The Dr Danny Tilson Novels Box Set
Table of Contents
(The Dr. Danny Tilson Series)
Copyright 2018 by Barbara Ebel, M.D.: The Dr. Danny Tilson Novels Box Set: Books 1-4
OPERATION NEUROSURGEON: Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
SILENT FEAR: A Medical Mystery: Book Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
COLLATERAL CIRCULATION: A Medical Mystery: Book Three
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
SECONDARY IMPACT: Book Four
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
FROM THE AUTHOR
The Dr. Danny Tilson Novels Box Set: Books 1-4
(The Dr. Danny Tilson Series)
by Barbara Ebel, M.D.
Book One: Operation Neurosurgeon
Book Two: Silent Fear: A Medical Mystery
Book Three: Collateral Circulation: A Medical Mystery
Book Four: Secondary Impact
Copyright 2018 by Barbara Ebel, M.D.: The Dr. Danny Tilson Novels Box Set: Books 1-4
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic – without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9977225-9-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or locations is coincidental. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or locations is coincidental.
OPERATION NEUROSURGEON: Book One
The Dr. Danny Tilson Novels
Barbara Ebel, M.D.
Operation Neurosurgeon Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Ebel, M.D.
http://barbaraebel.weebly.com
If you’d like a release alert for when Barbara Ebel has new books available, sign up here. This is intended only to let you know about new releases as soon as they are out.
License Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic – without t written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or locations is coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9977225-9-8
For all the patients I’ve put to sleep
as well as the professionals
on both sides of the blood-brain barrier.
*****
Chapter 1
2009
Through the desolate winter woods, she saw a run-down, single-story house. She firmly pressed the accelerator to climb the hilly, rutted road as pebbles kicked up from the gravel, pinging underneath her sedan. All around her, tall spindly trees stood without a quiver, the area still, quiet and remote. On this damp, cold February afternoon, she had come to conclude a deal with a man named Ray.
The road narrowed past the house and ended over the hill, but she veered slowly to the left along a barren area in front of the peeling house, where a dusty red pickup truck stood idle and a black plumaged vulture busily scavenged. Deliberately, she left her belongings, clicked the remote lock on her car, and walked to the front door. She threw the long end of her rust scarf behind her shoulder. The raptor grunted through his hooked beak as he flew off to the backwoods. The door opened before she knocked.
“Nobody visits a feller like me,” the man said while adjusting his baseball cap, “unless we’re buying and selling. You must be the lady with the book.”
The tidily shaven man wore a salt and pepper colored beard and mustache and an open plaid cotton shirt with a T-shirt underneath. The boots peeking out from under his blue jeans had seen muddy days.
The woman smiled pleasantly at him and went in the front door empty handed. If the man had any furniture, she wasn’t aware of it. Car parts were strewn everywhere, which made her wonder if he slept in a bed.
Ray followed her glance. “You nearly can’t find one of them no mores,” he said, pointing to a charcoal-colored, elongated piece of vinyl plastic on the floor. She looked quizzically at him and shoved the woolen hat she’d been w
earing into her pocket.
“It’s an original 1984 Mercedes dashboard. See, the holes are for vents and the radio. Got a bite on that one from a teenager restoring his first car.”
The woman didn’t seem interested. She eyed the dust, in some spots thick as bread, and unbuttoned her jacket. “Are you sure you have twelve-thousand dollars to pay for what I’m delivering?”
“You come out thirty miles from Knoxville? That baby in your belly may need something,” he said, pointing to her pregnancy. “You want a soda or something?”
“Not really,” she said, grimacing at him.
“Oh, yeah. I got the money,” he said, getting back to her question. “All I got now to my name is seventy-five thousand dollars. I got ruint in Memphis. Was a part owner in a used car dealership. Went away for a little while, and the other guy cleaned me out. Can’t afford nothing like a lawyer to chase ‘im down.”
She tapped her foot.
“Anyhow, I won’t bother yer with all that. I got a thing going good on eBay. I got a reputation, it ain’t soiled. You can trust me, I give people what I tell them, whether I’m buying or selling.”
A beagle-looking mutt crawled out from behind a car door propped against the wall. “Molly, you’re milk containers are dragging on the floor. Better get out to your pups.” he said and directed her out the partially-closed door.
“You like dogs?” he asked.
“I suppose so.”
“I got no use for people who don’t care about dogs. Something’s not right about them there type of people.”
The woman turned and followed the clumsy dog outside, grabbed a bag from her front passenger seat, and came back in. She took out a book, opened the back cover, and handed him a folded piece of paper. Certificate of Authenticity, the man read, from a company in New Orleans, verifying the signature on the front page to be Albert Einstein’s. He inverted his hand and wiggled his fingers, gesturing to her if he could hold the aged book.
“Where’d you say you got it?” He observed her carefully.
“It’s been in the family for years. I took my precious belongings with me when I left New Orleans because of Hurricane Katrina. Since I lost my house there, I decided to stay in Tennessee. Now I’m selling my expensive things. I have to make ends meet, especially with a baby coming.”
“Good thing you got this certificate with it, then. Twelve-thousand dollars and we’ve got a deal.”
He walked away to the back of the house while she held the physicist’s precious 1920 publication. He came through the doorway with a stack of money and a brown paper bag. She counted the big denomination bills and nodded, so he handed her the empty bag.
“I still got your email address and phone number,” he said. “I keep track of what goes and comes.”
“You won’t need them,” she said curtly. She turned and left with the sack of cash.
He watched her back out and stood there until the car disappeared out of sight down the gray road.
Chapter 2
1989
“You dawdling over there?” Greg Tilson asked his son, Danny.
“No, just peeing.” Danny zipped his fly and wheeled around, his boots sinking in soft, leafy earth. His father stood on polished creek stone at the river’s edge beside Danny’s wife, Sara. “And on rounds,” he said, “the proper term is urinating.” He slipped from behind a tree and approached them.
Greg threw a few red salmon eggs into the Caney Fork River and handed Danny his spinning rod. “I better catch up to the better half of you newlyweds.”
Sara propped her pole on the cooler, held up a rainbow trout in front of Danny, and exclaimed “Tah-dah.”
“We’re just here to have fun.” Danny grinned at both of them. “It’s not as if our lives depend on it.” But Danny knew the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency had recently stocked the river. The three of them had been bottom fishing since before the morning fog lifted like a friendly ghost, drifting away to expose the slow but noticeable current.
“You’re right,” Greg said. “You know what I say.”
Sara plucked algae off her four-pound test line and looked questioningly at her father-in-law. She waited to wade into the water, figuring one of Greg’s metaphorical sayings or idioms were forthcoming. She’d dated Danny throughout his four years of medical school at Vanderbilt and had spent so much time at his Dad’s house, where Danny had lived, that sometimes more lipsticks and tampons had been in Danny’s bathroom than her own.
“You may want to fish for dinner,” Greg said, “but if you must fish to catch dinner, you’ve screwed up.”
Sara pushed dew-misted hair behind her ear. “Danny’s one of only two residents they’ve accepted into the neurosurgery program, Dad. That doesn’t qualify as, umm, messing up.”
Danny beamed at his wife. During med school, almost two dozen students were already married or headed that way, but some couples had split with the strain of exams and deadlines, and hours in labs, physician’s offices, and clinical rotations with overnight calls. Sara kept busy teaching high school biology and running, and always helped Danny focus. When he needed long-term perspective, objectivity, or softening after his brain was slammed shut for hours between pages of Principles of Pharmacology, she could turn him around. She would run her hand through his hair, or massage between his shoulder blades, or whisper to him under the sheets after they made love. When they had taken their vows a month ago, Danny had secretly promised to nourish the effect they had on each other.
Greg had forgotten to bring wading boots, so he stayed on shore while Sara and Danny carefully picked their steps. Occasional diehards just sucked it up and waded in. The water was as warm as it would get, a cold summer temperature, unforgiving for anyone without proper gear.
Quiet spread across their sanctuary except for a small surface splash or a fish tail grazing the surface. A young man in a small canoe paddled by and, without any fanfare, hoisted his baby boat on top of a jeep rack and left.
Danny and Sara finally came to shore, each with a brown trout. “Both about the same size,” Sara said. Danny agreed, leaned over and pecked his wife on the cheek as they crouched, holding their fish like new baby birds. The trout squirmed in their hands, then darted away. Sara smiled, pleased with their release.
“Time to go Dad. They’ll be generating soon.” Danny nodded at the Center Hill Dam, the nearby Goliath. Sara picked up their poles and Danny and Greg grabbed the unused salmon eggs, cooler, and tackle boxes; they walked slowly up the road to the parking lot as they heard the generating dam gushing Center Hill Lake water into the Caney Fork.
___________
“This is the last load, Dad,” Danny said as his father waved him on.
Danny walked by Greg with a flat cardboard box and suitcase and entered his bedroom. Inside, ebony blue curtains framed windows to a view that appeared as if by magic despite his mother’s illness. She had died three years ago from ovarian cancer.
Danny looked out over south facing slopes of grown hickories, southern red oaks and maples, and white and Virginia pines. His mother, Donna, had assisted the native habitat by producing a real show for early spring. She’d worked with Mexican migrants from a wholesale nursery to plant rows of redbuds and terraced beds of mountain laurel, rhododendrons and wildflowers. Specks of white, hints of pink and tinges of purple, had helped her to divert thoughts of a possible short life expectancy to reminiscing about her family and their accomplishments … a wonderful marriage, two fantastic children, and a beautiful estate.
Danny turned his head to find Greg at his doorway. “I miss her, Dad. There’s not a day …”
“Me, too,” Greg said, gazing at his shoes, his thick dark eyebrows practically covering his eyes. “I still can’t believe I’m without her at fifty-two years old.”
Greg walked in and sat on Danny’s bed, his shoulders slumping over. Greg had gotten married in 1960, after only dating Donna for six months. They never missed Sunday devotion together until Donna had
been bedridden. Greg’s gaze averted to the outside hallway where one of his wedding pictures hung, the loving couple fixed in an embrace.
“You know what I told her?”
Danny shook his head no.
“A girlfriend who prays with me is worth keeping.”
Danny did know that, as well as the adoration his father had shown his mother for as long as he could remember. He patted his father’s knee once and got up. Danny unfolded the cardboard box, and then dumped it in front of his dresser.
“Dad, Sara and I can’t thank you enough for the wedding present. The house you gave us is home already. Sara’s summer vacation and my break before residency made it all work out.” Danny looked around. “Will you turn my old room here into a guest bedroom?”
“Yes. And I’ll keep it the same. For visiting grandkids?”
Danny laughed. “Are you prying, Dad?”
“If there are plans for me to be a grandfather, I want to be the third one to know.”
“Done deal,” Danny said, checking his top drawers to make sure he’d emptied them on a previous trip. He opened the last drawer and threw his winter stash of sweaters into the box. A large baggie still sat at the bottom; Danny picked up and sat next to Greg on the cream-colored bedspread. The mattress indented with their weight and their knees lined up together, their six-foot-two frames carbon copied from similar blueprints.
Danny’s eyes gleamed. Greg reached to touch the plastic storage bag, which was an uncanny method to preserve the emotionally stirring and valuable treasure inside. Danny opened the bag and took out the brown hard-covered book as gently as he had held a hummingbird the previous week. He found the stunned bird after it had hit one of Sara and Danny’s windows. He placed the small item on his lap and opened the faded cover to the yellowish tinge of aged paper.
“Your sister will wear your mom’s jewelry,” Greg said, “but you? Someday you can bequeath this treasure that your mother gave you to your children or a museum. Or sell it.”
Danny whistled, knowing that its price tag would have plenty of zeroes, with more added as time went on.
“I still remember when your mother purchased it. She drove a hard bargain and requested that the store manager in New Orleans have the book and the signature verified by an authenticator of such things.”