Contagion

by Robin Cook

  “I hope you reassured him we’re both normal,” Jack said.

  “Don’t be impertinent on top of everything else,” Bingham said.

  “To tell you the honest truth,” Jack said, “I haven’t the slightest idea why the administrator got upset. Maybe the pressure of this plague episode has gotten to everybody over there, because they’re all acting weird.”

  “So now everyone seems weird to you,” Bingham said.

  “Well, not everyone,” Jack admitted. “But there’s something strange going on, I’m sure of it.”

  Bingham looked up at Calvin, who shrugged and rolled his eyes. He didn’t understand what Jack was talking about. Bingham’s attention returned to Jack.

  “Listen,” Bingham said. “I don’t want to fire you, so don’t make me. You’re a smart man. You have a future in this field. But I’m warning you, if you willfully disobey me and continue to embarrass us in the community, I’ll have no other recourse. Tell me you understand.”

  “Perfectly,” Jack said.

  “Fine,” Bingham said. “Then get back to your work, and we’ll see you later in conference.”

  Jack took the cue and instantly disappeared.

  For a moment Bingham and Calvin remained silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

  “He’s an odd duck,” Bingham said finally. “I can’t read him.”

  “Nor can I,” Calvin said. “His saving grace is that he is smart and truly a hard worker. He’s very committed. Whenever he’s on autopsy, he’s always the first one in the pit.”

  “I know,” Bingham said. “That’s why I didn’t fire him on the spot. But where does this brashness come from? He has to know it rubs people the wrong way, yet he doesn’t seem to care. He’s reckless, almost self-destructive, as he admitted himself yesterday. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Calvin said. “Sometimes I get the feeling it’s anger. But directed at what? I haven’t the foggiest. I’ve tried to talk with him a few times on a personal level, but it’s like squeezing water out of a rock.”

  15

  THURSDAY, 8:30 P.M., MARCH 21, 1996

  Terese and Colleen climbed out of the cab on Second Avenue between Eighty-ninth and Eighty-eighth streets a few doors away from Elaine’s and walked to the restaurant. They couldn’t get out right in front because of several limos inconveniently double-parked.

  “How do I look?” Colleen asked as they paused under the canvas awning. She’d pulled off her coat for Terese’s inspection.

  “Too good,” Terese said, and she meant it. Colleen had discarded her signature sweatshirt and jeans for a simple black dress that revealed her ample bust to perfection. Terese felt dowdy by comparison. She still had on her tailored suit that she’d worn to work that day, not having found time to go home to change.

  “I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Colleen admitted.

  “Relax,” Terese said. “With that dress Dr. McGovern doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Colleen gave their names to the maître d’ who immediately indicated recognition. He motioned for the women to follow him. He started to the rear.

  It was an obstacle course of sorts to weave among the densely packed tables and scurrying waiters. Terese had the sensation of being in a fishbowl. Everyone, male and female alike, gave them the once-over as they passed.

  The men were at a tiny table squeezed into the far corner. They got to their feet as the women approached. Chet held out Colleen’s chair. Jack did the same for Terese. The women draped their coats over the backs of the chairs before sitting down.

  “You men must know the owner to have gotten such a great table,” Terese said.

  Chet, who misinterpreted Terese’s remark as a compliment, bragged he’d been introduced to Elaine a year previously. He explained she was the woman seated at the cash register at the end of the bar.

  “They tried to seat us up in the front,” Jack said. “But we declined. We thought you women wouldn’t like the draft from the door.”

  “How thoughtful,” Terese said. “Besides, this is so much more intimate.”

  “You think so?” Chet questioned. His face visibly brightened. They were, in reality, packed in like proverbial sardines.

  “How could you question her?” Jack asked Chet. “She’s so sincere.”

  “All right, enough!” Chet said good-naturedly. “I might be dense, but eventually I catch on.”

  They ordered wine and appetizers from the waiter who’d immediately appeared after the women had arrived. Colleen and Chet fell into easy conversation. Terese and Jack continued to be teasingly sarcastic with each other, but eventually the wine blunted their witticisms. By the time the main course was served, they were conversing congenially.

  “What’s the inside scoop on the plague situation?” Terese asked.

  “There were two more deaths at the General,” Jack said. “Plus a couple of febrile nurses are being treated.”

  “That was in the morning news,” Terese said. “Anything new?”

  “Only one of the deaths was actually plague,” Jack said. “The other resembled plague clinically, but I personally don’t think it was.”

  Terese stopped a forkful of pasta midway to her mouth. “No?” she questioned. “If it wasn’t plague, what was it?”

  Jack shrugged. “I wish I knew,” he said. “I’m hoping the lab can tell me.”

  “The Manhattan General must be in an uproar,” Terese said. “I’m glad I’m not a patient there now. Being in the hospital is scary enough under the best of circumstances. With the worry of diseases like plague around, it must be terrible.”

  “The administration is definitely agitated,” Jack said. “And for good reason. If it turns out the plague originated there, it will be the first modern episode of nosocomial plague. That’s hardly an accolade as far as the hospital is concerned.”

  “This concept of nosocomial infections is new to me,” Terese said. “I’d never thought much about it before you and Chet talked about this current plague problem last night. Do all hospitals have such problems?”

  “Absolutely,” Jack said. “It’s not common knowledge, but usually five to ten percent of hospitalized patients fall victim to infections contracted while they are in the hospital.”

  “My God!” Terese said. “I had no idea it was such a widespread phenomenon.”

  “It’s all over,” Chet agreed. “Every hospital has it, from the academic ivory tower to the smallest community hospital. What makes it so bad is that the hospital is the worst place to get an infection because many of the bugs hanging out there are resistant to antibiotics.”

  “Oh, great!” Terese said cynically. After she thought for a moment she asked, “Do hospitals differ significantly in their infection rates?”

  “For sure,” Chet said.

  “Are these rates known?” Terese said.

  “Yes and no,” Chet said. “Hospitals are required by the Joint Commission of Accreditation to keep records of their infection rates, but the rates aren’t released to the public.”

  “That’s a travesty!” Terese said with a surreptitious wink at Colleen.

  “If the rates go over a certain amount the hospital loses its accreditation,” Chet said. “So all is not lost.”

  “But it’s hardly fair to the public,” Terese said. “By not having access to those rates people can’t make their own decisions about which hospitals to patronize.”

  Chet opened his hands palms up like a supplicant priest. “That’s politics,” he said.

  “I think it’s awful,” Terese said.

  “Life’s not fair,” Jack said.

  After dessert and coffee Chet and Colleen began campaigning to go someplace where there was dancing, like the China Club. Both Terese and Jack were disinclined. Chet and Colleen tried their best to change their minds, but they soon gave up.

  “You guys go,” Terese said.

  “Are you sure?” Colleen asked.

  “We wouldn’t want to hold you back,” Jack
said.

  Colleen looked at Chet.

  “Let’s go for it,” Chet said.

  Outside the restaurant Chet and Colleen happily piled into a cab. Jack and Terese waved as they drove off.

  “I hope they enjoy themselves,” Terese said. “I couldn’t have thought of anything worse. Sitting in a smoke-filled nightclub assaulted by music loud enough to damage my ears is not my idea of pleasure.”

  “At least we’ve finally found something we can agree on,” Jack said.

  Terese laughed. She was beginning to appreciate Jack’s sense of humor. It wasn’t too dissimilar from her own.

  For a moment of self-conscious indecision they stood at the curbside, each looking in a different direction. Second Avenue was alive with revelers despite a nippy temperature in the high thirties. The air was clear and the sky cloudless.

  “I think the weatherman forgot it was the first day of spring,” Terese said. She jammed her hands into her coat pockets and hunched up her shoulders.

  “We could walk around the corner to that bar where we were last night,” Jack suggested.

  “We could,” Terese said. “But I have a better idea. My agency is over on Madison. It’s not too far away. How about a quick visit?”

  “You’re inviting me to your office despite knowing how I feel about advertising?” Jack asked.

  “I thought it was only medical advertising you were against,” Terese said.

  “The truth is I’m not particularly fond of advertising in general,” Jack said. “Last night Chet jumped in before I had a chance to say it.”

  “But you’re not opposed to it per se?” Terese questioned.

  “Just the medical kind,” Jack said. “For the reasons I gave.”

  “Then how about a quick visit? We do a lot more than just medical advertising. You might find it enlightening.”

  Jack tried to read the woman behind the soft, pale blue eyes and sensuous mouth. He was confused because the vulnerability they suggested wasn’t in sync with the no-nonsense, goal-oriented, driven woman he suspected she was.

  Terese met his stare head-on and smiled back coquettishly. “Be adventuresome!” she challenged.

  “Why do I have the feeling you have an ulterior motive?” Jack asked.

  “Probably because I do,” Terese freely admitted. “I’d like your advice on a new ad campaign. I wasn’t going to admit you’d been a stimulus for a new idea, but tonight during dinner I changed my mind about telling you.”

  “I don’t know whether to feel used or complimented,” Jack said. “How did I happen to give you an idea for an ad?”

  “All this talk about plague at the Manhattan General Hospital,” Terese said. “It made me think seriously about the issue of nosocomial infection.”

  Jack considered this statement for a moment. Then he asked, “And why did you change your mind about telling me and asking my advice?”

  “Because it suddenly dawned on me that you might actually approve of the campaign,” Terese said. “You told me the reason you were against advertising in medicine was because it didn’t address issues of quality. Well, ads concerning nosocomial infections certainly would.”

  “I suppose,” Jack said.

  “Oh, come on,” Terese said. “Of course it would. If a hospital was proud of its record, why not let the public know?”

  “All right,” Jack said. “I give up. Let’s see this office of yours.”

  Having made the decision to go, there was the problem of Jack’s bike. At that moment it was locked to a nearby No Parking sign. After a short discussion they decided to leave the bike and go together in a cab. Jack would rescue the bike later on his way home.

  With little traffic and a wildly fast and reckless Russian-émigré taxi driver, they arrived at Willow and Heath’s building in minutes. Jack staggered out of the rear of the taxi.

  “God!” he said. “People accuse me of taking a risk riding my bike in this city. It’s nothing like riding with that maniac.”

  As if to underline Jack’s statement, the cab shot away from the curb and disappeared up Madison Avenue with its tires screeching.

  At ten-thirty the office building was locked up tight. Terese used her night key, and they entered. Their heels echoed noisily in the lonely marble hallway. Even the whine of the elevator seemed loud in the stillness.

  “Are you here often after hours?” Jack asked.

  Terese laughed cynically. “All the time,” she said. “I practically live here.”

  They rode up in silence. When the doors opened Jack was shocked to find the floor brightly illuminated and bustling with activity as if it were midday. Toiling figures bent over many of the innumerable drawing boards.

  “What do you have, two shifts?” Jack asked.

  Terese laughed again. “Of course not,” she said. “These people have been here since early this morning. Advertising is a competitive world. If you want to make it, you have to put in your time. We have several reviews coming up.”

  Terese excused herself and walked over to a woman at a nearby drawing table. While they conversed. Jack’s eyes roamed the expansive space. He was surprised there were so few partitions. There was only a handful of separate rooms, which shared a common wall with the bank of elevators.

  “Alice is going to bring in some material,” Terese said when she rejoined Jack. “Why don’t we go into Colleen’s office.”

  Terese led him into one of the rooms and turned on the lights. It was tiny, windowless, and claustrophobic when compared to the vast undivided space. It was also cluttered with papers, books, magazines, and videotapes. There were several easels set up with thick pads of drawing paper.

  “I’m sure Colleen won’t mind if I clear away a little area on her desk,” Terese said as she moved aside stacks of orange-colored tracing paper. Gathering up an armload of books, she set them on the floor. No sooner had she finished than Alice Gerber, another of Terese’s associates, appeared.

  After making introductions, Terese had Alice run through a number of the potential commercial ideas they’d comped up that day.

  Jack found himself interested more in the process than the content. He’d never stopped to think about how TV commercials were made, and he came to appreciate the creativity involved and the amount of work.

  It took Alice a quarter hour to present what she’d brought in. When she was finished, she gathered up the tissues and looked at Terese for further instructions. Terese thanked her and sent her back to her drawing board.

  “So there you have it,” Terese said to Jack. “Those’re some of the ideas stemming from this nosocomial infection issue. What do you think?”

  “I’m impressed with how hard you work on this sort of thing,” Jack said.

  “I’m more interested in your reaction to the content,” Terese said. “What do you think of the idea of Hippocrates coming into the hospital to award it the ‘do no harm’ medal?”

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t flatter myself to think I have the ability to intelligently critique a commercial.”

  “Oh, give me a break,” Terese said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “I just want your opinion as a human being. This isn’t an intellectual quiz. What would you think if you saw this commercial on the TV, say when you were watching the Super Bowl?”

  “I’d think it was cute,” Jack admitted.

  “Would it make you think the National Health hospital might be a good place to go, since its nosocomial infection rates were low?”

  “I suppose,” Jack said.

  “All right,” Terese said, trying to keep herself calm. “Maybe you have some other ideas. What else could we do?”

  Jack pondered for a few minutes. “You could do something about Oliver Wendell Holmes and Joseph Lister.”

  “Wasn’t Holmes a poet?” Terese asked.

  “He was also a doctor,” Jack said. “He and Lister probably did more for getting doctors to wash their hands when going from patient to patient than anybody. Well, Semmelweis
helped too. Anyway, handwashing was probably the most important lesson that needed to be learned to prevent hospital-based infections.”

  “Hmm,” Terese said. “That sounds interesting. Personally, I love period pieces. Let me tell Alice to get someone to research it.”

  Jack followed Terese out of Colleen’s office and watched her talk with Alice. It only took her a few minutes.

  “Okay,” Terese said, rejoining Jack. “She’ll start the ball rolling. Let’s get out of here.”

  In the elevator Terese had another suggestion. “Why don’t we take a run over to your office,” she said. “It’s only fair now that you have seen mine.”

  “You don’t want to see it,” Jack said. “Trust me.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s the truth,” Jack said. “It’s not a pretty place.”

  “I think it would be interesting,” Terese persisted. “I’ve only seen a morgue in the movies. Who knows, maybe it will give me some ideas. Besides, seeing where you work might help me understand you a little more.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be understood,” Jack said.

  The elevator stopped and the doors opened. They walked outside. They paused at the curb.

  “What do you say? I can’t imagine it would take too long, and it’s not terribly late.”

  “You are a persistent sort,” Jack commented. “Tell me: Do you always get your way?”

  “Usually,” Terese admitted. Then she laughed. “But I prefer to think of myself as tenacious.”

  “All right,” Jack said finally. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  They caught a taxi. After Jack gave the destination the driver looped around and headed south on Park Avenue.

  “You give me the impression of being a loner,” Terese said.

  “You’re very perspicacious,” Jack said.

  “You don’t have to be so caustic,” Terese said.

  “For once I wasn’t,” Jack said.

  The lambent reflections of the streetlights played over their faces as they regarded each other in the half-light of the taxi.

  “It’s difficult for a woman to know how to feel around you,” Terese said.