Mark of the Beast Page 12

“Yes, how can I help you?” Dickerson asked.

  “I am Professor Allahaji Abdullah, and I teach theology at the University of Cairo, here in Egypt. My specialty is in Judean, Islamic, and Christian religions, and I am also an expert in ancient religious history.”

  “How are you doing, Professor Alla ji…”

  “No, Alla-ha-ji,” the professor enunciated. “As I was saying, I saw you on KNN-International, and also some of our local TV commentators discussed your findings. I was particularly struck when you mentioned the religious implications of your HLA findings.”

  With Dr. Abdullah’s accent, and the long distance connection of the call, Dickerson had her left hand over her left ear to shield out other noises. “Could you speak a little louder? I can barely hear you,” she said.

  “I was saying that you mentioned the religious implications of your HLA findings.”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe you are on the verge of making a discovery of biblical proportions,” Abdullah continued.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I know that you were thinking of the number 666, the number that stands for the beast, the mark of the devil, and you were wondering how it may relate to your research,” the professor said.

  “As a matter of fact, yes I am,” responded Dr. Dickerson, curious as to how this man could deduce what she had been thinking that quickly.

  “First of all,” the professor said, “instead of the large letter B, use the small letter b, and then you should search any library of ancient Middle Eastern philology and the development of minuscule letter styles. You will be surprised to know that in many of them, but particularly in one, the letter b and the figure 6 often are … are … What am I thinking?” pondered the professor in the middle of his explanation.

  “Interchangeable.”

  “Yes, interrelated, thank you.”

  “When you do,” the professor said, “you will then understand that you may have discovered the location of the marker 666, the sign of the devil.”

  That was exactly what Dr. Dickerson had hoped for—a possible link between her scientific research and the Book of Revelation.

  There may indeed be a connection between the two after all, she thought. If so, let the religious debate begin.

  The phone rang again.

  This time, the call was from PKS Productions, which was owned by the famous talk show host from Chicago, to request a solo interview with her to discuss further what she meant by the religious implications of her HLA research. She promised to give it a serious thought before accepting. She then promptly notified Dr. Abramhoff, who encouraged her to go ahead.

  “The more outlets, the better,” Abramhoff pointed out.

  The caller, however, did promise that Ms. Hanson herself would call soon to set up a mutually acceptable time and date for an interview if a live appearance on her show was impractical.

  3

  OAK RIDGE COUNTRY CLUB, in Schererville, Indiana, had earned its reputation as one of the best places to live. An exclusive gated community for the upper-class society of northwest Indiana, it had its own clubhouse. In the middle of its two-thousand-plus acres, which sprawled over two towns, was a manicured, eighteen-hole, grade-A golf course that punctuated the entire estate.

  In northwest Indiana, and in sections of the south and southeastern parts of Chicago, the golf course had always been home to the most avid golfers. Many specialty doctors, specialized dentists, affluent lawyers, bankers, and millionaire business owners resided in the estate part of the community.

  At 487 Cricket Court, in a picturesque mansion, about six homes removed from the clubhouse and close to the third tee golf area, Dr. Lee Kwon Nsi was busy entertaining guests. Congressman James Packard, the special guest of honor, was being showered with praises and donations from the many friends of Dr. Nsi.

  Dr. Lee Kwon Nsi, at age fifty-two, had made a name for himself. A handsome, medium-built, self-made millionaire, he emigrated from South Korea to the United States with his older brother at age ten.

  He had been the most influential cardio-thoracic surgeon among the six area hospitals scattered throughout northwest Indiana. His rise to fame was very rocky, and sometimes even unpleasant, something Dr. Nsi had repeatedly refused to discuss. Dr. Nsi also had a way with women.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” shouted Dr. Nsi to the noisy crowd in the huge family room, which was designed like a self-contained stage. “Ladies and gentleman, please,” shouted Dr. Nsi a second time as the noise began to die down. “Today, I am honored to introduce to you my very good friend, the honorable Congressman James Packard.”

  A round of very protracted yet polite applause followed.

  “Congressman Packard has done so much for northwest Indiana,” continued Dr. Nsi after the applause. “He has championed millions of federal dollars for infrastructure developments in northwest Indiana, and we are greatly indebted to him.”

  Another round of applause initiated by Dr. Nsi followed.

  “For that, we are sponsoring a drive to rename Calumet Avenue to Packard Boulevard, in honor of our great congressman, and also in appreciation of the leadership he has shown in the expansion and extension of Calumet Avenue.”

  Another round of applause followed.

  “The congressman’s job is not yet finished. Today, he is here in person to tell you about his next major project for our area. Of course, gentlemen, he is going to need your strong support in this endeavor. So, without further ado, I present to you, Congressman Packard.”

  A thunderous applause followed this time, lasting about sixty seconds. Even Congressman Packard was taken aback slightly.

  “I want to personally thank Dr. Nsi, our premier cardio-thoracic surgeon, his wife, Lynn, and their two children, all here tonight for this wonderful occasion.” Congressman Packard began his prepared message after pulling out a piece of paper from his coat jacket.

  As the congressman was delivering his speech, Dr. Nsi’s eyes roved around the room and noticed Dr. Marion Moheri brooding over a glass of Heineken. He made his way toward the beautifully decorated bar and tapped Dr. Moheri on the shoulder.

  “Hello, Doc,” responded a startled Moheri.

  “Mario!” Dr. Nsi, who preferred to call him Mario, shouted.

  “Come with me to the deck,” Nsi beckoned, as he motioned Dr. Moheri toward the French doors.

  Outside, two golfers were still at the third teeing ground attempting to tee off on this chilly April evening.

  “I didn’t think you were gonna make it,” said Dr. Nsi, “but I’m delighted you did.”

  “It was hard, but I had to come to give you the good news,” Moheri responded.

  Moheri and Nsi had become friends while golfing at the country club, and over the years had begun to share common interests, especially Moheri’s ambitious chemical researches.

  Nsi, a gifted golfer, but labeled as suave and a womanizer, could engage anyone in any conversation and within minutes dominate the discussion.

  “I have the final concentration now, and I seriously believe that in an adequate quantity of … what I call M&M juices, there may be a total obliteration of any human organs,” informed Moheri, his head bouncing up and down as his glasses hung on the bridge of his nose.

  “You mean…?” responded a wide-eyed Nsi.

  “If you dump an organ, say the kidney, in the juice, it disappears in a matter of minutes. In layman’s terms, yes, total evaporation.”

  “Wouldn’t you see blood or particles floating in the solution?” Nsi asked curiously.

  “Right now, there is only a slight discoloration, but I believe that in enough solution, or a higher concentration, that color would probably disappear.”

  “You mean,” persisted an uncomprehending Nsi, “you can literally dump someone into that solution—and poof?”

  “Yes, poof,” answered Marion, pulling his glasses up slightly with his right middle finger.

  “Lee, the congressman is looking for you,�
� a voice said through the open French doors.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be right there,” Nsi apologized to the intruder.

  “Enjoy yourself, we’ll talk some more,” Nsi whispered to Moheri.

  Walking through the crowd, clapping at the congressman’s remarks, Nsi made his way to the podium. “Isn’t he wonderful?” said Dr. Nsi to more applause.

  “I would like to thank everyone again for this wonderful occasion,” Nsi remarked. “Please, there is plenty to eat in the dining room, and those of you who would like a picture taken with the congressman, the setup is in the sun room. Also, don’t forget to stop at the office anytime. That’s the door to your left. Monica is patiently waiting. No amount is too large.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “Monica will have all the information you need.”

  4

  “I SAW YOU IN the newspaper yesterday,” smiled Marge Fisher, with the same sexy smile she had used in the past to charm Dr. Nsi. Marge, the former head nurse at four-wing-three, a cardiovascular and surgical step-down unit at Indiana University Hospital in Glen Park, was now the head nurse in the operating room.

  “You collected about a hundred thousand dollars for the congressman; that’s phenomenal.”

  “Yes,” responded Nsi, half paying attention while adjusting his surgical cap, which he then tied around his head.

  It was 6:30 A.M., and Nsi’s patient was prepped for major quadruple bypass surgery.

  Nsi had already talked to the patient, changed into scrubs, and was in the midst of his final preparations. He left the operating room to wait for the anesthesiologist’s final induction of the patient.

  Standing outside at the hallway that led directly to the employees’ parking, sipping a cup of coffee, Nsi was accosted by Nurse Fisher.

  “That surprised me, too,” Nsi agreed. “I didn’t expect that many donations.”

  “Dr. Nsi, I know this is the wrong time, but I really need your help,” Marge said, commencing her begging.

  “What is it now?” asked an irritated Nsi.

  Marge always picks the wrong time to ask for favors, and most of her requests revolve around money, thought Nsi.

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  Ms. Marge Fisher, a blond, petite, forty-six-year-old, had been romantically involved with Dr. Nsi for two years, a secret they had shared. Ms. Fisher was a recently divorced mother of a seventeen-year-old high school girl who had been in and out of trouble with the law.

  Recently arrested and charged with possession and intent to distribute, her daughter was again arrested when she was caught smoking marijuana with some friends in the high school parking lot. Since this was her fourth major offense, bail was set at $45,000.

  Ms. Fisher had arranged for detoxification and counseling for her daughter and was about to sign the agreement when this recent incident happened.

  “What do you actually want me to do?” asked Nsi.

  “I would like to bail her out so that she can get the help she needs.”

  “I agree with you, go ahead.”

  “You know I don’t have that kind of money,” Fisher replied, fiddling with her fingers.

  “What makes you think I do?” Nsi asked, teeth clenched, barely audible.

  Gifts that started innocently as lunch money of twenty dollars here and there had moved up to $1,500 for trips.

  Six months ago, Nsi, in a desperate move not to leave any traces, paid cash for Marge’s new Volkswagen Jetta because the same daughter crashed the only car they had left after the divorce. Ms. Fisher had pleaded that she had no other means to commute to work.

  “Didn’t I just buy you a car … free … six months ago?” Nsi reminded her.

  “Yes, and I’m still very grateful,” replied Fisher. As she looked up at Nsi, a tear dropped from her left eye.

  “So when is this gonna end?” Nsi persisted.

  “When is what gonna end?” asked Fisher, wiping away tears.

  “What do you mean what…? This, this … crazy idea of constantly asking for money?” Nsi grimaced angrily.

  “Who was it who said ‘if you need anything, just let me know’?” Fisher fired back. “Aren’t you the one who promised to help me whenever I’m in trouble, or have you forgotten what you said at the La Quinta Inn?”

  “When did I make such a promise?” Nsi asked with a disgusted look as he peeped down the hallway to be sure nobody was listening.

  “Oh, so now you’re playing possum?” Fisher’s jaw dropped.

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “Look, Nsi, are you gonna help me or not?” Fisher straightened her scrub coat.

  “I have to think about that,” Nsi replied while walking away.

  “Please, don’t take long.”

  “Dr. Nsi, we’re ready for you.” The anesthesiologist came out of the operating room. He glanced at Nurse Fisher and was about to ask—

  “Thanks, I’ll be there in a second,” Nsi interrupted.

  Without saying another word to Ms. Fisher, Nsi headed straight to the sink to scrub and gown for the operation.

  Unlike most of his surgeries, complications started soon after the operation. The patient had excessive fluid retention and needed two extra days of intubations. If it weren’t for the aggressive daily vigilance of the anesthesiologist and the chief cardiology resident, the patient would have coded and possibly died.

  This was not the kind of outcome associated with Nsi, and he blamed it all on Ms. Fisher. Another complication like this, and another patient might actually die. Ms. Fisher had to be stopped, Nsi convinced himself.

  Four days after the surgery, Marge phoned Nsi. “I heard about Mr. Charles Edward, your patient who nearly died.”

  “I have you to thank for that,” Nsi replied, still worried about that surgical complication.

  “What did I have to do with it?” It sounded like Marge was smirking on the other end of the phone line.

  “More than you know.”

  “Sorry. You’re the surgeon, and you take the responsibility.”

  “The question is, how many more bad outcomes are in the wings for me because of you?” shouted Nsi over the phone.

  “Listen, let’s stop arguing; I have some good news.” Marge realized she had never heard Nsi this angry before.

  “Hmm … what good news?” asked Nsi, as he took an audible deep breath over the phone.

  Nsi was hoping that she would finally move to Arizona. Marge had hinted, at the height of her divorce, that she was contemplating moving to Arizona with her daughter just to get away from it all.

  “They have lowered her bond to $35,000, but I must pay it in two weeks or else she goes to jail,” Marge voiced with a happy tone.

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I met with Attorney Terrence Lacrosse, from Dyer, and he was instrumental in lowering the bond. I really need this money. I am willing to do anything, including making monthly payments until it’s all paid off.”

  Why Terrence Lacrosse? Nsi wondered. Isn’t he that notorious lawyer who made his career suing doctors and collecting huge sums of money? Is she sending me a message? Nsi’s thoughts began racing. If I don’t comply, will I be next? I didn’t do anything but sleep with her and all of a sudden she’s demanding huge sums of money. The end result of all this is not gonna be pretty. Last year’s case … what was that patient’s name? Yes, when Mrs. Thompson died seven hours post op, that was clearly my fault.

  The family, however, had accepted the death as natural after he had talked to them extensively. Marge knew the family well and she was also the scrub nurse on the case.

  Something had to be done quickly before this whole thing got out of hand. “Okay, I will get back to you in about a week,” Nsi finally responded, after what appeared to Marge as an unusually long silence.

  “Oh, thank you so very much; you will not regret this,” Marge said, patting her flushed cheek.

  “I didn’t say I was gonna give you the money.”
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  “I know, I know, but thank you, anyway.”

  She hung up, and momentarily Nsi thought he heard a second click just before he hung up.

  Is she taping our conversations? Nsi wondered.

  Driving home that evening down the crowded and construction-laden Indianapolis Boulevard in Schererville, Indiana, Nsi decided that Marge had to be dealt with immediately. Arriving home, he went into his private office, locked the door, and then made a call to Marion.

  “How is the M&M juice coming along?” Nsi asked.

  “I think it’s now at a concentration that even the bones will melt and disappear,” Moheri said.

  “I guess the next step is a test, don’t you think?” Little tiny perspiration beads appeared on Nsi’s forehead.

  “Actually, yes, I was planning on using one of our rhesus monkeys as a test animal.”

  Without hesitation, Nsi suggested, “I may have someone we can use as a test subject.”

  “Someone … like a person?” Marion asked.

  “Yeah,” Nsi said, letting out a loud heave.

  “In that case, all I need is an address,” Marion said.

  5

  MARGE WAS WORKING LATE. Today, the surgery schedule stretched until almost 8:30 P.M. The last case was an emergency quadruple bypass surgery that took four and half hours. After the case was over, and the operating room cleaned out, the operating room nurses and technicians dressed and left for the day. Marge, instead, opted to work in her office to finish next week’s assignments. When Marge finally looked up again, it was 10:30 P.M. She needed to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow she was scheduled to meet with Attorney Lacrosse at eight o’clock in the morning to go over the terms of her daughter’s bail.

  Rushing out of the east end exit of the hospital, near the surgical wing, close to the employees’ parking spaces, Marge did not notice the man standing hidden behind a dark blue sport utility van.

  She had made these late-night short trips to her car several times before, and always waved off the security guard behind the surgical suite waiting room desk whenever he offered to escort her.

  “Are you Marge Fisher?” the man asked. He was dressed appropriately, in a business suit without a tie.