Flashback (1988) Read online

  Michael Palmer’s Bestsellers

  THE SISTERHOOD

  “A suspenseful page-turner … jolts and entertains the reader.”

  —Mary Higgins Clark

  “Terrific … a compelling suspense tale.”

  —Clive Cussler

  SIDE EFFECTS

  “Has everything—a terrifying plot … breakneck pace … vividly drawn characters.”

  —John Saul

  EXTREME MEASURES

  “Spellbinding … a chillingly sinister novel made all the more frightening by [Palmer’s] medical authority.”

  —The Denver Post

  NATURAL CAUSES

  “Reinvents the medical thriller.”

  —Library Journal

  SILENT TREATMENT

  “A Marathon Man-style plot loaded with innovative twists … extremely vivid characters.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Michael Palmer has been a practicing physician for more than twenty years, most recently as an emergency-room doctor and a specialist in the treatment of alcoholism and chemical dependency.

  ALSO BY MICHAEL PALMER

  From Bantam Books

  The Sisterhood

  Side Effects

  Natural Causes

  Extreme Measures

  Silent Treatment

  Miracle Cure

  Crìtical Judgement

  The Patient

  Fatal

  And in hardcover

  The Society

  The characters, events, institutions, and organizations in this book are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any apparent resemblance to any person alive or dead, to any actual events, and to any actual institutions or organizations, is entirely coincidental.

  FLASHBACK

  A Bantam Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam edition published September 1988

  Bantam reissue/March 1995

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from “Sixteen Tons” by Merle Travis. Copyright 1947 by Unichappell Music Inc., & Elvis Presley Music. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Copyright renewed.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 1988 by Michael Palmer.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books

  eISBN: 978-0-307-78126-0

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. It’s trademark consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in US Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

  v3.1

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

  To N.M.S.

  Over the three-year birthing of Flashback a number of people have given me encouragement, criticism, and support. My agent, Jane Rotrosen Berkey; my publisher, Linda Grey; my editor, Beverly Lewis; my family; and many friends of Bill W. share my deepest gratitude.

  M.S.P.

  Falmouth, Massachusetts

  1988

  If I fulfill this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and art, being honored with fame among all men for all time to come; if I transgress it and swear falsely, may the opposite of all this be my lot.

  —Conclusion of The Oath of Hippocrates;

  377? B.C.

  Saint Peter don’t you call me

  ’cause I can’t go.

  I owe my soul to

  The Company Store.

  —Merle Travis

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Fatal

  PROLOGUE

  January 10th

  Two … three … four …

  Toby Nelms lay on his back and counted the lights as they flashed past overhead. He was eight years old, but small even for that age, with thick red-brown hair, and freckles that ran across the tops of his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. For a time after his fathers job relocation from upstate New York to the T.J. Carter Paper Company of Sterling, New Hampshire, Toby’s classmates in the Bouquette Elementary School had called him “dot face,” and “shrimp,” and had pushed him around in the school cafeteria. But things were better now, much better, since the day he had held his ground and absorbed a beating at the hands of Jimmy Barnes, the school bully.

  Five … six … seven …

  Toby rubbed at the lump at the top of his leg, next to his peenie, where the pain had started and still persisted. The doctors had said that the shot would take the pain away, but it hadn’t.

  The music that the nurses had promised would relax him wasn’t helping, either. The song was okay, but there weren’t any words. His hand shaking, Toby reached up and pulled the padded earphones off his head.

  Eight … nine … The lights turned from white to yellow to pink, and finally to red. Ten … eleven …

  Following the fight with Jimmy, the kids had stopped pushing him and had begun asking him to walk home with them after school. They hail even elected him to be the class representative to the student council. After months of inventing illnesses to stay home, it felt so good to want to go to school again every day. Now, because of the lump, he would miss a whole week. It wasn’t fair.

  Twelve … thirteen … The red lights passing overhead grew brighter, more intense. Toby squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could, but the red grew warmer and brighter still. He tried putting his arm across them, but the hot, blood light bore through and began to sting them. Softly, he began to cry.

  “Now, now, Toby, there’s no need to cry. Doctors going to fix that little bump, and then you’ll be all better. Are you sure you don’t want to listen to the music? Most of our patients say they feel much better because of it.”

  Toby shook his head and then slowly lowered his arm. The lights were gone from overhead. Instead, he saw the face of the nurse, smiling down at him. She was gray-haired and wrinkled and old—as old as Aunt Amelia. Her teeth were yellowed at the tops, and smears of bright red makeup glowed off her cheeks. As he watched, the skin on her face drew tighter, more sunken. Her wrinkles disappeared and the spaces below the re
d makeup, and above, where her eyes had been, became dark and hollow.

  “Now, now, Toby … now, now … now, now …”

  Once again, Toby threw his arm across his eyes, and once again, it did no good. The nurses skin tightened still further, and then began to peel away, until the white of her bones shone through. The red dripped like blood over her skeleton face, and the holes where her eyes had been glowed.

  “Now, now … now, now …”

  “Let me up. Please let me up.”

  Toby screamed the words, but heard only a low growl, like the sound from the stereo when he turned the record with his finger.

  “Let me up. Please, let me up.”

  The sheet was pulled from his body, and he shook from the chilly air.

  “I’m cold,” he cried wordlessly. “Please cover me. Please let me up. Mommy. I want my mommy.”

  “Okay, big fella. Up you go.”

  It was a mans voice, deep and slow. Toby felt hands around his ankles and beneath his arms, lifting him higher and higher off the bed with wheels, higher and higher and higher. That same music was in the room. Now, even without the earphones, he could hear it.

  “Easy does it, big fella. Just relax.”

  Toby opened his eyes. The face above his was blurred. He blinked, then blinked once more. The face, beneath a blue cap, remained blurred. In fact, it wasn’t a face at all—just skin where the eyes and nose and mouth should have been.

  Again, Toby screamed. Again, there was only silence. He was floating, helpless. Mommy, please. I want Mommy.

  “Down you go, big fella,” the faceless man said.

  Toby felt the cold slab beneath his back. He felt the wide strap pulled tightly across his chest. Just the lump, his mind whimpered. Don’t hurt my peenie. You promised. Please, don’t hurt me.

  “Okay, Toby, you’re going to go to sleep now. Just relax, listen to the music, and count back from one hundred like this. One hundred … ninety-nine … ninety-eight …”

  “One hundred … ninety-nine …” Toby heard his own voice say the words, but he knew he wasn’t speaking. “Ninety-eight … ninety-seven …” He felt icy cold water being swabbed over the space between his belly and the top of his leg—first over the lump, and then over his peenie. “Ninety-six … ninety-five.” Please stop. You’re hurting me. Please.

  “That’s it, y’all, he’s under. Ready, Jack? Team?” The voice, a man’s, was one Toby had heard before. But where? Where? “Okay, Marie, turn up the speakers just a hair. Good, good. Okay, then, let’s have at it. Knife, please …”

  The doctors voice. Yes, Toby thought. That was who. The doctor who had come to see him in the emergency ward. The doctor with the kind eyes. The doctor who had promised he wouldn’t …

  A knife? What kind of knife? What for?

  Then Toby saw it. Light sparked off the blade of a small silver knife as it floated downward, closer and closer to the lump above his leg. He tried to move, to push himself away, but the strap across his chest pinned his arms tightly against his sides.

  For a moment, Toby’s fear was replaced by confusion and a strange curiosity. He watched the thin blade glide down until it just touched the skin next to his peenie. Then pain, unlike any he had ever known, exploded through his body from the spot.

  “I can feel that! I can feel that,” he screamed. “Wait! Stop! I can feel that!”

  The knife cut deeper, then began to move, over the top of the lump, then back toward the base of his peenie. Blood spurted out from around the blade as it slid through his skin.

  Again and again, Toby screamed.

  “That’s it. Suction now, suction,” he heard the doctor say calmly.

  “Please, please, you’re hurting me. I can feel that,” Toby pleaded hysterically.

  He kicked his feet and struggled against the wide strap with all his strength. “Mommy, Daddy. Please help me.”

  “Metzenbaums.”

  The blade of the shiny knife, now covered with blood, slid free of the gash it had made. In its place, Toby saw the points of a scissors pushing into the cut, first opening, then closing, then opening again, moving closer and closer to the base of his peenie. Each movement brought a pain so intense, it was almost beyond feeling. Almost.

  “Don’t you understand?” Toby screamed, struggling to speak with the reasoning tone of a grown-up, “I can feel that. It hurts. It hurts me.”

  The scissors drove deeper, around the base of his peenie.

  “No! Don’t touch that! Don’t touch that!”

  “Sponge, I need a sponge right here. Good, that’s better. That’s better.”

  The scissors moved further. Toby felt his peenie and his balls come free of his body.

  Don’t do that … don’t do that…. The words were in his mind, no longer in his voice.

  Again, with all his strength, Toby tried to push up against the strap across his chest. Overhead, he saw the doctor—the man whose eyes had been so kind, the man who had promised not to hurt him. He was holding something in his hand—something bloody—and he was showing it to others in the room. Toby struggled to understand what it was that he was showing, what it was that was so interesting. Then, suddenly, he knew. Terrified, he looked down at where the lump had been. It was gone, but so was his peenie … and his balls. In their place was nothing but a gaping, bloody hole.

  In that instant, the strap across Toby’s chest snapped in two. Flailing with his arms and legs, he threw himself off the table, kicking at the doctors, at the nurses, at anything he could. The bright overhead light shattered. Trays of sparkling steel instruments crashed to the floor.

  “Get him, get him,” he heard the doctor yell.

  Toby lashed out with his feet and his fists, knocking over a shelf of bottles. Blood from one of them splattered across his legs. He ran toward the door, away from the hard table … away from the strap.

  “Stop him! … Stop him!”

  Strong hands caught him by the arms, but he kicked out with his feet and broke free. Moments later, the hands had him again. Powerful arms squeezed across his chest and under his chin.

  “Easy, Toby, easy,” the doctor said. “You’re all right. You’re safe. It’s me. It’s Daddy.”

  Toby twisted and squirmed with all his might.

  “Toby, please. Stop. Listen to me. You’re having a nightmare. It’s just a dream. That’s all. Just a bad dream.”

  Toby let up a bit, but continued to struggle. The voice wasn’t the doctor’s anymore.

  “Okay, son, that’s it. That’s it. Just relax. It’s Daddy. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Toby stopped struggling. The arms across his chest and under his chin relaxed. Slowly, they turned him around. Slowly, Toby opened his eyes. His fathers face, dark with concern, was inches from his.

  “Toby, can you see me? It’s Daddy. Do you know who I am?”

  “Toby, it’s Mommy. I’m here, too.”

  Toby Nelms stared first at his father, then at the worried face of his mother. Then, with an empty horror swelling in his chest, he slid his hand across the front of his pajama bottoms. His peenie was there, right where it was supposed to be. His balls, too.

  Was this the dream?

  Too weak, too confused to cry, Toby sank to the floor. His room was in shambles. Toys and books were everywhere. His bookcase had been pulled over, and the top of his desk swept clean. His radio was smashed. The small bowl, home of Benny, his goldfish, lay shattered on the rug. Benny lay dead amidst the glass.

  Bob Nelms reached out to his son, but the boy pulled away.

  His eyes still fixed on his parents, Toby pushed himself backward, and then up and onto his bed. Again, he touched himself.

  “Toby, are you all right?” his mother asked softly.

  The boy did not answer. Instead, he pulled his knees to his chest, rolled over, and stared vacantly at the wall.

  1

  The day, Sunday, June 30, was warm and torpid. On New Ham
pshire 16, the serpentine roadway from Portsmouth almost to the Canadian border, light traffic wound lazily through waves of heated air. Far to the west, a border of heavy, violet storm clouds rimmed the horizon.

  The drive north, especially on afternoons like this, was one Zack Iverson had loved for as long as he could remember. He had made the trip perhaps a hundred times, but each pass through the pastureland to the south, the villages and rolling hills, and finally, the White Mountains themselves, brought new visions, new feelings.

  His van, a battered orange VW camper, was packed solid with boxes, clothes, and odd pieces of furniture. Perched on the passenger seat, Cheapdog rested his muzzle on the windowsill, savoring the infrequent opportunity to view the world with his hair blown back from in front of his eyes.

  Zack reached across as he drove and scratched the animal behind one ear. With Connie gone from his life, and most of his furniture sold, Cheapdog was a rock—an island in a sea of change and uncertainty.

  Change and uncertainty. Zack smiled tensely. For so many years, June the thirtieth and July the first had been synonymous with those words. Summer jobs in high school; four separate years in college, and four more in medical school; internship; eight years of surgical, then neurosurgical, residency—so many changes, so many significant June-the-thirtieths. Now, this day would be the last in that string—a clear slash between the first and second halves of his life.

  Next year, the date would, in all likelihood, slip past as just another day.

  Highway 16 narrowed and began its roller-coaster passage into the mountains. Zack glanced at his watch. Two-thirty. Frank and the Judge were at their club, probably on the fourth or fifth hole by now. Dinner wasn’t until six. There was no need to hurry. He pulled off into a rest area.

  Cheapdog, sensing that this was to be a stop of substance, shifted anxiously in his seat.