Trauma by Daniel Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

don’t know that for certain now. His tumor may be aggressive, and if so, his prognosis wouldn’t be very good. Maybe a few years with radiation and chemotherapy. But just maybe, this could have been an abscess and potentially curable. The MRI isn’t definitive. It can’t distinguish between an abscess and a tumor. But we can’t operate on the other side until we know what damage we caused by this error.”
    â€œSo was Mr. Dixon going to be compromised regardless?” Olyfson asked.
    â€œThe tumor might be less aggressive and potentially more amenable to adjunctive treatments than usual,” Metcalf said. “One never really knows. Mr. Dixon was losing control of his speech. Now we’ve only added to his deficits. He may never speak another word. He may lose all his memory function. His behavior is likely to be very different. Hell, he could lose functional control of his sphincters for all we know. Bottom line is he will now be functionally dependent for the rest of his life, however long that’s going to be. Considerably shorter, I suspect. We can do a simple biopsy of his tumor at some point, but because of the damage we’ve done, aggressive care won’t be of any benefit.”
    Carla Mason and Emily Forrester took copious notes, but Carrie looked only at her lap. She was finished. She sat silent, holding herself together by remaining as still as possible. But she couldn’t stop the tears, which cascaded down her cheeks, dripping into her lap. Once again, Julie put an arm around Carrie to comfort her.
    â€œIt’s going to be okay, sweetie,” Julie whispered. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”
    â€œCarrie, anything else you want to add?” Knox asked.
    â€œJust that I’m tendering my resignation,” Carrie said. “Effective immediately.”

 
    CHAPTER 7
    The First National Bank of Philadelphia occupied the lower level of a five-story brick building on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Sutcliff. Abington picked it because he was standing near it when inspiration struck.
    As he expected, he drew suspicious looks from his first step inside. With his flyaway straw-colored hair, haggard face, baggy eyes, and mountain man–style beard, Abington made Nick Nolte’s mug shot look like a high school yearbook picture.
    Four customers were inside the bank when Abington entered, and none made direct eye contact with him as he crossed the marble floor to the teller windows. Though the bank was not crowded, Abington still had to wait in line, which made him edgy. He was especially mindful of the man to his right, filling out a deposit slip. That guy seemed to not notice Abington at all, which was unusual. Could this guy’s obliviousness be an act? Abington’s gut told him it was a cop, either undercover or off duty.
    The brunette behind teller window number five motioned Abington forward. For a moment he contemplated walking out. He felt naked without a hat or sunglasses, and the security cameras had already gotten a clear shot of his face. Oh, what the hell. He was here. She wouldn’t know the gun in his back pocket wasn’t loaded. She’d give him the money.
    As Abington approached, the brunette recoiled subtly, her brow creasing and the corners of her mouth turning downward. She maintained an air of professionalism, but her demeanor had turned hard-bitten and judgmental.
    â€œCan I help you?” she asked in a tone that implied otherwise. Be it a handout, food, booze—whatever it was, she was not there to assist.
    â€œI would like some money.” Abington was surprised at the shakiness of his voice. He had meant to sound forceful, but instead spoke in a raspy near whisper.
    The teller rolled her eyes and Abington took a moment to look over his shoulder at the man filling out the deposit slip. How many checks is that guy cashing? He had to be a cop.
    Walk away … head out that door and just