Disfigured, page 1
Experience a heart-pumping and thrilling tale of suspense!
Originally published in THRILLER (2006),
edited by #1 New York Times bestselling author James Patterson.
In this Thriller Short, a collaborative medical thriller, New York Times bestselling writer Michael Palmer teams with his son Daniel Palmer, a bestselling author in his own right.
“We have your son. The picture enclosed is not a fake, this is not a hoax, and we cannot be bought.” What comes next is a tight, twisty tale rooted in conflict that runs the gamut of emotions. In Maura Hill, the Palmers create a strong-willed hero who bounces right back up, no matter how many times she’s knocked down.
Don’t miss any of these exciting Thriller Shorts:
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The Hunt for Dmitri by Gayle Lynds
Disfigured by Michael Palmer and Daniel Palmer
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The Athens Solution by Brad Thor
Diplomatic Constraints by Raelynn Hillhouse
Kill Zone by Robert Liparulo
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Gone Fishing by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
Disfigured
Michael Palmer and Daniel Palmer
CONTENTS
Disfigured
MICHAEL PALMER & DANIEL PALMER
In 1982, Michael Palmer, then a practicing E.R. physician on Cape Cod, exploded on the literary scene with his first thriller, The Sisterhood, which made the New York Times bestseller list and was translated into thirty-three languages. Since then, he has written nine more thrillers of medical suspense. Palmer attended Wesleyan University with Robin Cook, and the two of them performed their residencies at Boston’s Massachusetts General Hospital at the same time. Later, Michael Crichton’s work and Cook’s success with Coma inspired Palmer to write and, between the three writers, the genre of medical suspense became firmly established.
Palmer sees the thriller as distinct from classic detective stories. Two of his favorites are William Goldman’s Marathon Man and James Grady’s Six Days of the Condor. In Palmer’s thrillers, his protagonists are drawn into the story because of something they do professionally. They are not detectives and are not out to solve mysteries. Rather, their goals are simply to be the best physicians they can be. They’re usually pulled into the story against their wills and eventually must defeat the forces impinging on their lives, or be destroyed in the process. Of course, along the way, a catharsis occurs, but what also distinguishes Palmer’s work is a frightening aspect that leaves readers wondering if such a thing could actually happen to them.
Palmer has never before collaborated with another writer on a project, but Disfigured is coauthored with Daniel James Palmer, the middle of his three sons. Daniel is a professional songwriter, musician and software manager. Disfigured was actually Daniel’s brainchild. And although Maura, the protagonist, is not a physician, the theme is medical, and like most of Michael Palmer’s main characters, she’s drawn unwillingly into the story.
DISFIGURED
We have your son. The picture enclosed is not a fake, this is not a hoax, and we cannot be bought. If you want to see your son alive again you will read this letter carefully and follow our instructions precisely.
At 4:00 p.m., on June 23, you have face-lift surgery scheduled on your patient, Audra Meadows, of 144 Glenn Cherry Lane, Bel-Air. During the procedure, you will inject 5cc of isopropyl alcohol around the facial nerve on both sides of her face. The resulting paralysis of her facial muscles must be complete and irreversible. If you fail, if she can lift even the corner of her mouth, you will never see your son again.
A copy of this note and photo has been placed on David’s bed for your wife to find. Do not alert the authorities or anyone else. Choose to do so and you have sealed David’s fate.
Dr. George Hill, the plastic surgeon to the stars, slumped down onto the cool marble of his foyer, his heart pounding. Just minutes before, the persistent ringing of the doorbell had awoken him. The manila envelope was propped against the front door.
Hill pushed himself up and studied the photo of his son. David’s hair was shorter than when he saw him last. Was it two months ago? Certainly no more than three. His eyes, always bright and intelligent, were blindfolded. He was sitting on a metal folding chair holding a sign that read:
June 22
2:00 a.m.
2:00 a.m.—just three hours ago. Shakily, Hill made it to the phone in his entertainment center and called his office manager.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said.
“Gee, even without checking my caller ID I guessed right,” Joyce Baker replied. “I suppose 5:00 a.m. gave it away.”
Odd hours and interruptions during her limited personal time were her curse for running George Hill’s medical practice for fifteen years. He was at the top of the heap of plastic surgeons in southern California, if not the country, and he was determined to remain there.
“Have you given anyone in our office access to the new appointment scheduling program?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m the only one with a log-on password.”
“Has anyone asked you about any client’s appointment? Anyone at all?”
“Absolutely not,” Joyce said. “What’s this all about? Which client?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “Mrs. G. is scheduled to have some more work done Sunday night at the surgical center, that’s all.”
“I know that. I scheduled her.”
“Well, she thinks a reporter knows about it.”
“Goodness. I really don’t see how that’s—”
“Listen, Joyce, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you later.”
This had to be an inside job, he was thinking, someone in the office or the surgicenter. The nature of his patient’s procedures, let alone the precise time they were to be done, were more closely guarded secrets than the formula for Coke. Although she was not an A-list celebrity, Audra was still special to him—his Mona Lisa, his Sistine Chapel. Unlike with his other celebrity triumphs, he hadn’t once leaked to the press that he was the artist behind her remarkable, enduring beauty.
He paced about his Malibu mansion for a time before working up the nerve to call Maura. As his ex-wife, she, above all, would understand the moral dilemma in which he had been placed, and as David’s mother, she had the right to share in the decision that could have her son dead in less than two days.
* * *
Maura Hill pounded along Overland Avenue, pushing harder with each step. A few more minutes, baby, she gasped. A few more minutes. After years of all work and no exercise, she had begun running, then running long distances. Now she was hoping not only to run the L.A. marathon, but also to qualify for a number. However, her dream might have to wait. David’s grades and his attitude had been slipping at school lately—too much MTV and guitar, his teachers had said, to say nothing of the hormonal chaos of being fourteen. To that list Maura could add: not enough father. She knew David’s potential, and was hoping that she might show him by example how hard work and perseverance could pay off. Next year, maybe. Right now he needed a supportive, present parent.
Maura ran along the paved walkway to the three-bedroom cape where she and David lived. The house was quiet. As usual, her kid would take some major prodding to get up for school, but he would have to get up now if he wanted a ride. She had an early faculty meeting at Caltech where she taught computer science.
The ringing phone startled her. George’s number came up on the caller ID. “Bastard,” she instinctively muttered to herself. She had come to accept the fact that, after he discovered his remarkable talent for plastic surgery, he became totally self-absorbed and a lousy, philandering husband, but having him honestly believe that dinner or a ball game every couple of months equaled being a good father was too much.
“Hello, George,” she said coolly.
Maura listened intently and blanched as Hill spoke. Still holding the phone, she sprinted down the hallway toward David’s room. It’s not possible, she thought. She had kissed David goodnight before she went to bed. He couldn’t possibly be gone. She opened the door to David’s room and gasped. The unmade bed was empty, and his window wide-open. The curtains fluttered like ghosts in the early-morning light.
* * *
“Who is she?” Maura shouted, bursting into her ex-husband’s elegant Beverly Hills office.
Hill, who was slouched on a chair in his waiting room, drinking whiskey out of a tumbler, barely lifted his head.
&n bsp; “Her name is Audra Meadows,” he said, finishing the whiskey and pouring another. “She’s been a patient of mine for years. David’s only been gone for a few hours, Maura. Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“You read the note.”
“Then what should we do?”
“First of all, we should stop drinking ourselves into oblivion so our brains can at least function with some clarity. I want to see that woman’s file.”
“But doctors are sworn—”
“Jesus Christ, George! Give me her file or I swear I’ll trash this office until I find it. This is our son!”
Hill retrieved Meadows’s record from his fireproof vault and handed it over. Maura’s eyes widened as she looked through twelve years of surgical notes and photos—the usual Hollywood tucks and augments on her body, plus eight or nine procedures on her face. Even prior to the first of those, Audra Meadows was a strikingly beautiful woman. Her naturally high cheekbones were what others craved. Her almond eyes were a deep green, exotic and alluring. She was, quite simply, a version of perfection. And yet with each subsequent procedure, imperceptible unless the photos were viewed in sequence, Hill had preserved and even improved upon her vibrant, ageless visage.
“Why on earth was she a client?” Maura asked.
“Like many of my patients, Audra sees in herself imperfections others don’t.”
Maura grimaced. Such vanity.
“So, who would want to hurt this Audra person so badly that they’d be willing to kill my son—I’m sorry, I mean our son?”
George shrugged.
“Somebody envious of her looks?”
“Or of your skill. Perhaps they’re trying to ruin you.”
“I’ve thought about that. This is a competitive business—especially in this town.”
Maura’s eyes narrowed.
“George, if it comes to saving our son, you are going to do what they’re asking, aren’t you? You will do the injection.”
Her ex hesitated.
“That procedure will paralyze her facial muscles forever,” he said. “Even if I do it there’s no guarantee they’ll let David live.”
“But we have no choice!” Maura screamed. “Can’t you do it now and fix it later? You’re the fucking surgeon to the stars!”
George slammed his hands against his desk.
“What don’t you understand about forever? Jesus, Maura, if I do what they want, and I get caught, I’ll be reported to the medical board and never practice again. I’ll be sued and lose everything.”
“You self-centered bastard!”
“I know this is hard for you to understand, but all I’ve ever wanted since my rotation in med school is to be a plastic surgeon. It goes against everything I believe to intentionally destroy a person’s face. I think we should go to the police.”
Her eyes flared.
“You do that, and I swear I’ll find a way to ruin you myself. Don’t worry,” she added, scooping up Audra’s file, “I’ll find David before you’re forced to put your precious reputation up against his life.”
She slammed his office door with such force the frosted glass shattered.
Maura left George’s office aware that somebody might be watching to ensure she didn’t involve the police. It was still before rush hour and there were few cars on the street. None seemed suspicious. Shaking from fear and rage, she drove about a mile west before pulling over at a red light. There, she rested her head against the steering wheel and allowed herself to cry. She was an egghead—a usually gentle scholar, not a woman of action. Now she would have to change, and change in a hurry.
Composing herself, Maura peered into the rearview mirror and noticed a gray Cadillac a few cars away. Its lights were on. Hadn’t she seen the same car outside George’s office just minutes ago? Her heart started racing. Had George’s call to her been tapped? Were the kidnappers watching her right now? Maura slowly eased back into traffic. Seconds later the Cadillac pulled out and followed just a few cars behind. It was impossible to read the plates. Fumbling in her purse, she grabbed her cell phone and dialed.
“Hello,” answered a familiar voice.
“Hack, thank God you’re there.”
Taylor “Hack” Burgess was one of her students at Caltech—a Ph.D. candidate specializing in nanotechnology, the creation of submicroscopic electronic sensors with limitless possibilities. A fellow grad student once claimed that the brilliant, spectral, antisocial Burgess put the “eek!” in geek. His potential was infinite, assuming he could keep out of jail. His passion was the source of his nickname, and Maura was constantly chastising him for hacking into supposedly inaccessible systems. Burgess called it research.
“Hack, listen carefully,” Maura said urgently. “I can’t explain why, but I need you to do some research for me.”
“For you, anything.”
She gave him Audra Meadows’s name, address and date of birth, and added, “I need to know anything and everything you can find out about her. Has she been arrested? Been in court? Chaired fund-raisers? Gotten honored? Anything at all. Get into any system you can think of. It’s urgent.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me to be careful?”
“Do whatever you have to.”
Maura checked the rearview. The car remained behind her. The sun, still low in the sky, made it impossible to get a good look at the driver. She stopped at a red light on Wiltshire. Her fingers were white on the steering wheel. I can’t be this close and not know.
She grabbed her cell phone, took one deep breath and charged out of her car just as the light turned green. Horns blared as she raced back toward the Cadillac. She was able to see the silhouette of the driver now, but couldn’t distinguish anything except a baseball cap and possibly sunglasses. As she approached, the Cadillac’s tires screeched and the car lunged forward, smashing into an Acura, which spun forty-five degrees and rammed a VW.
Maura froze as the Cadillac then squealed into reverse and slammed into the car behind. There was the sickening crunch of metal and the car’s air bag deployed. The Cadillac then made a sharp left into oncoming traffic. Cars spun out in all directions. Moments later the Caddy had disappeared down Wiltshire. Stunned, Maura reached for her phone. Hack answered on the third ring.
“Gray Cadillac. License plate California AZ3 something. That’s all I got. Find a match.”
From a distance she could hear sirens approaching. She used the time before the cruisers arrived to concoct a story of a stalled engine in her car, and road rage on the part of the driver of the Caddy.
Over the hours that followed, Maura was constantly checking to see if she was being followed. Finally, she decided to go to a hotel rather than to chance that her home phone or the house, itself, was bugged. She sent a note to George by messenger, instructing him to speak to no one, and to call her on her hotel-room phone from a pay phone. If she was being overly paranoid, so be it.
George had nothing new to report. Maura held her breath and asked again if he was prepared to honor the kidnappers’ demand that he disfigure Audra Meadows.
“We can’t let it come to that,” was all he would say. “We just can’t.”
She slammed down the receiver and called Hack.
“What have you learned?” she asked.
“A few things. It took a while for me to penetrate the DMV. They must have a new security guy. Their mistake was upgrading their SQL database to SP4 and that gave me the opening I needed.”
“Hack, I don’t care how you did it, in fact it’s better I don’t know. Just tell me what you’ve got.”
“Okay. There are over three thousand California license plates that start with AZ3.”
Maura’s heart sank.
“Damn.”
“Of those, I found less than twenty-five on Cadillacs. Half are owned by rental-car companies, the other half are residential, and none in the Los Angeles area.”
“We’re dead.”
“Not so fast. Rather than risk a trace, I used the good ol’ phone and dialed Avis and Hertz.”
Maura perked up.
“Go on.”
“I pretended to be the police, inquiring about a hit-and-run. Anyway, it appears we have ourselves a bit of a coincidence. Yesterday the Avis by LAX rented their 2005 gray Cadillac to someone from Meadows Productions. It’s Alec Meadows’s company. I checked.”
