Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [93]
He staggered back but made no effort to defend himself. She hit him again.
“Selfish, arrogant bastard! It wasn’t enough that you almost ruined his career. Now you’ve killed him, you son of a bitch!”
She drew back and swung at him a third time, but this time he caught her arm in a vise-like grip and drew her toward him, turning and gently—but firmly—pinning her. She struggled briefly. And then, as quickly as it had come, she felt all the anger, all the hatred, collapse inside her. She sagged in his grip, utterly drained. He helped her to a chair. Somewhere, she was dimly aware of a commotion, the sound of running footsteps, shouts. She looked up and found them surrounded by three security guards shouting various contradictory questions and commands, the receiving nurse standing behind them, hand over her mouth.
Pendergast stood up, removed his shield, and held it up at them. “I’ll take care of this. No reason to be alarmed.”
“But there’s been an assault,” said one of the security officers. “Sir, you’re bleeding.”
Pendergast took an aggressive step forward. “I will handle it, Officer. I thank you and these others for the swift response, and I bid you good evening.”
After a few moments of confusion, the security officers departed, leaving one behind, who took a position at the waiting room door, hands clasped in front, staring hard and suspiciously at Hayward.
Pendergast sat down beside Hayward. “He’s been in exploratory surgery for several hours. I understand it’s very serious. I’ve asked to be briefed on his situation as soon as they’ve got anything to—ah, here’s a surgeon now.”
A doctor entered the waiting room, his face grave. He looked from Hayward to Pendergast, whose face was bleeding, but made no comment. “Special Agent Pendergast?”
“Yes. And this is Captain Hayward, NYPD, a close friend of the patient. You may speak freely with both of us.”
“I see.” The surgeon nodded, consulted a clipboard in his hand. “The bullet entered at an angle from behind and grazed the heart before lodging against the back of a rib.”
“The heart?” Hayward asked, struggling to comprehend, even as she managed to collect herself, organize her thoughts.
“Among other things, it partially tore the aortic valve as well as blocking the blood supply to part of the heart. Right now we’re trying to fix the valve and keep the heart going.”
“What are his chances of… of survival?” she asked.
The surgeon hesitated. “Every case is different. The good news is that the patient did not lose too much blood. If the bullet had been even half a millimeter closer, it would have ruptured the aorta. It did, however, do significant damage to the heart. If the operation is successful, he has an excellent chance of a full recovery.”
“Look,” said Hayward, “I’m a cop. You don’t have to beat around the bush with me. I want to know what his chances are.”
The surgeon looked at her with pale, faded eyes. “This is a difficult and complex procedure. We have a team of the best surgeons in Louisiana working on it as we speak. But even under the best of circumstances, a healthy patient, no complications… well, it’s not often successful. It’s like trying to rebuild a car engine—while it’s running.”
“Not often?” She felt suddenly sick. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t know that any controlled studies have been done, but my best guess as a surgeon would put a successful outcome at five percent… or less.”
This was followed by a long silence. Five percent or less.
“What about a heart transplant?”
“If we had a heart, all matched up and ready to go, it would be a possibility. But we don’t.”
Hayward felt around for the arm of the chair and sank down into it.
“Does Mr. D’Agosta have any relatives who should be notified?”
Hayward didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said, “An ex-wife and a son… in Canada. There’s no one else. And that’s Lieutenant D’Agosta.”
“My apologies. Now, forgive me, but I need to get back to the OR. The operation will continue for at least eight more hours—if all goes well. You’re welcome to stay here, but