Page 146 of Gone Before Goodbye
“Yes. Of course. That’s why you’re here.”
Silence.
“Your husband is dead. Trace Packer, well, we don’t know where he is. No Marc, no Trace… That leaves you, Doctor McCabe.”
“But I’m a plastic surgeon—”
“Oh, you’re more than that. Let’s not play the false modesty card. I made a mistake back then. I relied on the two men. Old-worldsexism on my part. I should have focused on you. You are the best surgeon of the group. Women often are better at focusing on what matters, at understanding the mission. They don’t let their egos get involved the way men do. When you were around, Marc and Trace were better doctors, researchers, and humans. When you left, it all went to hell.”
And if she hadn’t left, Maggie thinks, Marc would still be alive.
“Whose heart is it?”
“I told you. A man in a coma.”
“Someone from a refugee camp?”
“Does it matter?”
“Depends. Did you put him in a coma?”
“If I needed to, I would have. But I didn’t. He’s been brain-dead for months. If it makes you feel any better, I paid his caretaker a fortune to get him here.”
“I need reassurances—”
“No, Doctor McCabe, you don’t. You will do the surgery. You will be well paid. And after it is over, you will have both the satisfaction of completing your husband’s work and the guarantee of safety. I have assembled the finest cardiothoracic surgery team possible—surgical nurses, perfusion technologists, a cardiac anesthesiologist, and two top heart transplant surgeons to assist you. This will all be over for you after you do this transplant tomorrow.”
“It won’t work,” Maggie says. “The THUMPR7 isn’t ready.”
“The decision’s been made.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Do we need to play this game, Doctor McCabe?” Ragoravich sighs. “I showed you the carrot, so I might as well show you the stick.” He steeples his hands again and rests his forefingers on his chin. “If you refuse, the other surgeons will still proceed with the procedure. But instead of the brain-dead comatose man’s heart, I’ll use yourfather-in-law’s, which will be ripped out of his chest with no anesthesia while we make you watch.”
He grins. “Do I make myself clear?”
Porkchop can’t help but laugh.
“He actually used those words? Ripping my heart out of my chest?”
“It’s not funny.”
“Except it kinda is. Oh, and without anesthesia? Did he really say that too?”
“While he makes me watch.”
“That’s a nice touch. Such a flair for the dramatic.”
“Or the sadistic. What do you think we should do?”
Porkchop puts his hand to his chest. “Hell, Mags, I don’t want my heart ripped out of my chest.”
“Stop that.”
They are back on the porch of the guesthouse at Smith Haut Lafitte, watching the sun set so majestically you figure it’s showing off.
“You’ll do the surgery,” Porkchop says. “Like the man says, you have no choice. You do the surgery, we go home, we put this behind us.”
