and chest were deep and severe, quite possibly fatal were it not for the fact the bullets had remained where they had lodged, self-cauterized and continuously cleansed by the sea. Extracting them was nowhere near as dangerous as it might have been, the tissue primed, softened, sterilized, ready for an immediate knife. The cranial wound was the real problem; not only was the penetration subcutaneous, but it appeared to have bruised the thalamus and hippocampus fibrous regions. Had the bullet entered millimeters away on either side the vital functions would have ceased; they had not been impeded, and Washburn had made a decision. He went dry for thirty-six hours, eating as much starch and drinking as much water as was humanly possible. Then he performed the most delicate piece of work he had attempted since his dismissal from Macleans Hospital in London. Millimeter by agonizing millimeter he had brush-washed the fibrous areas, then stretched and sutured the skin over the cranial wound, knowing that the slightest error with brush, needle, or clamp would cause the patient’s death.
He had not wanted this unknown patient to die for any number of reasons. But especially one.
When it was over and the vital signs had remained constant, Dr. Geoffrey Washburn went back to his chemical and psychological appendage. His bottle. He had gotten drunk and he had remained drunk, but he had not gone over the edge. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing at all times. Definitely an improvement.
Any day now, any hour perhaps, the stranger would focus his eyes and intelligible words would emerge from his lips.
Even any moment.
The words came first. They floated in the air as the early morning breeze off the sea cooled the room.
“Who’s there? Who’s in this room?”
Washburn sat up in the cot, moved his legs quietly over the side, and rose slowly to his feet. It was important to make no jarring note, no sudden noise or physical movement that might frighten the patient into a psychological regression. The next few minutes would be as delicate as the surgical procedures he had performed; the doctor in him was prepared for the moment.
“A friend,” he said softly.
“Friend?”
“You speak English. I thought you would. American or Canadian is what I suspected. Your dental work didn’t come from the UK or Paris. How do you feel?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It will take awhile. Do you need to relieve your bowels?”
“What?”
“Take a crapper, old man. That’s what the pan’s for beside you. The white one on your left. When we make it in time, of course.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Perfectly normal function. I’m a doctor, your doctor. My name is Geoffrey Washburn. What’s yours?”
“What?”
“I asked you what your name was.”
The stranger moved his head and stared at the white wall streaked with shafts of morning light. Then he turned back, his blue eyes leveled at the doctor. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I’ve told you over and over again. It will take time. The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Generally. It’s not pertinent. But I can give you clues, if you’ll listen.”
“I’ve listened”
“No, you don’t; you turn away. You lie in your cocoon and pull the cover over your mind. Hear me again.”
“I’m listening.”
“In your coma—your prolonged coma—you spoke in three different languages. English, French and some goddamned twangy thing I presume is Oriental. That means you’re multilingual; you’re at home in various parts of the world. Think geographically. What’s most comfortable for you?”
“Obviously English.”
“We’ve agreed to that. So what’s most uncomfortable?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your eyes are round, not sloped. I’d say obviously the Oriental.”
“Obviously.”
“Then why do you speak it? Now, think in terms of association. I’ve written down words; listen to them. I’ll say them phonetically. Ma-kwa. Tam-kwon. Kee-sah. Say the first thing that comes to mind.”
“Nothing.”
“Good show.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Something. Anything.”
“You’re drunk.”
“We’ve agreed to that. Consistently. I also saved your bloody life. Drunk or not, I am a doctor. I was once a very good one.”
“What happened?”
“The patient questions the doctor?”
“Why not?”
Washburn paused, looking out the window at the waterfront. “I was drunk,” he said. “They said I killed two patients on the operating table because I was drunk. I could have gotten away with one. Not two. They see a pattern very quickly, God bless them. Don’t ever give a man like me a knife and cloak it in respectability.”
“Was it necessary?”
“Was what necessary?”
“The bottle.”
“Yes, damn you,” said Washburn softly, turning from the window. “It was and