The commotion had aroused Harris, who had come over to see what the problem was. Dr. Stewart looked at me and then at Keyes, and his expression changed. I could tell that he, too, sensed that something wasn’t right. He took his stethoscope from his neck, moved it over her chest and then the carotid arteries. With his ophthalmoscope, Stewart looked through her pupils to the inside of her eyes. After testing her reflexes with his rubber mallet, he yelled across the room to the charge nurse, “Call the blood lab STAT and send for X-ray. I need a portable skull X-ray.”
He raised the top of Keyes’ bed until she was at a forty-five-degree sitting position, increased the nasal oxygen to 100 percent, and upped the IV fluid rate to 300 cc’s an hour.
Stewart turned to me. “Something’s neurologically wrong.”
“Like what?”
“She’s either strokin’ or somebody shot her up with drugs.”
Harris looked at me and said, “Miss Keyes’ blood on admission showed only traces of the two drugs you gave her in surgery.”
“Well, actually, I didn’t give her anything. Dr. Carey administered all the drugs.”
“Dr. Stewart is saying somebody’s pumped her up with drugs since she’s been here.”
He paused for an excruciating five seconds, then said, “Dr. James, did ya give that to her?”
“Of course not! Why would I want to harm her?”
“What the hell’s going on around here, Dr. James?” Harris asked.
“I don’t know! Listen, we need to clear out. Give the ICU staff a chance to do their job.”
We stepped away from Keyes. I said, “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on. Honestly.”
He cleared his throat — one of his “ahems,” then said, “My men found a load of Valium in your office, and some of it dropped on the floor like ‘someone’ was in a hurry to hide it. Valium. The same stuff in your nurse’s blood. And I’m guessin’ we’ll find it in Dr. Carey.”
I flushed all over. Buying all that Valium was a mistake. I shook my head. “I bought it over six months ago. It was cheap and I used a lot back then. But I did not use any of it on Keyes or Carey. You gotta’ believe me.”
Harris “ahemed” and stared at me until I had to look away.
Why did I feel guilty? Buying drugs for surgical procedures is certainly no crime. But Harris was making it one.
“Listen, Pete, I have to go back to my surgery center to get my files—”
“What files?”
“I have lots of patients in and out of the hospital that I have to care for. I need their records—”
“Alright. Okay. I’ll tell my man over there to let you in. But we need to talk more.”
“No problem.”
“Do not go into your OR — when you’re over there — for any reason whatsoever. That’s now a crime scene.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ABC NEWS/ONLINE
LYON, FRANCE: The Minister of The Interior has called for an international investigation into the suicide-bombing of The Littleton Company. Officials in Lyon and Paris have confirmed that the bomb blast last week revealed the existence of “an extensive electronic control facility.” French officials believe the complex was being used by The Littleton Company, a civilian defense contractor, to operate military drones. Littleton has extensive connections with U.S. drone operations, including a variety of operations contracts. Littleton Company CEO, Richard Pratt, himself a retired Air Force colonel, cited confidentiality agreements with the Air Force in refusing to comment. The small, unimpressive office complex is located in Corbas, and suburb of Lyon. U.S. Department of Defense Officials have repeatedly stated that no such drone control “black sites” exist, and have been adamant in squashing reports of the existence of civilian control centers on U.S. soil.
Nicole Banzar had recruited Michelle to be one of the “soldiers.” Michelle was twenty-four years old, and she sat now in a barbecue restaurant on the Edenton waterfront. She wore dungarees that held onto the curve of her hips beautifully, and a stylish, tight-fitting embroidered Western shirt. She slowly ate her barbecue platter and frequently looked up at the sailboats and cabin cruisers as they passed the restaurant, headed for the docks at the end of Broad Street. She had stretched her dinner to an hour and a half as an impatient waitress waited for her departure.
To the waitress’s frustration, and with several diners awaiting her table, Michelle ordered yet another beer. Shortly afterward, a 40-foot Sea Ray cabin cruiser slowly motored past. Michelle paid her bill without taking even a sip of her beer and went to her gold Cadillac Seville. It was ten years old, but it looked like new.
She drove three blocks down the street, parked at the docks, and watched through her heavily tinted windows as the captain and his mate secured the Sea Ray and walked past the Cadillac to a brand new Chevrolet truck. The skipper of the boat seemingly paid no attention to the woman in the Cadillac, but as he passed her car, he bent over to tie his shoe. There, he saw and retrieved an envelope tucked in the bumper.
At dark, Michelle boarded the vessel and entered the cabin. There were no smiles as she sat on the sofa with seven Pakistani men. Wearing dungarees and dirty white T-shirts, they smelled of four-days travel without a shower. A private plane had flown them from Islamabad to Bermuda, where they had boarded a sport fishing boat that had taken them to the Oregon Inlet on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. There, they met up with the Sea Ray.
All were fluent in English, and listened intently as Michelle gave detailed instructions on the operation against Alpha Charlie. These men were all members of the Pakistani Army and had trained in intelligence operations with the British military. She gave them directions to the Swan Motel and keys to her Cadillac. They took five duffel bags stuffed with clothing and power tools.
Help had arrived.
As they drove away, Michelle started the engines of the Sea Ray and began motoring east on the Albemarle Sound, headed for Elizabeth City. She docked the boat there and walked in the dark to the nearby municipal airport.
There were no visible cars or people. At the far end of the small airfield, there stood a single Cessna, parked and unlocked.
More help.
Michelle opened the door of the Cessna, removed the keys from the ignition, and unlocked the luggage compartment. Everyone had followed her instructions. Inside the airplane lay 30 M-16 rifles, ten M-79 grenade launchers, and a crate filled with ammo and grenades. Nicole had told her they would need some serious hardware to kill the rogue drone operator, Alpha Charlie, and launch her missiles into America’s heartland.
I had to stop by my house. I needed some food, a shower, and maybe a few minutes to rest. Turning onto my block, I immediately saw red lights flashing everywhere in the dark. There were two police cars parked out front of my home.
A cop, on foot, stopped me in the driveway, and then walked over to my door. “Dr. James, I think it would be best if you stayed somewhere else tonight.”
I could see my son, Kenny, waving at me from the upstairs window. Alicia opened the door, with the chain still attached, and called out, “Scott, go away or I’ll tell them I want you arrested.”
I was surprised by her words. I yelled back, “At least, tell me why you’re doing this?”
“Just… go. And read the morning paper. You’ll see.”
Alicia’s best friend, Harriet, had a husband, John Graves, who was a reporter. Apparently someone fed him a front page story: “Plastic Surgeon Kills to Hide Office Love Affair.”