Under the Knife(100)

Whenever you’re around, I can’t hear him.

I can’t hear him, Spencer!

“Did anything else happen when you were in the OR?” Raj asked.

“Well … the robot shut down, when I got close. I had to turn off my EEG before it would turn back on.”

“Is the robot wireless?”

“I think so.”

“I bet the EEG blocked the robot’s wireless signal, too.”

Spencer thought of the way his car radio had cut out when he’d put on his EEG patch on the drive to work this morning. He nodded. “So, let me see if I understand what you’re saying: some weird electromagnetic signal is coming from Rita, which is interfering with our EEG.”

“Correct.”

“We don’t know what the signal is, but it may or may not be linked to millions of protein-sized things in her brain.”

“Correct.”

“And the EEG patches are blocking this signal. Canceling it out, like with the surgical robot, or my car radio.”

“Yes.” Raj cocked his head. “So … what do you think?”

Spencer’s palms were slick with sweat. He felt like he was going to throw up, his triumph over being proven right about Rita—

(I knew something was up!)

—trumped by dread.

What the hell is going on?

“I think I need to go back to Turner, Raj.”

Right now.





RITA


Rita had waited until after the night nurse had taken her midnight vitals.

She’d pretended to be asleep when the nurse arrived. The nurse was young and surly, and Rita didn’t know her. She’d announced her arrival with a shrill hello and a blast of overhead fluorescents that suggested passive hostility. Did she know who Rita was? Did she know what had transpired that morning down in the OR? Did she suspect her of being a coke-addled drunk?

Probably not. The nurses on night shift were often young (i.e., lack of seniority meant they had no choice but to work unpopular hours) and surly (i.e., pissed off about it). Temperature. Pulse. Respirations. Blood pressure. Tasks performed with minimal personal interaction.

Nurse Surly entered Rita’s vitals into the room’s computer, grunted good night, turned off the lights, and shut the door, leaving Rita alone in the computer-screen-illuminated semidarkness.

Rita disengaged herself from the bag of IV fluid, pulled the IV catheter from the back of her hand, and stood up—a little unsteadily at first, but soon gaining her balance. The belongings she’d had with her in the OR—underwear, socks, scrubs, sneakers, hospital ID, and glasses—had been delivered here and left in a clear plastic bag next to the bed. She pulled them out, everything except for the glasses, and slipped them on. She stuffed the bag with the glasses underneath a blanket, in case Finney was watching.

But she still sensed his absence.

In fact, her thoughts as she dressed were the clearest they’d been since she’d first woken up on the OR table. Probably the sleep, and the IV fluids.

Her hand lingered over the EEG electrode Spencer had placed behind her ear. She began to peel it off, then changed her mind. It made her feel like Spencer was close by, keeping tabs on her, and she found the thought comforting.

She glanced out the window. Still an ugly night outside. All she saw was water, hitting the window in angry sheets, smears of orange-yellow light from scattered streetlamps, and a few trees buffeted by the wind, which made a faint, high-pitched whistle as it gusted through the window cracks.

If Nurse Surly followed hospital routine, Rita had about four hours before she returned. She opened the door a crack and peeked out. The hallway in front of her room was empty. Turner kept only a skeleton crew on the night shift. Rita had spent many hours making rounds in this patient area, and she knew that, at this hour, it was staffed with only two nurses.

Luck was with her: About ten doors down, a demented old lady named Mrs. Thorn (Rita knew this because the woman kept screaming that she was Mrs. Thorn, goddammit, so show some goddamn respect, you goddamn white-trash bitches) was rooted in the middle of the hall, flapping her arms at Nurse Surly and another young nurse, raging that the goddamn filthy spics were stealing her money, which was so goddamn typical. The nurses’ backs were to Rita.

More luck: One of the exit stairwells was immediately opposite Rita’s room.

As the two nurses tried to corral Mrs. Thorn, Rita dashed through the stairway door. Mrs. Thorn caught sight of her, and pointed, and shrieked that the thieving chink bitch was getting away, but the harried nurses didn’t even turn around.

She sprinted down the stairs two at a time. She hadn’t yet figured out where she was going, or what she was going to do. All she knew was that she and Darcy had to get away: away from Turner and from Finney. She had no idea if Finney could follow them; and, at this point, she didn’t care. She didn’t have time.

First things first. She needed her car keys, phone, and wallet, all of which were in her locker.

So, hospital ID affixed to her scrubs, she headed downstairs, toward the OR locker room, hoping to avoid anyone who knew her.

More luck still: The only person she encountered on her way was some maintenance guy waxing the floors, who didn’t see her, and when she reached the locker room, it was empty.

She quickly pulled out her keys, wallet, and phone, and exchanged her scrubs for the jeans, T-shirt, and sweater she’d worn the previous night. She crept out of the locker room and hurried back to the staircase.