Storm Prey

meditation room, which had been converted for family use and for team conferences.
    The Rayneses were sitting on a couch, looking out over a table full of magazines: neither one was reading. They were in their early thirties, and except for their sex, as alike as new marbles: honey-blond, tall, slender, from the small town of New Ulm in southern Minnesota. Larry worked in a heating and air-conditioning business owned by his father; Lucy worked at the post office. Neither had lived outside of New Ulm. Both of them spoke fluent German, and went to Germany every summer, to hike. They had no other children.
    They’d conferred with Maret on the separation process, but had worked more with Weather than any other physician, because of Weather’s involvement in the preliminary surgery.
    They were astonished by the news. “What does it mean? It’s off? For how long?” Lucy Raynes blurted. “I mean ... ?”
    “We’ll go tomorrow,” Weather said, patting her arm. “Same time. This whole thing is so bizarre ... there are police everywhere, I guess. The girls are fine, no change for them.”
    “I can’t believe it,” Larry Raynes said. “After we got this far . . .”
    His wife put an arm around his waist and squeezed him: “We’ll be okay. It’ll be all right.”
     
     
    OF THE TWO RAYNESES, Lucy was the most demanding of information, had studied the details of the separation, used terms like “superior sagittal sinus” and “calvaria,” read medical papers on other separations. She’d spoken to the media on a number of occasions, both televised and print. Larry, on the other hand, mostly talked about timing, and the children’s development, and often, to Weather, seemed to simply want to get it over with. He wasn’t stupid, but swept along in a current too strong for him, part medical science, part circus. He wanted to go home.
    Maret had warned everybody about the circus. “Whenever this is done, we get the media, because of the drama and the sympathetic aspects. You have to be prepared. In Miami, we had reporters following the surgeons home, knocking on doors, waiting in the streets.”
    Now he said to the Rayneses, “I’ll talk to the media in ten minutes or so. I’d like you to be with me.”
    Larry Raynes said to his wife, “You go. I’ll go sit with the kids.”
    Weather left them talking, and went back to the locker room to change back into her street clothes.

    BY THE TIME she got back, most of the team had drifted away. The OR nurses were shutting the place down. Weather stopped to talk with her surgical assistant, when one of the team’s cardiologists, Alan Seitz, who’d been called to the ER, came ambling down the hall, looking distracted. “What?” Weather asked.
    “That Don guy died,” Seitz said. “One of the robbers kicked him to death. Broke up his kidneys. He was soaked in Coumadin. He bled out before we could get anything going. We were dumping fluid into him fast as we could, nothing to do.”
    Weather stepped up and gave him a squeeze. Seitz was an old friend. “Nothing to do. You only do what you can.”
    “Yeah.” Seitz looked around and said, “I mean, Jesus Christ: kicked to death. In the hospital.”

2
    LUCAS DAVENPORT CRACKED his eyes at nine o’clock and did the calculation: Weather should be done with the initial part of the operation. She’d be removing one of the expanders, and also making the first cuts down to the skull itself. If it had gone off as scheduled, at seven-thirty, she’d be drinking a cup of coffee, while the bone-cutter went to work.
    All right. Interesting.
    He lay under the blankets for a couple of minutes, listening: nothing to hear. Might be snowing again. Lucas had helped the architect put the house together, and had isolated the bedroom suite at the north end, away from the other bedrooms, and the kids. Weather had imported a baby monitor, so she could hear Sam wake in the night, but the monitor was quiet: the housekeeper would have Sam in hand, by this time.
    Get up.
    He rolled out, dropped to the carpet, did a few push-ups, a few sit-ups, picked up two twenty-five-pound dumbbells and did a hundred curls with each arm. In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and shaved, watching himself in the mirror. Still in good shape, even after a lot of hard years. But it was something he’d have to work on, he thought, as he got to fifty—once the tone is lost, it’s tough to get back.
    Still had all his hair, dark, but threaded through