Welcome to the third installment of my new novel, Quiet Teacher.
If you've missed the first two installments, they are archived on my blog and only a click away. In reading this serialization you are participating in an age-old yet brand new experiment. Writers as luminous as Charles Dickens and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes)have serialized their books, although this may be the first time a major online newspaper has serialized a book as a pre-publication "tease" for the print edition.
Quiet Teacher is the second book in a series about the lives, loves, and action adventures of Dr. Xenon Pearl, a South Florida neurosurgeon who saves lives in the operating room during the day and goes out as a vigilante at night. There's something for everybody in these literary thrillers: Chinese history, medicine, martial arts, romance, ghosts, and of course page-turning action.
I know you all love books and want to support them. Enjoy!
*****
On the edge of Boca Raton, a motorcycle passed us. It caught my attention because the orange color meant it was a KTM, the exotic Austrian marque all the rage with the motorcycle press. In the forced leisure of my recent life I had been reading motorcycle magazines as fast as publishers could print them.
"Look at that guy," Wanda said. "If you weren't in the car, I'd pull him over right now."
"You'd never catch him."
Wanda tightened her hand on the wheel. I touched her shoulder. "That wasn't a dare," I said. "Those bikes are crazy fast. I doubt he'll even see your lights."
Indeed, the rider seemed possessed. The professional motorcycle racer, high-mileage tourer, or experienced motor cop uses spare, subtle motions to guide his machine; this guy sped up and slowed down and whacked his handlebars from side to side, clear evidence that he was either addicted to adrenalin or just plain stoned. "Some riders just want to die," I said as we watched him disappear between trucks up ahead.
"But not you."
"Nope. I just ride for the feeling--second best I know."
Wanda screwed up her face. "Oversharing," she said.
As we left the Boca city limits, the rider split lanes between a large tractor-trailer and a VW Bug. His speed surprised the truck driver, who reacted by twisting the wheel. The trailer fishtailed dangerously. Wanda stepped up the pace to stay with the bike.
"In California it's legal to split lanes like that," I said.
"Not here," said Wanda. "Enlightenment begins in the East. You of all people should know that."
I grabbed the dashboard as she picked up the pace. "You'll never catch that guy."
"We'll see."
"You're going to bang up this nice Ford."
"It's a lease truck. We got it on a HIDTA grant."
"English?"
"High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area."
"Which means it was bought with confiscated drug money."
Wanda grinned. "You really are a quick study. Don't worry; policy says I can't pursue him unless he commits a violent felony. We'll just stay with him for a bit. If the road opens up, I'll pull him over."
We passed through Deerfield Beach at triple digit speed. The traffic and the rain were heavy, but the KTM did not slow down. A white Porsche suddenly jerked sideways out of the fast lane to let him by, then came up behind him with bright headlights flashing. The rider gave him the finger and scooted off in a diagonal that took him across three lanes of traffic. He could have stayed in his lane and proceeded on his way, but the Porsche driver set off in pursuit, making the same sweep. Brake lights turned the shiny blacktop red.
"You know the difference between a porcupine and a Porsche?" Wanda asked above the din of the big Ford's emergency equipment.
"Joke all you want; they're beautiful cars."
The Porsche came up on the bike hard, and the bike darted away again, slow lane to fast. The Porsche wouldn't let it go and set off in pursuit, roaring past and dousing the rider in filthy spray.
"A porcupine's prick is on the outside," Wanda said, carefully moving to the center lane.
On the beat of her last word--later I would remember that quite distinctly--the world in front of us turned into a bloodbath. The Porsche's tires lost their grip on the road and shot a rooster tail to the sky as the car went sideways then back to front. Out of its lane it moved into the path of a tractor-trailer that slammed on its brakes and jackknifed across the road.
Presented with a wall of metal, the motorcyclist went down. His bike slid under the trailer, tangled briefly with the wheels, and continued through. The Porsche driver regained control of his car and sped away in the fast lane. The truck rose on its passenger-side wheels and flipped over. A midnight blue Subaru Forester plowed into the overturned truck in front of us, hitting right in the V between the trailer and the cab. The truck folded around the car, squashing it into the shape of an arrowhead. Wanda screeched to a halt and I jumped out.
Cold air sharpened my mind and cold rain soaked my short-sleeve shirt. Cars were sideways all over the road and the breakdown lanes were full. The bitter smell of brake-pad asbestos filled my nose as I sprinted for the driver's side of the Subaru. The driver was a young woman wearing sweats. Her face showed airbag burns and her neck bore a hundred tiny cuts from the glass of her shattered windshield. The front doors were completely crushed, so I took off my jacket, wrapped it around my hand, and used it to clear away the glass.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She blinked her eyes.
"Your name," I asked again.
Her voice wavered, but it was clear. "Kimberly Jenkins."
"I'm a doctor, Kimberly, and before I move you I need to ask you a few questions."
She tried to release her seatbelt. Her hand shook, and she couldn't do it. She turned around, trying to look behind her. "Tierra," she said.
The headlight glare of Wanda's Ford Expedition made it hard to see inside the vehicle. It took me a moment to discern the car seat and the child in it. The rear airbags had deployed, both side and front. Deflated, they formed a cocoon around the little girl. She was awake and watching me. I went around and tried the side door, but it was crushed. Unlike the windshield, the side window had come away cleanly. I leaned in and saw blood on the C pillar and on the side of the little girl's head.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
Tierra nodded, and reached out her arms toward her mother. "Mommy," she said.
"Your mommy's stuck right now," I said.
I went forward to Kimberly. "Did you hit your head?"
"I don't think so."
"It's going to take a little work to get you out."
"How's my baby?"
"She is injured, but she's conscious."
Tears came. "Oh no. I tried to stop, but everything happened too fast."
"You did fine," I said.
"I can't move my left arm."
The belt pulled down her blouse, and I could see a bruise developing on her clavicle. "Where do you hurt?" I asked her.
"My neck."
"Mommy!" Tierra cried again.
"I'll be right there, honey."
Wanda came up behind me. "Paramedics are on the way," she said.
"Go check on the guy in the truck."
"What about the biker?" she asked.
"I doubt there's anything we can do for him."
I turned back to Kimberly and asked her to lift her arm. She managed but only from the elbow.
"Good. Now can you shrug your shoulder?"
She tried without success. I brought out four inches of bead-blasted stainless blade and a textured aluminum handle. It opened with a click. Kimberly watched me with the eyes of a person whose entire world has constricted to a small space where every detail shines with importance.
Wanda cleared her throat. "It's a switchblade?"
I sliced neatly through the seatbelt. "They're called automatics now."
Shaking her head, she moved off. I put my jacket around Kimberly's neck. "I'm going to wait for the paramedics to take you out," I told her. "You could have an injury I can't see. We'll find out at the hospital."
I went back to Tierra. She looked sleepy and that worried me. I asked her to squeeze my finger and found her right hand weak. Her left pupil dilated as I watched it. I smiled at her. The smile she gave me back was lopsided.
Wanda came back. "The truck driver's trapped. He's awake but weak. Cursed the Porsche. Doesn't seem to realize the motorcycle slid under him."
"The girl's brain is bleeding into her skull," I said quietly. "We've got to get her to the OR right away. There's a clock on an epidural hematoma, and it's ticking. Where are the paramedics?"
"They'll be here," Wanda soothed. "I know it feels like forever, but it's been only a couple of minutes. Where's that legendary surgeon cool?"
"So many variables," I muttered. "It's chaos out here. I don't know where to turn first."
"Welcome to a cop's world. And by the way, you were wrong about the biker. He's alive and talking. You're not going to like the look of him, though."
As if on cue the rider appeared, walking upright like a regular guy, his leather riding suit in tatters, a piece of his skull completely gone.
"Are you guys cops?" he asked. "'Cause this wasn't my fault. That prick in the Porsche...."
"Prick," Wanda interrupted. "Exactly."
The rider noticed the open rear hatch of Wanda's SUV. "Wow," he said. "Look at all those guns. You guys preparing for war or what?"
I took his arm. "Let's sit down for a minute."
"I'll look for the missing piece," said Wanda.
"Don't worry," said the rider, thinking we were talking about his bike. "My insurance company will fix it."
The paramedics arrived in a storm of sirens and lights. I went back to Tierra.
Her eyes were closed.
***More to Come***
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