The Last Surgeon

CHAPTER 43

Jillian suggested they use the time before Nick’s EMDR therapy session to grab a drink and something to eat and plan their next steps. They settled on Kilkenny’s Irish Pub in the Adams Morgan section of D.C., arriving there just after noon. The cozy tavern, paneled in dark barn siding, was crowded with businesspeople enjoying a Guinness with their lunch, along with those Nick pegged as regulars, some of whom sat at the bar watching an international soccer match on TV, while others were engaged in an animated game of darts. The jukebox was off and traditional Irish music, piped through an impressive sound system, provided a pleasant background.

Relaxed.

Simple.

Life.

They sat down beside each other at the end of the bar, where two of the dozen worn and scratched wooden stools were empty. Passing on the lunch menu offered by the bartender, Nick ordered a Glenlivet neat and Jillian an Amstel Light in the bottle. Their lives at that moment were as far removed from those of the folks in the homey pub as the Earth was from Mars.

Nick took a sip of the single malt scotch whisky from a reasonably clean tumbler, letting it linger in his mouth until the taste demanded that he swallow. Then he stared numbly ahead at the liquor bottles, housed inside cubbies built into the wall behind the bar. Jillian touched his hand and he turned slowly to meet her gaze.

“A bar snack for your thoughts,” she said, smiling as she nudged over a black plastic dish filled with pretzels.

Nick took one, but offered only a thin smile in return.

“What do you think these people would say if they knew the depravity of what we’re confronting?” he asked finally.

“If they believed us, and that’s a big if, they’d probably say something like, ‘As long as it doesn’t affect me directly, and I can go on tossing my darts and drinking my stout, do whatever it is you need to do.’ ”

“We’ve come so far from when we first met, Jill, and yet I feel so incredibly helpless. You know, Pendleton thought we were crazy.”

“I know. He seems like a good guy, though.”

“Yup. Maybe we’ll hear from Reese before something happens to him.”

“Do you want to try the Mole again? Maybe he’s come up with something on the resident or medical student.”

“Nah, he said he was going to stick around with Noreen at her place and keep looking. He’ll call if he comes up with anything.”

“I know what you mean about feeling helpless. What did Junie say when you told her?”

“She was stunned, naturally. I don’t think it’s hit her yet that Umberto is dead and that somebody killed him in such a horrid, self-serving way.”

“Has it hit you?”

The question pulled Nick’s head down until his eyes met the gritty floor. He looked up long enough to take a hard swallow of his drink, which he downed in a single gulp. Then he closed his eyes tightly, clenching his fists against the burn of the alcohol spilling down his throat, and against the evil.

“None of this is your fault,” Jillian said softly.

“Believe it or not, I’ve come to grips with that. What I’m angry at now is my own rage. I was put together to care for people, regardless of who they were or what they might have done in their lives. Now I want to kill someone. Maybe anyone. I really do.”

“Which would you take at this moment, your rage or the total lack of feeling you’ve had for so long? It’s all changing for you, Nick.”

“Maybe. Maybe you’re right.”

“I’m going to tell you something that scares the bejesus out of me.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I think you may be the most amazing man I’ve ever met. Somebody I’m really capable of falling for. Someone I think I would have fallen for in a heartbeat before… before what happened to you in Afghanistan. But I want the next time I fall in love with a man to be the last. I don’t need you to have arrived at the person-at the doctor-you’re capable of being. I just need to know you’re committed to making the journey. You can’t go on hiding your emptiness behind your charm. A doctor loses a patient. Do they quit being a doctor?”

“I’m going with no.”

“Damn straight. Even if they believe it was their fault. Sick patients force doctors-and nurses-into having to make decisions. If we had more time, less pressure on us to act, the choices we made might have been Different. Continuing to help others with our talent and skill is actually honoring the memory of the patient who died. I don’t blame myself for Belle’s death. I blame the person who killed her. Same way as losing Sarah and Umberto isn’t on you, Nick. It’s on the people who killed them. We can’t bring them back, but we can still do more for them.”

Nick looked up at the dark rafters. “Here’s the thing with PTSD,” he said. “Some people think it’s in your head and that you can just snap your fingers or crank up your willpower and come out of it, or like MacCandliss keeps insisting, that it’s all manufactured for some secondary gain. But that’s not the case at all. It’s a chemical change where the thinking takes place, like an internal depression, or a cancer eating away at you. Much as you want to just shake the symptoms off, sometimes they won’t let go. So you end up walking around in circles, holding yourself hostage to the places and people where you feel most comfortable and safe, because the alternative means facing an unknown. I used to love the unknown. I was a pure adrenaline junkie. Rock climbing, skiing, you name it. But after watching Sarah get hacked apart by that truck moments before Umberto saved my life under that refrigerator, lying there, covered with broken bags of blood, that rush lost its appeal. I retreated into what was safest for me.”

“I know you’re hurting, Nick…”

Nick held up a hand, cutting her short. The scotch was settling in, doing what he wanted it to.

“No, let me finish,” he said. “Since losing Sarah, I know I’ve been a walking shell. But then you came along. And now, each day your strength is becoming my strength. You just have to be patient with me, Jill, and believe that I really do want to become the man-the doc-I once was. This struggle is a war, not a battle, but I feel the tide turning, and more important, I feel I want to work at it.”

“And I’ll help you as best as I can. I swear I will.”

Nick swung his legs around to face her.

“It makes all the difference,” he said, no longer able to keep his lips from hers.

As they were kissing, the bar erupted in a huge cheer. They quickly pulled away from one another, thinking for an embarrassed moment that the applause and shouts were for them.

“Back to your smoochin’,” the totally amused bartender said, pointing up at the TV. “Chelsea just scored the tying goal against Manchester United.”

“Maybe I’ll skip therapy,” Nick whispered in her ear.

“Maybe you won’t. We have time, baby. Step by step, we have time.”

“Let’s plan on meeting up with Saul, either at the hospital or at Noreen’s place, after my session. If I haven’t heard from Reese by then, we might have to find somebody else. I’m sure Junie knows who we can contact. She’s connected with everyone.”

“But you said yourself, we don’t know who we can trust or how deep this whole thing goes.”

“That’ll be a chance we have to take.”

Just then, Jillian’s cell phone rang. Nick perked up, thinking it might be Reese, but she let him know she did not recognize the caller ID. Her expression brightened, though, as soon as she answered. Over the din of the pub, Nick picked up only fragments of her brief conversation.

“Hi there, I’m so glad to hear from you… You do? Oh, my God, that’s fascinating. As I told you, I’ve been suspicious of the timing from the get-go… No, it’s not a problem. This is a good time… Sure, I can… Where?… Yeah, I know the place. I’ll meet you in an hour… Okay. See you there.” She set the phone down and turned to Nick. “Talk about things coming together.”

“What was that all about?”

“That was my condo’s insurance company. Now they’re thinking the fire was arson. Apparently, they actually have information about who might have set it. He wants to meet with me in an hour and go over their findings.”

“Is this the same fire inspector you told me about?”

“Exactly,” Jillian said. “His name’s Regis, Paul Regis.”