The Surgeon: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel: With Bonus Content

stops.
    They carry her, shrieking, to the altar.
    In my vision, it is Agamemnon himself who holds the knife blade, for why call it sacrifice if you are not the one who draws the blood? I see him approach the altar, where his daughter lies, her tender flesh exposed to all eyes. She pleads for her life, to no avail.
    The priest grasps her hair and pulls it back, baring her throat. Beneath the white skin the artery pulses, marking the place for the blade. Agamemnon stands beside his daughter, looking down at the face he loves. In her veins runs his blood. In her eyes he sees his own. By cutting her throat, he cuts his own flesh.
    He raises the knife. The soldiers stand silent, statues among the sacred grove of trees. The pulse in the girl’s neck is fluttering.
    Artemis demands sacrifice, and this Agamemnon must do.
    He presses the blade to the girl’s neck, and slices deep.
    A fountain of red spurts, splashing his face with hot rain.
    Iphigenia is still alive, her eyes rolled back in horror as the blood pumps from her neck. The human body contains five liters of blood, and it takes time for such a volume to be discharged from a single severed artery. As long as the heart continues to beat, the blood pumps out. For at least a few seconds, perhaps even a minute or more, the brain functions. The limbs thrash.
    As her heart beats its last, Iphigenia watches the sky darken, and feels the heat of her own blood spout on her face.
    The ancients say that almost immediately the north wind ceased to blow. Artemis was satisfied. At last the Greek ships sailed, and armies fought, and Troy fell. In the context of that greater bloodshed, the slaughter of one young virgin means nothing.
    But when I think of the Trojan War, what comes to my mind is not the wooden horse or the clang of swords or the thousand black ships with sails unfurled. No, it is the image of a girl’s body, drained white, and the father standing beside her, clutching the bloody knife.
    Noble Agamemnon, with tears in his eyes.

     

seven
    I t’s pulsating,” said the nurse.
    Catherine stared, dry-mouthed with horror, at the man lying on the trauma table. A foot-long iron rod protruded straight up from his chest. One medical student had already fainted at the sight, and the three nurses stood with mouths agape. The rod was embedded deep in the man’s chest, and it was pulsing up and down in rhythm with his heartbeat.
    “What’s our BP?” Catherine said.
    Her voice seemed to snap everyone into action mode. The blood pressure cuff whiffed up, sighed down again.
    “Seventy over forty. Pulse is up to one-fifty!”
    “Turning both IV’s wide open!”
    “Breaking open the thoracotomy tray—”
    “Somebody get Dr. Falco down here STAT. I’m going to need help.” Catherine slipped into a sterile gown and pulled on gloves. Her palms were already slippery with sweat. The fact the rod was pulsing told her the tip had penetrated close to the heart—or, even worse, was actually embedded in it. The worst thing she could do was pull it out. It might open a hole through which he could exsanguinate in minutes.
    The EMT’s at the scene had made the right decision: they had started an IV, intubated the victim, and brought him to the E.R. with the rod still in place. The rest was up to her.
    She was just reaching for the scalpel when the door swung open. She looked up and gave a sigh of relief as Peter Falco walked in. He halted, his gaze taking in the patient’s chest, with the rod protruding like a stake through a vampire’s heart.
    “Now that’s something you don’t see every day,” he said.
    “BP’s bottoming out!” a nurse called.
    “There’s no time for bypass. I’m going in,” said Catherine.
    “I’ll be right with you.” Peter turned and said, in an almost casual tone, “Can I have a gown, please?”
    Catherine swiftly opened an anterolateral incision, which would allow the best exposure to the vital organs of the thoracic cavity. She was feeling calmer, now that Peter had arrived. It was more than just having the extra pair of skilled hands; it was Peter himself. The way he could walk into a room and size up the situation with just a glance. The fact he never raised his voice in the O.R., never showed a hint of panic. He had five years’ more experience than she did on the front lines of trauma surgery, and it was with horrifying cases like this one where his experience showed.
    He took his place across the table from Catherine, his blue