Gator Moon

GATOR MOON
Copyright ©2012 Max Ray
The moon was bright with dark, wispy clouds dancing erratically across its troubled face,
creating an eerie effect of shadow upon shadow. The surrounding marshes were alive as
if energized by some powerful, irritable force causing its denizens to become restless.
Young Joe Billie shuddered and hunched his shoulders slightly. ‗ Gator moon‘ he
thought. He remembered his Grandfather telling him of this; that when the moon was full
the swamp creatures became restless and irritable, especially the bull gators.
―This was not the time to hunt the big creatures,‖
Grandfather had said. ―The gator moon make them want to fight and kill. If you hunt
them then, you will become the hunted. Even brave men fear the gator moon.‖
Chapter One
The circular overhead lights resembled stars, or halos, or headlights. He really didn‘t
know and dreamily, didn‘t care. The gurney carrying him to surgery seemed jet propelled
and the attendant robotic. In any event, where in hell was he and why was he here. The
effort to sit up caused him to feel the restraining straps around his torso and instantly
rendered him nauseous. Struggling to keep down the bile tasting vomit he managed to
turn his head as the vile material ran out of what was once his mouth and nose.
―Lie still chief and you won‘t do that,‖ came a distant voice. ―You won‘t feel a thing in a
few minutes anyway.‖
Oh God, he thought, the robot could talk!
George Martinez, M.D., Ph.D., was a surgeon‘s surgeon. A slim intense man, Martinez
carried his 54 years and professional expertise as lightly as an ant carries a bread crumb.
He neither smoked nor drank, an occasional scotch being the exception; believed in the
value of diet to health and considered Pritikin a prophet. George‘s eyes narrowed and his
mouth formed a thin line as he reread the medical chart in his right hand; the fingers of
his left nonchalantly scratching his ample shock of once black, now graying hair.
CENTRA COUNTY HOSPITAL
DATE OF ADMITTANCE: June 6, 1986
PATIENT NUMBER: 64
ADDRESS: Not available

SEX: Male AGE: Not available RACE: Caucasian
HEIGHT: 6"1‖
WEIGHT: 195
HAIR: Black EYES: Green
IDENTIFYING MARKS: Y-shaped scar at the base of left thumb; linear scar at base of
left ring finger; multiple scars around right eye and brow; both ears moderately
cauliflowered.
ANAMNESIS: Found in ditch along state road 60, 10 miles west of the Cooter fish camp
on Lake Kissimmee.emiconscious and incoherent with severe cuts and contusions on
head, neck and upper body. Most likely cause—blunt trauma.
RADIOGRAMS: Multiple skull fractures with minimal displacements; fractured nose
and sinus with nasal fragments depressed and turbinates rearranged. Greenstick fracture
of the left humerus. General body condition—excellent.
NEUROLOGICAL EVALUATION: Numbness of fingers of right hand; lateral
nystagmus. Visual and hearing acuity not able to be evaluated. Patient unable to talk but
seems to hear and understand.
Something about this case bothered and puzzled George Martinez. He had spent nearly
two hours at lunch with Barry Simon, a neurologist from Orlando who had evaluated the
man shortly after admittance. He agreed that this was a surgical case. Barry‘s opinion was
that the patient had a slowly expanding sub-dural hematoma and if not operated may face
life as a total vegetable, if he survived. But why, George pondered, had the severe brain
contusion not killed this man? True, he was some physical specimen, a true mesomorph
but whoever worked him over didn‘t do it as a warning; they really dusted his rug. They
meant to kill him.
Who is this man, and what am I going to do if there is more to this than a sub-dural
hematoma?
The scrub nurse broke his concentration as she informed him that patient #64 was
prepped. Tiny beads of sweat formed on the doctor‘s brow and smooth shaven upper lip.
Self-doubts filled his mind as always. No one who knew Dr. George Martinez would ever
believe that this surgical machine could have doubts about his abilities. This man hung

the moon.
The brisk, slapping sound of surgical gloves forced over meticulously scrubbed hands
caused an immediate change in the surgeon. His eyes sparkling, his mouth relaxed and
smiling, brow dry as a sun baked bone, he stepped to the surgical table and accepted the
scalpel. Six hours later, a tired, slightly satisfied surgeon emerged from the small
operating cubicle. His shoulders and back muscles were rebellious. George was getting
too old for these surgical marathons. The silent demeanor of the surgical team and
support staff belied their inward admiration at the impossible task performed to
perfection by a master of his craft. Patient #64 was finally snug, if not yet safe, in
recovery.
Dr. Martinez strode into the waiting area and was immediately confronted by a well
dressed, well built man with what looked to be a permanent smile affixed to his face.
―Dr. Martinez, Dr. George Martinez?‖
―Yes, what can I do for you.‖ replied the surgeon.
―My name is Kirby, Charles Kirby and I‘m here on behalf of the man you just operated.‖
―Are you family?‖
―No.‖ came the reply.
―Relative?‖ asked the somewhat irritated surgeon.
―No.‖
Well, are any family members here?‖ queried Martinez.
―I don‘t think so. I don‘t believe they‘ve been told.‖
―Why?‖ asked the surgeon. ―He does have family, doesn‘t he?‖
―Yes,‖ Kirby replied, ―let me explain…‖
Really torqued, Martinez shot back. ―Yeah, explain first who the hell this guy is.‖ He was
getting edgy. Two days of trying to dig up information on a John Doe had proved
fruitless. No person professing knowledge of the victim could be located. Surgery had
been performed without consent. That fact alone would cause most surgeons to schedule
a golf game instead of an unauthorized attempt at fixing a cracked eggshell containing a
slightly scrambled egg.
―Here Doc., take a peek.‖ said the smiling man, holding an open wallet to Martinez‘ face.

An official looking plastic card identified one Charles S. Kirby, Jr. as a Central
Intelligence Agency Operative. His home address was Miami, Florida.
―Well, Mr. Kirby,‖ replied the surgeon, ―What‘s your interest in this man?‖
―His name is Sam Duff and I work with him, or rather he works for me. He is a specially
trained CIA agent and it is imperative that his condition and whereabouts be kept secret.
I‘ve taken the liberty to inform your staff and I trust that we can do this in a cooperative
manner, Doctor.‖
Not once did the smile leave Skeets Kirby‘s face. George noticed the muscle definition in
the man‘s face and neck; eyes narrow and piercing. Suddenly Martinez was overcome by
a feeling of fear so thick he felt he could dig holes in it. Oh my God, he thought, why did
I do an experimental procedure on this guy? Why didn‘t I wait for a real throwaway?
How in hell was I to know who he was—or is? Outwardly he remained calm and agreed
to cooperate; inwardly he wanted to get away from this smiling operative or whatever he
was. Turning to leave, he noticed a man standing by the recovery room door. He had not
seen him before.
• • •
―For Christ‘s sake, George, what‘s bugging you? You‘re as jumpy as a worm on a hot
plate. With these words Dr. Larry Kochak set his lunch tray down and slid his 6‘5‖ frame
into the straight backed chair designed for an average human.
Larry was a young internist in endocrinology and a close friend of George Martinez. The
good surgeon was not known as being particularly gregarious and his friends were not
legion. His friendship with Larry came from mutual need and respect. George‘s work
sometimes needed endocrine expertise—ergo Dr. Kochak.
A very talented doctor. George could cut out any organ, almost, and throw the remains to
Larry who miraculously kept the surgical derelict functioning—much to the surgeon‘s
amazement. No less amazed was Larry Kochak. ―How in hell did you get that pituitary
gland out of old lady Smith without killing her?‖ He once asked George.
―Hell if I know.‖ replied the surgeon. ―The knife is like my dick, has a mind all its own.‖
―Listen Larry, I‘ve got to tell you something.‖ His voice was raspy, almost hoarse.
Rapidly, theatrically, Martinez told the young internist about patient #64. His voice,

George revealed how he transplanted a section of donor brain into a defect left after
suctioning out a hematoma and most of the olfactory bulbs of the patient‘s brain. How he
used donor ethmoid turbinates and nasal bone to bridge a serious defect in the man‘s
nasal passage. All the while he reminded Larry of his extensive unpublished work on
tissue transplantation.
Work that had caused him to be ostracized by his peers and removed as chief of staff at
the prestigious General Hospital in Tampa. It seemed that the hospital human
experimentation committee didn‘t see eye to eye with the good doctor and came down
hard when he tried to rebuild the ruined nose of a Tampa Bay Buccaneer linebacker with
cartilage taken from a Beagle!
―Good God Larry,‖ the anxious man continued, ―he had a defect the size of two golf balls
and I know if filled with brain cells there‘s a good chance they will act as a matrix in
which the normal cells can redistribute and regain some normal function. You know that
some of my experimental work with this technique was successful, plus the brain has
such poor circulation that it may not reject the transplanted tissue. Without it Larry, he
was a loser—a dead man. I feel certain the bone graft will take but we have to sweat out
the brain part.‖
Again George thought of his work at Tampa. The many hours and experiments to
develop a solution that would disguise cell surface antigens and render foreign cells
immune to body reactions that resulted in the death of grafted tissues. No toxic or
expensive anti-rejection drugs were needed. Just soak the tissues in George‘s solution and
transplant away!
―What do you mean ‗we‘,‖ came the reply from a suspicious Larry Kochak.
―Come on compadre, you have to figure out how to keep this guy‘s endocrine system in
gear and what mischief a few million foreign brain cells can cause until the normal ones
get going.‖ The ‗get going‘ part of the conversation was rapidly tailing off as the surgeon
walked away from the shocked endocrinologist—nee accomplice.
Wow, George thought, if Larry knew what really happened, that I replaced the damaged
olfactory lobes with those of a dog and used dog ethmoid turbinates to repair the damage
in the nasal passage and sinus. Hell, Sam Duff has a right to be able to breathe through

his nose. Anyway, he was certain that the large nerve trunk he encountered in the mess of
#64‘s brain was the olfactory nerve and he did get it repaired and connected into the
newly replaced tissues.
• • •
Intentionally ignoring the man guarding the recovery room door, Martinez entered and
stood silently as the nurse suctioned the mouth and nose of Sam Duff. It was 48 hours
post surgery and the patient had shown little sign of recovery. True, his vital signs were
good; Strong, steady pulse and rhythmic breathing with no mucus plugs in the upper
respiratory system. His reflexes were adequate but there was no response to noise.
The surgeon‘s voice stabbed the silence like a stiletto, as if sacrilegious to make sound in
this quiet air of desperation. ―Any response yet, Ms. Jones?‖
―Not really doctor. He is mumbling, something like ‗jay why‘ or ‗why‘ or maybe like the
letters ‗J‘ and ‗Y‘. But when I ask him what he is saying, I get no response.‖
As if on cue the man in the bed started to mumble. Leaning to the patient‘s mouth,
Martinez thought he too heard a faint mumble—"JY, JY.‖
―Well, decrease the phenobarbital drip and let‘s see if we can get more response as the
sedation lessens. I don‘t think the brain edema will be a problem even at a lowered dose.
I‘ll be back in the morning.‖ Martinez turned towards the door.
―Oh, by the way Doctor, Dr. Kochak was by earlier.‖
George‘s eyes quickly turned to nurse Jones as her words trailed off. Elise Jones was one
of those females who could rouse a dead man with her looks and the surgeon admired
since her arrival at Centra County Hospital two years ago. She was a package—slim,
dark-haired and beautiful.
• • •