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  Praise for Allen Wyler’s Thrillers

  “The book is a thriller on par with the novels of ROBIN COOK and MICHAEL CRICHTON.”

  —Tuscon Citizen

  “DEAD END DEAL is a medical thriller of the highest order, reviving the genre with a splendid mixture of innovation and cutting-edge timeliness. Neurosurgeon Allen Wyler knows of what he writes, and the result is a thriller that equals and updates the best of Robin Cook and Michael Crichton. His latest is terrifying, riveting, and a masterpiece of science and suspense.”

  —Jon Land, best-selling author of STRONG AT THE BREAK

  “DEAD END DEAL by Allen Wyler is a masterful medical thriller, intelligent, ferociously paced, scary as hell, ripping with suspense, and filled with fascinating (and horrific) details that only a neurosurgeon-turned-writer like Wyler could provide. If you like the medical thrillers of Robin Cook or Michael Crichton, you will absolutely love DEAD END DEAL.”

  —Douglas Preston, author of THE MONSTER OF FLORENCE and co-creator of the PENDERGAST NOVELS

  “The gritty, graphic details of cutting-edge surgical procedures, capped with an exciting conclusion, should keep fans of the genre riveted.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “With its lightning-paced excitement and fascinating science, DEAD HEAD has everything you could hope for in a medical thriller!”

  —Tess Gerritsen, author of THE MEPHISTO CLUB

  “In the tradition of Robin Cook, Wyler takes us behind the scenes to show us things the medical establishment doesn’t want us to see. DEAD RINGER builds a high-speed plot on a startling but all-too-plausible premise. This is the stuff nightmares are made of.”

  —Joseph Finder, New York Times Bestselling Author of PARANOIA and BURIED SECRETS

  “The suspense builds and builds in this riveting page-turner. It’s a skillful merging of the medical thriller and political thriller … Tom Clancy meets Tess Gerritsen!”

  —Kevin O’Brien, New York Times Bestselling Author of THE LAST VICTIM and KILLING SPREE

  “You’ll be asking the nurse to swab your forehead when you’re admitted into this tense medical thriller exposing DEADLY ERRORS. Wyler does for hospitals what Benchley did for the ocean.”

  —Joe Moore, co-author of the international best seller THE GRAIL CONSPIRACY

  “Wyler writes a fast-paced thriller, which reawakens your scariest misgivings about the Medical-Industrial Complex and the profit motive corrupting the art of healing.”

  —Darryl Ponicsan, author of THE LAST DETAIL

  “DEADLY ERRORS has a fascinating and frightening premise that gives it the potential to be a best seller in the Robin Cook mold.”

  —William Dietrich, author of HADRIAN’S WALL

  “This is an ‘up all night’ pass into troubled places that only hardworking doctors know about; a turbulent world of trusting patients and imperfect humans struggling with the required image of perfection. Only a gifted surgeon like Allen Wyler could craft such a wild and wonderful best-of-the-breed medical thriller!”

  —John J. Nance, author of PANDORA’S CLOCK and FIRE FLIGHT

  “Wyler’s debut novel is both an engrossing thriller and a cautionary tale of the all-too-frequent intersection of high technology and higher greed. It’s a message all of us better pay attention to, or face the consequences.”

  —Mark Olshaker, author of EINSTEIN’S BRAIN, UNNATURAL CAUSES, and THE EDGE; co-author of MINDHUNTER, JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS

  Dead Wrong

  A novel by

  ALLEN WYLER

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  DEAD WRONG

  Astor + Blue Editions LLC

  Copyright © 2012 by Allen Wyler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by:

  Astor + Blue Editions, LLC

  New York, NY 10003

  www.astorblue.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  Wyler, Allen. DEAD WRONG—1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-938231-17-9 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-938231-15-5 (epub)

  ISBN: 978-1-938231-16-2 (epdf)

  1. Neurosurgeon Doctor—Thriller—Fiction 2. Police manhunt in medical center—Fiction 3. Government Corruption—Fiction 4. Implantation of highly stressful memories—Fiction 5. Experimental Brain Operations for psychological warfare—Fiction 6. Seattle (Wash)—Fiction 7. American Love Story I. Title

  Book Design: Bookmasters

  Jacket Cover Design: Ervin Serrano

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Allen Wyler

  Dedication

  To Enoch

  PROLOGUE

  SEATTLE

  BOBBIE BAKER JOLTED wide awake from a warm, floating sleep, heart pounding, skin prickling, a vague hollowness in her gut warning of something … wrong. What? Someone in the house? She listened to a jet roar overhead on its approach into Seattle-Tacoma International. From the living room an announcer hawked malt shop love songs from the wonderful fifties: CD or tape, $19.95. No other sounds.

  Oh, shit! “Jordan?” The bottom dropped out of her stomach.

  Shit, shit, shit. She’d intended to rest her eyes only for a moment.

  “Jordan?” Louder this time. Pushing away the twisted sheets and blanket with her strong arm she glanced around the bedroom. Jordan’s toys … where were they?

  “Jordan!”

  Breathing hard from the effort, she rolled onto her good side, dropped both legs over the edge of the bed, and pushed up to sitting, her right arm no help at all. “Goddamn it.” With her soles firmly on carpet she paused for the dancing black holes to dissolve from her vision, wiped her face, and finger combed her short damp hair in a useless attempt at some order.

  Other than Jordan’s missing toys, the bedroom looked exactly as it had before she nodded off. Yet, something wasn’t right. What? Ah shit: The accordion-style kiddy gate wasn’t there, leaving the hall open to the living room. “Jordan!” It wasn’t like him to n
ot answer, unless he was playing hide-and-seek. Sliding off the sheet onto her hand and knees, she peered under the bed. Not there.

  With the help of her cane, she limped to the closet, slid open the door, and found only clothes, shoes, and the laundry hamper.

  In the living room the television remained on the same channel, everything in place just as she’d left it, except for Jordan’s toys. Frantic now, she shuffled to the kitchen, bathroom, laundry room, and finally Trent’s small home office. No Jordan. No toys.

  “Oh my God, oh my God …”

  Mouth dry, heart ready to explode, she hobbled to the kitchen, propped the phone on the granite counter and punched in 9-1-1 with her good hand.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “Help, please help me. My baby boy—someone’s kidnapped my baby boy.”

  “Okay, ma’am, now calm down and tell me what happened,” the dispatcher said in a calm, unemotional tone.

  Calm down? Jesus! “Someone just kidnapped my baby. Please, help me.”

  “Is anyone with you?”

  Bobbie glanced around in spite of having just checked the house. “No. I’m all alone.”

  “An officer will be there shortly. Please stay on the—”

  She punched off and hit speed dial. A moment later she blurted, “Trent? Oh my God, Trent, come home right now. Jordan’s been kidnapped.” Sobbing uncontrollably, she dropped the phone and slid slowly to the floor.

  BOBBIE BECAME AWARE of pounding on the front door struggled to her feet, then opened the door to a tall uniformed police officer on the porch. He stared at her a beat before asking, “You the one called in a missing child?”

  Slightly confused but relieved to see help, she opened the door wider. “Yes. Come in. Come in. Please.”

  He leaned forward to peer in but did not step across the threshold. “You look distressed, ma’am. Anyone inside threatening you?”

  “No, no one. I laid down to close my eyes for a moment, and when I woke up Jordan was gone.”

  After scanning the living room, the officer stepped inside. He said, “Jordan?” while craning his neck to see into the interior hall.

  Why didn’t he understand? She just told him. “Yes. My son.”

  “Uh, ma’am, you sure no one else is on the premises? Your husband, a friend?”

  Weeping, she dropped into an overstuffed chair. “Now you! Why won’t anybody believe me?”

  “Ma’am, let me see if I understand the situation. You say someone entered your home and took your son from you?”

  Bobbie felt she was about to explode from anger. “No, nothing like that! He was here and now he’s gone.” Why won’t he listen? “Please, why won’t you do something? It just happened. I was napping.”

  “I understand, ma’am, but I need more information before I can do anything. Go on, finish telling me what happened.” He sounded less guarded now.

  Unable to curb the frustration from her voice, she began deliberately, as if talking to a child. “I fell asleep. When I woke up Jordan was gone. All his toys are gone too. That’s what I don’t understand.” She swept her good hand toward the rest of the house. “His red fire engine … his toys … they’re gone.”

  Trent Baker, Bobbie’s husband, came trotting through the open front door. He stopped at the sight of the officer.

  “What the hell?” Gasping for breath, he glanced at the cop, then at Bobbie, then calmly walked to her. “Bobbie, you okay?” Dropping onto his haunches, he grasped her right hand in both of his. “Honey, what happened?”

  When she didn’t answer he looked up at the police officer. “She okay? What happened?”

  With a shrug he answered, “Don’t know, sir. I’m trying to determine that myself. She called 9-1-1, claimed your son’s been kidnapped.”

  Trent shook his head. “My son?”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  Trent Baker sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, officer.” He shook his head again. “We don’t have children.”

  1

  FRIDAY, DOCTORS HOSPITAL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON BEFORE Labor Day weekend—three blessed days without call. Having just signed out to another partner ten minutes ago, Tom McCarthy yawned and checked his watch: 1:07 PM. Maybe put in four hours of paperwork before heading home for a beer and some much-needed rest.

  Yeah, a beer. He deserved it. Especially after last night. He’d rolled out of bed at 2:31 AM for an emergency case in the ER that ended up in surgery until 8:30 AM, dictated the operative report, checked on the still-unconscious patient in the recovery room, and rounded on three inpatients before enduring two back-to-back administrative meetings. The second one, the one he’d just finished, not only stretched on too long, but also included a buffet of crusty, dry lasagna and green salad drowned in a bad Caesar dressing. Which might’ve been tolerable except he was so hungry from missing breakfast that he scarfed down two helpings, which he now regretted.

  “Afternoon, Maria.” He entered his empty waiting room and closed the hall door, Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand.

  His office manager glanced up from behind the reception counter and smiled, her flawless white teeth a contrast against her rich Filipino skin. Her desk radio softly played golden oldies, her favorite station. “Good afternoon, Dr. McCarthy. You must be tired after such a busy night.”

  “The good news is I have three days to rest up. How’s your day been?”

  “Slow. I let the others go at noon. Hope that’s okay. I thought, give them an early start, this being a long weekend and all.”

  “Perfect. I’d take off early too, if I could. But hey, why don’t you go ahead, get out of here?”

  She glanced at the computer screen. “Maybe a little early, but I still have a few things to finish up. But now that you’re here, you mind if I run downstairs to grab a sandwich before they close?”

  “No problem. I’ll be in my office.” He headed that direction, thought about something, and turned to her. “Doesn’t your family have a picnic this weekend?”

  “We do.” She pushed back her chair and reached underneath the counter for her purse. “Oh, almost forgot. Two men came by to see you this morning.”

  “Oh?” Odd, he wasn’t expecting anyone. “They say what they wanted?”

  She brushed strands of glossy black hair off her forehead. “No, but they sounded like it’s important.”

  Who could that be? A process server? No, most of those snakes worked solo. Not a drug company salesman because the office didn’t allow drop-ins. “What’d you tell them?”

  “The truth, of course,” she said, flashing a conspiratorial smile. “That you were in surgery and by the time you got out, you would be tied up the rest of the day.” She started for the door, slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

  Part truth, part white lie: her way of protecting his time, especially from two men without an appointment or a good reason to see him. She knew he’d want to leave as soon as possible, maybe spend the weekend readying his boat for fall. He hadn’t told her about Caroline yet.

  “I appreciate that. Now go get some lunch before you starve to death.”

  HE SET THE coffee on his desk, dropped into the chair, and eyed the stack of paperwork. Quarterly reports, budgets, productivity figures: information essential for managing a major department in a medical center. Maria strategically had the charge sheet for this morning’s surgery on top, her not-so-subtle hint to fill it out first. He leaned back in the chair and sipped his coffee. Boring bureaucracy wasn’t the career he had envisioned when working his ass off in med school.

  Strange, the turns our lives take, and for what reasons. Two years ago—six months after Anne’s death—he had accepted a headhunter’s offer to interview for the chair of neurosciences. Moving from his married-life environment might provide a new start for him. And it did. Along with an increase in obligatory social functions, the kind more comfortably attended as a couple. He quickly became inv
olve with Caroline.

  But that turned out to be a huge mistake. A classic trap, he realized two months into the relationship. She was Anne in too many ways: her sense of style, humor, taste in movies, and a thousand other attributes. Caroline had resurrected memories of his dead wife instead of being a fresh start, making it a situation that was grossly unfair to them both. The right thing to do to was end the relationship before expectations and assumptions blossomed into regrets. So last week he tried to explain that he was involved with her for the wrong reasons, that it was a rebound thing and he felt a rebound wasn’t the right basis for a relationship. She argued that they were good together, that she felt he genuinely cared for her. Feeling cornered, he disagreed and said that he wasn’t going to continue seeing her. The conversation ended in bitterness and harsh words when she called him an asshole.

  A man with a gruff voice said, “Put your hands on the desk and stand up.”

  Startled, McCarthy snapped out of his reverie and looked up to see a gun aimed at his head.

  2

  DOCTORS HOSPITAL, SEATTLE

  SARAH HAMILTON’S EMOTIONS whipsawed between pissed and anxious. The lousy thing was she didn’t know why. She slapped the large red button harder than necessary, causing a bang as loud as a gunshot. Embarrassed, she glanced around to an empty hall, thank God. The clock on the wall showed 1:07 PM.

  Calm down, girl. Get a grip.

  The heavy doors to Cardiac Intensive Care Unit whooshed open. She entered, heading straight to the nursing station. With her mother’s black hair and delicate graceful features, Sarah was often mistaken for Italian rather than the child of a “mixed couple.” She hated the expression, as if the union between her Cuban mother and African American father came out of a Waring blender rather than a Catholic marriage.

  The charge nurse saw her approach and smiled. “Afternoon, doctor.”

  “Afternoon. Any inquires about 621?” she asked, referring to the patient admitted last night.