Natural Causes

by Michael Palmer

  He loosed another short, choppy kick—this time to Blankenship’s chest. Before Sarah could react, he whirled around and grabbed her hair.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he said, ignoring her cries of pain. “I really am.” He reached into her pocket and pulled out Blankenship’s keys. “I’m sorry about not stopping that countdown, too,” he added. “I ordinarily don’t lie about things that important.”

  He produced a length of rope from his jacket pocket, forced Sarah onto her belly, and tied her hands behind her. Then he dragged her to her feet and back to the stairs to the subbasement.

  “I’ve changed my mind about a research building on this spot,” he said. “I think instead we’re going to fill it all in and go for a parking lot … or perhaps some tennis courts. I assume you’d rather be downstairs with your lawyer than up here with that monster.”

  “Please, Glenn,” Sarah pleaded as he forced her down the stairs. “Please don’t. I beg you. I know you didn’t actually hurt anybody. I can tell everyone that.”

  “Sorry. I really have no choice. And I promise you won’t feel a thing.”

  He pushed her back into the space that, once again, was to become a tomb. Ignoring Matt’s pleas and Sarah’s attempts at reason, he lashed her to an exposed girder, across the room from Matt, and secured her ankles.

  Then, without a backward glance, he left them in the darkness and hurried from the Chilton Building.

  An instant later, the overhead speakers announced that there were fifteen minutes left before demolition.

  CHAPTER 44

  “… IT IS OUR HOPE, OUR DREAM, THAT THIS NEW Institute for Medical and Healing Studies will form a golden bridge between our rapidly advancing medical technology and the more mystical healing arts from across the centuries and around the world.…”

  Glenn Paris proudly accepted another round of applause from the two hundred or so dignitaries and other ticket holders seated in the grandstand. The morning was sparkling, clear, and nearly windless—perfect conditions for the spectacle at hand. All around the campus, patients, staff, and visitors watched from rooftops and windows. On the far side of the mall, the Chilton Building stood alone, a deposed queen, facing the crowd with what little grace she could muster as she awaited the guillotine.

  “… Now, before the winner of our drawing steps up to thrill us all, I would like to pause for a moment of silence in honor of Mr. Colin Smith, the chief financial officer of this hospital, who perished yesterday in a most tragic boating accident.… I intend to recommend that our board of directors name a wing of this new institute after Colin. He will certainly be missed.… And now, Governor, Mr. Mayor, esteemed colleagues, and all of you who have been so faithful over the years to the Medical Center of Boston—it gives me great pleasure to announce the winner of our raffle. Thanks to the devoted efforts of our raffle ticket sellers and canvassers, this contest has netted almost thirty-three thousand dollars for the new institute.… Thank you, thank you. The winner is here with me, and she is—” He glanced down at a three-by-five card. “—Mrs. Gladys Robertson of West Roxbury.”

  To the accompaniment of polite applause, a nervously smiling middle-aged woman in a floral-print dress stepped up to Paris and whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, my apologies,” Paris said into the microphone. “Our winner is Miss Gladys Robinson. I’m not actually a doctor, but obviously I write like one.” Paris milked the ensuing laughter as long as he could. “So, then, Miss Gladys Robinson of West Roxbury,” he said finally, “this is your moment. Here’s the plunger that will set off the charges placed by our team of world-renowned specialists and give you your place in history. Mr. Crocker, do we have the green light?… Excellent. Miss Robinson, if you’ll just allow us to get in a little drumroll.…”

  Paris pointed to his right. From among the spectators, five men stood up with snare drums slung in front of them. The surprise brought a murmur of approval from the crowd. The drumroll began softly and then crescendoed. Paris waited … and waited, until the tension in the air was almost palpable.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  A thousand pairs of eyes were fixed on the Chilton Building as Miss Gladys Robinson depressed the plunger that had been set on the podium. For a suspended moment, there was only silence. Then, heralded by puffs of smoke from around the base of the foundation and up the brick walls, a dull rumble began and quickly expanded. The ground shook as the noise increased. A huge, thick cloud of gray dust erupted, enveloping the first two floors. Then, with a wondrous roar, the walls of the building dropped straight down into the billowing gray abyss.

  Seconds later, there was silence once again.

  The crowd watched in awe as the dense, concrete cloud floated upward and began to slowly disperse on the higher thermals. Then there was applause … and cheers … and whistles and pats on the back. Glenn Paris accepted them all with the confidence and aplomb of a man accustomed to successes. The governor shook his hand, and then the mayor.

  Proudly, jaw thrust forward, Paris turned to survey his hospital. Suddenly he paled. His smile vanished. Two men and a woman, none of whom he expected to see, were approaching the grandstand across the grassy campus. Behind them walked two more men. Both of those men were tall and broad-shouldered, and carried themselves like the bodyguards Paris knew they were.

  “Great job, Glenn, great,” someone said, slapping him on the back.

  But Paris, fixed on the approaching quintet, did not respond. The group had reached the base of the grandstand when Willis Grayson, his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, beckoned him to come down. Flanking Lisa Grayson on the other side, limping, though not badly, was Matt Daniels. He was filthy and disheveled, his face swollen and discolored. But he squinted up at the man who had left him to die, and through cracked, bloodied lips, he forced a smile.

  “You blew it, Glenn,” he said hoarsely. “You blew it big time.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Paris,” Willis called up. “Very disappointed.”

  Paris glanced frantically about for an escape route.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Grayson warned. “Either of my men could run backward and still catch you. Five minutes, Paris. That’s all the time that remained when we arrived in the basement of that building. Five minutes. You left Dr. Baldwin and Mr. Daniels, here, tied up and helpless. You just turned and walked away, and left them to die! You’re a very crude man, Paris.”

  The group around Glenn Paris peeled back and stared down at the new arrivals. Clearly, a number of them recognized the man known as the Ross Perot of the Northeast. The governor, who had reached the bottom of the grandstand, crossed to Grayson, spoke briefly with him and Matt, and then looked up at the hospital CEO.

  “I think you’d best come down here,” he said sharply.

  Glenn Paris, his face pinched and ashen, hesitated. Then his shoulders and his gaze dropped, and he trudged slowly down the red-carpeted stairs.

  • • •

  “Obviously, if we had kn-known th-the trouble you and your f-friend were in, we would have t-tried to get here sooner,” Warren Fezler said.

  He and Sarah were hurrying as best she could manage through the tunnels toward the labor and delivery floor.

  “I’m just glad you made it when you did,” Sarah replied. “You’re sure Rosa’s okay?”

  “She s-spent six hours in the operating room. But when we all left to fly d-down here, they told us she was stable.”

  “Thank God.”

  “After Rosa was sh-shot, j-just before she l-lost consciousness, she wrote down Mr. G-Grayson’s home number. As soon as I explained what was going on, he f-flew right up in his ch-chopper. Rosa s-saved my life. I w-wish she could have s-saved my sister.”

  “That’s very sad. I’m sorry. But I’m very angry, too—at Blankenship, at all of you.”

  “I understand. I d-don’t know what I can do.”

  “Just help me now, and then try to set some things straight with that damn virus of
yours.”

  Sarah wanted to take the stairs up to L and D, but her battered body dictated she use the elevator.

  “Warren, how did you manage to find us?” she asked as they waited for the car.

  “N-not that hard f-for a man like Grayson. He knows how to m-move people like no one I’ve ever s-seen.” He thought for a moment and then added, “Except maybe f-for Eli. We started at th-the ICU and then went to the psych w-ward. Some man there—Wes something—said you had had a seizure at breakfast and w-were in the ER. He also said you had s-spent the whole n-night watching th-the Chilton Building through binoculars. Next w-we found out you were wheeled away by Eli and someone from transportation. And then when we f-found you had never arrived at the ER, we began to suspect where you were. Mr. G-Grayson latched onto the man from transportation. Then we kn-knew we were right.”

  “So you went into the basement of the building through the back door.”

  “I h-had the keys. That was once my home away from home, remember? Mr. G-Grayson decided to look for you rather than to t-try and s-stop the explosion.”

  They pushed through the doors of the labor and delivery floor, and were immediately confronted by a sound Sarah had heard before. Annalee Ettinger was screaming in pain. Mindless of the nursing staff, Sarah grabbed Warren’s hand and pulled him down the hall to Annalee’s room. The uniformed guard was gone—discharged, Sarah assumed, when the evil Dr. Baldwin was locked up on Underwood Six. Randall Snyder, quite obviously agitated and on the razor’s edge of panic, was checking the pulses at Annalee’s wrists.

  “Would one of you please page Dr. Blankenship again,” he was saying to the nurses assisting him.

  “You can page him all you want,” Sarah cut in, “but I guarantee you he won’t be answering. Not now, not ever. Annalee, will you let me talk to you, please? It’s very important.”

  “They said you tried to hurt me.”

  “They were wrong. Will you talk with me?”

  “Can you help this pain in my arms and my feet?”

  “I can make it go away.”

  Huddled to one side of the obstetrics family room, Willis Grayson, Lisa, Matt, and Warren Fezler watched the monitor screen intently. Glenn Paris had installed the video system as part of his overhaul of the OB/Gyn service. The cesarean camera was mounted directly above the operating table. The field it projected now consisted of two pairs of hands—Randall Snyder’s and Sarah’s—and Annalee Ettinger’s smooth, gravid belly.

  “Okay, is the blood up and running?” they heard Snyder ask.

  “Up and running,” a nurse’s voice replied.

  “Signs stable?”

  “All systems are go,” said the anesthesiologist.

  “Ready, Sarah?”

  “Ready.”

  Lisa Grayson gave Matt a teasing nudge.

  “Okay, then,” Snyder said. “It’s your case, Doctor. I’ll assist.”

  “But—”

  “Quickly!”

  “All right. All right.”

  The four viewers watched as Sarah and Randall Snyder vanished from the screen, and then reappeared, having changed places at the table.

  Sarah flexed her gloved hands once, then again.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s do it,” she said. “Scalpel, please.”

  EPILOGUE

  October 30

  SARAH ETTINGER WEST, MEET YOUR NEW GODMOTHER.”

  Radiant in her hospital bed, Annalee held the infant away from her breast long enough for Sarah to see.

  “You make a great kid,” Sarah said. “I’m honored to be her godmother.”

  After a beginning that was considerably rockier for mother than daughter, both were now doing fine. As Sarah had predicted, the cesarean section delivery essentially cured Annalee’s DIC. First Lisa, now Annalee. Two cases sectioned, two cases cured. At least they had a place to start in dealing with the virus.

  “How many women do you suppose are facing this?” Annalee asked, as if reading her mind.

  “People are checking on that now. But I can tell you, it’s going to be a lot. Blankenship just didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. I still don’t understand it.”

  “Crazy doesn’t require any understanding. It just is.”

  “I guess. Fortunately, it appears your father kept decent records of who received the powder and vitamins.”

  “He always was the decent record sort.”

  “The product’s been on the market for almost eight months now. That means the first cases of infected women going into labor could happen any time.”

  “I can give you the list of people Peter tested the stuff on at the time he gave it to me.”

  “Great. That will leave only the rest of Singh’s group from the clinic here—the original set of guinea pigs. With Singh dead, we have to rely on finding Blankenship’s records of his work. I think he must have a list—that’s how he knew right away that the first women who got the powder were starting to get into trouble. If we can’t find his records, we’ll have to rely on publicity to bring them in.”

  “And all for money.”

  “All for money,” Sarah echoed sadly. “Plus whatever thrill Blankenship got from using his intellect to maneuver and control people.”

  “Speaking of which—”

  Sarah knew what was coming next.

  “What’s the situation?” she asked.

  “Peter’s still in jail. His lawyer called a little while ago. There’s some sort of hearing scheduled later today. He says that if you came and spoke to the judge, Peter would probably at least be able to post bail and get out. If you don’t tell them that Blankenship admitted killing that man on the boat, Peter might have to stay.”

  “A thought that is not entirely unappealing.”

  The two women exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

  “He’s the grandfather of your godchild, remember.”

  “I know, I know. I just wonder how much of a dent this whole thing has made on his cast-iron ego. Blankenship played him like a violin.”

  “And Peter went right along with it, no questions asked.”

  “All for money,” Sarah said.

  “Xanadu was in trouble. I think it was as much pride and ego as profit.”

  “Well, I’m going to insist that whatever money we can retrieve from this whole mess be used to find some sort of definitive cure. And that includes whatever Peter has.”

  “I agree.”

  “The six-foot four-inch violin. Boy, I’ll bet he really loved the publicity of those damned infomercials.”

  “He did that,” Annalee said, lifting Sarah E. West and gently bringing the infant over to her other breast.

  “Maybe another week or so in jail might—okay, okay. I’ll give his lawyer a call and see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Sarah stood to go.

  “Annalee, do me one favor, though,” she said.

  “Anything.”

  Sarah bent down and kissed first mother, then daughter. “Don’t ever let him forget it.”

  • • •

  TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT

  by Axel Devlin

  July 3

  Yesterday I had an appointment with my acupuncturist. Her name is Dr. Sarah Baldwin-Daniels. When my back goes out, which it tends to do when I engage in any activity more strenuous than clicking my channel changer, my acupuncturist tells me to relax, sticks a few of her special stainless steel needles in me, and takes the pain away.

  Helping folks like me with her acupuncture is sort of a hobby for Dr. B-D. Her real job is being a surgeon. In fact, as of two days ago, she is the new chief resident in Obstetrics and Gynecology at the Medical Center of Boston. For those of you new to my column, i.e., those who have been living on Mars for the last ten years, let me say that for much of the past year, I was not a supporter of my acupuncturist or her hospital. I thought she was a quack.

  She is not a quack. She sticks her special needles in me and my back feels better. And as far as
this layman goes, that’s all I care to know. Make me feel better without some horrible side effect that’s worse than my illness was, and you are okay in my book.

  So I was wrong. This is my column, and I get to use it any way I want. And today, a year after Dr. B-D and the diet powder nightmare first lit up my word processor screen, I’m using it to say I was wrong.

  Because of you, Doc, performing cesarean sections before active labor has saved countless lives. And now we hear there’s a blood test and treatment coming for the dreaded weight loss virus. God willing, maybe soon all those cesareans won’t be necessary.

  So yesterday I saw my acupuncturist. I went to her six months ago to do an interview and to get the full story on the Herbal Weight Loss horror. And I happened, just happened, to mention my lousy back. That was when Dr. Baldwin-Daniels stepped forward.

  “I might be able to help you,” she said. “I might be able to do something for the pain.”

  So yesterday afternoon, just hours after my former enemy stuck a few of her special needles in me, I broke 90 at my club for the first time.

  Quack!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MICHAEL PALMER, M.D., is the author of The Society, Fatal, The Patient, Miracle Cure, Critical Judgment, Silent Treatment, Natural Causes, Extreme Measures, Flashback, Side Effects, and The Sisterhood. His books have been translated into thirty languages. He trained in internal medicine at Boston City and Massachusetts General Hospitals, spent twenty years as a full-time practitioner of internal and emergency medicine, and is now an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society’s physician health program.