The Rusted Scalpel Page 3

  The man’s grip on his arm tightened. “What happened then?”

  Nick shook his head. “That’s strange. I don’t remember much. All I remember was getting home. I suppose my Mom picked me up. We sat at the kitchen table and said the Lord’s Prayer together.”

  “You go back to the swim team?”

  “Hell no!” Nick shouted, then apologized for the outburst. “They couldn’t get me anywhere near that pool again.” He took another drink of water. “So, is that why I’m screwed up?”

  “Are you screwed up, Mr. Hart?”

  “It’s doctor. Why do you keep calling me mister? Are you trying to piss me off?”

  The man laughed softly. “Are labels important to you?”

  “Well, you’d understand if you knew how many years it took me to become an orthopedic surgeon. I worked my ass off for that label. And now I can’t even float in a pool without panicking. So I guess I deserve to be called whatever you want.” He cursed under his breath. If the man wants to pick a fight, I’ll give him a fight.

  But instead of rebutting Nick, the man just laughed. If Nick could have seen the exit, he would have stormed out. But he knew he would just embarrass himself by smashing into something else or falling into the pool.

  “Okay, okay, my friend,” the man said calmly. “We have a lot of work to do, you and me. Why don’t we reboot? What would you like to know about me?”

  The man was making it hard to argue, and Nick felt ashamed. “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Dr. Hart…do you mind if I call you Nicklaus?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Nicklaus, nothing is off limits here,” the man reassured him. “This is your time, and I am here as your humble guide.”

  “I’m sorry…I don’t even know your name.”

  “That’s a good place to start. Everyone calls me Chang. My full name is Kwai Chang.”

  Nick had to laugh. “Kwai Chang…Caine? Like the Kung Fu series?”

  The man matched his laugh. “Well, yes, sort of, but I’m Kwai Chang Johnson.”

  Nick couldn’t contain his laughter. “Now you’re fooling with me.”

  When the man didn’t respond, Nick turned his blind eyes to him.

  “Actually, I don’t know my birth name or even if I had one,” Chang said. “I was adopted from China when I was eight and don’t have many memories of that time. Maybe, as a joke, the orphanage gave me the Kung Fu name because I was coming to the States. I was adopted by the Johnson family, but I know nothing of my biological family. For all I know, I may even be from North Korea. If that’s the case, it’s possible my parents were killed once they crossed the border.” Chang was still holding Nick’s arm. “We all have our pain, Nicklaus. So many people go through life holding onto that pain and never releasing it. Feelings buried alive never go away. That’s my belief.”

  Nick’s mind flashed to the hundreds of thousands of people that he’d seen buried alive in the earthquake in Turkey. “Yes, I guess I understand.”

  “I want to help you find peace,” Chang said. “You and I are not so different. I too was once a surgeon—a cardiothoracic surgeon in Seattle.”

  Nick shook his head in disbelief. “What? Why didn’t someone tell me that?”

  “Not many people know or care. I certainly don’t. That label doesn’t fit me anymore.” Chang paused and laughed. “But I like thinking of myself as a different kind of heart surgeon.”

  “Why’d you give up medicine?”

  “I had no choice. I developed severe macular degeneration in my forties. I had only practiced twelve years. You see, Dr. Hart, I know what you are going through.”

  Nick was stunned. “You’re blind? Why didn’t anyone tell me that either?”

  “Because blindness is not what defines me. What defines you, Nicklaus?”

  CHAPTER 2

  STORM

  Wright Paul grimaced at the angry, black cloud formation roiling in front of them. The storm danced with lightning, and he tightened the shoulder straps holding him in the pilot’s seat of the Airbus helicopter. The shifting winds jounced the craft, and it was all he could do not to reach down between his legs, grab the control stick, and disengage the autopilot. As they flew into the thunderhead, the luxurious, well-lit Airbus cabin darkened, then strobed with lightning that flashed through the clouds like a Tesla plasma lamp. His research facility was less than a mile away, on the other side of the ferocious storm.

  He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at his CEO, Leah Boxler, who always sat behind and to his right. An appropriate position for his right-hand man. Her stoic German affect never changed, but the sweat beading on her upper lip betrayed her fear. She preferred Ms. Boxler—he called her Leah. The only time he had seen her somber mood soften was last year when he gave her that tiny black-and-white Shih Tzu puppy. She’d named it Muffin, and the dog rarely left her side, except for helicopter trips. Muffin was terrified by the sound of the rotors.

  Wright, however, was thankful for the throb of the blades. They were all that kept the travelers from crashing into the Batang Ai Lake as monsoon rains slapped the windshield and cyclone-force winds buffeted the aircraft. Leah ignored his smile and the reassuring nod.

  His attention snapped forward as a gust of wind tossed the helicopter acutely sideways, and an alarm sounded on the dash. “Caution, caution,” the mechanical female voice blared, along with a high-pitched warning signal. “Significant crosswinds over fifty miles per hour!”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Wright answered the emergency warning, reached to the dash and pushed the flashing red button to silence the alarm. He looked at his copilot who was biting his lower lip. To make matters worse, the weather radar flashed all orange and red, and the wipers couldn’t begin to stanch the beating rain.

  These were the circumstances in which it was tempting to take control of the aircraft, but it was usually a fatal mistake. Wright had known other men who had doomed themselves and their passengers by doing that. But he was flying one of the most advanced civil helicopters built, maybe more advanced than many military copters, and he trusted the autopilot to steer them through the storm.

  Wright held up his hands in surrender and laughed. “Regarde Mère, pas de mains…look Ma, no hands,” he said in perfect French, English and then repeated in Mandarin, “kàn mā mā, méi yǒu shǒu”, trying to coax a laugh from the copilot. The man was not amused.

  “I told you we should have waited another hour to let the storm pass,” Leah scolded. Her German accent grew stronger through his headset.

  “I don’t think the child has an extra hour,” Wright said. “Besides, we’ll be fine. We’ve seen worse,” he added calmly, not knowing if either was true. “By the time we land and get the baby and her mother loaded, the worst of it will have passed, and our trip back to Singapore will be a breeze.”

  Wright checked the gauges; they were now only a half a mile out from the Zelutex Research Center on Borneo, something the Airbus H155 helicopter with a top speed of two hundred miles per hour would normally cover in nine seconds. But the storm and the autopilot had slowed them to five miles per hour, so they should be landing in six minutes. The reinforced roof over the heliport would open automatically, matching the speed and distance of the Airbus. The rain was not unusual for Borneo in January, in the heart of Southeast Asia. Rainstorms could be fierce this time of year. They would be safe soon. That is, if he could land the aircraft in one piece. The wind shifted the Airbus side to side, lifted it up and down, then pushed it sideways again. It was going to be like dropping a quarter into a shot glass through a jar of water and watching it flutter through the fluid.

  Five minutes. The panels of sophisticated electronics glowed green in the darkness of the storm. The autopilot flew them only forty meters off the ground, and though Wright could not see it, he knew the approaching canopy of the jungle below was half that distance. Not good. The roar of the rotor blades oscillated with the wind, but if the wind dropped them twenty meters, it would n
ot end well. He took a deep breath, restraining himself from reaching for the cyclic, the control stick and taking command of the helicopter.

  As he glanced at the altimeter, a blinding flash of light and an instantaneous boom filled the cabin. It hit with such force, the lightning blinded Wright and the thunder deafened him with a loud crackle through his headset. The electromagnetic pulse from the lightning strike seized the electronics, and they blinked off, disengaging the autopilot and stopping the craft’s momentum.

  The helicopter and time paused like a heart going into asystole. Either the copilot or Leah gasped, and Wright reflexively grabbed for both the cyclic and the throttle. The controls were dead, and the Airbus began to drop. Wright’s heart sank.

  In an instant, the high-tech backup system kicked in, and somewhere deep in the electronics a pulse like that of a cardioversion jolted the chopper back to life. The electronics flashed on, along with at least five separate alarms, the most critical announced by the female mechanical voice: “Stall, stall.” Even she sounded frightened. “Stall, stall.”

  Wright threw the throttle to full, and the two turbo engines roared over the storm, sending power to the five Spheriflex blades, gripping for traction in the air. He had no idea how close they were to the tops of the trees and didn’t look at the altimeter but pulled up hard on the control stick. “Don’t overcorrect,” he told himself. Pulling the helicopter up at too steep of an angle would stall their momentum that much more. The blades grabbed for every molecule of air to gain lift, and Wright sucked in a breath as if that could lighten the load. Gradually, the turbines won the battle against gravity, and the Airbus rose.

  Two minutes. Thankfully the radar was still working; otherwise, they would be flying blind. Lightning flashed around them. He would trust the gauges but would land it himself. He had experience; he’d set down the Airbus on his yacht in a horrific storm with both the helicopter and the ship moving. This attempt should be a piece of cake with a stationary landing pad.

  One minute. There were no signs of light from the helipad. Perhaps this was not a good idea. After all, what was the life of an Iban baby worth? The jungle was cruel and held a 10 percent infant-maternal mortality rate. Was it worth the life of the chairman of a vast financial and biotech empire and his CEO? Maybe Leah was right as she was so often. “bèn dàn, egghead,” he cursed himself in Mandarin. But every child deserves a chance, and if this was how his life would end, it was okay with him. He had already lived a fuller life than most.

  The landing radar sounded and flashed green, indicating they were now over the heliport. He shot a glance at the altimeter. He had elevated the helicopter to over eighty meters off the ground. He gently pulled back on the throttle with two fingers of his left hand and guided the craft with the cyclic in his right and the two pedals at his feet, allowing the helicopter to circle left and drop slowly. He wished he had made the helipad twice as big.

  Sixty meters. The wind pushed the helicopter off course, and the landing radar flashed red. He allowed the storm to blow the chopper north and he circled right to head into the wind, but overshot the target.

  He closed his eyes to visualize the heliport, took a cleansing breath and relaxed his shoulders. He opened his eyes and focused on the landing radar. He imagined sitting comfortably at home playing a video game and moved the controls to steady them. The cruel wind pushed the aircraft sideways, tilting it at forty-five degrees. He massaged the foot pedals to level it.

  Forty meters. The helicopter shook against the prevailing winds and the driving rain.

  Thirty meters. The twenty-million-dollar machine gained the upper edge.

  Twenty meters. He had the craft centered above the helipad.

  At ten meters the rain and wind diminished, and he finally saw the helipad’s lights glowing through the jungle’s mist—a safe haven at last. The storm gods seemed to relent and release their death grip. With the skill of an experienced pilot, he aimed for the center of the large green H painted on the heliport, set the aircraft down, and immediately pushed buttons and pulled levers to shut off the engine.

  “Well, that was fun,” Wright said, glancing at his copilot, who made the sign of the cross over himself and looked as pale and sickly as a man on chemotherapy. “Your god was kind to us.”

  He didn’t dare look at Leah. He didn’t want to encourage her wrath.

  She gave it anyway. “I told you we should have waited.”

  Wright leaned in and looked through the top windshield and watched the heliport roof close. “We made it, didn’t we?”

  “Barely,” he heard her murmur before slipping off his headset. He turned his attention to the weather radar and pushed a button. In real time, he watched the storm that had formed in the Pacific Ocean, swirled its way through Indonesia, used Borneo like an anchor to pivot up the South China Sea, and would now slide past Vietnam and hit the eastern edge of China. They had hit the western edge of the storm and barely escaped with their lives. His calculations had been five minutes wrong. Miscalculations were typically not part of his methodology. He snuck a peek at Leah, whose expression hadn’t changed, and her arms were tightly crossed over her chest. Her body language said it all; he should have listened to her. He should always listen to her.

  He smiled, shrugged, and pointed to the radar. “See, clear sailing home. The storm is moving north.”

  He turned away from her scornful look. She would get over it; he paid her plenty to get over it. Wright pulled on the latch of the door, and it swung open. He was instantly met by Robert, his faithful Iban caretaker and butler, ready with a crystal glass of iced tea. He took a long, hard drink and handed the glass back to the old man. “That was a rough one.”

  “We are glad to have you home, Master Paul.” Robert flashed a wide grin. “Dr. Amy waits for you, sir. She asks that we hurry for the baby’s sake.” He stepped aside, holding the silver tray with one hand and the iced-tea glass with the other, bowing slightly.

  CHAPTER 3

  ANGER

  “What are you looking for, son?” the elder Dr. Hart asked.

  Nick shot him a dirty look. “I don’t know, Dad, maybe some peace in my life.” He scowled. “And to figure out a way to make a living, as you are so quick to point out.”

  His dad quieted and steered the car west through the small ski town of Whitefish to Chang’s house, set atop Whitefish Hills. They rode in silence, slush spraying the underside of his father’s SUV as it started climbing the mountain road. A Chinook wind blew over the January landscape, lifting the Montana temperature from below zero to a balmy fifty degrees in a matter of hours. The warm wind rapidly melted the foot and a half of snow that had fallen last night.

  Nick’s dad broke the hush. “You know the story of Thunderbird who got angry?” Nick sensed his father look at him. His dad continued before he could comment. “She punished the humans who lived in her valley after a careless fire destroyed its beauty. She sent the cold Northeast Wind to scatter the people from the valley.”

  “Yes, Dad, you have told me that story a hundred times.”

  He knew his father loved retelling the story, especially when Nick struggled with anger. Nick’s affirmation did nothing to stop the story once again.

  “Her daughters, Crow, Magpie, and Blue Jay, went with the tribe, and when Thunderbird became lonely, she sent away the Northeast Wind and invited the Chinook Wind to bring life back to her valley. Her daughters told her, ‘Mother, from now on, do not get so angry.’”

  “Thanks, Dad, that is so helpful.”

  Silence filled the car, only to be broken by more slush hitting its underbelly.

  “Dad…I’m sorry. I have no idea what to do with myself—with all this anger.”

  “How did your appointment go with Mr. Chang yesterday?”

  “Okay, I guess…I don’t know…our family hasn’t exactly thrived on the touchy-feely stuff,” Nick said and added, “Did you know he was a cardiothoracic surgeon?”

  “I had no idea that C
hang was a fellow cutter,” his dad said. “And yes, I’m afraid I haven’t been a great example for showing emotion.”

  Nick wished he could look his father in the eyes and catch an inkling of what the man was feeling. As a general surgeon, his dad worked hard all his life, providing well for his family, until he retired from medicine a few years ago. “You survived medicine way better than I could ever think of doing, Dad. You are a good father.”

  The car curved around a circular driveway and slowed to a stop. He thought he could hear his father sniffing away a tear. “You know, Nicklaus, I am very proud of you. Even if you had chosen a different path, I would still be proud of you.”

  Nick sighed. It was one of the few times those words had come from the stoic man. Like a sponge, Nick thirsted for more.

  “Chang is here,” his father said. “He’s standing outside your door to meet you, son. Hope you have a fruitful appointment.”

  Nick swung the car door open, and Chang grabbed his hand to help him stand. “Welcome, my little blind friend.” He bellowed his contagious laugh.

  “Yeah, the blind leading the blind,” Nick said.

  “So true, my friend, so true.”

  Nick sensed Chang leaning down to greet his father. “Hello, Dr. Hart.”

  “Hi, Chang. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  Chang shut the car door and pulled Nick from the SUV as his father drove away.

  “How did you know it was my dad?” Nick asked.

  “I could smell him—he wears Old Spice. It reminds me of sitting in the surgical lounge as a med student. All the old guys wore it.”

  Nick thought he knew where the house was and took a step in that direction. He was anxious to get on with it. The sooner they started, the sooner this ridiculous therapy would end. But he stepped wrong and stumbled over some shrubbery. Chang caught his arm.