closed, but his raw rasps told her he was alive. The awful sound of approaching death filled her mind. Her husband, her mother and many of her colleagues had died violently. She wondered how she managed to survive. Maybe she was the one in the nightmare.
She clasped her wound and worked to strip the anger and pain from her voice. “You and Nina have a real chance. I’d give a lot to have the chance you have.”
At last, Dmitri’s shoulders relaxed. As he stood and walked away from the unconscious Olenkov, his upper lip rose with distaste. He did not look at Olenkov.
Sickened by Olenkov, disgusted by her misjudgment, she turned away from Olenkov, too.
In the distance, sirens screeched. Dmitri lifted his chin, listening as they drew near. “When Nina was born, I was in hiding. My wife’s parents raised her. She is twenty-three now.” He paused. “My fault. I wanted to know about her so bad that I finally wrote her last year. That is probably how he traced me.”
Liz’s breath caught in her throat. “So Nina is—?”
“My daughter.” Dmitri smiled a brilliant smile. “Thank you.”
He headed for the door and opened it. Behind him, the night sky that had seemed so drab now shone like ebony. The once-distant stars sparkled brightly.
Gingerly, he touched his wound. “Not bad. How are you?”
“I’ll live. Olenkov told me Nina was your wife.”
His hand fell from his shoulder. Pain torqued his flat features. “Her name was Natalia. Olenkov terminated her.”
“How horrible. I’m sorry.” So Olenkov had lied about that, too. “Are you sure my father didn’t do it?”
He shook his head. “As soon as the Carnivore found us, Olenkov scrubbed my wife. That pissed off the Carnivore. He said he was hired for wet jobs on criminals—not dissidents. So when the bastard tried to scrub me, too, the Carnivore shot him.”
Liz stared. Her father had saved Dmitri? She felt a strange kind of awe. She had always accepted the government’s version of the Carnivore’s career as an assassin. But then, he had never said anything to make her think otherwise. What else had she missed?
“He sneaked me out of the Soviet Union,” Dmitri continued. “We almost got caught twice. We walked three days across terrible ice and snow into Finland.” He swallowed and looked away. “They say he was a killer, but he was very good to me.”
As if it were yesterday, pieces of her childhood returned. Liz remembered holding her father’s hand as they laughed and he led her in a race across the Embankment. Their long conversations as they sat cozily alone to drink tea. The gentle way he brushed away her hair to kiss her cheek. She might have been wrong about him. What else had she missed? For her, the hunt had just begun.
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?”
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