survivable. Yet.
“So when I saw the wound, she still had vitals. It seemed improbable, but I decided to close the bullet hole in her heart. It was worth a try.”
“Of course.”
“I mean I didn’t think about the odds of her still having vitals fifteen minutes after a bullet had ruptured a hole in her heart.”
“I’m with you,” Bryant said, growing leery of the conversation.
“So when I asked for a suture, the scrub tech handed it to me, and I was about to make the first pass when the heart tissue began to . . . um . . .”
“Doctor?” Bryant said. “What happened in there?”
There were faces at the window again, only they didn’t move this time when Bryant made eye contact.
“The tissues began to close,” the surgeon finally said, looking straight at Bryant now as if he might be an accomplice. “The wound began healing itself.”
Bryant’s mouth went dry. “What?”
“I can’t explain it any better than that,” the surgeon said. “There is no rational explanation for what happened in there. The laws of biology were broken in that Trauma Room today and I’m not going to begin to understand.”
The surgeon leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. He let out a big sigh. “I’m not going to bring this up,” the surgeon said. “I mean to anyone.”
Bryant’s head swam with thoughts of the plane accident. How Margo was found without a scratch. How the FBI was following her.
“I suggest you do the same,” the surgeon said.
The rosary beads fell from Bryant’s hand. The surgeon bent over to pick them up. He looked at the glossy beads as they dangled from his thumb and index finger. “I need to get me some of these.”
He handed them to Bryant.
“Do you have any questions?” the surgeon asked.
“Do you have any answers?”
The surgeon stood up and held out his hand. Bryant shook it.
“She’s in recovery,” the surgeon said as he opened the door to leave. “You can probably see her in an hour or so.”
The door shut.
* * *
Detective Meltzer sat at a wooden table in the interview room and sipped his third cup of coffee. The large man who shot Margo Sutter sat on the floor in the corner of the room, his knees curled up, his eyes still wild with terror.
Meltzer looked down at the empty yellow legal pad in front of him and wrote, “John Ames, rescue worker, Anchorage, Alaska.”
So far the man hadn’t been responsive to anything he’d asked and Meltzer kept rolling his eyes at the two-way mirror, knowing the DA was watching and looking for a quick confession so he could go home and spend the rest of the weekend with his family.
“Mr. Ames,” Meltzer tried again. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say about this morning’s shooting?”
When the rescue worker violently shook his head, Meltzer wished he had Bryant there to help. What would he do, Meltzer thought? Bryant would try to develop a trust with the guy.
Ames rubbed his hands along his pants legs as if wiping off some imaginary disease.
“Mr. Ames,” Meltzer said. “Were you there when Margo Sutter’s plane crashed?”
Ames scrunched up his already wrinkled face. The beard and sunspots blended together to form a written history of working outdoors. “Are you a psychologist?”Ames asked.
“No, I’m a detective.”
Ames blew out a long whistle. “Boy, I must look really messed up, huh?”
“I’ve seen worse,” Meltzer said, happy to spark the flames of conversation. “Have you been a rescue worker for long?”
“Twenty-two years,” Ames said, looking away.
Meltzer knew the rescue worker had seen something up on the mountain when Margo’s plane crashed. He’d read the reports from the crash scene and knew John Ames was one of the most decorated rescue workers in the state . . . until the accident. That’s when they labeled him mentally unstable. There was nothing specific in the report, just cryptic notes about hallucinations, about how Ames was working in high
“So when I saw the wound, she still had vitals. It seemed improbable, but I decided to close the bullet hole in her heart. It was worth a try.”
“Of course.”
“I mean I didn’t think about the odds of her still having vitals fifteen minutes after a bullet had ruptured a hole in her heart.”
“I’m with you,” Bryant said, growing leery of the conversation.
“So when I asked for a suture, the scrub tech handed it to me, and I was about to make the first pass when the heart tissue began to . . . um . . .”
“Doctor?” Bryant said. “What happened in there?”
There were faces at the window again, only they didn’t move this time when Bryant made eye contact.
“The tissues began to close,” the surgeon finally said, looking straight at Bryant now as if he might be an accomplice. “The wound began healing itself.”
Bryant’s mouth went dry. “What?”
“I can’t explain it any better than that,” the surgeon said. “There is no rational explanation for what happened in there. The laws of biology were broken in that Trauma Room today and I’m not going to begin to understand.”
The surgeon leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. He let out a big sigh. “I’m not going to bring this up,” the surgeon said. “I mean to anyone.”
Bryant’s head swam with thoughts of the plane accident. How Margo was found without a scratch. How the FBI was following her.
“I suggest you do the same,” the surgeon said.
The rosary beads fell from Bryant’s hand. The surgeon bent over to pick them up. He looked at the glossy beads as they dangled from his thumb and index finger. “I need to get me some of these.”
He handed them to Bryant.
“Do you have any questions?” the surgeon asked.
“Do you have any answers?”
The surgeon stood up and held out his hand. Bryant shook it.
“She’s in recovery,” the surgeon said as he opened the door to leave. “You can probably see her in an hour or so.”
The door shut.
* * *
Detective Meltzer sat at a wooden table in the interview room and sipped his third cup of coffee. The large man who shot Margo Sutter sat on the floor in the corner of the room, his knees curled up, his eyes still wild with terror.
Meltzer looked down at the empty yellow legal pad in front of him and wrote, “John Ames, rescue worker, Anchorage, Alaska.”
So far the man hadn’t been responsive to anything he’d asked and Meltzer kept rolling his eyes at the two-way mirror, knowing the DA was watching and looking for a quick confession so he could go home and spend the rest of the weekend with his family.
“Mr. Ames,” Meltzer tried again. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say about this morning’s shooting?”
When the rescue worker violently shook his head, Meltzer wished he had Bryant there to help. What would he do, Meltzer thought? Bryant would try to develop a trust with the guy.
Ames rubbed his hands along his pants legs as if wiping off some imaginary disease.
“Mr. Ames,” Meltzer said. “Were you there when Margo Sutter’s plane crashed?”
Ames scrunched up his already wrinkled face. The beard and sunspots blended together to form a written history of working outdoors. “Are you a psychologist?”Ames asked.
“No, I’m a detective.”
Ames blew out a long whistle. “Boy, I must look really messed up, huh?”
“I’ve seen worse,” Meltzer said, happy to spark the flames of conversation. “Have you been a rescue worker for long?”
“Twenty-two years,” Ames said, looking away.
Meltzer knew the rescue worker had seen something up on the mountain when Margo’s plane crashed. He’d read the reports from the crash scene and knew John Ames was one of the most decorated rescue workers in the state . . . until the accident. That’s when they labeled him mentally unstable. There was nothing specific in the report, just cryptic notes about hallucinations, about how Ames was working in high
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