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  Bad Doctor

  a Dr. Gideon Box Novel

  by

  John Locke

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  BAD DOCTOR

  Copyright © 2012 John Locke. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Designed by: Telemachus Press, LLC

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  Visit the author’s websites:

  http://www.donovancreed.com

  ISBN: 978-1-938135-57-6 (eBook)

  ISBN: 978-1-938135-58-3 (EPUB)

  ISBN: 978-1-938135-59-0 (Paperback)

  Version 2012.04.10

  Personal Message from John Locke:

  I love writing books! But what I love even more is hearing from readers. If you enjoyed this or any of my other books, it would mean the world to me if you’d send a short email to introduce yourself and say hi. I always personally respond to my readers.

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  Please click this link and introduce yourself, so I can personally thank you for trying my books.

  John Locke

  New York Times Best Selling Author

  #1 Best Selling Author on Amazon Kindle

  Donovan Creed Series:

  Lethal People

  Lethal Experiment

  Saving Rachel

  Now & Then

  Wish List

  A Girl Like You

  Vegas Moon

  The Love You Crave

  Maybe

  Emmett Love Series:

  Follow the Stone

  Don’t Poke the Bear

  Emmett & Gentry

  Dani Ripper Series:

  Call Me!

  Dr. Gideon Box Series:

  Bad Doctor

  Non-Fiction:

  How I Sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months!

  Bad Doctor

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  44.

  45.

  46.

  47.

  48.

  49.

  50.

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  I

  I’M DR. GIDEON Box.

  If you’re coming after me, don’t do it in a hospital.

  That’s my domain.

  And don’t piss me off in the real world and expect a smooth hospital stay in the future, because I have a long memory, and no one is exempt. If you’re not a patient but your loved ones are, I’ll harass them.

  Before you bully me in a bar, embarrass me on a date, or refuse to replace the shitty car you sold me, think about this: you’ll never be more vulnerable in your life than when you’re spending the night in a hospital. You’re out of your element, drugged, and totally dependent on our schedules and personnel. When you’re here, you’re not family. You’re prey!

  Your wife just had a procedure and needs her sleep?

  Good luck with that.

  I’ll swing by the nurse’s station, make a notation on her chart. Every two hours someone will be in her room, waking her up, changing her IV, moving her around. If you’re not guarding her closely I might slip in her room, flip her on her side, lift up her gown, check out her ass. Or maybe I’ll feel her up while pretending to listen to her heart with my stethoscope.

  Don’t get me wrong. I have no interest in your wife’s nude body. I’d only view or touch her because I can, and because it’s another way to beat you.

  You get what I’m saying?

  Don’t fuck with me.

  II

  I DIDN’T KILL Joe’s mom last week.

  I could have killed her, but one glance at her chart told me the hospital didn’t need my help. Her catheter should have been removed a day earlier. Since it wasn’t, I figured the nurses forgot it.

  I was right.

  Like ventilators, catheters are breeding grounds for infection. Sixty-five thousand patients a year die from infections caused by these two pieces of equipment.

  I never knew Joe’s mom, but thirty years ago Joe and I were on the sixth grade track team. A half-dozen of us were in the showers after practice the day Joe smacked my ass with a wet towel. I ignored it, but he kept smacking me. The others taunted me to do something about it. When I confronted Joe, he beat the shit out of me.

  Picture me in a fetal position on the floor, clutching my stomach in agony. Now picture Joe and his friends pissing on me as a group, drenching me from head to toe.

  Laughing.

  Like I said, I didn’t know Joe’s mom, and didn’t kill her.

  But I let her die last week from an infection I could’ve prevented.

  III

  I’M NOT AN angel of mercy. I don’t kill random patients.

  I’ve got a list.

  If you’re on my list, it means you’ve done something I refuse to forgive. It’s probably something minor to you, something you forgot long ago. But like the Stones said in the second best song they ever recorded, time is on my side.

  Like everyone else in the world, you and your loved ones will eventually get sick or have an accident. And when you do, you better not come to my hospital, because I can kill you, maim you, infect you, humiliate you, frighten you, aggravate you, and generally fuck up your life in a thousand different ways.

  Want an example?

  I bet you didn’t know that every year three hundred hospital patients burst into flames during routine operations.

  Three hundred!

  You think all those are accidents?

  Thirty-six items in a standard operating room can explode under the
right conditions. What I’m saying, I can turn your chest into a fireball using nothing more than an alcohol swab and a hot cautery device.

  So don’t piss me off.

  And tread lightly, because I’m tightly wound. Every day it takes less and less to piss me off.

  IV

  I’M THE LAST guy you want to meet in the hospital—and not because I’m a vindictive son of a bitch.

  I am a vindictive son of a bitch, but the reason you don’t want to meet me is I’m your child’s last hope for survival. When they wheel your kid into my operating room, it means his problems are so severe no one else can perform the surgery.

  That’s because I’m the most technically gifted congenital/cardiothoracic surgeon in the world.

  That’s right, in the world.

  Think I’m bragging?

  I’m not.

  I take no pleasure in being the world’s greatest surgeon.

  Someone in the world makes the best flapjacks. Someone else is the best seamstress. And someone owns the world’s biggest ranch, truck, or penis.

  I’d rather be any of them.

  Especially the guy with the biggest penis.

  But it’s my job to be the best surgeon.

  My skill is my curse, and forces me to work in hell, under excruciating pressure. I say that and you think, yeah, there probably is a lot of stress in what I do, operating on infants and children.

  No.

  You think you know, but you don’t.

  You have no idea.

  Want a glimpse into my world? That’s me in the operating room, standing in the corner, crying silently so the others won’t know. They think I’m psyching myself up for the six-hour procedure I’m about to perform.

  See that tiny blue object on the table, surrounded by two highly-skilled nurses, a pediatric anesthesiologist, and assisting surgeon?

  My patient, Lainey Sue Calfee.

  Five pounds, less than a month old, structurally abnormal heart. It would take five minutes to tell you what’s wrong with her, but she’ll be dead by then. And anyway, those are only the problems I know about. You can bet I’ll find more bad news when I open her chest in a few minutes.

  I always do.

  What you need to know about Lainey is she’s not going to make it.

  It’s okay, I already told her parents.

  V

  THAT’S ME AN hour ago, approaching the conference room to meet Lainey’s parents, Jordan and Will Calfee.

  Of Calfee Coffee.

  As I enter, Jordan and Will are on the sofa, grim-faced, holding hands. Nurse Sally’s in the straight-back chair, giving me the evil eye. Security Joe’s standing at the doorway.

  As always, I nod at Security Joe and say, “Are you feeling okay? Because you don’t look so good.”

  As always, he ignores me.

  Jordan and Will jump to their feet, searching my eyes.

  If my eyes could talk, they’d say I’m dying inside, thinking how the Calfee’s lives will change forever when I kill their kid on my operating table.

  Nurse Sally hates me. She’s black, two hundred fifty pounds, her age a complete mystery. Could be forty, could be sixty. She’s a wonderful, caring person, my polar opposite. She visits the parents before they meet me, warns them about my notoriously foul bedside manner, and attempts to calm them down after I leave.

  Security Joe is early-forties, former Marine, big, tough, freaky quiet. The kind of guy you’d expect to see guarding the president.

  Joe’s chief of security, here to guard me from possible assault. He blends into the background, always ready to step between me and an angry parent. While Joe couldn’t care less if I offend the parents, Sally constantly wants to slap me up the side of my head for doing so.

  I’d love to have Nurse Sally’s attitude, and probably would, if I had her job.

  Or any other job.

  I’m not asking for sympathy, but imagine if your job required you to do something that made you physically and mentally sick every time you did it. I know you can’t relate, and there are no good examples, but you know that chalky stuff you have to drink the day before getting a colonoscopy? It tastes like hell and makes you shit for twelve hours straight?

  Let’s say your job was to drink that chalk every day of your life.

  You’d like to quit, but you’re the only one in the world who can do it, and every day you don’t drink the chalk, a child you’ve met will die.

  That’s a lot of pressure.

  After a few years, it gets to your head.

  Makes you do crazy things in order to cope.

  So that’s what I do, perform one or two of these horrific, impossible operations, then go bat shit crazy and run out into the world and do stupid, dangerous things, like breaking into people’s houses when they’re on vacation, and assuming their lives.

  VI

  THE CALFEES ARE a young, pretty couple, with tons of money. This situation with Lainey Sue is probably the first bad thing that’s ever happened to them that couldn’t be solved with cash and a phone call.

  After failing to find reassurance in my eyes, Jordan falls into her husband’s arms and sobs.

  I’d love to give this couple hope, but like I said, I don’t get the easy cases. When I get the call it means a child’s condition has passed critical. It means hope has left the building.

  Like most dads before him, Will says, “We want Lainey Sue to have the finest treatment available. Spare no expense. Money’s no object.”

  This probably impresses Jordan, but in my experience it’s complete and utter bullshit.

  After the fact, he’ll complain about the bill, the access, the forms, rules and regulations, the nurses in the recovery unit, and everything else that inconveniences him in the slightest. He’ll threaten to sue me and the hospital over our fees.

  After all, I killed his kid. Why should he pay me two hundred grand?

  Or I saved his kid, which means I did my job, like the world’s greatest plumber does his job unclogging the family toilet.

  So sure, the hospital and I deserve something, but two hundred grand?

  How can we possibly charge two hundred grand for a days’ work?

  In most cases it’s not even their money at stake, it’s an insurance issue. But he’ll threaten to sue over the deductible, or the overage, or the out-of-pocket, or the increased future premium assessment.

  Before the operation we’re all supposed to hold hands and be friends. Afterward, he won’t give a rat’s ass about me, or what I had to go through to save his child.

  And neither will Jordan.

  I don’t say any of this to the Calfees, which proves I’m getting better at these parent conferences despite the stack of complaints in my personnel file.

  “Everyone says you’re the best,” Jordan says. “I know it’s bad, but you’ll save Lainey, right? You will, won’t you?”

  When they beg, it’s like I’m drinking the chalk. I’ll need a toilet soon.

  Jordan pulls away from her husband and gets right up in my face. Could there be any emotion on earth more raw and heartbreaking than a mother’s love for her dying child? Jordan’s red eyes and wet cheeks are love’s battlefield. When she speaks, her hot, sweet breath fans my lips and fills my nostrils.

  “Please, Dr. Box.”

  Despite the dire situation, despite Jordan’s considerable beauty, wealth, and status, I see exactly what she wants me to see.

  She’s a good person.

  By extension, her husband and daughter are good, worthy people.

  Of course, I already know this.

  She grips my wrist. “I need to know there’s hope.”

  I glance at Nurse Sally’s baleful look before responding. She’s Mike Tyson in a dress, only angrier.

  Sally’s told me time and again the moms need something to cling to. Something to get them through the multi-hour ordeal that lies ahead. But I won’t give any parent false hope. Sally knows this, but the look in her face says she’s
ready to leap across the room and royally fuck…me…up.

  I ignore Sally’s look as I always do, and tell Jordan what I tell all the moms.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Calfee. There’s no hope. You need to spend the next few hours adjusting to life without Lainey Sue.”

  Jordan backs away slowly, drops to the couch, stunned.

  Nurse Sally shouts, “Oh no, you didn’t!” And comes out of her chair like a rocket. She launches a meaty fist toward my throat. Joe steps between us, catches the blow on his forearm, and ushers me from the room.

  VII

  I DON’T HEAR what happens next, but the routine’s always the same. The dads get angry. The moms cry. They demand to speak to the hospital administrator, Bruce Luce. They want a replacement surgeon, refusing to trust their child’s operation to one who’s already given up.

  Bruce is on standby when I meet the parents, so he shows up quickly, finds Nurse Sally hugging Jordan to her ample bosom, Security Joe staring straight ahead with dead eyes while Will curses and threatens to physically assault me.

  Bruce says, “We warned you in advance Dr. Box has a terrible bedside manner. He’s a genius, not a communicator. But remember, he’s never lost a patient at this hospital, or any other.”

  “Never?” they say.