Storm Prey

had just come back with a large scalpel, and he turned to look. A few seconds later, an anesthesiologist named Yamaguchi burst into the room. He looked, Weather thought, like someone who’d just come to the emergency room to see his child: panicked.
    He said, urgently, to Maret, Weather, and the others, “It’s off. The operation’s off. We’ve got, we’ve got ...”
    Weather caught his sleeve and said, “Slow down, slow down.”
    “It’s off,” Yamaguchi said. “Some guys just raided the pharmacy and cleaned the place out. Everything is shut down. Everything.”
    Maret’s face clicked through a series of expressions, from “Is this a joke?” to astonishment: “ What ?”
    “Some guys with guns,” Yamaguchi said. He was flapping his arms, like a loon trying to take off. “Robbers. They robbed the pharmacy. The police are here. There’s nothing left, they took everything ... That old guy who works there, the one who wears the surgical hat ...”
    “Don,” said Weather.
    “Yeah, Don—he’s hurt pretty bad. They’re taking him into the ER.”
    “You must be shitting me,” Maret said with a non-Gallic precision, looking around at his astonished crew.
     
     
    ALAIN BARAKAT STOOD at the back of the emergency operating room, mask dangling around his neck, watching the work: the surgeon was cursing at the nurse, who was fumbling the gear, and they were all watching the blood pressure on the old man dropping and the surgeon was saying, “Get it in there, get it in there, get some pressure on it,” and the nurse stood on a chair and lifted the bottle of saline and somebody else said, “Two minutes for the blood.” The surgeon said, “I don’t think we have the time, I don’t think we’ve got it ...” and the anesthesiologist said, “We’re losing him, man,” and the doc said, “Fuck this, I’m going in,” and he cut and cut again and again, going in through the beginning of a brutal black bruise on the old man’s belly, and the anesthesiologist said, “Hurry it up, man,” and the surgeon said, “Ah, Jesus, I’ve got no blood, I got no blood here,” and he hurled the scalpel into a corner and it clanged around and he said, “It must’ve been his goddamn kidneys. Let’s see if we can roll him,” and the nurses moved up to help with the roll and the anesthesiologist said, “Man, he’s arresting.”
    Barakat, standing in the corner, said, “Shit shit shit shit shit shit ...”
    One minute later, the old man was gone. No point in trying to restart the heart—there was no blood going through it. They all stood around, shell-shocked, and then the surgeon said, “Let’s clean up.”
    One of the nurses said, “We had no time. He was going too quick.”
    They all looked at the body on the table, worn Adidas sneakers pointed out at forty-five degrees, chest flat and still, the bloody gash on the gut. The anesthesiologist turned to get something and saw Barakat, a tall man, standing in the corner, hands pressed to the sides of his head, and the anesthesiologist said, “Wasn’t you, man. You did good. Everybody did good. He was gone when we got him.”
    And Barakat thought: Now everybody will be here. Now the police will tear the place apart.
    Because he really didn’t care about the old man.
     
     
    THE SEPARATION TEAM was standing around, repeating what Yamaguchi had said, when Thomas Carlson, the hospital administrator, came hurrying down the hall. Carlson was wearing his white physician’s coat, which he often did on public occasions, to remind people that he had an MD in addition to the MBA; but for all that, not a bad guy, Weather thought.
    He went straight to Maret: “Gabe, you’ve heard.”
    “I’ve heard there was a robbery”
    “Unfortunately. The problem is, we’ve also got a man down. He’s hurt pretty badly, and we won’t have access to your drugs—any drugs, except in an absolute emergency, and then we’ll be crawling around on the floor trying to find them. The place is completely wrecked. They threw everything out of the lockers, what they didn’t take.”
    “So: everybody is here,” Maret said.
    “But you’re going to have to wait,” Carlson said. “God, I’m sorry, man. But this is an incredible mess. As long as the kids are stable ...”
    Maret nodded: “Well. I guess we can wait.”
     
     
    WEATHER AND MARET went together to tell the Rayneses. The parents were waiting in what the team called the “separation lounge,” once a