Toxin by Robin Cook Page A

needed. He usually awoke just before the alarm, which allowed him to turn it off before it could shatter the early-morning peace. Kim had been getting up before dawn ever since he’d been a first-year surgical resident. And this particular morning was no exception. He climbed out of his warm bed in the pitch black and dashed stark naked into the bathroom.
    Following a routine that needed no thought, Kim pulled open the heavy glass door of the shower and turned on the water full-blast. Kim and Tracy had always preferred showering to bathtub bathing, and the bathroom was the only room they’d wanted renovated back when he and Tracy had first purchased the house ten years earlier. They’d had the tub pulled out, as well as its attached tiny shower stall. In their place a generous five-by-nine-foot custom shower was constructed. Three sides were marble slab. The fourth was half-inch glass,including the door that had vertically oriented, bright brass, U-shaped handles mounted as if they pierced the thick, tempered glass. In Kim’s estimation it was a bathing extravaganza worthy of a spread in a design magazine.
    Breakfast was a donut and a cup of half-milk half-coffee that Kim stopped for at a Dunkin’ Donuts shop near his home. He ate while he drove through the morning darkness. He also used the time to listen to medical tapes. By six he was already in his office dictating consult letters and writing checks for various overhead expenses. At six-forty-five he was in the hospital for teaching rounds with the thoracic surgery residents at which time he made it a point to see his own patients. By seven-thirty he was in the conference room for the unavoidable, daily hospital meeting. That morning it concerned hospital credentials and admitting privileges.
    After the administrative meeting, Kim met with the thoracic surgery fellows whose research he supervised and participated in. That meeting went over, so he was a few minutes late to surgical grand rounds, where he presented a case of triple-valve replacement.
    By ten o’clock Kim was back at his office and already behind schedule. He found out that Ginger had booked emergency patients for nine-thirty and nine-forty-five. Cheryl Constantine, Kim’s office nurse, had the patients already in the two examining rooms.
    The morning passed with nonstop patients. Lunch consisted of a sandwich that Ginger had ordered in. Kim ate while he went over cath results and X-rays. He also found time to return a semi-emergency phone call to a Salt Lake City cardiologist about a patient who needed a triple-valve replacement.
    The afternoon was a mirror image of the morning, with back-to-back patients, including a few emergenciesthat Ginger slipped into the schedule. At four o’clock Kim took a short break to dash over to the hospital to handle a minor problem with one of his inpatients. While he was there he quickly did afternoon rounds.
    Back at the office Kim vainly tried to catch up, but he never could. Several hours and a number of patients later, he paused for a moment to catch his breath before pushing into what was called examine room A. He used the brief respite to glance at the chart. He was relieved to see it was merely a routine post-op check. That promised the visit would most likely be a “quickie.” The patient’s name was Phil Norton, and as Kim entered the cubicle, Phil was already obligingly sitting on the examination table with his shirt off.
    â€œCongratulations, Mr. Norton,” Kim said, lifting his eyes from the chart. “Your stress test is now normal.”
    â€œThank God!” Phil said.
    And thank modern-day cardiac surgery, Kim mused. He bent over and examined the incision that ran down the center of Phil’s chest. Gently Kim palpated the raised ridge of healing tissue with the tips of his fingers. By such observation and touch Kim could accurately tell the internal state of the wound.
    â€œAnd the incision looks