The Roswell Legacy Frances Statham (mini ebook reader .txt) 📖

going to work, or enjoying a lazy summer holiday, were unaware of the drama unfolding on the sleek luxury vessel passing by.

Dressed with sterile mask and gown, Charles joined the team of doctors and nurses. They waited while the first procedure was undertaken by the dentist: the extraction of molars from the affected upper jaw. And when that was over, the removal of the cancerous growth could begin. As the dentist worked, Charles could see that the nitrous oxide was not adequate as a sedative for a man as large as Cleveland. So before the more serious procedure began, he gave the anesthesiologist the signal to administer ether.

“Count to ten, Mr. President,” the voice urged.

The president complied. “One. Two. Three … Four … Five … Si …”

His breathing became heavy; his pulse rate lowered. All signs indicated that it was time for the operation to begin.

The blue steel of the scalpel glinted as it caught the light from the bright electric beam overhead. For a brief moment, the scalpel remained poised in the air, an instrument of life or death fitted into the palm of the surgeon’s hand.

With razor-sharp action, the first incision was made. As the work began everything but the operation was swept from the doctors’ minds. With each incision, blood vessels were tied to keep the president’s life blood from escaping. The sponge was ready at any time to absorb the seepage, as all members of the team worked rapidly. Each one was secure in his place. The procedure advanced, with the malignant growth attacked by the scalpel. The sound of deep sleep combined with the subtle, almost imperceptible noise of cutting and scraping against bone, sinew, and flesh. Curettage was done, the surgical instruments digging into the hidden recesses of cancerous cells, a fact attested to by the biopsy sent earlier to the Army Medical Museum for examination.

Carefully, dexterously, each centimeter of diseased tissue was removed with an ever-widening circle of surrounding tissue.

The president’s vital signs were carefully monitored, and the needs of both patient and surgeon were attended to. Beaded sweat formed on Charles’s forehead. But it was quickly removed with sterile gauze, which was disposed of by one of the nurses before it could contaminate the patient’s open wound.

One hour passed, then two. As one surgeon rested, another took his place, following the careful, expert path that had been set forth.

During all this time, Dr. Jamison watched, waiting and mentally measuring. His job would come later, for, as suspected, the cancer had spread into the entire upper jaw. It would be a tedious task to return the president’s face to some degree of normalcy. But he was used to matching a vulcanized rubber prosthesis to the hearty, robust look of a man’s face.

Charles quickly glanced at Jamison. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. He was glad that Jamison was part of the surgical team, for he was one of the best. Too many men, injured in the war, had lived out their miserable lives in back rooms, hiding from the public because of their hideous injuries. Only their families had known that they were still alive. Yet they, too, could have been helped, if there had been more men trained in Jamison’s technique.

Once the operation was finally over, the president’s collapsed cheek was packed with gauze to await the fitting of the prosthesis.

As the second team remained in the operating room to monitor the president’s recovery, Charles and Bennett Jamison retired. They removed their surgical masks and gowns in the anteroom, scrubbed up, and then sought fresh air.

“Looks like Lamont is going to have his job cut out for him explaining the president’s condition,” Bennett said. “I hear the reporters are already waiting at Gray Gables for him.”

“I see no reason why President Cleveland won’t be able to walk under his own power by then. With the dentist at his side, there’s a good chance that Lamont will get away with it, saying he merely had his teeth attended to.”

Then Charles changed the subject. “Are you ready for a belated lunch, Bennett, or are you still seasick?”

He smiled. “This yacht is a lot smoother than the carriage ride, Charles. In fact, I think I could grow rather fond of sailing. I might even buy a small boat some time in the future. But for now I guess I’ll just settle for a small bowl of soup. What about you?”

“I need something a little more substantial,” Charles admitted.

The sun was now high overhead, priming the water with a glittering coat of gold while the darker hues of green and gray gradually crept and spilled over the rocky coastline.

For a moment, Charles watched the gulls flying, their impatient cries to each other filling the air. He was impatient, too, now that he knew the president would be all right. The operation had taken precedence over his personal life. But it was time for him to get back to Washington—and to his confrontation with Allison.

CHAPTER

7

Allison was early.

She stood before the tall, enclosed fence and watched a pink flamingo stretch its neck and preen itself while balancing on one long, spindly leg. To the left, just beyond the water sanctuary, a tall giraffe gazed curiously at her and then returned to stripping the succulent green leaves from the upper branches of the acacia tree.

The park zoo was almost devoid of people. A young mother paused near Allison for a moment, gazing at the flock of pink birds. Then, as the child in the large-wheeled buggy grew impatient, she moved on, talking to him in crooning, soft tones that finally faded into the cacophony of animal sounds.

It had been five days since Allison’s meeting with Araminta—five of the most nerve-racking days in her life. She had merely gone through the motions of living while she waited for Coin to get in touch with her.

Luckily, Jonathan had left Washington for Kentucky the morning after the party at Peggy Drake’s house. Their