Excerpt of Person of Interest by Debra Webb

Finished.

With a satisfied sigh, Dr. Elizabeth Cameron surveyed the
careful sutures and the prepatterned blocks of tissue she
had harvested from inconspicuous donor sites. For this
patient the best sites available had been her forearms and
thighs which had miraculously escaped injury.

The tailored blocks of harvested tissue, comprised of
skin, fat and blood vessels, were tediously inset into the
face like pieces of a puzzle and circulation to the area
immediately restored by delicate attachment to the facial
artery.

Lastly, the newly defined tissue was sculpted to look,
feel and behave like normal facial skin, with scars hidden
in the facial planes. In a few weeks this patient would
resume normal activities and no one outside her immediate
family and friends would ever have to know that she had
scarcely survived a fiery car crash that had literally
melted a good portion of her youthful Miss Massachusetts
face.

She would reach her twenty-first birthday next month with
a face that looked identical to the one that had won her
numerous accolades and trophies. More important, the young
woman who had slipped into severe clinical depression and
who had feared her life was over would now have a second
chance.

"She's perfect, Doctor."

Elizabeth acknowledged her colleague's praise with a quick
nod and stepped back from the operating table. With one
final glance she took stock of the situation. The patient
was stable. All was as it should be. "Finish up for me,
Dr. Jeffrey," she told her senior surgical resident.

Pride welled in her chest as she watched a moment while
her team completed the final preparations for transporting
the patient to recovery. Yes, she had performed the
surgery, but the whole team had been involved from day one
beginning with the complete, computerized facial analysis.
This victory had been achieved by the entire team, not
just one person.A team Elizabeth had handpicked over the
past three years.

In the scrub room she stripped off her bloody gloves,
surgical gown and mask, then cleaned her eyeglasses. She'd
tried adjusting to contacts, but just couldn't manage the
transition. Sticking to the old reliables hadn't failed
her yet. She was probably the only doctor in the hospital
who still preferred to do a number of things the old-
fashioned way. Like working with a certain team day in and
day out. She'd worked with Jeffrey long enough now that
they could anticipate each other's moves and needs ahead
of time. It worked. She liked sticking with what worked.

Exhaustion clawed at her. The muscles of her shoulders
quivered with fatigue, the good kind. This one had been a
long, arduous journey for both patient and surgical team.
Weeks ago the initial preparations had begun, including
forming a mold from a sibling's right ear to use in
building a replacement for the one the patient had lost in
the accident. The size and symmetry had worked out
beautifully.

No matter how painstakingly Elizabeth and her team
prepared, she wasn't fully satisfied until she saw the
completed work…until the patient was rolled to recovery.
The time required to heal varied, three to six weeks
generally with this sort of tissue transplanting. The
swelling would lessen, the red lines would fade. And the
new face would bloom like a rose in the sun's light, as
close to nature's work as man could come.

As Elizabeth started for the exit, intent on going
straight home and crashing for a couple of hours, the rest
of the team poured into the scrub room, high-fives and
cheers of elation rumbling through the group. Elizabeth
smiled. She had herself a hell of a team here. They were
the best, each topping his or her field of expertise, and
they were good folks, lacking the usual "ego" that often
haunted the specialized medical profession.

"Excellent work, boys and girls," she called to the highly
trained professionals who were quickly regressing to more
adolescent behavior as the adrenaline high peaked and then
drained away. "See you in two weeks."

Elizabeth pushed through the doors and into the long,
white sterile corridor, still smiling as the ruckus
followed her into the strictly enforced quiet zone. She
inhaled deeply of the medicinal smells, the familiar
scents comforting, relaxing. This place was her real home.
She spent far more time here than inside the four walls of
the little brownstone on which she made a monthly mortgage
payment. Not really a good thing, she had begun to see.
She didn't like the slightly cynical, fiercely focused
person she was turning into.

A change was definitely in order.

Two weeks.

She hadn't taken that much time off since — She banished
the memory before it latched on to her thoughts. No way
was she going to dredge up that painful past. Two months
had elapsed. She clenched her jaw and paused at the bank
of elevators. Giving the call button a quick stab, she
waited, her impatience mounting with each passing second.
She loved her work, was fully devoted to it. But she
desperately needed this time to get away, to put the past
behind her once and for all. She had to move on. Regain
her perspective…her balance.

The elevator doors slid open and Elizabeth produced a
smile for the nurses who exited. Almost three o'clock in
the afternoon, shift change. The nurses and residents on
duty would brief those arriving for second shift on the
status of their patients. Orders would be reviewed and the
flow of patient care would continue without interruption.

Dr. Jeffrey would stay with her patient for a time and
issue the final orders. There was nothing for Elizabeth to
worry about. She boarded the elevator and relaxed against
the far wall. Her eyes closed as she considered the cruise
she'd booked just last week. A snap decision, something
she never, ever did. Her secretary had insisted she could
not spend her time off at home or loitering around her
office. Which, in retrospect, Elizabeth had to admit was
an excellent idea. Hanging around the house or office,
organizing books and files or personal items that were
already in perfect order, would not be in her best
interest. The last thing she needed in her life was more
order.

Making a quick stop at the second-floor staff lounge to
pick up her sweater and purse, more goodbyes were
exchanged with coworkers who couldn't believe she was
actually going to take a vacation. Elizabeth shook her
head in self-deprecation. She really had lost any sense of
balance. Work was all she had, it seemed, and everyone had
taken notice. One way or another she intended to change
that sad fact.

Hurrying through Georgetown University Medical Center's
expansive lobby, she made her way to the exit that led to
the employee parking garage. She could already see herself
driving across the District, escaping everything. As much
as she loved D.C., she needed to get away, to mingle with
the opposite sex. To start something new and fresh. To put
him out of her mind forever. He was gone. Dead. He'd died
in some foreign country, location unspecified, of
unnatural causes probably, the manner unspecified. His
body had not been recovered, at least, as far as she knew.
He was simply gone. He wouldn't be showing up at her door
in the middle of the night with an unexpected forty-eight-
hour furlough he wanted to spend only with her.

Stolen moments. That was all she and Special Agent David
Maddox had really ever shared. But then, that was what
happened when one fell in love with a CIA agent. Covert
operations, classified missions, need-to-know. All
familiar terms.

Too familiar, she realized as she hesitated mid-stride on
the lower level of the parking garage, her gaze landing on
her white Lexus — or more specifically on the two well-
dressed men waiting next to the classy automobile.

One man she recognized instantly as Craig Dawson, her CIA
handler. All valuable CIA assets had handlers. It was some
sort of rule. He'd replaced David when their relationship
had gotten personal. There were times when Elizabeth
wondered if that change in the dynamics of the interaction
between them had ultimately caused David's death. His work
had seemed so much safer when he'd been her handler.

Stop it, she ordered. Thinking about the past was
destructive. She knew it. The counselor the Agency had
insisted she see after David's death had said the same.
Face forward, focus on the future.

Her new motto.

Time to move on.

If only her past would stop interfering.

What did Agent Dawson want today of all days? Annoyance
lined her brow. Whenever he showed up like this it could
only mean a ripple in her agenda. She couldn't change her
current plans. It had taken too long for her to work up
the courage and enthusiasm to make them.

Her irritation mounting unreasonably, her attention
shifted slightly. To the man standing next to Dawson.
Another secret agent, no doubt. The guy could have been a
carbon copy of Dawson from the neck down, great suit, navy
in color, spit and polished black leather shoes. The only
characteristics that differentiated the two were age and
hair color.

Well, okay, that was an exaggeration, the two looked
nothing alike. Dawson was fifty or so, distinguished-
looking, with a sparkling personality. He'd never
performed field duty for the CIA, was more the "office"
type. The other guy looked younger, late-thirties maybe,
handsome in a rugged sort of way, and his expression
resembled that of a slick gangster. At least what she
could see of it with him wearing those dark shades. The
five o'clock shadow on his lean jaw didn't help. Her gaze
lingered there a moment longer. Something about his
profile…his mouth seemed familiar.