Brainwaves Read online

  BRAINWAVES by Leonard Goldberg

  Also by Leonard Goldberg

  Fatal Care Lethal Measures Deadly Exposure Deadly Harvest

  Deadly Care A Deadly Practice Deadly Medicine

  BRAINWAVES

  Leonard Goldberg

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc.” 375 Hudson Street,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, November 2002 10 987654321

  Copyright Leonard S. Goldberg, M.D.” 2002 All rights reserved

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  Printed in the United States of America

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For the three red roses

  Wherever I am You will always be

  The mind of man is capable of anything because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future.

  Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

  1

  John Gladstone was about to turn his back on a hundred million dollars. The amount of money being offered was almost irresistible, far more than he had expected. But the method of payment bothered him. He didn’t believe in long-term promises.

  “Well, Mr. Gladstone, do we have a deal?” asked Arthur Sabine, who was seated at an oblong conference table.

  Gladstone was standing at a large window in the Sabine Towers, staring out at West Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean beyond. The sun was setting, a large orange ball slowly sinking into the vast blue water. A friend in London had told him that a sunset over the Pacific was one of nature’s most magnificent sights. The same friend had told him that Los Angeles was the easiest place in the world to get screwed, both literally and figuratively.

  “Well?” Sabine persisted.

  “Your purchase price is satisfactory,” Gladstone said, his English accent clipped and aristocratic. “But I cannot accept Sabine stock as the only form of payment.”

  Arthur Sabine shifted his considerable bulk around

  in his chair. “May I remind you, sir, that the Sabine Financial Group is listed on the New York Stock Exchange, and that our shares are backed up by twenty-five billion dollars in assets?”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Then you must also know that our stock is strong today and will be even stronger tomorrow.”

  “I’m aware of that as well.” Gladstone had thoroughly investigated every division of the Sabine Financial Group. They had extensive holdings in banks and insurance companies, and now wished to expand their brokerage services into foreign markets. They wanted to buy Gladstone’s London-based brokerage house with its offices in Singapore, Malaysia, and South Africa for a hundred million dollars.

  “And you can rest assured,” Sabine went on, “that our stock will be even stronger two years down the road.”

  That was the catch, Gladstone thought. Sabine’s offer stipulated that none of the stock received by Gladstone could be sold until two years had passed. A lot of things could happen in two years that would drive down the value of the shares—war, recession, trade and oil embargoes. Two years was a lifetime in the financial world, and Gladstone wasn’t about to take any risks. But on the other hand, he didn’t want this fish to get away. The offer was too good, and in all likelihood wouldn’t come again. He decided to see how far he could push.

  “I know your group is very solid and your paper quite strong. But I prefer to be paid with the strongest paper on the face of the earth.”

  Sabine raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “The American dollar,” Gladstone said, glancing over to see Sabine’s reaction.

  Sabine smiled humorously. He was a big, stout man with thinning gray hair and a round face. He began scribbling numbers on a legal pad while his lawyers and financial advisers gathered around him, speaking in muted whispers.

  Gladstone looked back at the sun, now halfway dissolved into the ocean. He quickly calculated numbers in his head. If he could get fifty million in cash, it would be enough to pay off his partners and still buy back his family’s ancestral estate, which had been sold off by the two generations that preceded him. But that would leave him with precious little to run the estate and live the life of a gentleman. No. Fifty million wouldn’t do. But sixty million might. If the Gladstone thought process was suddenly interrupted by a knifelike pain in his left temple. It radiated to the area around his eye, causing his vision to blur. Gladstone gripped the ledge of the window, terrified by the pain and what it might signify.

  The pain gradually eased and Gladstone’s vision became perfectly clear again. And more important, he felt no weakness or numbness in his extremities. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like a man who had just dodged a bullet. His father had died of a massive stroke and the only warning sign had been a severe headache, which was followed by numbness and paralysis. Gladstone rarely had headaches, but when he did, it frightened him out of his wits. Although the pain in his temple was all but gone now, he still felt uneasy. He took another deep breath and tried to calm himself.

  “Twenty million up front in cash,” Sabine barked

  out. “The remaining eighty million in stock to be held for two years before selling.”

  “Fifty million in cash,” Gladstone countered. “And the remaining fifty million in stock salable in one year.”

  “No way!” Sabine said, shaking his head firmly. “We won’t go beyond twenty million up front, unless we substantially reduce our offer.”

  “To what?” Gladstone asked at once.

  “Thirty million up front in cash, forty-five in stock.”

  Gladstone was about to tell Sabine to piss off, but he hesitated and tried to think of a more delicate way to inform Sabine that the offer was unacceptable. But he was having trouble formulating the words. It was as if his brain was working in slow motion. He tried to concentrate on the numbers. Thirty percent of the stock … No, it was thirty million in cash. Wasn’t it? Or was it forty million up front and forty in stock? Gladstone rubbed his temples, trying to remember Sabin
e’s last offer. “Could you please give me your numbers again?”

  “Of course,” Sabine said, leaning back in his chair. “The total package would be seventy-five million. Thirty in cash, forty-five in stock.”

  “I see,” Gladstone said, eyeing Sabine and the lawyers and advisers seated around him. They were waiting for his response. Gladstone tried to think of a counteroffer they might accept. Maybe thirty million up front. No, they’ve already offered that. Haven’t they? Maybe it was thirty-five million up front. Better ask for their numbers again. “Could you repeat your last offer?”

  Sabine looked at him oddly. “Are you all right, Mr. Gladstone?”

  “I’m fine,” Gladstone replied. “I’m just a little fatigued. Perhaps a cup of coffee would help.”

  Sabine snapped his fingers at an aide, who jumped up and hurried over to a nearby wet bar. “Cream and sugar, sir?”

  “Black, please,” Gladstone said.

  The aide poured coffee into a plastic cup and walked toward Gladstone. “Here you are, sir.”

  Gladstone was reaching for the coffee when the headache returned. A blinding pain again shot through his temple and radiated into his eye. He tried to step forward, but his leg barely moved. Suddenly his knees buckled and he felt himself sinking onto the soft carpet. People rushed over to him. Someone yelled out, “Call an ambulance!”

  “Mr. Gladstone, do you know where you are?”

  He lay on his back, staring up at the overhead lights, unsure of where he was. It had to be a hospital or some type of medical facility. Yes, it had to be. That’s why the lights above were shaped like kettle drums and the people around him were wearing scrub suits and surgical caps. “I’m in a hospital.”

  “Very good,” Dr. Karen Crandell said. “Do you recall which hospital?”

  “No.”

  “You’re in the Angiography Unit at Memorial Hospital,” she told him. “You’ve had a stroke.”

  Oh, my God! A stroke! It’s happened. Gladstone tried to swallow away the fear flooding through him. He wondered if he was dying. “A stroke?” he asked with effort.

  “That’s correct. There’s a blood clot in your middle cerebral artery,” Karen explained. “That’s why you’re

  having trouble moving your extremities on the right side.”

  Gladstone tried to lift his right arm, but it barely budged. I’m paralyzed, his mind screamed. Just like my father before me. And like him, I’m going to die,

  “We’re now in the process of dissolving the clot and reopening the artery,” Karen continued. “We do this by threading a very thin catheter into your femoral artery, then up the aorta and into the carotid artery. From there the catheter is guided into the middle cerebral artery and we inject a clot-dissolving agent into the vessel.”

  “Is—is it an operation?” Gladstone asked nervously.

  “Not really,” Karen said, gently advancing the catheter. “It’s done under local anesthesia and you shouldn’t feel anything. As a matter of fact, we’re already halfway through the procedure.” She pointed up to the fluoroscopic screen overhead. “The narrow black tube moving upward is the catheter I told you about. We’re now in your aortic arch, heading for the carotid artery.”

  Gladstone watched the monitor overhead, trying to focus on the snakelike tube that was slowly moving forward. Around him he heard muted voices and machines that made clicking and beeping sounds. Somewhere behind him a door opened and closed. He felt a dull pain in his groin area, but it lasted only seconds and then ebbed away.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Gladstone?” Karen Crandell asked.

  “All right,” Gladstone said, glancing around the unfamiliar surroundings. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Memorial Hospital.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “You became ill,” Karen answered, not wanting to go through a detailed explanation yet again. “And we’re trying to get you better.”

  Gladstone swallowed audibly, his throat dry as sandpaper. “I don’t remember coming here.”

  “Do you remember my name?”

  Gladstone looked at the woman at length, then shook his head. “No.”

  “I’m Dr. Crandell.”

  “I’m John Gladstone.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Karen carefully advanced the catheter into the superior aspect of the carotid artery, then threaded it toward the smaller vessels which eventually led to the middle cerebral artery. She turned to Dr. Todd Shuster, a resident in neurology, who was assisting her. “Squirt a little dye in so we can see the potency of the smaller blood vessels ahead.”

  Shuster injected the dye and it instantly showed up as a white line passing through the catheter. The blood vessels superior to the catheter were wide open, except for the blocked middle cerebral artery. “Looks good.”

  Karen moved up to the front of the operating table. “Mr. Gladstone, it’s very important for you to remain still during this part of the procedure. Do you understand?”

  Gladstone stared up at her blankly. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Dr. Crandell,” Karen said again. “Please try not to move.”

  Karen returned to the side of the operating table and stood next to the neurology resident while she

  studied the fluoroscopic monitor overhead. She waited for the dye to clear all of the cerebral vessels.

  “Jesus,” Shuster muttered under his breath. “You’ve told him your name ten times and he still can’t remember it.”

  Karen continued to watch the monitor as the final bit of dye dispersed. “I’ve been a professor of neurology for ten years, and I’ve never seen a stroke do this. Not only has the stroke caused weakness, it’s also damaged the part of the brain responsible for short term memory. This man can remember perfectly things that happened five years back, but he can’t recall what occurred thirty seconds ago. Watch.”

  She turned and leaned over the patient. “Mr. Gladstone, where is your office in London located?”

  “On Edgeware Road,” Gladstone replied promptly.

  “How long have you been there?”

  “For nearly ten years.”

  “And before that?”

  “We had a small suite on York Street.”

  “Did you attend a meeting today?”

  “Yes. With the Sabine Group.”

  “Very good,” Karen said approvingly. “Now, can you tell me my name?”

  Gladstone’s lips moved but made no sound. He was a big man with strong, aristocratic features and a shock of white hair. Again his lips moved but formed no words.

  “My name is Dr. Crandell. Dr. Karen Crandell.”

  Karen turned back to Shuster and spoke in a low voice. “So, as you can see, he has excellent long-term memory. He can also remember things that happened four hours ago quite well. Then he had his stroke and that damaged the cerebral pathways responsible for

  short-term memory. He can now remember new things for about thirty seconds, and then they disappear from his mind forever. To him, it’s as if those things never occurred.”

  “He must have damaged his temporal lobe big time,” Shuster commented.

  Karen nodded. “But somehow spared the amygdala area where long-term memory is processed.”

  “If this treatment doesn’t work,” Shuster said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “this patient is going to have a tough time in life.”

  “His life will become a nightmare,” Karen said somberly. “If his memory is only thirty seconds, he won’t be able to carry on a conversation because he can’t remember what was said a minute ago. Likewise, he won’t be able to follow a movie or play or a television program because he can’t recall what happened minutes earlier. And if he moves into a new house, he won’t remember where the bathroom is, even if he’s used it a hundred times. And the list goes on and on. He’ll become a prisoner of his past.”

  “A nightmare,” Shuster repeated. “Dr. Moran used the exact same words.”

  Karen raised an eyebrow
. “I didn’t know Moran had seen this patient.”

  Shuster nodded. “He saw Mr. Gladstone in the ER. When the patient first arrived, the examining physician wondered whether trauma or a subdural hematoma could account for the symptoms, so he asked for a neurosurgery consult. Moran made the diagnosis of stroke and suggested they call in the chief of neurology. Dr. Bondurant confirmed the diagnosis and referred the patient for angio graphic studies.”

  “Was the patient’s short-term memory loss as severe as it is now?”

  “Every bit as much,” Shuster replied. “Apparently Mr. Gladstone and Dr. Moran had a long talk, since both have families in London that travel in the same social circles. Gladstone knew all about that, but he couldn’t remember Dr. Moran’s name despite being told over and over.”

  “Sad.” Karen reached over with her elbow and pushed a red button on a nearby machine. A small screen on the machine lit up and gradually came into focus. It showed in Technicolor the inner wall of an artery with blood swirling about. With each beat of Gladstone’s heart the blood in his middle cerebral artery churned up. Between beats Karen could see the blood clot blocking the artery.

  Shuster watched in fascination. Although he had assisted with the procedure on several occasions, he was still amazed by the nearly perfect picture showing the interior of a major cerebral vessel. “The picture is so clear it looks like it was taken with a camera.”

  “That’s because it was taken with a camera,” Karen said, slowly advancing the catheter toward the blood clot. “At the end of the catheter is a tiny camera that records the images and then transmits them back to the screen. It’s all done with fiber optics.”

  So simple, Shuster thought, particularly for someone like Dr. Karen Crandell, who had been working on a Ph.D. in physics when she decided to go to medical school. She became a brilliant neurologist and researcher. And now the clot-dissolving device she had invented was going to make her famous, and rich as well. He had heard that the patent for the catheter

  had already been sold to some corporation for really big bucks. Christ, some people just had the luck. All Todd Shuster was going to have was the $100,000 debt he owed for his medical education.

  “We’re there,” Karen said, taping the catheter to Gladstone’s thigh.