of the baby’s bed, they peppered Murphy with questions, one dovetailing into another.
When he approached Murphy, the physician looked relieved to see him.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, extricating himself from the circle of noise. Moving toward the side, Murphy shook his head. “I’m going to have to have my hearing checked after tonight. I think I’ve lost the ability to hear anything at a high frequency.” Blowing out a breath, he glanced up at Georges. “You’re going to ask me about the old man, right?”
Georges saw no point in wasting time, even though he knew Murphy wasn’t anxious to get back to his tiny patient and his overwrought parents. “Are his films back yet?”
Murphy nodded. “Just. I’ve put out a call for an internal surgeon and I want a consult with Dr. Greywolf,” he added, mentioning one of Blair’s top heart surgeons.
“What’s wrong with him?” Georges pressed.
Murphy rattled off the important particulars. “His spleen’s been damaged, his liver was bruised in the accident and several ribs were cracked, not to mention that he did have a minor heart attack. Nice work bringing him around, by the way.”
It never hurt to have one of the chief attendings compliment your work, Georges thought. “Thanks.” But right now, he was more interested in the answer to his next question. “Who’d you call for the surgery?”
“Rob Schulman. He’s on call for the night. I’m trying to get Darren Patterson to act as assistant on the procedures, but so far, Patterson’s not answering his page.”
Georges didn’t even have to think about it. “I can assist,” he volunteered. Murphy eyed him skeptically. All surgical residents were eager to operate whenever possible, but this went beyond wanting to put in time in the O.R. He felt an obligation to the old man to see things through. “I’ve assisted Schulman before. If Patterson doesn’t answer by the time Schulman gets here—”
“You scrub in,” Murphy concluded, agreeing. The night shift was always down on viable personnel, and they worked with what they could get on short notice.
The baby’s screams grew louder again. Murphy gritted his teeth. “Any chance you want to fill in for me until Schulman shows up?”
Georges laughed and shook his head. “Not a chance. I put in my eighteen hours today.”
“Then why aren’t you dead on your feet?”
Georges grinned as he spread his hands innocently. “Clean living.”
“Not from what I hear,” Murphy responded. He turned around to walk back to the shrieking baby’s stall. “Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred,” he muttered under his breath.
“A doctor who quotes Tennyson. That should look good on your résumé,” Georges commented.
Murphy said something unintelligible as he disappeared into the stall.
Georges made his way back to Vienna.
The second she saw him, she was on her feet, her eyes opened wide like Bambi.
“My grandfather…”
Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t bring herself to complete the question, afraid of being too optimistic. Afraid of the alternative even more. She held her breath, waiting for Georges to answer her.
“Is going to need surgery,” he told her, saying only what they both already knew. “He got a little banged up inside and we’re going to fix that,” he assured Vienna in a calm, soothing voice.
Relief wafted over her. Her grandfather was still alive. There was hope. And then she replayed the doctor’s words in her head.
“We?” she questioned. “Then you’ll be the one operating on him?”
“Dr. Schulman will be performing the surgery. He’s one of the best in the country. I’ll be assisting him if they can’t find anyone else.”
She took hold of his hand, her eyes on his, riveting him in place. “I don’t want anyone else,” she told him with such feeling it all but took his breath away. “I want you. I want you to be there.”
“They’re trying to locate another surgeon to assist, but—”
“No,” she interrupted. “You. I want you.” Her fingers closed over his hand. “You’ll help. I can feel it. It’s important that you be there for him during the operation. Please.”
Georges heard himself saying, “All right,” but, like a ventriloquist, she was the one who was drawing the words from his lips.
Chapter Four
The next moment, Vienna suddenly pulled back.
Georges probably thought she was crazy, she thought, and she didn’t want to alienate him. But she was certain that he had to be in the operating room.
It wasn’t that she thought of herself as clairvoyant, she just had these…feelings, for lack of a better word. Feelings that came to her every so often.
Feelings that always turned out to be true.
She’d had one of those feelings the day her parents were killed.
Vienna had been only eight at the time, still very much a child, but somehow, as they bid her goodbye, saying they would see her that evening, she instinctively knew that she was seeing Bill and Theresa Hollenbeck for the last time. She’d clung to each of her parents in turn, unwilling to release them, unable to make them understand that if they walked out that door, if they drove to Palm Springs to meet with her mother’s best friend and that woman’s fiancé, that they would never see another sunrise.
God knew she’d tried to tell them, but they had laughed and hugged her, and told her not to worry. That she was just held captive by an overactive imagination. And her grandfather’s stories. Amos Schwarzwalden, her mother’s father, was visiting from Austria at the time and they left her with him.
And drove out of her life forever.
The accident happened at six-thirty that evening. It was a huge pileup on I-5 that made all the local papers and the evening news. Seven cars had plowed into one another after a drunk driver had lost control of his car. A semi had swerved to avoid hitting the careening vehicle—and wound up hitting the seven other cars instead.
Miraculously, there’d only been two casualties. Tragically, those two casualties had been her parents.
It was the first time Vienna could remember ever having one of those “feelings.”
After that, there were other times, other occasions where a sense of uneasiness warned her that something bad was going to happen. But the feeling never came at regular intervals or even often. It didn’t occur often enough for her grandfather, who was the only one she shared this feeling with, to think she had some sort of extraordinary power. She didn’t consider herself a seer or someone with “the sight” as those in the old country were wont to say.
But her “intuitions” occurred just often enough for
