PRIMORDIAL by David Sobel, is a Crichton-like thriller that centers on the plights of two scientists separated by decades and borders but united in their obsessive quest for the physical location of the soul. Jonas, a hospital attorney, begins to suspect that someone is targeting patients in his NYC hospital. With the help of two residents, his search for answers will bring him face to face with a killer.
Thought-provoking, both scientifically and ethically, PRIMORDIAL is a story that spans decades of medical and legal mystery, history and suspense. It will transport readers to a Nazi medical laboratory in World War II, then back to present day New York City where an unlikely trio, Jonas the experienced hospital lawyer, “Early” the quirky urology resident, and Rachel, the wickedly smart neurosurgery resident, struggle to piece together a series of unexplained killings. Debut author Dr. Sobel weaves his medical expertise and extensive historical research in a twisted tangle of secrets that will keep readers on the edge of their seats.
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Read an Excerpt
Rudolph “Rudy” Walla was sweating.
He stood, perfectly still, within the one-meter square sentry post that was positioned just inside the back gate of the Seelentor concentration camp. The post was a tiny glass and wood structure with a small external cut-out that housed a potbelly stove. The stove, on this bitter February night, poured molten heat into the structure. Rudy’s breath, exhaled in the long drawl of the bored and tired, condensed on the front pane of glass, obscuring his view. He was just able to discern the shadowy outline of the SS-Schutze—the private—who had occupied the post before Rudy came looking for a reprieve from the cold. He smiled at the thought of a sentry post with a frosted view and of the private, hunched and angry, pacing in the cold. Not much to see anyway, he thought to himself, returning to his slow, metered breathing. Rudy was in a corner of Poland—forgotten, miserable, stoic, and sweating. God, was he sweating.
Rudy’s wool uniform, the severe black of the SS, was plastered to his body. Each movement was a sticky uncomfortableness. The commander of the camp had called the sentry post the Aufrechten Sarg—the “upright coffin.” And, as horrible as the coffin was, it beat the blistering cold that was just on the other side of the glass. It was early morning. Dawn was approaching and the sun was just tickling the sky, turning the black into a bruised dark blue. The earth felt as if every ounce of heat had been stolen away. A brittle and broken, icicle-white wasteland. His sanctuary was a stifling coffin. Rudy thought of Ishmael and the white whale. And, not uncommon on a lonely, sleepless night, he thought of the hand of fate that had steered him all the way from his childhood in Berlin to this tiny box in this foreign land.
Guest Post
By David Sobel
“She always liked the color blue.”
These were actually the first words that I wrote when I started my novel PRIMORDIAL. It was late at night and I figured that I had to start at some time, somewhere.
I had a sense of the plot, most characters and certainly the ending. However, I had not written an outline and I had only done a smattering of research. I am also embarrassed to say that what I had figured out about the story was stored in the flawed and forgetful file cabinet in my head. What I knew, though, was that the first chapter would be the first murder and that the murder was all about the victim.
So, why the color blue?
I sat in my office – it was late at night again and I was just starting to write -- and I thought about the hospitals that I have worked in. In my mind I walked through the halls, registering the sights as I imagined the smells and sounds. I was looking for the birthplace of fear; for the seed of anxiety. So, I drifted to the surgery suites.
In an operating room, blue is the color of sterility. We use blue drapes to frame the flesh that becomes the operative field. We shout at the med-students not to touch anything that is blue for fear that they will contaminate that sterile bubble. We look for that bluish hue of veins as we place an IV. I stood on the threshold of that OR feeling the cold air and seeing all that crisp blueness.
I then thought about the victim. She was old and frail and cold. I thought about her prepped and draped, waiting for the incision. I thought about her awake, shivering slightly. Her skin, papery thin, clung tightly to her face and loosely to her arm. She was desperate for a familiar touch. She wanted to go home.
And, then, it came to me.
“She always liked the color blue.”
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