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Wearing a black tuxedo, the Chief sat in a private corner of the balcony overlooking the Pacific. His gaze drifted among the guests, his district sales representatives gathered on the patio below. Before the night was done, each would expect a one-on-one interview with him. But they would never know their words would be unheard, their requests ignored.

The fog had swirled in, drifting slowly north. Many of the guests shivered in its damp chill. That pleased the Chief. Perhaps they would leave sooner than later.

Unannounced and uninvited, a tall woman, well dressed in shades of lavender, burst onto the balcony. Furious, he scowled at her.

Ignoring his obvious displeasure, she crouched at his side and began whispering. Gradually the sights and sounds about him faded into the whispering mouth that breathed out names, places, dates, events. As her words penetrated his mind, he reached for her hand. She flinched when he tightened his grip, but he demanded she continue.

When she was finished, his eyes still riveted on her lips, he asked her, "How do you know all this?"

She told him, and he released her hand. She turned and left as abruptly as she had come. He beckoned the powerful man standing behind him. "The party is over. Tell them anything; just get rid of them."

The Chief disappeared behind the French doors of his mansion. After locking himself inside the walnut-paneled office, he settled in front of the computer. He entered a seven-letter code. The monitor flashed to life, displaying columns of colorful icons. For a long moment the cursor hovered over an icon shaped like an oblong coffin.

Under it was a caption: Red Twenty-Nine.

He clicked on the icon, then typed another password. A grainy, black and white video flickered onto the screen. He fast-forwarded it until he found what he was looking for. Then he set it to slow motion. Leaning back, he gazed at the flow of images. Soon they overpowered his senses.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images were still there, playing out the final scenes of his life as a man.

In the tiny examining room reeking of iodine, Olie Nielsen stared vacantly at the cinderblock wall.

"I don’t think I’m going to make it, Greg," he mumbled.

I twisted around. "What did you say?"

"Getting hard of hearing? I said I don’t think I’m going to make it."

The words astounded me. I had often heard them from patients facing major surgery for the first time. But I didn’t expect them from Olie Nielsen, a former hockey superstar with a roadmap of surgical scars all over his body.

I spouted off the standard answer. "A lot of people feel that way before a major operation. You’ll be fine."

"Look, I’ve had a dozen surgeries in my hockey career. But I’ve never had this feeling before getting cut up. Explain that, will you?"

I pondered the question. Olie was known for his sixth sense. Sportscasters had often mentioned it during his playing years. They said he knew where the puck would be before it got there. And he knew where to pass it without looking for a receiver. Was that sixth sense speaking to him now?

Olie slid his enormous hulk off the examining table. "You look worried, Greg."

"Why did you say that?"

"Because you’re frowning."

"No, I mean about you not making it."

"I don’t know. Can’t explain the feeling."

Should I give in to his sixth sense? Or should I go ahead with the surgery as planned?

Just about every sports addict loved Olie. He was a recent inductee into the ice hockey hall of fame and now the successful head coach at our local college. With his winning grin and friendly eyes, he was the darling of the media. Easygoing, great sense of humor, and an all-round decent person, he was a credit to his port. If he should die during or soon after the surgery, millions of people, especially me, would mourn for him.

That aside, I hate losing a patient for any reason—terminal cancer included.

I said to him, "If you like, I could refer you to University Hospital in Ann Arbor."

Olie’s cobalt eyes narrowed. "I don’t live in Ann Arbor. I live right here in Ironthorp, Michigan. And so does my family."

"University Hospital is one of the best in the country."

"What about our own little hospital?"

"Top notch."

"Then why should I go to Ann Arbor? I don’t like being poked about by all those medical students. Someone once told me the trainees do most of the surgery at university hospitals. Is that true, Greg?"

"Depends on the situation. But the professor is always present and directing the operation."

"I don’t need a director. I need a hands-on surgeon. And they tell me you’ve got a great pair of hands."

"Thanks. But what about this feeling of yours?"

"You told me everyone gets it before major surgery."

"I didn’t say everyone."

"But a lot of people, right?"

"Right."

"So I’m not that different, am I?"

"I guess not."

"What’s the matter, Greg? Can’t take the pressure?"

I had never operated on a celebrity before. Admittedly, the pressure was intense. Reporters had swarmed into our four-stoplight town on the banks of the Ironthorp River. They asked a lot of questions, mostly about me, Dr. Grigori—Greg—Dostoyov. What’s he like? Is he competent? Where did he go to medical school? Is he board-certified in surgery? And how come Olie Nielsen doesn’t go to some renowned medical center in some big city? After all, that’s where major-league physicians and surgeons practice, isn’t it? Certainly not in Podunk, U.S.A.

I looked intently at Olie. "I can take the pressure if you can."

He beamed. "So we’re on for tomorrow morning, then."

"We’re on."

Sitting at the narrow counter with the Formica top, I finished scrawling my office notes while Olie dressed. When ready to leave, he said, "I’ll see you in the morning, Doc. Good luck to both of us."

I jumped up. "Luck has nothing to do with it."

"That’s comforting to know. Will the doctor with the impossible last name be your assistant?"

"Andy Mortczenski. You met him, right?"

Olie nodded.

We were heading out of the room when he suddenly grabbed my arm. "Is your assistant any good?"

"The best."

"I’m glad to hear it, because he bothers me."

"Why?"

"Don’t know. He just makes me nervous. How many surgeries has he assisted you with?"

"I’ve lost count."

"Is there something unusual about mine?"

"Nothing at all."

"You’re positive?"

"Positive."

Early that same evening I finished making hospital rounds, then headed to the locker room. After exchanging my white coat for a blue blazer, I was combing my mop of brown hair when the door creaked open. In the mirror I saw Andy Mortczenski step inside, look around, then slink behind a row of lockers.

I followed him. "What brings you here today, Andy?"

Mortczenski spun around. Sweat-drenched, he stared at me for a long moment. Then he clanged open his locker and rummaged about. "I’m—uh—looking for something."

"We’re on for seven-thirty tomorrow," I said. "You all set?"

"Yeah."

"Lots of reporters around."

"Who cares?"

"See you at seven-thirty sharp."

He grunted something, slammed his locker door, and secured it with a combination lock.

I watched him stomp out of the room. Although an excellent surgical assistant, Mortczenski seemed disturbed lately—withdrawn, moody, given to fits of temper.

And there was this sinister air about him. Olie had sensed it, and now I sensed it.

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Awake at four in the morning, my thoughts immediately drifted to Olie Nielsen’s premonition.

I don’t think I’m going to make it, Greg.

Apparently those words bothered me more than they did him. Otherwise, why would he insist on going through with the operation and with me as his surgeon? I tried to downplay the forewarning, but couldn’t get it out of my mind.

A few days before, he had made an appointment to see me because he noticed blood in the toilet bowl. I snaked an endoscope through his colon and found a growth the size of a walnut. Burrowed deep in the intestinal lining, it would be too risky to remove through the instrument.

After the procedure I told him, "Colon polyp."

He shrugged. "Who is he?"

"He—it, I should say—is a growth in your large intestine. It needs to come out."

"I’ll shit it out."

"I wish it could be that simple. An abdominal operation will take care of it for good. Where would you like to have the surgery done?"

"Right here, with you as the surgeon."

"Okay. I’ll make the arrangements."

"How about tomorrow?"

"You need preparation, like blood tests, x-rays, and an EKG. What’s more, your colon has to be clean as a whistle."

"Whistles aren’t that clean. Especially refs’ whistles."

"You know what I mean."

"I have to take laxatives and all that?"

"You do."

"Shit."

"Exactly—till there’s nothing left."

Now was the morning of his operation: reporters on the scent, hospital administration in a frenzy, me under a microscope.

And Olie’s premonition.

I gulped down a cup of instant coffee, then got into my running gear: T-shirt, shorts, and pre-Nike sneakers. My legs, which in high school and college had won me a bunch of trophies, easily handled the three-mile run along the country lane by my cottage.

After a hot shower, whole wheat cereal, and a dose of CNN bad news, I glanced at my throwaway watch. It read one-thirty. The battery must have died.

Another bad omen?

When I arrived at the hospital, a rowdy mob of reporters was gathered in the lobby. Weaving my way through the throng, I heard someone say, "Olie shouldn’t be letting some hick surgeon work on him."

Someone else said, "Hey, watch it. I work for a hick newspaper. Besides, I hear Greg Dostoyov is a fantastic surgeon."

"Good for you and good for him. If Olie gets through this okay, maybe I’ll do a nice piece on Dostoyov. But if he doesn’t . . ."

In the locker room I foraged through stacks of scrub clothes until I found a set not made for a behemoth. Anyone would think my five-ten, lean frame was out of the ordinary.

Nielsen’s operation would be in Suite B, the newer of the two O.R. rooms. For a small hospital in a small town, the suite was big enough to hold two operating tables with their ancillary equipment and room to spare.

Lucy Kimble, my scrub nurse with the smiling blue eyes, was inspecting the instrument tray when I approached her. "Any word on Andy Mortczenski?" I asked her.

"Dr. Mortczenski came earlier and left. He told me he’d be back just before the case gets started."

"Okay. You nervous, Lucy?"

"Why should I be?"

"The flock of reporters hanging around in the lobby."

"Did they hassle you?"

"No."

"That’s strange. When I walked through, they were all dying to talk to Olie Nielsen’s surgeon. Last time I checked, that was you, Dr. Dostoyov."

"I told them I was an orderly."

Her smiling eyes suddenly turned sad. "I saw Olie last night. He’s such a neat guy, but . . ."

"But?"

"He seemed so depressed."

"Got any Tums or Rolaids?"

Mortczenski, about fifty pounds overweight and short of breath, lumbered into the room. I said, "Good of you to show up, Andy."

He didn’t answer.

He looked off-color. Pale complexion, dark circles under his eyes, and at least two days’ worth of gray stubble on his two chins.

I asked him, "Bad night?"

"Why do you think that?"

"You forgot your mask."

Rubbing a hand over his bristles, Mortczenski walked out. Soon he was back wearing a mask, his hands dripping after having to scrub them again. "Let’s get on with the operation. I don’t feel well."

"Should I ask for a replacement?"

"Hell no! Once we get going, I’ll forget all about my goddamn flu."

"Good thing you have your mask on."

At 7:45 I made the midline abdominal incision. At 8:15 Mortczenski excused himself. "I need the John."

Five minutes later he was back, his brow beaded with sweat.

With his help I removed the portion of Nielsen’s colon harboring the growth. Then I asked the circulating nurse to call the pathologist for a frozen section. The tissue analysis would determine if the growth was benign or malignant. More importantly, it would indicate if the margins of the specimen were clear of any tumor invisible to the eye. I couldn’t continue the surgery without that knowledge.

Mortczenski said, "Why don’t you take the specimen out to the pathologist yourself? With you there, at least those damn people will hurry up."

"I planned on it, Andy. In the meantime cover up the wound with saline-soaked towels. Then sit down and give your flu and your attitude a rest."

He grunted something.

Looking over the screen that separated the anesthesiologist from the operative field, I asked her, "Is our patient stable?"

She pointed at the vital signs monitor next to her. "Like a rock. See for yourself."

She was right.

I took the section of excised colon out to the tiny lab adjacent to the operating room. The lab was adequately equipped for performing frozen sections but not much else. The pathologist, a woman in her late forties with short-cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses, was already there waiting.

"How is the surgery going, Greg?" she asked.

"Fine."

"May I relay that to the thousand reporters milling about the lobby?"

"Yes, do that. But don’t tell them anything about the tumor. That’s his business."

I cut open the specimen to expose the colon’s inner lining and the growth. Looking like a pink cauliflower, tumor seemed to be located well away from the ends of the excised segment.

I watched the pathologist preparing the microscopic sections. Some were taken from the cut ends of the specimen, the rest from the tumor itself. Once the histological slides were ready, she studied them, occasionally letting me peer through the microscope. Ten minutes later we concluded the tumor was benign. I had removed it entirely with plenty of normal margins to spare.

Heaving a sigh of relief, I went back to the operating room and re-scrubbed.

Lucy was sitting cross-armed on a stool and looking bored. The anesthesiologist was invisible behind the screen. Andy Mortczenski stood at the operating table, the circulating nurse wiping his brow with a damp cloth. He looked ashen and a little unsteady.

"You okay, Andy?" I asked him.

"Let’s just get this over with."

He was really annoying me.

I announced the good news about Olie’s tumor to a chorus of cheers. Then I asked Lucy for the intestinal stapler. I used it to reconnect the two cut ends of Nielsen’s remaining colon. Checking the connection for any possible defects or leakage points, I found none.

"We’ll close as soon as I make a final check of the abdomen," I said.

Starting the systematic examination, I reached up toward the patient’s liver. Like the jaws of a pit bull, Mortczenski’s hand suddenly clamped around my forearm.

What the hell?

I glared at him. "Take your goddamn hand off me, Andy, unless you want to lose it."

The room hushed. I could feel all eyes riveted on me.

Mortczenski released his grip. "While you were out, I did a thorough exploration. Everything was okay. Besides, you looked around earlier, so stop wasting my time."

What he said surprised me. As my assistant, he had never acted on his own before.

I said to him, "You consider a few minutes of your time more valuable than the patient’s life?"

He folded his arms and stepped away from the table. "You don’t trust me when I tell you there’s nothing wrong inside that belly? Maybe you should get yourself an assistant you can trust."

I pointed to the door. "There’s the exit."

"You throwing me out?"

"I thought you volunteered."

He didn’t move, and I decided not to press him. The poor guy had the flu, and I needed to be more tolerant of his bad moods. Everyone gets those, me included.

With Mortczenski watching, I completed the brief abdominal exploration. Everything seemed in order. But like he said, I had already examined the insides thoroughly at the start of the operation. I glanced at the circulating nurse. She had just finished counting the surgical sponges.

"Is the count correct?" I asked her.

"Right on the money."

"The same with the instrument count," Lucy added.

She helped me close the abdomen. I noticed Mortczenski slinking out once we were done.

"Is it really the flu that’s bothering him?" I asked no one in particular.

"Menopause," Lucy offered.

"Funny."

But it wasn’t, really.

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Like it always did when I was stressed, my stomach groaned in pain. The problem was I didn’t know why I felt stressed. Olie Nielsen had breezed through the surgery and the immediate post-op recovery period without any trouble. No fevers, no infections, no wound complications. The intestinal reconnection seemed in perfect working order—his bowel movements were normal. Tonight, now five days after the surgery, I would discharge him from the hospital.

Then why the hell was my stomach in knots?

Just outside the main lobby, I ran across the hospital director: pear-shaped, wiry hair, enormous breasts, and all the traits of a fascist. She said, "You’re to be congratulated for the great job of Olie Nielsen’s surgery. Most people thought he should have gone to University Hospital in Ann Arbor."

"Did you think that too?"

"Absolutely not! I’m sure your excellent work will increase our client referral base considerably. Well done, Greg."

Hoping she hadn’t jinxed me, I muttered a thanks and headed to the surgical ward. The charge nurse greeted me warmly, then heaped on the praises.

I asked her for an antacid.

She blinked. "Why the antacid and why the glum look? You should be proud of yourself."

I shrugged.

After guzzling a mouthful of the liquid chalk, I went into the glass enclosure housing patients’ records. For a few minutes I reclined in a chair, my eyes closed.

It’s my damn heritage. The depressive side of me often dominates. It was inherited—or learned—from Russian-émigré parents whose moments of cheer were memorable only because there were so few of them. In my youth they managed an isolated soybean farm in northern Minnesota. I was their only child and all-purpose gofer. They had almost no visitors except the migrant field workers who never stepped inside the house.

So I developed a huge imagination. It has this knack of quickly analyzing a situation, then boiling it down to the worst case scenario.

I pored over Olie Nielsen’s hospital records. All his lab tests had been completed, interpreted, and properly recorded. In one of the nursing notes, difficult to decipher because of the awful handwriting, I read something about the urine turning blue. But it wasn’t mentioned anywhere else. So I assumed I had misread the note.

My stomachache was no better. I took another gulp of the antacid, then walked into Olie’s room.

He was dressed and ready to go home. "Thanks for everything, Greg."

I said, "You’re more than welcome. But if you should ever need another operation, please don’t tell your surgeon you’re not going to make it, okay?"

"Sorry, but I still can’t shake that feeling."

I suddenly understood my own anxiety. A contagious disorder, passed on to me from Olie.

Throughout his hospital stay he had acted as if something was about to go wrong. As if his life was about to end without knowing how or why. And now, despite an apparently uneventful post-op recovery, his sense of doom seemed stronger than ever.

I peered into his eyes. They telegraphed fear.

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Not being on call that August evening, I was on my second vodka martini over ice cubes and three olives. I felt pretty relaxed.

Six weeks had passed since Olie Nielsen’s surgery. He had gone through the post-operative recovery period without any major problems—at least none that I had heard of. The last time I had examined him, though, he did complain of mild abdominal cramps. Finding nothing wrong, I told him they were brought on by too much rich food too soon after the surgery. I advised him to cut back. After that visit, he didn’t keep his follow-up appointments with me. So I assumed the cramps were gone, and he was busy coaching hockey again.

The ominous phone call came at about seven o’clock. A woman’s voice screamed, "What the hell did you do to my husband?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Olie is dying."

"He’s dying? Mr. Nielsen?"

"Who else have you butchered lately?"

"But he was . . ."

"Bastard!"

"What’s all this . . . ?"

The dial tone came on. At first I thought the call was a hoax. I looked up Olie’s home telephone number and dialed it. A recorded message came on. "This is Linda Nielsen. Please leave your name . . ." and so on.

The same voice that had accused me of butchery and illegitimacy.

Shivering off a chill, I thought about the problem. What could have gone wrong? Maybe an overlooked sponge or instrument left behind in Olie’s abdomen. It could have lain in there, festering, gathering bacteria, then . . . Boom! An overwhelming infection. Why else would he unexpectedly deteriorate now, so long after the operation?

Olie Nielsen: dying.

His premonition burst into my thoughts. Olie’s sixth sense had warned him about the surgery. It kept on warning him even after the flawless operation and during his uneventful recovery phase.

I called the hospital’s admitting office. The person in charge told me Olie hadn’t been admitted there. He hadn’t been to the emergency room either.

Wondering if Mortczenski had any information, I tried calling him at home. His telephone service was discontinued. Then I tried his cell phone, but got the please-leave-a-message-at-the-beep monotone. I talked with the hospital operator. She had some information. With little warning, Dr. Andy Mortczenski had closed his practice, put his house up for sale, and left town.

No forwarding address.

After gulping down a cup of coffee, I drove to Olie’s home on the outskirts of town in a torrential downpour. His place was along the Little Iron River, which was supposedly great for fishing. Aside from hockey, fishing was Olie’s passion.

I rang the doorbell several times. No one answered.

I went home and collapsed into a wicker chair on the rear porch. The downpour had come and gone, leaving behind the oppressive swelter of midsummer in Ironthorp. Mosquitoes thrived in the wooded mudhole that was my backyard.

At around eight-thirty my doorbell rang. Thinking it might be news about Olie, I rushed to the front door.

A young man under a shock of black hair and a black raincoat stood before me. "My name is Dave Keenan, and I am from the Upper Peninsula Free Press. Are you Dr. Grigori Do-stay-off?"

"That’s close enough."

"I have a few questions about Olie Nielsen."

"What’s going on with him?"

"Are you aware he’s dying of cancer?"

I was a bit relieved it wasn’t a surgical sponge or instrument. But Olie was dying.

I said, "I was just told he isn’t doing well. I didn’t know he has cancer, though. I took out all his tumor."

"His physician told the family the tumor you removed was benign. She wondered if you had looked around thoroughly while you were inside him. Any comments?"

Fair question. As soon as I was in Olie’s abdomen, I had explored it thoroughly and found no abnormalities. Before closing, I had also made a quick check.

Ignoring all the rules governing patient confidentiality, I said, "Yes, we explored his abdomen. And no, we didn’t find anything else wrong."

The reporter eyed me, his upper lip curled into a sneer. "Then how come in the course of six weeks Mr. Nielsen is riddled with cancer? It’s all over his insides and in his spine."

"Where is he?"

"At the University Medical Center in Ann Arbor." With the now ingrained sneer, the reporter added, "If I were you, I wouldn’t go visiting him. You could be seriously hurt. His closest hockey buddies are there, and they can’t wait to meet you."

Condescending bastard.

"Okay, you can take off now," I growled.

"I understand you went to medical school in Mexico."

I glared at him. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Couldn’t get into an American med school, eh?"

It took a lot of willpower to keep my clenched fists at my sides. "Beat it, you son of a bitch!"

He wagged a finger at me. "You shouldn’t have said that."

I took a step toward him. Mumbling something incoherent, he slinked off.

I had another cup of coffee. Soon, dark thoughts replaced my anger. The truth was obvious. I had overlooked the cancer. It must have been in Olie all along, buried somewhere out of sight and beyond my probing fingers.

I screwed up. Simple as that.

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