting back the sentiments that he spurned, Jake gaped across his neighbor's freshly-mowed front-lawn.

"Even though I knew her for only a short time, I found her to be a really great friend."

Jake sighed and glowered, still loath to expatiate Martha with anyone; in his view, no one but he could possibly appreciate how great a person she really was. Not wanting in any way to further deliberate the subject, he endured to say nothing; by looking bothered, he expected that she would take an inkling and dismiss the topic right away; woefully, though, she continued.

"She seemed so frightened that morning, just before she left the house to go meet you in Susanville..."

Jolted by her statement, Jake instantly lost the lines in his face as part of a horrific stare back at her.

"We were chatting in your kitchen over a cup of her special herbal tea when she got a phone-call.. She talked for quite a while.. I had some things to do, so I left while she was still on the line.. Anyway, it had turned into a pretty heated conversation.. and I was a little embarrassed to be listening in.. A little while later, she knocked on my door to say she was leaving for the airport. I'd never seen her in such a tizzy.. She was really perturbed about something."

His thoughts suddenly unsettled by her unintended intimation, Jake stared at his neighbor in disbelief.

"Did she mention the caller's name.. or say anything about what was happening?"

"No, I don't think so..."

Laura's response was accompanied by a grimace.

"Like I said, I was trying to be polite.. Wait a minute though!. Come to think of it.. I did hear her refer to the caller by name. I think it was something like Harvey or Horace.. No hang on a minute.. I believe it was Howard!"

Jake's mind raced along a befogging path: Why would Martha's ex-husband have called her?; What had he said to her that morning that so upset her?; Was that behind her decision to abruptly fly up to Susanville to meet him?; Could Howard have somehow been involved in the....?

Preoccupied by suppositions, Jake left genteel thanks with his neighbor and hurriedly returned home to place a telephone-call.

"Howard, this is Jason Gibson."

"What the hell do you want!!"

Howard's greeting was downright snippety. For manifest reasons, Jake had not made any attempt to contact Martha's ex subsequent to her death. He had assumed that Howard would continue to harbor a great deal of animosity towards him; the present choleric tone of their conversation only confirmed that suspicion.

"Howard, I'm not trying to upset you.. but I need to know something."

"You are God-damned unbelievable!"

Howard's heated scream shot-back through the phone's ear-piece.

"First, you pilfer my wife!.. then you get her killed!.. and now you want me to provide you with information!!"

Refusing to be denied that easily, Jake persisted in his request.

"Howard.. why did you call her that morning?"

There was a prolonged pause on the line before a defiantly more composed Howard responded.

"Listen.. I have no idea what you're talking about! The last time I communicated with Martha was at the trial. She didn't give a damn about me.. and I certainly had nothing to say to her!"

Jake was so perplexed by Howard's belying response that his planned follow-up questions all vanished.

"I see.. Well.. I.. ah.. Okay, Howard!.. Whatever you say!. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Jake hung up the phone more discountenanced than before; numerous unanswered questions bombarded his mind: Why would Howard lie about having a simple conversation with Martha?; Was his neighbor perhaps confused as to what she had really overheard and witnessed?; And anyway, as far as piece of mind was concerned, was any of it even worth pursuing?

As Jake was mulling those concerns through his subcortical white-matter, there was a diacritic wrap at the door.

"Oh Great!.. She probably thought of something else!"

He figured it was Laura as he traipsed across Martha's hand-picked, white quarry-tile entryway.

As he yanked the door open, Jake was flabbergasted to find none other than nurse Stone, planted totem pole-like on his porch.

"How ya' doin' doc?"

Midge's glean was coquettish.

"Midge!.. I can't believe it!.. What in the world are you doing here?"

"I'm on vacation doctor.. Just thought I'd drop by for a visit.. Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Of course!"

Civilly, Jake pulled the door partially open and whisked Midge in. Right off, he interpreted that she had come, at least in part, to pay him a romantic visit; and he was certainly not in a mawkish mood. As he took her rain-jacket and invited her to sit, he resolved on the spot to carefully guard his distance.

"Jake, we were all so sorry to hear about Martha. I wanted to call.. but I didn't know what to say. I know how much she loved you, and how much she meant to you."

Once again, Jake was very disinclined to revoke a depredating image of Martha, even though broached through a well-meaning condolence; quickly he turned the subject.

"Thanks Midge.. I appreciate that. But I know you didn't come all of the way to Washington State just to tell me that!"

As Midge was about to respond, Jake realized he had carelessly presented an unintended opening; straight off, he really hoped she had indeed traveled west merely to express her sympathy or at least a pretense of such.

"No Jake.. that's correct!.. I didn't fly all the way out here just to say that! I really came to see how you're doing.. because I consider you a very special person. You know.. over the years.. I've been in relationships with lots of different doctors, but I was never really serious about any of them... mainly because there just wasn't any special feeling. You must have realized that I've had an eye for you.. for a long, long time."

With his eyelids tightly closed, Jake slowly massaged his forehead and temples.

"Don't worry.. I didn't come here to embarrass myself with you again.. or to try and force anything on you! Knowing you like I do.. I don't expect that you're going to get over all that's happened recently.. anytime soon.. So, I'm not here with any amorous expectations.. But since you've been gone from the hospital, things just haven't been the same.. I tried my best.. I really did.. to forget what happened to you.. to get on with things. But it all just wasn't any fun anymore.. So last week I upped and quit!.."

Biting his lip, Jake tossed around in his mind just how to respond. Before the benumbing events of the last few months, he would have been very much disturbed and affected by her actions; at the present time, though, he had no capacity to assume any added accountability.

Midge was only to happy to keep control of the conversation.

"Jake.. there are things that went on just before.. and after.. you left the university.. that I think you should know about!..."

Harassed by the connotation of her bathetic back-stabbing, Jake exenterated his next few expirations to hint to Midge that he really didn't want to hear any of that. For years, he had openly expressed, especially to that grapevine rumbler, that he had no respect at all for the usual, condescending, hospital gossip and scuttlebutt. In addition, since being harshly forced out of Minneapolis, and especially since the painful loss of his wife, he had resisted any inclination to dwell on the great times that he had shared with Martha on the neurosurgery-team. Still, a flicker of curiosity had just been roused by his neighbor's observation, so a slight goad inside more or less hoped the scandal-monger would go on.

"Jake.. do you remember the night Mitch Massitor was admitted to the hospital?"

"Yes.. Of course, I remember!"

"Do you know where David Hudley was that evening?"

Jake's ear unfolded at the direction the narrative was going.

"Yeah, I do!.. Actually, I confronted him at the time. He was supposed to be covering the ER that day.. but no one could locate him. Turned out, all along he was down in the cafeteria eating dinner.. Apparently he didn't hear his pages."

"That's not true!..."

Midge's response, as she lit a cigarette, came out matter-of-factly.

"As I was getting ready to go home that afternoon, I saw him get out of a car that had pulled up to the side-entrance.. You know, over by the loading-docks?"

"What time would that have been?"

Jake's pursed mouth indicated his interest was stirring.

"I'd say it was about 5:30 or so.. I remember because one of the ICU nurses was late getting to work that day, and I had to cover for her till a little past 5."

"You're sure it was Hudley?"

"Yeah.. I remember the episode distinctly, because I'd never seen an automobile quite like that.. It was a gold-colored Rolls Royce.. I even remember the license plate.. EJS-1."

Midge reacted to a hint of disbelief inherent in Jake's glower.

"Those are my dad's initials, okay!.. Edward J. Stone.. E.J.S!"

Jake's mind was off-to-the-races again; he could recall seeing that very same car. Following the second surgery as he was rushing home late that night, it had been parked on the doctors' only lot, in his spot. His speeding thoughts were interrupted as, quite naturally, Midge had a lot more to say.

"There were a lot of strange things going on that day.. really that entire weekend. For one thing.. didn't David Hudley act very peculiar?.. I thought his whole attitude towards Mitch Massitor.. and particularly his wife.. was really odd!.. Didn't you?.. You know what a total asshole he always was.. his bad attitude.. always complaining.. the eternal jerk... I used to hate to call him for anything..."

Reminded that many of his back teeth had gotten smooth over an inward repulsion towards Hudley's habitual antics, Jake rotated a piece of sugarless bubble-gum in his mouth--slowly, from one side to the other.

"But did you notice how he treated the Massitors much differently?.. All of a sudden, he acted like a regular guy.. He was always present at the bedside.. and he really seemed to enjoy following the wife around.. In fact, we all joked at the time that he was acting like a hired employee who was really sucking up to his boss.. hoping for a monstrous lagniappe!"

"Lagniappe?"

Jake stammered over the meaning.

"You know.. a huge tip!"

As she continued to tattle, Jake re-examined his own undeclared suspicions at that time; Hudley's behavior had indeed seemed very weird. He revoked the sight of the underling sitting with the Massitors that first morning. He recalled the blamable expression on his face that night her husband had suddenly gone into a coma--that catty look when he had come upon him lounging with Barb Massitor in the waiting-room. He reminisced how chummily Barb Massitor had referred to Hudley in their repeated conversations, as though he held the stature of an intimate confidant.

"I'm totally convinced that there was something fishy going on behind the scenes!..."

Midge confirmed Jake's ratiocination of late.

"The whole situation was just too shady!"

As Midge continued to jabber, Jake replayed the events over-and-over again in his mind. For sure, a whole bunch of things didn't make any sense: Why was Hudley so mysteriously unavailable for the period after the initial surgery?; Where was he during the course of the second operation?; Furthermore, at whose request had Salig emerged as the second-opinion to add to his frustration?; And what about Hudley's buddy-buddy relationship with Massitor?

"Wait a second!.. Everett J. Salig!.. I don't believe it!.. Son of a bitch!!"

Jake was unaware that he had begun to speak aloud. His capillary network was dispersing emerging concerns more emphatically, as a warm, compromising flush of anxiety and expectancy, that something revealing was about to happen, overtook his cogitation. He had suddenly realized that Everett J. Salig was E.J.S.

"Midge.. have you discussed any of this with anybody else?"

As she responded negatively, Jake scrambled for alternative explanations to shed light on the intriguing revelation that he had just become aware of. He had the inkling that he had inadvertently uncovered a scoundrel's maze, but as yet could only visualize its entrance; ergo, he had many follow-up inquiries.

"What's Hudley up to now?"

"Well.. I'm sure you heard, he was gone for a couple of months after you left."

Jake had so distanced himself from everyone at the university after his forced departure that he could only sit like a namly-pamly, slowly shaking his head at Midge.

"Well, he took off on one of those flamboyant, eight-week gauntlets around the world.. Currently he spends a lot of his time flying around the country.. testifying! I heard he's doing a ton of work for Massitor's firm.. I guess you know Fassad rejoined the group?"

"No way!.. Hudley and Fassad together.. Those guys hate each other!.. I can't tell you the number of times that one of them would fly into my office and threaten to quit, if I didn't convince the boss to fire the other.. They're really back together?"

"Yes!.. And obviously they're both doing very well.. In fact, Hudley just bought a huge mansion in Ladue!"

As she raised her index and middle fingers into the air, Midge's mouthed the word "million."

"And Fassad drives a brand-new, red Porsche.. Quite the unbelievable car.. even for a doctor.. I think it's a 959..."

As Midge continued, Jake reflected with a grimace on the number of professionals he had known over the years whose change in life had coincided with their trading in a hardly used Broncho or Blazer for a new Mercedes 450-SEL convertible or bright-red Porsche--something, on many occasions, he had vowed never to do.

"Other than that, they're both the same old slipshods they always were."

Jake tried to piece together in his mind Everett Salig's connection to the Massitor affair: Why had he showed up at the University Hospital that first afternoon, likely just about the time Massitor was being admitted?; Was it to recruit Hudley to do something for him?; or another unrelated purpose?; Or had he merely been summoned there by the Massitor family?; And by hanging around the hospital so late that night, what had he really been up to?

"By the way.. how's Vinny?"

Midge's face lit up with genuine surprise at Jake's atypical inquiry--that smacked on the verge of being a bit sarcastic. She was actually delighted that, probably for the first time ever, the meek Dr. Gibson was demonstrating a certain lack of respect for his former boss--something most of his associates in the department had openly displayed for years, on a daily basis.

"Well, he hasn't missed a beat!.. He still views everything through those shiny, chrome hubcaps of his.. You know, a constantly revolving image.. of things in life just passing him by!"

Midge's response was interceded by a giggling laugh.

"I guess you heard he asked Will Klaufmann to come back!"

Jake winched and sluggishly shook his head; he had not been aware that one of the former chief-residents during his early training had also returned to the university.

"Please.. not Klaufmann too?.. I never would have thought it possible!"

A former marine, burly and tattooed, with an insolent, inpatient temperament, the early Vincent Wilson product absolutely despised his former chairman; so much so that for years, he'd done all within his influence to bad-mouth everything about the boss and the department.

"Oh!. Did you hear the department got FDA approval to market LeVIRA?"

Over the preceding five or six years, a group of research associates in the department, with his friend Ben's assistance, had developed a device that permitted the precise localization, during surgical interventions, of abnormalities anywhere within the body. The LASER-ENHANCED VIRTUAL INVIVO RESOLUTION APPARATUS or LeVIRA as it came to be commonly abbreviated, permitted surgeons from all specialties to possess superman-like eyes while they operated--to be able to find and accurately localize pathology hidden anywhere within the body, at any point in time. The revolutionary, likelyNobel Prize-winning invention, had required years of testing and trial application before it finally gained FDA-approval for routine use.

Jake mentioned to Midge how glad he was that just prior to his abrupt departure, he had been able, as chairman of the Human Research Resource Committee, to convince the academic hierarchy, including the boss, to sign over the commercial rights for the remarkable device--and others to follow for which the university held proprietary privileges--to a reputable equipment- manufacturing company. The publicly-held concern was to build and market LeVIRA, with proceeds supporting corroborative ongoing research at the non-profit medical center.

"Jake.. where in the world have you been?!..."

Midge interposed.

"Haven't you heard?.. The hospital is on the verge of being bought out.. There have been rumors going around for months. I think Martha's ex-husband..."

Midge stopped abruptly, before Jake nodded for her to go on.

"Howard Crane is supposedly leading the buy-out.. I heard there are going to be a lot of new faces around.. including your old nemesis, Salig.. That's one of the main reasons I left. Already, all they seem to care about is making a quick buck. Everything revolves around the bottom-line. Nobody cares anymore about quality.. And the nursing-staff!.. Well, let's just say, we don't really count anymore!"

Greatly antagonized, Jake gaped through the front-window and across his unkept lawn onto a tidy grove of Aspen trees, intermixed with well-groomed flowering-shrubs; there was a singular white bird, perhaps a dove, soaring overhead. Martha had so adored that view. With a deep sigh of fatigue, he seriously doubted to himself that the vital pieces of life's perplexing puzzle would ever become aligned in proper order for him.

For the rest of the afternoon and most of that evening, Jake and Midge sat together like great old friends and reminisced about the best of times. One particularly notorious surgeon was the topic of a lengthy, very animated discussion.

Several years Jake's senior, Dr. Franklin O. Shamus, the most preeminently sexually-active and prematurely grey-haired physician on staff at the University Hospital, had nurtured most of the doctors and nurses of their generation. Easily spotted on morning-rounds, he was the house-staffer with the pockets of his white-coat stuffed with pint-sized cartons of milk, little cans of fruit-juice, and small boxes of cereal--all removed on the sly from patients' breakfast food-carts. F.O.S.'s sticky-fingers extended to almost anything that wasn't tied or nailed down, or under lock-and-key; he often bragged that his flat was largely decorated with floor-coverings, furniture, pictures, and a multitude of other things, all "annexed" on the sly from hospital property. His conquests triumphantly extended to the female nursing-staff as well; for years, the ongoing litany of his multifarious sexual-exploitations had set the main agenda of most casual conversations around the hospital.

Once, while attending a week-long neuropathology review course in Maryland with Frank, Jake was appalled by a first-hand observation of his attending's erratic behavior. A class of senior-high schoolers, on a once-in-a-lifetime field-trip to the capital, were cohabiting their Bethesda hotel; the group had temporarily locked their personal belongings in a conference-room just down the hallway from their rooms. Inadvertently gaining access to that private area, the silver fox pilfered through their private things, retrieving a couple of cameras and several other relatively valuable electronic-items for his private collection.

Up until that very moment, Jake had kept that ignoble episode entirely to himself. Squarely indicting himself, he reminisced to Midge that, unfortunately, two innocent human-beings--one aged, but the other very young--had paid for his appalling silence with their lives.

A small, superficial, benign tumor had brought a fit but elderly man into the hospital; it required only a simple procedure for removal--usually a case for an inexperienced, first-year resident. Impatient and in a big rush to get the straight-forward operation over with, the attending, Dr. Shamus, totally bungled the operation. The patient unexpectedly lost over 10units of blood, demanding massive blood-transfusions; as a direct result, postoperatively, he suffered horrific intracranialswelling, and unconscionably, he was brain-dead on a respirator only a few hours after surgery.

Even worse, an eight year-old cub-scout had been taken to the emergency-room after being struck on the back of the head by his older brother, who was carelessly swinging one of their father's golf-clubs. The child never lost consciousness, but was found on examination and x-ray to have a depressed skull-fracture, just beneath the lacerated scalp where he'd been dinged.

Dr. Shamus's evaluation was speedy, his decision reactionary and thoughtlessly to the point; the sunken bone in the back of the kid's head would have to be fixed. After spelling out to his alarmed mother and father that the quick-and-easy procedure would take only a few minutes, he carted the crying youngster off to the operating-room. Upon enlarging the skin-opening overlying the involved spot, he intended to pry the recessed bone back into its usual place, much like popping a deformed ping-pong ball back into normal shape.

The depressed fragment had nearly been replaced to its usual position. Prior to ceasing his efforts, though, F.O.S. gave it one last beefy tug; whereupon, a sharp edge of the recessed bone tore through an adjacent venous-sinus, immediately resulting in massive bleeding. Over just 10 minutes, the child lost nearly a third of his circulating blood-volume; in rapid sequence, he went into acute hypovolemic shock, suffered a cardiac-arrest, and died on the operating-table.

While chaffing with Midge at his overwrought recollections of other memorably catastrophic events from the past, though unanticipated, Jake's eyes filled with tears; soon trembling violently, he wept openly at long last, for the lost, but never forgotten, loves of his life. The suffocating grief and heartache associated with his wife's tragic death, the unending despair linked to his unresolved love for Jeanne, and the humbling incrimination connected with the privation of his career had all finally begun to seep to the surface.

Midge was fixed at his side on the couch, unspoken, to comfort and console. Jake wasn't at all adverse when she impulsively leaned over and spontaneously kissed him, faintly on the forehead. Instinctively, within his good friend's embrace, he returned her peck, at first politely on her cheek, but then ever so passionately upon her reciprocating lips. Then, quite abruptly, after just a few moments, Jake stopped the salvo and embarrassingly retreated from his position, almost atop his long-time acquaintance.

"I'm sorry.. I can't do this!"

"It's okay Jake.. I understand.. I think I should go now!."

Midge was hastily realigning her mauve silken-blouse, replacing it within her sleek black slacks. For more reasons than he could consciously begin to list, her host really didn't want her to leave; so, asking her to at least stay for dinner, he surceased her feigned thoughts of leaving.

That evening, Jake prepared a spectacular sirloin and salmon-steak feast for his guest, complete with all the trimmings. Chatting for hours after eating, over a second bottle of California red, the two long-time coworkers relived, in a lighter vein, other old patients, recanting many of the uncanny situations each had witnessed. Midge took special delight in Jake's jocose recollections about the one-and-only Storey.

An experienced and crafty private-practitioner on the volunteer staff for decades, Dr. Francis Storey was preparing to remove a walnut-sized acoustic neuroma, a benign tumor that had arisen from and was attached to the nerves passing to the inner-ear--those that subserved hearing and balance. As such, in an aspiring actress, the symptom-producing growth required an invasive procedure--one that included the boring of a hole in her head--just behind the affected ear. As an eager-to-learn, middle-level resident, Jake was very interested in assisting with that relatively uncommon operation, so he reviewed much of the available literature on the precise technique beforehand, to be ready for that attending's customary queries.

A frequent admitter to the teaching-service, the tall and slender Storey, in his cute fifties, had the reputation of a slick and capable operator. As he lent a hand with the positioning of the poster-girl patient and other necessary preparations for the operation about to commence, Jake was intent to present himself as highly motivated to learn and greatly interested in doing what he could do to help, but at the same time, fully capable of propitiously staying out of the surgeon's way. Nonetheless, as they cleansed their hands, his questions about the size and exact location of the tumor were rebuffed with a pointed scolding.

"Don't ask me all that crap now!. The damned films must be sitting underneath some idiotic secretary's desk somewhere!.. Looks like my cockamainie office forgot to make arrangements to get them here!"

Donning a pair of operating-loupes and a headlight, Storey performed the entire opening himself. His resident was left to stand alongside, touching the surgeon's forceps with a bovie electrocautery upon command and sucking away oozing blood when it seemed necessary. A silver dollar-sized hole was progressively bored in the back of the model's skull, just behind her right ear.

For well over two hours, Jake hung on, standing passively at the attending's side, while exchanging palled stares with the other members of the operating-team, each of them similarly unable to visualize any of the steps in the procedure or the structures involved. To maintain his vigilance, he tried to re-envision from his reading what the clinical professor must be seeing and doing via his unwieldingly private view through the small opening.

Finally, his assistance was solicited to hold, firmly in position, a thin, elongated strip of metal, designed to carefully retract overlying structures. Without any sense of position nor ability to visualize what he was attempting to do, for a major part of an hour, Jake clumsily grappled to hold his place, without the least bit of movement. Storey's cocky struggle to reach his destination was echoed in his repeated, astringent gripes at his assistant.

"If you would just hold that damn thing still!.. Maybe I'd be able to see what I'm doing!"

Each time Jake swooped his head around to try and see for a moment what was going on, he either dimmed Storey's light or banged heads with his hierarch--actions that were both immediately rebuked.

After an additional, turbulent, couple of hours, a frustrated Storey backed away from the operating-field and heatedly stomped away from the room, supposedly to visit the latrine; all the while he murmured to himself.

"Oh God. Have mercy on my soul!.. Won't you please find me some decent assistance!!. Or somehow let the incompetent fool I'm stuck with today figure out someway to help me!"

In his absence, Jake adeptly replaced the retractors to sneak his own peek at what was going on; then, as soon as Storey was rescrubbing his hands to return, he hastily resumed his observatory position. While the man-in-charge indignantly took back his operating position, Jake coolly stepped close to his ear and purposely whispered something. Without acknowledging a response and seemingly not missing a beat, the ireful surgeon proceeded posthaste to re-inspect the wound, all the while appearing to be quite disturbed by what had just been said. At that moment, his concentration was, once again, distracted, by of all people a circulating nurse.

"Dr. Storey, it's your office on the phone.. responding to your call a few minutes ago. They've located the x-rays.. It seems they were sitting under your desk!.. Your secretary needs to speak with you, right away!"

Taking a clean blue towel in hand to isolate his grasp of the unsterile phone, Storey listened intently to a brief message. Then, presto, he cast a heated glare in his assistant's direction, before returning once again to the operating-field. Immediately closing the wound, he diverted his attention to the same area on the left side of the attractive patient's head, replicating what had, over several long hours, just been done on the right. Without the benefit of any further exchange, Jake endured at his side, passively "assisting" while a second identical wound was opened; only upon that attempt, a golfball-sized abnormal growth was readily isolated and its removal initiated, mostly in tiny pieces. Portions of the neoplasm were stuck to adjacent cranial nerves-those that controlled the long-on-looks patient's ability to swallow, phonate, and to move that side of her face. The implicated nerves were not only tightly adherent to, but were actually interwoven into, the covering of the tumor, separable only by the most delicate and precise dissection. The slightest misguided or slipshod cut would certainly leave the cover-girl with hoarseness and a disfiguring paralysis of her face, for an eternity.

After tediously working for some length of time, Storey rashly stiffened his upper back and stretched his arms; immediately, he groaned in severe pain, as his fatigued shrug of a shoulder had just popped it completely out of socket. Without exchanging a word with anyone, his assistant swept to his side, grasped his dangling right arm, and with a gentle tug, relocated the head of the humerus back into its proper position within the glenoid cavity. Secretly writhing in pain, Storey boldly attempted to resume his intensive operative-intervention, as though nothing untoward had occurred. Before too long, though, he was positioned on a stool, leaning against a wall to immobilize his arm, all the while growling as the impotent junior-resident operated.

After a total of nearly ten grueling hours of surgery, the patient awoke--intact--and the house-staffer was handed down the responsibility of managing her post-operating care. Tugging annoyingly at his operating-mask and gown with his good arm while he trudged wrathfully from the room, Storey expressed his thanks to the nurses on the scrub-team--exclusively--for their excellent help.

"What in the world did you say to him to get him so pissed off?"

After the attending's departure, the anesthesiologist interrogated Jake--who forcefully tossed his mask and gown into a bin as he responded.

"I merely asked him if he was operating on the correct side!"

Jake blinked at Midge with a devilish grin that only he could claim.

"Do you have a place to stay?"

It was already after midnight as Jake stood by his homespun politeness.

"I'll just find myself a motel-room."

As she purposefully gathered her things and began to head towards the door, Midge was really counting on her host's objections.

"No, don't be silly..."

Jake's response meant he rationalized to his comfort that the limits of their relationship had been precisely defined.

"We have a.. I guess I should say.. I.. have a spare bedroom. You're more than welcome to stay here!"

Additional persuasion unneeded, Midge at once accepted.

Jake lay awake that night until the grandfather-clock in the den heralded three protracted chimes, as he attempted to splice together the befuddling and disquieting facts that had seemed to come out of nowhere that day. A few of the events, at least, that had puzzled him at the time of Massitor's surgery, and then throughout the trial could, finally, in some way, be accounted for. He eventually drifted off to the pleasantly reposing thought of someone soft and warm lying at his side.

Up early the next morning, he jogged through the fresh, misty scent of alpine air, as the day's first rays began to cast their shadows on the cobblestone thoroughfare called Main Street. While stopping at Mary Berilla's coffee-shop to catch his breath and pick up some of his favorite pastries--including one of her famous, strawberry cheesecakes--Jake pondered his next move.

Over breakfast, he asked Midge to accompany him on a quick errand before she left town. He sensed that her intrepid disposition might prove indispensable in his planned attempts to find out more about his wife's ill-fated visit to Susanville that day.

At the local airport, Jake walked ahead of Midge as they approached a receptionist at Cascade Aviation, the charter airline that had arranged Martha's doomed flight. Picking the brains of the gal at the counter, he inquired as to who might have spoken with his wife that fateful morning. He was directed inside the hanger to a corpulent and stern-faced reservationist, who apparently handled all of the private flights.

"Did my wife mention anything to you about why she wanted to fly up to Susanville at the last minute?"

"Dr. Gibson, she never said anything about that to me.. But when she called on the phone, she sure seemed to be in a awfully big hurry.. All I know is that she wanted to get a flight up there as soon as possible."

Speaking openly, the heavy-headed, management-level, office-worker continued resoundingly.

"Actually I think the plane was a few minutes late leaving, because the gentleman accompanying her had to have his flight credentials ok'd."

Like a resounding tocsin inside his cranium, Jake let out a startled response.

"What!.. What did you say?!.. What are you talking about?!.. What man?!.. There was someone else flying along with her???"

"That's correct!.. I first spoke with a man on the phone.. I assume it was the same guy.. He inquired about getting to Susanville.. He told me he and a lady-friend needed to get there as soon as possible that day.. to handle a sudden family crisis or something like that. Initially, he wanted information about the scheduled flights.. but then he said they couldn't wait until mid-afternoon.. So he asked about the twin-engine Seneca.. but it was booked up for the entire day. All I had open for rental that morning was the little Piper.. and I told him none of our pilots were available...

A few minutes later, your wife called.. at least the person on the other end of the phone identified herself as Mrs. Gibson.. She wanted to know if they could just rent the plane.. no pilot.. for a few hours.. She said the gentleman that I had just spoken to was a licensed pilot with many hours of flight experience.. I told her that doing it that way would probably save both of them some money anyway.. You know the FAA investigators have asked me all of this several times already!"

At that point, the well-upholstered gal seemed to tergiversate.

"We're sorry to ask all of these questions.. again..."

Midge's role was to provide strong reassurance, something she did very well.

"We're just trying to piece together some loose ends!"

"I really shouldn't be speaking to you!..."

Nevertheless, the garrulous office-worker continued.

"You see.. that's the only crash our company has ever had.. It's really scared a lot of people around here!"

Blurting in, Jake wasn't in the mood to be denied information.

"Can you tell me anything else about this guy?!.. What did he look like?!.. What were..."

"No!.. I don't know Dr. Gibson!.. All I can say is that I saw a man and a woman.. from behind.. walk into the hanger, together.. I was just leaving to go over to the cafeteria for my lunch-break.. so, I didn't pay all that much attention.. When I returned to my desk about a half-hour or so later, they had already taken-off. Now please!.. I'm very sorry.. don't you see that I really can't tell you anything more!"

"I don't understand!.. I'm very confused!.. This just doesn't make any sense!.. Why wasn't I aware that a second passenger was aboard the airplane?"

"Technically, there wasn't a second passenger, Dr. Gibson. As I just tried to explain.. the gentleman who accompanied your wife piloted the plane. So, there were only two people on-board.. A pilot and one passenger!"

Jake's expression was suddenly stone-cast, concealing all sorts of outrageous notions that his mind had conjured up about the implications of what he was being told.

"You mean.. you're telling me.. the pilot who died in the crash and who still hasn't been identified, at least according to news-reports.. is the same man who initially called about a flight.. and then later arrived here and supposedly took off with my wife?!"

The informant nodded her head slowly.

Jake virtually dropped his own head into his lap, totally stunned by the new revelation, as he briefly fought the urge to take a cheap-shot at those responsible. Despite the likely provocation of any further inquisition, he was overcome by an urgent requirement to scrape-off all of the nice, sugar-coated, bureaucratic icing that had been served up, to take a solid bite of the underlying substance, no matter how distasteful.

"I'm sure the investigators have checked into your maintenance-logs.. safety-inspections.. cargo-list.. all of those things!"

"Yes.. and they told us all to keep quiet about this!"

The somehow even less-attractive wench was again responding guardedly.

"This is totally crazy!.. A man dies in an airplane-crash, and nobody seems to know who he is!.. I'm sorry but she was my wife.. and I have every right to know!.. I demand to be given access to everything you have on this guy, right this damned second!!"

With a stiff upper-lip, Jake continued to loudly insist that every piece of information on the unknown figure be made immediately available; whereupon the terrorized receptionist initiated a steady retreat in the direction of a secure back-office. Once again, Midge quickly interceded, imposing a more agreeable tone to the conversation.

"Please forgive my friend!.. As you might expect, he has been un

Death of a Healer

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The greatest trust between man and man is the trust of giving counsel.

Francis Bacon

(1561-1626)

Portentously returning to the ingress of Midge's second-floor tenement, Jake bounded the carpeted steps two at a time, gratified that at last the worst was behind him. With the fantastic show of support displayed by his coworkers at the hospital, he resolved that a favorable offing in all that had happened was, at long last, at least conceivable. He rapped solidly on the appropriately numbered door several times, but no one answered. Weighing his footing while deliberating impatiently just outside the wooden-barrier, he twirled Midge's car and apartment keys around a distal phalanx.

"She couldn't have gone anywhere!.. Huh.. Well, maybe she's taking a nap."

Stilly twisting a worn, brass-plated knob but finding it locked, he reverted to her door-key to let himself in. Timidly pushing the entry open and peeking inside, he came upon a ghoulish, pitch-black ambience. Advancing gingerly, he journeyed inside and heedfully swung the door closed.

Fresh off the plane to spend time with the famed Swiss professor, the lad from Minnesota had, a couple of hours earlier, boarded the 6 a.m. commuter train just outside Zurich. He would require a car to get around during his year-long fellowship, so several months earlier, a two-door coupe had been put on order; but it had to be picked up at the factory in Paris, in person.

Sluggishly retracting torpid eye-lids to acquaint his pupils with a sudden tapping on his shoulder, he was momentarily startled by the browbeating, towering appearance of an authoritarian figure, standing at attention over his seat. As a matter of custom, he handed the French-speaking uniformed conductor his ticket, followed by his passport; a host of other credentials were then sequentially offered as the mustached gentleman persisted in a stern but unintelligible request. For several minutes the one-sided conversation continued without resolution, right up until the bewildered American fellow properly deposited a sufficient quantity of Franks into the official's grasp.

The nearly intoxicating, repetitive thump and thrill of the locomotive as it raced along miles of uncontested track finally ended in a jam-packed train-station, according to the unschooled traveler's calculations, somewhere near the Eastern suburb of Paris. As an onrushing crowd hustled through the main-entrance of the terminal onto the street, the outlander was virtually lifted off his feet and carried along; in the process, he lost all bearings.

After repeated requests for directions--in foreign English--fell on deaf ears, the visitor was overcome by an arcane motion that though he'd certainly never been in that place before, he could, nonetheless, find his own way. So, with no directions and not a clue where he was, he took to a street, walking steadily down a wide, courtly boulevard that somehow seemed strangely familiar. For several hours he proceeded along, until he eventually happened upon a colossal, granite statue of St. Paul, on horse-back, prominently mounted at an intersection--directly facing and amazingly only a few hundred feet from his intended destination.

After picking up that spanking-new silver Peugeot, the foreigner was quickly off, not needing a map as he headed straight for the autobahn and a speedy passage back to the Swiss frontier. In a flash though, he had, once again, lost his way; hopelessly off course, while planning to drive away from the center of the city, he instead ended up with the Arch d'Triumphright between his sights.

The first view as dusk set in was certainly breathtaking--nearly mesmerizing--with multiple beams of light striking the majestic pillared structure, seemingly emanating from every possible angle; and he had plenty of time to enjoy it, as the lines of automobiles were endless. The hapless alien was hopelessly entwined in an unbelievable traffic-jam, with vehicles--by the thousands--jetting out in all directions, as far as the eye could see.

Two snappy hours passed on the clock, while not even a half a kilometer was gained on the stalled odometer; and for the succeeding hour at least, no one moved an inch. Then, for no apparent reason, the throng of irate motorists began to kick up their heels--like jittery racehorses being held in confined stalls; in unison, the interned drivers, by the thousands, began to honk their horns. Suddenly, perhaps incensed by the noise, or by the sight of an ugly American, a balding runt of a cab-driver jumped from his nearby rig, and brandishing a fist in the air, began pounding on the hood of that brand-new car.

At first taken back, the stranger kept his cool; still, the crazy French-man kept it up, repeatedly yelling something parochial, but obviously very nasty about Uncle Sam, while hammering even harder on the enameled metallic skin of his prized chariot. Finally annoyed, the laid-back mid-westerner left his vehicle and approached the aggressor, his sense of American pride growing more vehement with each step. Before the newcomer knew what was happening though, dozens of locals were jumping on him, and punching him in the face, and on the back of the head; beneath a barrage of wildly swinging fists, his dazed body fell prostrate to the ground.

While responding to an acutely pounding headache and a painful lump on the back of his head, for a few moments Jake furled on a fuzzy carpet and winced, as he palpated a swollen and bleeding area of scalp. Trying to figure out where he was, he scrambled like a lumbering alcoholic to his feet, and in total darkness, grabbled awkwardly to locate a light-switch.

At first look, the room startled his recollection of Midge's plumed apartment. Lamps and tables were toppled to the floor; bookcases and pictures were scattered about. Midge's treasured furnishings and cherished keepsakes, including her "Precious Moments" figurines, were decimated; and her pricey dining-room cabinet containing heirloom antique-china had been overturned, resulting in shattered pieces of glass strewn about everywhere.

Frightened nearly out of his mind, Jake scanned the pillaged room for any sight of an intruder. Still wobbly and gingerly rubbing the back of his head, he scoured through the other chambers searching for anything stirring. Midge's bedroom was similarly ransacked with drawers randomly displaced and their contents scattered haphazardly about.

Midge's queen-size waterbed had been viciously slashed, completely saturating her pink wall-to-wall carpeting in a several inch-deep puddle. Still dazed and stupefied by the sappy mess, Jake was carefully backing his way out of her bedroom when he detected a scarcely audible, muffled utterance, seemingly emanating from within the wardrobe. Picking up the base of a busted lamp, he moved cautiously towards a mirrored closet-door and fensively slid the portal open.

Lying supine on the floor inside was the naked body of a woman; intertwined amongst her garbs was a terrified Midge, whooping uncontrollably, her arms, legs, and mouth crassly bound with duct-tape. As Jake hastily removed the adhesive constraints from her hands and feet, Midge continued to pant with her teeth tightly clenched. Acting quickly, Jake ripped away the tenacious restraint from around her face and lifting her into his arms, carried her slender frame adeptly across the slushy floor, to an unscathed adjacent hallway. He rapidly inspected her head and neck for evidence of injury.

"Are you okay?!"

Incapable of a verbal response, Midge could only nod feebly, all the while maintaining a tight clutch onto his arm.

From a nearby bathroom, Jake recruited an oversized beach-towel, featuring Batman and Robin, and discreetly covered her trembling torso. Protecting her hold of him, he glanced around the apartment again for any hint of who might have been responsible.

Tightly gripping her unique article of raiment, but not recouping much social grace, Midge cannily wiped her eyes as she relayed to Jake what had happened. While she was getting into the shower, there was a knock on the door, only a minute or two after he had left. Expecting to find him, she had nonchalantly opened the door, whereupon two seedy-looking guys--one with a long pony-tail--had forced their way in and threatened to kill her. They appeared to be feverishly searching for something, and kept demanding information about some kind of package.

"Did they harm you?"

Jake was both frightened and angry at what might be told, but in relief, displayed his dimples when Midge shook her noggin, reassuredly.

"You came back just in time.. I think you scared them away when you wandered in."

With feigned embarrassment at her overexposure, Midge haltingly rose to her feet and hesitantly scampered back into the bedroom. Scanning the seemingly dynamited articles scattered about the room, she spotted her purse; and while struggling to button a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, walked over to retrieve it. As she peeked inside, she called to Jake, who remained scrupulously stationed beyond the door.

"They didn't take a darn thing!"

As she perused the rest of her messed-up living-quarters, Midge noted that, though disturbed, even her state-of-the-art video and stereo-systems had not been removed.

"Do you have any really valuable things that you keep in the apartment?.. like expensive jewelry?.. or cash?.. Something that might drive someone to resort to these measures to try and steal it?"

Midge rejected the notion with a dismissive rock of her head.

"No, they were definitely after some kind of a package. One of them kept demanding that I tell him where it was.. Must be really important, huh.. for them to go to all this trouble?.. Unfortunately, I don't think they got what they came for.. My hunch is.. they'll probably be back!"

Jake began to wonder if the ransacking hadn't, in all likelihood, been done primarily to scare one, or perhaps even both, of them. Looking up at him with a similar contemplation, Midge didn't hesitate to voice her mind.

"I'm scared out of my mind, Jake!.. I can't stay here!.. I don't think I'd sleep a wink tonight."

After a police-report had been fully detailed, Jake prompted Midge to pack a few of her belongings; whereupon, they jumped into her Firebird and drove away.

"I'm awful sorry that I got you involved in all this!..."

Jake rattled off his condolences into a headwind as he pulled onto the entrance-ramp of the interstate, heading South.

"I think somebody is super pissed off at me!.. This thing is a whole lot deeper and more serious than I ever thought!"

Before too long, as her chauffeur turned onto Highway 90, Midge rested her head on his lap; they were journeying west--toward the Black Hills--for the security of an isolated cabin owned by a relative--a place she had frequented before.

Jake and Midge expended the next few days trying to sort things out. From the pay-phone at a nearby diner, Midge generated calls to coworkers and other employees at the University Hospital, as well as former staffers, in an attempt to assemble additional ad rem facts.

She was able to confirm that: Howard Crane was poised to purchase the main teaching hospital; a consortium of upper echelon administrators at the university were already privately marketing LeVIRA; an anonymous benefactor had pledged several million bucks to the department of neurosurgery chief for an endowed chair in his name; Feikal Fassad was showing off another brand-new car--a Ferrari no less; and David Hudley had unexpectedly left town the night of the break-in for points unknown, somewhere out West.

Prior to returning to the turmoil of Minneapolis, Jake talked Nurse Stone into accompanying him to a nearby heavily-powdered slope for a passionate afternoon rendezvous, with skis and poles. During his fellowship year with Professor Kardesch, he had developed a keen and implacable attraction to that glamorous winter-sport, something in younger years he had envisioned as only feasible for the rich-and-famous. In the underground storage-closet of a rented flat on the outskirts of Berne, he had unearthed a pair of ancient, handmade, wooden skis. Following an early season snowfall, without so much as a single lesson, he had strapped the archaic devices to a pair of hiking-boots, and by repetitively glissading and then trekking up a nearby hill, had basically taught himself to ski. His temperamental approach in that situation was protypical; if he didn't know how to do something, he would rehearse it until proficient, as there wasn't anything in life he couldn't accomplish with a bit of hard work.

Upon his return to the Twin Cities, Jake continued to foster a great fondness for skiing--a peaceful and challenging endeavor that provided his psyche fantastic relaxation and maximal invigoration. A favorite respite from the pressures and demands of the profession, over the years he arranged a great number of trips for family and friends. He personally was responsible for launching many of his acquaintances to the additive jubilation of the snowy slopes, including his present companion.

Working up quite a sweat that pleasant afternoon, Jake devoted an integral amount of time endurably instructing his novice cohort; the knee-defying moguls would have to await another day. Subsequent to their boarding a seemingly deserted ski-lift for one final groomed-run, Jake settled back in the airborne chair with his eyes closed, engulfed in thoughts of Jeanne and all the enjoyment and repose that a gloriously bright and sunny, spring afternoon in the mountains could proffer.

With the peak elevation rapidly approaching, the weary downhillers diligently prepared themselves to disembark on cue; but suddenly, without warning, the entire lift jarringly halted, lunging the individual cushioned-chairs downward and backward, as though the main supporting-cable had severed. Instinctively, Jake grabbed for the supporting bar along the back of the seat to restrain himself, while at the same time grappling not to drop and lose any of his pricey rented-equipment. With tremendous force, the swinging-chair stiffened and then, like a rubberband, was propelled vigorously upward; to stay attached to the seat, he had no choice but to release his poles and snatch the side-rail with both hands, as the chair settled into a violent, repetitive, up-and-down, pendulous rocking movement.

When the convulsions finally slowed, Jake found himself hanging for his life from the footrest, some 30-feet in the air. While realigning his desperate grasp to the bottom of the chair, out of the corner of his eye he spotted Midge, lying face down in the snow. Not even realizing that she had been ejected from her seat, he gasped at a personal incrimination for not having done something to protect her from being hurled about. As he stared at his friend's motionless frame and agonized that she had probably been hurt seriously, the initial site of bright-red blood oozing from the side of her head and staining the pure-white snow was visibly tormenting.

The wavering of the chair progressively exhausted and finally completely ceased. Struggling ferociously to maintain his loosening grip, Jake made an unsuccessful attempt to hoist himself back up into the chair, as he strained against the dead weight of bulky boots and still-attached skis and, naturally, "Murphy's Law"--he was strategically positioned immediately overlying a herd of giant, exposed boulders. Fretfully turning his head, he scanned the hillside for help, but saw no assistance in sight. The entire length of the chairlift was devoid of passengers, and strangely, even the observation station at the top of the chairlift, perpetually manned by a lift-operator, was totally deserted.

Panicky, Jake surmised that his only chance was to jettison some weight by grabbing the release knobs on his bindings, thereby allowing the heavy skis to detach and drop. As he inched a hand downward along one leg toward a binding, he rationalized that he could continue to hold on for only a few seconds more. With the entirety of his remaining strength, he struggled to unlatch the tightened snap, but found he could simply not manage it in such a halting position. Locking onto the chair again with both dithering grips, he summated that there was only one viable option--he would have to jump.

Searching the ground underneath, he spotted a mound of fresh stuff several yards in advance and to the side of the spot where Midge lay fallen. Like a monkey on a jungle-gym, he began to swing himself back and forth, hoping to garish enough momentum to propel his weight toward the promisingly softened area. At just the correct moment, he released his clasp; as he sailed downward, he assumed a tucked position atop the just-waxed fiberglass.

He landed with a tremendous thud atop a large, hidden rock. The thunderbolt fracture of his fluorescent K2s upon impact was antecedent to crushing pain in both of his forelegs. Fittingly reacting to the splintering of his landing-gear, he rolled into a forward somersault, coming to rest in deep powder. After several unsuccessful attempts to regain his feet, instinctively he began to doggy-paddle on his belly the few feet uphill to reach his injured friend. Quickly contacting Midge's side, he confirmed at once that she was indeed unconscious.

Bracing her head and neck in his arms, he carefully turned her over. Palpating the side of her neck, he was able to detect only a very weak pulse; simultaneously he observed that she was not breathing. While again glancing around for assistance, he initiated immediate CPR; in so doing, his disbelief, he caught sight of a colorfully-clad, long-haired, snow-boarder, standing near the exit-ramp of the chairlift and casually observing his frantic actions. Immediately, he yelled for assistance, but the bystander merely lowered his goggles, turned away, and sped off in the opposite direction.

Midge's breath was tinted with the taste of spearmint, and as he positioned his lips around hers, Jake was additionally sentient to the aroma of her distinctive Parisian perfume. He unbuttoned her Gortex-insulated jumpsuit and discovered that she bore a prominent, gold peace-symbol between those distinctive bosoms.

"Oh Lord!..."

Jake prayed to precipitous clouds passing overhead as he struggled to keep his friend alive.

"Please don't let another innocent person die on my account!"

Jake maintained CPR for what seemed like an eternity. Between each set of breaths, he scanned the surrounding slopes, anticipating that surely someone would soon appear and come to his aid. After about ten exasperating minutes, Midge finally began to initiate a few haphazard gasps, and shortly thereafter, commenced to adequately exchange air on her own. Slowly her pulse intensified, ultimately becoming strong enough to inaugurate her return to consciousness. Jake positioned his folded-up, goose-feather ski-jacket under her head and began to call out her name.

As he examined her chest, abdomen, and extremities, he searched to determine the full extent of her injuries. Fortunately, she appeared to have landed flat on her back in several feet of cottony white-stuff. Blood continued to exude from her right ear-canal, which harbored an impressive bruise behind it. Though Jake continued to loudly call out for assistance, the only response was a chilling and lonely echo from surrounding mountains.

Removing his clumsy boots, he slithered and crawled the 60 or 70-feet between and across jagged rocks and course stumps, and through deep crusty snow, to the deserted lift-operators' hut. Using an emergency-phone, he was finally able to summon aid from the Ski-Patrol station at the base of the mountain.

Promptly returning to Midge's side, Jake crossed their skis in the snow and his arms in the air as he spotted members of the rescue-squad racing up a nearby run on snowmobiles. He guardedly cuddled her head in his arms as a bright-yellow rescue-sled was carefully positioned into place.

"Be careful about her C-spine!"

Jake barked out several additional warnings as she was hoisted into place. Placed securely behind the powerfulYamaha, the rescue craft was rapidly taken down the mountain, followed closely by another with Jake aboard. Once within the first-aid station at the bottom, Jake limped about painfully as a result of brutal bruises along his shins and a severe right knee strain sustained in his leap. Midge had progressed towards a return of full consciousness, but was still dizzy, drowsy, and distressed.

"At the very least she has a concussion.. and basilar skull fracture!..."

Jake's ongoing direct charges assumed total control of the situation.

"Let's arrange an immediate airlift for her to Minneapolis!"

He accompanied her in the Med-Evac helicopter as she was rushed to the University Hospital. Although a CTdemonstrated that she likely would be alright, Midge was admitted as a precaution to the neuro-ICU for overnight observation. In the ER, Jake had a syringe of blood drained from his right knee and ace-bandages wrapped around his shins, before he hobbled down the familiar hall in the direction of the unit.

As he limped up to the bustling charting-station, he was confronted by several of the nurses on duty to assist his feeble ambulation. Taking a seat adjacent to a row of flashing monitors, he was serially recapping the day's events, when he suddenly caught sight of an unshaven, pony-tailed, young man in street-clothes, hastily exiting Midge's room while apparently trying to conceal something in his hand.

"Who's that guy?"

Pointing less than leisurely towards the backs of his listeners, Jake had the notion that he'd run into that person before. Though out of her view, one of the critical-care nurses responded matter-of-factly about the visitor.

"Oh, I think that was Midge's little brother."

Hastily getting to his feet, Jake shinned his way to her room; nothing appeared disturbed, and Midge was sleeping peacefully. Quickly but guardedly trodding after the allusive intruder, he came up on only a darkened and deserted hallway.

Still in his damp stocking-feet and bulky ski-clothing and limping badly as he retreated back to the ICU, Jake felt an unexpected stick on the undersurface of his left foot, as though a pointy splinter had been deeply imbedded. Lifting off a stinky wool-sock, he retrieved from within his sole a short 25-gauge needle that appeared to have been carelessly abandoned on the floor.

"Unbelievable!.. This whole place has really gone to the dogs!"

Disturbed at an apparent break in hospital cleanliness that permitted the careless disposal of a contaminated needle on the hall-way floor, he stared indignantly at the 25 gauge lying in his palm, as he sustained a few deliberate steps in the direction of Midge's room. Suddenly, he took off in a wild sprint back to her room, skidding to a stop beside her bed; immediately, he tore the plastic IV-tubing from its insertion and stopped the flow of saline from a glass-bottle fluid-container.

"Get me another liter of lactated ringers!..."

Jake's order greeted the nurses as they rushed in to see what was going on.

"Send this one to the lab!.. I have a sneaking suspicion that something foreign has been added!"

Jake spent the whole night in a familiar recliner, only a few feet from Midge's bed. Slowly he relaxed into a pensive mood, while straddling a cup of freshly-brewed coffee. Eventually, he eased his dorsum into a snug cushion and fell fast asleep.

As he looked out at Red Square, a huge throng had assembled beneath the Kremlin; he was edified to have finally achieved a position in which he could affect, in a positive way, the lives of millions and millions of people. The unrelenting-hum of background noise interrupted every so often by periodic chants and shouts arising from spontaneously liberated excitement, the repetitive flashing of camera lights, the knowledge that the jubilant scene he was witnessing was being televised to millions of locations around the world, and an overwhelming sense of design uplifted his already zealous desire to help each and every man and woman on the face of the Earth achieve an unprecedented level of personal confirmation.

He outlined the main priority on his agenda--an absolute preservation of individual rights. It was a rare opportunity to convince all citizens of the world that continued armamentation was unnecessary, i.e. that weapons not only didn't guarantee, but actually interfered with, the safeguarding of individual freedom. He painted a picture of a peaceful society without any threat of war between nations or armed hostility between neighbors--one in which human beings had learned to solve their differences by negotiation and compromise, rather than by blind ambition and brute force.

He laid out with emphatic stomps of his aching leg that the only logical way to secure and guarantee those principles in all societies would be an equalization of resources across the globe; as long as a discrepancy of wealth in many places remained contentious, the potential for worldwide strife would persist. He concluded that it wasn't possible to legislate or impose axioms of justice and equality--a litany of authoritarian governments had proven that. The only utilitarian solution was to place power in a democratic populace that demanded absolute honesty and unequivocal fairness from its people, as well as its elected officials.

"Dr. Gibson, you won't believe this!..."

Someone was again prodding his bad leg.

"We just got the report back from the lab; that IV-fluid was contaminated with a massive overdose of potassium-chloride. The technologist thinks there was probably more than ten times a fatal concentration!"

With sunrise rapidly approaching, Jake immediately telephoned Martha's father to ask his assistance. Harold drove the five hours or so from Mascoutah and following his son-in-law's directions, parked whistly on the street in front of the hospital. Just before lunch-time, with Midge covertly concealed in an overcoat, Jake carefully but briskly goaded a wheelchair across the pedestrian-crossing and hastily secured his patient into the '65 Buick, reposing her across the huge back-seat. Harold pulled away from the curb, hying directly for the safety of a small town.

Midge was confined to bed for several days with persistent headaches, nausea, dizziness, and blurred vision. Her doctor-friend refused to wander very far from the house, keeping a tight watch over her. Despite the understandable turmoil that surrounded his precipitous appearance with a bruised and battered female-friend, Martha's mother and father never once solicited additional details, or questioned what was going on. Jake glowed in admiration at the roots that had provided the ancestral backdrop for Martha's tremendous strength and undying faith.

A week or so later, while whipping up Martha's favorite breakfast of blueberry-pancakes minus the syrup, Ann took an early morning telephone-call for Jake from Minneapolis. As he reached for the phone, Jake shared an apprehensive expression with Harold; both privately wondered who had knowledge that he was there.

"Jason.. this is Mitch Massitor! I'm glad I could track you down. I have some information that I think you might find very interesting.. We need to meet!."

Jake whiffled at a response, dubious that Mitch Massitor really intended to do anything to help him.

"Listen.. it's very important that you meet me today!"

Jake's curiosity was intrigued by the sense of urgency in the barrister's request, thereby convincing him to finally consent.

"Good!.. I'll see you tonight, around 8 o'clock.. America's Center.. near the carousal. Don't worry.. you won't have any trouble spotting me!"

"Okay.. I'll be there!"

Jake's response was prematurely terminated by a click of the caller's phone.

Jake did his best to ally the weighty concerns in his mother-in-law's voice, as he defended his quick decision to meet Massitor later that day. Harold's ardent support was evidenced by his assurance that he would look after Midge while his son-in-law was away, and by a supportive toss of the keys to his prized car for the trip back to the big city.

Jake adorned an oversized, football Cardinals stocking-cap, a heavy woolen-scarf, and tinted sunglasses in an attempt to remain inconspicuous as he cuddled a mug of hot-chocolate--minus the whipped-cream--at a tidy cafe-table within sight of the festive carousel, which was already decorated for Christmas. After waiting impatiently for about a half-hour, he began to surmise that, once again, he had fallen victim to Mitch's harassment. As he was contemplating how long to be forbearant, Massitor finally appeared, propped in a full-length trench-coat trimmed in bear-skin and a large brimmed, fox-hunter's cap. Amazed at his adversary's improbable extravagance, Jake smirked as the barrister grabbed hold of the chair across the table from him.

"Sorry I'm late.. I was just with a couple of olde 'friends' of yours?!.. Listen, I'm really sticking my neck out to meet with you!.. I want to stress up front.. if you ever try to use any of what I tell publicly.. you're on your own!.. I have in my possession concrete evidence that supports everything I'm about to tell you.. but as far as anybody else is concerned.. such proof doesn't exist!"

Jake indecisively shuffled about in his seat, becoming less clear in his own mind as to why he had agreed to such a ridiculous powwow in the first place.

"The day I suffered the hemorrhage, I was litigating a case against one of his local Expercare hospitals and their head-physician in the emergency-room. The doc had failed to properly treat a patient with a ruptured aneurysm.. Interestingly as it turned out, much like mine!.. Unfortunately, in that case the poor sap ended up dead!..."

As he continued to ponder his fate, Jake fiddled with his requisite eye-glasses of late, hoping that a simple realignment would improve his vision. In the back of his mind, he tossed around whether that unnerving optical necessity meant that his cherished youth once-and-for-all vanished; or was it that his naive occipital lobes were merely frustrated at seemingly never being able to grasp what was just in front of his face?

"The tragic event occurred nearly a year to the day that Expercare took control of that hospital.. By the way, you are aware that the University Hospital has also been bought out?..."

Jake responded affirmatively although he really had not been paying total attention to Massitor's words.

"Well, let me get to the point.. Expercare Inc. has a long-standing agreement with a nation-wide consulting-firm called ER DOCS INC.. to furnish fully trained emergency-room physicians for its chain of hospitals around the country. The terms of the contract call for.. 'a sufficient' number of 'certified' ER docs, each 'fully accredited' in advanced trauma and cardiac life-support..."

From inside his jacket, Massitor had slipped out and unfolded a document from which he was directly quoting.

"You'll never guess who heads this lucrative enterprise?!.. An old collaborator of yours, I believe!..."

Jake sat expressionless with his weighty-head mounted upon his forearms.

"Actually I've been deeply involved with him for many years myself! We've worked together on probably 100litigation cases. As far as I'm concerned, he's as close as one can get to the perfect expert-witness. On the plaintiff's side, we could always count on his testimony..."

Maintaining his pose, Jake slowly sipped from his still steaming cup to avoid burning his mouth.

"Everett Salig!..."

Jake winced at a singed tongue and gnawing discontent--that sorry name kept coming up.

"His fees are astronomical!.. For court appearances, he generally demands to be reimbursed at $5,000 an hour.. plus expenses!.. Believe it or not though, he's worth every penny!.. I don't think I ever wound up on the losing end in a case that I had him come in on. It sure has been tough as hell to replace him. Hudley's a certifiable idiot!. And your other buddy.. from out west there.. that George fellow.. Well, I think we both know what makes him tick!.. It's too bad so many of your other cohorts run together!..."

Jake's puzzled frown as he scratched the back of his head was meant to be indicative to Massitor that he was again unnecessarily rambling on.

"Alright.. let me get back on track here.. A couple of weeks ago, I suddenly remembered something that had happened the day I became ill..."

By his wayward grin, Massitor suggested to Jake that he believed his transgressions were being well tolerated.

"I'll bet you didn't know that there are ER docs practicing in the Minneapolis area who don't have proper credentials?!.. Several have never even passed a certified CPR course!.. To put it another way, all kinds of vital documents have been simply made up!.. They're fraudulent!! Somebody just fabricated them!!..."

Jake's prolonged stare at his adversary indicated that his attention had been mustered.

"Actually, there are about a hundred other from around the country in the same predicament.. And here's the interesting part!.. Every one of them is employed by Salig's firm!..."

In unison, the opening between his eyelids and the diameter of his pupils narrowed as Jake listened more intently.

"That's right!.. These are all Salig's boys!.. Each and everyone of them is on his payroll!!..."

Jake knew exactly where the story was headed, so he continued to passively follow along.

"Salig himself appears to have forged documents to meet various state-licensure requirements!.. And what's more, it seems he's been doing it for years!"

Jake found it impossible to remain silent any longer.

"Wait just a minute!.. I'm certainly not an Everett Salig fan.. by any means.. but I find all of this very difficult to comprehend!.. Surely, one of the State Medical Boards.. an investigator somewhere.. would have caught up with him.. They're awful thorough about credentialing physicians, sometimes to the point of being overly ridiculous!.. Besides.. why would anybody take the risk to do something that stupid?"

"Pretty surprising isn't it!.. One of the most well-known and highly reputed surgeons in the country.. I think he just believed his word was as good as God's.. And as far as I can tell, nobody ever questioned him!..."

Jake's head oscillated back and forth as he recalled his run-ins with Salig over the years.

"But wait.. the best is yet to come.. You'll never guess how I initially discovered all this!?..."

Massitor knew only too well how to run straight up the middle with the pigskin; Jake followed his every move with his eyes.

"Salig was scheduled to be my expert-witness on the stand for rebuttal that afternoon.. the day I became ill in court.. We had gone over to Cunetto's place for lunch. I wanted to review his testimony. I was going through his file, and mixed.. right in the middle of a bunch of deposition documents from his office.. was this memo.. handwritten by Salig himself.. listing those Expercare docs from around the country who were working for him with doctored credentials..."

Jake continued to observe Massitor's moves, seemingly waiting for the final spike.

"One name on the list was highlighted.. the one he was supposed to testify against that afternoon!.. He had no idea it was even there!!..."

Massitor was guardedly waving another folded piece of paper in his hand, apparently with no intention of displaying its full contents to Jake.

"I nearly shit in my pants!!.. As soon as I looked it over, I realized the son-of-a-gun intended to double-cross me.. So I had no choice.. I told him, on the spot, that I had to remove him from the case.. Of course, he did everything but swear on a stack of bibles that I was mistaken.. I didn't expect him to react like he did though.. In retrospect, I suppose I should have known better. I could tell, by the look in his eyes, that he knew I had him by the.. Well, you know what!"

Reaching across the table, Jake found it impossible to constrain his curiosity any longer.

"Can I take a look at that??"

Maintaining his firm grasp of the document, Mitch beamed with even more upper-hand information, as he fondly patted his coat-pocket with the other hand.

"Like I said.. you'll just gonna have to take my word on all this!.. You might also be interested to know, though, that I also have.. safe-and-sound.. a notarized affidavit from the retired dean at the Las Vegas Med School.. In fact, I received it just yesterday.. The document outlines an interesting inconsistency in Salig's own credentials.. Seems he never really completed a residency training-program!..."

Jake's stone-face blinked in total disbelief.

"Unbelievable isn't it!.. The director of his training-program at LVMS died quite unexpectedly when Salig still had more than a year to go with his training. Yet.. for some unknown reason.. this same chairman.. on the very eve of his death.. agreed to certify Salig.. and another resident at the time.. your buddy out there West.. the wild man.. good olde George Black!..."

Jake's stiff upper-lip was sucked in by the suddenly clear realization that the profile he was hearing fit Everett S. and George B. to a T.

"You know all this puts me in a pretty tight spot!.. Naturally, as a reputable, plaintiff's representative, I couldn't afford for it to become widely known that my oft-used expert had a real.. honest-to-god skeleton.. in his own closet..."

Jake surmised that public knowledge of that would have destroyed Massitor's credibility as a medical-legal expert; but the attorney had quite a different rationale.

"Really, I had to protect my own butt!.. I could be cited for contempt by the civil-court.. and maybe even disbarred.. if word got out that for years I'd been using a doctor with illicit credentials. Nobody would believe, for a second, that I wasn't aware of what's been going on.. It's hard to believe, but I never thought it necessary to have him checked out!"

"So is that why you let me off the hook??"

Jake thought he finally had an answer to the nagging question that had been bugging him ever since the trial; but Massitor was not nodding in agreement.

"Hardly!.. I thought Salig would quietly resign from his court appearance in that last case and that would be that. I didn't intend to make a big deal out it.. to go public.. embarrass him or anything like that.. I realize now, though, that I totally underestimated the man!.."

At the repeat mention of Salig's name, Jake's orbital cortex was suddenly racing far ahead of his thoughts.

"You see, I got sick right after the noon-recess. I was cross-examining the other side's expert.. Salig was seated right behind our table. I remember I had a pretty bad sore-throat that afternoon.. The good doctor offered me some sort of cherry-flavored lozenger. A few minutes after I put it in my mouth, I got the worst headache.. and things started to get fussy.. Then, the lights went out.. As I look back on it, I suspect that cough-drop was tainted.. Is it possible that he could have laced something into it that would have caused me to have a cerebral hemorrhage??"

Having no doubt in his mind that the vicious Salig or his buddy Black would do something like that, without even a second thought, Jake was only to happy to help fill in a few blanks.

"Certainly!.. Almost any potent vaso-pressor or strong cardiac stimulant could cause a sudden increase in blood-pressure.. If given in a high enough dose.. it could also result in a cerebral hemorrhage. Of course, Salig wouldn't have any way of knowing that you harbored a couple of aneurysms."

"Hang on just a second!.. As I recall, a few years back, I went to see him as a patient for a pain I was having in the back of my head. In the end he decided it was just tension-related.. but it seems to me he did order a scan of some kind as part of the workup."

"Unbelievable!. That was probably an MRI/MRA!.. If so, he very well may have known, beforehand, that you had ananeurysm. That would certainly have made things all the easier!"

Jake winced as he tried to retract any inference into the word easier; irregardless, Massitor was obviously enjoying his telltale status.

"The other afternoon.. when I heard from you that Salig had gotten together with Dr. Hudley.. perhaps even before I arrived at the hospital.. I began to put two-and-two together. Salig must have figured out that I removed something incriminating from his file. He very well may have even seen me put the document inside my suitcoat.. And then, one of my paralegals reminded me the other day that she had seen him rummaging through my briefcase.. In all the commotion, it was left unattended inside the courtroom when I was rushed to the hospital. You see.. not finding anything, he must have known that I had it on me!..."

By the look in his eyes, Jake let his informant know he was on top of what he was being told.

"It's my belief that he needed somebody on the inside who could retrieve the embarrassing memo at the hospital.. without arousing undo suspicion.. But it turned out to be a whole lot more difficult than he imagined.. You see, what Salig hadn't counted on is that in all of my suitcoats, I have an extra-pocket sewn in.. one with a zipper!..."

Massitor had a huge grin on his face as he continued.

"Just yesterday, I was going thru my closet.. and I came upon this suit-coat!..."

As he spoke, Mitch reflected his flashy overcoat and demonstrated a hidden compartment on the inside of his jacket.

"I hadn't worn it since it came back from the cleaners.. I kind of thought of it as 'bad-luck,' you know.. It's the one I wore that day.. You'll never guess what I found in the inside-pocket!..."

Massitor's smile had increased to a gloat.

"I must have had a little memory-loss from all that happened in the hospital.. because I didn't recall anything about the memo, until the instant I opened up the inside pocket and.. held it in my hand again.. And then when I read it again, it all came back!"

"And that's how David Hudley came into play?..."

Jake was hypothesizing to himself as he spoke.

"I can't believe that he would get involved in something like this!"

Though anxious to net an annoying and oft belligerent jelly fish, Jake had difficulty believing that one of his trainees was capable of being a killer; Massitor, on the other hand, had little difficulty explaining vice.

"We'll I'm not surprised at all!.. Didn't he go way out of his way to be overly helpful when I was in the hospital?.. Actually, at the time I was very much impressed. So much so that I asked him to do some legal-work for me.. It was only later that I got to know what a bag of hot air he is!.. And I used to think I was a pretty good judge of character!.. Anyway, I certainly would have been a lot less trouble to Salig if I'd not survived the surgery!"

"Are you saying that David Hudley deliberately sabotaged the operation??"

"Either that or one of the finest brain-surgeons in the world totally botched it up!..."

Jake shared a jovial moment with his archenemy.

"Listen.. My daughter reminded me just yesterday about some things she had noticed during my stay in the ICU..Hudley was always snooping around my stuff, like he was looking for something.. He would never leave me or my wife alone.. And he kept asking questions about where I kept certain things.. Seems pretty clear doesn't it that Salig was behind it all.. I think he felt he had a few bases to cover.. and in a hurry!"

Jake didn't need to acknowledge Mitch's initial pointed inference; he ascertained that all kinds of puzzling things were, indeed, beginning to add up. On the other hand, there was still one item that made little sense.

"All right Mitch.. I think I understand most of what you're getting at.. but I still have one nagging question. Why did you drag me into court.. run me through a long, agonizing trial.. come to the verge of winning a huge verdict from the insurance company.. but then settle out-of-court.. for virtually nothing??.. And why are you still so interested in keeping me out of practice in Minneapolis?"

Massitor rocked way back in his chair as a myriad of secreted lines in his face showed themselves.

"Jason, my boy.. you have built up some powerful enemies in this state.. And I'm not at all ashamed to say.. I was well paid to get you out of this town!..."

By Jake's skeptical expression, Mitch realized that his listener doubted very much that he was being told the truth. Forthright, he leaned forward and whispered, so that no matter what, only the person sitting across from him could hear.

"Initially this was hard for even me to believe.. but then, I'm married to a w

Death of a Healer

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

And he saves one human life, of him the Scriptures say it is as if he saved the entire life.

Mishnah, Sanhedrin 4:5

As the sleek, white Concorde gingerly bounced its way onto a sunshiny runway, his mind flittered with an unrestrained thrust of utter anticipation and sheer excitement. Again glimpsing at that marvelous sum-and-substance girded to the seat beside him, he envisioned what unimaginable wonder the weekend would almost certainly bring. To escape the harsh and endless Minneapolis winter and to get a short reprieve from the grueling demands of work, he had secretly mapped out a few days in New Orleans to experience, firsthand, the climaxes of Mardi Gras. As he gently stroked the back of her slender hand and marveled at the sheer, undeserved joy afforded him as a partaker of her beauty, he foresaw with surety that the ensuing few days would be among the best of his life. The fading drone of jet engines and a thud arising as the gangplanks were being securely positioned against the aircraft meant that the liaison of his wildest dreams had indeed begun.

Jake's cranium snapped back against its firm attachment to his neck as the puttering whine of a newspaper delivery-van stirred his sensibility, and the sudden rap of a tossed morning Globe careening off the hood of the car instantly captured his attention. Though he didn't recall laxing his eyelids, he surmised that he must have dozed for a generous portion of the night, as the hours had passed so swiftly.

Startled by the threatening appearance of a rolled-up paper nestled on the snow-covered lawn just alongside, he conjectured that if one of the servants were to come from the house to retrieve it, the intruder would be spotted immediately. Instinctively, he lumbered from his car, grabbed the plastic-wrapped newsprint, and tossed it a stone's-throw further up the shoveled driveway.

After a brief interval, the oversized, heavy-wooden front-door of the mansion jutted open and the man himself emerged. He was decorated in a costly-appearing business-suit, but hadn't as yet mounted a tie nor donned his customary prim accessories. Unaware of a predator's presence, he leisurely strolled down the driveway and bemusedly retrieved what seemed to be an unusually-long and well-positioned hurl of the paper by the delivery-van; then, while laggardly restepping his way back towards the house through the freezing morning air, he meticulously unfolded the paper, and with a grin from ear-to-ear, scanned the bold, front-page print.

Without further hesitation, Jake sprang from his seated observation position behind the wheel and scampered like a lame fox across the snow-laden lawn, on a trajectory that landed him tiptoeing onto the driveway squarely behind his target. Alerted by the sudden sound of footsteps, his mark attempted to immediately turn around. Firmly ramming the brunt of a knuckle just beneath his ribs, Jake ordered him to continue his trek back towards the house.

Immediately recognizing the intruder's voice, Howard rotated his head to confirm his suspicion, and concurrently ceased his ambulation.

"What the hell are you doing here!?.. What do you want??..."

His shouts were intended to stall Jake's intentions.

"I'm not going any farther with you, asshole!!"

Pretensing a metal weapon as he pressed a bit harder into his prey's tender, lower costal-cartilages, Jake reinforced his point.

"You and I need to have a little chat.. my knavish friend!.. And I think you'd better listen to what I have to say.. Or perhaps you'd rather I tell my story to the cops!"

Still resisting Jake's intimidation, Howard had a distinctly different type of confrontation in mind as he made reference to the morning headlines.

"The police aren't going to listen to anything you say!.. I see that you finally got even with Mitch Massitor. You know.. not many people are going to put much credence in what a cold-blooded murderer has to say!"

Jake's forceful rejoinder as he pushed ever more aggressively, actually ended up shoving Howard in the direction of the house.

"I didn't kill him and you know it!.. Now move your ass!!"

Finally relenting to the threat of a bonafide weapon at his back, Howard followed suite and walked purposefully toward the entryway, with the newspaper and its tabloid headlines still laid open in his arm. Upon reaching the front-door that remained ajar, the two men entered single-file; then, Jake gruffly pulled the door closed behind them.

Standing alone with the head of that household in that particular entryway, Jake endured a swift dampening of his spirit; he couldn't help but reminisce about an earlier encounter, just down the sleek marble-laden hallway, with someone who had also called that place home. Sensing an opportunity, at that moment Howard spun forcefully away from his grasp, and reaching inside a nearby cabinet-drawer, grabbed a petite but menacing derringer. Spotting a real weapon, Jake halted on-the-spot his pushy overture, assuming instead a couple of dainty steps backwards.

"I should put a bullet in you right this moment.. you son of a bitch!.. and do the state a great big favor!!..."

Howard vehemently shouted as Jake publicized his retreat.

"You killed Massitor, and now you came here to kill me!"

"Sure I did, Howard.. without a weapon?"

Jake's audacious smirk in the direction of his empty hands wasn't really meant to antagonize.

"Well pal.. looks like it all ends right here!"

Asserting the upper-hand, Howard simpered, and with a brass flip of his garnished hand, motioned for his capture to slowly back his way into the study and take up a place on a stiff leather-sofa, across from his desk. Jake readily conceded his compromised position, and while pondering alternative escape plans, followed his host's persuasive instructions. After a brief, mute interval, during which both men glared loathingly at each other, Howard had a whole lot more to say.

"Alright.. perhaps it is time to clear the air.. Maybe you didn't kill Massitor!.. Problem is, everyone out there thinks you did!.. You see my dumb-friend.. this happens to be the gun that killed him!.. And you'll never guess who it's registered to?!.. My buddy Salig found it in Massitor's briefcase after he fell ill in the courtroom.. As things turned out recently, it sure came in real handy.. I didn't plan it quite like this.. but in the end I had no choice but to take care of business, myself!..."

Right in front of Jake's eyes, Howard waved the small pearl-handled weapon tauntingly; per his bragging, it appeared, at least once already, he'd put it to mortal use.

"Regrettably.. when the police find this and check it out, they'll discover your fingerprints all over it!"

Howard grinned wholeheartedly as he pointed the shiny chrome-barrel squarely at Jake's midsection. Infuriated by his subjugator's intentions as his intense glare continued, Jake fathomed his host was indeed plotting to kill him and frame him for Massitor's demise. Settled that whatever fate intended would happen, regardless, he had no true conception of panic or anguish at his predicament, though he did recite a short prayer of contrition for past violations of the commandments. Still, before the end could come, he just had to know about Martha.

"Howard.. Why in God's name did you have to hurt Martha?!"

Though thoroughly compromised, Jake's tone was heated and challenging; in turn, Howard's cavalier demeanor instantly faded.

"She was mine you son of a bitch!! I loved her!.. I told her many times that if I couldn't have her, then nobody would!"

"You had her killed because she left you?!"

Jake fully expected an affirmative response; his back stiffened and his fists clenched as he was viscerally propelled to make a move in Howard's direction.

"I wouldn't think about it, you cock-sucker!"

Howard snapped as he pointed the gun even closer to Jake's ribs; in response, Jake tempered his aggression and backed off, hoping to buy himself both more time as well as additional information.

As Howard recited his iniquitous gospel, Jake could only respond with a slow but deliberate shake of his head.

"You're so damn naive!.. You know, yesterday, when Salig and I received a surprise visit from Massitor, we reckoned that he must be on the road to finally figuring everything out. So naturally, I had to have him followed.. And then look who showed up!.. I wasn't certain just how much good-olde Mitch might have told you.. As we all know, when a man owes someone his life, he'll often do very unpredictable things!..."

Jake's mentation whirled for what seemed like aeons as he tried to at least begin to comprehend what he was being told; to his chagrin, his recent thoughts of optimism about the future were suddenly cluttered and confused. Out of an acute crescendo of inner-turmoil and irrationality, he struggled with raging impulses of overwhelming resentment and unbearable frustration.

"Just like my beloved and faithful wife.. When her friend's husband contacted her, I knew that it was only a matter of time before her very gifted surgeon-husband would have also figured it out.. Do you know what difficult a decision that was?!.. But you see, we just couldn't take that chance.. This is a whole lot bigger than any one of us!.. There's a great deal at stake here!.. Perhaps the future of our discipline!"

As Howard's words faded from sensibility, a litany of enduring jangles treaded through Jake's core awareness. He flinched at the adolescent strain of a tempestuous patrimonial temperament held tediously in check by a matriarch's reactive nurturing. The toilsome years of constant fending for everyone had taken their toll; he was expected to assume the responsibility that "all" things at "all" times worked out "all" perfect for "all" people--no challenge "too" demanding, no mountain "too" steep, no highway "too" windy; and through it all, "whom" had he really been able to please?

At that moment, he loathed that he had been forever so tolerant, that he had so freely smothered criticism with praise, and that he had so frequently exploited boundless effort to prove his worth to all. With a smitten glare at his present aggressor, he wondered what the summation of those pitiful efforts over so many years had really accomplished. The omnipresent, thoughtless bullies ere invariably drawn to him, probably because they knew he would eternally take their crap and hardly ever utter a single word of demurral. Once again, another obnoxious and egomaniacal hector to put up with; somehow, it was simply not tenable any longer, no matter the consequences.

As he inched towards Howard, and the finicky trigger resisting his curled index-finger, Jake scowled at what must have been the terrified, extra-terrestrial screams of Martha as the contents of that plane were heading for their terminal velocity. In an act of all-out desperation, he lunged at Howard, trying to free himself from that aforesaid, insufferable imprisonment.

Instantly, there was one loud pop, like the jolting backfire of a nearby motorcycle, and right-off another, that time close, so very close, and so piercing; then, he was surrounded by shivering and darkness, all around.

After hastily checking into the very pretentious Delphian suite at the Royal Orleans, the two of them spent an unforgettable afternoon strolling the overshadowed French quarter, hand-in-hand, with stops at Felix's Oyster Bar, Pat O'Brien's Pub, and Preservation Hall, before capping off the day at Antoine's for a candlelight dinner. Never more than a few inches from his grasp, she magnetized his emotions with enchanting and stirring silhouettes. With each passing hour and every heavenly movement, he became progressively more intoxicated by her undiluted beautification--so radiant in that soft-yellow flowered dress.

Her blue eyes allured him to wondrous heights that he had only dreamt about scaling. With an incessant and intensifying pounding of his heart and a sharp, almost stinging pining in his soul, he readily succumbed to the cue that they were headed towards supernatural intimacy, perhaps even that night. After a final intimate toast, they traversed BourbonStreet and Royal; the revelry of the people around them only echoed their own uncontrolled excitement.

Jake perceived repeated, brusque flickers of light reflecting around a hustling place--one that he could vividly remember having visited on multitudinous prior occasions. All around he observed expressions of dismay on the faces of people as they rushed about--a touch of pity in the flustered eyes of strangers; a hint of fear in the faraway looks of friends.

Laboriously, he sloshed and gurgled, having obvious difficulty breathing. He flinched at the profound pain in his head and chest and couldn't fathom what all those white-clad people were up to; they were prodding and pushing and sticking and yelling commands; and then, there was that uncomfortable lurching and jostling during his conveyance.

A horse-drawn carriage-ride through quaint old-town was the perfect culmination to an evening filled with sweeping romance, strong mutual attraction, and soaring passion. Pulling up along the craggy cobblestones of St. Patrick's Square,impulsively he coiled his arms around her and kissed her passionately, insouciant to the passerbys treading around them. The heavenly glow inside the cosmic flirtations of that woman set her conspicuously apart from the amalgamation of evanescent doting expressions heretofore cast his way.

Again sentient, but unable to speak or grasp the significance of what was going on, Jake took notice of Rona, his long-standing secretary, standing aghast in the doorway; she had worked to overcome so many obstacles in her life. Stationed next to her was skinny Nathan, one of the hospital transporters on the day shift; he had operated upon him years ago for a non-malignant tumor of the spinal-cord, and the amazing guy had delivered on his promise to walk again. Also positioned nearby was Angela, a wide-eyed, unerrable admitting-clerk, her features were fuzzy but the notion rambled on in his head that he'd treated her at one time or another, for something or other.

Arriving back at their room, he carefully positioned an emphatic "Do Not Disturb" sign on the white-paneled door to their room, and locked them in. She had already begun to disrobe by flicking those cute little sandals from her feet, as she sprawled back onto a posh, French-embroidered comforter--like an innocent child forging angels in new-fallen snow. Taking a comfortable position beside her, he sensed no inclination of the awkwardness that locus had previously intimated; freely, he wondered far off into her eyes, released from any compunction for past events--all that mattered was the two of them, and that moment. Flopping his penny-loafers aside, he crawled beside her and mushily whispered into her bewitching stare.

"I love you so much!.. I love you more than words can say!.. and I always will!"

As the words passed his lips, he knew that place must be heaven, and she was an angel--or at the very least a shining nightingale.

Jake's awareness was directed towards the brave expressions behind the alarming stares of Sharon, RaeLynn, Dawn, Nancy, Patty, Sue, and all the other nurses, as they altered his position on the stretcher and hastily removed the rest of his clothing. He didn't feel much like an idol at that moment, like he'd been for each of them ever since they first donned those classic, pink-striped uniforms in nursing-school. Over the years he had encouraged those kids to make it through the rugged state-certification exam, and consoled them through the trials of maladjusted roommates and the tribulations of overly-friendly boyfriends; gosh, he'd even been a fixture at their monthly, nursing-staff happy-hours and at each and every one of their weddings. Just then, someone fussily elevated and extended his head to permit the placement of a breathing tube and adhesive-tape to secure it.

Enshrouding the back of his head with her hands, she extended her lips to his, and they kissed with the passion that is only produced between young lovers, willing and ready to exchange their worlds for each other. The passage of sand through the hour-glass had been displaced by a dimension of immeasurable sensation; at that moment nothing mattered in minutes, only in the depth and magnitude of arousability and sensuous reaction.

Monetarily pausing to secure breath, she propelled her tongue to silkily graze his still pursed lips. Responding to the bewitching gentleness of her protrusion, he proffered his wet glossas to engage hers. Twirling and tumbling, dancing and darting from one gob to the other, delightfully palpating the other's glistening teeth and moistened buccal-membranes, their erectile tissues were doused; they probed each other in an escalating rush of overpowering enchantment. Withdrawing from her lascivious osculations, he wended his lips and tongue across her cheek and athwart her neck, licking and pecking as she responded to a tingling sensation spreading up her spine with a lush gasp, and a whist but manifest plea for more of the same. As she repositioned her pelvis to situate her perineum against his quadriceps, he impelled his groin to hug her thigh, thereby augmenting the magnitude and firmness of his manliness.

Jake recoiled from an icy film-cassette being harshly shoved beneath his chest. Standing alongside the x-ray machine--button in hand--was bearded Terry, whom he'd operated upon nearly a decade ago for a subdural following a serious sky-diving accident. He flinched at a stinging pinch along his forearm, catching sight of always somber Rosie, a lab-tech, whose occipital AVM he had removed just before he was named a full-professor. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw mountainous Brett, brushing by as he trailed an EKG machine. His median and ulnar nerves had been severed a couple of years before in a terrible fall through a plate-glass window; both had been repaired with quite a nice return. Then too, buoyant Dorothy from the chaplain's office, whose husband's Parkinson's disease had responded so well to a stereotactic radiofrequency procedure, was standing at his side, holding his hand for support.

With their unembroiled hands, the enkindled flames began to purposefully doff each other's garments. He struggled to extract an arm at a time from his partly unfastened shirt, as she released the buttons and unraveled his tie. Magnetically returning to the taste of her lipstick while simultaneously pawing the back of her dress, he located and hastily rushed to undue the zipper, while she did his. Concurrently peeling apparel from their torsos, both consorted to retain their visceral embrace.

Embarking upon her contoured waist, he pursued the warmth and softness of her skin; he marched his phalanges up her back while gently massaging her loins. She slipped her hands inside his undershirt, pawing with an irresistible yearn to unleash the power and strength she savored in his musculature. As she hoisted his fruit-of-the-looms up over his shoulders, he was compelled to retract his head through the aperture and loosen his grip of the fabled latch on that sheer buttress, but only ephemerally. Promptly springing it open, he lifted those flimsy straps from her shoulders, victoriously toppling the well-sculptured shroud to the floor.

Stunned by the pure beauty of her recherche breasts, appearing more ashen than her surrounding chest, he meticulously caressed her crimson areolae and breathlessly bowed his head to introduce his taste-buds to her femininity. Resurrecting her arms to her occiput and arching her back slightly in a pose of voluptuous exhilaration, she beckoned him to continue his artful exploration; but first he would dim the light.

Jake was annoyed by that ungodly bright reflection in his eyes, interrupting a rapidly escalating surge of primordial delectation. He groaned an unintelligible response to Justin, a second-year neurosurgery-resident, who had originally been attracted to Minneapolis by the opportunity to work with the notable professor; the housestaffer was shining a small pen-light through his pupils. Blinking as his sensorium rapidly faded, Jake could still feel the interminable presence of other amigos around him: the attendings, residents, interns, and staff. too numerous to mention, all mulling around like protective bees in a disturbed hive; many of them had been his students and staunchest supporters for years.

Rushing through the crowd to Jake's side as his pressure bottomed out was Jack Perlmann, flamboyant chief of cardiovascular-surgery. Jake had operated upon the department chairman's elderly mother a few years back for pre-senile dementia due to communicating hydrocephalus, and his father, a retired surgeon, for crippling, lumbar-canal stenosis.

"Okay everybody, we need to open his chest.. right here and now! Lets have the thoracotomy tray!.. and 7½ gloves!.. Suction please!.. and get some blood up here STAT?!!"

Inspiring heavily, but promiscuously, and with a gripping pudendal tautness, he receded from her lips to compose the tempo of his ascent. Traveling down his shoulders and back, she explored each of his vertebrae tactilely, ultimately ducking inside the elastic of his BVDs, and concluding with a firm sweep across his buttocks. He adeptly rotated his hips, convincing his hindmost undergarment to gravitate off as he helped her do the same. Gently caressing the core of her pubis and then encountering the ingress of her vagina, he abruptly stopped and whiffled on the fringe of intimacy. Staunchly staring into her eyes, he resounded.

"I love you so!.. I will cherish you forever!"

Reprising his words, she opened the door for his heated march. He promptly swooped his paws around her--one at her back, the other beneath her knees--and without straining, lifted her securely into his arms and repositioned her, scrupulously, into the heart of the bed. Then, situating himself partially atop, he resumed his explorative merrymaking to a scintillating, systemic sensation.

With a pronounced tingling surrounding his mouth and encompassing his fingers and toes, Jake surrendered to an overpowering aura of his entire body floating away in a hot-air balloon, while yet emersed in warm, penetrating saline. The piercing pain had dissipated, and he felt only security in the arms of the people around--all members of a most trusted team. Even his harsh and labored breathing turned relaxed and composed as he could faintly make out his defiled body rise up from its recumbent position and slowly drift away.

Responding to his finger excursions with repetitive and increasingly protracted and blaring moans, she coaxed him to slide his pelvis atop hers. Frantically clutching his derriere, she assumed control of his penis and piloted its insertion within her. Almost straight off, she was overcome by the strength and thrust of him inside her, as she panted and whimpered with the far-off stare of a totally satisfied dreamer in a truly imaginary place.

Acknowledging her genuine fulfillment, he concomitantly lost himself to the warmth and velvety entanglement of his lifelong inamorata. Panting and chanting in response to the abiding push of the other, each one gripped the other more securely, not wanting the ultimate delight of the moment to ever cease. Resurgently and harmoniously springing from and bouncing upon and around the other, each soul unconditionally and exhaustively united with the other--freely, fully, and forever.

When the pulsatile phase of their affection had waned, he drew her softheartedly against his chest; then he rolled onto his back and rotated her atop, all the while turning his fingers through her bewitching, brunette curls and mugging her captivating special senses. He again protruded himself as much as he could inside her; his amour responded with an additional rendition of high pitched tones and garbled grunts, as once again she accepted him to her fullest.

Tentatively scanning the room between blinks, Jake couldn't quite figure out where he was; once again, it seemed like a friendly place, only there was nothing but darkness all around. He made an attempt to lift a hand to his face, but a restrained wrist wouldn't permit palpation. He felt nauseated and dizzy, and his vision seemed blurred; and too, he winced from a pounding head-throb.

He wiggled and writhed a bit in his entrapment in an attempt to relieve a piercing ache that had all but taken over his middle-back. The all-too-familiar tolling of monitor-alarms was repetitively interrupted by the accelerating whoosh of a bedside machine, that time-and-again gorged his chest with intense, stinging discomfort. Appearing from nowhere, a heavenly figure was suddenly standing at his side; he drifted away to the analgesic effects of a dose of IV-Morphine, 10 mg.

The dyad of true-loves remained entangled for hours, swapping trembling beams and tender salutations, cottony touches and purposeful palpations, mutually seductive poses, and rousing movements. Eventually drifting off to sleep in each other's arms, but only after once again counting to seven, conjointly they trekked to a profound dimension of human sensuality and emotional intimacy.

Simultaneously and individually, they would awake to kiss again, to clasp the other with the infinite enjoyment only partaken by inseparable lovers. Their heart's pendulums had just initiated a cadence; in recognition of that evening's peregrination as propelling them far beyond simple copulation, neither could ever revert to prior fickleness or pendulousness. The richness of that prolific exchange had spawned an unbreakable bond; as such, they grasped in their souls that from that moment on, life derived meaning only in their capacity to engage the other, evermore.

All of a sudden, Jake's serenity was unraveled by anguish and fear as he revisited Mitch, the mall, the blood, Harold's car, the mansion, Howard, the gun, and that piercing noise. As he focused on the appearance of a chest-tube draining bright-red blood from his side, he comprehended for the first time the extent and dire nature of his wounds.

"He also got you in the head!..."

Jake lunged his ear and eyes in the direction of a friendly voice. He grabbed for Midge's hand as his muffled and apprehensive attempts to speak were immediately soothed by her comforting mug.

"Don't worry.. It never made it inside.. merely glanced off... Always knew you had a thick skull!..."

Midge smiled broadly as she softly brushed the curly locks from his forehead.

"Nothing to do now but rest and get better.. Everything is going to be all right. Don't worry.. If you need me, I'll be just outside the door!"

Sitting at his bedside, Midge brushed aside his solicitude with gentle assurances and touches to his face. Fixed intently on her eyes, Jake peacefully allowed his separation anxiety from Jeanne to dissipate with each soothing word, before his eyelids met peacefully again.

They witnessed very little of Mardi Gras that weekend, exhausting almost all of their time alone together behind a "Do Not Disturb" sign posted on their door. When the time finally arrived to return home, they seriously discussed their desire to run away and never turn back. They would fly off to Tahiti, build a little shack on the beach, and open a grass-skirt shop. He would fashion and she would peddle their breezy goods to elated tourists between episodes of lovemaking and giving birth to pink-cheeked, dark-lashed, cut-as-a-button little girls and blond-haired, blue-eyed, tough-as-a-tiger baby boys, who would all grow up to remind them just how much they adored each other.

Finally awakening after having traveled through what seemed like a multitude of time-zones, Jake was comforted to see that Midge retained her supportive position at his side. Jack Perlmann, or the "chief" as he was less-than-affectionately known, entered his room and, while matter-of-factly addressing him, untied his arm restraints.

"Jake, I'm going to take your tube out.. Okay?"

Jake nodded his head, only vaguely aware of what he was agreeing to. Almost immediately, he felt himself being forced to repeatedly cough and gag; grabbing his chest in agony with each ostentatious excursion, the garden-hose was quickly deflated and yanked from his windpipe.

"Damn!.. So that's what it feels like!"

Jake hoarsely rambled to all present as he brought to mind the number of times he'd executed that exact maneuver.

"My Lord, that's a real bitch!.. What a relief to get that thing out!"

He garbled with his voice cracking on every syllable as he noticed a sentry, posted outside the door and closely observing the proceedings. An oxygen-mask was placed over his mouth and nose. Eager to ask his friend Perlmann a few questions, Jake raised his hand to remove the mask, but the assertive chest-surgeon resisted his attempt.

"Jake.. leave that damn thing alone!.. You need to have it on for a few minutes!"

Perlmann stationed himself, not quite congenially, at the head of the bed.

"You were shot twice in the left chest. One fragment transgressed the upper lobe.. barely missing the aorta. The other caught a rib. We were able to clean things up pretty well. Hopefully, we'll be able to get the chest-tube out tomorrow or the next day.. just as soon as everything dries up.. You know.. you're one damn-lucky fool to be alive! You also took one on the side of the head, but it didn't penetrate the inner-table."

"Yeah, I've been told.. by a few people around here.. that I have a very thick noggin!"

Over the mask, Jake grinned at Midge.

"Thanks man, for pulling me through!"

Jake reached up a hand to his long-time colleague, who abruptly excused himself to other tasks.

The next morning he was permitted to sit up in bed and was even blessed with apple-juice and orange jello for breakfast. Midge hovered around the ICU like a nesting-mother trying her best to shield him from the seemingly endless parade of visitors and rubbernecks, many gawking, a few genuinely paying respects. Late that afternoon, Jake caught a glimpse of Dr. Wilson peeking into his room from across the ICU and then quickly looking away, as though he was preoccupied with another endeavor. And finally, there was an all too brief visit from Jeanne, and Ben.

Over the next couple of days, the totality of his connections to infusion-bags and drainage-containers was removed, as he was happily permitted to assume bodily functions on his own. Just sitting upright in a chair and taking a few scant steps around the room made the transposed healer appreciate just how good it was to simply be alive.

On the day that he was scheduled to be transferred from the ICU to a locked jail-ward, Midge, curiously, was nowhere to be found. All that morning Jake was sullen, silently worrying about her well-being based on all that had transpired over the weeks preceding. Then, just after lunch, Midge abruptly re-appeared.

"How ya' feeling today, doctor?"

"Hey lady!.. It's great to see you!.. Where were you this morning?"

Jake's happy exclamation underscored his relief to see her.

"Oh, I had a few errands to run!"

About an hour later, Midge opened a Victoria's Secret shopping-bag and began to unpack articles of clothing--things she had obviously smuggled into Jake's room. She bent over and whispered into his ear.

"We need to get you dressed as quickly as possible!"

"What's going on Midge?"

Jake glanced nervously at the uniformed and armed guard, still in position just outside his door.

"Don't worry.. He's deep into something at the moment."

Midge was anxiously waving a pair of plaid briefs for Jake to step into.

"I thought you might need these."

Precipitantly, Jake discarded his generic hospital-duds and introduced his arms into a favorite flannel-shirt. Midge had also brought along a pair of jeans as well as socks and shoes. Only a minute or two later, the doctor was glad to finally be back into some comfy togs again.

As they hurriedly brushed through the ICU doors, Jake noticed that the usually alert guard was sound asleep; Midge was broadly grinning.

"Alright, what did you do?"

"Well, he told me yesterday that he liked hot-fudge sundaes.. so I picked one up for him. You know.. one of those with special sprinkles on top."

"Yeah!..."

Jake resounded with a suspicious look on his face.

"But he didn't really specify what kind."

Midge displayed several empty Xanax capsules in the palm of her hand.

"I gave him just enough that he'll slumber like a baby for a couple of hours!"

Before they had even reached the elevator, Midge covered Jake in a heavy, hooded overcoat and dark glasses. He nestled onto the cramped rear-seat of her sports convertible, as she headed directly back to his in-law's place.

For the next several weeks, Jake and Midge hid out among the amenities of a country-estate with idle farm-machinery in the field behind, shielding themselves from unexpected knocks at the door and routine passerbys on the street. For safe-keeping, Harold stashed Midge's easily recognized car in an old wooden-barn, out of the way behind the house.

One chippering, early December morning, topped by stacks of stratocumuli, Harold and Ann received a surprise visit from the local sheriff, who, on a first name basis, was dutifully inquiring as to their knowledge about their son-in-law's whereabouts. Jake had become a nationwide celebrity with a sensational story-line: an internationally-acclaimed neurosurgeon, placed at the scene of the murder of the most famous malpractice-attorney in the country, nearly fatally shot by his next target, held captive by the sheriff's department during a prolonged hospital convalescence, and then, after drugging a guard, daringly escaping with the help of an unwitting accomplice.

Even the dinkiest tidbit of personal information was worth something to the competing networks, news-magazines, and talk-show hosts. Decade-old classmates from high-school, vague acquaintances that he'd played ball with over the years, even a faceless attendant at a neighborhood gas-station where his car had once been worked on were all fixtures on TV. Members of his immediate family were prime spotlights; several siblings were offered as much as fifty-thousand dollars for an exclusive interview, and two hundred thousand for a book-deal. Even cousins, nephews, and the like were advanced in the several thousand dollar range.

His parents were absolutely inundated by around-the-clock surveillance-crews. Jake's dad finally agreed to an impromptu, door-step interview with the hope that it would defuse some of the uproar. His comments were carried live onCNN; then via telephone hook-up, listeners from around the country were permitted the opportunity to pose questions to the hosts. One of the callers, in unduly crisp comments, suggested that whoever was hiding "that awful fugitive from justice" ought to be "strung up unmercifully, right alongside him." After hearing that, Jake was convinced that he couldn't subject those he cared so much about to the mounting risks associated with illegally shielding him from the authorities for very much longer.

On a blistery St. Nicklaus day, after a memorable feast of Annie's homemade lasagna, Jake found himself sitting all by himself in Martha's room. On the edge of a fairy-tale inscribed bedspread, he opened his heart to Snow White for perhaps a fate glimmer of her presence. Martha's personal affects remained roughly the way they had been for years; her mom hadn't given away or changed a thing after her daughter had moved away, nor even after she had been taken away, forever. It was as though Annie fully expected her only child to return home at any moment and resume lighting up the lives of those who loved her so very much.

As his weary cranium settled back on that inveigling, hand-stitched quilt, the constant din of a midwestern wind against the shutters unleashed his essential longing for his inamorata; uncontrollably, he began to sob. At that moment, it seemed dreadfully obvious to him that nothing would ever fill that bottomless abyss within his heart; his lot in life seemed certain to be one of profound emptiness, with no recourse; without a doubt, he was not meant in his lifetime to fully experience unending love, and all it had to offer a lucky partaker.

Just as the floodgates of Jake's lacrimation surrendered to an unstoppable onrush of self-pity, Martha's mother walked into the room. Caught off guard by that unleashed deep-rooted distress, Jake quickly turned his face away, covering his eyes with his hands in a futile attempt to conceal his frail emotional display. Captured by one of those emotive moments of life in which simple pass-words are un-availing, he could only exchange with his second mom a close hug--a silent manifest of the deep affection they shared for Martha.

So as not to further discomfort her adopted son, Ann proceeded directly towards a vintage wicker-secretary, exactly situated beneath a window looking to the front of the house. Many of Martha's personal-items were entombed in that resting place, including, among other things, an unopened letter sent to the house shortly after the plane-crash. Ann retrieved it from atop the desk, and in an attempt to relax the moment, purposefully handed it to Jake.

In a plain-white, ink-inscribed envelope with a return address from Martha's oldest friend, it had the appearance of simple correspondence among confidants; the fact that it remained unopened, however, intrigued Jake to not simply ignore it. He tugged, matter-of-factly, at its seal with his fingernail. Inside the envelope was a handwritten letter, inscribed on sheets of lined-paper; the top edges were frayed, as if torn from a spiral notebook; there was also a computer-diskette.

Dear Marti,

Jake questioned his mother-in-law as to that silly nickname. He was surprised to learn that was what Martha's high-school friends had always called her.

Sorry I haven't been in contact since we got together at Christmas time. With the kids and all, time really seems to fly by. Congratulations to you and Jake on your exciting news. Actually, your mother was so excited that word was all over town even before I got your letter. Hope everything will continue to go well for you in your new city and your new home.

In reality, I'm writing this letter, because I'm afraid to call, and I really don't know who else to contact. Howard has been missing for over 3 days now without a trace. The sheriff is convinced that his disappearance is related to the strain he was under at work, but I don't think so. I have a terrible feeling he's never coming back.

You see, he left on the spur of the moment, leaving a note saying that everything was okay, but that he needed to leave town for a few days to take care of something. He also left this computer-disk with directions that if I didn't hear from him by today, I should get it to you.

I don't have a clue what all of this means, but I know Howie had uncovered some sort of irregularity in the emergency-room. As you can imagine, I'm really scared. What's worse, I have an idea someone has been following me the last few days; I think they are even watching the house and listening in on my phone. I hope I'm not doing the wrong thing by mailing this and getting you involved in this; but I really don't know what else to do.

I'll try and be in touch when I think it's safe.

Always your friend!

Lisa C.

P.S. I can't find your new address, so I'm sending this letter to your mom to forward.

With a riveted, nearly cross-eyed look at it, Jake flipped the enclosed CD onto the cushioned bed beside him as he closely inspected the envelope; it had been mailed from right there in Mascoutah. He stared again at the postmark, dated September 12th--the very day Martha was killed. As his mind ran away with the coincidence, a surging colonic sensation produced imperceptible beads of perspiration on his forehead along his hairline, and slightly-labored breathing.

Flipping the CD around in his hand, Jake queried Ann about that old friend of Martha's, as he tried to remember their brief introduction around the time of the wedding, nearly a year before.

"Martha and Lisa were the best of friends.. since grade-school really. Her dad used to own a hardware-store downtown.. but he died years ago. Lisa went away to college and became a nurse, just like Martha.. She ended up marrying a doctor from Jefferson County.. that's just North of here."

"Do you know where her husband went to school?"

"I'm not certain?.. I do know he used to commute from Dubuque.. where he worked at an emergency clinic.. He actually flew his own plane back-and-forth.. Then several years ago, he quit the practice up there and joined the staff of our local hospital. He'd been running the ER here ever since."

Jake had a lot more questions than Ann could provide answers.

"Was he a moonlighter?.. or was he specially trained in emergency-room medicine??..."

"I really don't know for sure, but as far as I was concerned, he was a very good doctor. A couple of times I had to go to the ER for a kink in my neck, and he was always the one I saw.. Once he even gave me an injection right in the spot.. and I didn't feel a thing!"

"What's all this about him being reported missing?"

"Actually, he disappeared very suddenly.. Right around the time of Martha's..."

Ann hesitated in mid-sentence for a moment.

"Those were the two big news around here for quite a while. Both of them were local favorites."

"So he never turned up?... Maybe I ought to give this Lisa a call?..."

Just as those words had finished pulling the corners of his mouth, Lisa's husband's name finished echoing in his consciousness.

"Howie!.. her husband's name is Howard!!"

All at once, Jake realized that Lisa's husband could have been the one who telephoned Martha that day; if so, very likely he was also the person who had gone down in the plane-crash with her. Behind that sudden realization, a zillion thoughts were racing synchronously through the open circuits of his cortex.

"Would you happen to have Lisa's telephone-number handy?"

Jake's call to her home was met by a recording.

"This number has been discontinued..."

In addition, no one in the hospital emergency-room had heard from her, since her husband's sudden disappearance.

"Do you think Harold would mind if I asked him to stop by her house and check things out with the neighbors?.. Perhaps he could also find out something from the police-department or those in charge of the hospital?"

The consternation on Ann's face became more conspicuous.

"Sure... but I don't know about that hospital?.. Since it was bought out by that big conglomerate..."

Jake jumped on her last comment as though he had just come upon a simple formula that would help save the human-race.

"Bought out?.. I'll bet it was Expercare!"

"Yeah, that's the chain!"

"When did that happen? Was it just recently?"

"No.. Come to think of it, it was last Fall.. a little over a year ago.. Right about the time Martha came back home for awhile to sort things out."

Ann's words were halted by a mother's unquenchable heartache. Jake nearly stared a hole in the floppy diskette lying within his grasp, overpowered by the notion that perhaps therein were contained answers to a host of still unanswered questions. Pensively looking up, he again met Ann's glance, and once again they exchanged the same solemn thought.

Jake spent must of that night at Harold's computer opening Pandora's box. The computer-diskette contained statistical records from the hospital in Mascoutah and a number of Expercare hospitals around the country, detailing their death rates for various diagnosis codes following emergency-room visits and short-stay admissions.

At around 5 a.m., he finally switched the keyboard power-button to off, and accompanied by a short note, placed the disk in its white holder inside a stamped, neatly addressed envelope. He left it in a prominent place to be included with the in-law's outgoing mail.

Via the early-bird, 6 a.m. bus, destined for Minneapolis-St. Paul, Jake departed Mascoutah, without saying goodbye to anyone. It was Doctors' Day at the University Hospital, a unique celebration to honor recently-appointed members of the medical-staff and formally recognize the new ownership; the former Professor of Neurosurgery wasn't about to miss those special festivities for anything in the world.

Death of a Healer

Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The knife is dangerous in the hand of the wise, let alone in the hand of the fool.

Hebrew Proverb

Covertly slipping into an elevated audiovisual-bunk, discreetly nestled by design in the haunches of Memorial Hall, Jake cached himself into a obscure and secluded corner, so as to be able to survey the gathering throng without his presence being noticed. While gingerly fingering the confounded darkness, his attention could not overlook the high-definition, three-dimensional, video apparatus, carelessly pushed aside and crammed into one of the far reaches of the room, and neglected beneath an inch of dust.

"That's a whole year's salary.. up in smoke!"

Jake deplored to the empty room as he puffed some of the muck away and recanted how he had struggled to come up with the nearly quarter of a million dollars--of his own money--in order to pay for the design and building of the ingenious teaching widget.

As he peered through a polarized, full-length, glass enclosure along the front of the booth that directly overlooked the gallery and stage, David Hudley, Feikal Fassad, and Vincent Wilson, each in turn, proceeded to make their way down along the sloped center-aisle. Howard Crane, the keynote speaker, and Everett Salig, the honored guest, were both already affixed to promontory positions on center-stage.

A couple of rented projectionists entered the booth with a racket to initiate their work of readying spotlights for the soon commencing assemblage; Jake was forced to huddle even tighter into reclusion. Even from a remote vantage point though, he could still catch a glimpse of a beaming Ron Brickle, as he shuffled down the main corridor towards the podium, to the glimmer of repetitive flashes of light. It was to be a very prestigious event in the chronicles of the famed University Hospital and the City of Minneapolis; appropriate local news-photographer and microphone-toters were in place, lining the front and rear aisles.

As the cognizance of those in attendance was summoned and the hospital CEO launched his introductory remarks, Jake slowly and deliberately inched his way along the edge of the shadows in the dim room, progressively working his way towards the door. Finally positioned just inside the portal, he stood sentinel-like, with a university-insignia embroidered, white lab-coat borrowed from the resident's quarters, hanging loosely from his shoulders. Out of habit, he fingered for and philosophized over a missing wooden-crucifix, belonging to his grandfather; since his graduation from medical-school, the treasured relic had invariably been close-at-hand within one or another of his baggy side-pockets.

"Ladies and gentleman.. it is my great pleasure, as president and CEO of the University of Minneapolis Hospitals.. to welcome you to this very special presentation. As I'm sure most of you are aware.. months ago, Expercare USA reached agreement with the Board of Regents of the University to purchase and run our hospital. Today we are poised to hand over the keys!..."

Brickle paused momentarily, expecting applause; curiously, he received only a spattering.

"With over 250 hospitals in its network across the country.. 50 or so of them university-affiliated.. and more than twenty billion dollars in assets.. Expercare is well poised to support the fundamental teaching and vital research activities of our university.. well into the next century. This overpowering fiscal clout will ensure that revolutionary devices.. such as our very own LeVIRA.. which by the way is presently being sold faster than it can be manufactured.. will continue to flow from the minds of the many fine physicians on our staff, and into the hands of practitioners on the front-lines.. working in small, medium, and even large-sized hospitals.. not only in this country.. but around the world...

In just a moment, I'd like to turn the microphone over to the Howard Crane.. president and CEO of Expercare USA..our illustrious keynote-speaker for today.. Before doing so, however.. I'd like to take the opportunity to point out several individuals assembled with us today.. whose work and leadership have been responsible for many of the innovative changes that are taking shape at our institution.. Their ideas certainly will help shape, on a national level, the healthcare delivery-system, well into the next millennium!..."

Squeezing his nostrils securely together with one hand as he cupped the other over his mouth, Jake struggled to resist an intensifying, and nearly irresistible, tickling urge to clear suddenly stuffy sinuses. Fortunately, the duo standing only a few feet away were so pre-occupied with keeping the stoplights properly focused on the oration that a trio of muffled snorts went completely unnoticed.

Brickle sequentially pointed to the noteworthy individuals positioned on the stage.

"Seated next to Mr. Crane is Dr. Everett Salig.. our honored-guest.. Later in the program, he will receive the university's highest award, the Chancellor's Medallion of Excellence. I'm certain his outstanding contributions to the art and practice of medicine will be duly noted during his introduction.. but I'd just like to add my own personal thrill at having perhaps the world's most renowned surgeon with us to day!..."

Brickle exchanged favorable glances with Salig as he continued his address.

"A formal announcement won't be forthcoming until later this month.. but I think I can take this opportunity to let the cat-out-of-the-bag.. Dr. Salig has recently agreed to join our faculty as Professor of Surgery and Dean of the Medical-School."

Jake's precipitant moaning grunt and the creak of a plaster-board and two-by-four wall against the force of his leaning torso were fortunately subsumed in clamorous and even somewhat boisterous acclamation.

Solely in the spotlight, Everett Salig rose from his seated position and responded, overbearingly, to the spontaneous ovation with a genteel grin choreographed beneath a gentlemanly salute.

With his back-side laggardly nearing the ground and his head nearly buried between his encircled arms and flexed knees, Jake desperately fought off a throbbing bradycardia and strangulating breathlessness forced upon him by that unimaginable announcement; it would take him a few moments to regain his feet, as well as his sense of purpose. Meanwhile, a hushed orderliness had been restored to those in attendance as Brickle went on to point out other praiseworthy individuals, also in attendance and on his agenda.

"Seated just to my right is Dr. David J. Hudley.. I know many of you have known David as a fine medical-student, great resident, and superb attending.. during his many years here at the University Hospital.. Last year he was appointed to the tenured teaching-staff in the Section of Neurosurgery.. David will be staying with us in an administrative capacity within theExpercare Corporation.. As I understand it.. plans are for him to oversee medical-staff issues.. credentialing, quality assurance, and the like..."

Hudley exchanged affectionate smiles and head-rocks with Brickle.

"In my view, it says a lot for the character of this remarkable university to not only produce individuals of uncommon quality like Dr. Hudley.. but then to be able, during their most productive years.. to retain them.. I'm quite certain his efforts to forge a fertile marriage between Expercare and this hospital will.. with our assistance.. be tremendously successful!..."

Though still secluded well off to the side, on the fringe of visibility, Jake's eyes had been opened, at long last, to the uncontrolled domination that a select but powerful band of villainous individuals wielded over his profession. Any lingering notion of his that even a speck of that was tolerable for a moment longer threatened the very core of his mental preservation. Purposefully returning to his feet, he was fully prepared to pit his own destiny in support of the prayer of Maiminedenes. Carefully scrutinizing the contents and layout of his present lair as Brickle continued, Jake rehearsed over in his mind for a final time what he had conceived to be a rational game-plan.

"I'd also would like to draw your attention to three other prominent individuals.. whose noteworthy achievements have created the atmosphere that underlies the dynamic metamorphosis at the very core of this merger...

Dr. Feikal Fassad worked tirelessly for over five years.. as head of the Neurosurgery-Section at St. Anthony's Medical Center.. one of Expercare's most successful, managed-care hospitals.. Under Dr. Fassad's guidance, the huge south-side facility, lead the way in the national surge to hold back.. and in some areas significantly reduce.. the costs of getting sick.. while at the same time retaining very good quality-care.. Recently, he rejoined our faculty. As the newly appointed director of our Neurosurgical-Unit, we look forward to the implementation of his insightful methods, to further enhance the efficiency of our quality services!..."

Jake struggled with the acrid taste of bile that had forced it's way into the back of his pharynx, as Brickle brought his remarks to a more palatable finish.

"Seated alongside Dr. Fassad is Dr. Vincent Wilson.. outgoing Chairman and founder of our Neurosurgery-Program.. and I would add a good friend of mine.. Dr. Wilson has steadfastly upheld the traditional values of a teaching-hospital.. honesty, dedication, courage, and hard-work.. the principles upon which our entire profession is based.. He will be assuming a new position next month as Director of the Department of Surgery!..."

Jake's agitated gastric emptying quickly settled down to the gratifying news that his long-time mentor and confidant was receiving at least some of the recognition that he so well deserved.

"Finally, seated on the very end is Dr. George Black.. Dr. Black has kindly joined us today from Washington State..."

Any lingering hesitation in Jake's intestinal fortitude to stand-up to the proceedings faded at that moment, as he was only to happy to welcome the scourge of his life on-board.

"Dr. Black has worked as an ally of the Expercare system since its early days, nearly two decades ago.. serving the neurosurgical needs of several small communities in the Great Northwest. Dr. Black is here today as a special guest of Howard Crane and the Expercare Corporation.. for whom he serves as a member of the Board-of-Directors!..."

With the auditorium dedicated half a decade earlier to the memory of his grandparents still engulfed in polite applause for his intemperate foes, Jake initiated a slick advance from his unseen hiding place, to stand fearlessly erect, only inches behind the projectionists; still and all, they remained totally engrossed in the successive focusing of spotlights on the dignitaries.

"Now, without further delay, I would like to introduce our keynote-speaker.. Howard W. Crane.. President and CEO ofExpercare USA!"

It was Howard's turn to command the bright light.

"My friends!.. I'm very honored to be included with all of these remarkable individuals.. who together personify those current ideals that are at the core of the best healthcare delivery-system available anywhere in the world. With your continued support and ongoing assistance.. it is the goal of Expercare Corporation to continue their fine work.. In fact, it is my hope.. as the 21st century approaches.. that all of us at Expercare will not only be able to continue to support the myriad of basic and clinical R&D activities already under way at this university.. but also be in a position to add additional funding.. for the unfolding of new ideas.. All the while, of course, being certain that affordable, quality health-care is safeguarded.. and readily available.. for future generations of our subscribers!"

Suddenly, Howard ceased his written-out monotone, his place rudely interrupted by a loud bang and rife commotion, arising precipitously from the rear of the auditorium. Simultaneously, a random drifting of the spotlights left the podium in the dark, as the round beams settled fortuitously near the portraits of Dr. Nicholas Gibson and Olive--his wife of over 40years--prominently displayed in memoratum on a side wall.

Having finally detected a notorious outlaw's presence in the booth with them, the stagehands had hastily evacuated their positions in response to a certain crazed and persuasive glance towards the open-door. Following their speedy exit, the doctor-in-hiding had secured the door by locking its latch; he was noisily wrestling and piling several cumbersome pieces of expensive audiovisual equipment up against it.

Seizing the wayward light, the trespasser intentionally refocused the white circle on Howard, who was impatiently mounted on one leg behind the podium. Then, just as the keynote-speaker resumed his discourse, Jake impudently deadened the audio-feed from the podium and flipped the projection-room microphone to live. As vaguely recognizable utterances coarsely faded in and out, against obvious attempts on someone's part to adjust the amplification, the arousing, yet calming sound of an old pal's familiar voice began to echo, strangely, throughout the friendly confines of the hall.

"Esteemed colleagues.. Honorable guests.. My good friends.. I suppose it's a giant understatement for me to say that an awful lot has transpired around here over the last year or so.. Certainly my life has changed in ways it would take more than a few hours to even touch upon..."

By virtue of the rallying effects of even his few initial words, Jake's unique brand of sincerity was an immediate call-to-arms for those in the audience who had worked with him.. To confirm his identity to all in attendance, he hit another toggle-switch to illuminate the interior of the projection-room.

In response from the stage, Howard instinctively shouted, at the top of his lungs, for someone to summon the hospital security-guards. As their sole response, the congregation--nearly in unison--turned to face the uninvited but somehow welcome speaker in back, as a deadened silence consumed all.

"As I look across this room.. at my so-called colleagues on stage.. I detect a look of scorn on their faces.. I suppose many of you in the audience may think of me that way as well!.. Those sordid expressions of disdain say to me that what's happened.. and perhaps not just to me, but to all of us.. Well, it hasn't been at all for the better!..."

Jake paused for a few moments to collect and organize his thoughts.

"The honest-to-God truth is, though.. and I say this with all sincerity, to each and everyone of you here in attendance.. especially to my former chief seated at the podium.. Since I last sat in this room among you, I have become a much improved version of not only a human-being.. but also a professional caregiver.. What has transpired since I last walked among you has truly opened my eyes. For the first time in my entire life, I have come to understand what, for years, was always nagging at me.. somewhere beneath the surface.. just beyond my view..."

Jake's continuance was suddenly interrupted by a tumultuous series of loud bangs and crashes; someone was aggressively hammering out the fragile, single-pane glass in the projection-room door. As abruptly as it began, though, the clamor ceased; Jake had made eye-contact through the shattered window with Jesse Robinson, chief of the Hospital-Security Department, who was trying to force his way through the barricaded doorway. Nearly 10 years prior, Jake had helped a former alcoholic secure a night-watchman's job with the university; as a term of employment, the middle-aged but still very much downtrodden Vietnam vet had agreed to enlist in a community self-help program. The unalterable resolve invariably present in Jesse's face to overcome the very formidable obstacles in his life meant that his staunchest supporter would be permitted, for the time being, to continue his prodigious discourse.

Decidedly returning to his mission, Jake gripped the table-microphone ever more resolutely, as his eyes traveled from one familiar face to another.

"For nearly 15 years, as a dedicated caregiver, I invested everything I had inside to this place.. like most everyone of you seated here today!.. Together, we fought to conquer acute illness and chronic disease.. of all kinds.. Through the application of modern scientific methods.. though sometimes with our undying grit and determination as the sole reliable weapons to fight with.. we waged many valiant battles against sickness and death.. and more often than not, side-by-side, we ended up winning!..."

Jake paused again, to capture his emotions.

"Unfortunately, in the process of investing everything into these endeavors, we totally closed our eyes to the realities of the world around us. We placed our trust in those who control the purse-strings of our profession.. assuming that they possess the fundamental integrity to act ethically on our behalf.. As responsible representatives of our great profession, we took for granted that they would always at least make a sincere effort.. to do the right thing!..."

The spellbinding silence between his phrases, supported by the multitude's wholehearted attentiveness, seemed to deepen with the favorite son's every ponderous word. To lighten his load, Jake paused momentarily and reached forward with a free-hand to slide a glass-partition open, thereby permitting the sentiments of his captive audience to guide his gestures; still and all, not a single soul in attendance, even those under charge up-front, sanctioned a noticeable sound or a movement.

"Being back here, with all of you today.. I comprehend just how much you've all been forced to put up with since I last occupied a seat in this room for one of our monthly staff-conferences.. And I feel totally responsible.. I have become the target of a great many false accusations. I've been hauled into court.. openly ridiculed.. suspended.. later, fired by the university-hierarchy.. black-balled.. and even driven away from my hometown.. shot at and nearly killed.. placed on the ten-most-wanted list.. I could go on and on!.. The point I want to make about all of this is that I could simply stand-up here in front of you and plead my innocence.. I could claim.. and with a very convincing argument I might add.. that I am nothing but an unwary and unfortunate victim... I could easily blame those on stage for what has happened.. But I'm not going to do that..."

A lengthy pause by Jake was the back-drop for a few murmurs coming from the captive audience.

"In my view, they don't bear ultimate responsibility.. No, in a very real way, I hold myself at fault!.. You see, I'm not saying this because I committed the horrific acts arraigned upon me.. No way!.. Not at all!!.. No!.. I hold myself personally accountable, because I was so damned ignorant.. so totally and irrationally blind.. so unbelievably stupid!.. to place my trust in those men!!..."

As he continued to speak, Jake gestured towards the stage.

"What we have in front of us are individuals who have callously sold out their profession.. Ruthless and selfish men, who have steadfastly positioned their own self-interests first.. Repeatedly, they have misled us into believing that they share our compassion and humanitarian code-of-ethics.. when in actual fact their intentions have always been to benefit only themselves!..

You see, I stand before you the biggest fool of all!.. I knowingly and willingly permitted these guys to destroy the very foundation of the profession that I so dearly love!"

Even though his microphone remained mute, Howard tried to strangle it as he screamed a loud-mouthed response into it.

"Ladies and gentlemen!!.. I don't think we need to listen to this freaking maniac any longer!.. Just a few weeks ago, this pitiful individual.. who apparently would like all of us to feel sorry for him.. broke into my home and tried to assault me!.. And let's not forget that he's still wanted by the police for the brutal murder of another of his adversaries.. I would suggest that all of us simply stand up and file out of the auditorium.. in an orderly fashion.. and let the authorities handle this!"

To Howard's utter chagrin, there was no effort within the audience to follow his instructions.

"Listen everyone!.. I'm telling you!!.. This man is a brutal murderer!.. He doesn't deserve the chance to preach to us!.. For my money, there's absolutely nothing he can say that is worth listening to!"

Howard's flagrant mandate again fall on deaf-ears, granting Jake a reprieve to continue.

"I've a lot to say directly to you Howard.. but that will have to wait for another time and another place.. I would, for just a brief moment, though, like to address our honored-guest. I had the opportunity.. much earlier in my career.. to work with Everett Salig.. And over the years, quite naturally, I've followed his illustrious career, quite closely.. As many of you know, his name appears on the cover of enumerable articles and books.. many of them landmark works in the field of surgery. He has been president of nearly every important national and international organization related to the surgical-disciplines.. and has held many positions in local, state, and national medical organizations. In each of his leadership roles, he has taken it upon himself to carry the torch of the medical-profession.. on all of our behalves.. Unfortunately.. his actions have been fueled by an uncanny enthusiasm for a singular purpose.. the bolstering of his own aristocratic wealth and esteem!"

Howard stood impassionate behind his empty seat and alongside Salig as the two exchanged agitated, but impudent expressions at what was transpiring. To highlight his final point, Jake unplugged the large cylinder spotlights and elevated a line of toggle-switches, to restore some of the overhead lightening in the massive room; then, with added emphasis, he continued to relate his story. "I wanted to be a physician ever since I was in gradeschool.. I can vividly remember my6th grade teacher at St. Dominic Savio.. Miss Jacqueline Blue. She inspired each and everyone of her students to 'reach for the stars!'.. including me!.. During one of her science classes, I recall inscribing the term 'NEUROSURGERY'.. in giant letters.. on the front of my loose-leaf binder...

Like many, if not all of you here today, I entered the health-professions for one reason, and for one reason only!.. Because I sincerely care about people!!.. The thing that has made me the happiest in my life has been the opportunity I've been given to help others.. to be able to freely lend a hand to those in need.. to provide whatever assistance necessary to other human-beings, in order for them to overcome life-threatening ailments.. without any expectation of receiving anything in return...

Despite what some on stage would like you to believe.. the only driving-force behind my ambition in medicine has always been something called 'blind compassion!...'"

Jake took another short pause to change the direction of his thoughts.

"Unfortunately, I only took one economics course in my life.. as a freshman in college I recall.. So, as regards the business-world, I'm pretty dumb!.. But even an ignoramus like myself knows that the final product expected of every decision in the world of finance is, first and foremost, a healthy bottom-line. All other considerations ultimately fall secondary to this.. According to fundamental, corporate decision-making.. irregardless of other concerns.. whatever improves the profit-margin falls under the label acceptable.. justifiable.. irreproachable.. appropriate.. honorable.. proper... Well, I believe you get my drift!..."

As he headed towards the key element of his dissertation, Jake glanced around the room, making brief, but impassioned eye-contact with many of his former coworkers.

"Into the very fabric of modern Western civilization are inter-woven the basic principles of capitalism.. So what about the traditional values and ideals that our profession holds dear?.. Where have they disappeared to??.. Well, I think it's pretty obvious that they've been devalued and downgraded.. such that honor and respect have become interchangeable with power and wealth.. with no relationship to noble accomplishments.. and without any rational demarcation!..."

Jake responded to a certain amount of stirring within his audience by increasing the speed of his delivery.

"OK.. How then, might you ask, has it at all been possible for our society to blend the corporate mindset with the fundamental principles of compassion for those in need?.. into some kind of union that's workable and makes sense?.. Clearly the survival of capitalism, as we presently know it, would seem to necessitate the placement of a corporate entity's.. or individual executive's.. interests first.. i.e. a healthy bottom-line takes absolute priority.. While our professional code-of-ethics demands strict adherence to the axiom that the needs of our patients come first.. above all else!..."

Once again, the room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

"I for one, always assumed that our trusted leaders would simply find a way to make it work!.. After all, wasn't that supposed to be their area of special training.. their expertise?!.. But then again, I also believed that they adhered to the same ideals as the rest of us.. that they were honestly striving to find a balance.. an honorable compromise that would protect our interests and keep our fundamental principles beyond reproach.. Along those lines, I imagine everyone in the room is well aware of what transpired within the law profession several decades ago.. Paid advertisements destroyed their integrity!.. Boy-o-boy, are we getting a similar big-time, wake-up call or what!.. Our venerable integrity as professional caregivers is literally being sold out!.. right before our eyes!!!..."

With his audience's attention recaptured, Jake's engines took on new steam.

"My purpose in coming here today is really very simple.. I desperately needed to stand among you.. my friends and colleagues.. to issue a stern warning!.. Each of us must be prepared to blow a really loud whistle!! As sole protectors of our profession, we must wake up before it is too late!.. We must look carefully at what is going on, all around us!.. Until recently, medicine was one of the few remaining professions.. whose fundamental ideals were protected from the dismantling forces of free-enterprise.. but no more!...

It is my view that now, more than ever.. each of us is compelled to share in this critical responsibility.. to preserve and protect the sanctity of our discipline. We must demand from each other.. and from anyone who takes it upon him or herself to partake of those special privileges, so long ago assigned to our vocation.. complete and absolute honesty.. total adherence to time-woven principles.. a resolute spirit of compassion.. and scrupulous devotion to others. We must stop assuming that those who proclaim themselves to be our leaders.. especially those in vital decision-making roles.. are naturally going to rigorously adhere to our reverent axioms!.. Experience has shown us that just like candidates for political-office.. these guys have to be watched!.. and carefully scrutinized!!.. We must keep a close-eye out, every second, to assure ourselves that they don't deviate from our stringent code-of-behavior. Anything short of this will cast our calling.. and all of us.. into an ever-deepening abyss of lost dignity and self-respect..."

Jake's final pause, as he prepared to summate his narration, left those listening in a pensive mood.

"Now, I don't mean to sound overly pessimistic.. but as I walk out of here today, I have the disheartening notion that it may already be too late for us to completely reclaim what was once ours.. In my opinion, current, ignoble attempts at reformation of the health-professions have reached the point that.. to a large measure.. I fear we have already lost control of our ultimate destiny!.. Corporate America has become our boss.. in many cases our dictator!...

So finally.. as I face my accusers.. I do so with a great sense of satisfaction and assurance.. I hope most of you know that, to the best of my ability, I have tried to remain true to the principles of my calling.. and to the sanctity and privilege of being a disciple of Aesculapius... And I want you to know that in the future.. I will never again be afraid.. no matter the consequences.. to act vigorously and uncompromisingly.. upon our common ideals!"

As Broka's area, his super-ego locus, and their connections ceased any further production of words, Jake exchanged supportive looks and heart-warming smiles with a multitude of old friends in attendance; a profound silence in the auditorium seemed to momentarily arrest the passage of time.

After what seemed like a full minute, a tall and skinny male-nurse, dressed all in white and seated towards the back of the auditorium, rose to his white-loafer clad feet and began to slowly clap. Jody Adams had concocted the AIDS-virus through one of the hundreds of blood-transfusions required throughout his life to control his congenitally-inheritedhemophilia. For years, the floor supervisor had been embroiled in one battle after another with those in charge, in order to retain his position at the hospital; throughout it all, Jake had persisted as one of his most staunch supporters.

His gutsy, public display of support was a solitary ovation for only a few seconds, whereupon, in a cascading fashion others began to join in, until virtually the entire room was on its feet in spontaneous, emotive acclaim. Stunned by the audience's unlikely response, Howard Crane hastily stomped back to the podium and attempted to impose order to what he labeled as an irrational uprising. Responding to their uplifting support with a broad grin and thankful salute, Jake returned the spotlights and microphone to Howard, released the armored-door, and voluntarily surrendered himself to the waiting, uniformed-officers.

The wanted criminal was immediately frisked, handcuffed, and taken away. Still, the twitching of those familiar dimples as they retracted his youthful cheeks spelled vindication to all who observed his obliged custody and forced withdrawal.

Jake was hustled into the locked rear-seat of a well-delineated, city police-cruiser. Through an unusual aura of expectation in the blistery winter air, he was scurried off to a crowded municipal jail, where he was stripped of his possessions, finger-printed, photographed, and incarcerated. For several hours, he was interrogated in a demanding and threatening fashion, by a group of burly detectives in a smoke-filled room, regarding the series of events surrounding Mitch Massitor's homicide, and the illegal break-in and subsequent shooting at Howard Crane's mansion. Through the duration of the lengthy and oft-heated proceedings, Jake repeatedly declined legal-representation, and cooperated fully with each and every request for information, including the administration of a sweeping polygraph test.

That first long, seemingly unending night of imprisonment presented a soul-searching dichotomy to Jake's emotional constitution. As he lay awake on a creaky and foul smelling cot in the corner of a dark, damp, and desolate cell, and stared at the cold-steel restraints denying his freedom, he was greatly saddened by the magnitude of his personal loss. With the tedious passing of nearly every yuletide minute, a redoubtable uncertainty about the future sapped at the very core of his psyche, like an undiagnosed cancer steadily disseminating itself into a body's vital-forces.

On the other hand, as he eventually fell into a deep sleep, a profound peace, attributable to his forceful upholding of convictions, settled upon his temperament--a heavily underlined sense of contentment and fulfillment that somehow soothed the unrest of his human intellect. He had uncovered a true and lasting peace within his idealistic perception of human-nature, despite its present day incapability of full expression.

To no one's surprise, early the next morning Jake was arraigned by a grand-jury on a charge of first-degree murder. Against his objections, a court-appointed attorney was assigned to oversee his legal-representation; due to the sensationalistic circumstances of the crime, bail was denied the fugitive by the municipal judge in charge.

Later that same afternoon, the confined criminal was permitted a surprise visitor; for a brief moment, Jake imagined it might be Jeanne. As he entered a partitioned and heavily-guarded visitors-area, he was more than a bit amazed, but nonetheless openly gratified, to find Mitch Massitor's daughter, Shannon, seated alone in a cubicle and waiting to talk with him.

As he slowly approached his designated chair--in full chain restraints--and peered through several layers of re-enforced glass at his unexpected visitor, Jake reasoned that despite her less than affable business-like expression, she'd come for reasons other than a personal expression of her family's disdain for him, or a spiteful augmentation of his present legal woes. As the inmate clumsily positioned a battle-worn mahogany chair and an unctuous earphone properly into place, his visitor attempted to soften her stern, iconoclastic glare, with a reduction in the number of wrinkles around her eyes. Then, without revealing her hand, she reached inside a black-leather briefcase lying on the counter in front of her, and passed a tightly folded newspaper through a narrow portal in the glass enclosure.

"Dr. Gibson.. can you believe this headline?"

As he unfolded the familiar, hometown newspaper, Jake was somewhat puzzled at her bewilderment over the bold headlines.

"Local Surgeon Arrested in Bloody Trail of Death."

Taking a moment to peruse the remainder of the front-page, he was, however, a bit unnerved by the amount of coverage the story had received; all of the front-page columns, without exception, were devoted to his predicament.

"You're really quite a celebrity, Dr. Gibson.. Every TV station in the midwest has been calling for an interview about dad's death.. Did you happen to catch Everett Salig late last night on Nightline?.. He explained.. as only he could.. how a rebellious, rambunctious, and reprehensible young physician.. in the prime of his life.. brutally murdered an archenemy attorney.. who had successfully litigated against him for prior unconscionable medical practices!"

Jake grinned widely as he shook his head at that never-ending scenario.

"No.. Things were pretty quiet in my cell-block last night!"

Shannon only briefly returned his smile as clearly she had more on her agenda.

"Your buddy Howard Crane was also on one of the TV shows last night. I believe it was Jay Leno.. He analyzed your actions as a contumacious attempt by physicians in general.. to send a message to the healthcare-industry and its hierarchy.. that rank-and-file physicians are fed up with the bureaucracy being unfairly imposed upon them.. His underlying message was, of course, that what the medical-profession really needs is more attorneys.. more administrators.. and in general, a more extensive bureaucracy.. to safeguard the general populace from maniacal physicians like yourself!"

For a few brief moments, Jake's thoughts returned to his parents and family, as he deeply regretted the public-eye position that had been so rudely thrust upon all of them. Once again, he questioned his own resolve to see the dilemma through, in light of the probable deleterious effects on those closest to him. Before too long, his pondering was interrupted by more of Shannon's rambling discourse.

"Both Salig and Crane came to my office this morning and asked me to handle a case for them.. It seems they want to initiate a libel-suit against you for defamation of character..."

Jake exchanged an inherently guilty stare with the newest full-partner in the Massitor law-firm.

"I must say.. by your blatant, public outburst yesterday.. they've got quite a case!..."

Jake's decisive eye movements, from his visitor's beam to his hands--guardedly folded on the wooden counter in front of him--and back again, hinted to her that his intuition was strongly suggesting that a slander case was not the true motive for her visit.

"I told them, however, I would not take the case!"

Shannon Massitor once again reached into her compartmentalized satchel; she retrieved several manila folders. Jake's attentiveness to each syllable on her lips heightened as he realized that his visitor was suddenly battling to force back tears, with pursed lips and deep but quivering breathes.

"I imagine you probably didn't think very much of my dad before he died.. but he really was a good man. I remember one time, as a little girl, I got to go into court with him and watch him in action. He was very good at what he did, you know!.. I'll bet you didn't realize that as a young attorney, he started his career in the public-defender's office?..."

Poised and focused on every movement of her eyes and mouth, Jake shook his head ever so slightly, as he continued to passively listen.

"You also probably didn't know that he was married once before.. Her name was Suzanna.. They were childhood sweethearts.. For many years, dad carried a picture of her in his billfold..."

She slid through the glass a crumbled, very much discolored, polarized snapshot of a very attractive, innocently smiling, young maiden, wearing a pink ribbon in her long, blonde hair. As he goggled at the picture, Jake was immediately taken back by how much the pretty woman in the photo resembled K.J., his own first love.

"She was my real mother. She died the night I was born.. It's weird, but until just a few days ago, I never knew what really happened. I found this when I was going through my father's files. I don't think he ever told anyone!"

Shannon carefully passed a series of time-worn sections of newsprint to Jake. He slowly unraveled each of the crumbled, discolored articles and carefully read them.

One was an obituary detailing the death of Suzanna Elizabeth Massitor, nee Rosington, who died on Valentines Day, 1970; the other clippings detailed the unimaginable events surrounding her death. As Jake earnestly surveyed the detailed information, he occasionally looked up at his visitor, while regrettably and agonizingly rubbing his forehead.

The young, barely 21-year-old, Mrs. Massitor had died from complications surrounding childbirth. Apparently her labor and delivery had gone without difficulty, with the birth around noon-time of an 8 pound-6 ounce, perfectly healthy, beautiful baby-girl; that night, however, some 10-hours later, she had begun to hemorrhage. Her physician was quickly contacted; his response suggested to the nurse-in-charge that some degree of bleeding was not an unusual occurrence after a routine delivery, and it was nothing to be concerned about.

Throughout the night, though, her blood loss had continued to progressively increase, to the point that by early morning she was literally lying in the middle of a pool of fresh blood. On at least four other occasions throughout the night, the same physician had been contacted, twice by the nursing-supervisor herself; each time he had merely responded, once rather irately, that "there was absolutely nothing to worry about."

At 6 a.m., the new mother suddenly went into hypovolemic shock from acute blood loss, suffered a cardiac arrest, and died. Jake tried to imagine the painful notions that must have gone through her husband's mind when he was informed of what had happened by phone that morning, especially when he had left his must-prized possession safe-and-sound in professional hands the night before.

Another series of articles chronicled how the responsible physician was later found to have been previously involved in a large number of other, very similar deaths, and how the hospital had, incredulously, tried to cover-up those previous tragic errors, in order to allow him to retain his credentials--as he was a valued, very frequent admitter of patients to the hospital. A young public-defender had uncovered most of that damaging information, and subsequently initiated criminal charges against both the obstetrician and the hospital, eventually leading to the physician's loss of his medical-license, and the hospital's loss of its federal and state-certification.

"Shortly after she died, he gave up his job as a public-defender. He figured that if the general public couldn't have absolute trust and confidence in its doctors and hospitals, then maybe somebody had better keep a watch on what was going on.. He started his own law-practice.. which in just a few years grew to become the most prestigious medical-malpractice firm in the entire state!"

Jake glanced up from his confounded reading, knowing all to well the rest of the story; although, after-the-fact, he was a bit ashamed at the inaccuracy of a few prior perceptions. Meticulously, he refolded the dated clippings and returned them to his visitor, as he searched the corners of his heart for properly descriptive words that would frankly describe his newfound feelings.

"I wish I could have gotten to know your father better than I did.. From the place I used to sit, he was an adversary who appeared intent on tearing apart doctors and hospitals.. just for money. I'm sorry to say.. it appears I was mistaken about him!"

"There's no way you or anyone else could have known. I'm his daughter, and even I didn't know the whole story until just a few days ago!"

"I realize that.. but I pride myself on always making a sincere effort to give a person the benefit of the doubt. Obviously, your father was a man of principle.. something I completely overlooked.. You know.. just before he was killed.. we sat down over a cup of hot chocolate. He had called to invite me to meet him. He said he had important information for me. I think that may have gotten him killed. I hope you understand that I certainly didn't..."

"I know you didn't shoot my dad, Dr. Gibson. I would never believe that!.. You're the one who saved his life from the ruptured aneurysm. It doesn't make any sense!.. Why would you gun him down in the middle of a public-mall?.. in full view of plenty of eye-witnesses?.. I've been trying to figure this whole thing out ever since he died.. but it wasn't until recently.. after I got a couple of clues in the mail.. that I was finally able to begin to put it all together..."

Sneaking a peek at the nature of Jake's response to her comment, Shannon held in her hand two, folded, white-envelopes, each addressed in blue-ink, by the same hand. Without needing to seek additional information, Jake knew immediately that his clever confidant was on her way towards putting the whole, blasted scheme together.

"I don't know what prior arrangements you've made.. but I'd like to offer my services as your attorney!"

As her courting words reached the level of cortical awareness, Jake's feelings of self-assurance couldn't have been any more momentarily uplifted. Intertwining his fingers with his arms and hands extended, he permitted only a slight smirk to slacken his palpebral fissures, as an indication that the pandemonium swirling around inside had abruptly lost much of its jittery control.

At that point, without warning, Jake was summoned by a contentious guard to return posthaste to his confinement; his designated visiting-period had come to an end. As he bid thanks and farewell to his visitor, he inscribed for her, on a loose piece of scratch-paper, Midge's vital information and his in-laws' unlisted telephone-number.

After speaking briefly with Midge Stone on the phone that evening, Shannon Massitor took off first thing the next morning for Mascoutah, in a recently purchased, Swedish import. Though a severe winter-storm had been forecast for the upper Midwest, the inclement weather held off until after her arrival.

Hitting it off from the start, Shannon and Midge spent the better part of that day going through the succession of pertinent facts. Jake's new attorney needed to quickly find out all she could about the lengthy list of involved characters, and Midge was the perfect informant to supply detailed personality profiles.

"Tell me a little more about this Dr. Hudley."

"David Hudley's a moron!.. He really never should have been allowed to finish his training.. Not only is he technically poor in the operating-room.. but he's got an absolutely terrible attitude!.. He could really care less about patients. Everything to him is nothing but a big bother.. or at least that's the way it was until your

Human Brain Infinite Crossings

The Human Brain is Unique in ALL the Universe

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Death of a Healer

Chapter 1

Death of a Hsaler

Chapter 2

Death of a Healer

Chapter 3

Death of a Healer

Chapter 4

Death of a Healer

Chapter 5

Death of a Healer

Chapter 6

Death of a Healer

Chapter 7

Death of a Healer

Chapter 8

Death of a Healer

Chapter 9

Death of a Healer

Chapter 10

Death of a Healer

Chapter 11

Death of a Healer

Chapter 12

Death of a Healer

Chapter 13

Death of a Healer

Chapter 14

Death of a Healer

Chapter 15

Human Brain Infinite Crossings

The Human Brain is Unique in ALL the Universe

DISCLAIMER

Definitions

Images of the Human Brain

PDF Viewer

Death of a Healer

Chapter 1

Death of a Hsaler

Chapter 2

Death of a Healer

Chapter 3

Death of a Healer

Chapter 4

Death of a Healer

Chapter 5

Death of a Healer

Chapter 6

Death of a Healer

Chapter 7

Death of a Healer

Chapter 8

Death of a Healer

Chapter 9

Death of a Healer

Chapter 10

Death of a Healer

Chapter 11

Death of a Healer

Chapter 12

Death of a Healer

Chapter 13

Death of a Healer

Chapter 14

Death of a Healer

Chapter 15

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