no personal role in either the presentation ceremony or the mating ritual
that was to come. She was a symbol, not a female, so her individual response was not required or
encouraged. The traditions reined supreme.
芦Perfect,禄 one of her sisters said.
芦Resplendent.禄
芦Worthy of us.禄
Cormia opened her mouth and whispered to herself, 芦I am me. I am me. I am me?β?/p>
Tears welled and fell, but she couldn't reach her face to wipe them off, so they ran down her
cheeks and her throat, getting lost in the robing.
With no warning, her panic suddenly got away from her, a wild animal set loose. She wheeled
around, hobbled by the heavy robes, but driven by a need to flee that she could not harness. She
took off in the direction she thought was the door, dragging the weight with her. Dimly she heard
shrieks of surprise echoing in the bathing chamber, along with crashing sounds as bottles and
bowls and jars were knocked asunder.
She flailed around, trying to strip off the robing, desperate for relief.
Desperate to be free of her destiny.
Chapter Thirty-three
In downtown Caldwell, in the northeast corner of the St. Francis Hospital complex, Manuel
Manello, M.D., hung up the phone on his desk without having dialed anything on it or having
answered a call that had come through to him. He stared at the NEC console. The thing was
jacked up with buttons, right out of a Circuit City junkie's wet dreams with all its bells and
whistles.
He wanted to throw it across the room.
He wanted to, but he didn't. He'd given up throwing tennis rackets, TV remotes, scalpels, and
books when he decided to become the youngest chief of surgery in St. Francis Hospital history.
Since then, his palm punting involved only empty bottles and vending machine wrappers
snapped into trash cans. And that was just to keep his aim up.
Shifting back in his leather chair, he pivoted himself around and stared out the window of his
office. It was a nice office. Big, fancy as shit, all mahogany-paneled and oriental-rugged up, the
Throne Room, as it was known, had served as the head surgeon's landing pad for fifty years.
He'd been sitting pretty in the digs for about three years now, and if he ever got a break in the
action he was going to give the place a makeover. All the Establishment gloss made him scratch.
He thought of the damn phone and knew he was going to make a call he shouldn't. It was just so
fucking weak, and it was going to come across that way, even if he was all his usual macho
arrogance.
Still, he was going to end up letting his fingers do the walking.
To put off the inevitable, he blew some time staring out the window. From his vantage point he
could see the front of St. Francis's landscaped entrance, as well as the city beyond. Hands down
this was the best view on hospital grounds. In the spring cherry trees and tulips bloomed in the
median of the entrance's drive. And in the summer, on either side of the two lanes maples leafed
up green as emeralds until they faded to peach and yellow in the fall.
Usually he didn't spend a lot of time enjoying the scenery, but he did appreciate knowing it was
there. Sometimes a man needed to corral his thoughts.
He was having one of those moments now.
Last night he'd called Jane's cell phone, figuring she'd be home from that damn interview. No
answer. He'd called her this morning. No answer.
Fine. If she didn't want to spill about that fucking interview at Columbia, he was going to go
directly to the source. He'd call the chief of surgery down there himself. Egos being what they
were, his former mentor wouldn't hesitate to share some details, but, man, this was going to be an
ass burner of a fishing expedition.
Manny twisted around, punched out ten digits, and waited, tapping a Montblanc pen on his
blotter.
When the ringing was answered, he didn't wait for a hello. 芦Falcheck, you raiding dickhead.禄
Ken Falcheck laughed. 芦Manello, you have such a way with words. And me being your elder,
I'm especially shocked.禄
芦So how's life in the slow lane, old man?禄
芦Good, good. Now tell me, baby boy, they letting you eat solid foods yet or are you still on the
Gerber?禄
芦I'm up to oatmeal. Which means I'll be well fortified to do your hip replacement anytime you
get bored with that walker.禄
This was all utter bullshit, of course. At sixty-two Ken Falcheck was in great shape, and a
ballbuster right up Manny's lane. The two had gotten along ever since Manny had gone through
the guy's training program fifteen years ago.
芦So, with all deference to
| | |
|