Unmasked by Ingrid Weaver Page B

positioned Jackson on the stool, switched on the high-intensity light and centered a magnifying lens over his hand. He inspected theback patiently, taking careful notes and measurements of the position and the extent of the damage. It took three times as long for him to go through the same process with the palm.
    Compared to the examinations Jackson had already undergone, Yves’ initial approach was markedly low-tech, an odd choice for one of the world’s leading neurosurgeons, but it was all part of his gift. He’d always maintained that science worked best when it was wielded with the heart as well as the brain.
    Jackson had first met Yves and Marie in an Eritrean refugee camp. There hadn’t been any MRIs or EEGs or ultrasound machines within a hundred miles—the beat-up generator outside the hospital tent had been barely able to power the lights. In spite of that, the Fortiers had labored six hours straight to save a ten-year-old girl whose leg had been almost severed at the hip by a machete.
    The effort hadn’t been reasonable, since the chances of success under those primitive conditions had been next to nil. Nevertheless, neither Yves nor Marie given up. As Marie had tirelessly worked the ventilator and shooed the flies off their patient with a switch made of goat hair, Yves operated by instinct and feel. Against all odds, by the following morning the girl had not only sat up but wiggled her toes.
    “Next time put on a catcher’s mitt,” Yves muttered.
    “What?”
    “From the looks of this,” he said, touching the eraser end of his pencil to the center of the scarring, “you tried to play catch with the shrapnel.”
    “Yeah, something like that.”
    Yves glanced up, his gaze keen. “How close to the blast were you?”
    “The details are fuzzy.”
    “Perhaps that is a mercy.”
    Jackson nodded. “We’ve all seen things we would prefer to forget, Yves.”
    Yves grunted an agreement and let the subject drop. Like everyone who had worked in a war zone, he knew when not to push. He returned his attention to Jackson’s hand. “How much sensation have you recovered?”
    Jackson pointed to the base of his thumb. “This area is around thirty percent. This is maybe forty.” He moved his index finger. “The rest is about sixty. Enough for basic grasping and holding but no fine motor control.”
    Yves switched off the light and swung the magnifying lens aside. “Huh, you’ve really done it this time, Jacques. You’re well and truly mucked up.”
    “I know you can’t resist a challenge.”
    “Do you think I have nothing better to do?”
    “Since when did you become modest, Yves? We all know you’re a genius.”
    “This is true. I am a genius.” He slapped Jackson’s shoulder. “Come back in two days and I’ll hook up the electronic gizmos. We’ll measure the nerve impulses and map out how much you left me to work with.”
    “Thanks, Yves.”
    “Don’t thank me yet, my friend. This is only the first step.”
    Jackson recognized the caution in Yves’ voice. He’d used the same tone himself when he’d been unsure of a patient’s prognosis. Like Yves, he knew the odds of a full recovery were against him. But there was no way he could allow himself to give up.
    Without his work, what would he have left?
    The image of Charlotte stole into his mind. Not the silk-and-pearls Charlotte but the woman who had yelled at him yesterday, then had looked at his palm with tears on her lashes.
    They hadn’t seen each other since then, so why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
    Jackson rubbed his face briskly and followed Yves to the door. Since he’d come home, there seemed to be no end to the questions he didn’t know how to answer.
     
    “E XCUSE ME , C HARLOTTE . Do you have a minute?”
    Charlotte slowed her progress across the lobby as she saw Luc Carter step around the concierge desk and hurry toward her. She wanted nothing more than to keep walking until she reached her car, then drive home