Callie’s Last Dance

46.

“I KNOW SHE’S paralyzed,” I say. “She already told me. But it’s a temporary condition, right? I’ve heard of this before. Temporary paralysis, caused by acute swelling. The swelling’s impinging the spinal cord, or a nerve or something. When the swelling goes down, she’ll regain full use of her legs, correct?”

The doctors look at each other. Dr. P. shakes his head and says, “I admire you, Donovan, always have. But you need to leave the doctoring to us. Because nothing you just said makes any sense. Nor does it accurately describe Callie’s condition.”

Dr. Barnard says, “Actually, one thing you said has merit. There is a single bullet fragment that somehow, miraculously, made its way between the spinal cord and the anterior spinal artery without severing either. Unfortunately, it’s this tiny fragment that’s causing Callie’s paralysis.”

“Can’t a surgeon remove it?”

“The short answer is no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a high-risk surgery.”

“Why?”

“The fragment shows up as a speck on the MRI, which means there are probably numerous other fragments in the vicinity even smaller. This goes beyond microsurgery. There’s a high chance a surgical procedure would do more harm than good.”

“Why?”

“The surgeon could nick her spinal artery, or the spinal cord. One could kill her, the other could make her a paraplegic.”

“But say the fragments could be removed. Would she be able to walk again?”

Dr. Barnard says, “That’s the crazy thing. If the fragments could be removed, she’d almost certainly regain full use of her legs.”

“She’d be as good as new?”

“After a sufficient recovery period.”

“Years?”

“Weeks.”

“Well, that’s fantastic! Why the long faces? Why aren’t we celebrating?”

Dr. P. says, “Because only a handful of surgeons in the entire world are qualified to perform this type of surgery, and none of them would dare attempt it.”

“Why not?”

“As Dr. Barnard said, the risk of damage is too great. Callie’s extremely lucky to be alive. Even luckier not to be a paraplegic.”

“She’s a virtual paraplegic now.”

Dr. Barnard says, “Not true. Her actual diagnosis is paraparesis, a condition in which she has partial paralysis. Over the next few days she’ll have increased, but limited use of her legs. While she’ll never be able to walk again, she’ll have some feeling in her legs. With extensive physical therapy, she could eventually hope to move them on her own, in a swimming pool.”

“In a swimming pool?”

“It’s not as grim as it sounds.”

“Really? Because it sounds pretty grim to me! How many swimming terrorists do you know?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who’s she going to be able to kill, a water aerobics instructor?”

Dr. Barnard appears uncomfortable with the direction the conversation has taken.

He says, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“We need to find a surgeon who’ll give it a try. Callie will take the chance. I guarantee she’ll sign off on it.”

The doctors look at each other.

Dr. P. says, “Donovan. The doctors won’t do it because they’re almost certain to worsen her condition. Their insurance carriers would never agree to the surgery, and no hospital would allow it to be performed for the same reason.”

As he says this he gives me a wink. To Dr. Barnard it means nothing. An involuntary reflex, a facial tick. But to me it speaks volumes. Dr. P. held the same position at Sensory Resources that I’ve just agreed to take, but just as I’m also a free-lance hit man for the mob, Darwin had another job. He was Chief of Surgery at Sensory Resources. Our private hospital is full-service, with more high-tech equipment than any hospital in the country. Sensory is where spies go to get new faces. It’s where I got mine, and where Dr. P. once supervised the implanting of a micro chip in my brain. It’s also where presidents go to get checked out when they don’t want the rest of the world to know what’s wrong with them. If their medical issue turns out to be something minor, we ship them from Sensory to Walter Reed, and inform the public. We haven’t had a life-or-death presidential situation yet, but if we did, the president would have the procedure done at Sensory Resources, and we’d keep his condition a secret from the media.

I thank Dr. Barnard for his time and ask, “When can I see her?”

“Let’s give them twenty minutes to get her settled.”

I nod.

“She’ll be a bit groggy,” he says.

“I like her groggy!” I say with more enthusiasm than Dr. Barnard expected.

He gives me an odd look, then leaves.

I’m excited at the possibilities, and quite pleased with myself for not killing Dr. P. when I learned he turned my daughter into a contract killer last year. I’d tell you more, but that’s a whole other story.

“You’ll do the surgery?” I say.

“Lower your voice,” he whispers. “Here’s the thing. We need to get Callie to Sensory Resources as soon as possible.”

“Fine. We’ll sign her out.”

“These are civilians, Donovan. It doesn’t work like that. They won’t release her in her current condition.”

“If her condition’s that fragile, maybe she should stay here a few days.”

“She can’t. The longer we delay the surgery, the less likely it will be successful.”

“Why?”

“A thousand reasons.”

“Give me one I can understand.”

“As the area around the bullet fragments heals, scar tissue forms. Then-”

I wave him off. “Never mind. We’re wasting time. If I can kidnap her, get her to Sensory tonight, you’ll do the surgery?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“This goes way beyond my training.”

“You’re the greatest plastic surgeon in the world.”

“Thanks. The world happens to agree with you. But this is sub-dermal. Inside the body. You need a specialist.”

He sees I don’t get it yet and says, “I happen to know the world’s greatest hand surgeon lives thirty minutes from this very hospital. But if you needed open-heart surgery, would you want her working on you? I hope not, because she wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to start.”

“Then what’s your plan?”

He looks around before answering. As if what he’s about to say might get him into worse trouble than suggesting I kidnap Callie. He says, “You won’t need to kidnap Callie. You’re the director of Sensory Resources. You have unlimited power.”

“We’re a clandestine agency. No one even knows we exist.”

He smiles. “Your power comes from those who gave you the job. I’ll teach you how to tap into their power to get any political door in the world opened, or any investigation closed. One well-placed phone call, Callie’s on MedEvac to Virginia.”

“Can I use that power to force a surgeon to do the operation?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the plan?”

“We need to get the best type of surgeon for the job.”

“What type would that be?”

“After reviewing Callie’s MRI films, I’m convinced we need a congenital/cardiothoracic surgeon. One who specializes in pediatric surgery.”

“Pediatric? You mean a children’s surgeon?”

“Preferably.”

“Why?”

“They’re uniquely qualified to deal with microsurgery.”

“Are these guys hard to find?”

“The best in any field is always easy to find.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“We fly to New York, meet this guy, try to talk him into doing the surgery.”

“And if he refuses?”

“You’ll kidnap him and take him to Sensory. And this must be done quickly.”

“Can I see Callie first?”

“Yes, but we’re on a timetable here, Donovan. I can’t stress that enough.”

“Got it.”

I call the geeks, update them on Callie’s condition, ask them to arrange a jet copter to land on the roof of the hospital.

“No problem,” Curly says. “Assuming you’re talking about the remote control toy.”

“What toy?”

“Jet copters aren’t real, Mr. Creed. Did you mean a jet helicopter?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“What’s your destination?”

“New York City.”

“Bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Average cruising speed, a hundred miles per hour. Two stops for fuel, you’re looking at a ten-hour trip.”

“How about a limo and a Lear Jet?”

“Three hours.”

“Make it happen.”

I click the phone off and say, “It’s arranged.”

He nods.

I say, “This guy we’re meeting in New York City. He’s the best?”

“Unquestionably. He’s also the greatest pediatric heart surgeon in the world.”

“You know him?”

“By reputation only.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dr. Gideon Box.”