The Surgeon by Tess Gerritsen Read Free Book Online Page A

summertime.
"As long as this heat holds up," said Erin, "he probably
blends right in with everyone else."
"It's only July," said Rizzoli.
Moore nodded. "His hunting season's just begun."
     * * *
John Doe now had a name. The E.R. nurses had found an ID
tag attached to his key ring. He was Herman Gwadowski, and
he was sixty-nine years old.
Catherine stood in her patient's SICU cubicle, methodically
surveying the monitors and equipment arrayed around his
bed. A normal EKG rhythm blipped across the oscilloscope.
The arterial waves spiked at 110/70, and the readings from
his central venous pressure line rose and fell like swells on a
windblown sea. Judging by the numbers, Mr. Gwadowski's
operation was a success.
But he's not waking up, thought Catherine as she flashed
her penlight into the left pupil, then the right. Nearly eight hours
after surgery, he remained in a deep coma.
She straightened and watched his chest rise and fall with
the cycling of the ventilator. She had stopped him from
bleeding to death. But what had she really saved? A body with
a beating heart and no functioning brain.
She heard tapping on the glass. Through the cubicle
window she saw her surgical partner, Dr. Peter Falco, waving
to her, a concerned expression on his usually cheerful face.
Some surgeons are known to throw temper tantrums in the
O.R. Some sweep arrogantly into the operating suite and don
their surgical gowns the way one dons royal robes. Some are
coldly efficient technicians for whom patients are merely a
bundle of mechanical parts in need of repair.
And then there was Peter. Funny, exuberant Peter, who
sang earsplittingly off-key Elvis songs in the O.R., who
organized paper airplane contests in the office and happily
got down on his hands and knees to play Legos with his
pediatric patients. She was accustomed to seeing a smile on
Peter's face. When she saw him frowning at her through the
window, she immediately stepped out of her patient's cubicle.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Just finishing rounds."
Peter eyed the tubes and machinery bristling around Mr.
Gwadowski's bed. "I heard you made a great save. A twelve-
unit bleeder."
"I don't know if you'd call it a save." Her gaze returned to her
patient. "Everything works but the gray matter."
They said nothing for a moment, both of them watching Mr.
Gwadowski's chest rise and fall.
"Helen told me two policemen came by to see you today,"
said Peter. "What's going on?"
"It wasn't important."
"Forgot to pay those parking tickets?"
She forced a laugh. "Right, and I'm counting on you to bail
me out."
They left the SICU and walked into the hallway, lanky Peter
striding beside her in that easy lope of his. As they rode the
elevator, he asked:
"You okay, Catherine?"
"Why? Don't I look okay?"
"Honestly?" He studied her face, his blue eyes so direct she
felt invaded. "You look like you need a glass of wine and a
nice dinner out. How about joining me?"
"A tempting invitation."
"But?"
"But I think I'll stay in for the night."
Peter clutched his chest, as though mortally wounded. "Shot
down again! Tell me, is there any line that works on you?"
She smiled. "That's for you to find out."
"How about this one? A little bird told me it's your birthday
on Saturday. Let me take you up in my plane."
"Can't. I'm on call that day."
"You can switch with Ames. I'll talk to him."
"Oh, Peter. You know I don't like to fly."
"Don't tell me you have phobias about flying?"
"I'm just not good at relinquishing control."
He nodded gravely. "Classic surgical personality."
"That's a nice way of saying I'm uptight."
"So it's a no-go on the flying date? I can't change your
mind?"
"I don't think so."
He sighed. "Well, that's it for my lines. I've gone through my
entire repertoire."
"I know. You're starting to recycle them."
"That's what Helen says, too."
She shot him a look of surprise. "Helen's giving you tips on
how to ask me out?"
"She said she couldn't stand the pathetic spectacle of