The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [125]
“David?” Christine’s voice was the empty whimper of a lost child.
He knelt by the table a safe distance from the sterile field. “Yeah, hon, it’s me.” The reassurance in his voice belied the anger and sadness inside him. “You’re doin’ fine. A few dents, but you’re doin’ just fine.”
“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” she said weakly. The few words were all she could manage.
“And who the hell are you?” St. Onge was obviously not satisfied with David’s introduction. He was a heavy man, barrel-chested with thick hands. His tan was still midsummer dark and his clothes custom made. David guessed him to be about fifty.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, backing off a step. “My name is Shelton, David Shelton. I’m on the surgical staff at Boston Doctors. Christine is a … close friend.”
“Well, right now she’s my patient,” St. Onge growled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t take too kindly to someone barging in on your work. Even if he was a fellow surgeon.”
David swallowed what he really wanted to say, backed off another step, and mumbled, “I’m sorry. Could you tell me how she is?”
St. Onge rummaged through his set of instruments, found a needle holder, and returned to the cut.
“She has another gash I’ve already closed above this one. She’s got a busted arm that Stan Keyes will probably have to reduce in the operating room. That is, providing he doesn’t capsize and drown in that stupid regatta he’s racing in today.”
David tightened. “Is he the only orthopedist available?”
“Yup. But don’t worry. Fortunately, he’s a damn sight better orthopedic surgeon than he is a sailor.” St. Onge chuckled. “The arm will keep until he gets back.”
David turned his attention to the bank of four X-ray view boxes on the wall across from the litter and studied the views taken of Christine’s chest, abdomen, ribs, forearm, and skull. The forearm fracture was a bad one, with multiple fragments, but fortunately did not involve the joint space. The function of her hand would likely be unimpaired. He thought about the superb orthopedic staff at Boston Doctors and began wondering if a transfer there would be possible.
St. Onge finished Suturing the laceration as David was snapping the four films of Christine’s skull into place. The man whipped off his gloves with a flourish, letting them fall to the floor. “Use one of my standard head-injury order sheets, Tammy,” he said. “Keyes will probably want to transfer her to his service anyway when he does the wrist. Any questions, Dr.…”
“Shelton,” David said icily, brushing past him and kneeling by Christine. The sterile drape had been discarded and David could appreciate for the first time the extent of the battering she had absorbed. Despite some attempt to clean her up, patches of dried, cracking blood still remained over her face and neck. Almost the entire left side of her scalp had been shaved, exposing the two angry gashes. Tiny diamonds of glass sparkled throughout what hair remained. Her upper lip was the size and color of a small plum.
“Christine,” he said softly. “How’re you holding up?”
“Oh, David …” Her words were agonized, tearless sobs. David’s fists tightened against his thighs.
“Dr. St. Onge, has a radiologist gone over her films?” He rose with deliberate slowness and turned toward the man.
“Why, no. The radiologist has left for the day. On call, if necessary, but I didn’t see any reason to call him in for findings as obvious as …”
“Excuse me, miss,” David cut in, “could I have an otoscope please. And, while you’re at it, an ophthalmoscope.” The woman had a bemused expression on her face as she handed the instruments over. St. Onge was speechless.
David slipped the otoscope tip in Christine’s left ear. At that moment St. Onge found his tongue. “Now you just wait one goddamn minute,” he said. “That woman is still my patient, and if you …”
“No!