The Colour of the Rose

By Alan Giachino

Murder, conspiracy, an acute-care hospital and human politics interact in a love story that will affect us all. It is a sensitive action story that treasures love, knowledge, and intrigue—love for one's mate, one's country, one's planet, and suggests action necessary for us to consider. A story leaders should understand and adults must read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228876366

Alan Giachino

Alan Giachino was fortunate to have worked more than 40 years as an orthopedic surgical teacher in a university training program, combined with servicing twelve Arctic communities and two NWT communities. He worked one year in Australia and one in New Zealand; volunteered with the Canadian Forces in Afghanistan; and volunteered, operated, and taught in nine countries in Asia, the Middle East, and Africa. All provided an insight into human desires, tragedies, interactions, politics, and planet issues.

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 by Alan Giachino

This book is a fiction novel. All characters, businesses, names, organizations, and happenings are fictional and any resemblance to persons, alive or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-7635-9 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-7634-2 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-7636-6 (eBook)

For Carmen …

Fact

Multiple other humanoid species existed before and with Homo sapiens. They no longer exist!

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1  Sunday, August 19, 2007

Chapter 2  August 12, 2007

Chapter 3  Sunday, August 12, 2007

Chapter 4  August 12, 2007

Chapter 5  Monday, August 13, 2007

Chapter 6  Monday, August 13, 2007

Chapter 7  Monday, August 13, 2007

Chapter 8  Monday, August 13, 2007

Chapter 9  Monday, August 13, 2007

Chapter 10  Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Chapter 11  Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Chapter 12  Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Chapter 13  Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Chapter 14  Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Chapter 15  Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Chapter 16  Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Chapter 17  Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Chapter 18  Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Chapter 19  Thursday August 16, 2007

Chapter 20  Thursday, August 16, 2007

Chapter 21  Thursday, August 16, 2007

Chapter 22  August 16, 2007

Chapter 23  Friday, August 17, 2007

Chapter 24  Friday, August 17, 2007

Chapter 25  Friday, August 17, 2007

Chapter 26  Friday, August 17, 2007

Chapter 27  Friday, August 17, 2007

Chapter 28  Friday, August 17, 2007

Chapter 29  Saturday, August 18, 2007

Chapter 30  Saturday, August 18, 2007

Chapter 31  Saturday, August 18, 2007

Chapter 32  Saturday, August 18, 2007

Chapter 33  Sunday, August 19, 2007

Chapter 34  Sunday, August 19, 2007

Chapter 35  Sunday, August 19, 2007

Chapter 36  Monday, August 20, 2007

Chapter 37  Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Chapter 38  Thursday, June 10, 2010

Chapter 39  Monday, June 14, 2010

Chapter 40  Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Chapter 41  Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Chapter 42  Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Chapter 43  June 15, 2010

Chapter 44  Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Chapter 45  Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Epilogue

Bibliography/About the author

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Yes, it really was on August 19, 2007, that it all started to become clear … and soon it was about to affect all of us, every single one of us. I knew that Dr. Antonio had returned a week earlier.

I only recently got involved again, at the end … or at least, close to the very end… there’s a lot to tell … I’m sure I don’t know it all, but here’s what I know.

Mike

Chapter 1

Sunday, August 19, 2007

1:10 am

Ottawa, Canada

It was Sunday, 1:10 am, dark, quiet, as Doctor Tony Antonio walked out of the hospital ignoring the ‘ACCESS FORBIDDEN’ sign. He had only been back in Canada one week. The ‘EMERGENCY-NO PARKING’ sign passed overhead. A cool breeze fought to awaken his body, a breeze unusual for the month of August, a body usual for hockey players, 5’10", 185 lbs.

It was finally time to go home. The resident was closing the wound. The operating room had morphed into clean-up mode. ‘Done,’ he thought. ‘Eveline’s safe, time for a snack and a snooze.’

He flashed a wave to Brock, the Emerg. nurse trying to cover cigarette smoke curling up beneath a closed left hand. It was a male wave, no frills, a hand, held up, elbow flexed a bit, fingers relaxed, the ulnar border leading the way. A wave indicating recognition, a wave with no movement, a still wave, an upper limb just held motionless, in fact incorrectly labelled a ‘wave’. It was a projected sign of recognition, an indication of past personal interactions, more personal than a head-nod, that acknowledgement’s second cousin. Now, in the dark early morning hours, leaving the hospital through the Emergency entrance demanded no spoken words, in fact the tears that had fallen, the blood that had dripped, the cries that had echoed there that day, made the ‘wave’, the social need necessary – but quiet.

Walking down the ‘up’ car ramp, passing the ‘CARS ONLY’ sign, was no issue at this time of day. ‘Who would dare reprimand him?’ he thought.

Hi, Les, echoed from behind, forcing its way through the dark and still air.

‘It was Michel!’ That voice, here at the hospital, but mainly the name – ‘Les’. It claimed a permanent shelf in Dr. Antonio’s storage. No one but Michel called him ‘Les". Before he could turn to respond, a chill froze his neck muscles and widened his eyes. Had the retinal rods sounded the alarm? He had no idea, but certainly his grey cortex trumpeted, ‘Wrong, something’s wrong!’ and awakened his standby endocrine system.

A half-ton truck, that had growled to life a few unsuspicious seconds ago, was now accelerating, moving with purpose, a purpose unexplained, a purpose shattering the black silence, its snorting aimed at the ramp, its engine roaring, roaring as if it was an aggressive predator locked onto a prey.

‘Wrong … not right, ... watch out!’ … were words not spoken, words not heard, but feelings, feelings screaming internally, feelings exploding in every cell, … like being back in Afghanistan. The roar, the screeching tires, Dr. Antonio’s silent scream must have simultaneously permeated Michel’s consciousness. The ramp to health care, the ramp to pain relief, the ramp to salvation, morphed into an executioner’s concrete three-sided tomb. Safety rested at ground level past the sidewalls where soft grass wore a tie of earth, a path worn by feet passing anywhere. It guaranteed a safe reception.

‘Run, fast as hell.’

Safety was only ten feet away when Tony Antonio thought he’d not make it. The screeching tires, the snorting engine, the two bright eyes frowning, were nearly upon him.

The side wall ended. He aimed left, past the concrete barrier, every muscle committed. Suddenly, his back arched – unexpectedly, his body propelled even faster, forwards, as if shot from a large canon. The thrust, the deafening impact, the pain, all mixed in a cacophony – its finale, a thunder of metal cymbals on concrete. Lying face down in the grass, in the mud, Dr. Antonio knew he had made it. ‘What the hell.’

Greasy smoke spiraled upwards, seemingly unaware of the previous rampage, caring little for the crushed engine.

‘What the hell … What … need to do?’ Without a further thought, Tony was up, off the ground. Whatever confusion had existed, born in darkness, increased by roaring rage, nourished with sounds, was not affecting him. Soft grass had welcomed him. The concrete wall’s scrape on his left leg failed to get his attention.

‘Help … gotta help!’

There was no hesitation. The truck had struck head-on into the end of the concrete wall. It was smoking. An enormous frontal V defect, scattered glass, strabismus headlights, and right front tire – off the ground, spinning aimlessly in the dark, had altered its personality.

Then he saw it, blood! Blood on the right front bumper, a blood-red right headlight eyebrow, dirty brown hair - some still attached to crushed bone, some flapped back on loose scalp, some trapped between the V engine defect and the wall’s concrete edge. Then, ‘Christ’, a left arm, three feet away, resting adjacent to Tony’s soft landing. A bloody left arm. A left arm, elbow, forearm, and hand … all together - lying, still … not twitching. ‘It was Michel’s!’

‘Christ, where is he?’

Dr. Antonio knew the answer … ‘crushed bone with hair on it, loose scalp … head’s crushed … where’s the body … Oh Christ, too late. …Ooooh, son-of-a-bitch.’

Composure, back to steel, training … experience, whirled him about as he thought, ‘Gotta help the driver!’

The truck’s impact had caused the passenger door to bend, ‘must have been violent’, violently bend, then spring open. The driver, crumpled over the steering wheel, looked lifeless. Dr. Antonio scrambled in. ‘Concussion, neck fracture, flail chest,’ went through his mind. No air bags. … What the hell, blurted out, a phrase offering no assistance, a phrase blaming a concept, a concept with negative vibrations, vibrations without direction.

‘Clear the airway … protect the spine,’ as he clamored across the passenger seat. ‘Is he breathing?’

Dr. Antonio’s right hand reached to feel the right carotid pulse. The left hand maintained the head in slight traction. ‘Son-of-a-bitch.’… there was a gasp, a breath, followed by a slight rotation of the driver’s eyes to the right. ‘He’s alive!’

"Alive!" he shouted.

It was then that Dr. Antonio saw them! Cowboy boots. Cowboy boots with triangular grey metal toes. Clear metal, except for that distal mark.

Oh … No! spat out of Dr. Antonio’s mouth, the words painted red with Tony’s blood.

Fear had propelled him, surprise had elevated him, but anger now possessed him, all orchestrating similar endocrine excretions. Dr. Antonio’s spine stiffened, stiffened purposely, firmly. Not a nanosecond passed before his opened right hand violently smashed into the driver’s mouth and nose, closing off any air exchange. His left hand knew what had to be done. It rammed into the throat, the thumb flattening the right carotid artery against a cervical vertebral body. ‘This won’t work he thought,’ as his right hand fought to prevent the jaw from opening. The driver’s grip was fighting, but it was weak.

‘This’ll take 5 minutes!’ he thought. ‘People will be here … It has to look like CPR.’ Knowing that cerebral hypoxia, especially coupled with cerebral hypotension, worked quicker than pulmonary hypoxia, a repositioning was mandatory.

The driver’s right hand was now violently thrashing, trying to grab the doctor’s choking hand, attempting to arrest death’s arrival. Dr. Antonio’s bent left knee squashed the driver’s right elbow into his chest. Tactics had to be changed. Dr. Antonio’s right hand released the mouth and nose, avoided chomping teeth, as air rushed in, the weight of the atmosphere responding to a dropped diaphragm. The move from face to throat was executed in a split second; both carotid arteries were now controlled, one with the thumb, one with the index. No intra-arterial systolic pressure was going to open carotid endothelium walls crushed together and flattened against the cervical spine.

‘Forget the lungs,’ thought Dr. Antonio. ‘He’ll be ‘out’ in a few seconds, then I’ll add the lungs.’

The driver’s left hand shot across, fingers searching for eyes, the shoulder strap hindering full excursion, the strap taking sides while pretending to be neutral. The crescendo of actions, the weak head-butt attempts, the contracted right arm muscles, the gnashing teeth, all followed the same downward curve in a time/movement virtual graph. Faking artificial respiration played second fiddle to cellular success. Dr. Antonio’s right knee, still hidden from view, smashed into the abdomen just distal to the xiphoid process, the patella trying to reach the anterior body of T10. Diaphragmatic descent was blocked.

Let’s see you breathe now, you son-of-a-bitch, uselessly propelled itself at the driver.

Yells echoed down the ramp, shouts signalled the rapid approach of Emergency personnel, orders, barked with authority, organized frenzied feet, hands, and bodies.

‘How long ... how long will this take?’ wondered Dr. Antonio.

Knowing the medical team’s approach had to initially be on the driver’s side, without loosening his grips, Dr. Antonio manipulated the driver’s shoulder strap down, pulling the body further out of sight. Crawling over he continued to pretend he was performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The carotid pulses seemed absent. ‘Had the heart really stopped?’

Screams, screams of agony, female screams, a wailing only possible for loved ones, an agony emanating from the heart, not the vocal cords, indicated Michel’s gruesome body parts had been discovered. Michel, his body crushed into the ‘V’ shaped engine, splattered onto each side of the concrete wall, forced a haunting cry, a cry never to be erased from memory, Oh no … an arm, an arm!

‘Stop or be caught’ was the last thought Dr. Antonio allowed himself as he raised up and shouted through the broken window, "Be careful … careful … I think the driver has a broken neck." Tony knew this possibility would greatly slow extraction, retard the commencement of formal resuscitation, an action that may have reactivated the silenced cardiac cells, awakened atrial depolarization, move pooled blood, blood that was debating to clot or not.

In a controlled panic, he inched back towards the passenger seat, knowing that each additional second welcomed millions of steel-toed neurons into an irreversible necrotic cascade. The crawling halted. A shining metal object, partially surrounded by rolling smoke, lay boldly on the crinkled floor mat. It was a handgun.

Son-of-a-bitch, – said without air passing past lips, was followed by his scream: Check out Michel! Can he be saved?

Dr. Antonio hated that deception. He knew Michel’s status. He loved Michel. He knew Michel would understand but just another two private seconds were necessary.

The handgun was scooped up, rammed into his left axilla, the barrel pointing down.

"Get’em both up to Emerg. … Don’t move his neck! was shouted one more time. I’ll wash up … I’ll be there in a minute."

Dr. Antonio knew, in this game, his skills ranked behind the other players and yet when free to join the action, he’d be offered a ‘front row seat’.

The ‘resus team’ knew the protocol: airway, IV/blood loss/ …

The swarming ant hill organized. The leader led. The followers followed … a stretcher rattled down the ramp.

Dr. Antonio turned right, strode across the grass into the darkness provided by the concrete wall, the wall that once was coerced into a life-taking role now offered privacy, a dark privacy where metal fell from Dr. Antonio’s axilla into a shallow grave.

The ground floor ‘Physician’s Lounge’, an important watering hole in the past, a place where subspecialties touched other subspecialties, no longer functioned as such. Gone is the horse, the buggy. Gone is the need to talk. Other than a private flush, a used newspaper, it was a desert - cold chairs patiently waiting warm bums. The lounge ranked at the bottom of administration’s income-per-square-foot list, but at this moment it was Dr. Antonio’s first pit-stop. He keyed in the security code, a mechanical numerical code that responded to the finger’s proper input, but not a RFID recording who, when, and where. He slipped into the lounge. He knew the refrigerator likely still offered someone’s three-week-old lunch. ‘Time for a pee, get the blood off, and then show the flag up in Emerg.,’ organized in his mind. Blood was smeared across the dorsum of his right hand. Deep scratch marks had torn his skin. ‘Better be my blood,’ he hoped, realizing that open wounds invited Hep C, HIV, or any other pathogens carried by humans of all socio-economic groups … perhaps more so in those with grey metal-toed cowboy boots.

A noise, a thumping … then repeated thumpings seemingly co-ordinated with the lounge door closure click, startled him. His body froze in an attack semi-squat. Reserve adrenalin automatically leaped ‘on hold’. Eyes and ears - the only body parts in control, quickly turned his head towards the direction of the toilet. The toilet’s light was on, the hallway was dark, the door was ajar. Tony took two steps … quietly … then stopped. ‘They’re fucking! … Christ … what the hell.’ He turned to go, then stopped. ‘This is the Physician’s Lounge! Get the hell out!’ He couldn’t help it. The adrenalin had ‘kicked-in’. ‘They’re fucking.’ Forgotten was the blood on his hand, the rip in his pant leg, the swarming ant hill. A lean to his left co-ordinated the sliver of light with his retinas. ‘Christ, it’s Maberly … Maberly, you asshole.’

The attack position, mandatory for possible Taliban encounters, evaporated. Dr. Antonio’s bloody hand slipped into his torn and dirty pocket. The iPhone awakened; the thumping, joined by sounds mimicking cats enjoying a full moon, accompanied the silent iPhone recording, the video, activated before the door was quietly pushed open. Even the door creak didn’t register in Maberly’s cortex, … blocked, the ‘gate theory’ once again controlling traffic to the brain. Wide female eyes, topped with long black lashes, blazed into the camera, then into Dr. Antonio’s eyes. A high-pitched scream, a shove, were coupled with a halt to the co-ordinated ‘thumping’. Maberly’s head, rotated partially by the shove, but mainly by fear, offered photographic images no actor could perfect. Tony’s eye, and the iPhone’s, captured this carefree evening administrative manipulation.

Out of Dr. Antonio’s wide-open eyes, out of his blood splattered face, out of his bloody mouth blurted painfully - Oh hell, Melanie!

He turned, joy mixed with sadness, the iPhone harbored again, now more valuable than his yearly appointment application. No longer would there be a threat from the hospital CEO. Get the hell out, you idiots, was the last he muttered, too quietly to be heard.

The Security Code slept as Dr. Antonio’s hand, still blood-coated, rotated the knob, as Dr. Antonio’s leg, still scraped and dirty beneath ripped pants, proceeded out, as Dr. Antonio’s mind obligatorily followed busily squirreling away new valuable images - the images stored in motion, motion livened with colour and sound in his iPhone! Like an actor, Dr. Antonio’s face disguised his hidden emotions. Intra-cranial hiding places were labelled, labelled but awaiting a sleep to become secured. This future cerebral use played second fiddle to knowing whether a heart - a truck driver’s heart, was still beating up in Emerg.

Whoever was controlling Antonio’s thoughts was sleeping as he purposely strode to Emerg. The wagon driver had dropped the reigns. ‘In like a lion, out like a lamb,’ hoped Dr. Antonio.

The mechanical Security Code answered Antonio. It let him enter Emerg. ‘Who’s watching the watchers?’ he thought. ‘No one, for that system,’ came the answer. ‘The meek shall inherit the Earth,’ pushed itself into conscious consideration. As if requested, ‘Oh yeah, well this time it’s that steel-toed asshole’s inheritance,’ thought Dr. Antonio.

Enough of this crap, he said out loud.

Emergency was teeming. Feet propelled bodies back and forth. Large bore needles thrust themselves into collapsed veins. O2 sat. monitors refused to satisfy the observers. The intubation tube transited stale air out with each forced crunching of the sternum. Cracking ribs joined into a bony symphony. Air vacillated up and down the tube, carrying the same luggage in both directions. Floating near the ceiling was Mr. End Game: the conclusion, a finality which everyone now recognized, but admitted hesitantly, to varying degrees. Guilt, feelings of incompetence, ‘still a chance’, ‘not on my watch’ sat on one end of the teeter-totter appearing to be slowly outbalanced by ‘no use’ and ‘so what’s next?’ Dilated pupils soon joined that team. Grouped against a far wall, not wearing the same obligations, a motionless quartet of nurses, long-time friends of Michel, wept quietly as Dr. Antonio gently muscled in. His stretched reach included all. His right temporalis muscle, cheek, face connected softly. No one counted the time. Memories, warmth, and muffled sounds oozed through that scrum. No referee whistled the curtain down; the music ended; the seats emptied. The five-some slowly drifted apart, no words spoken.

‘Christ, the blood is still there!’ repeated through Dr. Antonio’s non-verbal internal private communication system. Keeping the stairway to his soul hidden, his tidal-volume air exchange as regular as card players bidding seven-notrump, realizing that 60% of interpersonal communication was non-verbal, he approached the horizontal, finally motionless, ‘steel toes’.

Cause of death? he exhaled.

The team leader spoke as he wrote, not looking up: Cardiac … the lungs were clear, minimal blood loss - not hypovolemic, no ‘street drugs’ found … a big bore needle didn’t suck out a cardiac tamponade … if we were there … Oh, who knows … maybe an MI?. He continued with the paperwork - no sweat visible on his brow, no ache felt in his heart.

I did the best I could, said Tony.

We know you did, came the reply, only Tony knowing the truth, and what ‘best’ he was trying to achieve.

Linda, bubbly Linda, the Emergency admin. assistant, all 5’1" of her, usually bouncing her 160 lb frame up and down, short, cropped hair, only lacking a tail that would have been constantly wagging, approached Dr. Antonio, her face now sculptured by the horror of Michel’s death, her bright multi-coloured shoes wishing they weren’t there. Her raised hand offered him a paper.

No, Linda, thank you, I’ll not bill for that! Dr. Antonio’s arm briefly rested on her shoulder, It’s a very sad time, Linda.

She understood and as she slowly turned to go, Your toe! she exclaimed, raising her head while her right index pointed down.

Dr. Antonio removed his arm and looked down. ‘Yes, it’s my toe,’ he said.

The Teva sandals, muddied by the fall, had minimal dorsal protection. The right great toenail was pointing up 30 degrees, maintained underneath by hardened black dirt stuck between the germinal matrix and the nail. Blood caked the edges. The black and red colours matched the atmosphere in the Emerg.

Thanks, Linda. Perhaps it happened when I fell into the dirt … down the ramp. It’s no big deal.

Antonio knew his verb-choice was the simplest reply; ‘pushed into the dirt’ would have demanded reliving the heartbreak. His back had been arched, a forced arch, a force from Michel’s hand.

Doesn’t it hurt? she asked.

Yeah … I guess …

But you didn’t know it was there, she added.

Even in a democracy, many real issues, don’t get heard, was his reply. ‘Perhaps a bit,’ he thought.

Well, take care of yourself, was the easiest response as Linda turned to go.

Thanks, Linda.

The hive was alive, buzzing, busy. ‘I’ll fix it myself,’ thought Dr. Antonio.

He knew that stored on shelves in the inner corridor were all the tools necessary. Each drawer was labelled.

1% Xylocaine, 10 cc syringe, 18- and 25-gauge needles, proviodine swabs, hexachlorophene scrub brush, sofratuile, 2 x 2 dressings, ½inch gauze, were building on a tray.

Hi, Doc. It was Benjamin, his resident.

Hi, Ben … get the wound closed? A question whose answer he never doubted.

Yep, no problem. All’s well. What you looking for?

A right-handed needle driver. There was too much to tell Ben at that moment. ‘Tomorrow,’ he thought.

Right-handed needle driver! - You serious?

Dr. Antonio recognized the opportunity, the opportunity to teach, the opportunity to have fun, the opportunity to enjoy life … one more time. Whatever road he was now forced to follow could still afford a pit stop. Every story needed a build-up.

Ben, do you know if and why there are right-handed scissors, and right-handed needle-drivers?

Ben’s headshake allowed a story to be born. Dr. Antonio explained how two days ago he had asked nurse Rose for right-handed scissors. She didn’t know the difference and he had said he’d check back in a day to see if she had learned what they were – and she had! Right-handed needle-drivers would be a fun ‘dig’ again.

Right-now, Ben, I need some Xylocaine, a large needle driver – or Kocher or Kelly. Gotta avulse that nail, scrub the germinal and sterile matrix, a non-stick … then get outta here.

Really, you going to do it yourself?

Hello, was followed with the current teenage facial expression. Benjamin, I really don’t need a right-handed needle driver, anyone will do, but how about telling me tomorrow how one uses right-handed scissors with the left hand. What maneuver does the left thumb perform?

It took a few minutes. There was no need to ask the Emerg. staff – they were busy. Drawers were opened, shelves inspected, a small collection positioned near the hallway sink.

No use occupying a room, said Dr. Antonio, knowing that waiting for an empty room would take some time and that it also would be more difficult for him to reach his great toe lying supine than standing.

Teva off, with the right foot on a stool, a throw-away absorbent cloth underneath, he washed the proximal aspect of his great toe, slipped a 25 gauge in, and from this dorsal location made a wheal centrally, then medially and laterally, pointing volarly to approach the volar digital nerves.

No need to suck back on the syringe, offered Dr. Antonio. You have to be out of touch with reality if you think this tiny 25 gauge would ever get a return from a small digital artery or vein. If it flows easily, you’re good to go.

Right …

Without gloves holding it, the needle driver plunged down along the course of the nail, clamped it, deep and partially hidden, then levered plantarly as the proximal aspect of the nail slowly tore away from its home. Blood mixed with dirt was brushed medially and laterally until a clean bleeding bed gazed upwards, participating in the cascade of the platelet plug formation, then thrombosis. The wiggling bacteria had lost squatter’s rights. A ‘non-stick’, a 2x2, and 1 inch wrap finished the minor, but necessary operation.

It was then that he saw the two police, standing, attempting to appear comfortable, attempting to look in control, but surrounded by Emergency staff flitting back and forth.

They were down the hall, apparently not concerned with ‘steel toes’.

Linda, … Dr. Antonio beckoned, what’s up?

Oh, a woman came home - was really surprised. She found her sick husband dead on the kitchen floor.

Busy place, Linda. Ben … see you tomorrow … I mean today … later.

Yes, sir.

Off strode Dr. Antonio, a red-tinged ‘white’ bandage sticking out of the end of the right Teva.

Straight ahead, at the Emerg. ramp, stood Brock, the nurse who had been there smoking at 1:15 am. He was directly in Dr. Antonio’s path. The ‘ACCESS FORBIDDEN" sign again impotent.

I saw what you did in the truck, spoke Brock.

Dr. Antonio froze; every sarcomere heard that comment. Unseen, the systolic pressure doubled, the sweat glands spooled up.

I can explain it, Dr. Antonio blurted.

I saw exactly what you did.

Chapter 2

August 12, 2007

One week earlier …

Ottawa International Airport

Coming Home

Where you coming from? barked the customs officer.

Dubai won out. How that happened surprised Dr. Antonio. Four different responses had been rehearsed.

Anything to declare? questioned from above, above enough to force one’s head slightly into extension, extension that was always associated when interacting with those in power, power that here was pictorially certified as real, real because he was sitting, and sitting behind a formal glass barrier.

Yes, I’m way over the limit … rugs, ceramics, and some Lapis Lazuli. ‘No need to lie. I’m definitely guilty. Way guilty,’ thought Tony.

Purpose of the visit?

Ah … well, it wasn’t really Dubai, but that’s what my passport says, I volunteered. ‘How do I explain this?’ "Just finished two months in Kandahar."

How’s that? You in the Military? shot out, as fingers in one hand turned passport pages and fingers in the other tapped keys that showed every living moment of Dr. Antonio’s life right there on the computer screen, an electronic strip-search, a search that revealed secrets, secrets Tony didn’t even know.

No, just volunteered. I’m an orthopaedic surgeon in town here. I wanted to help our Canadian military docs staffing the hospital. I’m sure they’ve been over-worked.

So, you just volunteered. Volunteered to go to a war!

‘I just said that,’ thought Tony. ‘Never mind, be cool.’ … and I’m sure it gave them a needed rest.

But it was dangerous.

It was dangerous for the military docs as well, unexpectedly exited from Tony’s non-rehearsed chain, the chain of command from cerebral cortex to vocal cords, to tongue, mouth and lips, a chain that long ago had creatively learned how to form thoughts into waves, waves that travelled at 1128 feet/second. ‘Oh, shit, he’ll think that’s a smart-ass answer.’

Silence. Tony knew the officer had heard him. A few seconds took at least a minute to pass. Fingers, attached to the body with power, held the passport firm. The other hand forcefully descended. Bang! A stamp had been applied. With eyes looking straight ahead, as if immovably anchored in the eye sockets, ‘Power’s’ head slowly raised until four retinal paths were collinear. The fixation was brief. Thank you … thank you very much … Next.

‘Next? Next? He’s not charging me. I’m through.’

Dr. Antonio nodded very slowly, a nod slow enough that it clearly broadcasted his appreciation, a nod quick enough that it signaled no special treatment to the thousand watching eyes.

‘What a great country we have.’

Dr. Antonio proceeded out, enjoying the increasing excitement, arresting the tachycardia, anticipating the warmth of an embrace.

Glass doors swung open, cameras flashed, the crowd cheered, security forces swung into action as the suited man bordering Dr. Antonio was ushered towards a temporary podium. The American Foreign Affairs department was visiting. Off to the left stood Eveline: one hand high in the air, motionless, her smile emanating memories of moments cherished and cashed, but now, … now offering one more meaningful encounter.

Dr. Antonio side-stepped the security forces. Everyone vanished. Everyone except Eveline. No noise existed. None of the flashes occurred. Somehow Eveline’s face, her smile, her eyes were there, but nothing else. He quickened his pace. Time failed to follow. He was not there yet. ‘She’s beautiful,’ alternated with ‘I love her,’ towards the only person present in the noiseless airport. Rapidly his center of gravity was moving forward, yet not getting there, not getting there in his consciousness, not getting there with his desired speed, not getting him there quick enough. His ‘center’ was being forced slightly upwards and forwards as heel strike oozed into mid-stance. Time stopped - nearly. Toe-off followed mid-stance. Silently – to the outside world, the internal construction crew, led by a screaming cox, ‘left side – pick up the pace’, propelled Tony. This uncontrolled propulsion, with parachute braking orders left unsupervised, snaked through the clapping crowd. It was a soft touch-down. No sound. Lips, four lips, met. Met. Old friends. Friends with stories well known to each other, friends with memories stored in a private safety deposit box, memories unknown to eyes watching, but memories that obviously had existed. Noses positioned their epithelium like a well-rehearsed jigsaw-puzzle insert, but this time tolerating an increased pressure, a pressure that moved, seemingly frantically, movement and pressure that rapidly recognized the unrequested flash of cameras, flashes magnetically originating ‘from away’, flashes that clearly screamed ‘invasion’, an invasion of privacy, a privacy that someone thought would sell publicly.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he thought.

‘Thank God, he’s alive,’ she thought.

Cheek on a temple, arms about 5’4" of warmth that permeated layers, space that existed elsewhere, but none between two bodies silently standing, not part of the crowd.

‘I made it.’ I love you, whispered Tony.

A nearby voice interrupted - interrupted their personal silence and in the noisy room the voice repeated: Dr. Tony Antonio, …. are you Dr. Tony Antonio?

Surprised, feeling the revival of the crowded, noisy airport, Tony gently released, fashioned a mechanical smile, and turned. Yes, I’m Dr. Antonio, he said as he extended his right hand for the handshake.

Subpoena coldly welcomed him, as the man in the black trench coat, handed a folded paper, turned, and walked away.

Chapter 3

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Driving Home from the Airport

Tony’s 5’10" ‘Bobby Hull’ frame easily placed the luggage, box, the rolled rugs into the car, one rug forced to relocate itself into the back seat. The subpoena was tossed. It probably landed in the trunk.

‘What an asshole!’

Returning to the front seat, Life … how great it is! remarked Tony. Can we be together tonight?

Eveline knew, knew the meaning, knew the concept of rhetorical questions, and decided the best repartee was a teasing lack of acknowledgement that a question had been asked, that lack of verbal acknowledgement being betrayed by a slight change in lip stiffness, by cheeks followed with lying formality, by the head held unchangingly forwards, by eyes pretending to look forwards, all denying the occurrence of an 8th cranial nerve transport, that transport being a question she had been awaiting for months to hear him to say.

Maybe, funned out.

Tony knew. Knew Eveline. Knew