Under The Knife. Tess Gerritsen

rather than easing her tension, made him seem all the more unapproachable. She forced herself to move toward him, feeling his gaze every step of the way. For a man with his highly regarded reputation, he was younger than she’d expected, not yet in his forties. Establishment was stamped all over his clothes, from his gray pinstripe suit to his Yale tie clip. But a tan that deep and hair that sun-streaked didn’t go along with an Ivy League type. He’s just a surfer boy, grown up, she thought derisively. He certainly had a surfer’s build, with those long, ropy limbs and shoulders that were just broad enough to be called impressive. A slab of a nose and a blunt chin saved him from being pretty. But it was his eyes she found herself focusing on. They were a frigid, penetrating blue; the sort of eyes that missed absolutely nothing. Right now those eyes were boring straight through her and she felt an almost irresistible urge to cross her arms protectively across her chest.

      “I’m here to tell you the facts, Mr. Ransom,” she said.

      “The facts as you see them?”

      “The facts as they are.”

      “Don’t bother.” Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out Ellen O’Brien’s file and slapped it down conclusively on the table. “I have all the facts right here. Everything I need.” Everything I need to hang you, was what he meant.

      “Not everything.”

      “And now you’re going to supply me with the missing details. Right?” He smiled and she recognized immediately the unmistakable threat in his expression. He had such perfect, sharp white teeth. She had the distinct feeling she was staring into the jaws of a shark.

      She leaned forward, planting her hands squarely on the table. “What I’m going to supply you with is the truth.”

      “Oh, naturally.” He slouched back in his chair and regarded her with a look of terminal boredom. “Tell me something,” he asked offhandedly. “Does your attorney know you’re here?”

      “Attorney? I—I haven’t talked to any attorney—”

      “Then you’d better get one on the phone. Fast. Because, Doctor, you’re damn well going to need one.”

      “Not necessarily. This is nothing but a big misunderstanding, Mr. Ransom. If you’ll just listen to the facts, I’m sure—”

      “Hold on.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a cassette recorder.

      “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

      He turned on the recorder and slid it in front of her. “I wouldn’t want to miss some vital detail. Go on with your story. I’m all ears.”

      Furious, she reached over and flicked the Off button. “This isn’t a deposition! Put the damn thing away!”

      For a few tense seconds they sized each other up. She felt a distinct sense of triumph when he put the recorder back in his briefcase.

      “Now, where were we?” he asked with extravagant politeness. “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what really happened.” He settled back, obviously expecting some grand entertainment.

      She hesitated. Now that she finally had his full attention, she didn’t know quite how to start.

      “I’m a very…careful person, Mr. Ransom,” she said at last. “I take my time with things. I may not be brilliant, but I’m thorough. And I don’t make stupid mistakes.”

      His raised eyebrow told her exactly what he thought of that statement. She ignored his look and went on.

      “The night Ellen O’Brien came into the hospital, Guy Santini admitted her. But I wrote the anesthesia orders. I checked the lab results. And I read her EKG. It was a Sunday night and the technician was busy somewhere so I even ran the strip myself. I wasn’t rushed. I took all the time I needed. In fact, more than I needed, because Ellen was a member of our staff. She was one of us. She was also a friend. I remember sitting in her room, going over her lab tests. She wanted to know if everything was normal.”

      “And you told her everything was.”

      “Yes. Including the EKG.”

      “Then you obviously made a mistake.”

      “I just told you, Mr. Ransom. I don’t make stupid mistakes. And I didn’t make one that night.”

      “But the record shows—”

      “The record’s wrong.”

      “I have the tracing right here in black and white. And it plainly shows a heart attack.”

      “That’s not the EKG I saw!”

      He looked as if he hadn’t heard her quite right.

      “The EKG I saw that night was normal,” she insisted.

      “Then how did this abnormal one pop into the chart?”

      “Someone put it there, of course.”

      “Who?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “I see.” Turning away, he said under his breath: “I can’t wait to see how this plays in court.”

      “Mr. Ransom, if I made a mistake, I’d be the first to admit it!”

      “Then you’d be amazingly honest.”

      “Do you really think I’d make up a story as—as stupid as this?”

      His response was an immediate burst of laughter that left her cheeks burning. “No,” he answered. “I’m sure you’d come up with something much more believable.” He gave her an inviting nod. In a voice thick with sarcasm, he jeered, “Please, I’m dying to know how this extraordinary mix-up happened. How did the wrong EKG get in the chart?”

      “How should I know?”

      “You must have a theory.”

      “I don’t.”

      “Come on, Doctor, don’t disappoint me.”

      “I said I don’t.”

      “Then make a guess!”

      “Maybe someone beamed it there from the Starship Enterprise!” she yelled in frustration.

      “Nice theory,” he said, deadpan. “But let’s get back to reality. Which, in this case, happens to be a particular sheet of wood by-product, otherwise known as paper.” He flipped the chart open to the damning EKG. “Explain that away.”

      “I told you, I can’t! I’ve gone crazy trying to figure it out! We do dozens of EKGs every day at Mid Pac. It could have been a clerical error. A mislabeled tracing. Somehow, that page was filed in the wrong chart.”

      “But you’ve written your initials on this page.”

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “Is there some other K.C., M.D.?”

      “Those are my initials. But I didn’t write them.”

      “What are you saying? That this is a forgery?”

      “It—it has to be. I mean, yes, I guess it is….” Suddenly confused, she shoved back a rebellious strand of hair off her face. His utterly calm expression rattled her. Why didn’t the man react, for God’s sake? Why did he just sit there, regarding her with that infuriatingly bland expression?

      “Well,” he said at last.

      “Well what?”

      “How long have you had this little problem with people forging your name?”

      “Don’t make me sound paranoid!”

      “I don’t have to. You’re doing fine on your own.”

      Now