38. Cohen

38

COHEN

" A s I'm sure you're aware, Dr. Michaels…"

I stopped bothering to correct him. It was clear the guy had a bug up his ass when it came to addressing me. And the more I argued facts, the more Adrian made a point of talking over them. Fucker liked the sound of his own voice. Reminded me of a few of the surgeons I met when I was applying for my clinical rotations. So maybe the nickname wasn't so far off.

"…Briarwood Sanitorium has a long, tumultuous history… often misunderstood by those with a lower intellectual capacity. My predecessors were at the forefront of clinical research, developing creative solutions to resolve the challenges many of the residents and their families experienced on a daily basis…"

Blah, blah, blah…

I couldn't hold back my yawn as we turned another corner and landed ourselves in front of the hospital's epicenter. My eyes flicked along the sterile surfaces. The mortuary cabinets lining the far wall. The large metal door that led to an industrial size meat freezer perpendicular to the table in the center of the space.

It was part operating room. Part morgue and part human chop shop.

My heart beat out of my chest, sweat trickling down my forehead and my skin humming after months of desensitized detachment. I ran a finger over each of the instruments lined up on the surgical tray, the cold tungsten—not cheaper stainless steel—calling out my name. Begging me to hold it. To approach the table and perform a simple Kocher or a quick midline long the vertical linea alba.

All I needed was a body.

Couldn't remember the last time I'd sank my gloves into flesh, seen the white elastic turn that bright shade of arterial red. Felt the live cardiac muscles beat in my hands or heard the buzz of the LED lights and the slight hum of the capnography. Except it also seemed like yesterday. This was where I was always meant to be. At the table with a scalpel in my hand. Problem was I didn't have much use of that hand anymore and my Rehapiano reading was a fraction of what it used to be. I clenched my fist in an effort to staunch the involuntary trembling. And cursed under my breath.

"So what do you think?"

"Of?" It took me a moment to register I wasn't alone. Even though I was well aware that I wasn't. There was just something about trying to understand the human anatomy that enlivened me.

Adrian waved a hand in the air, as if the answer should be obvious. It wasn't. I had no fucking idea what he was asking me. Didn't have the faintest clue as to what these guys were really doing here. Just that it was in no way board certified.

"Of my entire operation. My facility." He grinned the way a cat grins after it's dropped a dead rodent on your doorstep. Fucker wanted me to choke down whatever bullshit he was feeding me. "I would love to hear your thoughts on Briarwood."

"I don't see any patients." I tipped my head from one side to the other, like a horde of mouth-droolers was gonna appear around the corner any minute now, even as my gut told me that wasn't likely.

"You wouldn't." He lifted a single shoulder in a half shrug. "We don't treat. Not anymore. You see, what we do here is much more…" He hummed as if considering his choice of word. "… specialized ."

"Yeah, well, not sure how much you've been paying attention. But I ain't specializing in much of anything these days." I held out my mangled hand and did my best to flex the taut muscles. My pinky twitched, offering the slightest movement, while the rest of my fingers were as animated as a few slabs of meat tossed up on a butcher's counter.

"That is a pity. What they did to you on that operating table. Then again, their loss is my gain. Now isn't it?"

The way the fucker's lips curled into a satisfied smirk left me with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was half-tempted to ask him if he had anything to do with my botched surgeries. Wouldn't be the first time some butcher with a PhD behind his name put self-interests ahead of patient care. Had a lot to do with the god complex each of us suffered from on some level or another. Couldn't do the job without it. Not really.

"Tell me why I should trust a word that comes outta your mouth?"

"You shouldn't. I certainly wouldn't." He shrugged.

"And…?"

"And nothing. Facts are facts, Dr. Michaels. And the facts are you have a choice. Accept my offer to come work for me or don't. What happens after we leave this room is entirely up to you."

"And why does that sound like a threat, Doc?" I lowered myself onto the metal chair. Kicked my boots up onto the desk in the corner while leaning back in my seat.

"Because it is. If you decide it is. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's exactly what you need to get it all back. Use of that hand, an operating room of your own, the girl… it could all be yours again. It really is that simple."

"Ever heard the phrase if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is ?"

"I assure you nothing we do here is good."

"What does any of this have to do with Emily?"

"The girl? I couldn't care less about your extracurricular activities." He pulled a brown hospital chart from a drawer and chucked it across the desk, waiting for the audible slap when it landed in front of me. "Merely a means to an end. A motivator. Everyone has one and I watched you long enough to find yours."

"Stalk the stalker? Ain't that a little on the nose?"

His only reply was the subtle rise and fall of one shoulder.

My eyes dropped to the chart before flicking back up to meet his smirk. I could sense the tremor in my hand, hear the tapping of my foot against the chair leg, which meant I knew he could hear it too. I was no better than a junkie while that chart was the closest thing to my next fix as I was gonna get right now.

"What's in it?"

"The answers to all your questions, of course."