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"You also said you sewed mat up," Dylan countered.
"We did."
"So?"
Dr. Radison rubbed a hand over his square jaw. "It's not as simple as that, Mr. Newport. The aorta is the body's main artery. It's crucial in supplying blood to the organs. In this case, the spot the bullet nicked resulted in a reduced blood flow to the kidneys. That, combined with the large amount of blood he lost overall, and the septic shock resulting from the infection caused by the damage done to his intestines, all add up to a major source of concern. I just ran a CT scan. I'm not happy with what I saw. Kidney function is down eighty percent. Unless that improves, I'm inserting a temporary fistula and starting dialysis."
"Dialysis." Dylan repeated the word slowly. "Are you saying you expect his kidneys to shut down completely?"
"That's a worst-case scenario. It's possible they'll just need some help before they take over on their own."
"So this problem is temporary."
A brief hesitation. "That's my hope."
Dylan tensed. "But it could be permanent."
"Possibly, yes. And, taking into account Mr. Brooks's vital lifestyle, his resistance to physical restrictions of any kind, I want to be prepared."
"Oh, God." Susan pressed her palms to her cheeks. "You're talking about a transplant."
"I'm only talking about laying the groundwork," Dr. Radison clarified. "Just in case." He glanced back at his file and frowned. "Unfortunately, Mr. Brooks has no family. He's also got type O positive blood, which reduces the potential pool of compatible donors. We'd better start alerting anyone close to him who'd be willing to be screened for a match—again, just in case." He inclined his head. "I assume we should start with the two of you?"
"Absolutely," Susan returned immediately.
"Hmm?" Dylan's mind was racing. Thank God he'd made those calls already. He'd set things in motion, a fact that had just taken on a whole new dimension. Ironic that Carson had picked now to search for his child. That request had just escalated from sentimental curiosity to urgent necessity.
"Mr. Newport?" Radison's tone suggested he'd been trying to get Dylan's attention. "I asked if you know your blood type."
"Sorry. I was just digesting everything you said. I'm O positive."
"The same as Mr. Brooks. Good. Ms. Lane just told me she's A negative. That won't work."
"Does that mean I'm compatible?" Dylan asked.
"I'm afraid it's not that simple. It's just step one. We need to draw your blood so we can do tissue-typing, as well as..."
"I'll get down to the lab and have that done right away." Dylan could feel the detectives watching him, gauging his reaction. He couldn't ask to speak to Dr. Radison alone, not without arousing further suspicion. Besides, now wasn't the time to spill his guts to the surgeon about the chance that Carson had a biological child. Not until he knew whether this person actually existed.
"Something wrong, Mr. Newport?" Whitman inquired.
"I'm just making a mental switch from focusing on Carson's enemies to focusing on his friends." Dylan pulled himself together quickly enough to cover his tracks. "I'll call everyone I can think of. The more people willing to get screened, the better chance we'll have of finding a compatible donor." His jaw set. "I assume the rest of our conversation can wait until I've made those calls and had some blood drawn?"
"I'll start on the calls, Dylan," Susan offered, her voice shaky, as if she were battling shock. "It will make me feel useful. You, at least, can give blood. I can't even offer him that." She swallowed hard. "Whoever I leave out—business associates, old girlfriends, whoever you think might help—you can make those calls afterward."
Dylan nodded. "Is that all right with you?" he asked the detectives.
"Certainly," Whitman assured him, her poker face back in place. "We want to talk to Mr. Brooks anyway— and Dr. Radison, if he can spare a minute. After that, we'll chat with Ms. Lane. We're not going anywhere, and I assume neither are you. We'll catch up later, here. Unless you're going home to rest, as Mr. Brooks suggested?"
"No. Rest isn't an option." Dylan's jaw tightened a fraction more. "I'll be right here at the hospital—unless I'm in a taxi, or home showering and changing. In any case, I'm reachable."
"Fine." Barton turned to Susan. "You'll wait?"
"Of course. I'll be outside the building, making calls from my cell phone. Get me when you're ready." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I want whoever did this caught and punished."
"So do we," Barton assured her. "And don't worry. He will be. Soon."
With a speculative glance at Dylan, Barton followed his partner into the ICU.
