The Body Sculptor

By Eliezer Nussbaum

Jason Stone, Southern Californias premier plastic surgeon, has been through hell and back. While administering life-saving surgery during a mission to South America, his tent is held hostage by two international drug dealers, resulting in slain staff members and heat from the DEA. But it isnt over yet

Stone returns to his charmed life in Palm Springshis successful clinic, his beautiful wife and kids, his palatial homeonly to discover that he contracted HIV from the hostage victims contaminated blood. But before he has the chance to comprehend this devastating news, tragedy strikes again: Stone narrowly misses his flight to attend a medical conference, only to learn that it crashed ten minutes after takeoff. Stone uses this as an opportunity to spare his family and business partner from disgrace, and disappears to Mexico.

While Stones family is left to unravel the mystery of his disappearance, Stone is thrust into the seedy underworld south of the border and must fight for survival by doing what he does best: sculpting new lives, both for himself and for the many unlikely patients he encounters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475910575

Eliezer Nussbaum

Eliezer Nussbaum, M.D., is honored by U.S. News and World Report as one of the top physicians in the United States and was listed in Best Doctors in America many times. He is a high-ranking professor at the University of California system and has published extensively in the scientific field. He has presented his medical findings nationally and internationally, and sits on respected medical societies and editorial boards across the country. This is his fifth book and second novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Dr. Jason Stone stood on the bank of the mighty Amazon, staring out over the vast, thick rainforest. Night slowly yielded its cloak of wet darkness to dawn’s early light.

The medical compound, little more than a stump-littered clearing, held a collection of rain-soaked, sagging tents. Each tent rose like an island on short stilts, above the perpetually damp ground. Stone had chosen the first tent up from the river for his surgery location. The sound of rushing water had always soothed him.

A crude network of wooden planks connected the tents, providing walkways clear of mud. Once in a while, an orderly or nurse would skitter across the wooden arteries and enter one of the prep or recovery tents, carrying medicinal supplies or food.

Portable generators hummed, sending fumes into the air. 4x4 vehicles—some old, rusting, and tattered—stood with newer ones, like cows huddling together against the elements. All of their wheels gradually sank into the muddy ooze. Several had Doctors without Borders stenciled in bold white letters on their doors.

The first light of day spilled onto the river, illuminating the bow of a hand-carved canoe. The craft slid through the water in silence, sending out wide ripples in its wake. A bare-chested native sat at the rear, propelling it with long, smooth paddle strokes. The canoe moved on, dwarfed by the expanse of river, until it disappeared, ghost-like, into a distant curtain of falling rain.

As the morning dawned, flurries of activity erupted about the compound. All manner of people trickled into view, looking for medical aid. Some came in mule-drawn carts, while others limped in on their own, or with the support of a family member or friend. A few came by canoe. The triage tents rapidly filled with needy patients, and the small unit of seasoned nurses and doctors began the tedious, and sometimes heartbreaking, sorting process.

Stone, one of the top ten reconstructive and cosmetic surgeons in the United States, had brought his elite team to the wild, wanting to do more than the numerous breast implants and nose jobs. Lately, his practice had come to include mostly rich and pampered housewives, bored with their already better-than-average good looks. But now, the patients who wheeled into his crude, mosquito-netted surgical tent really needed his help.

In the heart of the jungle, away from the luxury of modern medicine, people suffered from catastrophic deformities that could have been prevented with simple, basic health care. He lived for treating the life-threatening tumors and life-altering reconstructions.

A flash of lightning erased a few lingering shadows and announced the end of Stone’s few moments alone.

An accented Latin voice called, Señor, doctor, the patients are ready to be seen.

Stone turned to find Gonzalez, a volunteer from the local village clinic, staring up at him from the bottom of the slight hill. All right, wake the others of my team.

Si, Señor.

Stone, dressed in shorts, boots, and a tee shirt, lifted a poncho to drape over his head and darted through the muck toward one of the larger surgical tents. As he ran, an unlaced boot sank deep into the sucking mud.

He stepped out of it. Shit!

Stone wavered and, losing his balance, put his now bootless foot down to keep from falling. He looked at his sinking foot, then at his empty shoe. Rain pelted his poncho.

Inside the tent, with rain dripping from above, Stone’s partner, Mark Cohen, a thirty-eight-year-old surgeon with short, cropped hair and a bearded face, stood at a makeshift scrub sink—an inverted half of a fifty-gallon drum. He worked on his fingers with a soapy brush.

Stone liked Cohen. Unfortunately, the younger man had become a doctor for the money. He had the intellect, the skills, but not the heart. Like many doctors, Cohen computed medicine with money.

He had followed the cash trail—surgery, and then cosmetics, often joking: Could it get any better than this? I get to feel tits all day, and then I get paid to make them bigger and prettier!

However, Cohen proved to be a good number-two man, which is why Stone had taken him on as a partner. Less experienced, and boyish in both manner and appearance, Mark Cohen, although reluctant at first, had welcomed the chance to play follow the leader. He did what he was told, saving his best for his real passions: wine, women, and cars.

Stone walked by the crude sink, carrying his muddy boot. He tossed the boot into a corner with his poncho and peeled off the filthy sock, sending it to join the offending shoe. Then he joined Cohen at the scrub sink.

Patient’s already sedated, his partner said.

Cassie, the third in their team of three, a thirty-year-old surgical nurse, in mask and gown, finished arranging instruments on a sterile towel. Then she glanced at the two doctors and said in her calmly professional monotone: Patient is a twenty-five-year-old male. Facial hemangioma situated under the right eye.

Stone leaned toward the operating table, as one of the compound’s multinational scrub nurses fitted him with sterile gloves. The enlarged blood vessel had distorted the patient’s face to the point where the young man resembled a mutant.

Cassie continued in her normal sharp, no-nonsense tone: It’s spread to the point where he’s lost vision in the right eye.

Stone slipped his feet into the surgical shower cap-style coverings, ignoring the discomfort of one shoe on and one shoe off. Fascinating. This type of hemangioma usually presents within the first year of life. Do you suppose he’s had it this long?

The scrub nurse murmured something in a different language and scurried out of the tent, leaving Stone’s team to perform the surgery on their own.

Stone and Cohen, now in gowns and gloves, stepped through a curtain of mosquito netting into the operating area. Cohen would double as an anesthesiologist, while Cassie assisted.

The incessant rain dripped through the overhead canvas, pinging into pots and buckets. Portable lamps, linked to the hum of the generators, lit the area.

Stone slapped at an insect on his neck. Here I am in a muddy tent, instead of a hospital. But then, that’s what he’d wanted. Let’s do this. We have a full schedule today.

Stone completed the last section of subdermal sutures after removing the grotesque, enlarged blood vessel.

Suddenly, the sound of a low-flying helicopter broke his concentration. The percussion of the rotors shook the flimsy tent, sending chaotic droplets of leaking rainwater dangerously close to the field of operation.

Cohen swore and dove for an oversized umbrella, deflecting a rush of spatters cascading from the saturated canvas.

Stone chuckled. Good job, Mark.

Cohen’s eyes twinkled above his surgical mask. Ninja reflexes.

Gonzalez brushed through the outer tent flaps, carrying one end of a gurney. Another man, at the other end, followed. Both orderlies looked nervous and jumpy. They carefully bore a small, poncho-draped figure to one of the waiting operating tables, just outside the mosquito netting, and laid the stretcher on top.

Gonzalez cocked an ear toward the ceiling, then gave Stone’s team a big grin and thumbs-up. They must be hunting for drug lords. Sounds like they’re going away.

He pointed to the newest patient, who hadn’t moved. The child was so afraid, they had to give her a tranquilizer.

The other orderly placed a chart clipboard and tablet on the foot of the bed, and turned to exit the tent. As he pulled back one of the flaps and stepped outside, two figures slammed in, knocking him a few paces backward.

Stone barely made out the flash of a knife—a second before it slashed across the orderly’s throat. A gush of blood spewed through the tent, red-washing the gauzy mosquito netting.

Standing a few paces behind the dying orderly, Gonzalez flinched. A short-bladed throwing knife had imbedded in the top of his chest, cutting off his shout. He clutched the weapon but didn’t try to pull it out, and sank to his knees, then slumped onto his side.

Cassie screamed and jumped, knocking her hand against Stone’s and jarring the curved suture needle dangerously close to the patient’s eye. Stone jerked his other hand up, blocking what could have been an irreversible accident, protecting the eye he’d just restored.

Cohen dropped the umbrella, which hit their patient in the midsection and rolled off onto the floor. He raised his hands in surrender, and his eyes bugged out over his surgical mask.

Cassie trembled and sobbed. Tears streamed from her wildly dilated eyes and soaked into her mask. She, however, kept her hands with the patient.

Stone glared at the shorter, baldheaded man who’d wielded the knives, another gripped in his hand, ready to go. Then he shifted his gaze to the more robust man standing slightly behind the murderer. Both looked as if they’d crawled out of the river and through the mud to get to the tent.

Both men also carried snub-nosed automatic rifles—probably drug runners, desperate, lawless villains, with no regard for human life. And, if they were dodging federal agents, they would stop at nothing to remain free.

Stone cleared his throat, still holding the second man’s eye. He guessed the knife thrower protected his superior. We are doctors saving lives. I will give you a place to hide if you allow us to continue, unharmed.

He nodded to the young man at his fingertips. Then he looked over at Gonzalez, unconscious on the floor. The orderly is bleeding out. Let me save him, and we’ll work something out that will help us both.

The bigger man nodded. A slow grin shone bright white against the filth covering his face. He put a hand on the bald man’s shoulder. My cousin, Raul, is protecting me.

Raul growled something sharp, and relaxed his stance, but didn’t sheath the knife.

The bigger man waved a hand toward Gonzalez. Care for your friend, and we will talk. But make it fast.

Stone swallowed and looked to Cassie and Cohen. This is almost done. You can take over from here.

He handed over his place to Cohen, then moved cautiously to the downed man. A quick glance told him that the other orderly had died, something he’d known from the instant of his attack.

Stone looked up at the two criminals. I’ll need your help. Believe me, I have no weapons.

Raul glanced at his cousin. They held a soft, quick communication in Spanish, which Stone couldn’t follow other than to gather that the other man’s name was Juan.

Then Raul sheathed the knife and assisted Stone in lifting the unconscious man onto the one remaining table. The moment they’d accomplished the task, Raul moved back to a defensive position in front of his cousin.

Stone rolled the table through the mosquito netting and began the urgent process of saving a man’s life. Cohen and Cassie joined him after they’d finished up. Together they extracted the short throwing knife, and closed Gonzales’ wound.

Once Cassie took over the cleanup with Cohen, Stone knelt beside the dead man and wrapped a towel around his neck, covering the ugly, fatal gash.

Raul came forward and nudged Stone with a muddy boot. He is gone. Do not waste time.

A long knife nicked Stone’s neck, and he froze but managed to speak calmly, You and your cousin need to hide. If I can fix this man up, I can help you do so.

He slowly raised his head to meet the other man’s cold gaze, conscious of the sharp blade against his skin. A deal is a deal.

Juan nodded, and the knife left the immediate vicinity of Stone’s body.

Raul gestured with the weapon. Explain, doctor.

Stone rose to his feet, glancing over to Cassie and Cohen, who huddled together, watching the outer tent area like frightened teenagers at a horror flick. He willed them to hold onto their wits.

After a moment, he met Juan’s gaze. We can drape the tables in such a way as to hide you when you climb underneath. He indicated the patient with the new face and the unconscious Gonzalez.

The sound of the helicopter grew closer. The feds had probably doubled back, realizing their quarry had somehow slipped their trap.

Both Raul and Juan tilted their heads, as the aircraft gradually approached.

Juan strolled to face Stone, looking at him as if trying to read his mind. Finally, he shrugged and smiled. A deal is a deal. But, American doctor, if you or the others do or say anything to give us away, we will kill you all.

He patted Stone’s arm with a deep chuckle. You are in the business of saving lives. Perhaps you will start with your own.

Stone flinched when the drug lord touched him, but maintained eye contact. It took a moment for him to find his voice. Mark, Cassie, wheel the next patient into the operating area, and then make sure Gonzalez and our young man are both stable. Mark, keep them asleep for the duration. Cassie, go wash up and prep for the next surgery. I’ll take care of our guests.

Once Stone had secured the two intruders under the rolling tables, helping them to lie on the sturdy under-shelves, he moved to the sink and tore off his bloody gloves. He began the tedious wash and prep routine, but frowned at his hands. The soapy water stung. A tiny oozing cut on his left forefinger made him catch his breath.

Stone remembered protecting the young man’s newly unburdened eye from the ultra-sharp suture needle. He hadn’t even felt the small wound.

Cohen cleared his throat, bringing Stone’s attention to his team waiting for him to join them. They stood to the opposite side of the small body draped with clean sheets.

Cohen seemed strained but functional. Cassie looked as if she might shake herself to death.

Cohen picked up the case file, and read: Seven years old. They call her the lil’ cabron.

Stone finally snapped back to business and searched his mind for his limited Spanish. The little goat?

Villagers claim her mother had sex with a goat. Her father makes her sleep with chickens to protect them from angry neighbors who would stone their hut out of superstitious fear.

Stone moved to the seven-year-old patient who lay covered on a table, and studied her. Jesus!

The young girl, with a severe clef-lip and palate, lay asleep on the makeshift operating table. Her face appeared to cave in above the lower lip. A distorted upper lip gaped fully open at the base of a near nonexistent nose, exposing the upper gum and dark, nasal passages. Underdeveloped teeth stuck out in staggered, uneven angles. The tongue, having no cover, protruded from a grotesquely twisted mouth.

Cohen leaned in closer, his expression reflecting professional concern and a hint of resignation. Do you suppose there’s a child in there?

Stone began mapping a surgical strategy, unaffected by his partner’s less-than-professional mood. All we have to do is find her.

The extreme challenge chased all other thoughts away. We’ll take cartilage and bone from her hip to build a nose. Then, cover it with a skin graft from the inner thigh and extend her upper jaw with a splint of bone from the same hip.

It would be an exhaustive task, taking eight to ten hours—that is, without complications.

Cohen gave a strained laugh. Why don’t we just call in all the king’s horses and all the king’s men?

Stone, scalpel in hand, made a fine-line incision on the girl’s slender hip. She’s so thin. I hope there’s enough tissue to transplant.

Cassie and Cohen leaned in close, ready to start.

Cohen assisted while Stone made preliminary cuts around the little girl’s upper lip and nose, releasing the tension in the distressed soft tissues. You know the challenge is going to be post-op. If Daddy sends her back to the chicken pen tonight, she’s going to have a serious infection tomorrow.

Stone gritted his teeth, enraged by the idea. My God! I can’t imagine what this child has endured.

Cohen nodded. It’s a miracle she wasn’t killed at birth.

Cassie shuddered, and her eyes pooled with tears. Poor thing. Let’s give her a true miracle.

A helicopter sounded and felt as if it hovered directly overhead. Shouts and angry commands rose above the helicopter’s noisy rotors.

Stone said in a calm, professional tone of voice, Be ready to lie. Our very lives depend upon it. And don’t let anything distract you from this little girl. I refuse to jeopardize her surgery because some drug lord needs to escape justice.

He glanced over at a sheet that twitched beneath one of the unconscious patients in the outer area. Then he met first Cohen’s stare, and then Cassie’s. Each nodded.

Their tent flap suddenly jerked wide, and several rifles pointed at them. Freeze!

Another man barked, On the floor! Now!

Stone paused from his work and raised his bloody latex gloves and scalpel. He surveyed a group of three armed men, with faces smeared with green and black grease, dressed in black jumpsuits. You speak English. I’ll assume you’re Americans. So am I. You’ve invaded a charitable medical encampment. I’m a doctor. As you can see, I’m operating. When we’re done here, we’ve got a large intestine, full of parasite holes, waiting.

He pointed to the sheet-draped dead man lying on the closest table. A sterile cloth and an oxygen mask covered the man’s face.

Stone raised his voice, forcing down his fear. You stop us, this seven-year-old little girl is going to die. That other patient will, too. If that happens, I’m going to find out who you are, and you’re going to be charged with murder. Now, get the hell out of my operating room!

The three grease-faced agents kept their weapons aimed at the Stone and his team, but none spoke.

Cassie cowered against Stone. He felt her trembling.

Electric silence hung in the tent.

Movement came from outside, and a forty-something man in civilian clothes pushed through the three gun-toting agents. No face paint covered his harsh features. He’d obviously seen a lot of bad things in his life.

The newcomer surveyed the inside of the tent and, when he spoke, he speared Stone with a probing, chilling look. Agent Marshal. United States Drug Enforcement Agency. We followed two fugitives to your compound, Doctor.

Look anywhere you want, Stone answered without hesitation. But if you don’t let us get back to work, or you contaminate this room, I’m going to remember your name.

Agent Marshal held Stone’s gaze for a long,