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

considered the first elements of the new task ahead, those surrounding him at the table could only appreciate vacuity in the surgeon.
    The senior officer asked, “Dr. Morgan, do you have any response to Dr. Merrimac, or any of us, for that matter?”
    “No.”
    Merrimac shook his head in disbelief. What had he missed? A man could be hurt, but a surgeon rarely cracked like this. Death happened, and life went on. He was watching his friend’s entire career fall apart. During the forty-five-minute meeting, Morgan had spoken only a few words and none in his defense.
    “Dr. Morgan, please step outside,” the officer said. “We’ll call you back when we’re ready.”
    Standing impatiently by a window, looking at the hospital Caroline had built, Morgan continued planning. In time he was again seated, staring in the same indistinct manner as before.
    “Dr. Morgan,” said the senior operating officer, “this committee has discussed the circumstances of your actions and considered your tragedy.” His voice had become an annoying distraction. “You will receive a six-month suspension from all clinical activities. During this time you’re prohibited from entering this hospital for any reason. In June this committee will meet to consider your reinstatement. If for any reason you do not comply, your hospital privileges will be terminated.”
    “Fine.” Morgan’s head never moved.
    Several pieces of paper slid toward him. “Please sign these. One acknowledges the terms of your suspension; the other speaks to a required psychiatric evaluation and whatever treatment necessary. Take the copies with you.”
    “Fine.”
    He was on his feet and opening the door, only turning to acknowledge Merrimac’s voice.
    “Wes, you take care. You can call me day or night.”
    Morgan nodded once.
    Outside the building he ground the papers in his fist, tossing the crumbled wad in the first trash container he saw. The surgeon had no interest in a couch, pills, or shock treatments.
    Deaf to a speeding ambulance, he entered the university library and saw several coeds laughing quietly at a table near the entrance.
    “Do any of you have a pen and paper I could buy?” Morgan asked them.
    “I’ve got this,” one of the women giggled, holding up a pink legal pad and pen topped with a feather.
    “That’ll be just fine,” said Morgan, giving her twenty dollars.
    She looked surprised. “Anything else you’d like?” She smiled.
    “No,” said Morgan, not playing to her suggestion. “This is all I need. Thanks.”
    He walked to the stairwell, climbed several flights, and found a cubicle where he wouldn’t be noticed. He hung his raincoat on a nearby chair, tugged loose his necktie, and sat down. Occasionally he used a computer terminal or went to another floor to retrieve information, but mostly he sat and wrote, organizing his thoughts until closing time.

SEVEN
    January 2002
    R oss Merrimac didn’t know what to think. Morgan had to be upset after the hearing, but needed to understand Merrimac was only doing his job. Morgan wasn’t one to hold a grudge—he just wasn’t that way. When the messages on Morgan’s phone went unanswered, Merrimac hoped his friend was simply taking a long vacation someplace like the Bahamas, lost in both the liquor and sunshine. Still, he worried about his star surgeon, so he left the hospital one wintry afternoon and drove to Morgan’s home. If there were no answer, Merrimac would tape prewritten notes to his front and back doors.
    He rang the doorbell and waited.
    When the door opened, Morgan’s trim beard made for a dramatic change in his appearance. Surgeons at the hospital weren’t allowed to have beards because whiskers could fall into the sterile field, but Morgan wouldn’t be back for several months, so it was okay for now—just different.
    It seemed odd he was dressed in only a T-shirt, running shorts, and leather sandals, because it was fourteen degrees outside. Maybe he kept his place