The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel by T. Ainsworth Page A

direction of...”
    “Insert the trocar through....”
    “Close the wound by…”
    In time a surgeon would learn every page. Someday the instructions would flow to the hands and fingers unmarred by hesitancy or self-doubt.
    “Get up!”
    His inner voice began speaking, commanding him to reality. Physicians heard this voice throughout their careers. Whether lying in bed, driving, working—anywhere—it would surface without warning and persist without mercy, besieging its owner until it forced atonement for a mistake or oversight.
    “Get the fuck up!”
    Morgan heard the silent command intensify, overwhelming him with the same severity as it had when one of his babies died.
    He cleared the back of his throat and swallowed the glob.
    Morgan walked to look out the back window. The building’s garage light pried open the gloom, revealing calm pools of rainwater, the thermometer barely above freezing.
    “I’m going running,” he said.
    Unused for months, he put on his track suit and shoes. The pants were so large he had to tighten the waistband. The jacket’s sleeves slid beyond his wrists. He stepped outside and pulled the door shut. Lumbering several hundred years toward the lakefront path, his muscles ached from the sudden jolt of exercise—a cruel reminder of his months of idleness. He halted at a stone and masonry ledge in the park where molasses-thick muck oozed through the cracks. As the damp mist invaded his bones, Morgan stared beyond the mud to the brown grass where the winter before Caroline had laid down in the soft snow and flapped her arms and legs to make angels. At her urging and without protest, he had joined her to do the same.
    He could still hear her laughing.
    Morgan continued south, his moist breaths dissipating the quicker he ran. He didn’t realize he had been sprinting until he looked up and saw the closed drapes of Cay’s vacant condominium. He slowed, coming as close to the building as he could. Craning his neck he saw the checkerboard of windows climb to the sky until they converged at a vanishing point, then he looked toward the lake.
    His soggy track suit provided no shield from the winter morning, but he wasn’t cold. His muscles ached, but he didn’t feel them. The anger and pain were gone. There was only clarity.
    “You fucking bastard,” he said coolly. “Time to fix this. You’re history.”

    The stone faces around the giant ellipsoid table offered epitaphs to the absurdity of the hearing. They thought they knew the outcome, but Morgan had already reached the verdict.
    With unctuous authority, each of them in sequence described, discussed, and commented while also watching for the adulating nods of their peers. Occasionally they would look at Morgan’s fixed gaze, his motionless hands and fingers entwined.
    Over his bifocals the senior medical officer said, “Dr. Morgan, what happened was inexcusable, even considering your personal circumstances. Your behavior has generated legal problems for the hospital.” He glared, waiting for an apology. Bristling when none came, his eyes rolled, “Dr. Morgan, are you listening?”
    “Yes.”
    He wasn’t.
    “Dr. Merrimac”—the officer motioned to him—“any comments to Dr. Morgan?”
    Ross Merrimac looked at his friend and studied the ill-fitting sport coat and the shirt collar that had grown too loose. The haphazardly knotted necktie displayed an out-of-character inattention to detail.
    “Wes…I know you hurt,” he said. “Life is full of tragedy. Look at what you do for a living. We all feel for you.”
    Merrimac tried to connect through the unspoken yet understood emotions of their world, but for Morgan his voice was just an irritation.
    “You know your temper’s very short, and that makes you unsafe. We’re in a high-risk profession. We cannot have physicians who don’t control their actions.”
    Morgan nodded but was oblivious to the words. He was problem solving—a habit ingrained over the years. As he