No big deal. Fitz blew a smoke ring. With no ashtray in sight, he dumped the accumulating ashes of his cigarette into the pocket of his Armani suit. The tech flinched. Because he was worried about the suit? Or because he was afraid to remind his boss about Bledsoe’s no-smoking policy? Whatever the reason, Fitz liked the knee-jerk response. Employees should be scared to voice their opinions. Fear kept them in line.
An automatic door swooshed open. The aseptic odor of Lysol wafted in.
Harkowsky, a rawboned doctor with wispy hair, shambled into the lab. He noddedhelloin Fitz’s direction and skimmed the top portion of a patient’s chart. He shoved the document at Lee. “Make a note:Aggression visible.”
Fitz glowered. Heaven forbid the doctor jot something himself. Fitz would fire the sluggard but knew, if he did, secrets might get out. He couldn’t afford a leak. And he couldn’t kill him. Not yet.
Harkowsky lumbered to the next patient—a woman with pale skin—and pried open her eyelids.
“Ayi-iii!” the patient screamed, though her mouth was sealed with tape. She bucked and growled at the doctor. With strength beyond what she ought to possess, she broke free of the Velcro bonds and clutched Harkowsky’s neck.
Gasping, he tried to peel her fingers off of him.
Lee grabbed electrode pads and wedged himself between the doctor and patient. He ripped open the patient’s gown and affixed the pads to her skin. Next, he hurried to a cart by the window. He rolled the Zoll defibrillator cart closer. Switched on the machine. Grasping two shock paddles, he pressed them to the patient’s chest and pushed the paddles’ buttons.
Electricity surged from the defibrillator through the paddles. The woman’s body convulsed. Soon her fingers relaxed, and she released Harkowsky. The equipment beside the bed blared.The feedback on the monitor converted to a long flat line, interrupted by a hiccup of activity.
Lee grabbed the patient’s wrist. “She’s breathing.”
“Fix it,” Fitz ordered.
“It’s a glitch, that’s all.” The doctor rubbed his reddened neck. “I’ll handle it.”
A flicker of movement in the hall caught Fitz’s eye. He peered out the window and tensed. Sara Simmons, self-proclaimed savior to the world, was sneaking down theIWard corridor. How on earth had she penetrated security?
He chucked the remainder of his cigarette on the floor, ground the lit end with the toe of his loafer, and stole after her. Sweet Sara. He marveled at her speed. She worked as hard at maintaining her shape as she did at pursuing her causes.
“A bioethicist must be a warrior,” she’d told him on more than one occasion. “We must protect those who can’t protect themselves.”
Sara hadn’t realized her war would be with him.
CHAPTER FOUR
The moment Kaylastepped inside La Lumiere Bistro she breathed easier. Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose”played through speakers. The aroma of butter and onions permeated the air. The lights were low and soothing. And Ashley had stopped talking like Doomsday was around the corner. Finally.
“You must be hungry, Kayla.” Peter caught up with her at the hostess’s podium. “You were walking over the speed limit.”
“I am.” A muffin and a chocolate bar for lunch hadn’t cut it. She always ate on the run. In the new year, she resolved to do better.
“What are you going to order?” Ashley asked, following the waitress to their table.
“The solemeunière,” Kayla said, one of the few words she could utter in French without sounding foolish. Ashley had studied four languages so she could communicate with locals on her international commercial shoots. Kayla understood languages written in Java, Cobol, Basic, and the like.
“I hear the sole isfantastíque.” Peter kissed the tips of his fingers. Tomorrow he would be reading French—inFrance. Ashley didn’t fault him for traveling. An artist couldn’t sell hisart exclusively to locals in San Francisco and expect to become famous. “So how’s biz, Kayla?” he asked. “Still troubleshooting?”
“She does more than troubleshoot,” Ashley said.
“Of course, but asking how the”—he mimed quotation marks—“computer-information-managing-and-troubleshooting-business is going, is a mouthful, don’t you think?”
“She calls herself a computer tamer. To some people, she’s indispensable.”
Kayla had spent months coming up with a one-word explanation for her work—troubleshooter—only to discover it had been taken by another computer nerd. When she landed oncomputer tamer, she’d decided it was catchy.
“I repeat, how’s biz, Kayla?” Peter asked.
“Busy as all get-out. Lots of my clients had crises this week. I’ve made more than a dozen house calls, including six today.”
“And how’s target practice?”
